Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland Page B

problem. But you must not tell Acton.”
    She mustered up a confident expression. “He’s bluffin’, my friend; he doesn’t know anythin’ that could hurt Acton.” She’d see if her rescuer was willing to give her any proof, so as to gauge the seriousness of this ploy.
    Her companion shrugged. “Your husband does not act wisely, sometimes. He drinks too much, and tells secrets.”
    This seemed a little ominous—that they would know about the drinking—but she raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s clear you’ve never met him; no one would call Acton a gabbler.”
    With a measured movement, he pulled two photographs from his inner jacket pocket, and handed them to her.
    Doyle stared at the photographs; almost unable to process what they portrayed. They were of Acton and the woman reporter from the London World News who had spoken to him at the crime scene. Both were seated at a small round table—as though at a nightclub—and the light was dim. They were leaning with their heads together, speaking intimately. In one photo Acton’s head was bent and his mouth was next to her ear while she listened, smiling knowingly. Both were smoking, and Acton held a tendril of hair from her temple between his fingers.
    Doyle wasn’t aware that she swayed until her rescuer put his hands at her elbows to steady her. “Ah-ah; do you need to sit?”
    Lifting her gaze, she met his a little blankly. “This makes no sense.”
    He lifted a shoulder, in a gesture that seemed very French. “The men—sometimes they cannot resist; it is the way of it.”
    “No.” She reviewed the photos again, trying to find two thoughts to put together. “That is not the way of it.”
    “It is painful—like the teeth in the licorice,” he observed with a trace of sympathy. “You are upset, but we will talk of what is to be done, and you will feel better.”
    She raised her head again, and with a mighty effort, pulled herself together. “I’ll not be makin’ any decisions, just now.”
    He put a finger under her chin so as to hold it steady and looked into her eyes, speaking seriously. “I think you should speak to Solonik—you must be very careful.”
    She had the strong impression he was trying to decide whether to kiss her—which was symmetrical in a strange way, but nevertheless not appreciated—and so she pulled her head back.
    “Kath?” It was Williams, standing in the aisle beside them and looking like murder.
    The rescuer released her immediately and faced Williams, assessing him. Williams’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
    “Williams, please wait outside, I’ll be out in a moment,” Doyle said as calmly as she was able.
    “Go outside, Doyle,” he replied, never taking his eyes off the other man.
    Williams was a head taller and at least a stone heavier, but Doyle had absolutely no doubt as to who would prevail in a donnybrook, although she wasn’t sure why she was so certain. “Thomas,” she pleaded, “I am beggin ’ you.”
    He hesitated and met her eyes. “Who is he?”
    “Believe it or not, he is a friend. Please wait outside, I will be right there, I promise.”
    “Call if you need me.” Giving the other man a last, long look, Williams turned and walked away.
    Doyle’s rescuer turned to her in surprise. “He is your lover?”
    “No,” she said crossly. “Of course not.”
    He eyed her. “He wants to be.”
    But Doyle was in no mood, and snapped, “You’re to mind your tongue; you’ve caused enough trouble already.”
    But he only shook his head. “It is not me, with the trouble-causing.”
    She took a breath, trying to quell the sick panic that threatened to overwhelm her, and remembering that she should try to stay on his good side. “No; I suppose you’re right. I’m just wantin’ to shoot the messenger.”
    “So; what should I tell Solonik?”
    “I don’t know.” She was trying to suppress the images in the photographs so that she could think clearly, and held her palms against her