The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  Contrary to what had been reported, in fact, proclaimed, by the party, the Revolution had been a bloodless affair. The revolutionaries had not stormed the Winter Palace; rather, they had been welcomed inside, like tourists on a guided tour. Serov had laughed when he heard Kopel mock the official line about these events, which Bergmann also confirmed, but afterwards he felt a little hollow. It was as if something, somewhere, was wrong. The idea that the revolutionary government would lie was an unwelcome dose of reality.

  ‘The next few moves will be predictable,’ confided Serov. ‘We‘re still in the opening exchanges. I doubt Aston has the skill to innovate around the classic moves in this model. He won’t want to risk it because white has won this way before.’

  ‘I’m assuming that you can innovate, as you say, and ensure black triumphs this time,’ smiled Kopel.

  ‘Of course. I have several variations in the middle game that lead to white resigning.’

  This seemed to trouble Kopel who asked, ‘But not too soon, we need to keep the game going long enough to attract public interest and have you play Aston face to face.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will keep him alive as long as you need me to.’

  This made Kopel smile.

  ‘Excellent, we don’t want to kill Aston off too soon.’

  -

  Inspector McEwan sat at his desk in Oldham police station. After two days on the case, he had no witnesses. Instead, he had a chief constable shouting at him and the local press queued outside demanding to know more about the murder. He had nothing. Worse, he thought, I have something: the murder weapon.

  The crosier had been stolen from a Russian Orthodox church in Manchester four months previously during a visit from a Russian Bishop. McEwan remembered the case although he had not been involved personally. Half-hearted efforts by the Manchester police led to an investigation which had, unsurprisingly, resulted in no arrests and no sign of the object in question. It had clearly not been a priority and the case file probably buried in a drawer marked ‘inconvenient’.

  Now McEwan had a dilemma. A big dilemma. Should he reveal more about the murder weapon and its origin? By doing so he could put immigrants in the region at risk of either revenge attacks or abuse. He didn’t dare think about the wider ramifications for Whitehall in London. Not revealing more of what they knew might limit the investigation and deny potential access to new information from informants. It would also highlight how little they did know. This was equally unpalatable.

  And then another idea occurred to him. One that could not be traced back to him, and would anger the police commissioner which, in McEwan’s book, was merited after the carpeting he had endured earlier. McEwan sat back in his chair and smiled to himself. A few moments later he rose from his chair and walked out of the office. At the administration desk he found what he was looking for: the duty roster. Checking the list, he picked two names out before glancing around the office. The two men were sitting near one another not doing very much, as usual, thought McEwan sourly. They would be off duty soon and, no doubt, make straight for the pub.

  They would do perfectly.

  Catching the eye of one of the men he indicated by use of his index finger that he wanted to see both in office, pronto. Both men jumped up and followed Inspector McEwan into his office. Inviting them to sit down, he leant forward confidentially, ‘So what do you make of this Yapp murder then? Have you ever heard of anyone being bashed over the head like this before?’

  Neither Detective Constable Sargent nor MacDonald had, but for the next ten soul-annihilating minutes, McEwan endured their theories on the murder. At the end of this purgatory, both men, by dint of the increasingly succinct answers to McEwan’s questions, hinted that they were now ready to knock off work. As much of a penance as it was to be in their company, McEwan took some enjoyment in stretching things out a little longer before releasing them to their evening in the pub.

  -

  Billy Peel sat in the Bell and Whistle a pub located near Oldham’s police station. On a number of levels, Peel loved pubs. Although a moderate drinker himself, he found them a rich source of material for news. Pubs meant alcohol. Alcohol meant drinking. This, inevitably, led to a deterioration in people’s common sense, even in those cases where some was present. Peel mercilessly exploited this, and it happened often, thankfully. Sometimes he obtained information through luck; being the nearby recipient of overheard conversations, sometimes he acted directly to obtain it, however he preferred to avoid this as a rule.

