The Kit Aston Mysteries (All Five Books)

by Jack Murray

  ‘I hope the police have made progress with finding Natalie,’ said Agatha. They passed a newspaper seller on the street. Betty did not have to ask. She pulled over immediately and allowed Agatha a chance to hop out and buy the early evening edition. As they set off again, Agatha leafed through the paper.

  ‘Yes, it’s here. Good likeness of Natalie. Whoever did this, certainly knows what they’re about.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘Keep your eyes on road dear.’

  Both had long since given up on the idea that this avenue of inquiry would yield anything other than exposure to the most credulous in high society. As they were early, the ladies decided that it would be prudent to stop over for a little bit of replenishment to carry them through the ordeal ahead.

  ‘Two large brandies please,’ said Betty to the waitress in the Royal Court Hotel.

  Agatha gazed out at Sloane Square. It was early evening, and the sky was darkening ominously. The blackness of the clouds stark against the night blue of the sky.

  ‘I don’t like the look of those clouds,’ said Agatha.

  ‘This brandy is tip top, I must find out what it is,’ replied Betty.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s a storm coming.’

  ‘Hurry up and finish that one, dear,’ said Betty. ‘We should have time for another.’

  Twenty minutes later the ladies were sufficiently revitalised to venture out into the light rain which was now falling. The air was thick and oppressive as they walked around the corner towards the location of the final séance. It was a five minute stroll to the house. They arrived at the front door of the large townhouse just before the heavens opened.

  The host was a middle aged man with a grey and black beard and a smile that seemed just a little too eager to please. He introduced himself but the ladies promptly forgot his name. They followed him into a room with half a dozen men and women standing having a drink. The usual crowd: widows, widowers, parents wanting to contact the sons they had lost. Agatha’s emotions were a lethal mix of anger, alcohol and sadness. She had long since realised that spiritualism was a business like any other. It preyed on the gullible and profited from grief.

  The candle-lit room resembled many of the others they’d seen. Black curtains fell from the ceiling to the floor, a religious scene over the mantelpiece showed the Temptation of Christ. After a few moments, the host came over to join Agatha and Betty.

  ‘Good evening ladies. This is your first time here, if I’m not mistaken.’

  You’re not mistaken,’ said Agatha a little coldly prompting Betty to nudge her in the ribs.

  ‘Beautiful house,’ said Betty with a smile. ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘No, not mine,’ said the host somewhat evasively. ‘May I ask what your interest is in coming this evening?’

  They each had their story prepared. Both had lost their husbands. Both wished to communicate with them again. They had not had much luck elsewhere, but they remained optimistic.

  Did the smile on the host dim a little? He seemed like a salesman working on gaining a commission. The question, of course, was what was he selling? Agatha probed a bit further.

  ‘We’ve always been interested in more esoteric philosophy. In this day and age, such ideas can be frowned upon by less enlightened people. It’s a great pity that so much ancient knowledge has been denied us by religious institutions who demonise such thinking.’

  Agatha raised her eyebrows at the end hoping to prompt a response. The host’s eyes lit up again. He nodded his head vigorously. This prompted Agatha to continue.

  ‘I was only saying to my young granddaughter the other day how badly the occult is perceived today.’

  ‘It seems an unusual subject for a young girl to be interested in,’ laughed the host.

  ‘Well not so young. She’s twenty one soon. I’m trying to persuade her to move away from life modelling for artists and find a more cerebral interest,’ said Agatha, pausing to gauge the reaction to this piece of news.

  It was clear she’d judged her audience perfectly. The host was positively panting at this point. Betty was somewhat breathless herself, fearful that her friend was laying it on a bit thick. A life-modelling twenty year old girl? Thankfully this proved not to be the case.

  ‘Perhaps when our meeting is finished, we could talk privately about this?’

  Just as he said this, the grandfather clock struck six. Outside there was a roll of thunder. Agatha glanced at Betty with a raised eyebrow. If this was some sort of theatre created for their benefit, then it was surprisingly effective. There was an atmosphere about the house. Agatha turned to their host as the clock chimed.

