The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  Aunt Agatha abruptly turned around and looked at Emily, ‘I think it makes sense for these young ladies to stay at my residence in Grosvenor Square. Your niece should be near the hospital that has treated her over this last period. I shall instruct my staff to make ready. Christopher,’ said Agatha, turning to Kit, ‘please arrange for their things to be sent immediately. Good day.’

  Lady Emily watched askance as Aunt Agatha cruised regally out of the apartment. By the time she regained her senses, the ship had sailed. The horse had bolted. The off stump was bowled. Silence reigned save for the sound of the clock ticking on the mantlepiece. Finally, Kit decided a decent enough amount of time had elapsed before breaking the hush, if not the calm.

  ‘So, that was my Aunt Agatha. You know she’s really quite likeable once you know her.’

  Three ladies Cavendish turned around to Kit at that moment with looks on their faces that caused a hero of the Great War, the rescuer of Kerensky and hero of countless other perilous missions to wish he could shrink into the wall. Such is the implicit power wielded by the distaff side of humanity.

  -

  Kit spent a few seconds wiggling the key in the lock. Beside him Mary stamped her feet to keep the circulation going against the biting cold.

  ‘Hurry, sir, before your future bride freezes to a block of ice.’

  Finally, Kit opened the door. They stepped into an expansive hallway, no less impressive than Lord Wolf’s, with many paintings from the Dutch school decorating the walls and a knight in shining armour at the base of the stairs standing beside which was a latter-day maiden of an elderly vintage wearing a frown that would have frozen the heart of any knight errant at twenty paces. Mary looked at Aunt Agatha’s face and then turned to Kit and smiled.

  ‘What on earth is the meaning of this outrage, young man? Have you no regard for the reputation of this young lady?’

  ‘On the contrary, Aunt Agatha,’ said Kit more casually than Mary thought wise, ‘Nothing is more important to me than the unblemished nature of Mary’s character.’

  Aunt Agatha looked as if she were about to erupt like a South Seas volcano. Her face went red and she inhaled deeply to get good purchase on the string of verbal abuse about to be launched in a Kit-ward direction.

  ‘Before you become angry, Aunt Agatha,’ continued Kit, ‘A crime was committed at Lord Wolf’s house. We have a case.’

  ‘A case you say?’ asked Agatha, her tone changed to a quite remarkable degree. So did her posture. Where previously she had been tensed like a samurai warrior about to strike, she relaxed and leaned forward.

  ‘Yes,‘ said Kit, moving towards the door, ‘And I shall let Mary tell you all about it. Cheerio.’ With that, Kit gave a rather stunned Mary a peck on the cheek and left via the front door.

  Agatha looked expectantly at Mary.

  ‘Well,’ said Mary.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, young lady,’ replied Agatha, ‘Give me the skinny.’

  Mary walked up to Agatha. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked down at the elderly woman. She was at least three inches taller than her host.

  ‘Kitchen?’

  ‘Kitchen,’ agreed Agatha. ‘I’ll make us some hot milk.’

  Chapter 4

  February 11th, 1920: London

  The young man pulled his coat tightly around him in a futile attempt to avoid the chill. The night air seemed to freeze on his cheeks and the breeze stung his eyes. A cloth cap provided some shield against the freezing air circulating around his head. But his ears stuck out and bore the full brunt of the wintry evening.

  He hurried forward. There was still another mile to walk. The noise grew louder as he approached the pub on the corner. Raucous laughter came from within and even more raucous singing. An elderly gent came stumbling out of the pub, completely pickled, bumping into the young man.

  ‘Out of my way,’ snarled the drunk, pushing the young man.

  The young man was several inches taller than the old man and could probably have ended his night there and then. Instead, he ignored him and pushed on wearily in the direction of his home.

  Crossing the road, he ducked up a side street. A young woman was coming the opposite direction. Their eyes met momentarily and then she looked away a little fearfully. The young man kept walking, berating himself for glancing at the woman, for making her feel afraid.

