The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Sir, the car has just pulled up. Lady Mary will be here in a minute.’

  The four men leapt to their feet. The door opened, and they walked into the brimming church. Soft organ music piped around the church. At the altar, Kit could see Reverend Simmons, whose face broke into a wide grin when he spied Kit. As they trooped into the church, Spunky tugged Kit’s arm.

  ‘By the way, Kit old boy, I meant to say before now, it would be really useful if you could divert your honeymoon towards Egypt. Winston’s up to high doh about what could happen at the Cairo conference with our friends from ORCA.’

  ‘It depends on Mary, old boy. I can’t do anything without her say so.’

  ‘I’ve already asked, bloodhound,’ laughed Spunky. ‘I hope you know how to ride a camel.’

  The End

  Please consider leaving a review so that others may find it and, hopefully, enjoy also

  Amazon US

  Amazon UK

  If you would like to be kept up to date with new releases from Jack Murray, receive free short stories and be automatically entered into draws where you can win original book cover artwork by the author and a free festive short story ‘Haymakers’ Last Fight’ then please fill in this Contact Form

  A Note from the Author

  I have made every effort to ensure historical authenticity within the context of a piece of fiction. Similarly, every effort has been made to ensure that the book has been edited and carefully proofread. Given that the US Constitution contained around 65 punctuation errors until 1847, I hope you will forgive any errors of grammar, spelling and continuity. Regarding spelling, please note I have followed the convention of using English, as opposed to US, spellings. This means, in practice, the use of ‘s’ rather than a ‘z’, for example in words such as ‘realised’.

  This is a work of fiction. However, it references real-life individuals. Gore Vidal, in his introduction to Lincoln, writes that placing history in fiction or fiction in history has been unfashionable since Tolstoy and that the result can be accused of being neither. He defends the practice, pointing out that writers from Aeschylus to Shakespeare to Tolstoy have done so with not inconsiderable success and merit.

  I have mentioned several key real-life individuals and events in this novel. My intention, in the following section, is to explain a little more about their connection to this period and this story.

  For further reading on London gangs, I would recommend Brian McDonald who has written several books including ‘Elephant Boys’, ‘Gangs of London’ and ‘Alice Diamond and the forty Elephants’. There have been many biographies of Alfred Hitchcock. I can recommend Patrick McGilligan’s, ‘Alfred Hitchcock: A Life in Darkness and Light’.

  The Conference of London 1920

  The Conference of London took place, around a year after the Paris Peace Conference. Britain, France, and Italy met to discuss the partitioning of the Ottoman Empire. The negotiation formed the basis of the Treaty of Sèvres. Under the leadership of British prime minister David Lloyd George, Prime Minister of France Alexandre Millerand, and Prime Minister of Italy Francesco Saverio Nitti, the allied powers finalised this treaty at the San Remo conference.

  Arthur Balfour (1848 – 1930)

  The 1st Earl of Balfour was Prime Minister of Britain between 1902 and 1905. He was very much an elder statesman at the Paris Peace Conference, supporting Lloyd George as his Foreign Secretary. Famously brilliant in debate, he lacked interest in the detail of management, preferring abstract thought to concrete action. However, his famous letter, which came to be known as the “Balfour Declaration” was a pivotal moment in the formation of Israel.

  Alfred Hitchcock (1899 – 1980)

  Alfred Hitchcock was born and educated in London. After studying art at the University of London before doing various jobs. In 1920, Hitchcock entered the film industry with a full-time position at the Famous Players-Lasky Company designing title cards for silent films. Within a few years, he was working as an assistant director. He began to direct his own films from the mid-twenties and had notable success from the thirties with films such as The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934) and 39 Steps (1939). He went to Hollywood in 1939. One of his most popular films was about a retired cat Burglar, John “The Cat” Robie, starring Cary Grant with Grace Kelly, one of her last films before her marriage to Prince Rainer.

  John MacGuffin (Johnny Mac)

  John McGuffin is, of course, entirely fictional. The surname MacGuffin or McGuffin was used, famously, by Hitchcock to describe a plot device. In 1944, Time Magazine reported Hitchcock saying, "The McGuffin is the thing the hero chases, the thing the picture is all about ... it is very necessary." There are various theories on its origin. This is mine and mine alone.

  Charles ‘Wag” McDonald (1885 – 1943)

  McDonald was a leader of a south London criminal gang known as the ‘Elephant Boys’ who were based in the Elephant and Castle area of London. He was assisted by his brother Wal and they formed an effective partnership with Billy Kimber (who features in the TV series ‘Peaky Blinders). McDonald led an interesting life. He fought in the Boer War before to returning to England to take over the leadership of the Elephant Boys. He then volunteered for active service during the Great War. When he came back from France, he took over leadership of the gang once more before escaping to the US in 1921. He worked in Hollywood for several years getting to know many of the stars. His life and the life of gangs in the area have been captured in several books by his descendant, Brian McDonald.

