The Affair of the Christmas Card Killer (Lord Kit Aston Book 1)

by Jack Murray

  The Affair of the Christmas Card Killer

  Jack Murray

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright © 2018 by Jack Murray

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed ‘Attention: Permissions Coordinator,’ at the address below.

  Jackmurray99@hotmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  6th December 1917: Cambrai, France

  ‘You’re on stag now,’ said the soldier returning to the shelter, giving a gentle shake to the man lying in a bunk. He threw his coat and equipment onto the floor. Stepping back, he gave his replacement room to climb down from the bed.

  The other soldier sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was a young man also, probably in his early twenties. It seemed only minutes since he had slumped into bed. Hopping off the bunk, the young soldier grabbed hold of a rocket pistol and some flares. His hands were stiff with cold. His feet, well he could barely feel them. In one rapid movement his raincoat was on with the equipment slipped over it. The other soldier handed him a cup of scalding hot tea, ‘Here, you’ll need this.’

  In less than a minute he was stumbling out of the shelter cut in the side of the trench and into the chill. The air stung his face but also helped him wake. He jumped up onto the fire-step to take over as sentry. It was still dark. There was a lingering hint of the sweet, spicy smell of gas in the air clashing with the malodorous stench of the latrines, or was it death? The smell no longer sickened him. He had long since become desensitized to this if not the horror around him.

  Immediately in front of the trench were the wooden pickets supporting the barbed wire. Looking ahead, beyond the barbed wire, he could see the barren landscape, pitted with holes made by shells. This was No Man’s Land. Perhaps a few hundred yards in front of the British line sat the Germans. The thought of them made him duck his head a little.

  The trench was quiet. Sentries were posted every ten yards. Periodically, the trench was lit from a flare sent up by the Germans. They were obviously as bored as he was. No stars were showing through the thick blanket of cloud until the latest flare turned the sky a bright white. He leaned against the trench wall to avoid getting caught by the perfunctory rifle-fire that often accompanied the flare.

  While the ground in front was visible, the soldier used the opportunity to look through the periscope to scan the horizon. It was pockmarked with shell holes and tank tracks. In the far distance he could see the sand bags indicating the German position. No sign of Fritz. More sense.

  As the flare died, he thought he saw something a hundred or so yards in front. The fading flare left darkness and him cursing. Turning to a sentry further to his right, he waved to attract his attention. It took a minute of furious gesticulating before the other sentry nodded back. The soldier pointed to the open ground, ‘I thought I saw someone out there.’ The other sentry shrugged and shook his head.

  As a rule, all soldiers avoided going in to No Man’s Land unless ordered. He decided that it was his imagination and tried to think no more about it. Ten minutes later he heard it. This time there could be no doubt. A groan. Someone was out there. He jumped down from the fire-step and almost collided with a battalion officer who was doing an inspection on this stretch of trench. The officer towered over the young soldier. He looked down.

  ‘Careful,’ he said, more in jest than anger. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Sorry sir, I think there’s someone out there,’ answered the soldier before remembering to add a salute.

  ‘Aside from the German 2nd Army?’ responded the officer sardonically.

  ‘Yes sir. I heard a noise, definitely a man. Might have caught one. One hundred yards almost directly ahead, I thought I saw something when the last flare went up, now I’m sure.’

  ‘Well show me. It could be a trick, but it might be someone from a patrol that went out earlier. We haven’t heard anything from them and they left two hours ago. The Boche have been a bit frisky tonight, I don’t know what’s got into them. I hope he didn’t get caught up in something.’

  The officer climbed up onto the fire-step and took out his binoculars. ‘Tell you what, let’s stir Fritz up a bit, maybe he’ll send a flare over. May as well use up his flares rather than ours, we’re running low.’

  He took out his revolver and fired twice into the darkness. Within a minute the Germans helpfully sent up a flare to see what was happening. The officer and the soldier stood side by side on the step. The soldier used the periscope and scanned the area where he had looked earlier. ‘There,’ he said pointing, ‘over between the tank track and the crater, two o’clock. He looks like he’s in a crater, but you can just see his arm caught in the wire.’

  ‘Yes, I see it,’ replied the officer squinting through his binoculars. ‘Looks like one of ours. Not sure I can see him moving, though.’ The flare died again preventing confirmation.

  ‘Do you fancy taking a closer look? The cloud cover’s good.’ It was not a question and the soldier knew it. The officer looked down at the man before him. Clearly a Londoner, he was short, probably less than five feet five and, like so many in the trenches, malnourished. However, looking onto his eyes, he saw a mixture of the terror and determination that characterized so many of the men he had under his command. The soldier nodded back to the officer. ‘It’ll be too risky to send more than one man,’ added the officer apologetically.

