The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  -

  It was early afternoon before Inspector McEwan’s phone began ringing. He had expected something around then. Picking it up he was greeted by shouting at the other end. He moved the earpiece further away as the sound of the thunder reverberated down the line, uncontrolled in its fury. After what seemed like several minutes, the storm abated.

  ‘Chief Constable. Always good to hear from you,’ lied McEwan, ‘I’m sorry, but can you tell me what exactly the problem is? I didn’t quite catch what you were telling me if I’m being honest.’

  McEwan held the earpiece away from his ear again as the chief gave vent to his thoughts on McEwan’s powers of deduction, management of the case and, most importantly, control of the flow of information.

  ‘Am I to understand, there has been a leak of information on the Yapp murder?’ inquired McEwan innocently.

  Several swear words followed. It was an impressive array that included nouns, adjectives and even one verb, preceded confirmation of this fact. The rest of the conversation was just as one sided but with the result that McEwan was ordered to release full details of the murder weapon to the press and to investigate the leak. This would uncover nothing, both knew this, but it was necessary to keep up or recover the appearance of good governance.

  When the call finished, McEwan took his feet off the desk where he’d perched them to enjoy more comfortably the disembowelling from the chief constable. Now, it was his turn to roar at the boys. It made no sense to pick on just the culprits. After all, he’d set them up to do this. From time to time, it was never the wrong answer to hand out a good carpeting. Kept them all on their toes and acted as a reminder of the need for confidentiality. In many respects, it was mission accomplished.

  A few hours later, McEwan read the article. There was some dismay at the level of detail. He was sure both Sargent and MacDonald had seen the murder weapon. The only conclusion that could be drawn was that neither had any idea what it was. Worse neither had inquired what it was. An even more scary thought struck McEwan, perhaps they had been told the name of the object and had simply forgotten. McEwan shook his head with dismay. His job was never going to be easy if he had to work with muttonheads like these.

  -

  If Serov had found the North West unattractive but prosperous, his view of Birmingham was, if anything, even less enthusiastic. The excitement of visiting the cities and meeting workers and Unions was beginning to pale. Edinburgh had seemed more open, the air cleaner and the temperature to his liking: cold bordering on freezing. The further south he went, the more he began to miss seeing the sky rather than the grey blanket that seemed to hang permanently, like a pall, over the North West and Midlands.

  One good development was the absence of Fechin. He had been dispatched by Kopel on some unknown task. Sadly, Bergmann was no longer in their company. However, Kopel was more than compensation for the absence of Bergmann. Daniels continued to accompany them, but he was less of an issue. Having Fechin around was like having a migraine. A nagging, relentless headache. Although Fechin rarely spoke to Serov, the rat-like features and sneer, albeit unintentional, made his presence unpleasant.

  The good humour of Kopel allowed Serov to relax. In fact, Serov recognised he was falling under the Latvian’s spell. The easiness of his manner in no way detracted from the impression of a high-level intellect. Unusually, at least in Serov’s experience, he sensed a man who was a sportsman also by the nonchalant physical grace he possessed.

  The other impressive aspect of Kopel was his ability to listen. Serov found himself talking about his early life in a way he had never done before. Certainly not like the speeches he made back home to the workers, or here in Britain. They were well-drilled marches through the events that had shaped his convictions. Instead, he spoke on a more personal, emotional level as if to a confessor.

  The three men travelled together in easy company. The day’s first visit was play in to play in the usual series of games at a chess club. This was followed by a trip to a Workers Club where Serov met a parade of uninspiring, albeit, committed radicals, who shared his vision of country where the workers ruled, and private property no longer existed. Except, Serov was becoming less sure of this vision, the more he encountered the future rulers of this socialist utopia.

  The chess matches, since his bloody battle with Fiona Lawrence, had been, for the most part, walkovers. No one had yet challenged him in the way the young girl from Scotland had. He no longer felt frustrated by the result. With more time to reflect, he realised that she had played a weak hand with something approaching genius.

