The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘The dining room,’ said Fish to the unasked question.

  Kit strode forward and opened the double doors. Aunt Agatha was sitting alone finishing her breakfast. Kit noted the platters on the sideboard. Aunt Agatha had never been one to pick at her food. Agatha looked up and registered the features of her favourite nephew.

  ‘Do you have to look quite so disappointed, Christopher?’

  Kit scolded himself. He suspected that Agatha was not in the least bit hurt, but he had given her an opening which no aunt would pass up.

  ‘Sorry Auntie, may I ask...?

  ‘Mary is upstairs finishing her packing, although I suspect that once...’

  This sentence was interrupted by the arrival of a young woman who swept into the room and fell into the arms of her fiancé rather more dramatically than was acceptable when septuagenarian aunts are in the vicinity.

  ‘...she realises you’ve arrived.’ Aunt Agatha paused for a few moments until she decided that matters between the two young people were getting dangerously out of hand. Raising her voice, a decibel or six, she pointed out, ‘I’m trying to finish my breakfast. Would you mind joining the other animals in the field or desist from this exhibition?’

  ‘Lord Aston, you’re back,’ said the young lady, disengaging herself from the embrace she had initiated.

  ‘I think you proved that point to your own satisfaction a moment ago young lady,’ observed Aunt Agatha before finishing the last piece of bacon. ‘Now, I know that I may be aging and weak-minded,’ she was neither, ‘but can you both move your hands, please, back to a more respectable resting place?’ Kit and Mary did as they were bid.

  ‘Both hands,’ added Agatha without looking up.

  Kit removed his right hand from an area that would decently be described as his fiancée’s lower back. Agatha was, meanwhile, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. She looked up at the two young people and said, ‘I hope this isn’t a portent of what I can expect on our trip to America.’

  Kit glanced down at Mary. From the look in her eyes it was abundantly clear that this was exactly what she could expect over the next four weeks. The moment was noticed by the good lady and she shook her head.

  ‘You know it’s not too late to bring your Aunt Emily, Mary,’ said Agatha in her best school-mistressy tone. ‘She stands ready for my call.’ This was not strictly true, but Agatha had long since abandoned Queensbury rules in the execution of her duty regarding Mary’s virtue.

  Mary and Kit immediately moved a foot further apart, one adopting a military stand-at-ease posture with his hands behind his back, the other a demurer pose with both hands folded in front of her waist.

  ‘Good,’ said Agatha. ‘As long as we understand the rules and consequences, we can all be better friends.’

  Mary glanced up at Kit again and broke into a wide grin which nearly caused a breakdown in the iron discipline of her betrothed.

  ‘How was your golfing trip?’ asked Mary as they walked towards the dining table. Agatha overlooked, gracefully, that they were holding hands.

  ‘I managed to keep out of mischief, mostly,’ replied Kit enigmatically.

  Mary shot him a look which was an intoxicating cocktail of frown: curiosity, humour and something else which had Kit counting the days to their wedding seven months hence.

  ‘Meaning?’ pressed Mary.

  ‘Romantic shenanigans with Reggie Pilbream. You haven’t met him. He’s a ...’

  ‘Fathead,’ interjected Agatha rising from the table.

  ‘A little unfair, auntie. He’s a noted archaeologist.’

  ‘I imagine that you could spend a long time digging for a sign of intelligent life in that young man. I think we’ll find Atlantis sooner.’

  Kit ignored his aunt and continued, ‘Aside from that, we played a bit of golf in conditions that were poisonous. Then back down to make sure Harry and Sam hadn’t killed one another.

  Harry was Harry Miller, Kit’s manservant who had broken his ankle several weeks previously while working on a case. He and Sam, Kit’s dog, had a notably volatile relationship.

  ‘How is Harry?’ asked Mary.

  ‘He’s out of the cast, thankfully. Hopefully by the time we return, he’ll be right as rain,’ replied Kit. They watched as Aunt Agatha rose from her seat and walked to the doors.

  A few seconds after Agatha had left the room, Mary skipped over to Kit and sat on his knee, ‘Where were we?’

