The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘My case, it’s in my pocket on your side Inspector.’

  Stott reached inside his coat pocket to pull out the cigarette case. Opening it, he held it up for Strangerson to take a cigarette.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said Strangerson putting the cigarette in his mouth. He turned around slowly and faced Kit who was at the top of the steps. For a moment the two men looked at one another. Kit could see the purity of the hatred in Strangerson’s eyes. Oddly, at that moment, he felt no hatred towards Strangerson. His life was about to change in the happiest of ways and he just wanted this affair to be over with.

  It happened out of the blue.

  One moment, Kit and Strangerson were looking at one another, the next he heard Mary scream.

  ‘Kit! Look out!’

  He felt himself pushed out of the way and he had to hold onto the pillar to avoid falling. As he did so, he saw out of the corner of his eye Mary collapse as if struck by a blow. Bright swiped something out of the mouth of Strangerson. When it hit the ground, Kit saw it was a small blow pipe. He turned to Mary who had fallen into Miller and was now on the ground. There was a speck of blood on her neck.

  ‘She’s been poisoned.’ said Kit. He knelt immediately trying to suck the poison from the wound and spit it out.

  ‘Don’t move, my love.’ He held her hand and looked up at Miller. ‘Harry, you and Coltrane search Strangerson’s belongings for an antidote.’

  Miller immediately left for Strangerson’s room followed by Coltrane. Kit turned to Henry.

  ‘Henry, the book you took from the library; is there anything on how to counteract curare poisoning?’

  ‘I don’t need a book. I know what to do,’ replied Henry. Looking at Bright he said, ‘I need your medical bag. They both ran into the hallway to retrieve Bright’s bag.

  Meanwhile Strangerson had been bundled roughly into the back of the police car and Stott had added a couple more bruises to his rapidly swelling face.

  Kit looked down at Mary, anxiety etched on his face. She seemed calm and looked at him in the eye. Panic gripped him. He held her hand tightly.

  ‘Don’t worry my love,’ said Kit, barely able to control his tears. He stared into Mary’s eyes willing her to hold on.

  ‘I’m not going to let you get away again.’

  Mary gripped Kit’s hand ever tighter. She did not stop looking up at him. Her breathing was becoming more laboured. Trying not to alarm Kit she attempted to smile but it was difficult to disguise for long, how hard she was finding it to inhale. She heard some shouts. Was that Bright? Henry? Maybe it was Kit. Her head was swimming and she felt disoriented. A tingling sensation overcame her. The voices around her began to echo.

  And then the blackness came.

  Chapter 2

  London: 1st January 1920

  Sheldon’s was an exclusive club in London, which valued privacy, exclusivity and yet more, privacy. In fact, so exclusive and private was Sheldon’s, it would have been famous for its privacy had it chosen to publicise what set it apart. Instead, its reputation had grown hand in hand with its unashamed desire not to intrude, in any way, on public consciousness.

  Club members were asked not to mention it on their, inevitable, listing in Who’s Who. One unfortunate civil servant had made just such a mistake before the war. The Boer War. He was forced to resign. Even now, members still spoke of this to the occasional new member who arrived. The chap ended up in India, apparently.

  There were two routes to membership at Sheldon’s. One was family: if your father was a member then any male offspring was automatically granted membership from the age of twenty-one. New, old blood would arrive year after year ensuring a changing changelessness to the demography of the club.

  The only other channel was money. Sheldon’s was almost entirely funded by the generosity of new members. They were required to pay an enormous entrance fee to enjoy the right not to tell the world that they were a member of an exclusive private club.

  Lord Oliver ‘Olly’ Lake sat alone in the corner of the library in Sheldon’s. He was by the window overlooking the park. Like his father and his grandfather before him, he was a member of Sheldon’s by birth right. This was his favorite armchair. Cigar-brown, made from the softest of aniline leather, Olly Lake ardently wished he could sink into its luxury and escape the world he hated.

