The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Very funny, Mr Aston.

  ‘If we could return to the matter, gentlemen,’ admonished “C” softly, ‘We appear to have limited time and options available to us. The kidnapping of Lord Lake presents us with a challenge. I will not ask you, Kit, to stop the match. Is there anything you can do to prolong it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. Serov is in an exceptionally strong position.’

  ‘But you are a piece to the good?’ pointed out “C”. This surprised Kit and he turned to the head of the Special Intelligence Service. “C” smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve been following the match since the start. The truth is I authorised it. Roger told us he had heard via back channels that the Bolsheviks were open to a deal. There would be a few conditions. This was but one. It was me who suggested using Mr Peel. If it’s any consolation to you then I am just as credulous as you.’

  Kit nodded but the news appeared to give him no pleasure. Then answered Cumming’s original point.

  ‘It’s true that I’m a piece up, but I’m not sure it’ll do me much good.’

  Peel interjected at this point, ‘So we need to prolong the game as much as possible to allow more time to find Lake?’

  ‘Correct,’ replied “C”.

  Peel added nothing else. It was clear an idea was forming but “C” decided to give him time to articulate it. He continued in the meantime.

  ‘I think, at this point, making any direct link in your newspaper between the match and the possible assassination of the King and Queen would be unwise, Mr Peel. Do you agree?’

  Peel nodded ruefully, ‘And the link with Russia?’

  ‘I see no reason not to continue, Mr Peel,’ said “C”.

  Kit looked askance at “C”, ‘Is that wise, sir? This will create a lot of ill feeling in the country and tension between the governments.’

  ‘I think we’ve long since passed the point of worrying about that. The Russians are up in arms already if you’ll pardon the expression. They’re denying any involvement with these murders. The Foreign Office is still too angry over the Forbes-Trefusis murder to believe them. All in all, it’s a bit of a mess. So, if anything, I‘d rather welcome it.’

  “C” did not elaborate on why, so Kit left this question unasked. He had long since given up trying to understand the rules of the diplomatic game and he knew better than to expect “C” to open up unless he chose to.

  ‘Mr Peel, you’ve met Serov now. Do you believe him to be implicated in these acts?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t believe so, but I can’t say for certain,’ replied Peel. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I’ll see that Jellicoe hears of your suspicions, Kit. In the meantime, Mr Peel, you should make your way over to Scotland Yard to give the good Chief Inspector descriptions of Bergmann and Daniels. You may also want to publish them in your paper,’ said “C”, his eyes twinkling.

  Peel eyed “C”. He unsurprised by the shrewdness of the man and, partly, reassured in this knowledge. The years spent in France had only hardened his hatred of the upper classes who had led men like him into a slaughter. There were rare occasions when he met more credible examples of the breed. All too rarely, he thought sadly. The man before him was one such man. Aston also, if what he’d heard was true.

  The chance to lead with this story was impossible to turn down. Even Lansbury, as sympathetic as he was to Russia, would agree. At their heart, both were newsmen, both wanted the truth, both abhorred suppression. This was uppermost in his mind.

  It was disappointing not being able to break the news about the connection to the chess match, but he accepted the rationale. He consoled himself with the thought of how his close involvement with the case would eventually force the truth out, whatever it might be.

  For the next half hour, “C” went through the situation in forensic detail. Both Kit and Peel were impressed by his immediate grasp of the facts and his ability to translate them into implications for national security, diplomacy, and politics. By the end of this session, the stakes were very clear, and they went beyond the immediate risk to the life of Lord Oliver Lake.

  The actions of the self-proclaimed “Sword of Light” added weight to the faction in His Majesty’s Government lobbying for more troops on the ground in Russia. The objective was partly to defend the existing British armaments stockpiled in Arkhangelsk but for many in this faction, it was also seen as a precursor to a Western alliance to fight and defeat the Bolsheviks.