  The Frisco Falcon

  The FOURTH Lord Kit Aston Mystery

  Jack Murray

  Copyright © 2019 by Jack Murray

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed ‘Attention: Permissions Coordinator,’ at the address below.

  Jackmurray99@hotmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is either purely coincidental or used in a fictitious manner.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  This is the fourth book in the Kit Aston series. If you have been on this journey since the first book, then I can barely express how humbled and grateful I am. I say this because I recognise that, despite best efforts, errors have crept into the previous books. These have corrected over time. Thankfully most of you have chosen to forgive rather than condemn. In return, I hope you’ve been rewarded by, what one sympathetic reviewer described as, ‘a great yarn’.

  Anyway, enough of this. Onward! I hope you’ll like the latest instalment in the series. Please keep an eye out in the new year for a new book, set in World War II, featuring some characters from the Kit Aston series as well as a new main character. Don’t worry though, there will be another Kit Aston novel later in 2020.

  And don’t forget to leave a review on Amazon. It really makes a difference…

  Prologue

  Constantinople, June 1920

  ‘By Gad, sir, that is a magnificent weapon. No, don’t tell me. I must have my fun, sir. Let me guess. It looks like a crossbow.’

  It was a harpoon gun.

  It was also pointed at the man’s rather large chest.

  ‘Yes, that must be it. A cross bow. Invented in China, I believe but used if I’m not mistaken, in the crusades.’

  As he said this, the fat man paused for a moment and looked at the dark-skinned features of the sailor in front of him. Mentioning the crusades was, in hindsight, unwise. The fat man smiled nervously hoping that his slip up had gone unnot
iced. He was a man approaching his seventies from the angle of a life lived fully, immoderately, and without regret. Well, for the most part anyway. Yes, a full life accompanied, invariably, by an even fuller stomach.

  He had long since given up caring about his weight. At an early age he knew his destiny was not that of the sportsman. Fine food and fine wine were his sports and he played them with unmatched skill and no little enthusiasm. His florid features and the kittenish purr of his voice bespoke a man who had known the good things the world can offer. The hard glint in his grey eyes suggested something else. He stepped back from the point of the harpoon. This was not a big step, however, as he was backed into the wooden cabin wall.

  His small eyes narrowed, swollen into mere slits by his pink puffy cheeks. He was smiling. ‘You are a close-mouthed man, sir. I see that. Good. I distrust men who enjoy their own eloquence more than the rest of the world. By Gad, sir, I must confess I like you. You are a man. I can see that.’

  The fat man was, unusually, speaking the truth. The person holding the harpoon gun was, unquestionably, a man. More than that, he was an angry man. This was an unwelcome combination in the circumstances.

  ‘Yes, you are a man, but I wonder if you are someone open to business opportunities?’ The fat man chuckled but the attempt at humour was undermined somewhat by the beads of sweat queuing up along his forehead to drip down over his eyes.

  Was there a change in the inscrutable features of the man before him? Just a moment of doubt? A relaxation of his grip on the harpoon gun? The shadow across his face made it difficult to decide. The only clue to the man’s intentions was the hatred in his eyes.

  The two men looked at one another. Outside it was night; a distant ship’s horn blew. It was a grand sound that echoed through the darkness. A tug responded. A pathetic toot by comparison. The boat rocked very gently. The waters of the Bosphorus lapped lazily against the side. It was almost hypnotic. The sound. The rocking. Lights from the shore filtered through the porthole lighting one side of the fat man’s face. It was a small cabin, barely room for the two men. The door behind the man with the harpoon swung to and fro, swishing persistently at the rocking of the boat

  The fat man attempted an ameliorating smile. He continued chatting to the other man.

  ‘I like a man who is firm sir, yes I do. I like firmness of purpose matched by minimalism of expression. This is the very definition of character, sir, and I can see you are just such a man. Yes, by Gad you are. Now, why don’t you lower that weapon, and let me tell you what I have in mind? It’s an astonishing story but more than that, it has a promise of a rather happy ending for any man with a strong sense of business, who can judge other men. A man, such as yourself, in other words. You have, for too long, been undervalued by a succession of employers. Employers? No, never, sir. These men were users. For years they have exploited your good nature.’

  The man facing him touched the scar that ran down half his face. It had been gained in a knife fight. He had forgotten which one. It was one of many scars, both physical and mental. The touching of the scar was momentary. His hand returned to the trigger. It did not go unnoticed by the fat man, however.

  ‘Yes, a battle scar, no doubt where, once again you had to risk your very life in pursuit of another man’s dream; I say “enough”. The time has come for you to make a stand and demand recompense for your true worth. Gad sir, this is your lucky night. Your time has come. Believe me,’ said the fat man in a deliberate voice, the smile fading dangerously from his face, ‘your time has come at last.’

  1

  Troon Golf Club, June 1920

  The golf ball rolled slowly towards the hole, wiped its feet at the entrance, then toppled forward like a drunk trying to pick a coin off the bar floor. There was no celebratory cheer despite the fact it was a birdie. Instead, the golfer walked forward briskly and whisked the ball from the hole. Another golfer stepped up and addressed his ball.

