The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  -

  Two cars cut their way through the commotion and the chaos. Each vehicle proudly flew small Stars and Stripe flags on the bonnet. The red seas parted for them as they motored though the palace gates into the courtyard of the Winter Palace.

  The first thing Kit sensed as he drove through the gates was not so much the confusion as the calm. Instead of seeing mobs attacking the buildings, or soldiers defending the Palace, there was an eerie tranquillity. There seemed to be no sense of what was happening outside the gates. The absence of violence was a relief, but it also suggested something more worrying. The Provisional Government had not just fallen, it was gone for good. Russia was now in the hands of the mob.

  Ratcliff followed Kit towards the rendezvous point. Ahead he could see Cornell talking calmly with two sailors. He recognized them as Alexander Kerensky and Lieutenant Vinner. Clearly, they were in disguise. Ratcliff was unsure how successful this would be, but alternative options were non-existent at this moment. There was a third man with them, but Ratcliff could not identify him.

  Kerensky and Vinner climbed into Kit’s car. Cornell went to Ratcliff, accompanied by the other man.

  ‘Kit,’ said Kerensky as he entered the car. ‘Thank you for this. You know Vinner?’

  Kit nodded to the lieutenant and replied in Russian, ‘Yes, we’ve met, before, Prime Minister.’ They sped off immediately followed by Ratcliff.

  ‘We need to find our troops and rally them.’

  ‘Prime Minister, with respect, the Bolsheviks have taken the bridges, the railway stations, the state bank and the telephone exchange. We need to escape from the city. Rallying troops will need to wait until you’re safe. You’ll have to assemble anti-Bolshevik forces outside Petrograd before the Bolsheviks gain control elsewhere.

  Quietly, almost to himself Kerensky said, ’How is this possible? How can a rag tag bunch of hoodlums just take over the country?’

  Kit answered, ‘You don’t need to be large numbers, sir. You can paralyse a city just by occupying key points like a telephone exchange, a railway, bridges then you’re in charge.’

  Once outside the Palace gates, Kit pressed hard on the Renault’s accelerator. All around the street groups of people were wandering, many of them disconsolate soldiers unsure whether to fight, flee or fasten onto the revolutionaries. Ratcliff and Cornell followed close behind.

  ‘You know we hail from the same town,’ said Kerensky quietly.

  Eyes on the road, Kit asked, ‘Who Prime Minister?’

  ‘Lenin. We’re both from Simbirsk. My father taught him would you believe,’ responded Kerensky, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice. ‘My father taught him.’ His voice trailed away.

  Kit turned to Kerensky and then returned his gaze to the road. No more was said as the two cars hurtled away from the Winter Palace.

  Chapter 18

  National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery Hospital, London: 9th January 1920

  There was nothing left to say, really. Conversation with a coma victim was outside Kit’s previous experience. He’d spoken to dead people many times of course: words of anger, words of sorrow. This was different and so much more bittersweet.

  The person lying in the bed was now a part of him. She was his lungs, his heart, and his mind. He had immersed himself in her and she in him. The gap between what he wanted, and their reality was exquisitely close, yet unbridgeable. The pain unbearable.

  Outside occasional muffled noises in the corridor disturbed the peace. The room was quiet. It was always so quiet. Light streamed through the window, framing her head like a halo. Kit was glad to have something other than the normal gloom. But it did little, ultimately to raise his spirits for longer than a few moments.

  He looked at her beautiful face. The vivacity and the mischief, so much a part of Mary, were absent. The extraordinary life force diminished, diminishing? Her breathing was barely perceptible. The frail body hardly seemed to inhale or exhale. He held her hand and gazed down through eyes blurred by tears. Resting his head gently on her hand he begged her to return. And somewhere, from a place deep within, she answered him. For a moment he felt her hand tighten. Only a moment.

  It was enough.