  ‘Would I have time to pay a visit to the bathroom?’

  ‘Of course, top of the stairs and second on the right.’

  Agatha nodded to Betty and left the room. There was no one in the entrance hallway. Rather than check downstairs, she immediately made her way to the next floor. She noticed another flight of stairs ahead. The lights flickered for a moment, causing Agatha to glance upwards.

  From nowhere, a woman appeared. This took Agatha by surprise and she stepped backwards almost falling down the stairs.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The bathroom,’ said Agatha, attempting a smile to cover her surprise.

  The woman looked at her and did not try to hide her disbelief. She was around forty years old with dark hair and grey streaks at her side of her hair. The eyes were dark pools conveying a force that Agatha found undeniable. Undeniably chilling, that is.

  If this was a medium then, without question, she looked the part.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Agatha and went to the bathroom.

  When she came out a few minutes later, the woman was still there. This was odd, to say the least. She motioned with her arm for Agatha to come down the stairs with her. Nothing was said. Outside the rain was a percussive rattle against the windows as the thunder gave a low growl.

  The woman opened the door for Agatha and they both stepped into the room. Agatha gave Betty a shake of the head to indicate she’d not been able to accomplish her mission. A quick glance towards the woman indicated why. The host gave a light cough and the room immediately silenced and looked expectantly at the woman.

  The drumming of rain against the window caused Agatha to shiver; the room seemed colder than before. Betty attempted to button up her tweed jacket with limited success. The host took his seat.

  ‘Please be seated.’

  The host removed a tablecloth. Agatha and Betty froze when they saw the design on the table. It was a pentacle. At its centre was the outline of a goat’s head. The woman Agatha had just met was the last to sit down. She glanced towards the host. He exhaled slowly. The room was so cold now it caused a vapour to appear. Silence. The only sound was that of breathing.

  Agatha felt a cold draught lick her face. It felt malign, like an icy spray. A queer sickening thrill ran through her body. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she experienced fear. This séance was of a wholly different order to what they’d undergone before. There was an invisible, overwhelming presence here. She could feel it on her skin. Touch it almost.

  A clap of thunder made everyone jump.

  Nervous laughter immediately ceased when they looked at the medium. Outside the room in the entrance hall, the door opened with a creak. Agatha could hear the sound of footsteps falling quietly on the floor. Lots of footsteps. A glance towards Betty told her she’d heard them, too.

  ‘Thank you for joining,’ said the host, oblivious to the muffled sounds outside the room. ‘We have with us today, for the first time, a medium of great repute.’

  All eyes turned to the medium.

  ‘May I present Miss Eva Kerr.’

  35

  One of the things that Wag McDonald liked most about ‘Haymaker’ Harris was that he could trust him. He’d hired him not for his capability as a fighter or bodyguard. Rather it was his integrity. There was not a dishonest
bone in his body. In over fifty professional fights he’d never taken a dive. The reason for this went beyond the robustness of his jaw.

  He’d not mentioned anything about the events the other morning when he’d slept on the job. It preyed on his mind, though. After a sleepless night he came in to work the next morning with one clear idea. In fact, ‘Haymaker’s’ mind rarely held even one thought at any given time. He was one of nature’s doers.

  Arriving at the pub, he quickly mounted the stairs and knocked on McDonald’s door. A voice from inside shouted to come in. Inside were the McDonald brothers and Alice Diamond. They were obviously in a meeting. The sort of meeting that ‘Haymaker’ was never invited to. He looked at them. They looked back at him. As much as McDonald liked ‘Haymaker’, it was best not to test his patience levels.

  ‘Yes?’ said McDonald in a voice that prompted ‘Haymaker’ get on with it.

  ‘Sorry, boss, maybe I should come back.’

  ‘No, just make it quick.’

  ‘Haymaker’ took off his hat and gripped it in his hands.

