Murder in Protocol

Chapter One

Kathleen Doyle was a seasoned police officer, a notable homicide detective, and the recipient of no less than two commendations for bravery from Scotland Yard, but when it came to speaking in public bravery was something in very short order.

At present, she was giving a speech at St. Brigid’s School for Girls where she’d attended primary school in Dublin; she and her husband were donating a science lab to the school, and—as could be expected—the Mother Superior had asked if Doyle could say a few words at the groundbreaking ceremony.

A portion of the school’s garden was being sacrificed for the new building—space being at a premium, here in the older part of town—and they’d cleared out a few orchard trees, being as they were quite old, and not very fruitful in the first place.   

Doyle had practiced her speech the night before with Acton, her husband, who now sat in the front row at the outdoor ceremony—a pity it hadn’t been rained out—so as to give her silent encouragement, which was much appreciated. It was a shame that he wasn’t the one giving the speech; he was well-used to saying just the right thing, being as he was an aristocrat and the nobs were all born with an extra dose of flim-flam.

She cleared her throat and began, “Good mornin’, everyone. My old teachers must be that surprised that I’m the one who’s dedicatin’ a science lab.”

The assembled audience smiled and chuckled—save for the students, who were fidgeting in their seats the same way she’d done when forced to make nice to the benefactors.  Doyle herself had been a mediocre student—barely managing to make passing grades—and on top of that, she’d been shy and withdrawn due to two important factors; the first being that she was the only one in the school without a father—he’d abandoned her mother before she’d been born—and the second being that she was what the Irish would call “fey,” born with an extraordinary perceptive ability which was something of a mixed blessing, truth to tell, and made for an isolated existence. It was no easy thing, to sense the cross-currents of emotion that surrounded her when she was amongst other people and so, she’d been content to remain an outsider—alongside her mother, who was also an outsider—and the two of them had managed a happy existence together, even after they’d moved to London so that Doyle could pursue a police career.

Unfortunately, her mother had died shortly after the move, and so Doyle had found herself living an even more isolated existence as a stranger in a strange land—until that fateful morning when she’d been paired-up with Chief Inspector Acton as a rookie detective, and the man had decided he’d best marry her so as to thoroughly upend her carefully isolated little world.

And now here she was, back at St. Brigid’s in a prodigal-daughter sort of moment after marrying an English aristocrat with far too much money so as to allow her to dedicate a science lab even though she should thank God fastin’ there wasn’t a science lab here when she was a student.  Ironic, it all was.

Realizing that she was allowing her mind to wander—stay focused, and finish this up, for the love o’ Mike—she continued, “It is my and my husband’s—”  Faith, that wasn’t right, and she corrected it to, “It is our hope that this new facility will lead to many careers in science for the students.”

“Hear, hear,” called out Robbie O’Shaughnessy, being cheeky from his seat in the teacher’s section.  He was a former copper who’d grown up with Doyle’s mother, and was now a mathematics teacher at the school.

Again, everyone chuckled and Doyle relaxed a bit; she was amongst friends here—or at least, if they weren’t friends they were supporters, being as the nuns who used to despair of teaching Doyle her sums were now the lucky recipients of large sums of money from the English lord that Doyle had somehow managed to marry.  And as a direct result of her husband’s devotion to his unlikely wife, the school would now have a new science lab alongside the other various facilities that the House of Acton had donated to it.

“I have many happy memories of my time, here—” this wasn’t exactly true, but Acton had explained it was something she should say, regardless  “—and I truly hope to hear more of my happy memories—” No, that wasn’t right “—I hope many more memories will be made. Happy ones, I mean.”  

There was an awkward moment of silence, and she could feel her color rising as she reviewed her note cards—she’d missed the part where she was supposed to thank the Mother Superior for her introduction—faith, she’d mucked it up, but best to carry on.

She found her place with a firm finger and then lifted her face to the audience again, but found that her gaze strayed over their heads to the trees that remained on the perimeter of this orchard; they’d been planted by the founders, way-back-when, and the present Committee had decided that a few of them should remain for continuity’s sake. 

As she reviewed the gnarled, ancient trees, she was somewhat surprised to see that a man stood amongst them. And not just any man; he pinged her copper-radar, mainly because he looked to be a blackleg if she’d ever seen one; a rough-looking fellow with a shaved head and tattoos along the sides of his face. Strange, that security had allowed him in to watch the ceremony, but it was possible he was one of the invited guests at this little holy show—you never knew, nowadays, and to each his own.  Besides, he seemed harmless—seemed heartily amused by it all, grinning at her as though he found her hilarious.

Dragging her gaze away from the odd man, she focused again on the faces before her, and found that she’d a sudden desire to go off-script.  “I’ve always loved the trees in this orchard,” she confessed. “And it seems a crackin’ shame we’ve had to tear most of them down, but I think the cause is a worthy one. This science lab will produce a different sort of first-fruits—God willin’—since we’ll build it with the same hopeful spirit as the people who planted the orchard; hope that the seeds we plant will grow  into blessings for the generations to come—blessings some of us may never witness ourselves.”

