The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Hello,’ said Kit to the black cat.

  The cat glanced up at Kit before shutting its eyes.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re glad we’re back, anyway,’ said Kit. He stroked the cat behind its ears and was rewarded by rather loud purring.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be missing his collar,’ said Miller.

  ‘I’m sure he’s delighted to be rid of it,’ agreed Kit. ‘Beastly looking thing it was.’

  Richard Bright arrived back to the apartment half an hour later. Kit looked up in surprise at his entrance.

  ‘Oh, I thought you’d be with Esther still.’

  ‘No, she kicked me out of the house when Mary arrived back. She wanted to hear about the case. I’m not quite sure why that necessitated my departure but there you go. The girls have their ways I suppose.’

  Kit smiled and nodded in agreement without saying anything. Bright sat down opposite Kit and looked at Simpkins in surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kit, ‘For the time being, anyway, I have my seat back.'

  Just as he said this, the telephone in the apartment rang. Miller picked it up on the third ring.

  ‘Lord Kit Aston’s residence.’

  Moments later Miller looked at Kit.

  ‘Sir, it’s the Chief Inspector.’

  Kit went over to Miller and took the phone. He listened for a minute and then said, ‘I shall be there directly.’ He replaced the phone and looked at Bright.

  ‘There’s been another murder.’

  22

  The chamber was dimly lit. Five black candles were positioned at the edge of a circle. Inside the circle was a floor decoration. A star. The candelabra stood at the point of each star. A raised concrete slab lay in the middle of the circle. It was around two feet high with a black cloth draped over the top.

  It was dressed like an altar.

  Lying on the altar was a young woman. She was unclothed and unconscious. Standing inside the circle were a dozen men and women. All, bar four, of the congregation were dressed in thin white cotton shifts. Standing at the head of the altar, dressed in white robes, were four people. One was holding a large ancient leather book and murmuring an ancient language. Another older man was holding a knife.

  Music wafted around the chamber, but no musician was present. The melody was as compelling as it was discordant. It echoed around the walls but did not drown out the sound of the ritual taking place. The robed figure holding the book faced the altar, back to the congregation. The ceremony continued as the priest read words from the book. There followed a murmured response from those present.

  The priest reached the end of the reading and turned to face the congregation. The book was held aloft, and all bowed before it in awed silence. After a few moments of quiet supplication, the book was lowered and handed to a neophyte from the congregation. Another neophyte stepped forward and handed the priest a chalice.

  The priest intoned a prayer while holding the chalice. Then, turning to the other robed figure, bowed. The congregation began to chant an ancient petition. It began as a slow murmur. But with each canto the volume increased. The voices grew louder and louder. The chant beat like a steady pulse. They were no longer a congregation of individuals. The pulse was of a single organism. Their voices, their breathing, their excitement and their fear were one.

  The throb of voices grew louder and began to reach its crescendo. As it did so, it lost its cohesion, and the individual components became more distinct. The noise from the neophytes was now no longer a chant. They were screaming. A blood lust bathed their eyes. And then they saw the glint of a knife raised.

  The screams grew louder and then all was quiet.

  -

  Chief Inspector Jellicoe stood with Sergeant Wellbeloved overlooking a ditch. Below them lay the dead body of a young woman, half submerged. They were in Hyde Park, near the Albert Memorial. The night’s chill permeated through the layers of clothing they were wearing. Around them half a dozen police constables created a cordon around the area.

  ‘What’s keeping French?’ asked Jellicoe with more than a trace of irritation in his voice.

  ‘We couldn’t locate him, sir,’ replied Wellbeloved. ’We’ve sent someone to his house.’

  Jellicoe nodded and looked behind Wellbeloved. The sergeant turned around and saw Kit walking towards them accompanied by another man that Jellicoe half recognised. They arrived a minute or two later and Jellicoe shook hands with them both. Kit introduced his friend as Dr Richard Bright. Jellicoe remembered who he was now.

