by Jack Murray
The Phantom
The Fourth Lord Kit Aston Mystery
Jack Murray
Table of Contents
The Phantom
Copyright © 2019 by Jack Murray
[email protected]
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Coda – One Year Later…
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright © 2019 by Jack Murray
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed ‘Attention: Permissions Coordinator,’ at the address below.
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is either purely coincidental or used in a fictitious manner.
Prologue
February 9th, 1920: London
The policeman ambled along the street with the unhurried gait of a man who had no particular place to go nor any reason to rush there. The only noise he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. It was robber-dark. The stars were hidden behind a thick black cloud. Light was provided by the lamp posts rising up from the pavement every thirty yards. The policeman took pride in the fact that all of the lights were in full working order. None had been vandalised. Of course, this wasn’t really the area for such misbehaviour unless some young ‘nob, aided and abetted by a skinful of gin, had been unable to resist a primeval temptation to test the strength and accuracy of his spear-thowing arm.
Such incidents were rare although not wholly without precedent. They were also, paradoxically, both a welcome break from the blissful monotony of patrolling such a wealthy area, as well as an opportunity to supplement his calamitously low wage by dealing with these young offenders with a profitable leniency. That he might be transgressing, in spirit, the law he had sworn to uphold, never clouded his conscience.
It would be another couple of hours before the sun came up, and he could finally get to bed. His feet ached. His back was hurting, and the cold had invaded his bones and taken residence for the winter. Perhaps he could risk a call to Miss Diana’s house before returning home. There was always a welcome for a man there.
Tonight the policeman was actually a lot nearer a serious crime scene than his career had, thus far, blessed him with. From inside the large mansion, the policeman was being watched. The thief looked at the constable walk towards and then away from the house until he was like a distant silhouette in an Atkinson Grimshaw painting. The watcher resumed the search using a small desk light.
The walls were covered with the extraordinary art collection of the mansion owner. The thief examined each expensive painting on the wall not for its beauty, nor the name of the artist but for what it may be shielding behind.
A rather slap dash Renoir proved to be the one. The thief looked at the painting with something bordering on incredulity. The brush strokes seemed lazy, the draughtsmanship non-existent and the model’s face betrayed either boredom or the unhappy realisation that her state of undress would provoke the old dog into seeking an amorous conclusion to their work session. More likely still, the model suspected the artist would end up making her look positively bovine. If the latter had been the objective, thought the thief, then take a bow Auguste Renoir. The painting was placed carefully on the table as thief looked at the, previously concealed, safe.
Opening a small black bag, the thief withdrew an instrument while offering a silent acknowledgement to René Laennec, the inventor of the stethoscope. Although a closer reading of the history of auscultation would have given the thief more chance to recognise the contribution of Irish physician Arthur Leared who developed the first binaural stethoscope. The thief duly placed both parts of the receiver in each ear and slowly began to twist the dial on the safe.
Within a few minutes the safe snapped open. The thief reached inside and removed a black velvet bag. A quick check inside the bag confirmed its contents.
Moments later the bag was placed back into the safe and the mediocre Renoir returned to its place on the wall.. The thief placed an additional item inside. It was a small calling card. There were no words, only an image. It showed the silhouette of man with a fedora. The face and the hat were black save for two white eyes staring with undisguised evil intent .
A quick check at the window showed the constable was out of sight. The thief opened the window and stepped outside. Carefully the thief closed the window and leapt from the sill, over the rail fence onto the pavement, landing like a prima ballerina on the stage at Covent Garden. In the blink of an eye, the thief had vanished into the cold night air.
Chapter 1
February 11th, 1920: Grosvenor Square, London
Night crept into London’s Grosvenor Square, like a street urchin picking a rich man’s pocket: stealthily at first and then all at once. The square comprised of grand houses surrounding a large garden. The very richest in the land chose to live in this location rather as a fish should choose to live in the sea. It was their natural habitat and always had been.
Building work began in Grosvenor Square around 1721 soon after the South Sea Bubble burst to spectacularly impoverishing effect on its numerous British investors. The square took to heart the idea that an Englishman’s home is his castle and made a jolly decent attempt at bringing this concept to reality. Perhaps an unintended after-effect, made manifest in Grosvenor Square, was the idea that investing in London property was rarely a bad idea.
On this night, young Ezra Mullins was, as his mum might have said, in a right state and no mistake. He was dressed in livery only marginally less stiff than cardboard sporting a top hat that was one, possibly two sizes too big. The sight presented by the estimable young Mullins would, almost certainly, have induced paroxysms of pride in his mother and mirth in his father: such is the uncommon nature of women and the immaturity of men.
