The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  -

  Later that day Kit’s Rolls Royce sped up Regent street towards Oxford Street. The rain which had been threatening all morning finally arrived. It created a steady, hypnotic beat on the car window transporting Kit’s mind to a limbo, free from worry about the match or Mary. His reverie was broken by an oath from Miller as the rain made visibility more difficult. Kit watched shoppers scurrying along the pavements wielding umbrellas like lances at a medieval joust.

  ‘You should make time to practice, sir,’ said Miller as they drove back to Kit’s flat.

  ‘I doubt it’ll make much difference. He’s too good, Harry.’

  ‘Not like you to be so pessimistic, sir.’

  ‘I was lucky against him first time. I think he took me for granted. Oddly, he’s more of a snob than I’ll ever be. I’ve never, I hope, treated anyone like they were inferior. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong here Harry,’ smiled Kit.

  ‘Not with me, anyway, sir. Of course, I can’t talk for other folk, mind,’ laughed Miller.

  This made Kit laugh also.

  ‘Fair enough Harry. He’s a strange cove, though. I never took to him. He just had this air of superiority about him. Contempt even. He thought he was better than me, not just at chess, which, I hasten to add, he certainly was. But there was an air of intellectual or, even, moral superiority because he believed in an inherently superior system of government or ethics than I. Unfathomable really. Anyway, he made some schoolboy errors in our first match because he wanted to humiliate me. I managed to win that one. Just about anyway. He destroyed me in the second match, but maybe I was a bit jaded in that one.’

  ‘Why was that sir?’

  ‘Well, it was before I met Mary, if you take my meaning, Harry,’ laughed Kit.

  Miller grinned replying, ‘Say no more, sir, say no more. Did she put you off your game?’

  ‘I was but a shadow of myself I can tell you,’ said Kit, grinning at a memory of an encounter long ago.

  -

  Roger Ratcliff sat in his rooms near Kensington. There was a knock at his door, turning to Cornell, who was standing by the window he could see his friend was not making a move for the door. Finally, with just a hint of sourness, he said, ‘Don’t worry yourself old chap, I’ll go.’

  The apartment did not so much suggest bachelor as shout it from the rooftops. Ratcliff’s cleaner had long since given up trying to impose order. This had been his base for almost thirty years. Much of that time, by necessity, had been spent abroad on postings in India and then Russia. Scattered throughout the room was the legacy of his travels. All around were books, objets d’art and various instruments of science picked up from the countries he had lived in.

  Opening the door, he was greeted by a messenger who handed him a telegram. It was from Kit. He quickly read the short note and turned around to Cornell, ‘Kit’s in.’

  Cornell looked at Ratcliff for an explanation. Ratcliff held up the telegram and then read it out, ‘Sir, will play match with Serov. Will contact Bergmann today to confirm.’

  Cornell nodded but remained silent. His face was impassive bar one eyebrow that was raised just enough to suggest scepticism. This was a feature that Ratcliff had often observed in his friend and colleague. He studied his friend he gazed out of the window.

  They had first met in India; Ratcliff had been Cornell’s commanding officer. Unlike many officers serving in the Raj, both were linguists. During their posting in the North West frontier, each learned Urdu to work more closely with the extensive network of local agents who supported the army in the region.

  The onset of the Great War had brought both back to serve in France. At an early stage during the War, Mansfield Cumming or “C” as he was to be known, had spoken to them of the newly establish Secret Intelligence Service. Both spoke Russian fluently and were obvious candidates to join the fledgling service following their experience of dealing with agents in Kashmir.

  The three had met in a small restaurant in Soho. Ratcliff was an Oxford-educated major in the army. In late 1916, Cumming was sufficiently worried about the situation in Russia to ask them to join other British Intelligence officers in Petrograd.

  Their role was not to join the recently established, Russian Bureau. This was led by Samuel Hoare. Instead, they were to go deep undercover and liaise with Oswald Rayner in a clandestine, inner circle, called the “Far-Reaching System”. This group operated independently, and without the knowledge of Hoare’s team. Their role was to keep Russia in the War.