  ‘It’s about yesterday morning. I fell asleep on the job. And when I woke, I followed the wrong woman. I’m sorry boss. I wanted to mention it.’

  McDonald’s face suggested he could think of nothing he was less interested in at that moment. Thankfully, ‘Haymaker’ was unlikely to pick up on the signs. However, he stood there waiting for an instruction, or forgiveness, ideally both.

  ‘No harm done,’ said McDonald, looking back to the others. A thought struck him, and he looked back up at the boxer.

  ‘Look why don’t you take the day off. You’ve had a lot of late shifts nursemaiding the flap.’

  ‘Thanks, boss,’ said ‘Haymaker’ and scurried from the office like a schoolboy mitching school. He hurried downstairs out into the open air. As he walked towards the bus stop, he failed to see a Rolls Royce fly past him, but ‘Haymaker’ was miles away. His mind, unburdened by his confession to Wag McDonald, was thinking about what he could do now.

  It must be said that the annals of crime literature are not filled with tales about what criminals do on their day off. This is for the very good reason that their job tends to be more exciting than the activities they are likely to get up to when not breaking the law. ‘Haymaker’ scratched his head, quite literally, as he strolled along the south bank. What to do? Then inspiration hit him. Even hardened criminals have family responsibilities; he would visit his mother.

  -

  ‘Daniel? Is that you?’ said Mrs Dixie Harris from the sitting room of her small, terraced house in Lambeth. One of thousands of two-up, two-down red brick houses in the area.

  ‘Yes, ma,’ said ‘Haymaker’ closing the front door.

  Seconds later ‘Haymaker’ was confronted by one of the most terrifying sights known to humankind: an outraged mother on the warpath. Mrs Harris was on her feet and across to the entrance hall with a speed of movement that, sadly, had not been passed on to her son.

  ‘Have you lost your job with that nice Mr McDonald?’ yelled the five foot titan. ‘Haymaker’, realising he was seconds away from a clip round the ear, immediately fell into his boxing stance and began to bob and weave. In fact, Mrs Harris’ first blow was a well delivered slap, executed with a speed that even a master ring technician such as Jack Johnson might have done well to evade never mind ‘Haymaker’. Defence had never been his strongest asset.

  ‘That hurt,’ complained ‘Haymaker’ who felt, not unreasonably, he was at the receiving end of rather unjust punishment. In addition, he wasn’t sure the word ‘nice’ was quite how he would have characterised Wag McDonald, as much as he liked his boss.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  The ability of a mother to move seamlessly from violence to nutrition had never ceased to amaze ‘Haymaker’. Thankfully, he loved his mother’s cooking.

  ‘Is that steak and kidney pie, I smell?’

  A few minutes later he was in the sitting room tucking into one of his favourite meals. By now, he’d just about managed to convince his mother that his employment with the Elephant Boys was in no way threatened by having a day off. All around the room were photographs of him from his prize fighting days. However, pride of place on the mantelpiece was a picture of him with Wag McDonald wearing army uniforms. He’d stuck with his boss for four years in Flanders.

  Around five in the afternoon, ‘Haymaker’ announced that it was probably time to go. His mother reached into her pocket and gave him a shilling.

  ‘Run and get me the evening paper, Daniel.’

  ‘Haymaker’ rolled his eyes and complied. Physical or verbal violence aside, the other special talent of mothers the world over is to make their sons feel like they are still six years old. His mother refused to accept the money back and insisted she pay for the paper.

  A few minutes later ‘Haymaker’ returned with the paper and was made to promise that he would not leave it so long again before he visited his old mum. He calculated his previous visit was four days ago.

  A short walk took him to the bus stop and then back into town. He didn’t see the big black car racing past the bus, headed for Lambeth.

  Mrs Harris was disturbed ten minutes after her son had left by banging on the door. She didn’t like the tone of the knocking and was up, on her feet ready to give the caller what for.

  When she opened the door, her mouth fell to the floor. She’d met him a few times with her boy. In this part of town, he was a legend.