  Outside his window the world chuntered on. In the park, people were walking this way and that. Young men, young women, mothers, old people walked, talked, sat, and ate all before him in his front row seat. He wondered why people bothered. There wasn’t really any point to it all. If he’d had the energy, he would have popped into the park himself and shared this wisdom. Without looking around, he picked up his surprisingly heavy Waterford cut-glass whisky tumbler and held it in the air, moving it left and right. Within seconds, silently, invisibly it was refilled.

  A drunkard he sat, detesting himself and the world around him. Down below, he spied a beautiful young girl walking through the park accompanied by her mother and, likely, her beau. She walked with an effortless, slender grace. Her dark hair was tied at the back, her head was held high, not through conceit, but because she still had a purpose, and the passion to pursue it.

  She would learn, thought Lake. Passion was good until it became obsession. When you’re so consumed by something that you can no longer think of anything else, then obsession, not indifference, becomes the negation of passion. And Olly Lake was in the grip of an obsession so strong even alcohol could not tear it from his mind.

  A few members strolled past Lake. A swift glance down at him, a shake of their heads and they walked on. Few sought his company now; even fewer were sought by him. The War, they said. No one was sure exactly. He’d been decorated at Marne, wounded at Neuve Chapelle, promoted at Ypres, then he had disappeared. Some said it was hush, hush intelligence. No one was sure.

  A drunkard he sat, not yet thirty, wishing he had the courage not to reach thirty-one. Lake rose from his seat with some difficulty. He made an inelegant departure from the library swaying left and right. A few members looked up as he made his unsteady progress. They saw a tall man, fair-haired with blue eyes that were once clear but now filled with hatred.

  Once he had been a good-looking man. They had been proud to be seen with him. His was a vintage year for the club. He had joined at the same time as his friend, Kit Aston. Older members had been aware of standards slipping for many years. Their arrival had rejuvenated the club. No longer.

  Gripping the stair handrails tightly, Olly Lake somehow made it to the bottom without accident and marched, eyes straight ahead, out into the night air. He descended the steps of the club and stumbled straight into a burly man.

  ‘Watch where you’re going you damned fool,’ slurred Lake. His eyes struggled to focus on the man he had bumped into, but he was unquestionably large. His hat was pulled down low over his forehead but the eyes he investigated were of a type instantly recognizable to Lake, even in his diminished state.

  Seconds later, he was being hustled into the back of a waiting car. Struggling was useless such was the strength of the man who had accosted him. Lake fell asleep in the back of the car within seconds. Nearby another drunk, lying on the street, looked on. He laughed bitterly.

  The doorman of the club also witnessed the scene. He shook his head in disgust. Lord Lake had really descended to the depths.

  -

  Lake slept fitfully although it was not a long car journey. His head screamed in a protest that was two parts nausea, and five parts excruciating pain. As soon as he was taken out of the car, he threw up prodigiously on the street. He looked up to his tormentor in the heavens.

  ‘Are you happy?’ he asked, ignoring the stares of the people passing by.

  Bending over, he was ill once more.

  ‘That feels better,’ he lied.

  He remained bent double for another few minutes. ‘I hope this is worth it,’ he said to the man standing over him. He looked up at the big man.
‘Not sure I can walk so well, old boy.’

  Moments later he was being half-carried up a flight of stairs and then into a large apartment. He was deposited into a dark room and heard a door locking. He was dimly aware of another person in the room, lying on a bed. He heard a voice coming from the other bed.

  ‘You too?’

  Seconds later Lord Olly Lake passed out.

  -

  They sat outdoors in front of the teahouse in the Summer Garden. At the bandstand, a small orchestra was playing Tchaikovsky. Around them, people laughed, some danced. Children played hide, and seek, in the long grass or bushes as their mothers sat chatting to friends. July in St Petersburg was hot: Kit, Olly and Kristina were happy to have shade, but the mood was otherwise somber.

  Olly looked at Kristina and marvelled, once more, at his luck to have met someone so beautiful, and his misfortune to fall in love with her. Her boiling blond hair was tied back in with a blue rag, she had a half-smile that never left her face. His eyes never left hers. He wanted to run away to the middle of Russia and hide her away from the fever. This wasn’t a fever of the body. It was a fever of the mind. Russia was burning up with revolution, whether from the anarchists or from the liberals or from the generals, like Kornilov, it was all the same.