  -

  In a Birmingham hotel, it would be fair to say that Kopel and Fechin were sharing a much less tender moment. Both Fechin and Daniels trembled in the presence of Kopel’s anger. This was the worst they’d seen him, and they had seen some monumental rages in the past half year of knowing him. Most of the time he combined a powerful sense of leadership with charm. However, occasionally the storm would break. It was well and truly raging now. He was brandishing the Daily Herald. Fechin looked at the front page of the Daily Herald, with the headline about Irish involvement with the Yapp murder and quivered.

  ‘Look boss, I agree, in hindsight, it wasn’t the smartest thing to have done.’

  This masterpiece of understatement stopped Kopel dead in his tracks. He glared at Fechin in astonishment.

  ‘Not the smartest thing?’ he whispered. ‘Vassily, it was unquestionably the dumbest thing you’ve ever done in your pathetic life. And now, you say, you’ve sent the second letter off without my seeing it?’

  Fechin couldn’t speak, he nodded like a scolded child about to be punished severely.

  ‘What did you write Vassily?’ It was a whisper.

  Fechin’s heart sank even further. He hated it when Kopel whispered. He hated it when he called him by his first name or glared at him with those blue eyes. If Kopel was displeased with his initial efforts at misdirecting the police towards Ireland, the new letter would cause a volcanic reaction.

  Reluctantly, fearfully Fechin spoke.

  ‘I wrote, ‘The revolution continues. Sir Montagu Forbes-Trefusis was an oppressor of the working man. He was executed last night. Our day will come. Then I used,” The Sword of Light” signature.’

  This seemed to cause an abatement of the storm. The content of the note could easily be interpreted as a part of the class struggle. A third note, following the next execution could clarify things, maybe redirect attention back to Russia, which was Kopel’s ultimate objective.

  ‘That’s exactly what you wrote, Vassily. Nothing else? Remember, the newspaper will publish it exactly as written.’ The eyes did not stare at Fechin so much as rip open his defences and reveal the contents of his soul.

  And that was the problem. Fechin had written exactly this, except for one crucial difference. A difference so critical, it would likely cause the next explosion. He felt himself, physically shrinking as he said, ‘Not quite, boss.’

  ‘Not quite?’ said Kopel. The voice was quiet again.

  This did not augur well. Fechin’s innards quaked at what would follow.

  ‘The part where I said, “Our day will come”,’

  ‘Yes, Vassily?’

  Fechin paused and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daniels lean forward.

  ‘I wrote that as, “Tiocfaigh ar la”, it means…’

  ‘I know what it bloody means,’ roared Kopel, ‘I’m still trying to understand why you wrote it in Irish you cretin. Do you know Vassily, before I met you, I actually believed there was a cause to fight for. Now I’m not so sure. I mean what’s the point of class struggle. Tell me Vassily, and I ask you this in all seriousness: are the rest of the workers as stupid as you?’

  Kopel was pointing to the hotel bedroom wall. It said something of Fechin’s complete discomposure that he looked at the wall, which, for the purposes of Kopel’s rant, represented all downtrodden humanity. Kopel ignored the surreal sight of Fechin looking at where he was pointing and continued his dismantling of Fechin’s self-esteem.

  ‘Because here’s my problem, just suppose that class struggle really is the right thing to do. We have a problem. A big one in fact. We’ll never triumph if the foot soldiers carrying out the plans are a bunch of bloody blockheads like you.’

  Fechin visibly flinched in the face of the vicious onslaught from Kopel
. He risked a glance towards Daniels, sitting to his right. Contempt was etched all over the face of the big Russian. He wished him somewhere else, somewhere he could not witness, and no doubt remind him in the future, of this humiliation. But it wasn’t over yet.

  ‘First you kill your fellow anarchists in Moscow, oh yes, Vassily, don’t think I didn’t know of that. Then you blow up those poor tramps. Think of it, all those lives laid waste because of your incompetence. All the very people we should be supporting, killed by a five-foot imbecile. Tell me Vassily, do you know why I let you write the notes?’ This question was asked quietly, his face was inches away from Fechin’s.

  Daniels leaned forward; he didn’t know either. Fechin shook his head.

  ‘It sure as hell wasn’t so that you could use your bloody initiative!’ roared Kopel.

