The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  And yet these same women, during the war, had effectively dropped their protest and joined the effort to defeat Germany. Many women were recruited into jobs vacated by men who had gone to fight in the war. They worked in intolerable conditions in munitions factories, supporting the police, in transport as Esther had done and, of course, providing childcare.

  Their reward at the end of the war was a half-hearted acknowledgement of their effort: the right to vote for women over the age of thirty. The right to vote, that is, if they lived in a property with a rateable value above £5, or if their husband did.

  Kit shook his head. Or their husband did. What should have been a moment of reflection and atonement became yet another slap in their face. What had he done? Had he even thought about the movement over this period? Intellectual agreement was one thing, yet he’d done nothing in support of the movement’s aims. In a moment bordering on epiphany, he realised his objection wasn’t to Mrs Rosling so much as the light it cast on his own apathy.

  This had to change.

  -

  After stopping off for lunch at a country pub, they made it back to London in the early afternoon. The rain continued to beat a dismal reminder that winter was coming. It did little to improve the mood of any of the passengers. Each, including Sam, seemed lost in their own world.

  Kit joined Agatha as she made her way to the entrance of the Grosvenor Square mansion. There was no sign of Mary, or Esther for that matter. Agatha passed a large bouquet of flowers in the hall and went downstairs. There was music playing. It was classical but Kit did not recognise it. Rather than wait, Kit decided to return to the flat in Belgravia.

  ‘Hello, Richard,’ said Kit as he entered the apartment. ‘I thought you’d be with Esther.’

  ‘No, not today. She’s abandoned me to join Mary. I think she’s with those Suffragist types.’

  His voice was more lonely than amused or angry. Kit knew how he felt.

  ‘There’s a telegram, sir.’

  Miller bent down and picked the small envelope off the ground and handed it to Kit who tore open the envelope. One never opens a telegram. By its nature it was urgent. Therefore, one’s treatment of it should likewise reflect the need for alacrity. Moments later Miller heard Kit gasp.

  ‘Good lord.’

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘We’re leaving again,’ said Kit picking up Sam. ‘Sorry, old boy, you’ll have to stay here.’

  Sam barked at Kit, but his heart wasn’t in it. As soon as he was set down, he ran over to the sofa and sat near Simpkins who had opened one eye at their arrival before quickly realising his mistake and shutting it again.

  Bright was on his feet immediately and asked, ‘Can I tag along? Not doing much here. What’s happened, anyway?’

  ‘There’s been another murder,’ answered Kit, looking at both men.

  ‘Another woman?’ asked Miller.

  ‘No. Bentham.’

  Miller’s next thoughts were expressed more passionately than one would expect in a normal master servant relationship. However, the ease with which they associated and the reasons for this had long since rendered these thoughts redundant.

  ‘How could they let him be killed? Are they idiots?’ exclaimed Miller after his initial surprise gave way to a more reflective expression of his feelings.

  Kit did not believe this. One thought was uppermost in his mind. It had been there since early in the case and now it had risen again, taken flight and was dominating his field of vision. He felt sure that Jellicoe would be of a like mind.

  ‘Incredible as it may seem, I think one of the people committing these crimes is a policeman.’

  30

  Chief Inspector Jellicoe invited Kit and Bright to be seated. There was no sign of Wellbeloved. Outside the rain was getting heavier. For a moment the three men listened in collective awe at the low hum of the rain shower.

  ‘He’s still at the hotel taking statements,’ replied Jellicoe when Kit asked him the whereabouts of his sergeant.

  ‘Bentham is dead?’

  ‘Yes, your lordship. He was killed last night after he was dropped off at the hotel. A single cut to his throat.’

  This prompted a number of questions in Kit’s mind but rather than ask them, he let the Chief Inspector tell them all he knew.

