The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Coat on, Sammy-boy. It’s a tad chilly out there but at least it’s dry.’

  Chapter 6

  The overnight train from Edinburgh pulled into Kings Cross. It was still dark as Bergmann disembarked from the train and made his way outside the station. Rather than going to his flat in town, he went directly to a small café near the offices of the Daily Herald on Broadway in London. The cold air stung his face and he decided against sitting outside which he would have preferred. He was immune to cold, but he suspected this might not be the case for the person he was meeting.

  He looked across the road at the offices of the Daily Herald. The newspaper was in the vanguard of the labour movement in Britain. Despite its financial struggles, partly brought on by its unpopular anti-war stance between 1914-18, it had managed to survive. This was due to genuinely insightful journalism. It had made revelations of conspicuous consumption by the rich at the Ritz during the War. This was at a time when many were suffering hardship. The paper also campaigned for better conditions and pay for workers. It was at the forefront of the union movement and often providing encouragement for those considering industrial action.

  Another major platform for the paper was its support for the Russian Revolution. Through organised rallies and editorials, the Herald built support in Britain for the new government in Russia. The ongoing civil war in Russia also received significant coverage in the paper. With sympathies closer to the Bolsheviks than the White Army, the paper was prominent in campaigning against any armed intervention in the war.

  Unsurprisingly, the newspaper was viewed with some alarm by politicians in the two main parties as well as the security services who were keen to monitor its activities and relationships. It felt like a fifth column operating in the country and had been subject to investigation in the past regarding links to the Bolsheviks.

  As Bergmann waited, he thought about Billy Peel, the journalist he had been recommended to meet. He was nicknamed “Pit Bull” by his colleagues. Peel exhibited many of the characteristics of the much-maligned canine. Stumpy, ugly, and tenacious as hell, when Peel sank his teeth into a story, he didn’t let go until blood appeared. Not only was he aware of his nickname he took great pride in it.

  Ambition was the central component of Billy’s life. It was the platform upon which his success was built. He could smell a story the way a wine connoisseur could distinguish a good claret.

  His beginnings in journalism had not singled him out for greatness. Originally an obituary writer for a local newspaper in Belfast, the Newsletter, he had graduated from this position as his increasingly lurid revelations about the recently deceased resulted, on several occasions, in litigation. Although the paper had won every case, the publicity was not what the editor wanted for the paper.

  Peel was moved to a new area for the newspaper: sport. It was hoped that an uncontroversial area such as sport would curb Peel’s tendency to create news where none existed. Alas this was doomed to failure. Peel’s revelations that hinted at rampant lesbianism among Ulster’s hockey team proved a bitter pill for the editor to swallow as well as for the fathers of the girls involved. The crime desk seemed the next logical place for Peel’s unique talent to flourish. His stint here proved short lived as matters in France came to a head.

  After the War, Peel stayed in London. He used the contacts of his colleagues to find a home at the Daily Herald. It was with little regret that Peel’s former editor bid a final farewell to his sports columnist. There was just a pang of guilt, however, as the editor wondered what sort of havoc Peel would wreak at his new paper.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Even by the standards of the Daily Herald, Peel was a firebrand. Initially his wrath was poured upon the army generals who had provided disastrous leadership for the working men of Britain and Ireland. The owners of the Herald loved the passion in Peel’s prose and gradually gave him an open brief to write on any subject he pleased. Peel had arrived.

  He was going to make the Establishment pay.

  -

  Peel recognised Bergmann through the café window from the description the Russian had given him. He seemed to be talking with someone, but when he walked inside, he saw that the big Russian was alone.

  In person, Peel was every bit as diminutive as his erstwhile canine namesake. A brief handshake was followed by a few words of greeting. A casual observer would not have detected much warmth from either party. Peel went straight to business.

  ‘So, Bergmann, what’s the story?’

  Bergmann was used to dealing with people in a direct manner himself. Peel seemed similarly inclined. This suited him. He was happy to forego small talk in favour of a briefing on the essentials.

