The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mademoiselle, it’s Natalie. Lord Aston has just phoned.’

  Mary sat up immediately.

  ‘He said that the lady in the flat below him died yesterday in suspicious circumstances and he went to see Winston Churchill in Whitehall.’

  Mary’s eyes widened.

  ‘Natalie, can you relay this message immediately to Aunt Agatha and my sister, please.’

  ‘But Madam is sleeping.’

  ‘Wake her, Natalie. She won’t mind, believe me.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Natalie.

  ‘Anyway, if I know my fiancé, he probably has a wager with Harry on how soon we’ll arrive.’

  6

  Miller opened the door. This caused the three women on the other side to fall into Kit’s flat. Thankfully, when such near accidents occur, women usually recover their dignity much more quickly than men. This is done through a variety of ingenious devices, the most popular of which is rapid, if hardly impartial, apportionment of blame elsewhere.

  Suitably chastened for not giving sufficient warning of his intention to open the door, Miller beat a hasty retreat. Agatha ordered three brandies from him as he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Then Agatha followed Kit’s eye to the table where, laid out on a silver platter, were three glasses of Napoleon.

  ‘Ah well…at least you’ve done something right.’

  Following this faint praise, eyes fixed on the prize, Agatha marched straight ahead, followed by a smiling Esther.

  Mary glanced at Kit. Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘I had you down for twenty minutes,’ said Kit.

  ‘I did,’ said Miller, reappearing at that moment carrying Sam.

  ‘Well, I can see that my Lord and master no longer trusts me,’ said Mary, before sweeping majestically towards the Chesterfields. The three ladies were now all seated and looking expectantly at Kit like children at a Punch and Judy show.

  ‘Well, as you ask, yes I have recovered well from my long journey,’ said Kit sardonically.

  ‘Get on with it,’ said Agatha. ‘Save your common room humour for those fatheads at your club.’

  The sisters Cavendish nearly clapped in delight but opted instead for smiles that would have had half the Church of England clergy engaged in a mass brawl for their attention.

  ‘I can see I’m outnumbered,’ said Kit.

  ‘But not outvoted. Unfathomably, Essie and I are not entitled to vote.’

  ‘Quite right, Mary. Now give us the skinny on what happened today,’ said Agatha, her eyes glistening like a hunter in sight of the prey.

  Just as this exchange took place, Simpkins rose from Kit’s seat, stretched and looked around the room. His eyes rested on Esther. He made his way over to her and settled on her knee.

  ‘This is Simpkins,’ said Kit by way of explanation.

  ‘The Countess Laskov’s cat?’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘What on earth is he doing here?’

  ‘He wanted a place to stay,’ replied Kit.

  Esther smiled and began to stroke the cat on the head. Moments later, Sam jumped down from Miller’s arms and darted around the sofas barking excitedly. Simpkins ignored him. A quick scan revealed that one lap was free. He looked up expectantly at Mary. Seconds later a pair of slender hand reached down and lifted him up before setting him down on an equally slender pair of thighs.

  ‘I’m just the landlord apparently,’ said Kit sardonically. He then broached the subject of Countess Laskov’s passing first.

  ‘Perhaps it’s for the best,’ said Agatha when Kit had finished. ‘I gather she missed David horribly. But why were the police interested?’

  ‘Alas, Chief Inspector Jellicoe was not very forthcoming. I sensed there was more to it than a heart attack. I think that we’ll have to wait and see. Did you know, though, that she’d lost both her staff recently? They walked out on her.’

  Agatha admitted that she was unaware.

  ‘I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve visited her.’

  ‘Do you want to go to the service tomorrow?’ asked Kit.

  ‘I think, yes.’ Agatha looked at Mary and Esther. It was clear that Esther had absolutely no interest in attending but Mary indicated she would join them.

  ‘Well, it’s very sad but life goes on. We’ll all meet our maker someday. Now, Christopher, why were you with our esteemed Secretary of State for War and Air?’ asked Agatha in a tone of voice that managed to combine disapproval for the office holder as well as a rebuke for her nephew for having a channel of access that would, unquestionably, have been denied to her.