There was a small silence, and even the students stopped fidgeting as Doyle knit her brow. “When you think about it, in the founders’ time, plantin’ the trees was a huge step of faith—here in the midst of a crowded, smoky city—and now the trees have to give way for the next step of faith.  I suppose one day it will be time to replace the science lab with somethin’ even more beneficial to the students who will walk the halls here—someday, far into the future.  The things that are important to us won’t be the things that are important to them, and so the things we’ve planted may have to be uprooted to suit the times.  But no matter what comes next, it will be planted with the same spirit of hope that’s been here ever since the beginnin’—that’s the one thing that never changes.” 

She paused, to consider what to say next, and—since nothing came to mind—she concluded, “Amen.”

With some gratification, she heard a sincere round of applause, even as she realized she’d forgot to thank her husband and the Committee—ah, well; they knew what they’d accomplished, so there was no need to gild the lily.

 “Well said,” the Mother Superior murmured, surreptitiously bringing a heavy sleeve to dab at her eye as she came to the podium. “Very moving.”

“Thanks,” said Doyle, and decided that there was nothin’ to this public-speaking business, after all.

The Mother Superior’s Second—Sister Cecilia—then handed Doyle the ceremonial shovel to break ground, and they moved toward the area that had been roped-off for this time-honored ritual.

“Lord Acton,” the Mother Superior directed with a gracious gesture. “If you would join us for the photographs.”

Robbie O’Shaughnessy rose also, since he was the designated picture-taker for the event. “Right then—everyone hold still and I’ll take a snap,” he directed, and Doyle dutifully held the shovel at the ready whilst everyone assembled around her for the photo.

Pinning on her publicity-photo smile—a shame that she had one, and was called-upon to display it so often—Doyle stood beside her husband as the moment was recorded for posterity, the photos slated to be displayed in the archive-gallery that lined the main hallway of the school. It was a strange feeling, to think that her own photo would be added to that collection of old photos she’d walked past every day without paying the slightest attention.

But her pinned-on smile suddenly froze, as she stood in shocked disbelief. “Mother a’ Mercy,” she breathed.

“What is it?” Acton asked quietly, bending to bring his head closer to hers “Are you all right?”

“Only one more snap, Lord Acton,” Robbie cautioned, as he held up a finger. “Please stay still.”

“Michael,” Doyle said in an urgent whisper. “There’s a code-eighteen under here.”

She could sense his abject surprise—and small blame to him; a code-eighteen was a dead body.

“Are you certain?” he asked in a low voice.

“Aye. Just below where I’m supposed to dig.”

He paused, because this revelation created an immediate dilemma; few knew about Doyle’s perceptive abilities—with good reason, of course—and her husband was very protective of her when it came to such things. One could only imagine the firestorm that would erupt if the man’s wedded wife was shown to have strange and unquantifiable powers.  

“Dig,” he directed quietly. “I will handle it.”

Bracing herself, Doyle cautiously plied the spade into the dirt, and then turned over a shovelful to scattered applause and yet another wretched photo.

“Hold,” Acton said in a loud voice as he reached to stay the shovel. “I believe I smell decomp.”  

O’Shaughnessy—the former policeman—stepped forward like a hound to the point. “Where? Here?”

“Yes,” said Acton, crouching down, and scrutinizing the area where the soil had been overturned. “Just here. It may only be an animal.”

“Everybody back,” the other man directed importantly. “We may have a crime scene.”

“Goodness me,” said the Mother Superior, thoroughly astonished.  

Acton took the spade from Doyle’s hand and said to O’Shaughnessy, “Let’s take a look—if you would give me a hand.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I think I saw the perp,” Doyle urgently whispered into Acton’s ear. “Should we call for back-up?”

“Not as yet,” he replied in the same low tone—which only made sense, since they hadn’t yet recovered a body—first things first. 

O’Shaughnessy had donned his gloves, and was carefully scraping away dirt whilst Acton plied the shovel. When they’d gone down about eighteen inches, the other man announced with some excitement, “Here’s somethin’.”

And indeed, it was. As more dirt was brushed aside, Doyle was not over-surprised to see whitened objects, and—after more brushing-away—those objects were revealed to be the bones of a human hand, spread out atop some sort of rough canvas material.

“Merciful heaven,” the Second breathed, as she and the Mother Superior solemnly made the Sign of the Cross—Doyle belatedly following suit.

“If you would call the local Garda,” Acton said to them. “And clear the area; we will need to secure the site.”

“Of course,” the Mother Superior agreed with a brisk nod.  She then signaled to the ushers to help her disperse the crowd.

O’Shaughnessy kept brushing away at the soil—the protocols would require that they wait for the Coroner, but Doyle could scarce blame the man; she was agog, herself, and good luck holding back a copper when he was hot on the trail.

With some excitement, the other man glanced up at Acton. “Well, well; will you look at that?”

“Indeed,” Doyle’s husband replied.  Enough dirt had been brushed aside to reveal a human skull, the dome intact save for a inches-long slot where a sharp instrument had pierced it.

“If you would alert Homicide, please,” Acton said.