  ‘You’re aware that Filip Serov has just arrived in the country?’ asked Bergmann.

  ‘Yes, and I could care less. And if I could care less, then I can tell you, my readers will care even less than that. They’re trying to survive on pennies from factory owners. Chess? Who gives a ___?’

  Bergmann thankfully interrupted Peel before his full eloquence could be shared with the rest of the café which had suddenly become interested in the conversation. Aware of this, Bergmann decided to pay his bill.

  ‘Thank you, my friend. Perhaps we could go to the offices of The Times and continue our conversation, so that the rest of the world may know what we’re going to talk about.’

  Peel smiled ruefully and mumbled a half-hearted apology. The two men rose from the table. Bergmann paid his bill and they walked along Broadway towards Westminster. The cold slapped the faces of both men. For Bergmann it was quite refreshing, but Peel began to grumble. Despite hailing from Ireland, he was no lover of cold weather.

  ‘Make this quick Bergmann. This may feel like summer in St Petersburg to you, but I’m foundered.’

  ‘Petrograd.’

  ‘Who cares? It’s freezing my___.’

  Once again, Bergmann interrupted Peel, for fear of being treated to an anatomical analogy that conjured up highly unwelcome images.

  ‘I’ll be quick, Peel. There are several reasons why the arrival of Serov should be of interest to you. Firstly, he will be playing a series of chess matches up and down the country. These matches will be against the very cream of the bourgeoisie in Britain. And he will beat them all. Secondly, he will be meeting workers and Trade Union representatives on this tour. He will give speeches at meetings__.’

  This was more interesting. Peel asked the obvious question.

  ‘He speaks English?’

  ‘Fluently.’

  Peel nodded and then added, ‘Interviews?’

  ‘Exclusivity, Billy.’

  ‘All right. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, the part I think you shall find most interesting is the match against Kit Aston.’

  ‘Lord Kit Aston will play a chess match against Serov?’

  Bergmann hesitated a moment, ‘This is where I may need your help. Aston indicated before Christmas some interest but since then I’ve heard nothing. This could work to our benefit, however, if you get involved.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The original idea was that we start the match via telegram correspondence with end game in London, face to face. The British Chess Federation are very supportive and willing to stage the final stage of the match at Hampton Court. The week or two of correspondence chess would be published in your paper so that by the time Serov is in London, we would have enormous public interest. You can as much access to Serov as you wish.’

  Peel was now interested. Bergmann could see he had hooked his fish and did what all great salesmen do in this situation. He shut up.

  ‘I don’t need to live in his underwear,’ thought Peel out loud. He chose to ignore Bergmann physically flinching at the idea, ‘but it might work. I’ll have to run by George Lansbury.’

  ‘Lansbury?’ asked Bergmann.

  ‘My editor.’

  ‘Of course.’

  After a few moments, time enough for Peel to have played out how the
story could run as well as potential fault lines, he quizzed Bergmann in a way that, for once, impressed the big man and made him grateful that he had selected Peel.

  ‘What if Aston wins? It’ll be embarrassing. The ruling class papers will have a field day.’

  ‘He won’t. Serov is too good. He’ll be world champion one day.’

  ‘What’s to stop Aston cheating, getting help? I mean, correspondence chess, that’s ridiculous. He can spend hours on this. Why not get other people to help him?’

  ‘Who can Aston turn to? He’s one of the best players in your country. What other help will he get? Chess literature is, at best, poor. Even if Aston locates the relevant chess writings, they will only help him through the early moves. The end game is where everything happens. Aston will be alone and exposed by Serov. He will be crushed and the workers in Britain will see how your establishment, your rulers, can be beaten by one of their own.’

  ‘Serov comes from a working-class family?’

  ‘Better than that, he grew up in a state orphanage. His parents were executed for agitating against the Tsar. Hung, I believe. Not the wisest thing for parents of a small child to be doing, of course. He’s always been a strong Bolshevik. He started long before the Revolution.’

  ‘I’ll emphasise his background then,’ nodded Peel, enthusiasm burned in his eyes.