  Kit knew that this was an important moment. What he was about to reveal could probably have been classed as a state secret. However, he had no qualms about the integrity of his guests. In reality, the heat of curiosity was burning hot within his audience. Not to provide a detailed report on his meeting with Churchill might have resulted in serious injury and possible hospitalisation. Best to start with the headline, thought Kit.

  ‘He might be about to be blackmailed. Photographs have surfaced of him standing with a bunch of modern day druids and a young woman who was subsequently murdered.’

  This was greeted with stunned silence. After a few moments Kit realised the stunned silence had become its own question and, by the look on the face of Agatha in particular, an answer was needed sooner rather than later.

  -

  It wasn’t my idea, of course. I can’t remember who first suggested it. Perhaps Sonny Masterson but I can’t be sure. It had started a while back. I had some friends who were members of the Albion Lodge of the Ancient Order of Druids. They led me to believe the activities of the Lodge were less spiritual and more of a fraternal character. Certainly, it seemed harmless.

  I knew several of the members, as I say, but there were many who were either not familiar to me or robed. I did not know the robed men, and truth be told, was rather bored by the initiation ceremony. Sonny and I decided pretty quickly that it would be warmer back at the house.

  The ceremony itself was neither here nor there. A lot of mumbo jumbo, a drink of some liquid that almost certainly contained alcohol and lo and behold, I was a member of the Lodge. As to the young woman, have no recollection. In fact, I’d thought it was a boys’ club. I remember we’d all imbibed a glass or two of jollity. I don’t remember being so far gone that I wouldn’t recall a young woman in our midst. Of course, I didn’t think anything of it, and we left almost as soon as the initiation had finished.

  Back at the palace, the bunch of us who had been initiated had a jolly good laugh about the whole thing. It would be fair to say that I was comfortably squiffy by the end of the night. We all were. I went to bed and the next thing I remember was Sonny shaking me awake, telling me that my then lady friend, Clemmie, was about to go home. This was a catastrophe as I had fully intended proposing to her that day.

  Thankfully I was able to rescue the situation, although I felt uncommonly off colour. Clemmie and I married a month later. I made no mention of the Lodge and, to be honest, had little to do with them over the years. I must say, aside from when I am with a few of my pals, it had barely entered my thoughts since.

  -

  ‘When did he receive the photographs?’

  ‘Last week. I know I thought this a trifle odd,’ said Kit, seeing Mary’s reaction.

  ‘Where did all this take place?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘At Blenheim Palace. In the Temple of Diana.’

  Agatha leaned forward. Her eyes fixed on Kit like a teacher interrogating a naughty schoolchild.

  ‘Surely, he must have known most of the people at the ceremony. After all, why would they be invited to the family seat.’

  ‘I gather there’s a certain Masonic character to the thing,’ replied Kit. ‘They’re not Masons as such, but I suspect Churchill and a few of his friends certainly are. I think secrecy regarding some of the druid priests would have been accepted. Churchill claims he barely knew more than
half a dozen of the members and I’ve no reason to disbelieve him.’

  ‘We’ll need a list if we’re to investigate them,’ said Agatha.

  ‘We?’ replied Kit.

  This comment went down like swear word at a baptism. Kit realised he’d, perhaps, made a tactical mistake. The look on Mary’s face, never mind Agatha’s, suggested a retreat was required, and rather quickly, too.

  ‘Naturally, I will happily call upon your collective wisdom. But’ said Kit, his heart sinking like a French ship after meeting Nelson, ‘the nature of this inquiry precludes anyone other than myself being seen to investigate.’

  As much as Mary was disappointed that she could not work alongside Kit, she recognised that to make an issue of this would be unfair.

  ‘Humbug,’ said Agatha.

  Mary turned to Agatha and smiled in support. She looked back at Kit, raised her eyebrows and grinned.

  ‘Perhaps you can tell us the names of the people Mr Churchill gave you.’