  His journey took him through a series of winding streets, many of cobblestones, which he found difficult to walk on. Street after street of terraced houses. It was after eight o’clock, but the streets were still relatively crowded. Beggars confronted him on every corner, many missing limbs, their eyesight, their mind. Hand scrawled messages proclaimed a similar story of why they were begging. A land fit for heroes, thought the young man. He laughed sardonically to himself. Home was just up ahead.

  In front, though, was a policeman kneeling beside a street dweller. The smell near the beggar was appalling. The young man recognised the tell-tale sign of gangrene. He kept on. The man was a goner. Nothing to be done. How many times had he thought that thought? How many times had he kept his eyes ahead? Nothing to be done. Nothing.

  The young man was twenty-eight years old. He looked older. A lot older. His body, his mind and his spirit all ached with the effort of surviving each day. This daily battle had not ended when they’d handed him his Z11. He’d walked away from His Majesty’s Armed Forces. Many had not.

  A noise behind. He spun around. A dog had knocked over a bin. He breathed again. Loud noises. He hated loud, sharp noises. His step quickened until he was finally at his front door. The house was like a hundred other houses on the street.

  Inside he was greeted by a young woman holding a year-old toddler. Another child, perhaps four or five years old, jumped up from a chair and ran over to him.

  ‘Daddy, daddy,’ she said delightedly.

  The young man looked at his wife. The other child seemed quiet, asleep. Then the coughing started. Then the gulps of air. Then the tightness in his lungs. Again, and again. It never seemed to end. The cheeks of the young woman damp with tears. She shook her head. He took the child from the arms of the young woman. He fought to keep the tears from his eyes

  ‘There, there Ben. Don’t worry, daddy’s here.’ He gently kissed his wife and knelt to greet the young girl.

  ‘Alice, my love,’ said the young man as the little girl enfolded his neck with her arms. “Watch young Ben,’ he laughed. The little girl took the cloth cap from his head and put it on her own head. She was beautiful, sweet, funny, and sad all at the same time. Just like Chaplin. One day he’d take her to the picture house to see him. One day.

  ‘A bit big for you my love,’ he said, smiling.

  -

  An hour later, the young man and woman looked down at their children, asleep on the bed. They looked so peaceful. He put his arm around his wife. She looked up at him.

  ‘How was it today?’

  A dozen images passed through the young man’s mind. Twelve hours in the varnish factory. His lungs and his throat were burning.

  ‘Just the usual,’ he replied unenthusiastically. He would never tell her the full truth. It would break her heart. Well, break it even more. She had enough to cope with. She didn’t know the hatred he felt for the workplace. The bosses. The union leaders. The smell.

  Oh heaven, the smell. He knew the factory would do for him. Where the German mustard gas had failed, the factory would surely succeed. He looked at his wife and tried to smile.

  ‘Come on, I’m hungry. I could eat a horse.’

  She looked into his eyes and knew there was pain. Standing on tip toes she kissed him. Grateful for his stoicism, grateful for his wage, grateful for the life he was trying to provide for his family. He was a good man. She felt blessed.

  -

  The young woman watched him devour his supper. His hand was a blur as it scooped food onto his fork. Every scrap was accounted for. He drained his tea and sat back with a look of satisfaction.
<
br />   ‘You’re not just beautiful.’

  She stood up and collected the plate and brought it over to the sink. Neither said anything for a few moments. The subject of their boy, Ben, hung heavily in the air, as it did every evening.

  There was a knock at the door.

  The young man stood up and went to see who it was. He turned to his wife and said with a smile, ‘I hope you’ve some of the stew left.’

  He opened the door. Another young man wearing a suit and a fedora was stood outside. He took the hat off and walked in without saying anything.

  ‘Evening, Sally,’ said the other young man. He looked like a younger, taller version of her husband.

  Sally went over and gave the man a hug, ‘Hello, Ben. If you’ve come to see your niece and nephew, they’re in bed this last hour.’

  ‘Can I?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Go on,’ said his brother.

