The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  The woman looked at him perceptively.

  ‘Perhaps you should show more respect for the living.’

  She turned away and continued walking. After a few yards she stopped. Wellbeloved looked at her and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Take me home. You have people to see now, don’t you?’

  -

  As it happened Sergeant Wellbeloved did have people to see, but how this woman was aware of this, God only knew. Then again, if she wasn’t a charlatan, why wouldn’t she. This was worrying on a number of counts. He cursed himself for his reaction to the crime scene. He’d acted like a fresh-faced constable. He turned and jogged back to Bulstrode.

  ‘Can you tell me what on earth is happening?’ asked Bulstrode. Had there not been other police present, his language would have been a good deal sharper.

  ‘Sorry, sir, she wants to go.’

  Wellbeloved shrugged in the way that men do when confronted by that very rare specimen: the unreasonable woman. As a lifelong bachelor, Wellbeloved’s experience of this subdivision of humanity was somewhat limited. In fact, his exposure to women came principally from frequent, recreational trips to brothels. There, he found a more compliant class of female. Except Fenella, of course, but she was strictly for those occasions when he’d behaved badly.

  Bulstrode rolled his eyes. It was late. He wanted to go home. Dr French, standing on the doorstep, was lost in thought. He seemed to be fixated on the woman whose graceful figure was receding into the distance. Slowly, French became aware that Bulstrode’s eyes were on him. Without averting his gaze, he asked a question.

  ‘Was that Eva Kerr?’

  ‘Yes.’

  French did not react to the news. He looked at the detective and remembered there was work to do. But not by him. He put his gloves on and indicated the body with a slight tilt of his head.

  ‘You can take her away now. I’ll examine her tomorrow morning.’ He paused for a moment then said, ‘Actually, I think we’ll make that the afternoon. I can get nine holes in, maybe.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Bulstrode before wondering why he had called the doctor, sir. He realised he did not know what rank the doctor held. He sounded like a toff though. Rank was relative. The doctor lived in a different world.

  They both turned and looked at Wellbeloved trotting towards Eva Kerr. His heart sank as he saw a taxi pull up. A gaggle of reporters tumbled out. A bad night was about to get worse. He felt like howling to the moon but swore instead. He felt a touch on his arm. Doctor French nodded to the reporters and smiled grimly. There was little trace of sympathy as he echoed Bulstrode’s thoughts.

  ‘Looks like you have another Medium Murder on your hands.’

  2

  London, Belgrave Square, September 1920

  The front door swung open to Kit Aston’s apartment in Belgravia. After a month away in the United States, Kit entered the luxurious flat to the sound of his dog, Sam, barking happily and jumping up to greet him.

  ‘Hello, boy,’ said Kit bending down to pick up his excited, and excitable, Jack Russell. He was rewarded for his endeavour by having his spotless face licked clean by the little terrier. This prompted loud laughter from both Kit and his manservant, Harry Miller.

  ‘It looks like you’re forgiven, sir.’

  ‘It certainly does. I’m sorry, old chap, it was a bit long wasn’t it?’

  Sam stopped licking and regarded his master for a long moment. If he didn’t quite nod in agreement, then his eyes certainly had the look of ‘don’t-do-it-again-buster’. Kit looked at his little dog affectionately. He’d missed him greatly and a wave of guilt coursed through him. He stroked Sam behind the ear. This was something that had the little terrier virtually purring.

  In fact, Kit could distinctly hear purring.

  ‘Good Lord, Harry. He’s never done that before.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir,’ replied Miller. ‘There’s a few things I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

  One of the more astonishing aspects of Sam, at least as far as Kit and Harry were concerned, was his seeming ability to understand human conversation. One moment, Sam was a chap of the canine variety, earning a well-deserved cuddle from a returning master, the next he was a ferocious wolf on the hunt for his prey. In a flash, he jumped from Kit’s arms onto the leather Chesterfield sofa, barking for all he was worth.

  Kit looked at the object of Sam’s wrath. He found it sitting curled up on his favourite armchair. He turned to Harry with a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘Isn’t that…?’

  ‘Simpkins, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Simpkins.’

  He turned back and looked past Sam, who had worked himself up into a fine state of fury at the dark form residing on his master’s chair.

  It was a cat.

  A black cat, in fact. The feline in question continued to ignore Sam. Such a wilful lack of fear in the presence of a fearsome beast like Sam was never going to sit well with this particular canine. The intensity of his verbal attack reached a new level of vehemence. Simpkins turned and looked at Sam for a moment. This caused the little dog to stop barking. Then Simpkins returned his attention to the examination of his paw.

  Sam turned around and looked up at his master. If he could have shrugged his shoulders at that moment he certainly would have done so. Kit, meanwhile, turned to Miller, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘You were saying, Harry?’

  ‘Countess Laskov, downstairs, died the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Really? I’m sorry to hear that. She must have been in her seventies at least.’

  ‘Seventy-three, sir.’

  ‘Good innings these days. How, may I ask, did she pass away?’

  ‘Natural causes, sir.’

  Harry Miller detected relief on his master’s face. It was a little too early in the morning for murder. Anyway, it had been a long journey by sea and then by train back to London. Sleuthing was the last thing on Kit’s mind.

  ‘Well, I suppose we should go to the funeral. It’ll be tomorrow, I suspect. Aunt Agatha will want to go, too. They were acquaintances. I’ll be sorry to break the news to her.’

  The two men looked back at Simpkins. The cat stared back. Even Sam was looking up at the two men. The room was silent for a moment.

  ‘And Simpkins?’ asked Kit.

  ‘Well, sir, after the ambulance took the Countess away, he came upstairs and started to scratch on the door. I heard the scratching and opened it. I saw him come in and sit down on your chair. He hasn’t moved much since.’

  ‘Really? But what about Countess Laskov’s maid? Tunney wasn’t it?’

  ‘Tunstall, sir. She moved out of the apartment. I haven’t been able to find out why, but I did hear a slamming of a door one evening, so it clearly wasn’t on good terms.’

  Simpkins listened intently to the conversation without raising any objection to its veracity. His ears were upright and trained on the two humans who were, by now, discussing his future. Sam was all ears, too.

  ‘How does he get on with Sam?’ asked Kit.

  ‘How does Sam get on with anyone?’ This was more of a point than a question.

  The two men looked at the terrier and the black cat. Once more, silence reigned until Sam offered a growl. The prospects did not look good from his perspective. The dark intruder had not been summarily dismissed. Every passing second was one too long in Sam’s humble opinion. Then he heard Simpkins purring. Sam turned around to Simpkins and then back to Kit as if to say, ‘You’re not going to fall for this?’

  ‘Well, we’ll hold onto the little fella for the moment and see tomorrow, or whenever the funeral is, if there are any takers.’

  Conscious that he’d been standing rather longer than expected, Kit moved forward toward his chair. He smiled down at Simpkins and motioned him off.

  ‘There’s a chap. You’re on my seat. Any chance you could move along?’

  Simpkins remained on Kit’s chair. By now he’d gone back to cleaning his paw. Kit turn
ed to Miller. The look on Miller’s face was by no means sympathetic to his master’s predicament. It was clear that Kit was on his own.

  ‘I say, old boy, you’re sitting on my seat.’

  Kit suspected he was not alone in thinking this pleading was somewhat unbecoming of a war hero, spy, chess grandmaster and, well, a member of the nobility. Simpkins appeared unimpressed by this. He was not for moving.

  Moral support from Miller did not appear to be forthcoming for Kit. In fact, his manservant was now laughing uncontrollably. At the very least, Kit decided, Miller should be complicit in, what was becoming, a shattering defeat.

  ‘Fine help you are.’

  Miller held his hands up in acknowledgment. The extent of this mea culpa was undermined when he had to use his hands to support himself against the wall, such was his amusement.

  ‘Well,’ said Kit, ‘I suppose I could sit here for the time being.’ He walked over to one of the two Chesterfields facing one another and sat down.