  ‘I can’t believe we would seriously consider war with Russia. Have these people no idea what we went through?’ said Kit, when “C” had finished.

  Peel glanced at Kit in surprise. This was unexpected. He was aware of some of Kit’s actions during the War. Unlike many people of rank who had taken mainly ceremonial roles, Kit had fought alongside people like him. Peel had viewed these heroics as merely the actions of some Boy’s Own fantasist. The reality seemed different. Rather than a totem of British imperialistic interests he saw a man bitterly opposed to further war.

  ‘You’d be surprised Kit,’ said “C”, but his tone of voice did not suggest either shock or dismay. Instead, Kit saw a man who was resigned to the follies of political machinations and interested in mitigating their impact when and where he could.

  The meeting seemed to be ending, when “C” turned to Peel and asked what, to Kit, seemed like a strange question.

  ‘Have you any thoughts on how Kit can keep Mr Serov occupied longer than he would like, Mr Peel?’

  Peel looked at “C”, and not for the first time during the meeting found himself in awe of his insight. He smiled in recognition of this and nodded his head, ‘Would you believe, yes?’

  Chapter 25

  Olly Lake lay on his bed. It was night. Sleep had been fitful. He rolled over and eventually his breathing became more rhythmic. The dream returned. The one where he had met her.

  The first time he had seen Kristina was with Roger Ratcliff and Colin Cornell. Ratcliff had spoken about this ravishing girl working in Kerensky’s secretariat. He wondered if he had designs on her himself, the dirty devil. His first view of her in the summer of 1917 had, for once, put him in the unusual position of agreeing with Ratcliff about something. She was the most exquisite looking girl he had ever seen, and he had spent time with his fair share.

  Her frazzled fair hair could not be contained by the red band. It spilled everywhere. It was all he could do to stop himself pushing the strand of hair that had fallen out from the hair band, back into place. Watching her finally push it back with those long, elegant fingers was a quasi-spiritual experience. Although seated at a desk behind a typewriter, Lake could see a pair of large blue eyes full of curiosity and unable to hide their amusement at Ratcliff.

  It made Lake laugh to see Ratcliff and Cornell attempting small talk with the girl as they waited for Kerensky. Lake contented himself by looking at Ratcliff with a half-smile and smoking, aware of her interest in him. Unlike Ratcliff and Cornell, he knew women. He could play the game, for that’s what it was. That was the big secret women hid from fools like Ratcliff and Cornell.

  When Kerensky had finally invited them into his office, Lake elected to stay outside.

  ‘Do you really want me in this meeting Roger?’

  ‘Please yourself,’ growled Ratcliff in response, glancing at Kristina. He knew what Lake was up to and if any man could succeed where Cornell had failed, it was him.

  Lake sat down again and finally looked at the girl, he had studiously avoided gazing at, except via his peripheral vision. He smiled and said in perfect Russian, ‘I’m sorry, my friend didn’t introduce us. My name is Lake, Olly Lake.’

  It surprised her to be addressed by the man in front of her. She saw someone younger than the other two men. There was something indefinable about him, a disinterestedness that stopped short of cold reserve, resolving itself instead as something more fascinating, almost predatory. Dislike was her first reaction.

  She merely nodded in response and returned to
her work. Frustratingly, he said nothing more, but she sensed his eyes on her. Normally, she was used to attention from men. It was flattering but no longer pleased her as it once might have. She glanced up from her work at long last. His eyes were still shamelessly on her. This time he cocked his head slightly and his grin widened.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘You could tell me your name,’ replied Lake.

  She remained silent for a moment as she considered how to react. It did not occur to her the likelihood of his knowing anyway. He raised his eyebrows as a prompt. This amused her, much to her irritation.

  ‘Kristina.’

  -

  Lake awoke and shielded his eyes from the sunlight streaming onto his face. The big Russian was in the room with him. He brought over a tray with a glass of clear liquid. Moments later Lake spat the contents out.

