The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  The diminutive clergyman stepped forward into the house much to the distress of Sir Watkyn who’d not quite regained his senses sufficiently to tell him where to go. He was followed by his Amazonian wife or assistant. Sir Watkyn hadn’t quite worked out the relationship between them never mind its logistics.

  ‘Is it this way to the drawing room?’ asked Threepwood with a smile.

  Sir Watkyn spluttered something in the affirmative, and before he could say ‘Damn your eyes,’ the three of them were sitting down.

  ‘There’s no need to give us a cup of tea,’ said Threepwood to a man for whom tea was the last thing he wanted to offer. ‘We’ve had so much tea on our rounds. Haven’t we, dear?’

  ‘Indeed, my love, we have,’ said the Amazonian putting her hand on Threepwood’s knee, thereby confirming the relationship in Sir Watkyn’s mind but throwing up all sorts of other things that, frankly, did not bear thinking about.

  ‘In fact, my dear, I rather think that the tea is beginning to have an effect, if you know what I mean.’

  The timbre of the voice was not unattractive; her accent suggested a woman who had married well. Looking at the two of them together, Sir Watkyn wondered how they had married at all. He slowly became aware that they were looking at him expectantly. What had she said? In truth he hadn’t been listening. Married chaps have years of training in not listening. The occasional nod of the head and general comment, at seven second intervals, gives the happy impression to the distaff side that they are hanging on every last word.

  ‘My wife was perhaps suggesting in a rather delicate manner that she has need of the ladies room,’ said the Reverend Threepwood.

  Sir Watkyn glanced once more towards Mrs Threepwood. He could see nothing very delicate about her, in truth. He reckoned she would give Jack Dempsey a run for his money. Bare knuckle.

  ‘It’s up the stairs. Second door on the right,’ said Sir Watkyn, slowly regaining his composure, if not his senses.

  The two men watched Mrs Threepwood leave. One with his eyes full of love, the other with the sort of horror one feels when one knows it’s a nightmare and you can’t quite manage to wake.

  Threepwood turned to Sir Watkyn again and smiled. Whatever the charity, the poor knight had reached a point where he would happily have contributed anything just to be rid of this awful man.

  ‘I notice a picture of a beautiful lady over the mantelpiece.’

  ‘It was my wife,’ said Sir Watkyn, softening.

  ‘Oh,’ said Threepwood, ‘I’m most terribly sorry if I have been indelicate. I’m a believer we shall all meet again in the future at His house.’

  Aware that Sir Watkyn had temporarily lost the thread of his consolatory reflections, Threepwood put his hands together and looked heavenwards. The light of understanding reappeared in Sir Watkyn’s eyes. Threepwood also recognised impatience when he saw it. He hoped Mrs Threepwood, better known to him as Alice Diamond, would make the search in double quick time.

  -

  Upstairs, Alice Diamond was making a rapid search of the rooms. Each door was opened. Each door revealed a bedroom. All were empty. It was with a heavy heart that she closed each door and went to the next. There were rich pickings to be had and no mistake. For another time maybe.

  She returned to the corridor and looked at the paintings on the wall. It occurred to her that she should educate herself on art. Where there was oil paint, there was money. Although quite why anyone would invest money in some of the hideous faces adorning this particular corridor only Christ, alone, knew.

  There was another set of stairs at the end of the corridor. They were quite narrow, and Alice Diamond had to duck a little to avoid banging her head. She ascended quickly and arrived at a corridor with three doors. The first door was opened. Another empty bedroom. The second proved likewise. As she was about to open the third door, she heard sounds emanating from inside the room. These sounds were distinctly human and required no further investigation on the part of Alice Diamond.

  -

  The door opened to the drawing room a few minutes later bringing salvation for both the Reverend Threepwood and Sir Watkyn, who rose immediately to his feet and went to the door. This didn’t so much suggest as shout that the meeting was over. Sir Watkyn was now back in command of his emotions; chief among these was ill-disguised irritation. The door shut behind Reverend Threepwood and Alice Diamond with an indecent haste. Under normal circumstances this might have offended the lady and the man of the cloth. However, what Sir Watkyn lacked in genteel good manners he made up for in the generosity of his desire to be rid of his guests.