Ezra had recently been recruited as a doorman for an industrial magnate, one of the few men in England able to afford a mansion in one of the least affordable locations in London. Tonight he was witnessing, and bowing, to a parade of the flushest and most powerful individuals, not just from Britain but from around the world.
A Rolls Royce Phantom attracted his attention as it drew up to the magnificent mansion. The chauffeur, another young man stepped out from the front and opened the door. From the car emerged easily the most beautiful girl Ezra had seen all evening, if not ever. The
lucky fellow with her, conceded young Ezra, was also a fine looking gentleman. He couldn’t help but notice the man’s limp. It wasn’t difficult to guess the reason why.
As the couple walked up the steps, the young woman glanced at Ezra. His attempts to disguise his admiration were sadly undone by a mouth that had dropped open and inability to tear his eyes away from her face. She looked back at him; her blue eyes narrowed faintly, then she smiled. Moments later she was away and moving into the hallway of the mansion.
Dominating the hallway was an enormous malachite staircase which led from a black and white marble floor to a second floor landing which housed an enormous Van Dyck portrait of a Dutch woman overlooking the whole scene with all the patience, bonhomie and good spiritedness of a wife awaiting her lord and master’s return home from the pub.
The staircase was lined with footmen who smiled as the young couple walked up towards the drawing room. Inside there was already a large crowd of men in white tie. There were relatively few women, observed the young man. The raised eyebrow of his beautiful young partner told him she was thinking along similar lines.
Lady Mary Cavendish surveyed the room for a few moments and, noted without caring too much, that many of the men, aware of her arrival, were surveying her also. She looked up at the man who was accompanying her and said with a smile, ‘Two Prime Ministers, a former Prime Minister and a couple of cabinet ministers. Not bad. You do take me to all the best places Lord Aston.’
Kit glanced down at Mary and returned her smile.
‘Well, cooped up in hospital all this time, I thought it was the least I could do.’
‘Lead on Macduff,’ ordered Mary sweetly. Up ahead she noticed a distinguished man absenting himself from the company of Prime Minister Lloyd George to have a word with a servant.
‘He’s rather good looking, I must say, for an older man,’ observed Mary.
Kit raised his eyebrow and replied, ‘I happen to agree with you. That is our host.’
Mary put her arm through Kit’s, looked straight ahead and said, ‘Introduce us, please.’
Across the room was Lord Peter Wolf, the joint owner of Lewis & Wolf, a large industrial conglomerate. They were inside the drawing room of Wolf’s mansion in Grosvenor Square. The room seemed to be the size of a small county. Overhead were two crystal chandeliers which competed, unsuccessfully, for attention against the objets d’art which included Renaissance paintings on the walls and a Canova bust situated at the end of the room.
Kit and Mary walked towards Wolf. ‘How rich is he?’ asked Mary nodding towards the wall housing the Titian.
‘Clearly not in penury,’ said Kit under his breath.
Wolf turned around just as the couple moved towards him. He was a tall man, around sixty, tanned with hair turning from dark to silver. His blue eyes crinkled into a smile as he saw Kit with Mary.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you arrive. We’ve dispensed with announcing arrivals.’
‘I’m glad,’ replied Kit, ‘It would seem like a relic from the last century.’
‘I agree. After Flanders I’m not sure it feels appropriate either,’ said Wolf. Turning to Mary, ‘Is this the extraordinary Lady Cavendish?’
‘I wouldn’t quite go that far, Lord Wolf,’ said Mary modestly.
‘I would. Your story caused quite a stir in our household,’ replied Wolf taking Mary’s hand and shaking it. ‘What you did in going to nurse the men at the front was very much to your credit, so you may count me amongst your many devotees. Although if the rumours are true, it seems you have one particular admirer.’
Kit laughed and admitted the rumours were true. Wolf looked at them, and his smile grew wider. They made a beautiful couple. Noble without the superiority, intelligent without conceit and approachable without being over-familiar.
‘My wife and I weren’t fortunate enough to have children but, if I may say, I’d have been immensely proud if they’d been like you, my dear. Congratulations Kit,’ and Wolf took Kit’s hand and shook it vigorously. It was clear the sincerity of Wolf’s sentiments.
‘Thank you, sir and thank you for the invitation to your,’ he searched for the right word to convey the fact that they were amongst many of Europe’s leaders on the eve of a major peace conference in London. He settled on, ‘soiree.’
This made Wolf smile and he said, ‘I thought it appropriate you come given your escapade in Paris last year.’
Mary looked up at Kit proudly, ‘Yes he’s been somewhat reluctant to tell me exactly what he did.’
‘There’s a man coming towards us who should be able to elaborate,’ replied Wolf.
‘Lord Aston, Lady Mary,’ boomed a voice rich enough in timbre to suggest a long and successful career on the boards. In fact, this was not so very far from the truth as the man was playing a role. The role was as fictitious as his playing of it was true.