  ‘We’re waiting for Dr French,’ explained Jellicoe. He looked at Bright. The man before him was obviously from a privileged class but, based on the suit he was wearing, the youngest son. Jellicoe remembered he was to be married to Lady Esther Cavendish. They would make a handsome couple. Impatient to move ahead with the investigation, a thought struck the Chief Inspector as he regarded Bright.

  ‘Perhaps Dr Bright might do an initial inspection of the young lady?’

  Bright nodded in agreement and stepped down to the edge of the ditch. He heard the Chief Inspector urge him not to disturb the area around the corpse.

  ‘Can you shine a couple of those torches on the body, please?’

  Two of the constables did as they were requested.

  ‘I would say no older than thirty, probably younger.,’ said Bright, kneeling down. ‘I can’t see any signs of a struggle. There’s no bruising visible. He lifted her arm and then replaced it. Given the cold and the state of rigor, I would say that she’s been dead no more than a two to four hours. It might be more, but I doubt it. Without moving the body, I would be surprised if the cause of death isn’t the wound to the neck. I think the marks on her stomach were added after she was killed. Is there anything else you want me to add, Chief Inspector?’

  There were no questions from either Jellicoe or Wellbeloved. Kit helped Bright back up onto the pathway.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Bright. Sorry for pressing you into service. We’re having trouble locating our coroner, French.’

  ‘He of the whiskers?’ asked Kit.

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘Who found her?’ asked Kit.

  Jellicoe pointed to a park attendant standing near one of the constables.

  ‘We’ve taken a statement,’ added Jellicoe, ‘but he did not see anyone in the vicinity. The murderer chose the location well. Visibility is poor, particularly at this time of night and there are never many people around except maybe a drunk or a tramp. We have a few policemen looking for anyone that might have seen something. I’m not optimistic.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Dr French and his whiskers made it to the crime scene. Underneath his overcoat, the good doctor was wearing a dinner suit and wellington boots. He gave a cursory nod to Jellicoe, ignored Wellbeloved completely and stared at Kit with a puzzled expression before carefully climbing down towards the ditch.

  ‘Young woman. Twenty five or so. Cause of death? Probably a knife to the throat. Been dead no more than five hours. I presume you’ve taken all the photographs you need. She’s fine to be collected.’

  With that he jerked his arm at one of the constables who descended a few feet to help up out of the ditch.

  ‘Anything else I can help you with? My wife will give me merry hell for this,’ said French, with no effort to disguise his irritation.

  ‘No, Dr French, thank you,’ said Jellicoe.

  ‘Good,’ replied French. ‘I had to borrow these boots and they hurt damnably.’

  With this revelation he limped away from the scene. Jellicoe looked at Kit and then Dr Bright. There was nothing more to say about the crime or about short-tempered doctor for that matter.

  ‘I’ll call in with you tomorrow,’ said Kit. ‘I may have some things to tell you.’

  Jellicoe nodded absently. His attention was now back with the young woman and the need to carry out a more detailed inspection of the area. He waved as Kit and Bright walked back towards the exit.

  ‘Horrible,’ said B
right grimly. ‘We need to catch this vile beast.’

  Kit couldn’t agree more. However, at that moment the only things that made sense to him made no sense at all. His heart was heavy but there was anger there also. Anger at the role played by his sex, his class in these deaths. Now there was another element of frustration. This would be resolved tomorrow when he saw Smith-Cumming and Kell.

  They had some explaining to do.

  23

  Vernon Kell, head of MI5(g) gave his spectacles a wipe and glanced towards his opposite number in MI6. Smith-Cumming took out a pocket watch and looked down at the face. It was a Patek-Phillippe he’d picked up for a song in France. He turned to Kell and shrugged.

  ‘It’s not like Kit to be late. Usually set your watch by him.’

  Kell looked unhappy. He’d cancelled two meetings in order to attend. He was a busy man. Had this been any other topic and a request from any other man, his response would have been brief and unlikely to involve words of more than one syllable.

  The two men were sitting in Green Park. The mood of Kell was probably not helped by the undoubted nip in the air and the presence of a crying baby nearby. Smith-Cumming looked at Kell and smiled. Such lack of patience. The deep furrow running vertically on his brow was there for a reason that went beyond solely mother nature playing a joke.

