The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  13

  Mary felt nervous. Perhaps even more nervous than she’d felt on her first visit to Sloane Gardens. Then, she’d come in disguise as a prospective candidate for a vacancy on the staff. The memory of working undercover to find a jewel thief that she and Agatha had correctly believed would target the house brought a smile to her face.

  She skipped up the steps and rang the bell. The door opened and she was greeted by the familiar face of Grantham, the butler. The passage of several months and the Phantom case had done little to dilute any sense of his own dignity.

  It took a few moments for him to register Mary was the woman he’d known as Miss Tanner, the maid. Then the light of recollection shone briefly in his eyes. This woman had disguised herself and made fools of them all. Now, for reasons surpassing all understanding, she was the lunch guest of the lady of the house.

  ‘Please come this way, Lady Mary.’

  From this point on, Grantham was pious professionalism personified. He managed to make Mary feel that she was in the presence of someone who could rise effortlessly above her previous misdemeanours. The effortful ease with which he accomplished this amused Mary so much that she felt much more relaxed by the time she entered the dining room where she had served dinner to the lady that she was meeting. The lady, in question, was sitting at the head of the table. In front of her lay open face down a book, ‘Aristophanes, Thesmophoriazusae’.

  ‘Lady Mary,’ said Mrs Rosling, rising to meet her guest.

  ‘Mrs Rosling,’ said Mary, stepping forward with more confidence than she would have hitherto imagined.

  ‘I hope you will call me Isabelle,’ smiled Mrs Rosling.

  ‘Only if you call me Mary.’

  They sat down; the atmosphere was relaxed thanks to the calm intelligence of the woman she was meeting. Mary asked after Mr Rosling and their good-looking, if somewhat aggressively romantic nephew, Whittaker Rosling. In turn, Mrs Rosling asked about Kit.

  ‘You’re to be married soon?’

  Mary laughed and realised that she had confused Mrs Rosling.

  ‘I wish we were. We’ve been engaged for most of the year.’

  ‘Why such a long wait?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story. I met Kit when I lost my grandfather. At the same time, my sister met the man she will be marrying in a few weeks. Anyway, what with the grief, the trial...’

  ‘Trial?’

  ‘I told you it was a long story. Esther and I were grieving, so weddings were out of the question. As Esther is the eldest, we agreed she should marry first. I turn twenty-one on the first of November, a week before her wedding.

  ‘Twenty-one,’ laughed Mrs Rosling. It was a nice sound. ‘Oh, to be young again. And in love.’

  There was no arguing with this. It was rather wonderful.

  ‘My sister and Richard will be on their honeymoon until Christmas. And Christmas is the anniversary of our grandfather’s death. Anyway, long story short, Kit and I decided on a February date.’

  ‘Not St Valentine’s Day?’ asked Mrs Rosling, with a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary, colouring slightly. However, this was greeted with a clap and a warm smile by Mrs Rosling.

  ‘How romantic. If I may say, your fiancé is the very picture of a romantic hero.’

  ‘You may,’ laughed Mary.

  As they were speaking, lunch was served. Mary glanced at her replacement and smiled a thank you. One lesson she had learned from her time ‘downstairs’ was that she would never ignore the efforts made by the staff. Mrs Rosling noted her smile and said after the maid had left, ‘I suspect you have some empathy for their role now.’

  Mary laughed and nodded ‘yes’.

  ‘What became of our Phantom?’

  Mary avoided answering the question directly.

  ‘I gather she avoided capture. But the diamond necklace was recovered, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was,’ said Mrs Rosling, a slow smile spreading on her face. It was clear she liked Mary. It was clear she wanted something, too.

  ‘Forgive me for being too American, but I think I owe it to you to get to the reason why I invited you here today. Although, having met you properly now, I suspect I could just as happily spend the afternoon chatting about many other things.’

  ‘I did wonder. I wasn’t sure we’d parted on such good terms.’

  Mrs Rosling smiled, ‘Trust me, we didn’t. I don’t think Carlisle or Grantham have ever had to work so hard as when you two ladies bolted the corral.’