  She held his hand tightly for he needed her courage. His was failing. He feared no one yet, since the moment he had met her, fear was his constant and unwelcome companion. The sun broke through the leaves of the tree and shone directly into his eyes. It was blinding. He held his hands up to shield himself from the light.

  -

  ‘Ah,’ said a voice. ‘You’re awake.’

  The voice. He knew it from somewhere. Lake tried to focus but the light shining directly above, blinded his eyes. He could make out two men in the room with him through the blur. They were shadows initially as his eyes tried to overcome a combination of alcohol, nausea, and tiredness.

  His throat was parched. He was lying on a bed in a room that had probably never been decorated. Brickwork showed through the plaster. There was no other furniture aside from the second bed, a chamber pot, thankfully empty, and a bedside table with a lamp. He could almost imagine rats the size of small dogs scuttling around the room as he sat on the bed, welcoming death.

  ‘No rooms left at the Ritz, then?’ he asked sardonically.

  In a moment the light was turned off and there was darkness. A table lamp was switched on. His eyes adjusted more easily in a light less harsh. He looked up at the two men. One was built on an impressive scale, the other was smaller and more malevolent looking. Lake turned towards the other bed. It was now empty. He raised his eyebrows by way of a question. The bigger of the two men motioned with his head. Lake guessed the other man was now in a different room.

  Lake was beginning to feel the full force of his hangover now. Never again, he thought. He realised he was still dressed in his tuxedo. The smell of it was overpowering, a combination of sweat and possibly other fluids that he decided not to think about. It made him feel ill again. Patting his pockets, he realised they were empty now. He groaned.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cigarette, chaps? Happy New Year by the way.’

  Chapter 3

  National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery Hospital, London: 2nd January 1920

  Lord Kit Aston looked at Mary Cavendish. Taking her hand, he knelt and said, ‘Will you make me the happiest man alive, Mary? Will you marry me?’

  Mary said nothing. The silence soon became unbearable. Finally, Kit stood up and looked down at Mary. She lay in the bed as if asleep. Her features seemed so soft; the beautiful face was unlined from worry, her breathing barely perceptible. She had lain thus for the last few days. No movement; no sign of life. Her body fighting an unknown enemy within.

  Kit made no effort to stop the tears flowing down his cheeks. Rage and despair coursed through his veins. He collapsed onto the seat and buried his head in the side of the bed. For the next few minutes his emotions could be contained no longer.

  It took several minutes for Kit to regain his composure. He sat with Mary for a while longer staring down at her face in silence. A knock on the door broke the stillness in the room. Kit turned around to see Esther Cavendish float in. She was accompanied by her fiancé, Richard Bright. Kit immediately rose and embraced Esther. He and Bright exchanged a handshake.

  ‘No change.’

  This was Esther, it wasn’t a question.

  Kit shook his head and stood aside to let Esther sit down. She took her sister’s hand and gazed at her.

  ‘How much longer?’ she asked, knowing there was no answer.

  Richard put his hand on her shoulder but could think of nothing comforting to say to her. Everything that could be said had been said over the few days since the dart that had pierced her skin deprived her of consciousness, possibly her life.

  The swift actions taken by Kit and Henry had undoubtedly saved her life. At the very least, they had ensured she would survive long enough to receive medical care. Kit, Esther, and Richard had accompanied Mary down to London from Cavendish Hall in the hours after she had fallen unconscious.

  The tests run in London only confirmed what Kit had suspected. Eric Strangerson, the killer of Mary’s uncle, Robert Cavendish, had used a curare-tipped dart intended for Kit. Now, only time and her own will to live could save Mary.

  The group stayed with Mary for another hour before tacitly deciding to return to their lodgings. Esther had taken a room at a hotel near to Kit’s flat in Belgravia. Richard was invited by Kit to room with him while they waited for Mary’s condition to improve.