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Get ready, I’ll stand watch.’

  A few minutes later, heart beating rapidly, the soldier was crawling through the pickets towards his object. The ground was frozen hard with just a hint of a frost on the top. Looking ahead he mapped out a route that would take him from crater to crater. Unfortunately, there was also too much open ground to be negotiated for his liking.

  Progress was slow. He went ten yards at a time then stopped to rest and take stock for a few minutes, each movement was accompanied by a prayer. More than once he felt the remains of old barbed w
ire rip into his clothing and sting his skin. The journey of one hundred yards was accomplished in just over an hour. He had made it.

  The body lay crumpled in a depression. Barbed wire hung lazily of a post by the soldier’s side. The unconscious soldier’s arm was partially caught in it. He looked a mess. Incredibly though, the young soldier could feel a pulse. He whispered in the soldier’s ear, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you back soon.’

  Obviously, the soldier was done for, what harm would a lie do now anyway?

  Slowly he extricated the soldier’s arm from the hooks on the wire. No other part of the body seemed to be so entangled. Slipping a wooden board underneath the soldier, he wrapped the rope attached to the board around himself so that he could pull the soldier over the frosty ground. With one final glance towards the enemy line, he made ready to move the prone soldier.

  By now it was after four in the morning and bitterly cold. Thankfully, it had not rained in the last few days. Muddy ground would have made a perilous journey impossible. He pulled the body out from the depression causing a muffled groan. This was not good. It was one thing to know the man was still alive, but the last thing he needed was noise to attract the attention of the Germans.

  Slowly they progressed across No Man’s Land, stopping regularly to rest. The young soldier was exhausted. Mentally, physically and emotionally, the crossing was taking its toll. He knew it was a matter of time before the noise they were making would result in an exploratory flare.

  Minutes later, he was proved right. A flare went up. He scrambled into a small crater. German voices were audible. He waited for the inevitable. The flare died and then there was silence. Maybe his luck was holding.

  This hope was dispelled seconds later, another flare went up. By this point he had yanked the injured soldier into the small crater alongside him. He rested there for over ten minutes until he was sure the Germans had lost interest.

  At the British trench, the officer looked on grimly. The word had spread along the line. An audience had assembled to view the grim proceedings. ‘Be ready to let Fritz have it, men. Are there any medics here yet?’ One man nodded confirmation.

  Thirty yards to go: another flare went up. This time he was completely exposed above ground and between craters. There was no opportunity to hide. If anything, this was the worst part. The barbed wire and the stumps where directly in front of the trench. They would make it very difficult to move quickly along the ground. He had a choice to make.

  -

  Seventy yards further back another officer was looking on. Hauptmann Max Kahn held the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the British front line slowly. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

  ‘Yes, I think I see them now. Well done.’

  His companion was Thomas Vogts, a sniper. In fact, a highly effective sharp shooter. He had lost count of the kills he had made over the last two years since his unique talent had become apparent to fellow soldiers.

  ‘Let’s see what they do,’ said Kahn.

  ‘Shouldn’t we tell Artillery?’

  ‘To shell two Tommy? I think they might justifiably ask what your job is meant to be Vogts. Stick to your orders. We’re not here to finish off a Tommy who will probably die anyway. Don’t move your gun keep it trained on our target. Can you see him yet?’

  Vogts looked up bitterly at Kahn and then put binoculars to his eyes. His gaze was not on the two soldiers in No Man’s Land, but thirty metres to their left on a shallow outcrop from the main British trench. There, lay two British soldiers whose job was identical to himself and Kahn. His rifle and its telescopic sight were trained on this dugout. ‘No sign but they’re there. I can see cigarette lights.

  ‘Do you think it’s him?’ asked Kahn.

  ‘Don’t know. It’s still too dark to see his face. He’s been here nearly two weeks now. They’ll move him soon.’

  -

  Further ahead the young soldier had reached a decision. The other soldier was a goner. Of this, he was sure. The longer he stayed in No Man’s Land the greater the chance of being spotted, especially this close to the front line. If he was able to put the injured soldier on his back, he could cover the last thirty yards more quickly and avoid the barbed wire entangling them. Decision made, he got onto his knees and hoisted the soldier up. He stayed in the crater for half a minute taking deep breaths and then the final push.

  -

  The British officer saw immediately the soldier’s intention. He nodded to the soldiers beside him to be ready. ‘Come on my boy, you can do this.’ He prayed fervently the Germans would not choose that moment to send up a flare. Just then, the sky lit up. It seemed impossible for the young soldier to remain unseen. The officer held his breath.

  -

  ‘I have a clear shot,’ said Vogts.

  ‘Of our man?’ said Kahn looking down at Vogts.

  ‘No, the two Tommies up ahead.’