  The door opened and they heard an intake of breath. Looking up they saw Aunt Agatha looking sternly at them. Mary hopped off Kit’s knee and patted the front of her skirt.

  ‘I shall finish overseeing the packing.’

  Agatha’s eyes followed Mary as she made her way slowly, and to Kit’s mind, suggestively towards the door. Looking at Kit she held her finger up, ‘Last warning, Christopher. I mean it. You must leave this young lady alone.’

  Kit felt it would be un-gallant to point out that he was the innocent party. Thankfully, one of Agatha’s better qualities was her ability to move on to the next topic of interest as rapidly as it was seamlessly.

  ‘Ah there’s someone I want to introduce you to,’ said Agatha, gesturing to someone outside the room. ‘Natalie, can you come here please?’

  Kit glanced at Mary whose eyes lit up like a bonfire. Clearly suppressing a smile, she turned around to greet the newcomer. Seeing Mary’s reaction, Kit looked up at the housemaid who had entered. Dressed in a black, she was a brunette in her mid to late twenties, clearly very attractive and slightly taller than Mary. Her waist was as impossibly thin as her bosom was exuberantly exuberant. In short, she would, and probably had, stopped traffic on Oxford Street.

  ‘Natalie, pleased to meet you,’ said Kit with what he hoped was not a lascivious smile. He was aware of a pair of blue eyes keenly directed towards him. Discipline was not only important; it was potentially life-saving. Kit kept his eyes above neck-level for his entire interaction with the young woman.

  The young lady curtsied before replying, ‘It is an honneur to meet you, Lord Aston.’ She was French, too. Kit couldn’t bring himself to look at Mary but from the corner of his eye he could see that the smile on her face had widened, clearly enjoying every second of his discomfort.

  ‘Come along, Natalie,’ ordered Agatha.

  The housemaid followed Agatha out of the room leaving Kit and Mary alone. Mary burst into a fit of giggles whilst brushing the front of her chest.

  ‘I never thought I would feel quite so deficient,’ said Mary before seeing Kit’s reaction and holding her hand up. ‘Don’t worry. I know you wouldn’t change me for the world. I don’t think I want to change either.’

  ‘Not even an inch or two?’ said Kit. Mary burst out into another fit of giggles. ‘Eet eez attracteeve non?’

  ‘I see I shall have to pay very close attention to you,’ said Mary stepping forward, putting her arms around Kit’s neck. ‘Very close attention, indeed.’

  I am your prisoner, would have been Kit’s reply but Mary interrupted the thought.

  -

  Euston Station in London was like a beehive in summer. Passengers, porters, servants and guards buzzed around the concourse knowing exactly what they needed to do. Ordered disorder. Noise levels were high enough to render conversation futile as newspaper boys shouted the headlines and stall holders offered fruit and tobacco to passengers making their way to the train platforms.

  Temperatures were rising also, and this was just Aunt Agatha, whose tolerance of crowds was marginally less than her acceptance of migraines. Kit saw the gauge rising to dangerously high levels. Her umbrella would soon be put to use rather as a pirate might deploy his cutlass while paying a surprise visit to a nearby schooner. Natalie, with Mary’s help, shepherded Agatha toward the train. Bernard, the chauffeur, accompanied them to ensure a safe passage through the throng.

  Kit, meanwhile, paid for a couple of porters to transfer their luggage onto the train. There was a lot of luggage. The trip to America was to last nearly
four weeks, although much of that would be spent in transit. For a chap, such an undertaking might require at least one valise to cover the essentials: dinner suit, tweed suit and plus fours in case a chance game of golf should arise. For the gentler sex, travel is altogether a more complicated enterprise. Each week away requires as much time again to pack.

  The plan was to travel to Liverpool where the RMS Aquitania would take them to New York. There would be no time spent in New York on the way over and a train would convey the party to San Francisco.

  Kit watched the porters transfer the various trunks and suitcases onto the trolley. They departed just as Bernard returned from his mission to ensure the safety of the other passengers by getting Agatha on the train without incident or physical violence.