  Mary was not sure she was quite so sympathetic to the housekeeper’s plight but, on reflection, neither she nor Caroline Hadleigh had made her life easy. In fact, the mention of the housekeeper brought up an unexpected feeling of guilt.

  ‘Perhaps I could see Miss Carlisle afterwards. I feel I owe her an apology.’

  ‘Of course, but I’m not sure you need apologise. Anyway, to business. I was, naturally, surprised to see you yesterday. It was, I may say, a pleasant surprise. What brought you to the meeting?’

  Mary paused for a few seconds. Where to begin? She came from privilege but had never felt comfortable with either this or the assumption that the direction of her life had been decided in the womb. It was the twentieth century. Change wasn’t just what was happening around you, it was something to be moulded to your will. And then it crystallised in her mind why she had gone to see Millicent Fawcett.

  ‘I resent the fact that I cannot be what I choose to be. A member of Parliament, a doctor or a surgeon; a lawyer or a judge; a banker or a work in commerce. Am I less capable than a man? I don’t believe so. The simple reason that I cannot become any of these things is that the law of the land or social mores prevent it. This must change. The law, in this case, is an ass.’

  ‘Many of these things are possible now.’

  Mary raised an eyebrow at this which caused the older woman to smile and revise this thought.

  ‘Theoretically, anyway.’

  The conversation continued over lunch in this manner. Mrs Rosling continued to probe Mary to understand better her motivation. Both recognised the underlying theme. To what extent was Mary prepared to involve herself in the movement? The answer to this question was more complex than Mary was prepared to admit. On the one hand, she wanted to use her free time to support initiatives planned by others. However, her life with Kit represented an inconvenient counterpoint to the strong and genuine desire to be an agent of change. This was something she’d not discussed with Kit and it seemed inappropriate to do so with Mrs Rosling.

  In the end, Mary compromised by agreeing to attend meetings and events organised by the movement, but she stopped short at agreeing to join any steering committees or planning. Her rationale was accepted by Mrs Rosling: she was heavily involved in two weddings. This was true up to a point, but Mary was under no illusions that Mrs Rosling was neither wholly convinced nor entirely satisfied.

  At the end of the luncheon, the door opened. Herbert Rosling stood in the doorway. It was a close run thing to see who was more surprised. Mary or Mrs Rosling’s husband.

  ‘You remember Lady Mary, Herbert?’

  Rosling’s eyes looked darkly on Mary, so much so that she almost shivered. It seemed to her that he hated her. Mary felt her spirit rising at this thought. Here was a man who had thought he could take liberties because of her position.

  ‘Hello, Mr Rosling.’

  ‘Lady Mary,’ said Rosling bowing, ‘So good to see you again. I trust you’re well.’

  At least he made no mention of the past. His expression softened and he looked to his wife.

  ‘Recruiting?’

  ‘You could say that Herbert,’ replied Mrs Rosling.

  ‘I shall leave you to my wife’s persuasive ways unless you wish to make good your escape now?’

  Mary smiled and said, ‘Well it doesn’t feel like I’ve been press-ganged yet.’

  ‘Early days,’ replied Rosling taking his leave. Mary noted that he seemed to be implying more than just what Mrs
Rosling had said. She thought no more about it.

  -

  Mary declined Mrs Rosling’s offer to accompany her down to the kitchen to see Miss Carlisle. They parted on the landing and Mary descended the stairs she had last visited on the night of the robbery nearly six months previously.

  Arriving outside the kitchen, Mary found, to her surprise, that she was nervous once more. She knocked lightly on the door and heard a surprised voice say, ‘Come in’.

  Mary entered and found Miss Carlisle seated and Rose, the cook, by the sink. Miss Carlisle immediately stood and curtsied. Rose’s greeting was more in keeping with outsized personality of the friendly cook. She strode over to Mary and embraced her.

  ‘Oh, Mary, it’s so good to see you again, my love.’

  ‘Lady Mary, Rose,’ said Miss Carlisle stiffly.

  ‘Oh, shush you,’ said Rose smiling.

  ‘It’s Mary, Miss Carlisle. I’m happy to see you both. I’ve wanted so much to see you again.’

