The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  Arriving on the main concourse, he spied Mary standing with Natalie underneath the large, newly installed clock with four faces. A number of other people had the same idea of using the position directly underneath the new clock as a meeting point. It was not difficult to spot the two young women. Both were attracting the attention of many passers-by. Mary was dressed in a camel-coloured coat. Each wore a cloche hat. Natalie was dressed head to foot in black. At their feet were two small overnight bags. Although Natalie was slightly taller and Mary slimmer, from a distance they might have passed for sisters.

  Mary waved and smiled when she saw Kit coming. That smile. He never tired of seeing it. As he considered his manifest good fortune a dark shadow crossed his mind. Thoughts of the young, murdered women rose unbidden. He felt a cold chill for a few moments. Long enough for Mary to see the change. Her eyes narrowed momentarily.

  ‘Is everything, all right?’

  ‘Yes darling,’ replied Kit, unabashed at telling a fib. He smiled and pointed in the direction of their platform.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Mary did not look like she believed him, but another thought entered her mind.

  ‘Isn’t Harry coming with us to Bournemouth?’

  Kit held up the second suitcase and smiled enigmatically.

  ‘He is, but he’ll meet us there.’

  This was suitably ambiguous and obviously designed to irritate a curiosity as immense as Mary’s. It did. Just as Mary was about to beat a confession out of Kit with her umbrella, she saw a half smile on his face. Mary contented herself with aiming the point of her umbrella at Kit’s chest.

  ‘No prizes for guessing where this will go if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind when we’re on the train.’

  The train journey lasted two and a half hours. Kit, Mary and Natalie sat together in a carriage with a vicar, a governess and what looked like a retired army officer. It didn’t take a psychic to work out what was on Mary’s mind regarding their travel companions. At the end of the journey Kit asked her.

  ‘Which one was the murderer?’

  ‘The man pretending to be a vicar.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘His hands.’

  ‘I noted there were two of them,’ said Kit. ‘Did I miss anything else?’

  ‘They were not the hands of a vicar,’ said Mary.

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘More delicate. Refined. Those were the hands of strangler. Or a workman.’

  ‘Is there a difference in your world?’ said Kit, as they exited the station. Outside, Kit hailed a cab.

  Mary smiled at her fiancé and said, ‘Sometimes you can be sorely lacking in imagination.’

  ‘I’ve found that evidence tends to work better in the conviction of our criminal classes.’

  ‘Imagination is to evidence as the stars were to ancient sailors,’ replied Mary primly. They were both giggling as the cab took them away from the station. The journey to their hotel was only a few minutes.

  Highcliffe Mansions overlooked the golden sands of Bournemouth. It was perched at the top of the cliff with a view that encompassed everything from the pier and the beach to a horizon of blue sea. In summer.

  Mary stood as close to the edge as she dared and scanned the horizon. Wind blew into her face. She had to hold onto her hat as a gust threatened to blow it away. Her laughter rippled through the air like water bubbling in a brook in mid-summer.

  She turned and looked up at the whitewashed walls of the hotel standing starkly against the cloudless early afternoon sky.

  ‘Shall we check into our room?’ said Mary, a suggestive smile on her lips.

  ‘Rooms.’

  ‘Ah yes, I was forgetting Natalie.’

  Kit raised his eyebrows as he watched his fiancée make her way towards the hotel entrance.

  ‘I’m sure you were,’ said Kit to himself as he followed the two women inside.

  After they each received their keys, Kit and Mary walked up the stairs hand in hand.

  ‘What time is the Earl expecting us?’

  ‘Seven, I believe.’

  ‘When will we see Harry?’

  ‘I suspect it won’t be until around this time tomorrow.’

  They reached their floor and ambled along the corridor. Mary looked at the carpet. The design was a hideous deep red shield and gold leaf. She found she wasn’t very interested in it. Glancing upward, she noticed the paintings on the wall were a mixture of landscapes and equestrian art. These held no interest for her, either.

  In fact, her entire focus was now on her breathing. Unaccountably, it was becoming something of a challenge. This may have had something to do with the fact that her heart was beating like the bass drum in a brass band. She felt a slight draught on her face which gave her a slight chill all over her body.

  They reached their respective rooms.

  ‘I expect Natalie will be along soon with your bag,’ said Kit, brightly.

  Mary smiled up at Kit.

  ‘I think she may be a while.’

  Kit’s frown was an attractive mix of amusement and curiosity.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because she’s French.’

  17

  The motorcycle clipped along the empty country road at fifty miles an hour. Miller was tempted to go faster but decided against it. The risk of meeting a heifer strolling lazily onto the road was too great. The ride down from London had started very early in the morning and taken him through parts of London he was glad to have left behind.

  Now he was in the country and his spirits rose in direct correlation to every mile he was further away from London. The sky was cloudless. The stars glimmered brightly, and the moon acted like a giant spotlight.

  Whether it was the dark or the emptiness of the roads or something as yet indiscernible, the journey was a chance for Miller to think. As much as he enjoyed being with his lordship, he wondered what the future would hold. The wedding would take place in February. However, no mention had been made of how or where they would all live.

