The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  -

  He removed his wide-brimmed sable fedora and mopped his brow. Malta was cauldron-hot. This castle particularly beastly. Placing the hat back on his head he scratched his two-day stubble. He couldn’t wait to shave. Damn thing itched like buggery, he thought, although he‘d never actually attempted this particular pastime, unlike some others in his form. He put his hand in the pocket of his leather flying jacket and extracted a whip.

  Below him was darkness. It might either be a drop of twenty feet or even one hundred feet or more. The chasm was five feet wide. Across the other side was the object of his attention. It was sitting in an alcove carved into the stone wall. A small bird, a falcon, sat on a tiny plinth. This bird didn’t sing. It glistened. Hundreds of precious gems decorated its body. The reflection of light from these gems danced on the walls around them. Red, blue, green and violet shades.

  The man set down his fire-lit torch. He glanced up at a beam of wood, eight feet or so overhead. He took the leather whip and cracked it in the direction of the beam.

  It missed.

  Reggie Pilbream wasn’t a man to give up easily, unless his aunt insisted, of course. Aunts were definitely in the category of extenuating circumstances and no chap could be blamed for stopping, immediately, anything that he was enjoying.

  He cracked the whip again. Success. It curled around its target like a missed three footer. Reggie tugged at the whip. It was secure. Holding the handle in both hands he took a few steps back and swung across the chasm. He clattered into the rock across the other side, causing the falcon to topple over and down, down, down into the dark shaft below.

  As he was about to pronounce this accident as beastly luck, he heard a swishing sound coming from the side. He turned to the source of the noise and saw a steel mace, with spikes protruding from, what looked like, a skull. Reggie immediately appreciated three things. The workmanship was wonderfully imaginative. It was also deadly. Worse, however, the mace’s direction of travel seemed likely to arrive somewhere around his head.

  ‘Oh bug....’

  The End

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  Research Notes

  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 a number of 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 Dashiell Hammett I would recommend his fiction. His stories are often based on his real-life experiences as a Pinkerton Detective. Novels such as ‘The Maltese Falcon’ and ‘The Dain Curse’ are clearly major inspirations for this book. Mike Humbert also provides excellent source research material on Hammett - http://www.mikehumbert.com/Dashiell_Hammett_18_Flood_Building.html.

  Dashiell Hammett (1894 - 1961)

  Dashiell Hammett was one of the originators of the ‘hard-boiled’ school of crime writing. His stories were based, unusually for crime writers, on personal experience. He joined the Pinkerton Detective Agency in 1915, at the age of 20. Moving to San Francisco, California, he continued his work with agency before enlisting in the U.S. Army during World War I. While he was in France he contracted tuberculosis ,which limited his direct involvement in the War. The illness was to remain with him throughout his life.

  Upon his return from the War he re-joined Pinkerton’s before leaving after 1922 and focusing full time on his writing. He found initial success publishing short stories with society magazine, The Smart Set. He began to take the detective story into new, grittier territories which found a home in pulp/crime publications of the time, including Black Mask. While still in San Francisco he began to write a series of novels that changed the face of crime writing in America.

  Red Harvest and The Dain Curse arrived in 1929 featuring an unnamed character known as the Continental Op. The Maltese Falcon was published in 1930, introducing the legendary private eye, Sam Spade. The Glass Key arrived in 1931. Hammett’s final full length novel was The Thin Man, published in 1934, featured Nick and Nora Charles. He was forty years old.

  Within a few years, Hollywood called upon Hammett to write or co-write movie versions of The Thin Man and its follow ups.

  His private life was troubled. An early marriage to a nurse he had met while in hospital for TB, fell apart within a few years. He had a long relationship with Lillian Hellman, however. His drinking and illness continued to afflict him throughout his life and probably stopped any further novels emerging. He endured a spell in jail during the McCarthy era due to his left leaning sympathies. He died of lung cancer in 1961.

  The five novels he created between 1929-34 have proved to be enduring and hugely influential, not the least for this writer and the characters of Kit Aston and Mary Cavendish.

  Phil Geauque (18?? – 1951)

  Phil Geauque was a Pinkerton Detective in the late 1890's into the early 1900's in Chicago and San Francisco where he had an office in the Flood Building as a Pinkerton Detective Agency supervisor. After Pinkerton’s, Phil Geauque joined the U.S. Secret Service and served on the Franklin Delano Roosevelt's trip to Hawaii in 1934. He passed away 1951 in San Francisco.

  He supervised author Dashiell Hammett in the early 1920’s. He is widely believed to be the inspiration for the "Old Man" in his Continental Op books and stories.

  The Maltese Falcon

  The Maltese Falcon really did exist. As Sidney Goodman explains in the book, it was an annual tribute to Charles V by the Knights of St John in Malta.