  It almost made him smile as he recollected her various ruses to upset him. She had executed her plan brilliantly. But it had provided him with an unexpected insight for his future attempts at taking on the great players of the day: Lasker and the young Cuban, Capablanca, who was making a stir on the other side of the world. Chess was not a board game; it was not even a mind game. It was war by other means.

  Before Fiona Lawrence, he had thought his weapons were the pieces on the board. Now, he knew otherwise. They were but one theatre in a wider conflict of the mind. He laughed to himself at the thought of a mathematician like Lasker dealing with the machinations of a twelve-year-old prodigy who was not above using physical violence. At the hotel, Kopel brought Serov back to reality from his reflections by showing him the latest telegram from Kit.

  ‘Do you want to see the board?’

  Serov grinned and tapped his forehead. Borrowing a pen, he scribbled his response. Kopel looked at Serov for an explanation.

  ‘I might have mentioned the other night; we exchange Knights and one pawn. From this point, the game can go in several directions. Aston will almost certainly be able to see how two, maybe three, other directions give white a material advantage. There are at least two other directions which have never been captured in chess textbooks. Either way, we are moving into unknown territory.’

  ‘And Aston won’t have prepared for this?’ smiled Kopel.

  ‘Highly unlikely in my view unless he’s better than I thought,’ replied Serov with the certainty of a man who knew Aston would not have thought of these end games.

  ‘You don’t think he is,’ said Kopel reading his mind.

  Serov paused for a moment before answering.

  ‘He’s good. I’m better.’

  This seemed to satisfy Kopel and the conversation moved on to other topics. Serov noted that Kopel did not offer much information on the whereabouts of the other two men but was he was enjoying their conversation too much to ask.

  Chapter 15

  The Daily Herald newsroom broke into a round of applause when Peel entered the next morning. Even Lansbury, standing by the entrance of his office with a half-smile, was applauding. Peel gave him a brief nod and sat at his desk after his embarrassed wave signalled an end to the acclaim.

  He began to sift through his mail cluttering his desk. After a few moments he sensed someone standing beside him. Looking up he saw Lansbury. Peel nodded again and said, ‘Hope this hasn’t upset you too much George.’

  Lansbury laughed, ‘You’d be surprised, Billy. Good work.’ A clap on the shoulder and Lansbury was gone as quickly as he had arrived. Peel returned to sifting through his post.

  Ten minutes later Peel rapped on Lansbury’s door. The editor shook his head indicating he was in a meeting with some of the printers. Peel walked in anyway. Lansbury did not try to disguise his irritation.

  ‘Billy, I appreciate all you’ve done this last day or two, but can’t this wait?’

  Peel didn’t bother answering, instead he handed Lansbury the note signed by “The Sword of Light”.

  Lansbury read the note, his face falling with each word. Finally, he looked at the rest of the attendees.

  ‘Gentlemen, we need to hold the front page for another thirty minutes.’

  This was greeted by groans of dismay by everyone. The editorial had already been agreed and printing was already in progress.

  �
��You’ll have to trust me. Can we reconvene in twenty minutes or so? I need to talk to Billy about this,’ said Lansbury holding up the paper in his hand.

  The other men left the room leaving Peel alone with Lansbury. Peel sat down and looked at the troubled face of his editor. It was not difficult to guess why he was worried.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ asked Lansbury.

  Peel handed the envelope to Lansbury. It had been addressed to Peel with a Manchester postmark dated from two days ago.

  ‘I only saw it this morning,’ explained Peel.

  ‘What makes you think it isn’t a hoax?’ asked Lansbury. The letter was dynamite but equally, if it turned out to be a hoax, it would have serious consequences for the Daily Herald beyond just humiliation. Sending the police off on a wild goose chase would create future problems for the paper. There had been enough problems with the police in the past. Lansbury had worked hard to rebuild relations. He relied more on good relations with the police than he was prepared to admit. More practically, a better relationship helped to gain access to stories. Wasting police time was a cardinal sin for newspaper. Especially so after all he and the newspaper had been through in the past. Lansbury had to be certain.