  This was going from bad to worse for Fechin, although Daniels was enjoying the show immensely. He was almost feeling sorry for his colleague. Taking the rest of his remaining dignity in his hands Fechin decided to offer some form of mea culpa with a hint of grievance.

  ‘Perhaps boss,’ whimpered Fechin, ‘if you’d let us in on your plans, this sort of thing might not happen, I wouldn’t have done something so stupid.’

  ‘Yes, you would have, Vassily, because you’re a moron. Just as it’s the nature of a scorpion to sting, it’s your nature to be stupid. And no Vassily, I will not let you in on my plans, not now, not ever. You will not improvise on them. You will do as I say. That applies to both of you.’ With that said, Kopel stormed out of the room in search of Serov.

  ‘Oh, that’s great you idiot,’ said Daniels irritably, ‘now he’s mad at me.’

  ‘To hell with you,’ said a thoroughly miserable Vassily Fechin.

  -

  Chief Inspector Jellicoe could smell the fish market before he saw it. It was early morning, the sun wasn’t shining, the atmosphere felt damp on his skin. Billingsgate fish market should have been a confusion of activity, buyers and sellers engaged in the strange dance of negotiating, bargaining, buying, and selling. Instead, it was a different kind of chaos as angry traders demanded to be let into the market to set up their stalls and make their living.

  Eyes straight ahead, Jellicoe ignored their protests. He ordered the constables to maintain control of the crowd and marched ahead towards the Italian-style arcade facing the Thames. The constables improvised on this order with something approaching relish as they took out their truncheons. Jellicoe could hear the boos and whistles as the stall holders reacted to the police. He shook his head and walked directly towards the one police officer he recognised.

  Inspector Philip Treacy greeted Jellicoe at the door of the arcade. One look at Treacy’s face told him a particularly grim scene awaited him. His intuition was to prove more accurate than he could ever have imagined. He asked his colleague anyway.

  ‘Well, Treacy, what do we have?’

  The serious expression on Treacy’s face turned to one of surprise.

  ‘Has no one told you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be asking if they had. I was only informed of the dead body,’ responded Jellicoe, not without some irritation. It was very early for him.

  If Treacy picked up on this, he didn’t respond, instead he replied sombrely, ‘Perhaps you should look yourself, sir. This way.’ He nodded towards the entrance.

  The two men walked through arched doorway into the large open space lit by roof of louvered glass. Despite the superb ventilation, the place still smelled. For once it wasn’t the dead body causing the problem. Jellicoe wondered idly how anyone could spend minutes in such an atmosphere never mind work there day in day out.

  The space was enormous and empty save for unopened stalls around the sides. But only one thing was attracting Jellicoe’s attention. It was a sight Jellicoe, in over twenty years of police work, had never encountered before.

  ‘Oh’ said Jellicoe.

  ‘Oh, indeed sir,’ replied Treacy, not without a hint of smugness. How would anyone describe this sight to the Chief Inspector without being made to feel an idiot?

  Jellicoe walked over to the dead body. After a moment or two he moved slowly around it. It didn’t matter from what angle he looked; the sight was no less astonishing. Finally, realizing he needed to say something, if only to maintain a veneer of professionalism, control even, he asked, ‘Any identification of the man yet?’

  ‘Yes sir, one of my men is of the belief that it’s Sir Montagu Forbes-Trefusis.’

  Jellicoe was none the wiser.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A civil servant, sir. Works in the Foreign Office, I understand,’ replied Treacy.

  ‘I see,’ said Jellicoe, who plainly didn’t see. It was difficult to relate what was before him to anything other than the wildest imagining of a writer of a penny blood.

  Another, older, man came over to join them. Treacy took one look at the man’s whiskers and made him to be a doctor. For reasons he could not explain, Jellicoe always associated the possession of whiskers with the medical profession.

  ‘This is Dr French,’ explained Jellicoe. The two men shook hands briefly. Both men turned to look down at the former civil servant. Out of the corner of his eye, Jellicoe could see French shaking his head. This was probably the first time he’d seen such a murder before also.