  More latterly the falcons created for John Huston’s movie adaption of the book, starring Humphrey Bogart, have turned up. One was sold for $4.1 million at auction.

  Caravaggio(1571 – 1610)

  Even if he had not been one of the greatest ever artists, Michelangelo Merisi would certainly have been one of the most famous, or infamous. The dramatic use of light and dark in his paintings, chiaroscuro, made him an artist much in demand between the 1590’s until his early death in 1610.

  Although much his known about his life, his death is shrouded in mystery. Some believe it was a fever, others have written it was syphilis. More recent work on human remains uncovered in a church in Porto Ecole suggest his death could have been violent.

  It is true Caravaggio’s life was a reflection of the violent times in which he lived. He is known to have been involved in various violent incidents throughout his life, one of which resulted in the death of Ranuccio Tomassoni. The death, or murder, led to Caravaggio’s escape to Naples followed by exile in Malta.

  Caravaggio is unquestionably one of the most influential artists ever. Influential art critic Bernard Berenson said, ‘With the exception of Michelangelo, no other Italian painter has exercised so great an influence. Many contemporary artists, Caravaggisti copied his chiaroscuro style. More recently, German Expressionist film makers drew inspiration from the dramatic lighting featured in Caravaggio’s paintings.

  Caravaggio remains an artist for the ages.

  The Medium Murders

  The FiFth Lord Kit Aston Mystery

  Jack Murray

  Copyright © 2020 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 b
elow.

  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, except when they really were alive.

  Prologue

  Blenheim Palace, Oxfordshire, August 1908

  Winston Churchill knelt before the white-robed druid. If he didn’t look like a bloody fool, then he certainly felt like one. What could he do though? Everyone else had been through the initiation. They’d all supplicated themselves before the Grand Master or whatever he called himself. Was it High Priest? Yes, that was it. High Priest. Must remember, he thought. And promptly forgot.

  Ridiculous really. He swayed slightly and fought to control himself. The thought that he should have waited until after the initiation before taking the third brandy crossed his mind. His head was swimming a little. The alcohol, the hint of a chill coming into the air, and the fact he was kneeling before a fake druid at a mock temple dedicated to a Greek goddess all felt like he was in a dream.

  Tomorrow he was seeing Clementine Hozier. He would bring her here and ask her to marry him. The druid cleared his throat. He wondered what her answer would be. He wondered what she would think if she ever got wind of this little spectacle. Perhaps the Grand Master druid could stay around to conduct the service. Did they do weddings?

  Or just cause funerals?

  Human sacrifices. Yes, this was their forte. They did this in Greece, too, didn’t they? Maybe hosting the ceremony at the Temple of Diana wasn’t such a daft idea after all. Behind the druid, he could see the pale Ionic columns of the temple rising to the sloping roof. Churchill focused his gaze on the sky. Not even the hint of a cloud. It all felt very Mediterranean. All except for this distinctly un-Mediterranean priest.

  At that moment, Churchill was unsure whether to laugh or squirm. The next words of the High Priest damn near pushed him over the edge.

  ‘Nequaquam ut oblitus esse pristina sua consuetudine, Et non duxitadanimum?’

  Latin?

  Since when did the druids speak a language that did not arrive to the country until a few thousand years later? Then the words of the High Priest took shape in Churchill’s mind. He almost added to them himself.

  ‘For auld lang syne, my jo. For auld lang syne.’

  Churchill’s friends, sitting facing the High Priest, could see his shoulders shaking. A tell-tale sign that their friend was no longer taking the business seriously. Of the priest, it was impossible to know what he was feeling. He was wearing a false grey beard. De rigeur for druids, apparently. The long flowing white robes completed the rather theatrical appearance. There were a few other priests standing either side of him looking solemn, at least as far as it was possible to detect through the bushy beards. They, too, were clad in robes. Damn shame they were not all wearing those. Winston should have insisted, really.

  With the initiation finished, a grinning Churchill went to join his friends. They were with a dozen other dark-suited men all sat in a semi-circle witnessing the events. A distinctly undruid-like round of applause broke out amongst the assembled congregation. Churchill, by the merest of whiskers, refrained from giving a cheery wave as he would have done instinctively on the campaign trail. It took an even greater effort of will to stop himself lighting up a cigar. He would have done anything for another drink right now.

  This was all just a bit of fun. With any luck the initiations would be over soon. They could all return to the house and get on with the real business of the evening. Drink, chat and more drink.

  And then there was Clemmie. Dearest Clemmie will you marry me? Perhaps it was just as well they were doing this nonsense tonight. It had taken his mind off the morrow. A big day in his life. A big day in anyone’s life.

  He was bored now. Another initiate was going through his admission to the Ancient Order of Druids. A slight breeze caressed his face. A light brush. Like a reminder. For the first time that evening he felt a real chill.

