The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Christopher’s just received a telegram,’ announced Agatha.

  ‘Strange,’ replied Algy.

  ‘My thought exactly. Your father is refusing to open it.’

  Alastair looked affronted at this and replied, ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t open it; I was just pointing out that to do so would be improper.’

  Agatha’s patience, never the deepest of wells in the first place, finally dried up. She reached over and snatched the telegram from her brother and tore it open. She read the contents for a moment. Confusion descended over her face like a dark cloud, then in the blink of an eye or three, it was replaced by the light of perception.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said, keeping hold of the note.

  Alastair looked at her expectantly. Agatha looked away and cast her gaze towards the bay. The gentler sex has, over many centuries of practice, developed a system designed to puncture the more impractical principles of men whilst adding, at the same time, a further twist of the knife to tease out the inherent hypocrisy at play.

  ‘Well, come on, woman, out with it,’ exclaimed Alastair.

  Agatha looked at him piously, eyebrows raised, mouth set firmly to distaste, before handing it back to Alastair. Her brother glared at her before extracting a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket. He looked for a moment at the telegram. Silence followed and then, like Agatha moments before, recognition dawned on him.

  ‘Good lord,’ he said and looked up at Agatha. ‘But this is extraordinary.’

  Mary arrived at this point, looked at Algy and asked, ‘What have I missed?’

  Alastair held up the telegram, ‘This has just arrived for Kit. As he is still resting after his guard duty last night, Agatha took it upon herself to read the note.’

  Agatha looked up at Mary and shrugged innocently, ‘Seemed the thing to do, frankly.’

  ‘Quite right, too,’ agreed Mary. She opened the tea pot and looked inside, ‘Is this tea fresh?’

  ‘Never mind the tea,’ spluttered Agatha, ‘listen to what the telegram says.’ Mary grinned and sat down. All eyes turned to Alastair.

  Alastair began to read from the telegram. ‘You have something belonging to me. We have information that your cousin will consider important. Suggest exchange. Please visit Goodman’s Antiques on Pine at two.’ Alastair looked up and added, ‘There’s no signature, so to speak.’

  Mary looked at her prospective aunt and uncle for clarification. Algy had walked around the back of his father to view the telegram, much to the obvious irritation of his father who shot him a look and said sarcastically, ‘Did you think I missed something?’

  A swift glance at Alastair then Agatha provided the explanation., ‘We believe the Goodman referred to here is, in fact, Sidney Gutman, Alastair’s former partner in the advertising business.’

  Alastair took up the story. ‘I discovered, much too late, that someone I thought was a friend turned out to be, in fact, a man of the most despicable sort. He was involved in all manner of criminal activity of which I knew only of embezzlement and blackmail. Needless to say, I shared my discovery with the authorities. He went to jail for three years. The last I had heard of him he was in New York; I had no idea that he had returned under a new name. And to think, an Englishman,’ said Alastair shaking his head at the wonder that such behaviour could be possible from a fellow countryman.

  ‘Half German,’ pointed out Agatha.

  ‘Good point, Agatha,’ agreed Alastair, nodding. This seemed a reasonable explanation.

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Mary.

  Agatha and Alastair exchanged looks. They were clearly concerned. Too much was at stake now. Alastair voiced this concern, ‘Let’s see what Kit says. Gutman or Goodman is a dangerous fellow and he’s clearly mixed up with people who would think nothing of going to extreme lengths to get what they want.’

  ‘Can’t we just inform the police?’ said Mary.

  ‘Yeah, pops, tell the police,’ agreed Algy.

  ‘I wish we could, son,’ replied Alastair, ‘but if what I think is true then we have a much bigger problem than some object Gutman wants.’ Alastair looked up sadly at his son. As he did so, he spied Kit walking across the lawn towards them, ‘Here’s Kit.’ His voice was sounded fragile, unable to hide the desolation he was feeling.

  -

  ‘So, you believe this Goodman, who certainly doesn’t appear to live up to his name,’ said Kit, ‘is possibly holding Miss Collins?’ Kit saw Alastair nod; he noticed that Agatha was nodding also. ‘May I ask why you believe this to be so? Because I can think of only one way you would know.’ Kit looked far from happy.

