by Jack Murray
‘Apparently so,’ responded Esther.
They drove along in silence for a few minutes. Miller turned around when they halted at one point due to traffic, ‘How is Lady Mary?’
Esther brightened up momentarily, ‘We felt some movement in her hands, didn’t we Kit?’
Kit looked far away in his thoughts and didn’t respond immediately, then he looked at Esther and said, ‘Sorry, I was distracted there. Yes Harry, we definitely felt a reaction. This is the third day in a row we’ve felt one.’
‘Positive news, sir.’
Kit looked out of the car window again, preoccupied. A frown was on his forehead. He was silent for a few moments, his attention clearly elsewhere. Miller peeked at Kit in the mirror. He recognised the look. It came when something was unclear. Something had disturbed him. There was a ripple on the water.
‘I don’t suppose they were able to identify the body?’
Miller answered, ‘It was a Bishop sir. The Bishop of Gloucester, John Gordon. I have the paper here sir if you would like to see.’
‘Bishop?’ whispered Kit. Outside the car, the world seemed to stop and turn to gaze at him. The car continued moving, while all around him was silence and immobility. They passed a newspaper board, screaming its headline in bold, black capitals, “Bishop Burned Alive”. Kit’s mind was in tumult.
A Bishop.
A Knight.
A pawn.
The silence thickened the air. Esther looked at Kit, her face apprehensive. She could tell something was troubling Kit. Something that was not about Richard, or Mary.
‘Is something wrong Kit?’ asked Esther.
Kit nodded slowly, yes. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed.
Chapter 23
Esther accompanied Kit and Miller back to the apartment. They were greeted by a surprise. Sitting on the sofa was a rather dishevelled Bright. Dark rings under his eyes suggested he’d not enjoyed much sleep the previous night.
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Kit, shocked at the appearance of Bright, ‘Where’ve you been?’
Esther said nothing but went straight over to him and received a hug.
‘I’m sorry, the most extraordinary thing happened,’ explained Bright. They all sat down, and Bright continued with his story.
‘I‘d just left Esther after supper, and was heading outside the hotel, when I was accosted by a man. I subsequently found out his name was Wilson. He’s a porter at the hotel; his face was familiar. Anyway, this chap Wilson, came over and told me about his son being taken very ill suddenly. The child was only two years old and I could see Wilson was in quite a state. He’d obviously picked up on the fact that I was a doctor. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he asked if I could come and attend him. He’d not been able to find a doctor willing to come out so late. Of course, I said yes, and we took a taxi to his house in Islington. Terrible area, I must say. I’m glad I don’t have to live there. They lived in a tiny two room flat, but very clean to be fair to them. As soon as I saw the child, I suspected it could be meningitis. Naturally I was alarmed and immediately ordered Wilson to find a taxi; we need to take the child to the nearest hospital. And that’s pretty much where I spent the night.’
‘The poor thing,’ said Esther, ‘How is he?’
‘Hopefully we diagnosed it in time. He should have a good chance. Meningitis is the devil. It can creep up on you very quickly. With care it can be managed, without it, well, I wouldn’t have given the child a chance. I’m so sorry, I hope you weren’t too worried darling.’
‘We were both worried,’ said Kit, ‘But there was nothing else you could do. And jolly well done. You may have saved a child’s life.’
Bright smiled at Kit’s praise and his smile grew even broader as his fiancée gave a more eloquent demonstration of her admiration, one which required no words and caused Kit to look away in embarrassment.
After a minute, perhaps two, he asked, ‘Have you two finished?’ A noise coming from Esther suggested not. Another minute passed.
‘Finished?’
‘Yes,’ said Esther triumphantly and walked off towards the kitchen.
Kit looked at Bright who, if anything, was even more dishevelled. On the plus side, he looked distinctly perkier.
‘How is Mary?’ asked Bright by way of moving the conversation on.
‘Another movement in her hand,’ said Kit hopefully.
The conversation was interrupted by Miller who brought over a letter for Kit. He opened it and read the contents. A moment later he gave a gasp.