  “C” turned his attention towards the child who was around four years old. The hell-child was in the middle of an epic tantrum. He smiled sympathetically towards the mother. She seemed embarrassed. Smith-Cumming pointed to the child and by a hand signal, suggested he come over.

  Kell looked on in horror as the child stopped crying for moment and stared at the two men. Then Smith-Cumming took out a sixpence and brandished it to the young child. The boy turned to its mother and, after receiving a nod, ran towards Smith-Cumming to receive what, by any standard, was an ill-deserved reward. With each step closer, Kell’s horror of the hell-child grew.

  From a distance he’d merely seemed unspeakable. With each step closer, the child’s dirty face and the nose was now revealed in its full horror. Kell looked away unable to stomach the sight of so much unwiped mucus. It was at this point he caught sight of Kit Aston walking slowly toward them. He was swinging his walking stick. The free, almost joyful, swing of the stick was at odds with a face that was set to stone.

  The child ran off just as Kit arrived at the park bench.

  ‘Shall we take a walk?’ suggested Smith-Cumming affably. He could immediately see the rage on the young man’s face. Kell rose and the two men walked either side of Kit.

  There was no greeting from Kit. He went straight to it.

  ‘When were you planning on telling me that Eva Kerr was one of yours?’

  Kell looked as startled at the intensity of Kit’s glare as at his directness. Both could hear Smith-Cumming chuckling beside them.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny, Cumming,’ said Kell waspishly.

  ‘Don’t you?’ replied Smith-Cumming.

  The three men walked in silence for the next minute or so then Smith-Cumming spoke again.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what you think, and we’ll confirm how much it tallies with the facts.’

  Kit was not happy about this and said as much. However, he recognised that this was likely to be the only way to get the two heads of Britain’s Secret Intelligence to admit anything.

  ‘Eva Kerr is an alias or a stage name for someone who claims to be a medium. She is probably with MI5. She is implicated in the murder of Philip Hanley if only because she told the police where to find the body. This potentially means that MI5 has murdered a man who was in possession of photographs of our Minister of War associating with modern day druids. For reasons that I cannot be sure of, although I can hazard a guess, MI5 and MI6 are collaborating in the blackmail of one of His Majesty’s cabinet ministers. I have lost count of the number of laws that have been broken so far, but I suspect there would be enough to put both of you in prison for a long time.’

  ‘Good lord,’ said Kell.

  Smith-Cumming laughed again and seemed genuinely entertained by Kit’s remarks.

  ‘Well Kit, I must congratulate you on a fascinating, albeit flawed, theory.’

  ‘Flawed?’

  ‘It’s true that Miss Kerr is a stage name of sorts. I shan’t go into who she is but suffice to say she is innocent of any crimes and has played her role remarkably well. As to the murder you described, and blackmail…’

  Smith-Cumming paused for a moment and wiped his monocle.’

  ‘Both are true, but the finger does not point towards us. Which is not to say that we have not tried to take advantage of the situation. Shall we stop over there?’

  Smith-Cumming pointed to a low standing wall which curved in a manner that would facilitate a face to face conversation. They went over to the wall and sat down.

  ‘Let me explain,’ continued Smith-Cumming. ‘Some months ago, Mr Churchill was sent the photograph you have in your possession. The photograph is actually a cropped version of the original which shows a rather larger group. Dozens, according to Churchill. Written on the back of the photograph was a promise that further communication would follow. This is the point at which my friend Kell, here, enters the picture. He ascertained from Churchill who might have taken the photograph and sent people to speak to this man. Unfortunately, when they arrived, he was already dead. Murdered, in fact. A search of the premises revealed no more plates related to the original.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have done this?’

  ‘We believe it was either Russia or, more likely, our friends at ORCA,’ replied Kell.

  ‘So how, or more to the point, why, did you dream up this medium angle.’

  The two men glanced at one another rather shamefacedly if Kit’s intuition was correct. Kell answered the question.