  ‘I don’t have a secondary source on this George. Just this. We won’t have time to dig up anything on this group now. You have to decide if we go with it or not.’

  ‘I’m aware of what I have to do,’ said Lansbury sarcastically.

  ‘There’s one thing that might make it credible,’ said Peel ignoring the dismissive tone of Lansbury.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There may be an Irish republican angle to this.’

  ‘What? Why?’ exclaimed Lansbury in astonishment.

  ‘The name.’

  Lansbury looked mystified, so Peel continued to explain. ‘The Sword of Light is part of Irish folklore. It was brought to Ireland by some king, can’t remember who, don’t really care, but no matter. It was the embodiment of justice. Specifically, it was meant to punish Ireland’s enemies.’

  ‘Bit of a jump to say it’s Irish republican, though,’ said Lansbury, still doubtful but conscious, trustful even, of Peel’s sure-fire instincts.

  ‘You remember Patrick Pearse?’ asked Peel.

  ‘Yes, we were stupid enough to make that man a martyr by executing him in 1916. We haven’t heard the end of it either, I suspect.’

  ‘He ran a newspaper before he led the Uprising. Want to guess what it was called?’

  Lansbury exhaled loudly. For a minute he was silent as he weighed up his options. Finally, he asked Peel, ‘But why Herbert Yapp? I don’t understand the connection.’

  ‘When I was in Oldham, I did some digging into potential motives for killing Yapp. As I see it, he was highly vocal against the arrival of Irish immigrants into the area. He said they were taking jobs from English people. A man of the people, unless, of course, those people were foreign,’ said Peel. Lansbury noted the tone of contempt in the voice of the Ulsterman.

  ‘You’ve ten minutes. Bring me a front-page story.’

  Peel was already out of the office before Lansbury had finished the sentence.

  The Daily Herald hit the newsstands later that morning with the following headline: Irish Republican Connection to Yapp Murder

  The story included the printed letter received by Peel in full. However, it wisely omitted any mention of “The Sword of Light”. By the time copies of the newspaper were being snapped up by the public, the letter and the addressee were both in an office at Scotland Yard.

  -

  Chief Inspector James Jellicoe of Scotland Yard looked at Peel. Their paths had crossed on several occasions. Neither appeared to derive much pleasure from the renewal of their acquaintance. Neither tried to hide the fact.

  ‘Why was this sent to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re investigating the Yapp murder for the Herald,’ stated Jellicoe sullenly. He had a strong feeling about the letter. He suspected it was genuine. This was aggravating because it also signified the potential for further murders and more publicity. None of this would reflect well on the police unless a miracle resulted in the quick resolution of the case. Jellicoe was not a man who either relied on, or believed in, miracles, although his colleagues noted he often called upon the supreme unction of the Lord in times of stress. They had rarely seen it granted. Maybe something in the Chief Inspector’s angry tone.

  ‘Yes, but this was sent before I broke the story about the murder weapon. Look at the postmark’

  The good Chief did so, his heart sinking a little.

  ‘Why Irish republican?’

  Peel explained.

  Jellicoe looked at the newspaper article again. Grudgingly he had to admit it was well handled by Peel. Importantly, by not mentioning the name of the group, he had seen off any possibility that the police would have to spend much time filtering hoax copycat letters.

  ‘Thanks for not mentioning the name of the group,’ conceded Jellicoe, ‘That’ll help us.’

  Peel said nothing. Instead, he looked at Jellicoe. The Chief Inspector was not given much to humour or, indeed, any kind of warmth. His face was always mournful. This impression was exacerbated by the rather hangdog moustache and beard that made him resemble King George V. The Daily Herald had many dealings with Jellicoe over the years. His nickname in the press room was “his Highness”. Even George Lansbury, the most correct of men had, on occasion, used the epithet.

