The Phantom

by Jack Murray

  Jellicoe glanced at Kit, who nodded.

  ‘Lady Mary, I’m happy to see you recovered. When I met Lord Aston, you were still,’ Jellicoe paused for a moment to find the right word.

  ‘Out for the count, Chief Inspector?’ suggested Mary with a grin.

  Jellicoe’s face broke into what, for him, constituted a grin.

  ‘Indeed Ma’am.’ He turned to Ryan, who was clearly entranced by the vision of Mary, ‘Wake up sunshine. Work to do.’

  Jellicoe asked some questions to understand what had taken place in the evening, occasionally allowing Ryan to speak. It was clear to Kit that Ryan was a high flyer. He was relatively young to be in the position of supporting a man such as Jellicoe. His few questions were probing, spoken in a London accent that suggested he had not arrived at his position through contacts or preferential treatment based on class.

  Kit glanced at Jellicoe. He seemed amused at Kit’s assessing of his young protégé. This made Kit smile and he nodded an acknowledgement to Jellicoe to congratulate him on his choice of assistant.

  After the initial scene setting questions from the two policemen and sensing that Kit would have a better idea of how to communicate with Jellicoe, Wolf requested that he provide a summary of the events of the evening.

  Wolf was impressed by the lucidity of Kit as he recounted concisely every aspect of the evening that might be of interest to the Chief Inspector. Perhaps more impressive than his memory for detail was his observation of anomaly, picking up on several occasions when the behaviour of the servants, some of whom, related Wolf, were agency staff, brought in for the evening.

  When Kit had finished, Jellicoe congratulated him on the comprehensiveness of his report. Ryan had taken several pages of notes. Then Mary interjected.

  ‘I think Lord Aston also meant to mention one other thing.’

  Kit turned to Mary barely able to disguise his surprise, ‘Of course, silly me, perhaps Mary you should mention it.’ It was fairly clear Kit had no idea what was coming, much to Jellicoe’s amusement and Ryan’s bemusement.

  ‘The red blemish on the fake diamonds,’ said Mary.

  Kit reached over and scrutinised the necklace closely until he found the mark. He showed it to Wolf and Jellicoe.

  ‘Good spot, Mary,’ murmured Kit.

  ‘Any thoughts on what the mark might be milady?’ asked Jellicoe.

  ‘I can’t be sure, of course,’ acknowledged Mary, ‘but my guess would be a women’s nail lacquer.’

  Chapter 3

  Kit and Mary walked across Grosvenor Square. It was after three in the morning. Both were tired and keen to return to the warmth of a house. However, there was a brightness in Mary’s eye that Kit suspected owed as much to the events of the evening as the strength of her ardour. There was also the possibility it spelled trouble.

  ‘Whenever we have a spare minute, or lifetime for that matter, Lord Aston, I think you need to fill in one or two of the several hundred gaps in your past.’

  ‘Do you know Mary?’ replied Kit, ‘when you call me Lord Aston, I feel as if I’m about to visit the head of form, to be punished.’

  ‘Good analogy and highly accurate,’ responded Mary with a grin.

  ‘I fear you may soon be feeling the same when my Aunt Agatha realises what time you’ve stayed out until,’ pointed out Kit.

  ‘Even more apposite,’ said Mary, as it dawned on her that dawn would soon be dawning. She thought for a moment before asking, ‘Do you think climbing in through the window might help me avoid capture by the armed patrols outside my bedroom?’

  ‘What floor are you on, again?’ inquired Kit.

  ‘Third.’

  ‘Hard lines.’

  Mary looked up at Kit wryly, ‘Speaking of lines, I think you’ll be in the firing line as much as myself. I mean, leading a poor, innocent girl, all alone in the world astray, in this manner. It’s a bit ungentlemanly.’

  This caused Kit to laugh, ‘You’re certainly not poor and as to how innocent you are, that remains to be seen.’

  ‘Sadly that bit may be true. Perhaps you should whisk me off to a hotel. We may as well commit the crime for which we are about to be condemned.’

  Kit glanced down at the grinning Mary and just for a moment the thought caressed his mind. Mary had no difficulty reading his mind and shrugged, ‘Last chance, Lord Aston, we’re nearly there.’