  This went beyond the usual remit of influencing key members of the government and keeping London supplied with a stream of intelligence on the situation in Russia. They were empowered to use whatever methods they deemed effective. The box of tricks they brought to bear in the cause of interfering in the Russian state included bribery, theft and, on occasion, murder.

  The Far-Reaching System developed a string of alliances with sympathetic members of the Russian aristocracy. Both, recognised a common problem. The slow erosion of the Tsar’s power, a consequence of his mismanagement of the War. It had led to a growing movement for change. The Russian supporters of Rayner’s team were prepared to accept extraordinary levels of interference in Russian politics in order to continue their involvement in the War and protect a social order that was under threat.

  Ratcliff was one of the first people in the network of British agents to take seriously the rise of Lenin’s Bolsheviks. Although only one of several groups rising in Petrograd at the time, they were making a much greater impact, and Ratcliff had seen Lenin make a speech, in person. The image had never left him.

  Ratcliff had been at the station on that chilly morning of April 16th, 1917, when Lenin had set foot onto Russian soil for the first time in ten years following his exile. He had climbed onto the bonnet of an armoured car and made an address that was, by turns, passionate and chilling.

  The magnetism of the man was undeniable. Ratcliff knew, as he watched him control the emotions of the crowd with utter mastery, that he was dealing with a formidable adversary who threatened more than just the Russian government. There was an insolence, a contempt for the crowd but also a charisma that repelled Ratcliff. Lenin’s closing words, and the fervour they provoked in the crowd, were indelibly printed on his memory.

  ‘Long live the worldwide Socialist revolution!’

  Worldwide.

  Worldwide. Hearing Lenin speak was to grasp the threat posed to the rest of the world. As Ratcliff looked around him, he recognised other British agents, including his friend, Arthur Ransome, although he sometimes wondered where his loyalties lay. He knew them all, but they didn’t see him and nor would they. All were Hoare’s men. The Far-Reaching System would always operate independently.

  He wondered if they understood, as he did, what they were seeing. Would they be able to communicate the power of this man’s words? How could you describe the impact he was having on the crowd that had come to greet him? It was clear to Ratcliff that he couldn’t leave things to chance. He and the other members of the Far-Reaching System were now at war.

  The images of the last few years flashed through the mind of Ratcliff as he sat in his rooms in London. Ultimately, they had failed to keep Russia in the War and the old social order had collapsed into chaos and communism.

  The demented reality of Russia was a country led at the top by highly intelligent fanatics. However, at local level, semi-illiterate thugs ruled by fear. The middle classes and the aristocracy were quickly being annihilated or had taken flight.

  Amid the chaos, Ratcliff had taken the opportunity to forge a strong network of agents, all opposed to the new regime. He had also assumed a new identity as a Latvian-Russian, like many other British agents, to explain the difference in their accent. He went deep undercover to avoid being caught by the secret police. This had saved him. Soon after the Bolsheviks took power, the network of agents fell apart. The memory of the betrayal was a pain burning deep with him.

  He looked up at Corne
ll. His friend was rubbing the back of his head again. He needs a doctor, thought Ratcliff, but he was tired of telling him.

  ‘Do you think much of our time back there?’ asked Ratcliff.

  ‘Where? Russia or India? Neither, if you must know. Damned mess it all turned out,’ snorted Cornell.

  This disappointed Ratcliff, but he didn’t respond. It was difficult to deny things had not turned out as they had wanted. They had failed to overthrow the Bolsheviks. Now the Civil War was all but lost, the Far-Reaching System network betrayed then shattered and their high-profile Russian supporters against the Bolsheviks, like Yusupov and Kerensky, were either planning to escape or had already done so. Visionaries such as Churchill, who understood the threat posed by the creation of Comintern, a body set up by the Bolsheviks to enable the overthrow of western democracy, were ignored.

  Ratcliff could see Cornell looking at him. ‘You don’t think he can win then?’ asked Ratcliff.