‘What’s wrong Kit?’ said Esther returning from the kitchen with a glass of water for Bright.
‘They have Olly,’ said Kit, anxiety spreading across his face.
‘Who is Olly? And they for that matter?’ asked Bright, clearly mystified.
Kit looked vacantly at his two friends and then shook his head.
‘Harry, who brought this letter?’ asked Kit.
‘A young lad hand delivered it,’ responded Miller.
‘Quickly, see if you can find him. He can’t have gone very far.’
Standing up, Kit walked over to the window and drew back the curtain. For some reason he had a feeling the person who had given the letter to the boy might be below. The street was crowded, however, and it was difficult to make out faces through the droplets of rain on the window. One man did catch his attention, however. Standing across the road, dressed in a long dark coat was a very large man. He seemed to be the only one without an umbrella. The sighting was a brief one because the man suddenly turned and walked towards a taxi. He climbed in. Within seconds the car was gone. Kit’s skin was tingling, however. He watched the taxi until it was out of sight, then turned to his friends.
‘Olly is Lord Oliver Lake. Probably my oldest friend,’ explained Kit.
‘And they?’
Kit walked over and sat by the chess board. He looked down at the pieces and felt the anger rise slowly within him. Cold eyes burned through the chess board. He experienced an animosity towards the game, towards himself. His credulousness for participating in a game had resulted in three deaths and perhaps a fourth. The idea of being responsible for the possible death of his oldest friend brought tears of frustration, then frenzy. With one sweep of his hand all the pieces on the chess boards went crashing to the floor.
Esther looked at Bright, startled by the reaction in Kit. Bright picked up the letter and showed it the Esther. The note was typed and dated 12th January 1920. It read:
Dear Lord Aston,
By now you may be reconsidering your participation in the chess match. Unfortunately, it will not be possible for you to leave prematurely. The match must continue to the end. Liberty is precious. At this moment, your friend, Lord Oliver Lake of Hertwood, would agree with this idea.
Kind Regards
S.o.L
Esther looked at Bright, ‘Does this mean Lord Lake has been kidnapped? But why?’
Bright looked at Kit. He’d never seen his friend like this before. His eyes were a frozen fury. He understood immediately the anger of his friend was suffused with guilt. Why Kit should be blaming himself, he could not comprehend, but clearly it was connected to the chess game.
‘Kit I don’t know what’s going on, but you shouldn’t blame yourself for this. Whoever this “S.o.L” is, they’re clearly mad.’
Kit looked up. Bright could almost see the flames burning in his eyes now. Kit covered his face with his hands. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms and then put his hands down. In a moment the flame died away. Turning to Miller, he said, ‘Harry can you bring me over the phone?’
Miller did so. Kit dialled a number. A minute later he was speaking to someone.
‘It’s Kit. Look I must see you right now. I know who killed those three men. It’s connected to the chess match with Serov.’
The call finished a few minutes later. Both Esther and Bright now understood more about the situation. They watched Kit rise and head out the door with
Miller.
‘Kit is there anything we can do?’ asked Bright.
Kit stopped and thought for a moment.
‘Yes, maybe there is. Can you go down to Sheldon’s in St. James? It’s Olly’s private club. Say I sent you. Try and find out as much as you can, specifically if Olly’s been around in the last few days.’
‘Are you sure that’s where he’ll have been?’
Kit nodded his head. A shadow seemed to pass over Kit’s face.
‘Sadly, yes.’
Chapter 24
It had been less than a week since Kit had last sat in Spunky’s office. The story told by Kit and the new facts supplied by Spunky on the murders of Yapp and Forbes-Trefusis had created a clear connection with the chess match. Almost.
‘I understand Bishop kills pawn and Knight kills Knight, but how do you arrive at Queen kills Bishop?’ asked Spunky.
‘What were you doing during history class?’ asked Kit, smiling grimly. The two of them had been at school together.
‘If you remember, I usually bunked off and spent a happy hour or two with the pub owner’s daughter,’ admitted Spunky proudly. He paused for a few happy moments as the recollection of those days crossed his mind like a fresh breeze on a summer’s day.