  Strategic withdrawal complete, he asked Miller for some tea. In such situations, crises even, an Englishman can have no better comfort indeed, no finer inspiration for ideas, than a pot of tea. With milk.

  As Miller went into the kitchen to make the tea, a thought struck Kit.

  ‘I say, Harry,’ shouted Kit.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I remember Countess Laskov had a manservant, too? Bentham or something like that?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ called back Miller. ‘He left just before Tunstall.’

  This was odd. To lose one member of staff was unfortunate. To lose two, mused Kit, was bordering on empirical proof of Wilde’s dictum. However, dying a matter of days afterwards was, frankly, stretching credibility too far. It all seemed like something from one of the penny bloods so beloved of his aunt and uncle.

  A few minutes later Miller entered the room pushing a trolley. On it was a silver pot containing the magic elixir and some biscuits. Another thought struck Kit.

  ‘You said there were a few things, Harry.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Miller who lifted the pot and began to pour tea through a tea strainer. As he did so, there was a knock on the door.

  The two men looked at one another. Nothing on Miller’s countenance suggested he was expecting a visitor. The knocking became persistent. Miller set down the pot and tea strainer and went to answer the door. Kit heard the door open and the sound of a man’s voice. It was a voice he knew very well.

  This didn’t make it any less incredible that he was here. In the normal way of things, he didn’t pay house calls. Something told him such a visit was unlikely to be social. Nor did it bode well. He was barely through the door after solving a case in the United States and it looked like another one was heading in his direction.

  Kit looked longingly at the tea and then towards the lounge door. It all seemed a bit early in the plot. After all, it was barely mid-morning.

  The door opened and his visitor walked in. Miller had no idea who the man was, but he guessed, correctly, that Kit would know him. Kit rose from his seat and extended his hand. He glanced at Miller. The look on Miller’s face suggested this was the other thing.

  Kit looked at the man in front of him. He was slightly shorter than Kit. He wore a navy overcoat and supported himself on a stick. Kit knew for a fact that there was a sword inside the stick. The man was not quite elderly but nor was he middle-aged. Silver hair peeked out from under his Homburg. The final touch was a monocle that may or may not have been plain glass.

  ‘Kit, I’m so sorry to call on you like this. You may guess I wouldn’t have done so if this wasn’t a matter of the utmost urgency and, frankly, delicacy.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Please sit down. Tea?’ asked Kit hopefully.

  ‘I’m sorry Kit but I don’t have the time. Would you be able to accompany me to Whitehall now?’

  The face of Sir Mansfield Smith-Cumming, “C” to those who operated under him at the British Secret Service, suggested refusal was not an option. Kit smiled and accepted his second defeat in as many minutes.

  ‘Yes, sir. Would you like Harry to take us?’

  ‘No, I have a driver outside.’

  Sam began to bark, clearly unhappy at seeing his master leave so soon after arriving. This prompted a smile from Smith-Cumming. A moment later it turned to a frown. Kit noticed this and looked down in the direction of Sam and Simpkins.

  ‘Something wrong, sir?’

  Smith-Cumming shook his head.

  ‘Let’s hurry, Kit.’

  3

  London, Grosvenor Square, September 1920

  The reunion of the Cavendish sisters, after a month spent apart, highlighted wonderfully well the difference between chaps and the fairer sex. When Kit had met Harry at Kings Cross, Mary had sly enjoyment from the curt nod and handshake between the two men. In addition, there was a quick aside from Kit on his manservant’s lack of activity having made him gain a pound or three.

  Mary, meanwhile, gave Miller a gentle peck on the cheek, declared herself delighted at his complete recovery from the injury incurred while chasing ‘the Phantom’. After Miller received his reward, Mary looked archly at her future husband. Kit, meanwhile, was oblivious to the source of his fiancée’s amusement. He could see something had entertained her. That he didn’t know what bothered him not in the least. It was part of the endless fascination she held for him.