  They arrived at the door of Aunt Agatha’s townhouse. With a heavy heart Kit fished out the front door key and inserted it in the lock. Mary made a glum face.

  ‘I’ll come in with you,’ said Kit, ‘You shouldn’t have to face this alone.’

  ‘Do you really think she’ll be up at this hour?’

  One look from Kit confirmed her question was both unnecessary and naïve. Mary smiled. As she made ready to go through the front door, her fate to be determined by the woman who took over where the gorgon had left off, Mary cast her mind back, once again, to the first meeting between herself, Agatha Frost and Lady Emily. A meeting so seismic, it made the movement of tectonic plates under the earth seem like a kitten’s paw stroking its mother’s nose.

  -

  The rap at the door had been forceful to say the least. Harry Miller rushed down the stairs at the sound of the increasingly impatient knock. He opened the door to find a lady of around seventy, of imperious aspect, around five feet tall, stoutly made and wearing a hat, that might once have been an aviary.

  ‘Lady Agatha,’ exclaimed Miller with a delight he surely did not feel.

  ‘Well don’t just stand there, young man, let me in,’ came the brusque reply.

  ‘This way my lady,’ said Miller.

  ‘I know the way, young man, out of my way,’ said Aunt Agatha, brushing Miller aside with her samurai umbrella before marching up the stairs like a Grenadier guard going to battle.

  Miller watched the diminutive Medusa ascend the stairs with something approaching relish. This would be a fascinating contest between the two ladies. The relative youth of Lady Emily against the old war elephant herself. Lady Emily may have built up a winning record against lower ranked opponents in the country, today she was testing her mettle against an undefeated legend.

  Aunt Agatha burst through Kit’s doors like a storm gathering strength. She first came face to face with Lady Emily.

  Silence.

  A little bit more silence broken only by the sound of Sam, Kit’s Jack Russell, escaping out of the room. Mary glanced down at the little terrier’s exit stage left and then shifted her gaze to Kit, who merely raised one eyebrow and suppressed a smile.

  Esther realised she was holding her breath. She glanced at Mary who, sensibly it seemed, had taken the precaution of inhaling deeply as the infamous aunt’s footsteps grew louder.

  ‘I presume I have the pleasure of addressing Lady Cavendish?’

  Lady Emily nodded. Whatever her faults, and they were numerous, she was not easily cowed and replied, ‘Three Ladies Cavendish, in fact.’

  Mary couldn’t bring herself to look at Esther otherwise the game would’ve been up. But she did feel a swell of pride for her aunt’s opening salvo. Before Aunt Agatha could respond, Emily pressed home her early advantage.

  ‘I am Lady Emily Cavendish. My late husband was Robert Cavendish. Esther and Mary are the daughters of the late John Cavendish. Perhaps you had the pleasure of meeting their grandfather, Viscount Cavendish.

  This early engagement was, as the girls and Kit acknowledged afterwards, brilliantly executed by Emily. It spiked Aunt Agatha’s guns right from the off, putting her firmly on the back foot. Kit’s aunt nodded to Emily recognising, perhaps with something approaching pleasure, a worthy opponent. True champions seek not to build a career on walkovers. Instead their desire is to test themselves against the very best: to defy, to overcome and, ultimately, to triumph.

  Henry walked into the room just as his mother had finished. All eyes turned to Henry, which he seemed to find amusing.

  ‘Have I missed anything?’ he
asked lazily, completely unaware of the tension crackling in the room.

  Aunt Agatha raised one eyebrow and turned to Emily for an explanation.

  ‘My son, Henry, Lord Cavendish.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Aunt Agatha. ‘I am pleased to meet you all. I’m afraid I never had the pleasure of meeting your Grandfather. My late husband, Eustace, and he were acquainted I gather; he spoke highly of him, if my memory serves.’

  Emily found herself fighting a groundswell of guilt. The wasted years. How she regretted that time. The regret made more painful by the sense that Arthur, too, shared that regret and had patently been making efforts to build bridges in the days leading up to his death. For Esther and Mary, also, the reminder of their loss was almost unbearable. The memory of Arthur Cavendish hung in the air, dispelling some of the tension brought on by the arrival of Kit’s aunt.