  Bergmann smiled inwardly. Peel was now fully on their side. He felt completely confident in the ability of Peel to create mayhem on his behalf. The thought of what Peel was capable of prompted a snigger from Bergmann.

  Peel noticed this and said, ‘What’s so funny?’

  Bergmann didn’t answer but replied instead, ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time, comrade.’ Putting his left arm on Peel’s shoulder, he shook his hand, and they parted company.

  -

  Kit, Miller, and Sam strolled through St James’s Park. The rain looked like it was going to hold off a bit longer. It was just the cold they had to contend with. Sam trotted along happily. He was clad in his favourite coat made from Kit’s old uniform. It always amused the two men when they saw Sam dressed up and ready for battle.

  ‘If ever a coat was ready made for a dog, it’s this,’ observed Miller. “Aggressive so and so.’

  Sam growled in reply, sensing Miller was, as usual, making fun of him.

  ‘I’ll swear he understands,’ was Miller’s only comment.

  They walked around the lake. Up ahead, they had their first sight of Buckingham Palace. Its bright walls caught a shaft of sunlight and seemed to shine out against the leaden-grey sky and the leafless trees.

  ‘Have you ever been there, sir?’ asked Miller.

  ‘Not for a few years,’ replied Kit. He didn’t need to explain why. ‘My family were rarely invited to court. You know my father.’

  Miller did know Kit’s father. They did not get along. He and Kit rarely spoke. Over recent years, Kit’s visits to the family home were increasingly rare. Miller dropped the subject of the Palace, wishing to avoid anything which might pain Kit. As they rounded the lake, Kit saw the meeting place. Ratcliff was not yet there. He handed Miller the lead.

  ‘You take Sam off in the other direction. I’ll see you back at the car in an hour or so.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ replied Miller. He led Sam along a different route while Kit headed towards his appointment.

  -

  Roger Ratcliff viewed Kit as he walked towards the meeting place. He could see his old comrade-in-arms limp as he walked. This caused him to ache inside. So many young lives lost or blighted by the carnage. Kit was one of the lucky ones. He turned and spoke to Colin Cornell.

  ‘Prompt as ever. You can always rely on Kit. Do you want to stay or go? Up to you.’

  Ratcliff and Cornell looked at one another. Cornell shrugged and said, ‘Probably better if he doesn’t know I’m involved.’

  This seemed to disappoint Ratcliff, ‘I‘d love to know why you and he don’t get along, Colin.’

  ‘Ask him,’ said Cornell turning and walking away.

  Ratcliff watched him go before turning and walking down the hill to join Kit, who was gazing out at the lake.

  ‘Kit,’ shouted Ratcliff as he neared the seat. Kit looked up and waved.

  Kit stood up and turned around, and saw the burly Ratcliff smiling at him.

  ‘Major,’ said Kit smiling.

  ‘Roger, Kit. You can call me Roger, now. Thankfully this damn war is over.’

  ‘This war? I hope we haven’t another one looming,’ said Kit grimly.

  The smile left Ratcliff’s face and he took on a grimmer expression. ‘Funny you should say that.’

  Ratcliff noted the look of shock on Kit’s face as he sat down. The two men glanced around the park, a final check before they began to talk.

  ‘I think you know my views on Russia and the risk it poses for Europe. Winston’s of a like mind, but the rest of the cabinet and that infernal Welshman continue to put their collective empty heads in the sand.’

  ‘Is this related to the Civil War or has something new cropped up?’

  ‘You’re presumably aware of Comintern?’ Ratcliff saw Kit nodding so he continued, ‘Kit, they’re coming after us. No question. Russia has no respect for borders. They view Britain and its empire as their main enemy. They know we’ve been supporting the White forces with our arms stockpile at Arkhangelsk.’

  Kit laughed. ‘Well, I’m no lover of the Bolsheviks but we can hardly complain that they don’t respect borders when we’ve been intervening in Russia for years. You know this as well as I do, sir.’

