The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  It’s not easy to state offhand what the last thing Kit thought his aunt might say, and it would still have been a close-run thing. For example, if Agatha had stated her intention to marry Fish, the butler, due to the arrival of their baby in autumn, this might have edged it. Just.

  In the event, Kit managed to splutter, ‘Cracked the case?’ Kit looked at the three ladies. It was clear they were in earnest.

  ‘It’s true, Kit,’ said Agatha with eyes gleaming.

  The evening was proving to be full of surprises. Aunt Agatha had never referred to Kit as anything other than Christopher. He looked at his elderly aunt. She appeared to have shed at least twenty years with the excitement. It was abundantly clear they believed they had a break in the case.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Caroline Hadleigh,’ proceeded Betty, ‘is working at the Rosling household. In disguise I might add.’

  ‘We followed her,’ added Mary.

  ‘Yes, we felt that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. There’s no reason why the daughter couldn’t have learned from her father the tricks, so to speak, of the trade,’ continued Betty.

  While Kit couldn’t stop himself looking amused, which earned a frown from Mary, he also felt a swell of pride. It was certainly plausible. After a few moments, he replied, ‘Well, you’re certainly to be congratulated on uncovering something which, at the very least, appears suspicious. We need proof though. This may not be available until Miss Hadleigh makes a move. That’s if she makes a move.’

  Mary was well past the point of hoping they were wrong. She trusted her instincts normally and they were telling her Caroline was not a criminal. She looked at the time.

  ‘I need to return. They’ll wonder where I am.’

  Kit looked stunned by this and said, almost angrily, ‘You most certainly are not. This man Rosling is a cad and from what I’m hearing appears to be very interested in you. Who knows what he might do?’

  ‘I’m rooming with Caroline Hadleigh, so I doubt he’ll do very much.’

  This did not mollify Kit, ‘He’ll choose his moment. What if you and he are alone?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mary, pausing for a moment to think, ‘he is rather good looking.’

  ‘Tall too,’ pointed out Kit, grimly.

  ‘Broad shoulders,’ added Mary, brightly.

  ‘And an arrogant fathead,’ continued Kit.

  ‘Utter,’ agreed Mary.

  ‘My dear, Kit’s right,’ said Betty, ‘We can’t have you put yourself in harm’s way.’

  ‘Thank you everyone,’ replied Mary rising from the table, ‘I appreciate the concern and I will do my utmost to avoid an unpleasant situation arising. Now, I do need to return.’

  Mary’s tone, pleasant and calm also brooked no argument. Kit realised that this was something he would have to become used to. It was part of who she was. He was as much in love with her spirit as he was attracted by her beauty. To object now would possibly carry the day but it would lose something greater. He looked at Mary. In the look was an appeal but also an admission of defeat. She returned his gaze and nodded reassurance.

  ‘Harry Miller or I will be stationed outside the house on a twenty-four-hour basis.’

  ‘I can ask Alfred also,’ suggested Agatha, ‘This way you’ll have immediate transport if you feel imperilled by this young hooligan.’

  This was a sensible compromise. Mary walked out of the room with Kit.

  ‘At least let me take you back to Sloane Square.’

  Mary looked up at him wryly saying, ‘Climb into the car of a young man, unaccompanied. What about my reputation, sir?’

  With the door to the drawing room closed and Fish not in the vicinity, Kit decided to test Mary’s commitment to her reputation. Blissfully, it seemed, his fiancée’s defence of principle was less steadfast in deed than word. However, such stolen moments, Kit realised, only increased the pain of separation he was bound to feel when she returned to the Rosling house.

  Chapter 18

  February 17th, 1920: London

  It was midnight when Mary returned to her room. She opened the door as quietly as she could but then realised Caroline was still awake, reading in bed. In fact, she was reading in German, noted Mary. There was no reason why Mary should have been surprised by this, but she was.

  Caroline looked up and said with a grin, ‘Hello, what have you been up to?’

  Mary laughed conspiratorially. There was little choice but to admit some of the truth. She said to Caroline, ‘Promise you won’t tell? I have a sweetheart. I went to see him.