  Outside the room they met Miller, Kit’s manservant, chauffeur, safe cracker, and general help. Miller saw immediately the looks on the faces of the group. He deftly acknowledged the situation to Kit without distressing either him or Esther with any questions.

  The group followed Miller out of the hospital. The cold air, aided by a light wind, stung their faces. Each instinctively pulled their collars around their faces and walked quickly towards Kit’s Rolls Royce Silver Ghost parked near the hospital.

  Miller drove them through the light afternoon London traffic to Belgravia. They stopped outside Esther’s hotel to allow her to disembark and then continued around the corner to Kit’s apartment in Belgrave Square.

  Kit’s apartment was on the first floor. It consisted of a long hallway which led through to four bedrooms, a large living room with an opening that revealed an equally spacious dining room. The décor was a decided rejection of modernism in terms of the furniture and paintings hanging on the wall. No art deco. No Bauhaus. But nor was there, unnecessary, ornamentation. There was a minimalism to the choice of furniture that betrayed a bachelor presence. The only decoration, aside from the furniture were the table lamps, a large globe and several paintings and drawings. An extensive library dominated two of the walls in the living room, floor to ceiling.

  Kit and Bright sat down while Miller went to prepare afternoon tea. On the table separating the two leather sofas was an antique chess board. Bright lifted The Times and leafed through the paper while Kit looked at the afternoon post.

  ‘Damn,’ said Kit, as one telegram captured his attention.

  Bright looked up from the newspaper, ‘Something wrong?’

  Kit looked down at the telegram again before replying, ‘Nothing important. I made a commitment before Christmas which is somewhat inconvenient now.’

  ‘I see. Can’t you just bail out? Tell them you’ve an illness in the family or something.’

  ‘Yes, that might do the trick in one sense, but it draws attention to Mary, which I’d rather avoid.’

  ‘Really? Why? Sorry, don’t mean to pry,’ smiled Bright. He was curious, but equally, he and Kit had only recently become friends. It was not his place to be so inquisitive.

  ‘Nothing secret. A chap called Filip Serov challenged me to a chess match before Christmas. He’s over in England on a chess tour and, I suppose, he th
inks he should play against this country’s foremost players,’ smiled Kit. ‘Lord only knows why he chose me.’

  Bright looked at Kit archly before breaking out into a grin, ‘I’d heard of your ability at chess but can’t say I’ve heard of him. It doesn’t sound like he’ll be opening for Middlesex any time soon.’

  Kit laughed and shook his head.

  ‘No, he’d probably denounce cricket as a game invented by the ruling class, played by the ruling class, for the sole entertainment of the ruling class.’

  It was Bright’s turn to laugh.

  ‘He wouldn’t be far wrong, would he? I mean any sport that makes a distinction between “gentlemen” and “players”, is sorely in need of a good shake up in my view.’

  This made Kit more thoughtful, ‘I know. We fought a war this way. Extraordinary when you think of it. Our amateurs came up against German professionals. They came damn close to winning.’

  Bright became more serious also, ‘Yes. Don’t get me wrong, Kit, I’m not going to start quoting Marx, but things are changing.’

  Returning to the telegram, Kit said, ‘Serov has always been a Bolshevik. I met him before the War. We played a couple of games. Even then he was banging on about the bourgeoisie. I didn’t think it would improve his temper if I pointed out that I was part of the aristocracy. Nothing so vulgar as the bourgeoisie.’

  They both laughed and then were silent for a few moments as they reflected on the remarkable events in Russia over the last few years.

  Almost as an afterthought Bright asked, ‘Who won?’

  Kit smiled, ‘Between Serov and me? Honours were even then, but he’s a lot better now. I’ve been otherwise employed these last few years.’ Bright and Kit looked at one another and four years passed in a moment. Nothing needed to be said.

  Bright looked thoughtful and then suggested, ‘If you think he can beat you now maybe it’s best you pull out.’ Kit looked surprised at this suggestion, so Bright added, ‘I mean it. No point in handing the Bolsheviks a propaganda victory.’