  Mary turned to Miss Carlisle and felt a wave of emotion surge through her that she could not account for and certainly could not control. Miss Carlisle looked at her in confusion. The face of the housekeeper remained as pinched as Mary remembered. A lifetime of service engraved into a mouth that had long since forgotten how to smile.

  ‘I wanted to apologise to you both, but particularly you, Miss Carlisle.’

  ‘There’s no reason to, Lady Mary,’ said Miss Carlisle. She wanted to add more but could not think of how she could explain what she was feeling. The space between her emotions and her capacity to articulate them was too great. It had always been so. Her default was to say nothing. To remain impassive.

  In the silence that followed, Mary looked into the eyes of the housekeeper and what she saw finally swept away her defences. Tears stung her eyes and she fought unsuccessfully to hold them back. Rose embraced her again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mary finally. ‘I misled you both. And…’

  And what?

  She paused, like Miss Carlisle, unable to understand what she was feeling. Why was she here? To seek forgiveness, perhaps? Out of guilt, probably. Her adventure had made a mockery of a decent woman. Its conclusion had left the same woman exposed in her job and in all likelihood undermined her trust in human nature. The tightness Mary saw around the mouth, the fixedness of the stare, the unwillingness to give a little of herself with people was a result of hundreds of such slights this woman had experienced in her life. Mary’s was but one more contribution. Another grain of sand.

  Mary nodded to both ladies in apology.

  ‘I’m keeping you back. I’ll go.’

  She turned and went towards the servants’ entrance. Miss Carlisle opened the door for her. The two women looked at one another again. Once more Mary felt tears appear like an unwelcome guest at a party.

  ‘If ever you need anything. I mean anything, you will tell me. I’ll help you in any way I can.’

  The face of Miss Carlisle softened momentarily. She nodded but said nothing as Mary darted up the steps of the basement onto the street.

  14

  It was around four in the afternoon when Mary arrived back to Grosvenor Square. Natalie opened the door and smiled a greeting. In the background, Mary could distinctly hear the sound of jazz music. It wasn’t very loud, but it did not seem to be coming from the direction of any room on the ground floor. She frowned in puzzlement and looked at Natalie for an explanation.

  ‘Monsieur Fish has purchased a gramophone. It’s for his bedroom.’

  ‘Good Lord. What had Aunt Agatha to say about that?’

  ‘She was down in his room earlier, listening to the jazz music.’

  ‘Wonders never cease. You don’t think they were dancing, do you?’ asked Mary. The two women giggled conspiratorially.

  When Mary entered the drawing room there were a number of pleasant surprises awaiting. Dr Richard Bright had returned from his locum placement. Mary immediately made her way over to her future brother-in-law to give him a hug.

  As she did so, she spied Kit sitting by the window. He was holding an enormous bouquet of flowers. Another large bouquet lay on the table, probably for Esther, who seemed to have recovered her energy after a morning that, at best, could only be described as foul. She was smiling with happiness at the return of Richard, only…Mary detected something else.

  ‘Kit, you shouldn’t have,’ said Mary, smiling.

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Kit, with an even bigger grin. ‘Look at the card.’

  Mary didn’t have to read the card to guess the provenance of the flowers. Then she caught sight of Aunt Agatha’s face. If a face could be said to be like thunder, then this was closer to a South Atlantic storm.

  ‘Ahhh, my secret lover,’ said Mary.

  ‘Not so secret now. Nor indeed Esther’s,’ replied Kit glancing towards the other bouquet.

  ‘I could always go to Bournemouth and interrogate the Earl of Gresham.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly a thought,’ replied Kit who stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  Inevitably it was Agatha who brought a halt to the subject.

  ‘When you’ve quite finished your music hall repartee.’

  In such situations there is only one thing in England that can aid rich amateur sleuths in the serious business of detection and uncovering the crimes of the remaining rich people in the country.

  ‘Can you put the tea over there, please, Natalie,’ said Aunt Agatha to the trolley-driving young French woman.

  As Mary and Esther dispensed the tea, all eyes turned to Kit to hear of his meeting with the Secretary of War and Sea. Kit sat back in his armchair with a wry smile.