  Cornell’s smile was mocking. He snorted contemptuously.

  ‘Against Serov? He’ll be humbled,’ was Cornell’s curt assessment of Kit’s chances. The eyebrow was not at full extension. He wasn’t joking.

  Ratcliff shrugged and laughed but not altogether convincingly. Cornell was possibly the most cynical man he had ever met. This cynicism had grown over the years since Russia.

  ‘It won’t be easy, I agree, but I would never underestimate Kit. When the chips are down, he’s a fighter. A true fighter never knows when he’s beaten, Colin. He’ll make a match of it, just watch.’

  ‘You can watch,’ Cornell put a pipe to his lips and began to puff away thoughtfully.

  Ratcliff smiled. ‘You really don’t like him, do you? I almost think you want Serov to win.’

  Cornell shot Ratcliff his sceptical look again but said nothing in reply. Ratcliff shook his head and laughed.

  ‘I, for one, am relieved.’

  He walked over to his drinks trolley and poured himself a small whisky.

  ‘A bit early for this, I know, but I think this news merits a little celebration. Care to join me for a quick nip?’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘About what?’ asked Ratcliff.

  ‘It’s too early,’ came the disdainful reply.

  This amused Ratcliff and he laughed. Clutching his tumbler, he returned to his seat, feeling oddly comforted, despite the painful memories of the last few years.

  -

  Serov’s match with Fiona Lawrence had sadly descended into exactly the type of bloodbath he preferred to avoid. His preference in this kind of forum was for his opponent to overcome their initial excitement and go to the slaughter like a good lamb. This required them to play the game with just enough knowledge of classic opening moves in the early stages of the game before facing annihilation in the middle game, courtesy of Serov’s superior intellectual weaponry.

  His schoolgirl opponent was having none of this. Suicidal sacrifices followed audacious flights of fancy resulting in a chess board which bore no relation to anything Serov had seen before, never mind prepared. Worse, the game was taking far too long. There was no chance of his losing, but equally, his Satanic opponent was taking great delight in spending inordinate amounts of time contemplating her obvious moves whilst making the more insane moves within seconds of his, forcing him to spend more time than he had to respond.

  Frantically, he glanced up at Daniels. The big man looked like thunder and kept reminding Serov of something he didn’t need reminding of. They would soon be keeping several senior members of the Scottish Trade Unions Congress waiting.

  The match with this she-devil was over ninety minutes old. No conclusion was in sight. Serov ran his head through his hair unable to disguise his anxiety. At this moment he felt a sudden stab of pain in his shin. She’d kicked him on the shin under the table.

  He glanced up at the twelve-year-old face of evil. She was gazing at him with an angelic smile. Looking around him wildly, he realised two things. Firstly, no one had seen the little sprite assault him, their attention was too focused on the game. Secondly, he was in a fight to the death. Resisting his initial instinct to ram the heel of his palm into her face, he quickly moved his Queen to check her King.

  This was when he felt the second, and greater stab of pain. Not physical pain. Instead, it was the blow to his gut at the realisation he was about to lose his most powerful piece. The audible gasps from the audience did not help Serov’s mood and he could not bring himself to look at Daniels. Out of the corner of his eye he had caught the big man throwing his head back in anger and then step back away from the game.

  Fechin was looking on in fascination.

  Fechin.

  What had the little cretin talked about with the malevolent imp before him? He glared up at the moron. At this moment, Fechin realised something very important, something which would probably be raised by Serov to Daniels and, worse, Bergmann. Furiously he began to rifle his mind for an alternative narrative to spin to his colleagues. Because with absolute certainty he now knew Fiona Lawrence’s, seemingly innocent but highly specific, questions around their schedule and timings were being used to influence the outcome of the match.

  Billy Peel was not a chess expert. Its role in the class struggle was somewhat opaque. However, even he could see that the little girl was not just putting up a fight, there was a real possibility of an upset. The look on Serov’s face was by turns, angry, frenzied, and panic-stricken. Peel was unsure how he felt about this from the point of view of world revolution, but as a newsman, he was now finding his sympathies shifting in an unexpected direction.