  Ben moved to the doorway of the bedroom and looked in. The only sound was the rumble of one child’s breathing. He inched forward quietly to get a better look at the two children. Behind him, the young couple looked on. Finally, he turned and silently retraced his footsteps back into the living room.

  ‘Something smells good,’ said Ben with a grin.

  ‘Here we go,’ replied his brother rolling his eyes, ‘What did I tell you, Sal?’

  Moments later Ben was tucking into the remainder of the stew and half a glass of beer. The three of them chatted happily until the coughing started. Sally rose to her feet as young Ben began to cry. The two men watched Sally go to the bedroom and then Ben grew more serious.

  ‘He needs to be in a hospital,’ said Ben, as much to himself as his brother. They both knew this.

  ‘I know but I can’t cover that and all of this. Even with Sally’s stitching, it’s barely enough. I’m not smart like you, Ben. I’ve never had a head for numbers or words. I can’t do what you do.’

  Ben didn’t try to argue with his brother; there was no point. The sound of coughing continued to stab the air. Tears glistened in the eyes of the elder brother. The younger one too. He hated to see his brother so sad.

  ‘I’m letting him down.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Joe,’ replied Ben getting up. He took out his wallet and put a pound note on the table.

  ‘Ben, you can’t keep doing this,’ said Joe, hurt but the gratitude in his eyes was unmistakeable.

  ‘Can and will, Joe. I feel like they’re mine. Anyway, can’t stay here talking rot with you, I must return. I’m on duty again tonight.’

  The two men walked out of the kitchen. Ben turned to go to the bedroom, but Joe shook his head, ‘You’ll excite him if he sees you here. Best to go.’

  Ben nodded. It made sense. He went to the door and opened it. As he did so, he turned to his brother, ‘Anything you need Joe. I’ll do anything. Remember that. Family first. That’s what ma used to say. Family first.’

  Joe nodded but couldn’t speak. He watched his brother leave then walked slowly into the bedroom. Family first. Always.

  Chapter 5

  February 12th, 1920: New Scotland Yard, London

  New Scotland Yard, the red brick building, home of the nation’s police force, rose unimposingly over the Thames embankment. Kit, who had visited the building on a few occasions, had never failed to be impressed by its resemblance to a block of apartments for the rising mercantile class in the city. It seemed just a little bit too cozy to be a centre for fighting crime in the city and beyond.

  ‘I’ll pull over here, sir,’ said Miller, ‘I’m not sure there’s anywhere to park.’

  ‘London’s becoming worse by the week,’ said Kit in response.

  Kit stepped out of the car. Up ahead he saw an equally impressive Rolls Royce from which debouched Lord Wolf. The two men acknowledged one another with a nod and walked up the steps together.

  ‘This is a bad business, Kit,’ said Wolf as they were led towards an office on the second floor.

  ‘A strange business, indeed. Hopefully Chief Inspector Jellicoe can be more forthcoming than he was last night.’

  The two men entered the large office housing the Chief Inspector. There was a magnificent view of the Thames below, but Jellicoe chose to sit with his back to the river. The room was spartan. There were no drawers, no stacks of paper, no in-tray. Jellicoe permitted himself the luxury of a telephone and a notebook. Kit decided that Jellicoe was either a brilliant delegator or had an extraordinary memory.

  The Chief Inspector and Detective Sergeant Ryan both rose to greet the two men. Jellicoe, as ever, retained his naturally lugubrious expression but Ryan smiled at the new arrivals. Once the almost-ceremonial handshakes and greetings had been dispensed with, the real business of the meeting began. Jellicoe started by acknowledging a few of the matters uppermost on the mind of Lord Wolf.

  ‘I asked Lord Aston to attend. I hope you won’t mind. Normally the idea of amateur sleuths would be abhorrent and the stuff of a “penny dreadful”. But Lord Aston proved an able assistant to the police recently and the fact of his presence in your home when the crime was discovered seems to me to be worthy of making an exception, for the moment.’

  Kit noted the end comment. This seemed reasonable to him. He could not expect to become part of a police matter even if curiosity was eating away at him. Jellicoe and the young sergeant would want to do their job with little or, better still, no interference from an amateur.