  Caroline put down her book. This was more interesting. She grinned and asked, ‘What’s he like?’

  Mary needed no second invitation to describe Kit.

  ‘He’s good looking. No, make that very good looking. Tall, smart, kind and very funny. He was in the War. A captain.’ At this point she stopped as thoughts went through her mind of the awful injury he had sustained and what she had seen of the other men in her care. Tears stung her eyes.

  ‘Was he hurt?’

  Mary nodded and looked down, unable to speak.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to bother him, though. It was part of his leg. It certainly doesn’t bother me. I just want to be married to him,’ admitted Mary with utter sincerity. It was best to stick to the truth and, in this regard, Mary didn’t have to act. Before Caroline could ask any other question about Kit, Mary thought it best to redirect the conversation. ‘Do you have a sweetheart?’

  Caroline hesitated before answering.

  ‘You do, don’t you?’ continued Mary, hoping this would help her open up.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Caroline sheepishly, ‘yes, I do.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Well, bit like yours. He was in the War, survived unscathed. Doesn’t talk about it much, but then we’ve only been going together a month or two.’

  ‘Do you like him?’ asked Mary.

  Caroline looked a little troubled though. Mary guessed she did like him. However, falling in love with a policeman was somewhat fraught with difficulties if your profession was burglary.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte, it’s none of my business. I think you do like him though,’ suggested Mary smiling.

  Caroline nodded after a few moments, adding simply, ‘Yes, I do.’

  Then stop stealing jewels, screamed Mary, albeit inside her head. It was now clear to her that she liked Caroline Hadleigh very much. There was a spirit as well as a vulnerability that she could discern but also empathise with. Her father was in prison, a mother no longer alive; there were no siblings that she was aware of. Caroline was very much on her own and Mary found herself desperately hoping that she was not the person that she, Agatha and Betty suspected her to be. The lights went out, but it was a few hours before sleep came to Mary.

  The next morning both had to rush to get ready as they’d overslept by twenty minutes. Each giggled as they danced around the small room dressing and tidying as they went.

  ‘No more late nights,’ said Mary grinning.

  ‘I know, come on, Mary, we’re going to be late.’

  They fell out of the room together and rushed towards the kitchen to have a quick breakfast. Before they entered, Caroline stopped Mary and said, ‘Be careful of young Mr Rosling. I don’t like the way he looks at you. If he tries anything, just shout. I’ll come running. With a heavy object.’

  Mary nearly burst out laughing. Then, taking a moment to compose herself, she nodded thanks and they both walked in together to face the inevitable disapproval of Miss Carlisle.

  The granite face of Miss Carlisle made it clear that censure was facing the two young women as soon as Grantham had finished his breakfast. They ate in silence and then the two girls were saved, quite literally, by the bell. Two of them.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Rosling. Seems their bells are working again. We should still have them seen to. I still think something’s not quite right with them.’ said Grantham rising to his feet.

  ‘Miss Han
nah, you’ll have to finish that later. Best see what she wants. I’ll attend to Mr Rosling.’

  Caroline glanced sympathetically at Mary, who remained impassive save for a slight crinkling around the eyes. Rose, recognising a distinct chill in the air emanating from a Carlisle direction, came over and asked Mary to help her prepare the breakfast for the family. Mary leapt from her seat and winked at Rose, who grinned broadly. This left Miss Carlisle looking like a wasp had set up home in her undergarments, with its in-laws.

  Mary relayed the food up from the kitchen. Grantham was no longer up to the job of lapping around the house like a miler. The first to come down to breakfast was Mr Rosling. He was dressed in a dark suit. At first, he took no notice of Mary apart from requesting a coffee. As she came over to serve him, she felt his hand touch high up on her leg.

  ‘How are you finding things, Miss Tanner?’

  In any other circumstances Mary would have enjoyed pouring the hot coffee over the misbehaving man. However, for once, discretion became the better part of temper. She finished pouring and stepped back.

  ‘Miss Carlisle and the staff are very welcoming, sir. Will there be anything else?’

  Rosling looked neither abashed nor, seemingly, prepared to acquiesce too soon. Instead, he smiled and said, ‘I’m glad to hear it, Miss Tanner, please stay a bit longer.’