‘I don’t think old Mathers knew I was reading history until I turned up to the examination,’ finished Spunky.
Despite the tenseness of the situation, Kit laughed, ‘I didn’t know you were studying history until you turned up to the exam.’
Kit stood up and walked over to the window that overlooked Holland Park. Turning to Spunky he continued, ‘Bishop John Hooper. Does he jog anything in those little grey cells of yours?’
‘No, can’t say he does,’ responded Spunky happily.
‘He was Bishop of Gloucester. Burned at the stake by Queen Mary for the heinous crime of being protestant.’
‘Trifle harsh, don’t you think? Wouldn’t three Hail Mary’s have done the trick?’
The two friends were interrupted at that moment by a knock at the door. An attractive young woman entered the office.
‘Dawn meet Lord Kit Aston,’ said Spunky indicating his friend.
‘Dawn,’ said Kit shaking her hand.
‘The Chief will see you now,’ said Dawn.
‘Has he finished with that other chap?’ asked Spunky.
‘No sir, he‘ll be joining you in the meeting,’ replied Dawn.
They followed Dawn out of the office and up another set of stairs to the top floor of the house. As they climbed the steps, Kit glanced at Spunky with a smile. The latter returned the look and shook his head dejectedly.
‘Sadly, I’ve never woken up at Dawn,’ said Spunky in a stage whisper.
They arrived at a narrow corridor. Walking through the only door took them into an outer office which Kit took to be Dawn’s. It was sparsely furnished. Just a table and chair with two large filing cabinets in the corner. There was another door which Dawn walked towards and knocked.
‘Enter,’ came a voice from inside.
Kit and Spunky both followed Dawn through two doors and walked inside a dark wood-panelled room. Old master paintings of naval battles adorned the walls.
‘Mr Stevens and Lord Aston, sir,’ said Dawn, who immediately left the room.
The office was dimly lit. Two men were there, either side of the large desk. With his back to the large dormer window sat the Chief, Mansfield Cumming. The daylight behind Cumming forced Kit to squint a little as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. He had met Cumming only once before, just after he had returned to Britain to recuperate. It was at his hospital, and he had accompanied Spunky. It was much later he heard from Spunky how the nature of Kit’s injury had made “C” insistent on the meeting. Only Spunky was aware that “C” had also lost part of his leg following a road accident a few years previously.
At the time Kit was not told who he was although Kit had soon guessed. It was the man known only as “the Chief” or “C”. It was a sign of the seriousness of the situation that he had agreed to meet him. Normally, “C” kept a hermit-like existence away from the operatives who, ultimately, carried out his orders.
From his time in the hospital, Kit remembered him to be nearer sixty than fifty, with silver hair and a very large, prominent chin. Another distinguishing characteristic was the monocle. Kit wasn’t sure if this was due to a weaker eye or for theatrical effect. His eyes, Kit recalled, had a piercing but not unkind quality. Those eyes looked directly at Kit, but “C” remained silent. He gestured for Kit to sit down at the other empty seat, opposite the unnamed man.
There was silence for a few moments. Kit knew this was typical and he waited for “C” to initiate the conversation. Finally, “C” spoke.
‘Good work, Kit and thank you for coming. This situation is unprecedented. Our response needs to be both urgent and carefully considered. I’m sure you’ll appreciate how difficult this will be to manage. Kit can you tell us what you know?’
Kit glanced at the other, as yet unnamed man, before looking again at “C’, who simply nodded.
‘Certainly sir.’
Over the next five minutes, Kit related everything about his involvement in the match from the initial contact by Bergmann through to his discovery of the connection to the recent murders. To finish off he took out the letter he had received and handed it to “C”.
“C” looked over the letter for a minute before handing to the other man.
‘Well?’ asked “C”.
The other man said nothing and then returned the letter to “C”.
‘Are you aware of the significance of the signature, Kit?’
‘No idea, sir. Can you shed any light on this?’
This brought a smile from the other man, who simply said, ‘Funny you should use the word light’.