  The putter drew back slowly and then after a short pause, he released the head. It clipped against the ball, propelling it forward. It rocketed past the hole like a cannonball.

  ‘Blast,’ said the man. Then he stood erect, attempted a smile and walked forward, hand outstretched.

  ‘Well done, Gloria. Two up. I didn’t make use of the shots you were giving me here.’

  Gloria Mansfield nodded curtly. She turned and walked over to her caddy, handing him the putter.

  ‘Well done, miss,’ said Hamish Anderson with a grin wider than the Irish Sea. He would earn a little extra reward thanks to his mistress’s victory. He liked caddying for Miss Mansfield. She was generous with her tips when she won, and she usually won. The two golfers left the green quickly, followed by their caddies. There was a smell of salt in the air. And defeat. Humiliating, overwhelming defeat. By a woman, no less. But what a woman!

  The wind was at their backs, coming off the sea. Soon it would be damn near unplayable. Miss Mansfield looked up at the sky and shivered involuntarily. She headed directly to the changing room.

  -

  Inside the clubhouse, Aldric ‘Spunky’ Stevens watched all that had taken place through a military telescope he had neglected to hand back when he returned from France.

  ‘Yes, old chap, she’s certainly has good form,’ said Spunky, nodding sagely.

  ‘She’s single figure now,’ said Reggie Pilbream, a young man of twenty-four, and that was probably just his IQ. He was a slightly built, pallid boy with short dark hair and a laugh that often ended in an unfortunate snort, the impact of which he was wholly oblivious to, but not the legion of women who had, sadly, tended to avoid romantic entanglement with him.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied Spunky admiringly, his telescope travelling down the well-made body of the young woman. By no means slender, she was unquestionably a sporty young lady, whose outline matched her handicap of eight.

  ‘I mean how on earth will I ever get a look in?’ cried Reggie. ‘A fella off twenty-six shouldn’t really have any chance when the love of his life plays off seven or eight. She’s hot stuff.’

  ‘Certainly is,’ agreed Spunky, puffing on his pipe contentedly, eyes glued to the approaching vision. At nineteen, Gloria Mansfield was attracting many admiring glances from the men at the club. This was less to do with her ability to draw a mashie onto the centre of the fairway in the midst of a stiff nor ’wester than the presence of big blue eyes, surrounded by bubbling blonde curls and a healthy bank balance.

  ‘I say, Spunky, dash it all, we’re talking about the lady who’s stolen my heart. She’s not some sort of…’

  ‘Understood old chap, but I think you need to open your mind to the rather singular reality that the young lady who has, as you say, stolen your heart, is rather easy on the eye. If you don’t believe me then take a look at the pride of lions circling the prey on the practice green.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Reggie, looking out the window. He collapsed to the seat, and drained Spunky’s gin and tonic before his face took on a melancholic frown that would have been tragic had it not been so funny, at least to Spunky’s one good eye.

  ‘What’s a chap to do?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘It’s the age-old question, from Socrates down to...’

  ‘Wasn’t Socrates a bit..?’

  ‘Well yes, a bit, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t put his noggin to the mystery of goddesses or some such topic. Anyway, give me the skinny on this filly’s form.’

  Reggie looked up. He was a little put out at the somewhat frivolous attitude of his friend. He was, also, too miserable to give his old friend a piece of his mind which, he would have been honest enough to admit, was not of the first rank.

  ‘Gloria Mansfield, the angel, is from the Berkshire Mansfields. I think she’s a cousin of Tuppy Thomas. Anyway, this divine creature plays at Sunningdale apparently, and could be a starter in the British Women’s Amateur soon. Plays off eight but she’s been round Troon in scratch apparently. You see, Spunky, it’s no use.’ />
  ‘Well, I presume there’s more to her than just golf,’ pointed out Spunky patiently.

  ‘Well, she’s with that beastly boy. It’s her young brother, George. Beelzebub if you ask me. Whiney little character.’

  Spunky turned to Reggie. This was interesting. Brat kid brothers offered promising avenues of strategy for a man such as Spunky.

  ‘Go on, tell me more about the little monster.’

  ‘Of course, she dotes on him. Perhaps her only fault. Anyway, I’ve the little terror off scaring wild wolves and crocodiles while Gloria is playing golf.’

  ‘Adventurous little sod then?’

  ‘Rather,’ said Reggie, emphasising both syllables.

  Spunky sipped at his gin and tonic and gave the matter some thought. Despite the appearance of being a fatheaded ass, Spunky was, in fact, a highly valued member of British Intelligence. Such a role was not lightly bestowed nor was the Service likely to employ anyone with a deficiency of intellect unless, of course, it was accompanied by a soundness of breeding.

  Owing to the loss of his eye during the War, Spunky’s remit was mostly backroom where he applied a surprisingly mathematical mind to understanding economic pressure points in potential enemies of the empire. These days that seemed to encompass the rest of the map not coloured red.