  ‘You didn’t, perchance, manage to remove the umbrella? She’ll hardly need it in California,’ asked Kit hopefully.

  ‘Sorry sir, she was most insistent on this point.’

  Kit rolled his eyes. The conversation with her that morning had proved equally fruitless. Agatha’s view of the United States was firmly based on her reading of the western novels of Zane Grey and her taste for the more ferocious and lurid penny bloods. The impression thus gained was of a lawless country, teeming with gun-toting outlaws. Quite what defence her umbrella could muster should they confront anyone pointing a gun at them was open to question. Although to be fair to Agatha, Kit acknowledged she wielded her umbrella like a samurai’s sword.

  ‘Bernard, can you just check the luggage makes it onto the train? The last thing we need would be to lose our belongings. I’ve no desire to see Vesuvius erupt quite so early on the passage.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Bernard and followed the porters with the trolley.

  Watching the exchange was a small man dressed impeccably in a dark suit, white shirt with a stiff collar and a silver tie. His jet back hair was greying at the sides. The large moon eyes were blade-black. When Kit turned around, he made as if he was looking for directions.

  Kit set off toward the train platform. The small man followed him from about ten feet away. At a certain point, satisfied by what he saw, the man stopped following Kit and headed towards the baggage car where Bernard was overseeing the removal of the luggage. He walked over to Bernard.

  ‘I say, I think your master wants to see you,’ said the small man to Bernard. His English was perfect, his accent middle-eastern.

  Bernard looked at the small man in surprise. The tone adopted was just short of peremptory. This was only less surprising than Lord Aston entrusting such a commission with a man that Bernard would have adjudged, shady. The two men looked at one another for a moment as the last piece of luggage left the trolley. As it was put on the train, Bernard smiled and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  He left the baggage car and went up the platform in search of Kit. The train car was near the engine, at the other end of the platform. Up ahead he saw Kit about to board and he called out.

  ‘Lord Aston.’

  Kit turned around and stopped as he saw Bernard coming towards him.

  ‘Yes, Bernard, is there a problem?’

  ‘Did you want me, sir?’

  ‘No, is the luggage on the train?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A man approached me, sir, and told me that you had requested I go to you.’

  It was clear from the look on Kit’s face that this had been a ruse. Kit climbed down from the train and said, ‘Let’s go to the baggage car. I don’t like this at all.’

  The two men started back down the platform with Bernard jogging ahead as Kit’s injury prevented him moving too quickly. Bernard arrived at the baggage car nearly a minute ahead of Kit. It was apparent immediately that the small man was no longer present. By the time Kit arrived Bernard had confirmed all the cases were present. Kit looked at one of the guards and motioned for him to come over.

  ‘Did you see a fellow here a few minutes ago? Bernard, can explain what you saw?’

  Bernard described the small middle-eastern man he’d seen. The guard shook his head and replied that he had not seen anyone interfering with the luggage.

  Kit looked at Bernard and shrugged. Then he thanked the guard and left the baggage car.

  ‘All of the bags are present and correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Bernard.

  ‘Well, not a lot we can do now. Can you stick around for the time being, at least until the train leaves, just in case he returns?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  -

  ‘What was all the kerfuffle about?’ asked Agatha, straight to the point. In fact, the absence of shilly-shallying was a guiding principle of her life.

  ‘Bernard thinks there was a small, foreign-looking man hanging around our bags, but none of the cases seem to have been tampered with,’ explained Kit. He looked at Mary. Her eyes had widened in excitement. Kit rolled his eyes and said, ’I’m sure it was nothing.’

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ responded Mary with a grin.

  ‘You’re impossible,’ suggested her fiancé.

  ‘You’re going to marry me,’ responded his intended, which was irrefutable and could not happen soon enough.

  A man knows not just when he is beaten. There is another level of defeat, often solely associated with the fairer sex, where one must accept not just a setback but also a trouncing. The only response is to acknowledge meekly that a reverse is impossible and move on to higher ground, if it exists, and hope for a better outcome on the next engagement.