  ‘I’m beginning to like this detective lark’ said the Reverend Threepwood waving three pound notes in the face of his accomplice. They both laughed and went forward to the next address on the list. One down, sixteen houses to go.

  -

  Two mornings later, Kit sat in Wag McDonald’s office listening to the gang leader recount how matters were progressing.

  ‘Do you know ‘Soapy’ Smith by any chance?’ asked McDonald.

  ‘No, I can’t say I’ve across the name,’ admitted Kit to McDonald.

  ‘Bert’s a confidence trickster. Long cons, shorts cons. He does ‘em all. He’s been working the charity job with Alice.’

  ‘Which is?’

  McDonald explained the mechanics of the operation much to the amusement of his guest.

  ‘I must warn Harry about this in case our paths should cross with Mr Smith’s.’

  ‘He’s made good progress,’ said McDonald.

  ‘I suspect that’s not all he’s made.’

  McDonald laughed but admitted nothing. Then he looked a little more serious.

  ‘None of the houses have any temple that Alice could find. There’s still four to do. Three of them refused him entry, so we’re having to look at other ways of getting access.’

  ‘Do you need Harry’s help?’

  McDonald grinned and looked thoughtful.

  ‘Let’s see how things go but we might have to consider something like this.’

  ‘How will they manage to gain entry?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Well, he can always try the accident job. Leave it to Bert, he’ll think of something.’

  Kit rose and shook hands with McDonald.

  ‘I think I’ll need to rescue Harry now. Your associate, Miss Hill, seems very interested in him.

  ‘Good luck to him,’ said McDonald chuckling at the poor man’s predicament. He rose and walked with Kit to the door. ‘Might come along with you. Maggie has a bit of a temper. You’d never guess of course, what with all that red hair.’

  The two men walked out of the office and then downstairs through the saloon bar. Up ahead they saw Miller sitting in the car. In the passenger seat was a young woman. Miller’s face was a healthy combination of martyrdom and no little fear. His relief at seeing the arrival of Kit stopped just short of him bounding up to his lordship with his tail wagging.

  Across the street, Kit saw a now familiar figure of a man. He was reading the morning newspaper. A hat pulled over his head made it difficult to discern his features. A thought struck Kit and he turned to Wag McDonald.

  ‘By the way, I was wondering if I could ask a small favour of you? I’d be happy to pay.’

  Wag McDonald nodded and smiled when he heard the commission.

  -

  Bert ‘Soapy’ Smith, otherwise known as the very Reverend Threepwood, stood with Alice Diamond across the road from a large house in Hampstead. It was a tree-lined avenue just a short walk from the heath. His patience was wearing a little bit thin. There was more than a hint of rain in the air. Not quite pouring but not a refreshing spit either.

  Smith looked up at the leaden sky and gave vent to his thoughts in a manner that was distinctly ungodly. This coincided with an elderly pedestrian walking past. She stopped and looked aghast at the Reverend. If his language regarding the inclemency of the weather had been colourful it was as nothing compared to the next two words he
uttered. Both were directed towards her. This achieved the desired result sending the old lady scuttling off in a state of shock.

  ‘Was that necessary?’ asked Alice Diamond, shaking her head although she was highly amused.

  ‘Old baggage,’ was all Smith could muster by way of justification.

  ‘Look,’ said Alice Diamond suddenly. Soapy Smith followed the line of her outstretched arm.

  ‘I see it. Right. Looks like we’re in business.’

  Up ahead, a large car was driving at what can only be described as a stately pace. It was a Bentley and the silver gleamed, or at least, it would have, had there been even a ray of sunshine.

