Murder in Spite by Anne Cleeland

Author:Anne Cleeland [Cleeland, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Anne Cleeland
Published: 2018-09-15T22:00:00+00:00

Poor man, thought Doyle, as she walked beside Timothy McGonigal in the echoing hallway; he’s been wound ʼround the axle, and there’s no mistaking.

They were wandering though the impressive library at Trinity College, Doyle carrying Edward in the chest-carrier and the two men discussing some famous display—an old book, of all things—but Doyle was awash in sympathy, and not paying much attention.

McGonigal was sunk in misery—although he was trying valiantly to disguise this fact—and he looked rather drawn, and not his sunny self at all. Neither she nor Acton had brought up the Nanda-troubles, but Doyle was wondering if perhaps this was not the right strategy—that it might be better just to let him rail and weep, rather than bottle it up inside. It was very English, to carry on without allowing one’s emotions to show through, whereas the Irish were perfectly willing to blow off a bit of steam, with none to find fault when the broken glass had to be swept up.

Mustering up a small smile, McGonigal asked her kindly, “Have you visited the Book of Kells exhibit before, Kathleen?”

“No; I can’t say as I have, Tim.” Best not mention that she’d never come within hailing distance of this or any other college, and it was just as well; the place had its share of aggravating ghosts arguing about stupid, trivial-sounding things amongst the rafters. Who cared, I ask you, whether King Ecgfrith’s wife was secretly plotting against the Anglo-Saxons, a million years ago? A pack of quarreling babies who threw around ten-pound words, trying to impress each other.

“There is a Yeats exhibit, over at the National Library,” Acton suggested. “Perhaps we should have a look, Tim.”

As he’d done at the park, her husband met her eyes briefly, and Doyle understood this to be a subtle suggestion that she withdraw, so as to allow the two men to spend some time alone together. She was perfectly willing to fall in with this plan, since she’d no idea what a “yates” was, and it didn’t sound interesting in the least. And although McGonigal was a good friend, it was not an easy thing for someone like her to be around such bleakness—Doyle was feeling a bit bleak, herself, and didn’t need any amplifiers.

So, having taken her cue, she made a show of pausing to stretch her back. “D’you mind if I take a pass, you two? I think I’ll head back to the hotel, so as to rest-up for a bit.” Not that she’d do any resting, of course—there was no rest for the weary, when one was a member of tribe-Acton. She’d started to cobble together a timeline, and in doing so had come into the sure knowledge that her husband was running some sort of misdirection play, and that she’d best shake her stumps and figure out what his object was because it was important, for some reason, that she figure it out. Sister Luke may think Acton was a handsome thing, but it was no coincidence that she was—just like in life—demanding that Doyle pay attention.

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