  ‘What do you mean, Kit?’ asked Algy, bewildered by the direction Kit had suddenly taken but clearly aware of his cousin’s anger.

  ‘Are you going to tell Algy or shall I?’ said Kit. His voice was grim.

  Dejection was etched over the face of Alastair He looked up at his son and said, ‘No, Kit. Let me.’

  Agatha interjected, ‘Before you do so, Alastair, I want you all to know this was my suggestion. Alastair went along with the idea reluctantly.’

  ‘No matter, I have to tell the truth,’ said Alastair. ‘I engaged the services of a private consulting firm through Saul. The purpose was to have Dain followed, Algernon, and to understand more about her background.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Algy. ‘But why?’

  ‘Why do you think Algy? You fall in love. Again, and again, I might add. It was all too good to be true. I decided, after speaking with Agatha and Saul, to find out more about Dain. I’m sorry, but you’re my son and Miss Collins was just too much of a mystery wrapped up in an enigma.’

  Algy’s eyes blazed at his father. Kit was none too happy either with Agatha, who studiously avoided her nephew’s gaze. The tense atmosphere was broken by Mary.

  ‘Well I, for one, would like to meet Dain.’

  ‘She hasn’t answered her phone,’ admitted Algy dolefully.

  Kit looked at Algy and said, ‘Algy, why don’t you take Mary down to Dain’s apartment. In the meantime, your father, Aunt Agatha, and I will deal with this chap Goodman.’

  Algy looked at Kit and then his father, ‘Are you sure? This guy sounds like he’s bad news.’ However, it was clear he was desperate to find his fiancée. Mary stood up effectively ending the discussion.

  ‘Let’s go, Algy. I think Kit and your father can handle some dusty old antique dealer.’

  ‘Less of the old, young lady, he’s younger than me,’ pointed out Agatha.

  -

  Kit said nothing as they drove down to Pine. Both his aunt and uncle knew better than to interrupt his thoughts. For Agatha, the drive provoked mixed feelings. The last time she had been on Pine, her husband Eustace had been alive. She remembered Alastair taking them around the city in a horse and carriage. How times had changed. How the city had changed. How she had changed. Well, not really. A little older, perhaps.

  Alastair, too, was lost in his thoughts. The hurt he had inflicted on his son was severe. Had he gone too far in hiring the Pinkerton agency? The reaction of Algy, even more significantly, of Kit, suggested he had. His conscience felt more clouded than winter on the moors. What ignoble actions often arise from noble intentions.

  The root cause, and the source of pain for Alastair, was the fundamental fact he hadn’t trusted his son’s judgement. He had treated Algy like a child. The pain Algy felt was also a form of guilt; his father had most probably been right. This was cold comfort for Alastair as they drove in silence to the antique shop.

  The question for Alastair now was how to repair the damage. The wedding would be cancelled; the business was heading for the rocks. Was there anything to keep Algy in the city? He could hardly blame Algy if he chose to leave. Such thoughts caused a wave of despondency to sweep through Alastair. The prospect of confronting Gutman once more made him feel lower still.

  Up ahead they saw the antiques store. It was midway up the hill, a bright white against the grey of the buildings
around it. Alastair had passed this store many times. He’d never thought it housed his old friend-turned-enemy Sidney Gutman. He pointed to the shop and was about to pull over when Kit told him to drive on. Fifty yards ahead Kit spotted a parking space and pointed to it.

  ‘Just in case there’s funny business.’

  ‘I would work on this assumption, my boy,’ said Alastair. He looked at his nephew. His mood brightened a little. He trusted Kit. How he wished he’d been able to watch the boy grow because the man he had become was remarkable. Quite remarkable. Penny would be so proud. He felt proud also.

  ‘Aunt Agatha, you stay in the car.’

  ‘I shall not,’ replied Agatha. ‘I want to confront that beastly man.’

  The horn of a passing car drowned out Agatha’s precise view of Goodman, but it was unlikely to be complimentary, thought Kit. He looked steadily at his aunt and said, ‘We may need to make a swift getaway. Can you drive the car round to the store front after we walk inside?’