  Kit wisely nodded but could not resist adding, ‘You know, I shouldn’t wonder that both of you are hoping for some unfortunate event on the train or the cruise.’

  ‘It happens all the time,’ pointed out Agatha, defensively.

  ‘In the penny bloods you read, perhaps,’ responded Kit.

  ‘You should broaden your mind, Christopher,’ replied Agatha, thereby ensuring that the last word on the subject was hers.

  6

  San Francisco, July 1920

  Hammett looked down at the address in the file and then gazed up at the apartment building. The name on the building matched. He took out a photograph and looked at the young woman in the picture. She was pretty swell in his estimation. Dark hair, hard-to-pin-down eyes and a million-dollar smile.

  He sat in the car and waited. How he hated this. The heat. The waiting. The interminable waiting. His chest began to tighten again. It was back. The coughing started. He grasped for breath like a child for a new toy. Trying to keep one eye on the front of the building, he put his handkerchief to his mouth. No blood. At least, that was something.

  After ten minutes the fit passed, he got out of the car to stretch his legs. The muscles in his leg had turned to stone and his back felt like it was being repeatedly stabbed by a butter knife as coughs wracked his chest. He grabbed a newspaper. He needed something to read. A long day lay ahead. Standing by the car he watched the world pass him by. One or two people entered the apartment block under surveillance, but no sign of the woman. It was early afternoon. He hated the waiting. His mind began to wander.

  The sounds and sights began to pass through him, travelling up through his ears to his mind. A New York accent, a Hispanic voice. An argument in a nearby shop. Or perhaps a conversation between two Italian friends. It was difficult to tell the difference sometimes.

  The sun felt like it was blasting his forehead. Summer in San Francisco wasn’t so cold after all. Hammett regretted the drinks he’d taken in the morning. And lunch. He felt like a drink now. It wasn’t so much a physical need as something to hold, to do. The newspaper had nothing of interest. He threw it in a trash can and walked up to a shop to buy a soda, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the front entrance of the apartment block.

  The white stucco on the front was beginning to blind him. Sweat trickled down his forehead, spewing from every pore in his body. He wanted to take a cold shower. The soda lasted seconds. He threw the bottle towards the trash can basketball style. It missed. He stood for a moment and debated whether to walk
over and put it in. Then he realised some other poor bastard would have to do it. Wearily he pushed himself off his car, bent down and put the bottle where he had originally aimed. As he did so, he saw her. She was walking up the steps of the apartment building. She nodded to the young doorman and walked inside.

  Hammett watched her go through, then into an elevator. As soon as she was out of sight, he crossed over the road. He waved at the young doorman.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ said Hammett taking out a couple of dollars. The doorman was a boy of eighteen, or so. He looked at the two dollars in Hammett’s hand and then back up into his eyes. ‘Do you want to earn more of these?’ asked Hammett handing the money to the boy.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the boy.

  ‘Good,’ replied Hammett. ‘What’s your name, kid?

  ‘Cyrus, sir. Cyrus Dundy’.

  ‘This is your lucky day, Cyrus. Answer a few questions, keep your eyes open and you can earn more of these, son.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cyrus nervously.

  ‘Tell me, who’s that young lady just went in?’ asked Hammett.

  The boy called Cyrus looked at the two dollars again. This was a day’s pay if he was lucky. He stuffed the money into his pocket. What the hell, he thought. Looking at Hammett he said, ‘That was Miss Collins.’

  ‘Has anyone been visiting that young lady, Miss Collins?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She has a boyfriend,’ said the boy, looking up and down at Hammett. Not a chance thought Cyrus, she’s a different league. Hammett smiled when he saw how the boy was looking at him.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not after her, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Cyrus in a voice that suggested he would agree to differ on that topic.

  ‘What’s the boyfriend like?’

  ‘Seems like a nice guy. Always friendly. Tips me usually.’

  Hammett showed a photograph to Cyrus, ‘Is this him?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s him.

  ‘‘Good work, kid. Anyone else come to visit her?’