  It was not that he was ready to leave. Far from it. He enjoyed the job too much. How could he not? And then he thought again about tonight. No, the job had proved to be the best thing that had ever happened to him. The gut-wrenching fear he had felt that night three years ago when he had crawled out into No Man’s Land had changed two lives forever.

  The fresh country air and the lack of people appealed to Harry Miller, born nearly twenty seven years previously in Peckham. The smell of the air was different. Miller found he couldn’t drink enough of it in. It seemed to be tinted blue or green. An independent life form just like the trees, the cattle and the crops he was passing by.

  At this moment Miller felt as content as he could remember feeling. Happiness is fleeting though. You should kiss joy as it flies, wrote the poet. Miller remembered his lordship quoting a poem by a man called Blake. Miller agreed with the sentiment. The moment we feel happiest is the moment the first cloud usually appears.

  It did so with Miller. The image of Ida came into his mind as it did often these days. Those days in Paris seemed like a lifetime ago. Miller forced his thoughts away from her and back to the road. Riding a motorcycle was fun albeit a tad dangerous. He had to keep his mind on what was in front of him.

  Around twenty minutes later, three hours after he had set off, Miller saw the first sign that he was nearing his destination. On the crest of a hill, he saw some large stones standing upright. Miller slowed down to get a better look at Stonehenge. He’d heard of it, of course. His basic schooling had given him some history. When his lordship had told him of the new mission, he’d gone to the library and found out a little more.

  He pulled over to the side of the road and climbed off the bike. Moments later he was clambering over the low perimeter fence and walking up the slight incline to the stones. He could see a few pilgrim lamps in the distance. He stopped and sat down on the grass around fifty yards from the outer perimeter of the prehistoric circle. It
was now around three forty in the morning. A low mist had descended shrouding the base of the stone monoliths.

  As the sunrise approached, the number of the people carrying lamps gradually increased. There was a mixture of men and women but no more than thirty or forty in total. Most were clad in overcoats. A small group of around five people wore white robes. Their faces were hidden by what Miller guessed were false beards. He looked at them and felt like laughing. On the whole he decided it would not be a good idea. Rising reluctantly from the grass he walked slowly towards the pilgrims.

  With each step forward he felt a queer, sickening thrill pass through him. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for the reassuring presence of metal, the keys of his motorcycle. Miller noticed a few other stragglers like him approaching the stone circle. This was a relief.

  The five robed figures were now in the centre of the henge. Miller sensed that the light was beginning to change. Night was beginning to give way to the day. A light wind rose up from nowhere. The only sound he could hear was the clicking of the lamps against the poles and the rustle of leaves in the trees. No one looked at him as he joined the circle. All eyes were fixed on the priests.

  The oddness of what he was witnessing was made more eerie by the utter absence of noise. It gave him a sense that something inhuman was impending. He felt a prickling sensation on his skin and his palms began to sweat a little despite the chill. In truth, if he could have run, he would have, and he was not a man easily given to fear. But his legs were rooted to the spot even if his heart was not.

  As the first rays of sunlight broke through the stones one of the druid priests let out a cry which caused Miller to jump halfway out of his skin. He crouched immediately ready for a fight, flight or both.

  The autumn equinox had begun.

  A number of the others in the crowd joined in the chant. Miller glanced at a man standing near him. They exchanged looks. Beside him was a young and not unattractive woman with long golden hair, dressed in Saxon costume. Unlike the man holding her hand, she was chanting with the others. The man noticed that Miller was as perplexed by the whole business as he was. His mouth formed a half smile, and he rolled his eyes in the way chaps do when they know their better half is probably right but for the life of them, they can’t see how. A mixture of duty, uncertainty and a desire for an easy life forbade further enquiry on the part of said chap.

  Miller nodded and mouthed, ‘Good luck.’

  The man grinned back and mouthed a thank you.

  The chanting reached a climax, quite literally if the look on the faces of some people was anything to go by. The level of excitement in the crowd was at a pitch and some of the pilgrims started dancing as the sun appeared into view. This had the odd effect of relaxing Miller who was able to focus his attention on the apparent leaders of this eccentric group of sun worshippers.

  After an hour of fairly excruciating singing and incomprehensible chants, the revellers began to disappear. Whether through exhaustion or, more likely, the whittling away of their audience, the druid priests decided to end the ceremony.

  Miller followed them at a distance. Luckily, he was one among many. It appeared that the modern druid relied less on being carried by celestial spirits than they did on the modern motor car. And chauffeurs. Miller watched them disrobe at their cars, capturing to memory as much as he could of the individuals as well noting details of their cars.

  He watched all of the druids leave in a convoy before retracing his footsteps towards the henge and then onwards to where he had hidden his motorcycle. A few stragglers remained at the monument, but the plain was mostly empty. Within a few minutes, Miller was on his way again.

  His journey took him south towards Salisbury. The spire of the cathedral hove into view. It was around seven in the morning and the town was still sleeping. Miller parked his bike in Choristers Square and sat in the grounds of the cathedral. An hour later the Bell Tower Tea Rooms opened, and he was able to have breakfast. Although replenished, the lack of sleep was getting to him. By nine he was back on his bike and heading towards his next destination: the estate of the Earl of Hertwood.