  ‘I daresay the cause of death is the stomach wound,’ said Jellicoe to the doctor. The doctor noted the sardonic tone. A half-smile creased his lips.

  ‘Yes, there’s quite a lot of blood, so the poor devil probably died immediately as result of the…’ French left the sentence unfinished and looked at Jellicoe expectantly.

  ‘Medieval jousting lance?’ offered Jellicoe.

  ‘Quite.’ nodded French. ‘The lance.’

  Chapter 19

  Mid-morning at the offices of the Daily Herald, usually heralded a calmer atmosphere unless new news was breaking which required further editions of the morning newspaper. The journalists who remained saw Lansbury and Peel locked away in the editor’s office. Curiosity was mounting on what was being discussed. The working assumption was another communication from the Irish republican group in contact with Peel. They were accurate in at least one respect.

  Lansbury and Peel looked at the latest handwritten letter from “The Sword of Light”. It was too late for the morning edition. The discussion centred, not if it was genuine, but whether to run a special afternoon edition of the paper.

  ‘You were right about the Irish angle, Billy.’

  Peel wasn’t so sure. He looked again at the note. As a protestant, he had little knowledge of the Irish language beyond recognizing it when he heard it spoken or saw it written. Lansbury could see scepticism on his face.

  ‘It must be Irish republican in origin, right?’ asked Lansbury. Even he was familiar with how Gaelic looked, and the phrase was familiar to him.

  ‘Yes, it would seem so. Still, I’d like to check this with a Gaelic speaker, all the same,’ replied Peel, eyes on the letter.

  ‘What makes you doubt it? Inquired Lansbury.

  ‘Just to be certain on the spelling and use of the fada.’

  ‘Fada?’ asked Lansbury.

  Peel pointed to the accent over the letter “a”. Lansbury nodded but was still determined to press ahead with a single sheet afternoon edition of the Herald.

  ‘By the time we get this out, the murder will have been announced anyway. If not, I’ll contact Scotland Yard. In the meantime, write up the story and only then, check this…’

  ‘Fada,’ added Peel.

  ‘Fada,’ repeated Lansbury.

  -

  Later that evening, Roger Ratcliff looked at the Daily Herald story on the murder of Forbes-Trefusis. After finishing the story, he held the paper up for Colin Cornell, who was the over by the widow as usual. Cornell looked at the headline but only gave the story a cursory glance. He seemed more interested in Ratcliff’s reaction. Ratcliff looked like thunder.

  ‘You knew him?’ asked Cornell. />
  ‘Of him,’ replied Ratcliff grimly. ‘Strange cove. Once upon a time he was a big supporter of a more assertive British approach to international diplomacy. Lost his bottle somewhat during the War.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Cornell.

  ‘On our side, for example, he backed the creation of the Special Intelligence Service for a start. He was aware of the deep cover work we did in Russia to prop things up a bit. But after the Bolsheviks came to power, he changed. I think he lost his son in France. From then on, he argued against military engagement in Russia. Before he’d have backed Winston to the hilt.’

  Ratcliff looked at Cornell. He was worried about him. His normal pallor seemed even worse. His hand rubbed the back of his head, like he was experiencing a monumental hangover or perhaps it was a migraine. He seemed to be suffering frequent headaches.

  ‘Been out on the sauce, old chap?’ smiled Ratcliff, trying to lift the mood, his own principally.

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ replied Cornell, walking over to get a better view of the newspaper.

  ‘Have you been to see the doctor, like I told you? You look ghastly. You seem to have lots of headaches these days,’ continued Ratcliff with obvious concern for his old friend.

  Cornell glanced down at Ratcliff but said nothing in response. He doesn’t look well, thought Ratcliff.

  -

  Miller brought up the afternoon edition of the Daily Herald to Kit, Esther and Bright. All were sitting in Kit’s living room looking at the two chess boards and chatting. The face-to-face match with Serov was five days away and all the newspapers were featuring the latest moves from the game.

  Kit turned around to Miller as he entered the room. He noticed Miller was carrying an afternoon newspaper, which Kit normally didn’t read. Returning his gaze to his two friends, he continued an explanation started before Miller’s return.