The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s a speech taking place in the conference room,’ replied Mary.

  ‘Really? Anyone of interest?’

  ‘Millicent Fawcett.’

  It took a few moments for the name to register with Andrews; then he remembered that she was something to do with the Suffragettes. This presented a quandary. Whilst he had no gripe against the Suffrage movement, he could hardly be considered a supporter never mind an expert on their aims.

  ‘Good lord, I didn’t have you down for a Suffragette, Mary.’

  ‘Suffragist, Bobby. Do you want to come?’

  It would be fair to say, nothing on the face of Bobby Andrews, by this stage, suggested that he had the least bit of interest in listening to an old woman talk at length about why women should be allowed to vote. He saw Mary smile. Then she leaned forward, looking at him directly in the eye, with her hand on his knee.

  ‘Maybe you can take me dancing afterwards.’

  Esther nearly choked on her tea when she heard her sister make more than an indecently respectable stab at being a seductress. Mary was playing a dangerous game, here. Pretty well, to be fair.

  They rose from the table and began to follow the crowd of women towards the back of the hotel. As they did so, a familiar voice called out to them.

  ‘I say, Bobby. Hello Esther. Mary.’

  It was Xander Lewis. Bobby Andrews turned and smiled grimly at his school chum. Meanwhile the girls received friendly pecks on the cheek from the ever-ebullient, which is to say, squiffy young lord.

  ‘Where are you all off to?’

  ‘As it happens, old chap, I’m accompanying the ladies into the conference room to listen to Millicent Fawcett speak.’

  Lewis was quiet for a moment then grinned.

  ‘Name’s familiar. Can’t quite place her.’

  ‘Suffragette,’ replied Bobby Andrews.

  ‘Gist,’ corrected Mary. ‘Suffragist.’

  Lewis glanced archly at his friend and said, ‘Well, if you three ladies don’t mind being accompanied by a gentleman, I’d love to hear what Miss Foster has to say.’

  Andrews looked down at Mary. Thankfully she was grinning. He rolled his eyes to indicate that he was not a buffoon like his friend. Mary’s eyes narrowed slightly in a manner that almost had the young man forgetting his newly-adopted beliefs and regressing to a more primitive resolution to his ardour.

  -

  The group found seats near the front. A low stage had been erected with two tables and four chairs arranged on it. There was a podium to the right of the tables. Behind the platform was a banner. It read ‘Votes for Women’.

  Mary looked at it and felt a surge of anger. The battle for the right to vote had still not been won. Only women over the age of 30 who were married had the right to vote. How could any just society permit this? How was it fair that half the population, until only a few years ago, had been denied a say in the running of the country. She shook her head at such inequity. She looked up at Bobby Andrews. He turned to her and smiled hopefully. His mind was on other things: principally, how best to turn this unexpected opportunity into a memorable evening.

  It took a few minutes for the room to fill up and settle down. Mary glanced around with evident curiosity. The audience comprised around fifty women and a handful of men of all ages. The chatter silenced almost immediately as a number of women walked onto the stage from a doorway just behind.

  Mary gasped as one of them walked onto the stage. Esther turned to Mary and frowned a question. But Mary could not reply. Her eyes were on a woman who was staring none too happily, it must be reported, at her.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Do you remember when you were in Brighton with Richard?’ whispered Mary.

  ‘Yes, you were on that Phantom case.’

  ‘Yes. The woman I was acting as a maid for is on the stage, second from the right. We didn’t exactly part on good terms.’

  Esther grimaced then smiled.

  Mrs Isabelle Rosling’s eyes flicked back down at Mary and her group just as a youngish woman was introducing, at length, the keynote speaker. Finally, Millicent Fawcett stood up and walked to the lectern. The sound of loud applause filled the hall.

  There was a genuine warmth as well as awe at being in the presence of this great champion of women’s rights. She’d recently announced her retirement from the frontline of the battle, but she had not given up the fight. Beside the girls, Bobby Andrew and Xander Lewis clapped and cheered. A little too loudly, thought Mary.