  Kit sighed, which surprised Mary. It was clear he was reluctant, but he felt he owed them some sort of olive branch.

  ‘Well come on,’ prompted Agatha, impatiently. She motioned to Miller to refill her glass.

  Kit reached into his pocket and extracted a piece of notepaper. He handed it to Agatha who was nearest. Agatha, in turn, reached for her pince-nez and read the names on the paper. When she read the final one, she looked at Kit in astonishment.

  ‘Good Lord.’

  Kit smiled and replied with more than a hint of scorn, ‘Not so good, but certainly a lord.’

  Mary and Esther, meanwhile, glanced at one another.

  ‘Is anyone going to share the big secret?’ asked Mary.

  Kit took the paper from Agatha and handed it to Mary who immediately leaned over towards Esther so that they both could read it.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mary and then she followed this with an exclamation before looking at Kit.

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Does this mean I finally meet Viscount Aston?’

  Mary made no effort to hide the edge in her voice. Kit looked at her sharply and then, remembering they were not alone, nodded. His face was neutral but the tension in his body was evident.

  ‘It seems that way.’

  Both Kit and Mary turned to Agatha. For once, her face was unreadable. They could not see the slight slump in her shoulders, the sudden shortness in her breath and the sadness that crept over her like a virus. She sensed that no good could come from this but now she was powerless to stop a chain of events that had been set in motion.

  Perhaps it was time.

  7

  Bevis Mark’s synagogue, the oldest in Britain, hosted the funeral service for Countess Laskov. Kit, Mary and Agatha sat opposite the enormous Renaissance-style ark containing the Torah scrolls. They were on benches which ran parallel to the side walls, facing into the centre.

  ‘Beautiful carving,’ whispered Mary.

  ‘Wood apparently,’ said Kit, speaking of the marble coloured shrine.

  Mary looked around the synagogue in fascination. It was the first time she had visited such a place of worship. Overhead were seven brass candelabra symbolising the days of the week. The service began as Mary made a mental note to visit again.

  Throughout the service, Kit’s mind drifted. He had been to more funerals than any young man had a right to attend. The thought of some of the people he had lost caused a wave of grief to pass through him. Around him he could hear the stifled anguish of others. He wasn’t grieving for the countess, although they had been on friendly terms. He wondered how much of the grief we feel at the funerals of those we are not especially close to is for one’s own losses rather than for the person being laid to rest.

  The service drew to a close and they followed the procession out of the synagogue. Kit was surprised at how many seemed to know Agatha. They were of a similar vintage, he supposed.

  One elderly man, tall and elegantly clad, with a woman who was of a similar age interested in Kit, but they looked away when he spotted them. Something about the woman seemed familiar to him but he could not quite place her. After a few minutes Agatha put her hand to her mouth and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Have you seen who’s over there?’

  A sea of black coats and black hats hiding grey hair confronted them. Kit’s was, clearly, none the wiser. Agatha nodded her head towards an elderly man accompanied by a woman perhaps twenty years his junior. They were standing ten feet away chatting to some younger mourners.

  ‘You know Conan Doyle?’

  Kit looked at his aunt affectionately albeit in a manner that younger people have done for eons to convey the fact that they are not complete fatheads.

  Doyle glanced over in their direction and smiled. Moments later he was walking in their direction.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Kit glancing at Mary and Agatha. ‘Do you think he recognises me?’

  Doyle joined them and said, ‘Agatha, how good to see you again. Involved in any more cases?’

  Agatha’s eyes widened and there was an imperceptible shake of the head picked up by both Kit and Mary who looked at one another, eyebrows raised. For another time, thought Kit.

  ‘Arthur,’ said Agatha accepting his embrace. ‘Lady Doyle,’ she added, embracing the wife of the famous author.

  ‘This, Arthur, is my nephew, Christopher. And his fiancée, Lady Mary Cavendish.’

  Kit looked at the world famous author. He was slightly shorter than Kit but broader. There was an undeniable charisma about the man. He radiated intelligence and geniality. His face was dominated by an impressive grey moustache that spread across his cheeks but could not hide the warmth of his smile.