  ‘We believe the death took place between eight and midnight last night. The hotel reception was, well it’s not the sort of place you would go to, was unmanned so the killer had no problem entering and finding out the location of Bentham. There was no police guard for the simple reason he was not under arrest nor had we any reason to believe his life was at risk. The body was found just inside the door. I would add the door was closed. It would seem he opened the door and the killer struck immediately. There’s nothing to suggest the killer actually entered the room. From this I would conclude Bentham may have recognised the man or woman. It certainly heightens the possibility it was one of the people he described last night. Another possibility suggests itself which I can scarcely credit.’

  ‘That the killer is in the police.’

  ‘Indeed. This means we have two avenues of inquiry. Firstly, we need to find out more about the people that he described to Watts.’

  ‘I’m afraid Doyle could not help us much there.’

  Jellicoe nodded but did not seem surprised.

  ‘In addition, we’ll need to understand who was in the Scotland Yard building yesterday that might have seen Bentham. There are dozens of people here, of course, but this does not mean they will have seen him or, indeed, have been aware he was here.’

  Kit nodded in agreement but was far from hopeful this would yield any result. It wasn’t necessary for anyone to have seen him. An overheard conversation might have been enough to condemn him.

  Jellicoe noted the look on Kit’s face and smiled.

  ‘I agree. I don’t hold out much hope either.’

  ‘We need to send the photostats to McDonald and Miss Diamond.’

  ‘Sergeant Wellbeloved did the needful earlier this morning, sir. The picture of Miss Tunstall will be in the evening paper. I hope this generates some leads related to her final days.‘

  ‘I’m sure it will, Chief Inspector.’

  The meeting had reached its conclusion so Kit and Bright stood up and went to the door. Bright turned to Jellicoe just as Kit opened the door.

  ‘Thank you again, milord,’ said Jellicoe shaking hands. ‘Good to see you again Dr Bright.’

  Bright had been listening to the conversation between the two men but said little. A thought stuck him, and he turned to the Chief Inspector.

  ‘May I ask a question?’

  ‘By all means, Dr Bright.’

  ‘Was the wound to the throat accomplished via a stabbing motion or a swiping motion.’

  Jellicoe seemed surprised by the question initially and then a slight smiled appeared somewhere beneath his beard.

  ‘It was a swiping motion. It’s conjecture, of course, but it would have been something like this.’

  Jellicoe demonstrated to Bright by sweeping his arm across his throat.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, it seems rather ghoulish to say, but there are not many blades that can butcher, so to speak, so cleanly. A razor blade might, if you can get close enough, or an attack from behind.’

  ‘Or?’

  Bright looked slightly embarrassed at having spoken. Then he smiled and told them the other type of blade that could have slayed Bentham with similarly deadly effect.

  -

  Aunt Agatha looked around the room with just enough of a hint of sniffiness to alert the people in her company that she was on the left hand side of upsettable.

  ‘It’s going downhill,’ said Agatha.

  At that moment a squeal of laughter from another dinner table somewhat cemented the view in Agatha’s mind and, perhaps, increased the respect Kit, Mary, Esther and Bright had for her foresight.

  Agatha raised her eyebrows as the s
queal was greeted with the male equivalent: a louder, stupider sound that began its journey into the open air from deep with the stomach of the emitter but found its freedom, invariably, through the nasal passages.

  If there was a look of triumph in Agatha’s eyes, it was no less than she deserved. She certainly gave truth to the proposition that you can demonstrate greater forbearance in a difficult situation if you’re in the right. From the outset she had held reservations about having dinner at Claridge’s but fell in at the insistence of Mary and Esther, itself a sign of the growing easiness in their respective relationships with Kit’s aunt.

  For Mary, the farm-like atmosphere in the dining room was paradoxically as horrifying as it was funny. As each table found new ways to bay their merriment to the wider world, Mary was caught between laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, her dismay at how Aunt Agatha would react and a lurking feeling of guilt at being in such a place when so many others were experiencing such hardship.