  This mollified Agatha considerably, but it was Alastair’s turn to be horrified. He stared aghast at Kit and said, ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you know how much this car cost?’

  ‘I know how to drive,’ said Agatha defensively.

  ‘And I know the principles behind walking on a tightrope, but I certainly won’t be attempting it any time soon.’

  Kit held a hand up to silence the bickering siblings. ‘Enough,’ he said, ‘Uncle Alastair, we need someone outside with the motor running. It’s either you or Aunt Agatha.’

  Alastair looked at Kit in exasperation and climbed out of the vehicle. Kit looked at his aunt and repeated the order.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. I heard you the first time.’

  Kit resisted the temptation to say anything else. Taking his uncle by the arm, they walked down the street and across the road to the antique store. A bell rang as they walked through the door.

  24

  Algy held the steering wheel tightly as he and Mary drove into the city. They sped past the harbour; Mary entranced by everything she saw. It was so different from any city she had seen before: the trams skirting past the automobiles, the grid road system, the hills.

  Algy was glad to have Mary with him. He felt so desolate. In his heart, he knew Dain was gone. His father was right. She was a mystery. Too much so. It had been part of her attraction. That and her beauty. And she was beautiful. The eyes that changed shade, seemingly with her moods. And the moods that changed from playful and funny to distant, yet sensual. She teased his imagination as much as she stirred his passion. And the passion that he felt, she reciprocated. It had swept him along. A happy madness. There had been no one in his life like her. Of course, he’d fallen in love.

  Algy looked at Mary. Kit was unquestionably a lucky man. Mary was electricity given human form. Her intelligence, her humour, those blue eyes, crackled with an intensity that radiated from her body and lit up the minds of those around her.

  Her questions about Dain gave him a chance to open his heart in a manner he couldn’t have with either his father or Kit. He talked about his fear, his love and his hopes. They all amounted to the same thing: her.

  Mary listened mostly, asking occasionally about things that seemed tangential to Algy. But, as he talked, he realised how little he knew of her and how little it seemed to matter.

  ‘Do you have a key to her apartment?’ asked Mary as they climbed out of the car. Algy admitted, with some embarrassment, that he did. Mary wondered for a second why he seemed so self-conscious; then it dawned on her: he was embarrassed by the implication of having a key and what this genteel young woman would think of his fiancée.

  ‘Jolly sensible,’ said Mary, shrewdly absolving Algy, and by extension, Dain Collins of any wrongdoing.

  Algy brightened immediately. He said hello to Cyrus on his way into the block. They took the elevator, and within a few moments they were outside the apartment. Algy looked at Mary. His heart was beating so loudly he wondered if Mary could hear it. His breathing became shallower. A part of him realised he didn’t want to know. Living in hope, seemed easier than dealing with the certain knowledge she was gone. Knowledge was darkness.

  Finally, he raised his hand to the door and knocked firmly. He called out her name. There was no answer. He tried again. Silence. Algy put his hand in his pocket and rooted around for the keys to the apartment. When he found them, he put the key in the lock.

  Just as he did, the door opened.

  -

  Sandra Robins watched two men enter the antique store. She had been briefed to expect at least two. The younger one was striking. Tall, light coloured hair and clear blue eyes. He looked like he could be royalty, such was his bearing. Then he spoke, which as good as confirmed in her mind that he was.

  ‘Good day, we have an appointment with Mr Goodman.’

  She looked up at the man whose diction was as crisp as the collar on his shirt. The other man, much older, had a nervous look about him, like he would have preferred to be just about anywhere else at that moment. She didn’t blame him. She would too, frankly.

  ‘I will tell Mr Goodman that you’re here.’ She walked towards a door at the back of the store. They followed her.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the younger man. The other one nodded impatiently.

  A few moments later she stood at the door and gestured for them to enter. Kit and Alastair looked at one another. Alastair marched forward, his temper beginning to fray. In a moment he was in Goodman’s office. His former friend and partner sat behind an expansive desk. He was speaking on the phone and promised to call the other person very soon. He replaced the phone.

