Chapter 1

It was taking far too long to retrieve his clock.

Kathleen Doyle was sitting in the pew at Saint Michael’s Church, watching as the participants conducted a rehearsal for Tim McGonigal’s wedding—the wedding being slated for the following Saturday.

Acton, Doyle’s husband, was going to stand-up with McGonigal and so he waited in position at the altar, listening to his instructions from Father John about how events were to unfold. As she watched the careful orchestrations, Doyle was rather ironically reminded of her own wedding—she and Acton had more or less eloped, even though they’d never left London. She’d been terrified almost speechless at the time—it was just the two of them, along with the priest and the church secretary who stood as the only witnesses in the scrimble-scramble ceremony. A long road, since then—much happiness, mixed-in with the occasional hair-raising adventure. She didn’t regret a single moment, though—not even the panic-attack at her wedding.

There were to be no panic-attacks at this particular wedding, though; it was a happy occasion—in part because it was so very unexpected. McGonigal had been star-crossed when it came to the romance department, and so his whirlwind courtship of the principal at East Park School had come as a welcome surprise.  The genial man was a long-time friend of Doyle’s husband—his only one, truth to tell; Acton wasn’t one to have friends—and McGonigal had lived through many a harrowing adventure with them, mainly because being in Acton’s orbit was not for the faint of heart. Doyle’s husband was a rare bird—a titled aristocrat who’d decided to put his many talents to use in solving homicides as a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard. Brilliant and reclusive, he was much-loved by the public for having an impressive record of success as well as for being aristocratic and mysterious—and not necessarily in that order. The only fly in the Acton-as-hero ointment was that the main reason he’d decided to become a Chief Inspector was not to uphold the law but to apply his talents toward vigilantism—meting-out his own notions of justice as he saw fit. And—regrettably—those selfsame notions would sometimes include a discreet murder or two if he felt it was necessary, or the occasional grand larceny if he stumbled across a cache of money that was begging to be stolen.

Not that anyone knew about these questionable doings save Doyle, the man’s wedded wife. And even she hadn’t known about them—not until after she’d married the man at the drop of a hat, being as she’d been assigned as his support officer and it seemed rude to refuse his unexpected offer of marriage. But she’d soon discovered, in the early days of their marriage, that Acton was not at all what he seemed to his admiring public.

There was a silver lining to this story, however, in that she’d been working rather tirelessly to get him to change course and she’d been largely successful—at least, as far as she could tell; after all, her husband was the grand master at keeping secrets.

  Not that he could keep many secrets from her; Doyle was what the Irish would call “fey,” in that she’d an extraordinary perceptive ability which allowed her to read the true emotions of the people in her vicinity—a useful talent for a homicide detective, especially when it came to spotting a lie.  In fact, Doyle—who was stoutly Irish-Catholic—was convinced it was no coincidence that she’d been thrown across Acton’s path; he’d fallen irrevocably and irrationally in love with her which meant she was perhaps the one person on earth who had the ability to save him from himself. Not that it had been easy, by any means—instead it felt as though she’d been thrown into a fast-moving torrent, with the devil to take the hindmost. But all in all, things were looking up, and the manic pace of their lives was—thank God fastin’—finally settling down a bit.

And—as was the case with most weddings—here was a fine chance to step aside from the day-to-day and take a moment to celebrate with friends and family; a happy occasion—and indeed, it seemed like one of those times in one’s life when good things were happening, and all at once. Not only had McGonigal found love, but Acton was in the process of methodically bringing-down an international criminal operation that had been giving him fits for many years—a syndicate of very slippery players who used loopholes in the law to their own advantage whilst running various money-laundering schemes. These savvy players would operate a rig until Acton began closing in, and then they’d quietly fold their tents to move on to the next rig, leaving him thoroughly frustrated and with little evidence to go after them.

Only this time, he’d caught a break—or he’d manufactured one, more correctly. A minor player in the money-laundering schemes—a police officer, here at the Yard—had panicked and murdered the syndicate’s trusty hit-man, a truly awful villain named Nester. Her unsanctioned act was a godsend, and Acton had promptly arrested Officer Wilson so as to apply enough pressure on the woman to start naming names. As a result, he’d finally garnered enough evidence to go after the higher-ups.