  Soapy Smith crouched behind one of the cars parked on the road. A few moments later he walked out in front of the oncoming car. He slightly mistimed his sudden appearance. He was too early. The car stopped promptly forcing Smith to hurl himself forward onto the bonnet of the car. From inside screams of anguish and anger could be heard. Two people emerged from the car in great haste to see the none-too-greatly injured vicar. One was an elderly woman wearing a short fur coat and a pearl necklace. The other was a young, suited chauffeur.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ exclaimed the elderly woman.

  Her chauffeur looked shaken although a lot less sympathetic. His suspicions were doused immediately by the arrival of Alice Diamond.

  ‘Oh, my dear, speak to me, speak to me,’ she cried dramatically.

  ‘Is he alive?’ asked the elderly woman.

  Soapy Smith made some sounds that passably could have come from an injured man. They were vigorous enough to indicate pain but reassured, more importantly for the shocked onlookers, that death was not imminent.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Soapy Smith in a voice that indicated he was anything but. He tried to get up off the ground. ‘Please, it’s just a scratch.’

  The chauffeur looked at the elderly woman hopefully. The last thing he wanted was censure for an accident of which he had not the slightest culpability. In fact, he’d been moments away from pointing this out, rather forcibly, when he saw the collar worn by Smith.

  ‘My own fault,’ said Soapy Smith, accepting the arm of the chauffeur around his shoulders. He leaned heavily on the young man. Alice Diamond put her arm and considerably more strength to haul the stricken minister in the direction of the woman’s house.

  The elderly woman replied, ‘You must come inside.’

  It would have been rude to refuse. A minute or three later, Smith was lying on a sofa and the elderly woman ratcheted up the care of the injured man to the third highest level offered in Britain at that time, just behind a doctor attending or a surgical procedure; tea was ordered.

  In a voice groaning with stoicism, Soapy Smith introduced himself to the elderly woman.

  ‘My lady, I’m most terribly sorry to put you to this distress. It was entirely my own stupidity. My name is Reverend Threepwood. This is my wife, Mrs Threepwood. My good lady and I are collecting for poor relief.’

  Alice Diamond smiled hopefully at the elderly woman and then said, ‘I’m very sorry to ask, but all this excitement I’m most terribly in need of the ladies room.’

  You’re most terribly in need of acting lessons, thought Soapy Smith, but remained silent as the woman gave Alice Diamond directions to the bathroom.

  ‘Collecting for poor relief, did you say?’ asked the elderly woman reaching for her handbag.

  A smile materialised on the face of the Reverend. His teeth appeared like a dozen grey dreadnoughts ready for scuttling. She handed him five pounds.

  ‘You’re too generous.’

  He grimaced as he reached to take the pound notes.

  26

  ‘So, no wedding then?’ asked Kit as he and Miller drove along the embankment. It was raining gently, and the Thames had a slight mist obscuring its grey, brown colour. It was a vast improvement, thought Kit.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Miller. ‘I think the sooner you catch this killer the better, sir.’

  Kit laughed but, in truth, he felt far from jovial. The conclusion to the case was as far away now as when he’d started. They badly needed a break. A mistake. Luck. Either would do right now. Up ahead he saw the Scotland Yard Building emerge from behind some trees.

  A few minutes later Kit was sitting with Jellicoe and Sergeant Wellbeloved. The atmosphere between them was less charged than before. As much as he may have deplored the methods of Wellbeloved, there was no questioning his doggedness. Kit’s suspicion that the sergeant was working extraordinarily long hours was confirmed partly by the look on Jellicoe’s face as well as by the report from Wellbeloved on the number of people he had interviewed.

  ‘We still, however, do not know the name of the most recent victim,’ said Wellbeloved by way of conclusion. ‘We’ve been through every missing person in the country now. Only seven matched the description and estimated age of the young woman.’

  Kit rubbed his eyes although it was probably Wellbeloved who was the more tired of

  the two.

  ‘What will you do next?’

  At that moment there was a knock on the door. A man entered or, to be more accurate, made an entrance. Had Kit not felt so despondent he might have been amused by the man’s manner.

  ‘Hello, Mr Watts,’ said Jellicoe.