  Kit never needed any excuse to gaze at Mary. What she was thinking and feeling made its way through the electrical intensity of her eyes and the ever changing shapes of delight and dismay on her mouth. It made looking at his fiancée as much an intellectual pleasure as aesthetic. Tonight, though, as expert a reader of Mary’s mood as he was, he would have been hard pressed to understand the full range of her thoughts. Amusement, certainly. Horror probably, if only to see Aunt Agatha vindicated. Although that would have amused her, too.

  ‘So, with the photostats in circulation, the publication of poor Patty Tunstall’s picture in the paper, the police will have many avenues of inquiry now. I think Jellicoe is both happy at the opening up of the investigation but utterly despondent about the murder of Bentham. I’m worried that this could rebound on him,’ said Kit.

  ‘Really? Why should it?’ asked Esther.

  ‘He’s the man in charge of the investigation. Mind you, no one could have foreseen Bentham would be a target.’

  ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ responded Agatha before drinking some soup that, much to her surprise, met with her approval. Kit gleefully looked at his aunt as she wrestled with her conscience in whether to declare her liking for the soup or maintain her overall negative assessment of Claridge’s. Honesty won out, after a fashion.

  ‘The soup is better than I expected from this place.’

  Kit doubted the hotel would use this review in future publicity.

  ‘What does it mean, Aunt Agatha?’ asked Esther. She was everyone’s aunt now.

  Agatha fixed her Esther with a gaze.

  ‘It means that the only way the Chief Inspector is likely to escape censure is if he catches the killer and he proves to be a fellow police officer.’

  Once again, Kit marvelled at his aunt. She would have made a wonderful detective had she ever followed her obvious inclination and talent. For the second time that evening, Kit was almost right.

  -

  The Cavour was an elegant bar with a clientele of a bohemian bent. Artists, aspiring actors, dancers and respectable gentlemen frequented the bar every evening. It was a home for like-minded people with an exceptionally high appreciation of culture. The sky was lit like a Whistler nocturne: dark, thin with hints of light coasting into view behind the black clouds. It was after eleven o’clock; time for Rufus Watts to leave the cheerful company he was in and find somewhere to take supper.

  For a change he decided to dine alone. He left the bar which was situated at the corner of Leicester Square. Crossing the Square, he made his way towards Piccadilly Circus. There were any number of restaurants still open for business. As he thought about his options, he was not aware of a group of men who had begun to follow him.

  The evening was chilly but, thankfully, the rain had stopped for the moment. All around Watts were young people, couples and a few others like him: single gentlemen of discernment, no longer in the first flush of youth. Watts marched along, swinging his cane as he went. It was great to be alive, thought Watts. The rain-rinsed air was sweet and energising. At this moment he couldn’t have enjoyed more this feeling of independence, the sound of the click of his cane on the street or the admiring looks from women at the certain je ne sais quoi of his dress.

  He turned off Wardour Street towards Gerrard Street. By now he was aware of the men behind him. They’d done little to hide their presence. The wolf whistles had grown louder as the number of people on the street grew fewer.

  Beasts thought Watts. He knew their sort. A lifetime of listening to their comments. The insinuations. The outright insults. The threats: for they would surely come.

  Then they would attack.

  It had happened before, and he was always ready. They knew it not, but, aware of their aims, he’d led them deliberately onto the quieter, narrower and darker street. The footsteps grew louder behind him as they closed in.

  Now he had them.

  Watts spun around and said ‘Yes?’

  This took the three men by surprise. Their leader stopped. He was probably no taller than Watts, which is to say, not very. But he was broad and brutish looking.

  ‘Shouldn’t you gentlemen be at home beating your wives, or whatever you do for entertainment.’

  The nominal leader of this dismal gang inquired as to who Watts was to ask such a question. At least that was how Watts interpreted the tirade. The man stepped forward. It seemed to Watts the smile on the man’s face could have been described as cruel. It certainly did little for his good looks but spoke volumes for the nobility of his intentions.

