by Jack Murray
The next thing Kit had to say, he knew, would go down like support for prohibition at a cocktail bar.
Mary spied the faraway look on Kit’s face. Increasingly attuned to his mood, she recognised his disquiet. She thought for a few moments and wondered if it had been prompted by Agatha’s comment. If it had been, this would be disappointing.
‘Come on,’ said Mary. ‘What are you thinking about?’
Kit looked at Mary but this time there was no smile.
‘I have to see Spunky.’
Mary did not need to be a clairvoyant to know this would exclude both her and Agatha. Oddly, she did not mind. She had plans for the afternoon anyway which did not include him for a change.
She was going back to Claridge’s to keep the appointment with Bobby Andrews.
8
Miller dropped Mary and Agatha off at the Grosvenor Square residence first before setting off, on Kit’s instructions, towards 1, Melbury Road in West Kensington. The journey through London went quickly but Miller noted how more and more cars were appearing on the roads. The Rolls pulled up ten minutes later outside a tall red brick villa which overlooked Holland Park.
‘I shan’t be long, Harry,’ said Kit getting out of the car.
Kit made his way past the security at the front door and up the stairs to the second floor where Spunky’s office was located. Dawn, Smith-Cumming’s secretary, met him on the landing, and she led him up to his friend.
Aldric ‘Spunky’ Stevens greeted Kit warmly.
‘Kit, so good to have you back. Tell me more about your case in America. You can’t keep a bloodhound down, what?’
Despite his fatheaded blether, Spunky possessed one of the sharpest minds in the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6. Spunky had been a part of the service since the middle of the War when he had been badly injured and unable to continue front line duty.
Kit gave a brief summary of the case he had stumbled into in San Francisco before moving on to the reason for his appointment. Before he began to speak, Spunky held his hand up.
‘I think I know why you’re here, old boy. As ever, I’m on the case.’
Moments later, Spunky extracted several thin folders from his drawer.
‘I think you’ll find the answer to your questions in there.’
Kit looked at the top two files. They were two of the names on the list given to him by Churchill. He leafed through them briefly and then glanced at the bottom file. On the cover was a name: Viscount Lancelot Aston.
‘You keep a file on my father?’ said Kit wryly. ‘I would hardly have him down as a subversive or an anarchist unless you think being a dissolute adulterer sufficient qualification.’
The depth of Kit’s contempt took Spunky by surprise. He knew that Kit and his father were far from close, but this was perilously close to outright animosity.
‘Steady on, old boy. I’m sure he’s no saint but then again, which amongst us are? These files are not ours. They belong to Kell’s boys in MI5(g).’
Kit looked grimly at Spunky but said nothing in reply. The amount of information on his father was limited to known facts, mostly culled from Who’s Who. On his relationship with Churchill, there was nothing.
‘Has anyone else spoken to these men?’ asked Kit.
‘No. We were waiting for your return. We felt that it should be kept within…’ Spunky paused as he searched for the right word.
‘Our class,’ replied Kit, eyebrows raised.
‘That would be the size of it, Bloodhound. “C” rates your abilities as highly as I do. They thought it best to have your two brains on the case.’
‘I’m not that smart.’
‘Yes, you are but, as it happened, I was referring to Mary.’
Kit laughed at this. There was no use denying that he would have told her everything.
‘She’s desperate to be involved.’
‘I suspect Agatha, too. Of course, that’ll mean Aunt Betty.’
‘I haven’t done a great job keeping it secret, have I?’
Spunky shook his head and smoked languorously from his thin cigar.
‘As you say, it’s kept within our class.’
‘Is there anything else I should know?’ Kit looked at the disappointingly slender nature of the files on the table. It was clear he would have to go around to each of the men and speak to them about their recollection of what had happened that night. Hopefully some or all of them would be able to add new names to the list. It wasn’t much to go on. A moment later, Spunky as good as confirmed this.
‘That’s all we have, I’m told. It’s up to you now,’ he said in usual cheery manner that brooked no thought of his friend failing.
-
‘Where to, sir?’ asked Miller as Kit climbed back into the car following his meeting.
‘The river, then keep driving.’
Miller glanced at Kit. His lordship seemed a bit down in the dumps. It wasn’t too difficult to guess the principal reason; however, it was possible there were other things preying on his mind.
‘The revolver might be quicker, sir. That way I won’t get wet.’
‘Good point, Harry. I’m being selfish.’
There was silence in the car for the next minute or two. The rain had returned in the guise of an annoyingly persistent drizzle. Kit toyed with the idea of looking inside the folders before throwing them down on the seat beside him.
‘I think we’ll have to make arrangements to go up to Cleves. There’s no way of avoiding it.’
‘Very good, sir. I’ll take a look at the train timetables. This weekend?’
‘No, maybe the weekend after unless we can crack the case before then. I’ll start with the other names in these files first.’
‘I should include the ladies?’
Kit let out a loud laugh at this and even Miller joined in. This helped lift the mood in the car. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps his father would be on his best behaviour. Perhaps Marge would be less resentful. Then there was Edmund.