  Turning to Reverend Upritchard, he asked in a stage whisper, ‘Are you a chess player yourself?’

  Without removing his eyes from the bloodshed a few feet in front of him, Upritchard replied, ‘I dabble occasionally, but Miss Lawrence and Mr Serov are playing a game from the heavens.’

  Serov was also thinking that Fiona Lawrence’s play had a biblical dimension. However, he would certainly have quibbled about the provenance being heaven. The odious little sorceress had about as much in common with an angel as Fechin.

  Fechin.

  He resolved, when the match ended, to strangle the imbecilic dwarf. To his left, he saw Daniels making a gesture with his hand across his neck. He hoped this meant that he planned on cutting his opponents throat, but he guessed it meant he should sue for peace.

  Catching the eye of the young Medusa, he raised his eyebrows and held out his hand to agree a draw. Honours would be even. Both could walk away from the bloodbath to lick their wounds and fight another day. Preferably not with each other, thought Serov or, better still, with axes.

  Unknown to Serov, Fiona Lawrence had seen the interaction between the two big Russians. With a shake of her head, she indicated the match would continue. Once again, the audience gasped. She was going for the kill.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ said the Reverend Upritchard to Peel, ‘Poor Serov’.

  Somewhat surprised by the minister’s turn of phrase, the mystified Peel asked, ‘Why? What just happened?’

  ‘Serov just offered our Fiona a draw.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said no. She thinks she can win.’

  Peel looked at the board. Pieces were, quite literally, scattered like confetti across the board. He couldn’t make head nor tail of it. In this regard, he had more in common with Serov than he hitherto would have imagined. Turning to Upritchard he whispered, ‘Why?’

  ‘Christ only knows,’ answered the man of God, honestly.

  Peel wasn’t so sure if this was a call upon their maker to help the good Reverend understand better what was going on or an admission that the workings of twelve-year-old prodigy’s mind were beyond his ken. He was even less sure that repeatedly using the son of God in this context wouldn’t be frowned upon by the brethren, had they heard.

  Serov saw his opponent refuse his kind offer with something approaching apoplexy. The look of horror on his face was noted fi
rst, with some satisfaction, by Fiona Lawrence and soon after by, a less happy, Daniels. This caused him to stride out of the hall to give vent, in Russian, to a string of oaths that were clearly audible inside and certainly required no translation.

  However, as confident as she appeared on the outside, Fiona Lawrence recognised that victory was unlikely. Although a Queen up, she had little or no support by way of other key pieces. For the next ten minutes she contemplated her next move aware of the virtual disintegration of her opponent’s composure. Moving her one remaining pawn she looked at Serov.

  By now Serov was prepared to beg for a draw. He raised his eyebrows again, more in hope than expectation. This time, by dint of a small change in her facial expression, she gave the impression that she was prepared to accept the draw.

  Resisting the impulse to leap out of his chair and hug her, Serov immediately held out his hand. With a final twist of the knife, Fiona made him wait three beats longer than the spirit of the game normally dictated, before accepting the draw.

  A cheer went up, none more so than from Daniels who was relieved that the damn game was over albeit a full hour after it should have ended. With barely a goodbye to the great and the good of the chess club, Serov was hurried out the door by the burly Daniels, his diminutive assistant and off they went to their long overdue appointment followed by Peel.

  Meanwhile, Fiona Lawrence, for perhaps the first time in maybe seven years, was subject to an overflow of affection so intense she could barely contain her emotions. The tears flowed like a river. And that was just the very Reverend Upritchard. After a minimal protest, Fiona was hoisted up on the shoulders of the cheering club members. Quietly, almost unnoticed, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

  Chapter 9

  The clouds above seemed heavier and darker as they left the Presbyterian hall. Serov looked up and wondered what had happened to the blue sky. Or, perhaps, it was just his mood. He was only half aware of a second diminutive individual following them into the parked car.