Kit looked at the other man again. He was smallish in stature with a hard glint in his metal grey eyes. The accent was Northern Irish. Out of the corner of his eyes, Kit could see a smile grow on the face of “C”.
‘Forgive me, I was forgetting my manners. Kit may I introduce you to Billy Peel.’ The smile broadened when he saw Kit’s shocked reaction to this news.
‘Mr Aston,’ said Peel holding out his hand. There was no sign of friendliness in the Ulsterman.
‘Mr Peel,’ replied Kit coldly. He suspected whatever reason had brought Peel to the headquarters of Britain’s Special Intelligence Service, it did not mean the newsman was any more in favour of the aristocracy unless he was an enormous hypocrite.
Peel seemed to read his mind, ‘No Mr Aston, I still hate the class system in Britain. It just so happens that I hate the Bolsheviks more. Both systems oppress the working man. But I think this is a discussion for another time.’
Although not normally a man who required someone to use his formal title, Kit found himself developing an intense dislike of Peel and the deliberately provocative use of mister. In such situations, Kit followed his instinct, which was to smile benignly. He took the view that this was more likely to irritate than to ameliorate. In these situations, it was a minor victory of sorts.
‘Indeed,’ replied Kit non-committedly.
‘If I may summarise gentlemen,’ said “C” interrupting, ‘The situation is this. We have Russian, or possibly rogue, agents, operating in Britain. They are using the chess match as a signal to kill ranking British citizens, for reasons unknown. You are unable to pull out of the chess match now, Kit, because it would, almost certainly, result in the murder of Lord Lake. However, if you continue the match then they shall achieve their object anyway, and soon, given the superior skills of your opponent. Is this how you see the situation, Kit?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I see. We know at least two members of the group, Georgy Bergmann and Leonid Daniels.’
‘And Fechin?’ added Peel.
‘Ah yes. A nasty piece of work,’ replied “C”. ‘But possibly no more.’
Peel looked at “C”, clearly puzzled by t
his.
‘We didn’t release this publicly, but we believe he died by misadventure.’ At this point “C” explained the unusual circumstances.
Peel nodded before replying, ‘I wouldn’t be so certain of it being an accident.’
This made “C” smile and then he continued, ‘Bergmann we know nothing about. He is a mystery. Daniels, we do. It isn’t good news, Kit. He is Cheka and a highly effective agent. He’s fluent in English and German. He was a sergeant in the Russian army. He is clearly deadly. There may be other members in the gang of whom we are not aware. We have Mr Peel to thank for this intelligence, by the way Kit.’
Kit and Peel looked at one another. The feeling between them was no warmer.
‘I’m glad that the two of you are getting along so well,’ observed “C” sardonically. ‘In fact, the two of you have at least one thing in common.’
‘We’ve been used,’ responded Kit grimly.
‘Very much, Kit,’ agreed “C”. ‘Both of you have been indispensable to this plan and, if I may say, you have played your respective roles most diligently.’
This stung Kit, but he resisted the urge to pin the blame on Roger Ratcliff. A quick glance at Peel reassured him that the newsman was feeling no more pleased by this than he was. At least he was not alone, thought Kit, rather ashamedly, like a schoolboy facing detention.
‘As to their intentions, we now arrive at the core of our problem,’ continued “C”. ‘If they were to continue as they have started, then I agree, Kit, their intention is nothing less than the assassination of the Royal family.’
Kit nodded unhappily. He had shared exactly this conclusion with Spunky just minutes before. Peel looked shocked by this news. Something Kit was quick to pick up.
‘Are you a republican Mr Peel?’
Peel glared back at Kit. In truth, Peel had no answer. On the one hand, as a protestant from Northern Ireland, he had been brought up to oppose anything that would end Ulster’s link with Britain. This meant opposition to Irish republicanism. However, as a staunch socialist, he was opposed to the class system and reserved a deep hatred for the Royal family. Admitting he was a republican was anathema, but correct, strictly speaking. In any other situation, Peel would have been amused by the dilemma. Sitting in front of a famous, and popular, manifestation of a system he despised, decided him against any admission one way or another.