Both turned around to be greeted by the sight of Percy Pendlebury, gossip columnist and, as of last year’s unintentional involvement in ‘The French Diplomat Affair’, mysterious man of, well, mystery. Wolf rolled his eyes and made good his escape.
‘Percy,’ said Kit shaking the journalist’s hand, ‘How are you? Glad to see you’re fully recovered.’
‘Oh completely Kit, but enough about me, now Lady Mary, I don’t believe we’ve met but I have met Lady Esther,’ said Pendlebury fixing Mary with his full attention.
‘Yes, I read the piece you wrote about her, you were very kind.’
‘I should love to have included you also my dear. My readers were bewitched by my series on what people such as yourselves were doing during the War.’
Mary had nursed under a pseudonym at the Front for the last year of the War.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to talk about my time there.’
Just for a moment Mary found it hard to breathe. Unhappy images of the appalling injuries inflicted on the soldiers in her care swam in front of her eyes. Kit was aware of Mary’s grip growing stronger. He looked at her face and saw a change, almost imperceptible, but clear. He fell in love with her again for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.
Pendlebury, whose own intuition was as highly tuned as Kit’s, also saw the change. He took her hand and smiled sympathetically.
‘Please forgive me. I quite understand your desire not to discuss those heart-breaking days.’
He did. Unusually for a newsman whose prior career had principally involved the reporting of rich people being and acting as rich people do, he had travelled to the front to see for himself, and report on, the lives of the men and women serving.
‘But am I to assume that you two wonderful young people, have some news to share with me and all my readers?’
Mary blushed slightly and glanced at Kit who returned her look.
‘Yes, Percy. I rather think you can.’
‘Is this official?’
‘It will be when you break it,’ pointed out Kit.
Pendlebury offered hearty congratulations before nodding to two older men standing in a corner, ‘Well, Kit I must thank you for this scoop, although I think we’ll both agree you did owe me one. Ah you’ll have to excuse me on that happy note, I’ve just seen two Prime Ministers talking to one another. I shall see if I can hear what they’re saying.’
The two Prime Ministers in question were Lloyd George and Francesco Nitti of Italy, both were due to host the Conference of London the next day.
Mary looked up at Kit suspiciously.
‘What did he mean by that I wonder?’ asked Mary. ‘Is this another thing you’ve neglected to tell me milord?’
‘I’m afraid it is rather a failing of our gender that we sometimes omit details in our desire to avoid boring to death the audience.’
‘Or,’ pointed out Mary, ‘when said detail may not reflect well on you?’
‘Especially that.’
Wolf returned and taking Mary’s arm said, ‘If I may, Kit, I’d like to take the most beautiful lady in the room to meet her
many admirers.’
‘That didn’t take long,’ laughed Kit relinquishing Mary’s arm.
As he did so he became aware of a man ambling up beside him.
‘I gather congratulations are in order,’ said the man, who was at least as tall as Kit.
‘Yes, Lord President,’ replied Kit to former Prime Minister, Arthur Balfour.
Balfour nodded, and both men regarded Mary appreciatively. Then he turned back to Kit and said, ‘I knew her grandmother slightly, she was also very beautiful. You must introduce us later. How are you anyway? You’ve had a busy few weeks if what I hear is true.’
Kit laughed. In the last few weeks he’d solved the murder of Lord Arthur Cavendish, seen his fiancée almost fall victim to poisoning and solved a crime involving several murders connected to a conspiracy to assassinate the King and the Queen Consort.
‘Yes, it’s been somewhat hectic,’ agreed Kit.
‘You met my successor Curzon I gather.’
‘Indeed,’ said Kit looking at Balfour with a half-smile.
‘Indeed,’ responded Balfour in an equally neutral tone. Glancing ahead he saw Mary ensconced with Lloyd George and Nitti.
‘Your intended may need rescuing. One Welsh goat and an Italian seem to be wooing her. If she’s in any way attracted by power, you could be in trouble. If, instead, she values men of a more philosophical bent, I may throw a hat into the ring myself.’ Both observed the Italian Prime Minister put a protective arm around Mary before noting his hand dropping further down.
‘Normally I would say she can hold her own but perhaps, on this occasion, she’s outgunned.’
The two men walked forward to rescue Mary, who glanced archly at Kit as he arrived. Turning momentarily to Lloyd George before looking again at Kit, she said, ‘The Prime Minister was just telling me how you probably saved his life last year in Paris. I must say I’m looking forward to getting to know my future husband, Prime Minister, he tells me nothing.’
‘And the King’s life this year,’ added Balfour. ‘By the way Lady Mary, I’m Arthur, as none of these gentlemen seem in a rush to introduce me.’