  Millicent Fawcett stood behind the lectern with her head barely visible over the top. A life spent campaigning for voting rights for women was etched in the thin lines of her intelligent face. It took a few moments for the noise of the clapping to subside. Then she stepped forward and began to speak, without notes, to her audience.

  And they were her audience. Listening, rapt to their hero. Everyone, bar the two male companions of the Cavendish sisters, was here for one reason only: the chance to see this legendary figure and, ultimately, to contribute to the ongoing struggle for universal suffrage. It was a privilege to be in her company. And the women and men in the audience were nothing if not privileged.

  ‘We are on the eve of fulfilment of our hope. The goal towards which many of us have been striving for nearly half a century is in sight. I appeal to each and all of my fellow suffragists not to be overconfident, but to act as though the success of our cause depended on herself alone.’

  Mary sat through the speech, transfixed. Even Esther, for whom the cause had been a more abstract idea found herself carried along by the words of a woman whose life had been dedicated to giving women a voice. Bobby Andrews, meanwhile, used the time to ponder the next steps in the conquest of Mary Cavendish.

  When the speech ended around twenty minutes later, the audience rose as one to give the speaker their acclaim. None were more enthusiastic in their reaction, or less likely to have listened to a single word, than the two men sitting either side of the sisters. The two men had to endure a number of other speeches after Millicent Fawcett. The other speakers were, thankfully, greater in passion than duration. The meeting came to an end after an hour.

  ‘Are you going to stay to try and meet Mrs Fawcett?’ asked Bobby Andrews, keen to give the impression he was now a passionate advocate of women’s suffrage. Mary smiled up at her suitor and noted, once again, that his dark eyes had a genuine flash in them. However, as dark and dashing as his eyes may have been, the intention sitting behind them was utterly transparent. Mary couldn’t decide if this was intended or not.

  ‘Nonsense. Let’s go somewhere we can dance,’ slurred Xander Lewis.

  The sight of Mrs Rosling, apparently making her way over in their direction, made the idea of leaving for a nightclub more appealing than it might otherwise have been.

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ replied Mary, taking Bobby Andrews by the arm and all at once giving rise to more than just hopes in the young man.

  ‘Where to Bobby?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Dalton’s?’ suggested Andrews.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Lewis.

  Mary glanced at Esther and grinned. It was clear that her sister was caught between a desire to put an end to this adventure and a genuine curiosity to see the infamous nightclub in Leicester Square where bright young things mixed with the worlds of entertainment and crime. It was a lethal cocktail. Depraved, too, if the rumours were true.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Esther, eyes widening in Mary’s direction. She followed Mary’s cue and took the arm of Xander Lewis and they made for the exit thereby denying Mrs Rosling a chance to catch up with her former maid. Mary risked a glance back in the direction of the stage. She saw Mrs Rosling looking at them in a way that was less angry than genuinely curious. On the way out, all four made a sizeable donation to the cause which had occupied their attention for the previous hour.

  Outside, it was beginning to darken. The nights were drawing in now. There was a
chill in the air.

  ‘So, tell me, how is the Earl of Gresham?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Father?’ replied the Honourable Robert Andrews, ‘Oh, he’s a horse. Just some old people’s problems.’

  ‘Did I see a picture of him recently with our esteemed Secretary of War?’ continued Mary.

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised. They were at school together. Thick as thieves, they are.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mary, pressing her face against the arm of the gallant escorting her, ‘Tell me more. I find Mr Churchill a most interesting man.’

  10

  The shopkeeper looked at the woman in front of her. Without question, she was one of the tallest women he’d ever seen. One of the most formidable, too. Dark hair peeked out from underneath her hat. Her face was broad with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. It was difficult to reconcile this woman with the rather fine dress she was wearing. The smile was friendly if a tad demonic. It seemed at odds with the hard grey eyes and, if young Ernest Dalrymple didn’t know better, the fact that she seemed to be chewing gum.