  ‘I told you to ignore them. I want the British snipers. Keep looking, in their direction,’ said Kahn angrily.

  The officer glanced at Vogts. How he detested this man. Vogts had developed a murderous talent in order to avoid being involved in a direct frontal attack. A man who skulked in craters and killed, murdered even, wounded soldiers, or worse, the Doctors attending them. He had heard stories. Vogts was playing a deadly game of numbers. The more he killed, the less likely they would send him over the top. He knew it would be straightforward shot for such a man.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sir? It would only take a second.’ This time more insistently. Kahn glanced down at Vogts with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘It’s an easy shot,’ pleaded Vogts.

  ‘I realize this, keep your eyes on the other position,’ replied Kahn. He looked at the two figures, one carrying the other on his back, staggering drunkenly towards their trench.

  -

  ‘Why aren’t they firing?’ asked the British officer, as much to himself. As he said this the flare died. By now it was taking a great effort from the men in the trench to avoid cheering on their fellow soldier. The officer held up his hand to prevent any supportive cheers. They were fifteen yards away. Surely, they would make it.

  -

  By now even the young soldier was hoping a miracle would really happen. There were ten yards to go, blocked only by barbed wire, maybe two feet high. Keep going he thought, keep going.

  -

  Why aren’t we firing thought Vogts. What was this dilettante Jew thinking? Honour? Had he not noticed the carnage of the last four years? Honour lay dead and rotting in the mud of Passchendaele, of Verdun. Of a hundred other fields where his class had sent people like him to die. His duty demanded one thing and one thing only. Kill the enemy. They would have done the same to him. He glared up at Kahn. How alike were he and that Colonel Adler, who had left them an hour previously. They belonged to a class whose time would soon be over.

  Leave them thought Kahn. It was almost Christmas. What bravery. One of the soldiers would probably die anyway. He sensed Vogts glaring up at him. Kahn shook his head and began to step down from the viewing step when…

  -

  Less than a few yards from the British trench an explosion rocked the darkness. The officer instinctively shielded his head from falling mud and rock. Regaining control immediately he shouted down to the medics in the trench. ‘Quickly! Get them in.’ Instantly, he and two men leapt out of the trench and grabbed hold of the two soldiers who had collapsed following the explosion.

  The young soldier looked up at the officer and the medics. He could hear little, other than muffled orders. ‘Did I make it?’ He thought he heard the sound of gunfire before all went black.

  -

  Beside him, Vogts had loosed off several shots. Kahn stared down at him. ‘Did you see their sniper?’

  ‘Yes, he fired a shot,’ replied Vogts.

  ‘Did you get him?’ said Kahn hopefully.

  ‘Maybe the other one, the watcher, not the sniper. Why? W
hat happened?’

  Kahn didn’t answer immediately but continued to look at the activity in the British trench. He looked at Vogts and stepped down to take a look through the telescopic sight on the rifle. It was still trained on the British snipers.

  Vogts felt the hatred rise in him again, the unspoken lack of trust. Finally, Kahn answered, ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know, Vogts. Do we have other snipers in this area?’ He asked the last question more of himself than Vogts.

  Chapter 1

  Christmas Eve 1919: Cavendish Hall, Lincolnshire

  Arthur Cavendish walked to the window of his library and looked out onto the expansive driveway at Cavendish Hall. It was Christmas Eve. His guests would be arriving soon. The sky had a yellowish glow which he recognized meant snow. As soon as he thought this, he detected the first flakes swirling gently in the air. The fountain at the front had been switched off, the surrounding pond was already beginning to freeze over. He walked away from the window and went out of the library. Curtis, his butler, was walking towards him with ecclesiastical dignity.

  Curtis was a man in his mid-fifties. He had worked in service all his life. His dark hair was greying, matching his complexion. There was a look of sorrow on his face that was partly professional but also a comment on his life. ‘I believe the train is due around ten. I have sent Devlin to the station. Will there be anything else my lord?’

  ‘No thank you. Oh, one thing. Where are the girls?’

  ‘I believe they went out riding about an hour ago.’

  ‘Rather them than me. A little bit cold,’ said Cavendish.

  Cavendish nodded to Curtis and returned to the warmth of the library to wait. He sat down in his leather armchair. The morning’s paper lay unread on the table beside him. He looked out of the window once more at the fountain. He thought it an eyesore, like much of Cavendish Hall.

  Cavendish Hall was built in the Tudor period. It was a reward to Edward Cavendish for his loyalty to Henry VIII following the aftermath of his split with Rome. The choice to side with the King was an easy one and it caused not one moment of regret. It did, in fact, bring many economic benefits, especially following the Dissolution of the Monasteries. The impoverishment of the Catholic Church had become the basis of the Cavendish fortune for the next four centuries.