  ‘Mr McDonald, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Mrs Harris,’ said Wag McDonald, ‘We’re trying to find Daniel. Is he here?’

  -

  Twenty minutes later ‘Haymaker’ arrived back at the offices of the Elephant Boys. He nodded to the barman as he entered but ignored the downstairs bar and headed immediately upstairs. The upper floor was surprisingly quiet. There was no one around which was unusual. It felt like they’d left in a hurry because there were a few newspapers lying around, half read. As there was nothing better to do at that moment, ‘Haymaker’, settled down to read the paper himself.

  He always started from the back where there was sporting news. Then he would work his way to the front methodically. He was a slow reader but discriminating. Business, politics and court news he skipped. Crime he read.

  Then he reached the inside front page. There was a drawing of a woman. He studied the picture closely then looked at the name. It was her. The woman he’d mistaken for ‘the flap’. His brain froze in that moment. For one of the few times in his life two thoughts entered his head simultaneously. He knew where she was, and she was in trouble.

  His chest felt constricted. ‘Haymaker’, for the first time in as long as he could remember had to make a decision that had not been made, earlier, by someone else on his behalf. He looked around the upstairs bar. It was empty. There was nothing, no one to guide him on what to do. He felt a sense of panic. So much panic that, in truth, he felt like crying.

  There was only one thing to do. Actually, two.

  A few moments later he was outside the pub and hailing a taxi.

  ‘Sloane Gardens,’ said ‘Haymaker’ to the driver. The driver glanced at the former boxer and wondered what on earth he would be doing there. A fare was a fare though. They set off.

  ‘Can you go any faster?’

  The driver looked at the passenger. There was no question this was a man who’d been in the ring. The nose was a boneless ripple, his eyes were sunk behind pads of scar tissue and his ears were like pincushions.

  He pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

  They arrived less than ten minutes later. Much to the cabbie’s surprise, he was rewarded with a tip or, more likely, the man was in a rush. No matter, a journey had been made. A fare was earned.

  ‘Haymaker’ stared across the road at the large house. The street was empty, and night was falling. This was an unusual situation for him on a number of levels. Devising a plan had never been his forte. He needed one now. Rescuing damsels in
distress was a new one for him. He thought for a second about the moving picture heroes he loved to watch. What would Tom Mix do?

  As he was pondering how evading a posse or rounding up rustlers might help him in his quest, he noticed that the street had become busier. Cars were beginning to pull up outside the house. Men and women were climbing the steps to go in. Others were arriving on foot. ‘Haymaker’ didn’t stop to ponder his next move. He was crossing the street before he knew what he was doing. He was sure he’d seen Tom Mix do this. He followed the men and women into the house.

  As he entered through the door, a man turned to him and said, ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before.’ The voice, the suit, the condescending look all said one thing to ‘Haymaker’: this man was a ‘nob.

  The boxer removed his hat, smiled and said in a voice that would have been as unrecognisable to Wag McDonald and highly amusing to Kit.

  ‘I’m new.’

  36

  Mary stalked the perimeter of the drawing room like a caged animal. Following the departure of Agatha and Betty, Kit had spoken to Jellicoe but, in reality, there was nothing he or Mary could add to the police effort being conducted already.

  ‘There must be something we can do,’ said Mary, her face unable to hide the concern she felt.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Kit.

  Mary looked at him quizzically, but Kit was already on his feet. He went back to the hallway and called Miller. Soon they were in the Rolls travelling down to Elephant and Castle.

  ‘Chance to renew your acquaintance with Miss Hill, Harry,’ said Kit.

  ‘I can hardly wait, sir.’

  Mary looked less than impressed by the two men and kept a dignified silence as the pair of men joked about the unrequited love of Maggie Hill. Finally, she could take no more.

  ‘I fail to see what’s so funny. This poor girl has been brought up in a poverty which is unimaginable to us. Now she seems to have fallen for a man who not only does not love her but seems to think it amusing that she has feelings towards him.’