  ‘Ahh Chief Inspector, so good to see you looking gay as ever,’ said Watts airily.

  At this point Rufus Watts, the chief artist at Scotland Yard noticed Kit. He stopped for a moment and made a point of studying him closely. He seemed to like what he saw.

  ‘Who do we have here?’

  Jellicoe did manage to smile at this point. He glanced at Kit and then back to the police artist.

  ‘This is Lord Aston, Mr Watts.’

  Kit felt that there was a degree of theatre in the way Rufus Watts exaggerated how impressed he was. The light clap of the hand, the brushing back of a stray lock of his rather long hair and his exclamation, ‘Well, this is an honour.’

  Kit wasn’t quite sure how much Watts was honoured or how much the little man was making fun of him.

  ‘I picked these up from the photographer.’

  Jellicoe broke the seal of the envelope. He took out a thick pile of photostats and placed them on the table. Kit picked one up and looked at it. He felt his skin prickle. Two things were apparent to him immediately. He recognised the work of Watts from a pair of cases he’d solved earlier in the year. More importantly, there was something about the young woman.

  Jellicoe had a sense of these things. Normally, these images were glanced at then ignored. Kit was staring at the drawing of the young woman. Finally, he looked up at Watts and then Jellicoe.

  ‘I must congratulate you, Mr Watts. This is remarkable. Very lifelike.’

  The artist waved his hand in a manner that suggested such compliments meant nothing to him when, in fact, they meant the world.

  ‘Congratulations to you too, Chief Inspector,’ said Kit. ‘I think this makes much more sense than publishing a picture of a dead young woman. I dread to think what the reaction would be.’

  ‘This image will be in the evening papers,’ confirmed Jellicoe. ‘The sergeant and a number of my men will visit some shelters for homeless women now.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ asked Kit.

  ‘I’m not sure that there is but take one of the images anyway. Who knows?’

  This effectively ended the meeting. Kit left the office and negotiated the stairs down to the ground floor. As he walked, he studied the image. There was definitely something familiar about her. He managed, more by good luck than good grace, to avoid any collision with a car as he crossed the road and headed towards the Rolls.

  ‘Back home, I think, Harry.’

  ‘What’s that, sir’ asked Miller, indicating the photostat.

  Kit showed the image to Miller.

  ‘May I?’

  Miller took hold of the picture and looked at it intently. It was something in Miller’s reaction.
/>   ‘Do you recognise her, Harry?’

  Miller shrugged in the manner of a man who is almost embarrassed to say what was on his mind.

  ‘Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I think she looks very much like Patty Tunstall. Countess Laskov’s maid.’

  Kit looked at the image again.

  ‘Good lord, you’re right,’ exclaimed Kit. ‘Of course.’ He stared at the picture for a moment longer. ‘We need to tell Jellicoe. Not a moment to lose.’

  -

  Jellicoe was silent for a moment as he studied Kit. It was not in his nature to be excited about anything. However, he had instincts about people. About things. The amateur detective was for the penny bloods. Jellicoe had always believed this. Yet here, now, once again, a case was potentially opening up before his eyes. The way forward was clear. All thanks to a man who came straight from the pages of fiction.

  He almost laughed. Almost. It was too serious a business. Instead, his mind turned to the case as it always did. The problem to be solved. It was the same every day of his working life. By virtue of his rank, his experience and his competence, the questions he had to answer were never easy. More than this, the problems he faced were as harrowing as they were heart-breaking. When he finished this case there would be another. Then another.

  But for the moment it was just this case, these killings and the killer. More than one killer, probably. Almost certainly male. Ending the lives of young women. He felt a wave of anger course through his body. Of course, he would take help from whatever source he could. Didn’t he always?

  Finding the truth was more important to him than anything else. However, there were lines he would not cross. The faces of Bulstrode and Wellbeloved came into his mind. Yet here he was now, not only consorting with criminals and nobility, but working with them. He knew the world was mad. He saw the human misery caused by this madness. Was he going mad as well?