  ‘Alastair, it’s you. It’s really you,’ said Goodman.

  ‘Of course, it’s me, Sidney, who else were you expecting?’ replied Alastair irritably.

  Sidney Goodman rose from his seat. Alastair was astonished by how much weight he’d put on. This must have registered on his face because Goodman immediately looked down at his stomach and patted it with pride.

  ‘They feed you well in prison, Sidney? Or did you simply eat your cell mate?’ said Alastair archly.

  But Sidney Goodman was in much too good of a mood to let a mild rebuke undermine his desire for good fellowship. He laughed at the joke and said, ‘Gad, sir, I’ve missed your jests. And this, if I may be so bold to assume, is the famous Lord Aston.’

  Kit noted that he made no effort to shake hands and he decided not to offer his. Nor did he respond directly to the indirect compliment. Instead he replied. ‘I believe you wanted to meet us, Mr Goodman.’

  ‘Very good,’ beamed Goodman. ‘I like a man who gets down to business. There’s much too much small talk in this world. Men have lost the ability to get straight to the point.’

  ‘My thought exactly, Sidney,’ said Alastair, his eyebrows raised accusingly. ’We haven’t all day for your sub-Shakespearean oratory.’

  Goodman’s smile faded slightly and the glint in his eye hardened. He gestured for them to sit on the sofa and said, ‘Please, take a seat and let me explain why I invited you here today.’

  ‘I better make myself comfortable then. I suggest you do so also, Kit, my boy. This could take a while,’ responded Alastair. If Kit didn’t know better, and he did, he’d suspect his uncle of trying to provoke the antique shop owner into dropping his façade of bonhomie. For the moment it was holding, rather like the banks of a river in the midst of a flood.

  Just.

  Kit wondered what it would be like when the real Sidney Goodman was revealed. He was fairly certain, at current rate of going, they wouldn’t have too long to wait. The large man before them threw his tails to either side as he sat down. He intertwined his fingers and they cracked like a Webley revolver.

  ‘You met my associate Mr Israel last night.’

  ‘He broke into my house,’ pointed out Alastair.

  Goodman waved this away as if it was no more an issue than an unwelcome door-to-door Bible salesman.

  ‘Regrett
able, I agree. I hope you will accept my sincere apologies,’ replied Goodman. It was abundantly clear from the look on Alastair’s face that he was as likely to accept an apology from Goodman as he was to go to a distiller for advice on temperance.

  ‘Well, working on the assumption that you will not,’ said Goodman, a distinctly harder edge to his voice, ‘I would like to recover an object that found its way into your luggage, Lord Aston.’

  Kit looked at Goodman and smiled, ‘Would this be a box, wrapped in rather tasteless blue wrapping paper?’

  ‘Mr Israel was unable to find anything more suitable in the time available, probably,’ admitted Goodman. ‘No matter. We would like the object back. Today, in fact.’

  Kit leaned forward and asked, ‘How did it end up in our luggage?’

  Goodman smiled, ‘Why, Mr Israel put it there. How else do you think?’

  ‘Why? And why us?’

  Goodman paused for a few moments as he weighed up how much of his hand to reveal. The truth, in Goodman’s mind, was like a fine wine. Too little denied you enough of an experience to appreciate it but too much caused problems later on.

  ‘I believe he saw that your baggage was destined for the Aquitania and he did not have a lot of time.’

  The ball was now in Kit’s court, so to speak. Kit responded, ‘He planted stolen goods in our bags. This was clearly in the hope he would avoid the object being found on him when he was searched. He broke into our cabin on the Aquitania and failed to find the object in question. He was arrested in New York yet was able to trace us to San Francisco. It strikes me, Mr Goodman, that Mr Israel was most fortunate in his choice of importer.’

  ‘Indeed,’ smiled Goodman. Kit felt his senses tingle. This was a dangerous man. The smile was like a cobra staring at his dinner sleeping peacefully in the sun.

  ‘What is the object?’

  Goodman and Kit’s eyes locked for a moment. The mask had slipped. The man before Kit made no attempt to replace the benign veneer for those few seconds. It was enough to confirm to Kit that they had walked into a trap.