  Thankfully any shilly-shallying on the platform was brought to a swift conclusion by Aunt Agatha. Business-like as ever, she got things moving by suggesting Harry arrange for their valises to be delivered to the two addresses. Twenty minutes later he had deposited the two ladies back at Aunt Agatha’s sumptuous abode in Grosvenor Square.

  The door had been answered by the ever-reliable Fish. Aunt Agatha’s elderly butler responded to his ladyship’s call with all of the speed and enthusiasm of a pale-throated South American sloth.

  The reunion of Agatha and Fish was as brief as it was, well, brief. Within seconds of her arrival, Aunt Agatha was dispensing orders to her aged servant. This was something of a shock to his system. He had found the peace and quiet over the last month very much to his liking.

  Mary looked at her sister, Esther, for a moment, then they embraced. There was no mistaking the warmth and affection between them. The embrace lasted a few minutes and a tear or two was shed. Finally, they stepped back from one another. A smile broke out on both their faces. A moment later, Esther Cavendish’s eyebrows rose hopefully.

  A shake of the head from Mary.

  Then Mary tilted her head slightly and her eyebrows rose slightly. This was met with a shake of the head and a mock-sad face. With the information duly communicated, they realised Aunt Agatha had entered the room a little more silently than usual. They turned towards her. She had observed their reunion with what can only be described as a face on her.

  ‘Do you think I’m completely senescent?’

  Mary shook her head and Esther, not knowing the meaning of senescent, followed her sister’s cue.

  ‘Good. Please remember your Aunt Emily is only a phone call away.’

  A phone call and a few hundred miles was definitely not far enough, thought Mary. Agatha turned the full intensity of her gaze on Esther.

  ‘You, young lady, are to be married in a few weeks. Let us not speak of this again. You have both been warned.’

  They certainly had. If they were going to talk about such matters, and clearly both were very keen to do so, it was best done well out of earshot of their septuagenarian bodyguard. Emphasis on ‘body’.

  Both smiled by way of apology, but Agatha’s mind had already moved on to other matters. Natalie, Agatha’s French maid appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Madame, the valises have arrived.’

  ‘Excellent. Tell Fish to bring them in.’

  In fact, the estimable Fish was standing outside the room. He had heard the order with a heart that did not so much sink as crash to his feet. He walked outside and saw around ten rather si
zeable bags that would require transporting into the house and up three flights of stairs.

  He turned around and was just about to give silent vent to a stream of words that he’d first learned sixty-one years ago when he saw the young French woman looking at him.

  Fish smiled valiantly but suspected his attempt at a smile was more like that of a chap facing his ever understanding wife following a convivial evening at the pub with other, like-minded, chaps. Natalie saw the poor butler’s face and immediately recognised the cause of his dismay.

  ‘I will help you, Monsieur Fish,’ she whispered with a wink.

  The combination of what she said, and how she said it, the low Gallic purr and the slow wink, almost Fish finished off. He nodded in gratitude and turned, with something approaching youthful vigour, to the task in hand.

  -

  As Agatha threw took on the project of reintegrating their belongings into the Grosvenor Square household, the Cavendish sisters took the opportunity to escape into the city. Whilst it would be nice to report that their early conversation covered the health and happiness of the family members visited as well as the impressions of the exciting places seen, alas one topic dominated their thoughts.

  ‘Perhaps I’m becoming paranoid, but at one point I was convinced even the seagulls were spying on us.’

  ‘She’s incredible. Do you know, she was telephoning Mrs Bright every evening to check on what I had been doing that day right up until she stepped onto the Aquitania? Richard’s mother was rolling her eyes every time the phone rang.’

  ‘Essie, do you ever get the feeling that the Cavendish sisters’ devotion to their virtue is not trusted?’

  Both girls burst out laughing as they walked along Brook Street towards the city centre. They concluded that Aunt Agatha understood them all too well. Esther stopped momentarily and looked up at the sky. It was midday. The sun was attempting, and failing, to peek through a thick blanket of clouds.

  ‘Not very far away now, I suppose.’

  Mary giggled and said, ‘Six weeks to your wedding night.’