  Finally, after a few moments, Agatha turned to the two girls, ‘And which of you is to marry my nephew?’

  Mary wiped her eye and then said, ‘I will be marrying Kit.’

  Aunt Agatha looked at Mary and then walked up to her, ignoring Kit who, like Henry, wore a smile of relaxed forbearance. The two women eyed one another like two gunfighters in a Hoot Gibson western.

  ‘You’re certainly a very pretty, young lady, I’ll give you that,’ pronounced Aunt Agatha.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The direction of Aunt Agatha’s gaze turned to Mary’s hair which was fashionably short. No comment was made but the silence and barely perceptible raising of one eyebrow spoke more eloquently to the elderly aunt’s views on the subject of short hair than any tirade would have achieved. She glanced up at Esther, whose serenity and beauty were almost tangible. Both girls seemed to meet her approval.

  Aunt Agatha abruptly turned around and looked at Emily, ‘I think it makes sense for these young ladies to stay at my residence in Grosvenor Square. Your niece should be near the hospital that has treated her over this last period. I shall instruct my staff to make ready, Christopher,’ said Agatha, turning to Kit, ‘Please arrange for their things to be sent immediately. Good day.’

  Lady Emily watched askance as Aunt Agatha cruised regally out of the apartment. By the time she regained her senses, the ship had sailed. The horse had bolted. The off stump was bowled. Silence reigned save for the sound of the clock ticking on the mantlepiece. Finally Kit decided a decent enough amount of time had elapsed before breaking the hush, if not the calm.

  ‘So, that was my Aunt Agatha. You know she’s really quite likeable once you get to know her.’

  Three ladies Cavendish turned around to Kit at that moment with looks on their faces, that caused a hero of the Great War, the rescuer of Kerensky and countless other perilous missions to wish he could shrink into the wall. Such is the implicit power wielded by the distaff side of humanity.

  -

  Kit spent a few seconds wiggling the key in the lock. Beside him Mary stamped her feet to keep the circulation going against the biting cold.

  ‘Hurry, sir, before your future bride freezes to a block of ice.’

  Finally Kit opened the door. They stepped into an expansive hallway, no less impressive than Lord Wolf’s, with many paintings from the Dutch school decorating the walls and a knight in shining armour at the base of the stairs standing beside a latter day maiden of an elderly vintage wearing a frown that would have frozen the heart of any knight errant at twenty paces.

  Mary looked at Aunt Agatha’s face and then turned to Kit.

  ‘What on earth is the meaning of this outrage, young man? Have you no regard for the reputation of this young lady?’

  ‘On the contrary, Aunt Agatha,’ said Kit more casually than Mary thought wise, ‘Nothing is more important to me than the unblemished nature of Mary’s character.’

  Aunt Agatha looked as if she were about to erupt like a south sea’s volcano. Her face went red and she inhaled deeply so as to get good purchase on the string of verbal abuse about to be launched in a Kit-ward direction.

  ‘Before you get angry, Aunt Agatha,’ continued Kit, ‘A crime was committed at Lord Wolf’s house. We have a case.’

  ‘A case you say?’ asked Agatha, her tone changed to a quite remarkable degree. So did her posture. Where previously she had been tensed like a samurai warrior about to strike, she relaxed and leaned forward.

  ‘Yes, ‘ said Kit, moving towards the door, ‘And I shall let Mary tell you all about it. Cheerio.’ With that, Kit gave, a rather stunned Mary, a peck on the cheek, and left via the front door.

  Agatha looked expectantly at Mary.

  ‘Well,’ said Mary.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, young lady,’ replied Agatha, ‘Give me the skinny.’

  Mary walked up to Agatha. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked down at the elderly woman. She was at least three inches taller than her host.

  ‘Kitchen?’

  ‘Kitchen,’ agreed Agatha. ‘I’ll make us some hot milk.’

  Chapter 4

  February 11th, 1920: London

  The young man pulled his coat tightly around him in a futile attempt to avoid the chill. The night air seemed to freeze on his cheeks and the breeze stung his eyes. A cloth cap provided some shield against the freezing air circulating around his head. But his ears stuck out and bore the full brunt of the wintry evening.