Brother Edmund. Was there a chance he’d grown up a little? Matured? Kit felt a stab of guilt as he thought of his half-brother. He’d sent some letters earlier in the year. They went unanswered so he’d given up. He knew it wasn’t enough. What kind of a brother was he?
What kind of a son?
The longer you leave contact with the people you were once closest to, the more difficult it is to resume. It’s like a wound that’s left un-dressed or a heart starved of love. Corruption sets in and the tissue dies. It wasn’t just the cancer that had killed his mother.
So obvious wasn’t it? Yet here he sat, conscience-clouded, doubt invading his mind. There was another story out there, probably. It was in the eyes of his father, of Marge and of Aunt Agatha. It was told through the silences and the looks they gave one another. And who was he to condemn? If not a disloyal son, then, at the very least, he was an unloving and inadequate excuse for one. He’d never forgiven his father for betraying his mother. Nor, for that matter, had he forgiven Marge, ever the stage actress, for her role in this tragedy. She had played her part as the lover while his mother lay dying.
The result of this betrayal, Edmund, could hardly be blamed for his existence. Yet Kit knew he had tried to forgive his father and Marge. He’d tried to be a big brother. For a long time, he was Edmund’s hero. Somehow, somewhere or someone had poisoned their relationship. It wasn’t hard to guess who.
He thought of Marge.
As they drove along the street, Kit spied a newspaper boy selling an early afternoon edition of the newspaper. The headline on the pavement billboard read, “New Medium Murder”.
‘Harry, can you pull over a moment and buy me the newspaper. Look at the headline?’
‘Good lord,’ replied Miller, which implied he hadn’t. Miller hopped out of the car and rewarded the young boy handsomely for his sales efforts.
A couple of minutes later they were on their way again. It was a short hop to Belgrave Square. Kit read out the key point
s in the article.
‘Police are baffled - I hope it isn’t poor Jellicoe - This is the second murder. Interesting that there is such a gap between the two.’
‘The first was just before you left for America, wasn’t it? Things went quiet on the case. Not sure what happened to the medium. She seemed to disappear.’
‘The first was in Yorkshire. A middle-aged man. This one’s a young woman. They haven’t released any details.’
‘Was it the same medium?’ asked Miller.
‘Yes,’ said Kit, leafing through the paper.
‘Eva Kerr?’
‘Yes, that was the name.’
Kit continued to read through the articles, for there were more than one. As usual, the police were coming in for some criticism. Kit guessed this was for their refusal to feed the insatiable appetite of the press. As he reached the end of the article, he did something he’d never done before given the gruesome context of their discussion. He laughed.
‘Something up, sir?’ asked Miller, clearly as surprised as he was curious.
‘You’ll never guess who Scotland Yard have sent to investigate.’
-
They arrived at their destination a few minutes later. Kit stepped out of the car and walked up the steps towards his apartment building. He didn’t see the big car parked across the road. Inside were two men. They watched Kit open his front door and enter.
‘That’s him?’
‘That’s him.’
‘What about his man?’
They watched Miller disappear into the distance in the Rolls. The man in the passenger seat looked at the other man.
‘I wouldn’t worry about him. Come on.’
The two men stepped out of the car and moved towards the front of the apartment block.
-
Kit stopped outside Countess Laskov’s apartment. He tried the door. It was locked. This was a disappointment, but he guessed Jellicoe would soon have bigger fish to fry if the news regarding the latest murder proved to be as significant as Kit thought it was.
He made his way up the stairs gingerly and into his apartment. Sam came running to greet him. He picked the little terrier up for a cuddle. Simpkins looked up from Kit’s chair but did not seem inclined to give up his place or, indeed, offer much by way of greeting.
‘Hello, Simpkins,’ said Kit. ‘I hope you’re comfortable. Can I get you anything? A fish supper perhaps? Some wine?’
Simpkins appeared to understand he was being jested with and did not dignify the sarcasm with a reply. Kit sat down near him and began to stroke the cat behind the ear. This was better. Simpkins began to purr. Meanwhile, Sam settled on Kit’s lap, effectively pinning Kit to the seat.
It was while thus occupied that Kit heard a knock at the door. He waited a moment before realising that Miller had gone to park the car. After gently placing an unhappy Sam on the place beside him, he rose and went to the door. The knocking was persistent but not aggressive.
Kit opened the door and saw two men in overcoats standing before him. Neither looked like former public schoolboys or members of the clergy. One of the men had a nose that had been broken one too many times.
They seemed familiar, however. And not unfriendly.
‘Your lordship, sorry to inconvenience you like this, but we’d like you to come with us.’
Kit glanced down at the man’s pocket. He had his hand in there and seemed to be pointing a gun.
Kit looked back at the man and then recognition dawned.
‘Good lord, isn’t it…?’
-
Harry Miller was strolling back from the car park, just around the corner from the apartment. Not for the first time did he marvel at the good fortune that had brought him here. An early life spent as a burglar, a life nearly ended more than once in the fields of France and now, living with nobility in the centre of London. He was the luckiest chap alive. Just as he thought this, he felt the first spot of rain. He didn’t care though.