  ‘Water? What the hell are you giving me water for? Have you no gin?’ asked Lake in Russian.

  This appeared to confuse the man. He shut his eyes again and tried to work out which was worse, the thumping headache or a throat that felt as if it was being rubbed by sandpaper every time he swallowed. He heard the door closing but could not be bothered to open his eyes. It was still too early. He hated mornings but gave in to the inevitable and rose from the bed. Time to dress.

  -

  Later the same morning, Serov walked through Highgate cemetery accompanied by Kopel. The chance to visit the grave of one of his heroes was one of the conditions he had insisted on at the outset. He was glad that Kopel had agreed so readily to the request, in the strange absence of Bergmann.

  Serov had first read “The Communist Manifesto” as a student. Unsurprisingly, the ideas of Marx were not freely available in the orphanage he had grown up in. In fact, books were all too rare. It was a wonder he’d ever learned to read or write. If he’d believed in God, the idea of him becoming a chess grandmaster would have been nothing short of a miracle. Instead of God, the words of Marx became his Bible; so much so that he could quote as freely from it as a Presbyterian from the Old Testament.

  Although it was cold, the sun streamed through the trees providing dappled spotlights along the narrow path banked by the heavy memorials either side. If ever a place lacked spirituality, reflected Serov, it was this cemetery. All around, the bourgeoisie seemed to be in competition with one another to build the most vulgar monuments to their own memory.

  The grave of Marx was out of the way along a side path. He was buried in the same plot as his wife. Its location and the lack of ostentation pleased Serov. It seemed a validation of the great man’s principles that he should occupy a simple grave, in marked contrast to the tasteless tombs built by those who had spent their lifetime exploiting the masses.

  Kopel looked on as Serov gazed down reverentially at the ground where Marx rested. Unusually for him, he felt moved by the profound spiritual reaction Serov was clearly undergoing. This was a surprise to him. He felt ashamed watching Serov’s tears flow. He realised how deeply Serov believed in the ideas written over eighty years previously which were now changing the world. Of course, he’d never felt it himself.

  Kopel had always taken a soldier’s view of life and politics. His Bible was Clausewitz. He was an instrument of national policy. Or supra-national policy. It didn’t matter who made the policies and whatever those policies were. Fundamentally, only one policy mattered where he was concerned.

  In one sense, it was an area of common ground between he and Serov. The whole was more important than the individual parts. Like Marx, and like the chess player in front of him, he understood how sacrifices were sometimes necessary to achieve the ultimate goal.

  Serov said little as they returned to the hotel. Kopel wisely left him to his thoughts. The next few days were going to be a test for all of them. Even Serov seemed apprehensive, which surprised Kopel. His confidence had bordered on hubris throughout the couple of weeks they had been together. The prospect of finally facing Kit Aston seemed to be acting as a dose of reality.

  In truth, Kopel no longer cared. Win, lose, or draw, the match result was immaterial. Serov had fulfilled his role. Soon he would be left to fend for himself. The taxi deposited Serov at the Waldorf. Kopel took his leave recognising Serov desired solitude following his time in the presence of his master. Or was it simply a desire to prepare, to leave nothing to chance against Aston?

  -

  Late afternoon: Lake was back in his bed, lying awake, but with his eyes closed. His mind drifted back to another time. Another place. A time with her. He had known immediately. She had also. In fact, she admitted as much afterwards. He didn’t know everything, though. That would come later. But she knew.

  There was nothing he could do for the moment. Lying on the bed gave him time to enjoy his waking dream. His memories. Such memories a man can have. Some even have consequences.

  -

  They were like fencers. Facing one another, their words acting like feints seeking an opening. Neither wanted to give ground but neither wanted to attack. The object was not to win so much as gain the other’s submission.