  Watts stood his ground and watched the man approach. A slow smile creased the lips of the diminutive police artist. This might have confused a more intelligent attacker; given pause for thought, even. However, the three men were beyond thought. They saw before them a small, well-dressed man. Easy pickings. Someone different. Someone weaker than them.

  The leader of the gang was now a few feet away from Watts. At this point the thought did cross his mind – why isn’t he moving? A second later he found out.

  It happened so quickly that the thug could not comprehend what had happened. His brain shut down and he collapsed on the street. Not unconscious. He’d fainted. His two accomplices looked in shock at their friend and then at Watts. The little man was pointing a thin blade at their throats. It moved slowly side to side. The intent was clear, but Watts decided that confirmation would be no bad thing in the circumstances.

  ‘Your next step will be your last.’

  The two men looked at the blade, then down at the cane by the side of Watts where once it had been sheathed. Had they been experts in the art of fencing, they would have recognised that the blade circling a foot away from their heads was a foil. Of course, they could not have been expected to know that a man such as Watts was a former champion fencer.

  Below them they heard a groan. Blood was pouring from a gash on the lead man’s cheek.

  ‘What have you done with him?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘I should have thought that obvious, you moron.’

  ‘You’ve stabbed him.’

  ‘He’ll live. Anyway, it’s significantly less of an injury than the one you wanted to inflict on me,’ pointed out Watts. ‘Now, be good boys and scrape this mess of the pavement and get the hell out of my sight before my good nature gives way to its more barbaric inclinations.’

  31

  A grey pall hung over Old Paradise Gardens in the middle of Lambeth. The light brush of rain meant it was quieter than normal. There were a few people taking shelter from the elements with their dogs underneath trees that were shedding their leafy cover. One person sat out in the open.

  Lydia Evans looked again at the evening newspaper. She’d picked it up the day before from the pavement. Now, sitting in the park, she was oblivious to the rain. Raindrops ran down her cheeks like tears. She stared at the picture of the young woman.

  Patty Tunstall they said her name was.

  Patty. It was always just Patty to her. There were no surnames
.

  A wave of hatred rose in her. Another woman, she thought, killed by men. Why do they hate us? She’d asked this question so often. They’re all charm at the beginning. Words of love. The jokes. The suggestive comments. Then…

  Then it begins.

  The demands. The arguments. The fights. Then the beatings. She thought of her Robert. A husband to be proud of, once. Tall, well made and if he was not good looking then, at least, he had a nice smile. Good teeth, she remembered. Done his bit. When the country had come calling, he’d gone. And he’d survived. Or had he? Something had died. He was a different man when he returned. The silences. The angry outbursts. The drinking. He would disappear for a night, sometimes two. Sometimes he’d return home with bruises. A black eye for an old soldier.

  When did he start on her?

  There’d been signs, of course, before the War. But nothing serious. All men slap their wives, don’t they? It was because they cared. He was always sorry. He said so. Insisted, even.

  This was for her. For Patty. For all of us, she thought. She rose from the park seat, raised her eyes to the heavens then walked forward purposefully. There was a police station three streets away.

  When she arrived, she saw the looks from the policemen. Some thought she just wanted shelter from the rain. Some thought she was a professional. There was no sense that she was welcome. It almost made her want to turn and go. Then she thought of Patty once more. She marched forward to the desk and placed the newspaper in front of the sergeant who was busy trying to ignore her.

  He looked up slowly at her. The look that all men gave her. Appraising. Judging. Then his eyes followed hers down to the image in the newspaper. That was all it took.

  Half an hour later she was being led up staircase to an office. Inside she saw three men. One looked like the twin brother of King George VI. The second man had a sly, suspicious look about him. She’d have known him to be a copper anywhere. The third looked like he’d stepped from the pages of a romantic novel. He had a gentle, sympathetic smile. If only all men were so…