  It was often expensive, potentially unethical and, worst of all, unlikely to be refunded by that prurient oaf, George Lansbury. He regretted this thought immediately. George’s heart was in the right place. They had fought many battles together on marches, supporting strikers but sometimes he could be just too pious for Peel’s taste.

  Earlier that day, Peel had strolled into Oldham police station. It took only a few minutes to understand there was as much chance of receiving information from the Oldham constabulary as the Pope leading morning prayers at the local mosque. Rather than waste time sitting with his press brothers, he picked up what information he could in casual conversation including, importantly, key gaps in reporters’ knowledge. Which were many.

  All Peel needed was to find a policeman stupid enough to accept drinks from a stranger and open up about interesting cases in the station. Patience was key. Sometimes Peel could sit a whole evening in a pub and glean nothing. On other occasions, the ones he lived for as a newsman, he would hit the mother lode.

  Just as he was considering which type of night it would be, he saw two men enter the pub. Peel’s sure-fire instincts told him three things: they were police, they liked to drink and, to be confirmed, they looked like they had the collective intelligence of a gerbil.

  The key was never to rush in. Bide your time lest they become suspicious. It took an hour which was significantly less than Peel thought would be needed. Both policemen were on their sixth pint of ale. This struck Peel as both excessive and an unhealthily fast way of drinking. He found little to admire in men who considered themselves hardened drinkers. Character and courage were defined in ways such men would never understand.

  Stepping up to the bar, he made sure he was beside the two targets. Then he waited to be served. And waited. Peel’s modus operandi was beautifully simple. He used his lack of height to great effect. He could become almost invisible when he chose to. After a few minutes standing at the bar and being ignored by the blameless barmen, Detective Constable Sargent noticed the lack of service.

  ‘They don’t seem to be seeing you pal.’

  ‘I know. Are they always so slow?’ asked Peel ruefully.

  A public servant to his toes, Sargent waved at the barman to attract his attention, ‘Oi, Paddy, over here. Customer waiting.’

  The barman, who was Irish, but not a Patrick, strolled over with a fixed grin. He recognised the two men as coppers, otherwise they would have been dealt with more summarily.

  Peel ordered his pint then, kindly, offered to buy his new friends a drink. As it would have been rude to turn down such hospitality, the two policemen accepted with alacrity. Introductions were soon made.

  ‘I’m Billy, gentlemen,’ said Peel as he held out his hand. “I’m selling some encyclopaedias and,’ Peel paused for a moment as inspiration struck, ‘Bibles, in the area.’

  ‘Is that so. We’re in the job.’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Very good Billy,’ winked MacDonald. “I’m Detective Constable MacDonald.’

  “And I’m Detective Constable Sargent.’

  Peel looked at Sargent for a moment just to check if they were taking the rise out of him. Neither seemed to be making a joke so Peel ploughed on regardless.

  ‘Your health gentlemen. You do an important job protecting our community and ridding our streets of the criminal element.’

  The three men clinked glasses. ‘It’s nice to be appreciated Hilary, isn’t it?’ said Sargent.

&
nbsp; Hilary? Once again Peel wasn’t sure if this was a joke, but he knew that some poor men had been given this name, no doubt causing years of bullying at school.

  ‘I couldn’t do what you do, gentlemen. All those criminals, all those murderers,’ prompted Peel, eyes raised up in the universal invitation to tell him more.

  And they did.

  Before long they were recounting their role in cracking cases, international crime rings, anarchist cells. To hear them tell it, Peel concluded, these two men had single-handedly wiped crime out in the north west. He congratulated them on their extraordinary powers of deduction before prompting them further on the ineffectiveness of their colleagues. This, always fertile ground, finally bore fruit.

  ‘We’ve one case that’s has the plain clothes stumped.’

  ‘Really?’ urged Peel. Said with just the right degree of intonation and combined with the raising of an eyebrow, it could prompt all manner of responses.

  ‘Heard about the Trade Union man that was mugged?’

  ‘No, what happened?’ asked Peel moving closer. It had long since been his experience that when he did this his interviewees did so also, revealing much more in the process.

