Read Online Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Cleeland
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pulled out her mobile and noted that he hadn’t texted her for over an hour—perhaps the short-lived therapy had done some good, after all. Perhaps they could even think about starting a family again; her pregnancy earlier this year had been a surprise, and before her miscarriage she’d had mixed emotions about her impending motherhood. The loss had been painful, and now she found she was rather eager to try again.
With an inward sigh, she abandoned her idea to take the tube at rush hour, and instead rang up the driving service; she needed a few more minutes of peace and quiet because there was a hovering uneasiness that she could not shake, and the last thing she needed was for someone to recognize her on the tube.
Once home, she noted that Acton had not yet arrived. She greeted Reynolds, who had made something that smelt delicious for dinner, and informed him, “Reynolds, I believe you saw my bruises this mornin’. I was attacked by an assailant, and I promise you it wasn’t Acton.”
“No, madam,” he agreed. “I could not imagine Lord Acton would do such a thing.” He exchanged a look with her, and much was unspoken. “Do you need medical care?”
“No; I’ve weathered many a bruise, my friend. But in the meantime, I’ll have to cover them up, or the Domestic Violence Unit will be arrestin’ my poor husband. If we have to break him out of gaol, Reynolds, can I count on you to cover the flank?”
“Certainly, madam,” the servant agreed, and took her coat.
CHAPTER 8
A CTON RETURNED JUST AS R EYNOLDS WAS PREPARING TO LEAVE , so the servant paused to take his briefcase and coat. Doyle was seated at the table, the files spread out around her as she continued to compile her spreadsheet. Acton told Reynolds there was a list of items to be purchased in his coat pocket, and then absently ran a hand over Doyle’s head as he passed by on his way to the fridge. Interesting, she thought. When he was compelled to stroke her head, it was usually a sign that he was worried—although he had headed to the fridge, and not the liquor cabinet. “How went your lecture?”
“As well as can be expected. There were some intelligent questions, which is a good sign.”
“I went to have a look-in,” she offered, watching him.
He met her eyes as he pulled out the orange juice bottle. “At the wrong time?”
“Yes, they said it was earlier.”
“My fault; I should have let you know—I didn’t realize you’d stop in.”
“And I so wanted to heckle you,” she teased. In truth, she thought her presence might have been helpful; he was famously reclusive and did not suffer fools—it was not beyond the realm of possibility that he would dress down some poor trainee for asking the wrong question.
“I’m sorry, Kathleen.” He passed behind her on his way to the main room, and as he did, he gently placed a hand on her head.
Although he was on his way out, Reynolds offered, “May I prepare you a plate, sir?”
“I’m not very hungry, but thank you.”
Reynolds departed, and Doyle kept typing as Acton stood by the windows, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle as he looked out over the city. She was not paying attention to her work, though, instead thinking about how he could not stop touching her head and how he had given her a string of equivocal answers so that she could not spot a lie. He was a wily one, was Acton, and he’d also been drinking, although he was doing a masterful job of trying to obscure this fact. She wondered if he was caught up in something having to do with the illegal guns-running—now, there would be a crisis to top all the other ones, if he were to be caught and prosecuted. It didn’t bear thinking about, so she didn’t think about it anymore—it was only on her mind after her conversation with Samuels.
“Anything of interest in the cold cases?”
She paused in her pretend-typing. “I found one new commonality—and it’s a wrinkle. Drake was the DS on one of the
With an inward sigh, she abandoned her idea to take the tube at rush hour, and instead rang up the driving service; she needed a few more minutes of peace and quiet because there was a hovering uneasiness that she could not shake, and the last thing she needed was for someone to recognize her on the tube.
Once home, she noted that Acton had not yet arrived. She greeted Reynolds, who had made something that smelt delicious for dinner, and informed him, “Reynolds, I believe you saw my bruises this mornin’. I was attacked by an assailant, and I promise you it wasn’t Acton.”
“No, madam,” he agreed. “I could not imagine Lord Acton would do such a thing.” He exchanged a look with her, and much was unspoken. “Do you need medical care?”
“No; I’ve weathered many a bruise, my friend. But in the meantime, I’ll have to cover them up, or the Domestic Violence Unit will be arrestin’ my poor husband. If we have to break him out of gaol, Reynolds, can I count on you to cover the flank?”
“Certainly, madam,” the servant agreed, and took her coat.
CHAPTER 8
A CTON RETURNED JUST AS R EYNOLDS WAS PREPARING TO LEAVE , so the servant paused to take his briefcase and coat. Doyle was seated at the table, the files spread out around her as she continued to compile her spreadsheet. Acton told Reynolds there was a list of items to be purchased in his coat pocket, and then absently ran a hand over Doyle’s head as he passed by on his way to the fridge. Interesting, she thought. When he was compelled to stroke her head, it was usually a sign that he was worried—although he had headed to the fridge, and not the liquor cabinet. “How went your lecture?”
“As well as can be expected. There were some intelligent questions, which is a good sign.”
“I went to have a look-in,” she offered, watching him.
He met her eyes as he pulled out the orange juice bottle. “At the wrong time?”
“Yes, they said it was earlier.”
“My fault; I should have let you know—I didn’t realize you’d stop in.”
“And I so wanted to heckle you,” she teased. In truth, she thought her presence might have been helpful; he was famously reclusive and did not suffer fools—it was not beyond the realm of possibility that he would dress down some poor trainee for asking the wrong question.
“I’m sorry, Kathleen.” He passed behind her on his way to the main room, and as he did, he gently placed a hand on her head.
Although he was on his way out, Reynolds offered, “May I prepare you a plate, sir?”
“I’m not very hungry, but thank you.”
Reynolds departed, and Doyle kept typing as Acton stood by the windows, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle as he looked out over the city. She was not paying attention to her work, though, instead thinking about how he could not stop touching her head and how he had given her a string of equivocal answers so that she could not spot a lie. He was a wily one, was Acton, and he’d also been drinking, although he was doing a masterful job of trying to obscure this fact. She wondered if he was caught up in something having to do with the illegal guns-running—now, there would be a crisis to top all the other ones, if he were to be caught and prosecuted. It didn’t bear thinking about, so she didn’t think about it anymore—it was only on her mind after her conversation with Samuels.
“Anything of interest in the cold cases?”
She paused in her pretend-typing. “I found one new commonality—and it’s a wrinkle. Drake was the DS on one of the
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