  For once Lake felt unequal to the task. It had long since stopped being a game for him. The weapons he had deployed with women so successfully over the years were redundant with Kristina. His charm and looks had gained her attention. However, something unexpected had happened as he had begun to know her. She had disarmed him by her beauty and dismantled his defences by her mind. With a smile on her face, she saw his defeat. The smile was not cruel, though. He knew the difference.

  The words he said had been used many times before. This was the first time he had meant them. He took her hand, dreading she would snatch it away. He could not have felt more naked than if he had stood unclothed in Piccadilly Circus.

  She did not take her hand away. The smile stayed on her face. She glanced down at their hands and then looked up, directly into his eyes. He realised that he had stopped breathing and he exhaled. It was so loud it made Kristina laugh. Lake also began to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. As he did so, she looked at him, and he at her. His heart felt like it was dancing around his chest. He moved closer to her and his lips gently brushed hers.

  -

  The headline on the news stand caught Serov’s eye as he entered the hotel. He made a small detour and bought the newspaper. His understanding of written English was not as strong, but he could read well enough to grasp what was being said. The rage in him grew as picked through the article by Billy Peel.

  For the last week or more he had begun to feel more sympathy for Britain than he would have cared to admit. Parts of the country were beautiful; the weather was almost tropical compared to his homeland. The workers, far from being in chains, were much better off than his fellow countrymen. The level of antagonism to Russia was not as high as he’d expected. And then he read Peel’s article.

  ‘Liar,’ he snarled causing a gentleman in a top hat to look up with a start. Serov ignored him as he strode angrily into the hotel.

  ‘Lies,’ he thundered. All around him, people in the lobby of the hotel stopped and looked at him. Serov’s indignation made him oblivious to the stares. He sat down and continued reading the inside pages. Billy Peel became the sole object of his wrath as he poured forth a stream of curses aimed at the journalist, the so-called fellow socialist, who was a puppet of the ruling classes. Such was the intensity of the rant, several women moved away in obvious distress. This caused the duty manager of the hotel to come over. With some trepidation he approached the strange man uttering oaths in a foreign language and asked if there was anything he could do. Serov glared up at the man who had just interrupted his tirade.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Serov, still unconscious of the effect he had created around him.

  ‘You seem to be agitated sir,’ said the trembling manager.

  ‘Agitated?’ repeated Serov.

  Unsure if he spoke English, or had misunderstood him, the manager made the mistake of repeating the word, only more slo
wly, followed by the raising of his eyebrows and a smile that was as pointless as it was patronising.

  ‘I know what it means,’ roared Serov, ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  The commotion had already attracted the attention of the doorman who had immediately run to a nearby policeman. Within a matter of minutes, Serov was gazing up at two policemen. At this point rationality broke through the red haze. He realised he had gone too far. Just as he was about to apologise, he spied Daniels arriving through the front entrance. The big man looked shocked as he saw the police surrounding Serov. Unaccountably, to Serov, he turned and walked outside again without returning.

  Serov looked at the gaggle of men in front of him. He held up his hands, palms facing outwards. This calmed proceedings slightly and gave Serov the opportunity to speak. He explained the reason for his highly visible displeasure. This served to appease both the duty manager and the police. In fact, the younger policeman was following the chess match and recognised the Russian grand master. The older policeman eyed his younger colleague with something beyond distaste at this revelation and made a mental note to speak to the young man. Ideas above their station, these new constables.

  Having established his peaceful credentials, the crowd dispersed, leaving Serov alone in the lobby of the hotel wondering about the strange behaviour of Daniels. A few minutes later, he saw the big Russian return. He went on the offensive immediately.

  ‘Why did you disappear?’ asked Serov, staring intently into the eyes of Daniels.

  ‘I was looking for Georgy, he was in a taxi. I thought he could help. He’d left, so I came back.’

  Serov nodded. It made some sense, but he remained sceptical. For reasons he could not quite articulate, there was something about the look on Daniels face that perturbed him. It had just been a moment.