  Accompanying her was another woman who was Lilliputian by comparison. The two ladies discussed the pearl necklace in front of them. It was clear they were politely disagreeing with one another about its merits. This was frustrating for young Ernest Dalrymple. He was desperate to make his first sale. Sadly, Mr Potter would not be around to see it. He’d just gone out to lunch when the ladies arrived. Ernest Dalrymple was left with strict instructions not to show any gems to customers. You couldn’t be too careful, he said. But Ernest’s enthusiasm was greater than his intelligence.

  The discussion between the two ladies went on interminably. It covered tangential subjects such as dresses, hair colour and, in one particularly surreal moment, poodles. Ernest shrugged off such digressions as an immutable characteristic of the fairer sex. Thankfully, no other customers had arrived in the meantime. At one point, aware that Ernest was something of a bystander in the debate, the ladies invited his opinion on the necklace’s suitability for the larger woman.

  Ernest’s earnest praise of the necklace and its ability to compliment the complexion of the lady in question failed to carry the day. This was evident when the smaller woman suggested they try a brooch instead and, oh, those two pendants over there.

  Ernest was now convinced he was onto a really big sale. These two well-spoken women were going to buy something. It was just a question of what. However, the difference of opinion was now becoming rather heated. Initially, young Ernest tried to smother a smile as the smaller lady made a rather insulting remark about the other lady’s sweetheart. This subject struck Ernest as altogether unpromising territory for selling jewellery. By now, the argument had reached the topic of the height differential between the young woman and her intended. Ernest tried to bring the ladies back to the sale.

  Alas, it was too late. The larger of the two women was now in tears. She stormed out of the shop. The smaller of the two women looked at Ernest, shrugged her shoulders and apologised.

  ‘We’ll be back in a few moments,’ she promised, and quickly followed her former friend outside. On her way down the steps, she removed a ‘Closed for lunch sign’ , folded it up and threw it away. Waiting outside was another woman.

  ‘Quickly,’ said the woman. ‘I can see Potter coming.’

  The other woman raced into the shop. Inside, Ernest was all of a flutter. He could have sworn he’d taken out a brooch for the women to look at. For the life of him, and it was a life or death situation on his first day, he could not see it. Just as he began to panic, the door opened. A lady of indeterminate age walk in. She smiled and asked to see the proprietor.

  Ernest was now caught between looking for the missing brooch and dealing with the lady. In a moment, and with an understanding of the art of retailing that would stand him in good stead for decades to come, he decided the customer should come first.

  ‘He’s just popped out for lunch. Can I be of service?’

  The lady spied various pendants and the pearl necklace that Ernest had been in the process of putting away.

  Pointing to these items, the lady asked, ‘Can I take a look, please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Thankfully, as far as Ernest was concerned, she lift the items. Instead, she used her right hand to move them about the counter. Unseen by Ernest was that her left hand. It was searching for the brooch left by her confederate under the counter using the gum she’d been chewing. The brooch was located in matter of seconds. She made a face that did not bode well for the prospect of a sale.

  ‘No, not quite what I was looking for.’

  Ernest looked glum but was rather relieved when she said goodbye. He was now desperate to find the brooch before Mr Potter returned. Sadly, for Ernest, the pearl brooch was making its way out of the shop hidden in the woman’s mitten.

  Mr Potter, after a hurriedly eaten lunch at a nearby café, passed the woman on the steps. He’d been away less than fifteen minutes. What possible harm could have come in such a short period of time?

  The woman, meanwhile, darted around the corner and jumped into a large eight cylinder car which sped off just as the passenger door closed. The woman removed her hands from the mitten held up the brooch. All three ladies smiled and sat back to enjoy the ride.

  The journey through London towards the Elephant and Castle passed quickly. A hint of celebration lay in the air courtesy of the shared sense of pride in a productive afternoon’s work.

  As they approached their destination, a pub named the Duke of Wellington, the three ladies saw a taxi stop rather suddenly at the entrance. A man did not so much exit the vehicle as explode from it onto the street. He sprinted through the entrance of the pub.