Fifty yards from the front door he saw a number of men emerge from the apartment block. His senses heightened as the scene looked strange. Seconds later he recognised Kit climbing into the back of a car. He was just about to shout when he realised the men might be armed. Instead, he broke into a sprint. Just as he did so, he saw a taxi coming towards him. He hailed it.
Kit’s car pulled out just ahead of the taxi. Miller saw Kit looking out the window at him. He did not seem particularly imperilled but, then again, he remembered his master was a cool customer in these situations.
The taxi stopped and Miller climbed into the back, slightly breathless. He was just about to speak when the taxi driver held his hand up.
‘Let me guess. Follow that car?’
9
‘We’re just going out for lunch Aunt Agatha,’ said Mary, taking Esther’s arm and leading her into the entrance hall of the Grosvenor Square House.
‘We are?’ asked Esther, somewhat taken aback by this news.
‘Yes, don’t you remember, Essie?’ said Mary, widening her eyes just enough to let Esther know how she should react.
‘Oh yes, I’d quite forgotten.’
Agatha was not paying much attention to matters as it happened. In fact, she’d plans of her own which may or may not have involved the sisters. She waved distractedly to them as they disappeared to the coat rack. They were out of the house before Agatha realised that they’d left. She stood for a moment looking at the door nonplussed. Then she shrugged and went to the telephone.
‘Betty Simpson, Fitzrovia 6263, thank you. I’ll wait.’
A few moments later a voice came on the line.
‘Betty, it’s me. We have a new case. Good, I’ll see you in a few minutes.’
She put the phone down and went into the drawing room to ring for Fish. Natalie appeared a few moments later.
‘Yes, madame?’
‘Ah, Natalie, any chance you could send up a pot of tea. Lady Simpson is visiting.’
‘Very good, madame.’
-
‘Why all the secrecy?’
‘I’m going to meet Bobby Andrews,’ announced Mary as they hurried along the street. Esther stopped. This forced Mary, who was holding her arm, to stop.
‘Have you gone out of your mind, Mary?’ She was genuinely shocked. Mary was, and had always been, a rebel, but this seemed to be pushing things to the limit.
‘Nonsense,’ replied Mary, ‘Anyway, it’s not just Bobby I want to see. I need you along as my cover.’
‘Cover?’ responded Esther, mystified.
‘Of course, Essie. It wouldn’t do for me to meet Bobby on my own.’
‘I’m not sure it would do for you to be meeting him full stop, Mary.’
Mary burst into a fit of giggles and gave her sister a hug.
‘Come on, we’ll be late, I’ll explain on the way.’
-
The sisters arrived at Claridge’s around ten minutes later. Nothing seemed to have changed from the previous day. The noise was at a level bordering on intolerable. Hassled hotel staff glanced at the clock before realising they had another several hours to spend in the company of the idle rich spending their unearned income in their relentless rush to become spectacularly sozzled.
‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ said Mary, narrowly avoiding a young man who had fallen at her feet.
Esther’s face suggested that she didn’t think it quite as wonderful as Mary. But she knew her sister well and she smiled.
‘You should be an anthropologist.’
Mary grinned and looked at one amiably stupid young man standing on a table. He was demonstrating the correct way to rumba. The lack of music or, indeed, any sense of tempo, in no way inhibited his display. Each thrust of his hips was greeted with mild hysteria. From the men. The more polite members of the species responded with embarrassed giggling. It was a moot point about which the young man was more deficient in, intelligence or rhythm.
‘I could write a paper on the topic of chronically stupid
people. I’m sure it would be published in one scientific journal or another.’
Esther looked around and then spotted someone heading in their direction.
‘Brace yourself, Mary.’
Bobby Andrews arrived carrying a dangerously seductive smile and a hint of triumph glinting in his eyes. Mary noted the look and glanced at Esther. Her sister successfully managed to remain impassive.
‘Glad you decided to come back. Are you meeting anyone?’ asked Andrews.
Mary looked him dead in the eye and said, ‘You.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw Esther turn away.
‘Perhaps we should go somewhere less crowded.’
‘Excellent idea.’
They left the bar and walked into the foyer of the hotel and found some free seats near the door. The benefits of being away from the noise and moderate depravity were challenged slightly by the draught coming from the door. They ordered a pot of tea. This provided the dual benefit of giving them a reason to be there as well as warming their hands.
Andrews glanced uncertainly at Esther and asked how the wedding plans were progressing. Esther dwelt at length on these. She enjoyed every second of the young man’s evident boredom. As Esther layered gratuitous detail upon superfluous tangents, Mary’s smile grew wider. Finally, Esther put the young man out of his misery with an abrupt end to her novel-length summary.
‘Well, I certainly wish you and Dr Bright well.’
Interestingly he neglected to ask Mary about her wedding plans despite the fact that he would obviously have been aware of them. The presence of Esther was having its intended effect. Reduced to making polite conversation, his charm diminished at a rate similar to the increase in his ennui. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Mary seemed more interested in a procession of women entering the hotel and making their way past them.
Andrews finally noticed the source of Mary’s interest and turned around to look at the procession.