  ‘A local Union bigwig was bashed; on his bonnet,’ explained Sargent, pointing to his head to ensure the point was understood. Pitt groaned inside. This could be a long evening.

  ‘No, really? And no one knows who did it?’ inquired Peel.

  ‘Not a clue, trust me. No witnesses. But the killer left a murder weapon behind.’

  Peel nearly leapt of his chair at this. He confined himself to a silent hallelujah and said nothing. Instead, he widened his eyes theatrically and nodded encouragement for the drunken policeman to continue. The invitation was taken up with something approaching relish.

  ‘It was some sort of religious stick.’

  ‘Religious stick?’ said Peel looking at Sargent unable to believe how stupid the man was. ‘What type of religious…stick?’

  Sargent shrugged. ‘No idea. You know. A stick.’

  Peel didn’t know and felt an overwhelming desire to scream. Resisting this impulse, he turned to look at MacDonald. The worthy constable shrugged also. Peel looked down at his pint and seriously considered smacking both men with it. Religious stick? What kind of morons were these people, he wondered? Still, it was better than nothing. If he broke the story, then it might force the police to release further details. He could work with this. Even Lansbury would be hard pushed to deny the trip had not been worthwhile. As he thought about the murder weapon and the lack of any witnesses, all his instincts were telling him the same thing.

  This was only the beginning.

  Chapter 14

  It was a brilliant January day. The sun’s rays slanted through Kit’s window glinting off the pieces on the chess board. The room felt warmer although it was icily fresh outside. It seemed the room’s mood was dictated by the extent of light outside. Kit let the light fall on his face and it warmed him. He left the window and sat down by the chess board and studied it for a moment. He glanced up at Bright and Esther who had moved to the window.

  ‘What have you planned today?’

  ‘We were thinking of looking for an apartment in town,’ replied Esther smiling up at Bright. Her fiancé took hold of her hand as she said this.

  ‘I’m not sure I could stand to live up at Cavendish Hall, Kit,’ added Bright.

  Kit laughed and looked at the couple. Esther, as ever, seemed like an ethereal presence. Her hair and white silk dress were framed by the dappled light coursing through the window. Richard was a very lucky man, thought Kit.

  ‘I don’t blame you. Is Emily at Cavendish Hall full time now?

  ‘If she isn’t already, I imagine she soon will be,’ laughed Esther. Then her face fell again. ‘I want to be near Mary.’ Bending down, she picked Sam up, who made clear his delight by nuzzling her neck.

  Bright laughed, ‘My rival.’

  ‘No contest,’ said Esther making a face to Bright.

  ‘I think he wants you to adopt him,’ smiled Kit.

  The little dog barked in approval causing Esther to laugh.

  ‘He certainly is a tonic,’ said Esther, her eyes welling.

  Kit returned his attention to the chess board. After a few moments he made another move. Reaching over to the board, he took his Knight and made the peculiar “L” shaped movement of this piece. It landed on the square of a black Knight. He lifted Serov’s piece and put it alongside a few other pawns at the side of the board. Bright looked over, with interest. Eyebrows raised he said with a smile, ‘Shall I start singing Land of Hope and Glory yet?’

  Kit laughed and replied, ‘Best leave it a bit longer Richard. You may want to bone up on The Internationale just in case, though. I fancy it may be needed.’

  ‘Freedom is just privilege extended unless enjoyed by one and all,’ recited Bright with a smile.

  This made Kit glance up sharply at Bright. Even Esther seemed surprised, ‘I’m impressed. It’s nice to know my future husband is erudite.’

  ‘And a radical, apparently,’ laughed Kit.

  ‘I was a bit more radical as a student. I’ve calmed down a bit now,’ admitted Bright.

  ‘I should hope so,’ said Esther, grinning. ‘You’re about to marry into the aristocracy. Well, minor aristocracy if truth be told. I hope that’s not a problem.’

  ‘I shall bear the disappointment as best I can, my dear,’ responded Bright looking at the most beautiful girl he’d ever met. He didn’t look particularly disappointed, noted Kit with a smile.