  ‘I have great admiration for Kit, Chief Inspector, so there are no complaints from me at his presence.’

  Jellicoe nodded and then continued, ‘Forgive me if I was less than forthcoming last night. I sensed your desire to understand more about the meaning of the card and what the next steps in the investigation might be. I will try and deal with this at the start, and then I would like to ask you a few questions, if I may.’

  ‘By all means,’ replied Wolf.

  ‘The card you found was identical to a number of cards that were left at the scene of crimes committed by a man the press, as is their wont, rather luridly titled “The Phantom”. His real name was Raven Hadleigh. As you are aware, Hadleigh was captured just before the War and sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment.’

  Jellicoe modestly neglected to mention his role in the capture of “The Phantom”. Ignoring the knowing smile on Kit’s face, he continued, ‘So that was that, or so we thought. However, it appears a man is now impersonating Hadleigh, and committing crimes in an identical manner.’

  ‘There have been other similar burglaries?’ asked Kit.

  Jellicoe’s features achieved the almost impossible effect of becoming even more crestfallen than previously.

  ‘Sadly yes. You may have seen something of them in the press already.’

  ‘Does this mean the wrong man is in prison?’ asked Wolf, giving voice to Kit’s thoughts also.

  ‘No, the evidence convicting Hadleigh was comprehensive and incontrovertible. However, there’s no denying these new cases are something of a mystery. The cards being used are the same as the ones used by Hadleigh, which, at the very least, could be explained by using the same printing firm although the firm in question has ceased trading. This means, as yet, we have few leads from the other two cases.’

  ‘Two,’ exclaimed Kit. ‘My goodness, I’d noticed the robberies but hadn’t connected them to the same person, never mind the Phantom.’

  ‘We have kept the details away from the press for obvious reasons,’ said Jellicoe, ‘I can only begin to imagine the kind of campaign they would create on Hadleigh’s behalf, as well as the number of cranks who may come along wishing to claim credit.’ Jellicoe shook his head as images of the motley crowd of prospective master criminals flooded his mind, and worse, Scotland Yard.

  ‘But this is incredible,’ said Wolf. ‘Even if we accept that this Phantom was captured, is it possible he had an accomplice that you were unaware of?’

  ‘It’s entirely possible, of course, but there was no evidence to suggest Hadleigh was anything other
than a lone agent in the commission of the early burglaries.’ After saying this, Jellicoe turned to Ryan and said, ‘If he may, Detective Sergeant Ryan will take a statement from you Lord Wolf. Lord Aston, can I ask you to stay on a few moments?’

  Ryan and Wolf both stood up. The young man led Wolf out of the room to a nearby office.

  ‘Can you be absolutely sure you have the right man, Chief Inspector?’ asked Kit. ‘There was no element of doubt?’

  ‘None, Lord Aston’ confirmed Jellicoe. ‘We have the right man all right. But, no question, this is a very troubling situation. There’s only so long we can keep this story away from the press. Once they know of this, there’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘Yes, I can see the potential problem. He was quite a hero in the end, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Don’t remind me, Lord Aston,’ said Jellicoe in a voice that managed to be both weary of the folly of human nature and awestruck by it. ‘You wouldn’t have believed the reaction of women to his incarceration. I must admit, notwithstanding what he was doing, I never disliked him as a man. He was always the gentleman. When one looks at it this way, I suppose it wasn’t difficult to see why he caught the imagination of the press, and of ladies in particular.’ He shook his head as he, clearly, still found it difficult to understand.

  ‘Yes, I must admit I followed the case with great interest. I think I did meet him once in passing because he knew some of my chums. Not sure though. They liked him immensely, I understand,’ admitted Kit.

  Jellicoe laughed. It was as pleasant a sound as it was unusual coming from the, otherwise, sombre detective.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I should know him,’ continued Kit with a wry smile that acknowledged the reason for the Chief Inspector’s amusement. Jellicoe’s eyes twinkled at this confession.