  ‘I can think of no more handsome couple and admirable, too,’ said Doyle, shaking Kit’s hand and bowing to Mary. ‘I read of both of your efforts during the War.’

  At the mention of the War, a shadow passed over the features of Doyle. The smile on Kit’s faded and the two men looked at one another for a moment.

  ‘I never met your son, Sir Arthur. I know many who did, and they spoke very highly of him.’

  Doyle nodded but at that moment seemed too emotional to say anything further on the subject of his late son. Instead, the group turned and followed the procession out onto the street.

  ‘How did you know the Countess?’ asked Doyle.

  ‘She was my neighbour, so to speak,’ replied Kit. ‘I have rooms above hers.’

  Doyle stopped and looked at Kit.

  ‘Really? I was in her apartment a number of times. I wish I’d known.’

  Kit laughed and said the same adding, ‘I grew up reading your stories, Sir Arthur.’

  ‘And I,’ said Mary, brightly. Happy memories of her youth, which was not so long ago, passed through her mind. Reading Sherlock Holmes in bed after lights out. It was one of her first acts of rebellion. The look on Governess Curtis’s face as Mary claimed to have read one book after another. Looking back on it now, Mary knew she knew.

  Doyle waved the subject of his great detective away. He reddened slightly. He never got used to this celebrity.

  ‘And you, Sir Arthur?’

  ‘We had a mutual interest in psychic phenomena. Spiritualism, if you like.’

  Doyle looked at Kit to see his reaction to this. Kit was only a little surprised. Although, it was well known that Doyle was a leading advocate of Spiritualism, he hadn’t connected the Countess to such an interest. The black candles in her lounge made more sense. Most obviously, she was a widow.

  ‘Did you hold séances in her apartment?’ asked an astonished Aunt Agatha.

  ‘On one occasion we did. It was unsuccessful in reaching her husband,’ replied Doyle.

  That might be because it’s a sham, thought Kit. Out of respect for Doyle and the late Countess, he remained silent. He hoped ardently that Doyle would not use the moment to evangelize the movement. In fact, he wanted off this subject. But…

  ‘Have you e
ver participated in a séance?’ asked Doyle.

  ‘I met a number of people in France who were convinced about this new revelation, but I never joined them in any of their meetings,’ replied Kit.

  The procession had stopped as the coffin was put into a hearse. The family of Countess Laskov had requested a private burial, so Kit and his party along with Doyle parted at this point.

  ‘You were circumspect, I noticed,’ said Mary as they walked away. ‘Do I detect scepticism lurking underneath that beautiful exterior of yours?’

  Kit smiled at his fiancée and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You do. I wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s all nonsense, but the vast majority of these mediums are fakes. Worse than that, they prey on the grief of many people who are still suffering after the War and the flu pandemic. Sadly, Sir Arthur has given succour to this movement by his advocacy. I find it extraordinary that the man who created the embodiment of rationalism in Sherlock Holmes could have any interest in this area. Almost as fantastic as saying I’m beautiful. Thank you by the way.’

  ‘You’re welcome, milord,’ replied Mary and grinned. Kit’s heart skipped. Just over four months until they were married. Mary could read Kit’s mind and she made a sad face. As ever, they were interrupted by Agatha who was blissfully unaware of the exchange that had taken place.

  ‘We must make plans for going to Cleves.’

  Kit stifled another groan at the thought of visiting his family seat. He wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted to avoid his family home, his family or if he regretted that he had shared the details of the meeting. He realised the latter was as unavoidable as the idea that they would want to assist. However, the nature of the problem made it difficult to see what help they could provide. Then there was the nature of the possible murder.

  It was clear there had been a ritualistic element to her death. What other explanation could there be? If the murderers were just wanting to hide their identity why choose robes? Misdirection seemed fanciful given they had taken part in a druid ceremony with a public figure on the grounds of one of the most famous palaces in the country. If blackmail was the end game, why now? The photographs were twelve years old. Rational thought was in short supply from whatever angle he considered the problem.