  ‘Anyway, Lord Aston,’ pointed out Esther, eyes narrowing in a way that made Kit’s heart burn for Mary, ‘You seem familiar with this song also.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Kit. ‘My oldest friend taught me the words in Russian and English. Came in useful, I can tell you. I might be able to tell you one day.’

  Returning to the board Kit said, ‘So Serov will probably take my Knight now. I’ll take his pawn then he’ll take mine. We’ll be all square, so to speak, but things will start to get messy from this point. Well, from my point of view anyway. Serov will only see order and inevitability.’

  Esther glanced up at Bright who merely rolled his eyes. They both hoped Kit would become more positive about his chances.

  -

  The overnight train from Manchester arrived in London just before dawn. The station lamps were still glowing brightly in the gloom. Peel could sense a city beginning to wake. Outside the station, market stalls were opening. One young boy was unloading a cart of fruit and vegetables as his father made ready the stall. Peel walked over to them and picked a couple of apples from pile.

  ‘Morning son. Too early to buy these?’ he asked.

  ‘Never too early sir,’ beamed the boy.

  Peel flipped a shilling into the boy’s hands and walked on. He waved his hands to the boy and then the father who were calling out to him for his change. He heard the boy shout thanks.

  Rather than head back to his flat in Bayswater, Peel made straight for the offices of the Daily Herald. The place was already humming with activity. Ignoring everything around him, Peel set to work. Still frustrated by the lack of precision from his dimwit informants, Peel struggled to write a suitably compelling headline. He settled on the following: Trade Unionist Murdered by Crucifix – Police Baffled

  He suspected Lansbury would dilute this. To be fair to Lansbury he’d had enough trouble over the years with the law. But no matter; the basic story was robust and would create a stir. The more he shook the tree the more likely fruit would fall. It was now clear to Peel that no connection could be made with Serov’s visit. Notwithstanding his usual suspicion around coincidences, for once, this seemed genuinely pure chance.

  For the moment.

  As he was finishing the report a young man came by his desk and dropped several letters. Peel stopped typing and glanced at the letters. They could wait. He resumed typing. Removing the sheet from the typewriter, he pr
oofread the report several times. It would create a stir, no question. Rising from his desk, he made his way to the office marked “Editor”.

  George Lansbury read over Peel’s report from his trip to Oldham. Twice. As much as he hated to admit it, Peel had delivered the goods. This was a scoop, and no mistake. The Daily Herald would break the story about the murder weapon, forcing the police to reveal more details. Of course, there was only one problem, and he broached it immediately with Peel.

  ‘Good work, Billy. I just hope no law was broken in getting this,’ said Lansbury eyeing Peel closely.

  This made Peel smile, but he decided not to indulge Lansbury on this and moved the subject on to more important matters.

  ‘Can we get the final edition?’

  Lansbury glanced at the clock on the wall, it was nearly eight in the morning.

  ‘If you run down now.’

  ‘Front page?’ pushed Peel. Inevitably.

  Lansbury looked again at Peel. Of course, it was front page. Peel knew it. He knew it. At that moment Lansbury was reminded of why he found Peel so irritating. Then again, was ambition combined with talent innately wrong? Possibly when it came with Peel’s special brand of arrogance. The feeling that Peel would walk over anyone to get to a story was palpable. Lansbury was not like this. But, then again, wasn’t this what made a great newsman: commitment to the story?

  With a moment bordering on epiphany, Lansbury realised this was what drove Peel. Was it possible, disguised beneath his “pit bull” persona, he was genuinely not the self-serving individual he had always believed him to be? He looked Peel in the eye. What he saw was not ambition. For ambition is merely an extension of ego and the ego is rarely objective. It feeds off denial and builds on lies. Peel wanted the truth. Unvarnished, undiluted, and untainted. He would follow wherever it took him, at whatever cost. Finally, Lansbury nodded. Peel left the office headed downstairs to speak to the printers.