  For the next few minutes, Rosling made conversation with Mary, asking about her background and life before arriving at the house. He did so in a manner that, it seemed to Mary, was highly practiced, wholly disinterested and calculated purely to allow Rosling the chance to gaze at Mary under the protective cloak of an innocent dialogue between master and servant. By the time Mary finally escaped she had formed a deep dislike of Rosling and a great sympathy for his wife.

  -

  Outside in the street, Kit arrived to take over from Harry Miller who had selflessly volunteered for the night shift. Miller felt stiff from the hours sitting in the car. And cold. It would take a week to heat up again. A warm bath and a long sleep were the order of the day.

  ‘How was it?’ asked Kit, as he climbed into the car. He smiled sympathetically as looked at Miller who was clearly in some discomfort, ‘You’d better return to the house. Bath and bed would be my suggestion.’

  ‘Nothing much to report sir,’ said Miller. ‘Mr Rosling, the elder, left about ten minutes ago. I haven’t seen any sign of the young man or the lady of the house.’

  ‘Good,’ said Kit enigmatically. He had some modest plans regarding the young buck.

  A few minutes later Miller was in a taxi heading back to the apartment in Belgravia. Kit sat in the car with his terrier, Sam. For the next hour there was little or no life around the house and, disappointingly, no sign of Mary. He guessed she would be cleaning the rooms at that this point.

  Around ten in the morning, the young American left the house. He began to head in Kit’s direction. Kit climbed out of the car immediately with Sam on a lead, lowered his hat, and walked towards Rosling. Pretending to be distracted by a noise on the street, he deliberately banged into the unsuspecting Rosling, using his cane to help trip the American. Rosling crashed to the ground, heavily. Restraining an impulse to cheer, Kit offered apologies as profuse as they were insincere. Rosling, however, was unsurprisingly irate and began shouting at Kit. Never one to duck a fight, Sam entered the fray and gave Rosling a piece of his mind as the American was rising from the ground.

  ‘And get that goddam dog of yours under control,’ shouted Rosling. This was red rag to the terrier who increased the volume of his discourse and even threatened to bite Rosling the younger. Kit swiftly intervened lest his jape became something more serious.

  ‘You’re quite right, sir. So sorry. Sixths, that’s enough,’ admonished Kit, waving his finger at Sam. This caused the little terrier to stop immediately and turn to Kit with a confused tilt of the head. Kit tipped his hat and moved on swiftly before Rosling could say much more. Seconds later they were around the corner and out of sight. Kit risked a peek at how Rosling was. Unhappy certainly but mostly unhurt seemingly. When the coast was clear, Kit returned to the car, at least reassured of Mary’s safety for the time being.

  Just before midday, Mrs Rosling appeared with a young woman with lank, brown hair badly hidden under a cheap hat. She wore spectacles which made it difficult for Kit to gain a true idea of her features. However, Kit had no doubt he was looking at Caroline Hadleigh. Less than quarter of an hour later, Mary emerged from the basement steps. At street level she looked around and spied Kit. She crossed the road and made her way to the car.

  Kit opened the door to her and said in a cockney accent, ‘How much, darling?’

  ‘You couldn’t afford me,’ replied Mary impassively before adding, ‘But as I’m in a good mood.’ She climbed into the car and proved to be as good as her word. A few minutes later, when Kit came up for air, he noticed Sam looking at them both with curiosity.

  ‘Don’t look, boy,’ said Kit to the little dog before turning back to Mary, ‘Where were we?’

  -

  Sally Ryan gently nudged her husband as he lay in the bed. It was lunchtime, which meant Joe’s breakfast was ready. He looked up at her, smiled and then groaned. She stroked the side of his face with her hand.

  ‘Rise and shine.’

  He pulled her down on top of him which made her giggle.

  ‘Stop,’ ordered Sally, ‘Uncle Ben’s outside having some lunch with our Ben, he’ll hear us.’

  ‘Let him,’ replied Ryan but alas Sally was not having any of it. She escaped his clutches and ironed out the wrinkles on her dress. She didn’t seem too indignant, however. A few minutes later Ben was joined by his brother.