  The journey took around half an hour. Part of the large estate encroached into the New Forest. Miller had been given specific instruction by Kit on where to go and rest up. It was clear from the directions provided by Kit that he was very familiar with the area. Many summers had been spent there with his friend Olly Lake. Miller had no problem locating the small hut in the middle of the forest. According to Kit, it had been built nearly two decades before by him and his former friend.

  The hut was around six feet square and leaned against one of the large oak trees. Miller wheeled the bike to the other side of the oak and made a small fire using sticks and leaves. He had a long wait ahead. He knew there was no point in trying to deny himself sleep. Having warmed himself sufficiently, he put the fire out. Ambling into the hut, he settled down into a bed of leaves and made himself comfortable.

  Sleep came easily. A deep, dreamless sleep.

  It was the crack of twigs that woke him up. He sat up startled. In the doorway was a man gazing down at him. It was difficult to tell with the sleep in his eyes, but it looked to Miller like he was holding a rifle.

  18

  ‘This looks like it here,’ said Agatha pointing to a large townhouse. The two ladies had just driven through Regent’s Park and up through the tree-lined streets of St John’s Wood. On each side of the street were large, well-made houses.

  ‘I gather this area is supposed to be improving.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Betty. ‘You could fool me. I imagine it’s full of artists, writers and actors and the like. Which is all very well, I suppose.’

  Agatha glanced at her friend and assumed that it meant nothing of the sort.

  Betty Simpson slowed the car down as they drove past the house spotted by Agatha. They could see a number of people arriving at the entrance which further confirmed to them that they had the right place.

  ‘Over there,’ said Agatha, pointing to a car parking space.

  ‘Yes, I’m not blind dear.’

  ‘Just trying to help. You don’t have to be like that.’

  ‘I know you’re just trying to help but perhaps if you could assume a modicum of intelligence on my part it would be a tremendous comfort to me.’

  Agatha looked at her friend of over sixty years and shrugged her shoulders. This was part of their daily discourse. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small silver hipflask. It was slightly larger than her hand and it glinted in the light. Agatha held it up for Betty to see.

  ‘Dutch courage.’

  ‘Good idea.

  Betty parked the car and pulled out of her handbag a matching silver flask. They clinked flasks and prepared themselves spiritually, emotionally and, it must be said, liberally for battle. Duly fortified, they debouched from the car like two aunts going to a séance which, in this case, they were.

  As they approached the house Betty whispered, ‘Don’t you think it has a certain atmosphere about it?’

  ‘No, dear.’

  The house was actually a low-built mansion with a carriage driveway and iron railing fence. There were four well-dressed people chatting outside. None of them was younger than forty. The group comprised three women, two of whom were at least as mature as the two aunts and an equally mature man.

  ‘I don’t recognise any of them,’ said Agatha in a whisper.

  ‘I don’t either,’ agreed Betty.

  The two ladies were greeted with smiles from the group outside the house. Agatha and Betty put on their sunniest faces for the group and soon all were ascending a handful of steps towards the house.

  Betty gave the door a fairly vigorous rap which might have rocked a less solidly-constructed house to its foundations. She received a nod of approval from Agatha. No point in keeping their arrival secret. This approach had stood Betty in good stead for many decades and worked a treat once more. The sound of feet running to the d
oor was distinctly audible to the amused onlookers on the doorstep.

  ‘Never fails,’ confirmed Agatha, nodding to the others. The importance of establishing from the outset who was in charge was an article of faith for Agatha.

  ‘Have you done this before?’ asked Betty of one of the party as the door was opened by a butler.

  The man and two of the older women nodded. The younger one looked a little sheepish and nervous. Clearly a first timer.

  They stepped into the house. The hall was decorated, floor to ceiling, in the current art deco style. Agatha did her best not to look appalled. Failure was inevitable and she was unable to stop herself saying, ‘Good lord.’

  This is not to say that Agatha was in any way antithetical to the art deco style. In fact, there were quite a number of pieces of furniture at Agatha’s Grosvenor Square residence that any discerning eye would have happily labelled as part of this movement without fear of reproach from their host. However, confronted with such a singular lack of variety, the impact of the décor was overwhelming, probably vulgar and certainly lacking in taste. One look from Agatha to Betty reinforced the impression both felt that the investigation was unlikely to move very far forward.

  The butler led them through to a large drawing room. They were greeted by a man and a woman who introduced themselves as Rupert and Dorothy Bell. The couple were at that indeterminate age of forty to sixty. If they were the former, things were going downhill fast. If the latter, they were well-preserved.

  ‘I say, so jolly good of you to come,’ said Rupert Bell to his guests. The older couple were obviously known to the hosts suggesting they had been before. Everyone else appeared to be new.

  ‘Can I offer anyone a drink?’ asked Rupert Bell, clearly keen to make a good impression with his guests or, at the very least, desensitise them. His wife, meanwhile, remained slightly distant from the group and no one sought to speak to her. Agatha feared, correctly as it turned out, that she was the medium.