  The larger of the three ladies looked at her two fellow ‘hoisters’.

  ‘This looks interesting.’

  -

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked the taxi driver to Miller.

  ‘No idea, mate,’ replied Miller, honestly. ‘I saw my boss bundled into the car up ahead. Didn’t like the look of that. Any idea where we’re heading?’

  ‘South of the river is my guess.’

  They drove along in silence for the next few minutes before crossing over the river at Waterloo Bridge. The car containing Kit drew to a halt on Waterloo Street outside a pub. He handed the cabbie some change and leapt out of the car, running towards the entrance Kit and the three men had used.

  Once through the doors of the pub, Miller entered the saloon section. It wasn’t very crowded and there was no sign of Kit. He turned and made his way up the stairs. There was a smaller bar located on the second floor, but it was empty. Miller spied a corridor at the far end of the bar. He walked towards it. As he did so a man stepped out from behind the bar. A largish frame was squashed into someone of middling height. His nose had seen better days. Ears, too.

  ‘The Gents is downstairs, sir.’

  Miller was taken aback by the use of the word ‘sir’ and then he remembered that he was dressed in a suit. An expensive looking suit. The man was looking at him with some uncertainty. It looked like he was trying to decide whether to throw him out or frog march him to the back.

  Miller gave him a third choice.

  ‘I say,’ said Miller, affecting an accent that would have held its own at Kit’s club, ‘I’ve come to see your boss. A few anomalies in his accounts.’

  It was the word ‘anomalies’ that probably won the day. Dan ‘Haymaker’ Harris, a former middleweight boxer whose ranking had never reached the dizzy heights of the top ten, was not the brainiest of men. Eloquence impressed him. The man before him looked polished and seemed something of a toff. ‘Haymaker’ was under no illusions about his station in life. His job was not to think but to obey. This was particularly pertinent if the instruction was something along the lines of, ‘Dan go hurt that person.’ He tended to be deferential to his many betters.

  ‘Come with me, said ‘Haymaker’. As this was what Miller wanted, he followed the former pugi
list to an office at the end of the corridor. A gentle rap on the door and then ‘Haymaker’ entered followed by Miller.

  Kit was sitting facing a small, well-dressed man who looked like he’d been in the ring, too. Standing to one side was another man who was clearly the brother of the seated man.

  The man behind the desk poured forth a volley of words towards the new entrants. Most of them profane. Dotted amongst them was a question around who the new entrant was and what he was doing here? You had to listen hard to catch it though.

  Kit held his hand up which immediately silenced the abusive language and, simultaneously, reassured Miller that his master’s life was not in imminent danger.

  ‘This is Harry Miller,’ explained. ‘He’s my man.’

  The final two words were repeated in a rather arch fashion by the previous speaker to his brother. He looked closely at Miller.

  ‘You look familiar. Do I know you?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Miller. ‘My dad is Daniel Miller. My brother was also called Daniel.’

  Charles ‘Wag’ McDonald registered both the name and the use of the past tense. He didn’t have to ask why. He’d left his role as a gangland leader in 1914 to sign up for the army. He nodded to Miller, recognising the catch in the voice as he’d spoken the name of his brother.

  ‘You’re Daniel Miller’s boy. Looks like you’ve not carried on the family tradition.’

  ‘In fact,’ interjected Kit, ‘Harry did follow the family tradition. I managed to persuade him to consider an alternative path.’

  ‘Really?’ said ‘Wag’ McDonald looking from master to servant and back again.

  ‘He saved my life.’

  Wag McDonald studied the small Londoner before him. It had taken pluck to come into the home of south London’s most feared gang leader.

  ‘Looks like he was trying to do it again.’

  Kit smiled and glanced at Miller.

  ‘Yes, rather a bad habit of his. It could get him hurt someday. Harry, this is Mr Charles McDonald, although I’m sure you guessed this. The gentleman standing is Mr Wal McDonald. And the kind gentleman who let you in is ‘Haymaker Harris’ who I had the great good fortune to see fight ten or twelve years ago.’