  ‘Hello, Ben.’

  Ben nodded glumly back to Joe.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s this new case. The brass are not happy. They’ve brought in a couple of other coppers. Hateful people. Thugs.’

  ‘You all are, sure,’ replied Joe Ryan with a grin.

  ‘You’re funny,’ replied Ben Ryan sourly. ‘The old man’s livid although he won’t say anything. Another day and we’ll be off the case completely unless we catch a break.’

  Sensing his uncle was unhappy, little Ben crawled over and attempted to climb up on his uncle’s knee. This put a smile back on all their faces.

  ‘Time you had one of your own, Ben,’ said Sally knowingly.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Joe Ryan, ‘Am I missing something?’

  ‘He has a sweetheart, hasn’t he?’

  Ben Ryan looked up at his sister-in-law and laughed, ‘Last time I tell you anything. You’re a real grass.’

  ‘About time too, Ben. You’re a good-looking lad and smart. Lots of girls would love to be with a bloke like you.’

  However, the look on his brother’s face suggested this was not a subject he wanted to elaborate on. A look from Sally confirmed it was best to drop it for the moment. Instead, the conversation turned to the new job although no mention was made of the secondary revenue stream Ben and his work colleague were developing.

  After lunch the two men walked towards the bus stop. Joe was heading in a different direction, so he crossed over the road and waved as his brother stepped onto the bus and headed back towards the city. The sun shone down on him, but it was bitterly cold. He shivered involuntarily for a moment. He turned to a man that had joined him at the bus stop and smiled.

  ‘Brass monkey weather, this.’

  The man nodded in agreement but remained silent. A few minutes later, the man reached inside his pocket and took out some cigarettes. He offered one to Ryan who shook his head and smiled, pointing to the cigarette box.

  ‘I work for that company.’

  This time the man smiled. It probably wasn’t the best idea. What teeth he had were like dark stumps, and not long for this world.

  ‘Really? You don’t say.’

  Chapter 19

  Whatever one may have thought of Johnny Mac and many, to
be fair, did not hold him in the highest esteem, there was no question that he was a hard worker. His values were few and self-serving. However, one of these values was a willingness to put a shift in.

  He took pride in little. He was too honest, oddly, to acknowledge anything other than the fact that he was bad, but he knew he was a hard worker. He accepted what his old pastor had often tried to instil in him with a leather belt: he was going to a hell. Not that he cared much about this. Strangely the prospect of being in the company of wailing and gnashing teeth proved oddly prophetic for the exuberantly violent Ulsterman. Although, perhaps not in the way the good pastor, as evil a man as had ever walked the earth in Johnny Mac’s expert view, would have had in mind.

  Johnny Mac had always been big. By thirteen he was well over six feet, weighing in at thirteen stone and getting bigger. His size, as well as a certain moral flexibility when it came to the use of physical force, soon brought him to the attention of both the police and the Ulster Volunteers, a paramilitary group formed in 1912 dedicated to keeping Ulster out of the clutches of a Catholic-dominated Ireland.

  In many other countries, membership of a group whose modus operandi was targeting one section of the local community for violence, might have resulted in imprisonment. Johnny Mac was feted and promoted. Often. His natural predisposition towards brutality allied to an undoubted charisma borne of an evident streak of sadism, saw a rapid rise through the ranks of this quasi-terrorist organisation.

  That he avoided jail was a tribute both to an innate street sense as well as the fact that, for practical purposes, the Ulster Special Constabulary and the paramilitary Ulster Volunteers were one and the same thing. In fact, due to the high overlap in their personnel, never mind objectives, the police and the para-military group made official what everyone knew anyway, by merging in 1919. This was long after Johnny Mac had felt it time to relocate. The War was over and, unlike many of his UVF colleagues who had served, Johnny Mac felt it safe to make a career move.

  The decision to uproot had been a difficult one. He loved his country. For him, Ulster was God’s Own Country. He was a Protestant by birth. He accepted what many of his fellow soldiers believed fervently, that Ulster held a special place in the heart of God. However, unknown to those same colleagues, Johnny Mac was surprisingly agnostic for a foot soldier of Protestantism.