  1

  London, September 1920

  A short, squat, bull-necked man walked along the street with a sense of purpose in his stride. The pinched look on his face was a defence against the cold night air. And it was definitely getting colder. Accompanying him was a taller, leaner man with a ruddy complexion. His sharp face did not so much suggest shrewdness as scream it from a hilltop. Following the two men was a woman whose age could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. She was tall, slender and walked with a bearing that was almost noble.

  Ahead they could see a group of policemen shining torches. As they neared these lights, three uniformed policemen emerged from the house. At the opposite end of the street, a man wearing a thick overcoat, an even thicker scarf and a homburg crossed the road to join the policemen. Peeking out from the homburg, spreading like a contagion along his cheek, were grey whiskers. They all arrived at the scene a few moments later.

  ‘Dr French,’ said the shorter man. The man with the impressive whiskers nodded.

  ‘Bulstrode,’ replied the good doctor without much enthusiasm. He gave every impression that he wished to be somewhere else. This could just have easily meant with someone else. He disliked Detective Inspector Bulstrode and his partner-in-crime, Sergeant Wellbeloved. If ever a man had been misnamed it was this sergeant, thought French. As nasty a piece of work as had ever clutched a pair of handcuffs. Both of them.

  Two peas.

  ‘Shall we?’ said Bulstrode and he walked into the room without waiting for a reply. Wellbeloved, Dr French and the woman followed Bulstrode into the room.

  The new arrivals looked at the body of the dead woman. The wound in the neck made asking the cause of death somewhat redundant. This left Bulstrode temporarily at a loss. Then he remembered the woman who had accompanied them here. She was standing back from the group covering her mouth either from horror or because she was feeling ill.

  Bulstrode rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the young woman. He knelt down beside the body and looked at her stomach. He sensed the doctor kneeling down beside him . He lifted the arm and tested its flexibility. Bulstrode’s eyes had not left the woman’s stomach.

  ‘Looks like a star.’

  ‘Of course, it’s a bloody star,’ said French. ‘Look, why don’t you do your job and ask me for an estimate on time of death.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I’d say twelve hours. No more than twenty-four.’

  Bulstrode looked at his pocket watch. Twenty past one in the morning. He looked at Wellbeloved. With some irritation, he noticed the sergeant was still standing well back from the corpse.

  ‘Squeamish?’

  ‘Funny.’

  Wellbeloved stepped forward and examined the body. He moved over to the other side and looked at her face.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  Wellbeloved shook his head but remained silent.

  ‘Sure?’ persisted Bulstrode.

  The sergeant stood up, narrowed his eyes and nodded to his boss. Bulstrode looked at him closely. He seemed unconvinced. Then he turned around to the woman. He motioned for her to come over and look at the body.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, Bulstrode?’ said French angrily. The whiskers were not the only Victorian aspect to the good doctor. Bulstrode ignored his Victorian sensibility.

  Reluctantly, the woman stepped forward; her eyes were fixed on the corpse. She stopped for a moment in front of the doctor. French looked into her dark eyes. Neither said anything. There seemed to be something diabolic in those eyes. Or something else.

  The woman broke away from the gaze of the doctor. She felt a slight breeze from the open window. The trees rustled outside, and a few leaves blew into the room falling like teardrops near the body.

  ‘Is this the woman you saw?’ asked Bulstrode.

  ‘The woman nod
ded and turned away. She walked out of the room, out of the house and away from the crime scene. Then Bulstrode realised what he’d seen in her eyes: anger.

  As she walked away the tears stung her eyes. This was exactly what she’d seen. The woman. Those markings. It was overwhelming. Her chest felt tight; her breathing laboured. She felt faint. It was always this way when she sensed spirits in the air. Evil spirits. The intense awareness of something malevolent.

  She heard the sound of footsteps behind her. Running. She ignored them. He knew where to find her.

  The sergeant finally appeared alongside her. She looked at him for a moment then continued walking. His face betrayed fear. Anguish.

  ‘You knew her, didn’t you?’ said the woman.

  Wellbeloved glared at her. Now anger replaced the anguish.

  ‘Couldn’t you have done something to stop them?’

  The woman stopped. Then she did something that caused the group of policemen outside to spin around in shock.

  She laughed.

  ‘Stop them? How?’ She waved her arms in the air like she was conducting an orchestra. Then she stopped and glared at Wellbeloved before laughing again.

  ‘Do you think this a magic trick? Like pulling a rabbit from a hat?’

  Wellbeloved tore off his hat and threw it angrily to the ground. He turned away from the woman, unsure of what he would do. He caught the eye of Bulstrode who had come outside to see what was going on. His boss was looking at him strangely. It was time to regain control. He spun around to the woman and pointed at her.

  ‘You should show more respect for the dead.’