  Ratcliff did not smile, ‘Their stated aim is world revolution. Britain runs half the planet. Who do you think their biggest target is? It’ll be war one day, Kit, mark my words. For now, though, they’re happy to stoke up trouble wherever they can. War by proxy. They’re doing it in India, they’re doing it in Afghanistan, and they’ll do it here also.’

  ‘Yes, I was aware of the activities of Manabendra Nath Roy. But he’s a fanatic. He can’t take on all of India himself even with Russian backing.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to. We’ve tens of thousands of troops out there. What can they do against a nation of three hundred million? He may not be the one who finishes us there, any more than Gandhi, but it’s part of a process. This is one thing we don’t appreciate, and the Bolsheviks do. Time. It’ll do for us in the end. It always does. I should add that Lenin’s been arming the Muslims in India for a while now. The Muslims and Bolsheviks forming an alliance is the very stuff of nightmares for Whitehall. Nothing would please him more that Britain being bogged down in a conflict over there.’

  ‘But you’re not seriously proposing we fight them, Roger?’ Kit was aghast. Ratcliff didn’t reply but looked at Kit to confirm this was his view. He looked at Kit shake his head in clear disagreement.

  ‘You may disagree Kit. But we must be ready for anything they do and, yes, if it were up to me, and Winston, I might add, we’d be over there right now finishing them off before it’s too late.’

  ‘You said Britain also? Earlier. Are you suggesting they’ve been active here?’

  ‘Don’t be naïve Kit, of course they’re active here. They’ve been fermenting trouble for a couple of years now. There are Russian networks operating here; of that you can be certain. Even before I left the Service, we had them under observation and they absolutely pose a threat to our security.’

  Ratcliff could see Kit remained sceptical.

  ‘They don’t have to arm the workers, Kit, they just need to make them angry enough about inequality. They’ve various puppets they can use. Trade Unions or newspapers like the Daily Herald will happily relay Bolshevik propaganda all day long. It’s only a matter of time before they try to influence an election.’

  Kit remained unconvinced, if anything he was feeling concerned at the fervour with which his former commanding officer was speaking. It was not wholly a surprise. Ratcliff had always been particularly antagonistic to communism. There was a new
tone in his former commanding officer, bordering on paranoia.

  ‘You may laugh Kit, but I see a time when Russia is not just trying to manipulate public opinion. It’s only a short step from there to owning politicians within Labour, for example, for their own ends.’

  ‘We know a bit about that, sir,’ pointed out Kit.

  ‘Clearly, we’ve done similar,’ acknowledged Ratcliff.

  ‘But we’re British,’ Kit did not try to withhold the sardonic note in his voice. Thankfully it made Ratcliff smile. Although he often disagreed with the major, he recognised Ratcliff was a passionate defender of his country although not beyond using unscrupulous methods. In addition, Ratcliff was always willing to listen to counter arguments. There had been many occasions in Russia when Kit had needed Ratcliff’s support in restraining the more aggressive tendencies of other undercover British operatives. Ratcliff and he would never be close friends, but they had developed a mutual regard and trust.

  ‘Yes Kit. But look, I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing me rehash old arguments. You had enough of that in seventeen. The reason why I wanted to meet you is regarding Mr Serov.’

  Kit shot Ratcliff a look. ‘How on earth did you hear about this?’

  ‘I had word of this probably a long time before you did, Kit. I‘m told the idea’s been circling around various departments in the Bolshevik government for a while now. I understand it was the Propaganda people who were the most positive.’

  This satisfied Kit. Although he had spent barely a year in Russia, he knew how seriously the Bolsheviks treated news coverage of the Revolution. Their approach was based on identifying heroes who would project a positive face for communism to the nation and the world. It was not enough just to showcase “the little man”, the fight for hearts and minds also had to be waged with the intelligentsia. In this regard, Serov would fit the bill. His Bolshevik credentials were unimpeachable. He was good looking, probably a genius, yet he retained a common touch that would make him attractive to people from all walks of life. As Kit thought about it, he realised why the British Secret Service would be interested.