  ‘You’ve seen the news release by the Oldham police on the murder weapon?’ asked Jellicoe.

  ‘I did. A bishop’s crosier. My informant didn’t mention this. He described it as a stick.’

  ‘A stick?’ said Jellicoe incredulously.

  ‘Not the brightest light in the house,’ responded Peel, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Clearly,’ said Jellicoe shaking his head, his heart sinking at the thought of men found their way into the police.

  The interview was thankfully short, as far as Peel was concerned. Even if Jellicoe took himself and life seriously, in Peel’s judgement, he was no fool. Jellicoe would’ve quickly ascertained the potential gravity of the situation; he would also know that Peel was entitled to use whatever came his way for the purposes of breaking a news story. But, oddly, Peel had earned the trust of the Jellicoe, at least for now, thanks to his handling of the letter.

  From Jellicoe’s point of view, he needed to have Peel on his side. His instinct told him there would-be other letters, other murders. If, as seemed likely, future correspondence was forthcoming, it would be directed to Peel. Going forward, Jellicoe determined to maintain a good relationship with the diminutive Ulsterman to ensure some control of the news story. He was certain there was more to come and none of it would be good.

  Following the meeting with Peel, Jellicoe placed a phone call to Inspector McEwan in Oldham. The jurisdiction of the investigation was Oldham, but it made sense to warn McEwan that there was a possibility this might change. More murders, if the Irish connection was true, might not necessarily be restricted to Oldham. In fact, it was highly unlikely they would. Jellicoe’s heart sank as he considered the possibilities.

  The idea of a campaign of murder on the mainland by an Irish group was unthinkable. He was aware of how nasty things were becoming in Ireland. The violence perpetrated by the British police force nicknamed the “Black and Tans”, owing to the colour of their uniform, was gradually becoming well known in Britain and a source of controversy. It seemed to Jellicoe entirely plausible for Irish republicans to have set up a terror group to exact revenge for the attacks taking place on civilians in Ireland.

  Jellicoe introduced himself to McEwan and told him of the purpose of the call. McEwan had not yet seen the Daily Herald article and was taken by surprise by the news.

  ‘Irish you say? Why do we think this?’

  Jellicoe took McEwan through the logic, which seemed plausible on one level but did not explain other inconsistencies.

&nbs
p; ‘We didn’t mention in our release,’ explained McEwan, ‘but the crosier in question is not Roman Catholic. If it had been, it would’ve fitted the narrative perfectly.’

  It was Jellicoe’s turn to be surprised. ‘What type of crosier was it?’

  ‘Russian Orthodox.’

  Alarms began to ring in his mind. This is getting out of hand, thought Jellicoe. Were the Bolsheviks working with Irish republicans or was the Socialist League re-emerging from the shadows? Was it an attack on Britain, against class inequality or was it a religious minority lashing out against an oppressor? He shook his head, desperately wondering how he could shift this case away from his desk and onto to someone else’s.

  ‘Russian? Good lord. I’m not sure what to make of this. Look, Inspector, this may not be the last of these murders. We must take this group seriously. But clearly, based on this new evidence, we can’t discount the possibility of Russian involvement. I think I may need to refer this elsewhere if you take my meaning.’

  ‘I think I understand you sir,’ said ‘McEwan, who was silently cheering the news that overall responsibility for the case was going off his desk.

  ‘You’ve had no breaks in the case aside from this new information?’ asked Jellicoe, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘None, sir. However, we’ll shift our focus away towards the Irish angle and see where it takes us.’

  ‘Good idea, McEwan. Let’s keep in touch.’

  The end of the phone call saw Jellicoe rise from his desk and look out of his window. This left him with a two-pipe problem, he thought amusedly to himself. Should he wait for the next killing to take place, for there would surely be a next killing, or would it be better to risk some slight embarrassment by bringing in the Special Intelligence Service now?