  ‘The body of Hanley was found by one of my people operating in the York area.’

  ‘Eva Kerr? Or whatever she is called.’

  ‘Correct. She contacted me. At this point I let Cumming know of the latest development in the blackmail. As the man was dead, we decided to leave the scene of the crime. Obviously, we made a thorough search of the house.’

  ‘But why a medium?’

  Smith-Cumming’s grin grew wider. Kit had to admire the gall of the man.

  ‘Eva Kerr is a medium. At least she claims to count among her talents the ability to have out-of-the-body experiences as well as necromancy. I would add she has a number of clients who come to her on a frequent basis. Quite a lucrative career these days, I gather.’

  ‘Is she really a medium?’

  ‘Who knows?’ replied Smith-Cumming, clearly amused. ‘As a way of interrogating people, however, it is remarkably effective. I must congratulate you, Kell, on finding her.’

  Kell bowed his head. The two men seemed to be relaxing, although Smith-Cumming never seemed anything but in control. Kit remained frustrated by what he was hearing.

  ‘So, Eva Kerr reports the whereabouts of a dead body in one of her séances. Fine. I understand the mechanism. What I find difficult to grasp is why? And why have you brought me into this? And, I might add, wasted my time on a wild goose chase?’

  Smith-Cumming took over from Kell, sensing Kit’s growing irritation.

  ‘Both of our departments have suffered significant cuts in our budget, Kit, since the end of the war. This is one of the reasons we moved to our Holland Park address. We, that is Kell and I, have been looking for an opportunity to remind the government of the necessity of retaining a fully resourced Intelligence Service. We have merely connected a separate problem, the murders of the young women, to the existing one involving Churchill.’

  Kit remembered Jellicoe’s surprise at the number of murders revealed by Wellbeloved.

  ‘Does this mean the young woman in the photograph with Churchill was actually added afterwards. Or to put it another way; the murder photograph was staged.’

  ‘Yes. The young woman i
s alive and well, working in a private club that I can assure you I’ve never been to. We have Sergeant Wellbeloved to thank for this.’

  ‘Can I take it that Wellbeloved is one of your men?’ asked Kit looking at Kell. The head of MI5 smiled but did not answer. Kit continued, ‘But I thought Churchill was a supporter of the Intelligence agencies.’

  ‘Oh, he is,’ agreed Smith-Cumming, ‘None bigger. Quite rightly fears communism. He’s a good man to have on your side. We intend that he stay that way.’

  Wheels within wheels. Kit shook his head and, briefly, was grateful that “C” was on his side.

  Smith-Cumming continued, ‘I’m sorry that we had to make use of your abilities on what appears to be a side project. However, you must see, Kit, that there could be a connection between the murders of the young women and the sort of people who meddle in druidism and, dare I say it, Masonic lodges. We’re fishing in the same pool. We’re convinced of this.’

  ‘And my involvement in what, we all agree, is the bigger issue?’ asked Kit.

  ‘As I say, Kit. These dreadful murders are being committed by someone or people from the upper echelons of our society. The police have made no progress in a decade. The Commissioner came to Kell and asked for you specifically. It was felt that your undoubted capabilities as well as your access to the very highest society in the land could bring the success that has eluded the police. I must say, Kit, you’ve certainly brought new impetus to the case. We’re all dreadfully impressed by your progress.’

  Kit shook his head. The sense of frustration still burned within him.

  ‘I’ve made no progress and, thanks to the sophistry I’ve been listening to, I’ve wasted days on a wild goose chase.’

  Smith-Cumming shrugged but the smile did not leave his face. Criticism was like rainwater off a mackintosh to him.

  ‘Hardly a wild goose chase, Kit. Both Gresham and Hertwood would have been suspects anyway. Gresham because he is involved with spiritualism. He lost his middle son in the War; Hertwood for reasons that we all know. You’ve managed to piece together an extraordinary coalition of interests which certainly would not have occurred to the police. It seems no avenue of inquiry is being ignored. In point of fact, you are to be congratulated on your progress.’