  He hurried forward. There was still another mile to walk. The noise grew louder as he approached the pub on the corner. Raucous laughter came from within and even more raucous singing. An elderly gent came stumbling out of the pub, completely pickled, bumping into the young man.

  ‘Get out of it,’ snarled the drunk, pushing the young man out of his way.

  The young man was several inches taller than the old man and could probably have ended his night there and then. Instead he ignored him and pushed on, wearily, in the direction of his home.

  Crossing the road, he ducked up a side street. A young woman was coming the opposite direction. Their eyes met momentarily and then she looked away, a little fearfully. The young man kept walking, berating himself for glancing at the woman, for making her feel afraid.

  His journey took him through a series of winding streets, many of cobblestones, which he found difficult to walk on. Street after street of terraced houses. It was after eight o’clock, but the streets were still relatively crowded. Beggars confronted him on every corner. Many missing limbs, their eyesight, their mind. Hand scrawled messages proclaimed a similar story of why they were begging. A land fit for heroes, thought the young man. He laughed sardonically to himself. Home was just up ahead.

  In front though was a policeman kneeling beside a street dweller. The smell near the beggar was appalling. The young man recognised the tell-tale sign of gangrene. He kept on. The man was a goner. Nothing to be done. How many times had he thought that thought? How many times had he kept his eyes ahead? Nothing to be done. Nothing.

  The young man was twenty-eight years old. He looked older. A lot older. His body, his mind and his spirit all ached with the effort of surviving each day. This daily battle had not ended when they’d handed him his Z11 which ended his time in His Majesty’s Armed Forces.

  A noise behind. He spun around. A dog had knocked over a bin. He breathed again. Loud noises. He hated loud, sharp noises. His step quickened until he was finally at his front door. The house was like a hundred other houses on the street.

  Inside he was greeted by a young woman holding a year old toddler. Another toddler, perhaps four or five years old, jumped up from a chair and ran over to him.

  ‘Daddy, daddy,’ she said delightedly.

  The young man looked at his wife. The other child seemed quiet, asleep. Then the coughing started. Then the gulps of air. Then the tightness in his lung. Again and again. It never seemed to end. The cheeks of the young woman damp with tears. She shook her head. He took the child from the arms of the young woman. He fought to keep the tears from his eyes

  ‘There, there Ben. Don’t worr
y, daddy’s here.’ He gently kissed his wife and knelt down to greet the young girl.

  ‘Alice, my love,’ said the young man as the little girl enfolded his neck with her arms. “Watch young Ben,’ he laughed. The little girl took the cloth cap from his head and put it on her own head. She was beautiful, sweet, funny and sad all at the same time. Just like Chaplin. One day he’d take her to the picture house to see him. One day.

  ‘A bit big for you my love,’ he said, smiling.

  -

  An hour later, the young man and woman looked down at their children, asleep on the bed. They looked so peaceful. He put his arm around his wife. She looked up at him.

  ‘How was it today?’

  A dozen images passed through the young man’s mind. Twelve hours in the varnish factory. His lungs and his throat were burning.

  ‘Just the usual,’ he replied unenthusiastically. He would never tell her the full truth. It would break her heart. Well, break it even more. She had enough to cope with. She didn’t know the hatred he felt for the workplace. The bosses. The union leaders. The smell.

  God almighty, the smell. He knew the factory would do for him. Where the German mustard gas had failed the factory would surely succeed. He looked at his wife and tried to smile.

  ‘Come on I’m hungry. I could eat a horse.’

  She looked into his eyes and knew there was pain. Standing on tip toes she kissed him. Grateful for his stoicism, grateful for his wage, grateful for the life he was trying to provide for his family. He was a good man. She felt blessed.

  -

  The young woman watched him devour his supper. His hand was a blur as it scooped food onto his fork. Every last scrap was accounted for. He drained his tea and sat back with a look of satisfaction.

  ‘You’re not just beautiful.’

  She stood up and collected the plate and brought it over to the sink. Neither said anything for a few moments. The subject of their boy, Ben, hung heavily in the air, as it did every evening.

  There was a knock at the door.

  The young man stood up and went to see who it was. He turned to his wife and said with a smile, ‘I hope you’ve some of the stew left.’