It had to be carefully done, of course, because it seemed clear there were personnel in the Met who’d been aiding and abetting; deep-rooted corruption had already been exposed in two of the rigs—one sex-trafficking, one artwork-smuggling—and it went without saying that sincere and deep panic would be breaking-out amongst the corrupt people who were involved.  

Nonetheless, Doyle could sense her husband’s immense satisfaction and knew that things were going well—indeed, they’d had a few high-profile resignations already. Doyle was of the opinion that all the blacklegs should be named and shamed—let the chips fall where they may—but Acton tended to have a more nuanced view; he tended to protect the justice system from any truly horrific scandals rather than allow the public lose faith.

His tendency to manipulate the outcome of high-profile cases was always a source of frustration for Doyle—especially since she was aware that these selfsame tendencies were heavily weighted to serve his own purposes as an added bonus. But to be fair, exposure to Acton had also taught her that things weren’t necessarily black-and-white, with the clear heroes facing off against the clear villains like they showed you on the telly. The justice business was miles more complicated.

Doyle’s musings were interrupted when Nellie paused beside Doyle’s pew and remarked in a grave tone, “I imagine we’ll have a full house; we may need to bring-in extra chairs.”

“I imagine you’ve the right of it,” Doyle agreed. Nellie was the church’s administrator, an older Filipino woman who’d befriended Doyle when she’d first come to London from Dublin—another friend who’d survived many a harrowing tale. Doyle wasn’t fooled by the woman’s mock-concern, though; the wedding was slated to be a large affair—mainly because both McGonigal and his bride had many professional friends—and Nellie would be in her glory, since she was that type of efficient and organized person who lived for exactly this type of challenge.

“We’ll have to schedule Mary’s baptism, Kathleen.”

Doyle smiled; she’d a baby at home, a new sister to her two sons. “One sacrament at a time, Nellie; Mary can keep.”

They watched the proceedings for a moment before Nellie ventured, “What do we know about the bride? Not RC, I gather.”

Thoughtfully, Doyle replied, “A very nice woman; not afraid to do the right thing, no matter the consequences.”

Nellie observed with some humor, “A principled principal.”

“Aye.”

  With a sigh, Nellie’s gaze rested on Father John. “I wanted to have an unveiling reception for the portrait, but Father won’t agree to it.”

Doyle conceded, “He’s not one to want a fuss, Nellie—tis a shrine-worthy miracle that he sat for a portrait in the first place.”

Nellie sighed. “I suppose. I’ll go; see you soon.”

“Indeed, you will.”

Almost as soon as Nellie moved on, Doyle looked up to see Auntie Clara slide into the pew, sidling close beside her. She’d met the woman at a hastily-put-together bridal shower that had been organized by the teachers at the school. The elderly African immigrant had been a fixture at East Park School for many years—working as an aide—and even though she was now retired, she continued in her duties as a volunteer since she was something of a staple at the school. Doyle was rather surprised Auntie Clara had been included in the rehearsal activities, but it may be that she’d simply come without realizing that it wasn’t an open-invitation type of thing—she was that type of older lady.

“Hallo, Auntie Clara,” Doyle greeted the woman with a smile. “It’s all very excitin’, isn’t it?”

“I must take this time to tell you,” the woman said abruptly, and with all seriousness. “I must tell you of the men with the straw shoes.”

Dementia, thought Doyle with a pang of sympathy. They saw it, on the force—a seemingly sincere witness who’d suddenly start testifying about the space aliens who’d stolen their laundry. “Straw shoes? They sound comfortable.”

“No.” The elderly woman shook her head impatiently. “They are ghost-shoes; quiet, so that no one knows they come. It is for the utukufu. I tole him—no, no.” She paused, and raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture—her palm pale, in contrast to her dark skin. “I have respect, of course—much respect. But I tell him, it is not the same as in the old country. You will bring down the mzungu.” She shook her head slightly. “He did not care—he said sharp words to me; he was angry that a woman would speak of such things.” Almost apologetically, she explained, “Women are not allowed to speak of such things.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Doyle offered.

Her companion advised, “You must be careful, mke.”

“Me?” asked Doyle in surprise.

The elderly woman nodded solemnly. “They are coming for him; they are coming for all of them.”

With a sudden sense of foreboding, Doyle decided that perhaps these were not the ramblings of an incoherent elderly woman. “Who’s comin’ for who, ma’am?”

“The mlinzi; the ghost-soldiers,” she replied, as she turned to slide away.  “I can say no more.”