  ‘Is Betty Simpson coming, by the way?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Late, as usual,’ replied Agatha brusquely.

  ‘This tea is frightfully good. Is it Fortnum’s by any chance?’ asked Kit, continuing to draw out the suspense with some relish.

  ‘Get on with it, Christopher.’

  Thus, ordered by Agatha, Kit relented and began a brief summation of all that had transpired, which turned out to be briefer than he’d imagined.

  ‘I met Churchill in the corridor at the war office building on Horse Guards and went for a walk around the block , so to speak. I told him that we believed there was a connection between the young woman in the picture and a number of other murders that had taken place over the last decade and a half.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Naturally, he was appalled. Oddly, I think he was rather relieved. My sense is he’s not in the least bit worried by any revelations around druidism as he just sees it as a social thing. Rather like fancy dress. The fact that this death is not solely connected with that evening probably helps him in a strange way although it’s still a horrible situation, clearly. Anyway, he agreed that we should share what we know with the police. You may have to control your emotions at this, but he would like me to work alongside Scotland Yard. In fact, he sent instructions immediately after I had seen him.’

  ‘So, what else have you been up to today?’

  ‘I sent word to that horrible man, Bulstrode that I would like to meet him to discuss these medium murders. The good news is that Jellicoe has replaced him. We’re to meet him at five. I suggested he should meet Father Vaughan. He didn’t have much time yesterday and he has agreed to giving us a little more information today.’

  ‘Are we going to Stepney? We’ll need to get a weave on.’ asked Mary, quite intrigued by the idea of visiting a part of London that she’d never been to before.

  ‘Certainly not, young lady,’ replied Agatha, but there was something in her voice that was less officious. If Kit had been asked to put a name to it, he would have said it was sadness. He couldn’t blame her. From what he’d seen of those streets, it wasn’t a place for Mary or, indeed, for the poor souls forced to live in those conditions.

  ‘No,’ replied Kit, ‘In fact, Father Vaughan is rather close by. Just around the corner on Mount Street. We can
walk. It should be quite a meeting.’

  Mary looked closely at Kit, but it was clear by the half smile on Kit’s face that nothing more would be said on the subject. Mary made a face at him which only made her fiancé’s grin widen.

  The arrival of Betty Simpson was never going to be a quiet affair. She bustled into the drawing room with all of the focused energy of an irate customer about to complain of bad service. Moments later, a well-aimed throw saw her tweed shooting cap, which matched the tweed dress suit, nestling comfortably over the head of Canova’s Helen of Troy. Not the original, of course.

  Agatha rolled her eyes and made a decidedly loud ‘Tsk’. This was greeted with smiles around the room although the two ladies in question appeared oblivious to the impact of their music hall routine.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. Just managed eighteen as it was such a nice day. Don’t ask me how I got on.’

  ‘We shan’t.’

  ‘Poisonously bad putting. The greens were an utter disgrace, of course. If I catch that greenkeeper, he’ll get a piece of my mind.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll find that as elevating as we all do, dear.’

  Post-mortem of the round complete, Betty marched over to the chair beside Agatha and sat down. She placed a large scrapbook on the table between the two ladies.

  ‘Shall we start?’ asked Betty, ready for business. Agatha rolled her eyes once more.

  -

  Kit led a rather large delegation on the short walk to the 114 Mount Street residence of Father Vaughan. Walking alongside Kit was Mary. Behind them, Agatha and Betty Simpson walked in silence. Betty was carrying their leather-bound scrapbook.

  Parked outside were two cars. One was large and seemed to be filled to the brim. The other was smaller and contained only two people. Kit nodded to both as he passed them.

  They arrived at a four storey red brick house with a large black door. It was connected to the Church of the Immaculate Conception, a vaulted Gothic-style building run by Jesuits. They walked up the steps to the door.

  A housekeeper opened the door and led the party through to the dining room. Waiting for them was Vaughan. If he was surprised by the number of people who’d come with Kit, he did not show it. Instead, he acted the perfect host and shook hands with everyone.