The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Adeline Vardon had been brought up to observe the most rigid divisions between employer and employee. She was the daughter of a wealthy Stoke-on-Trent pottery manufacturer and his wife, who saw their daughter’s marriage as a definite step up the social ladder. Adeline had been dazzled by the prospect of a title and bowled over by the big, handsome man with his dashing manners. Her parents’ enthusiasm was increased, if anything, by the fact he was a widower with a young son – it seemed so respectable – and had only been slightly dampened by the discovery that Sir Matthew had no money to speak of.

  As she watched, the chauffeur inclined his head towards Sir Matthew. Sir Matthew threw back his head, laughing, then clapped the man on the shoulder. Ryle, grinning broadly, pushed his cap back and, hands in pockets, replied.

  The sunlight caught his face and, for a few brief seconds, the two men looked exactly alike. Adeline Vardon blinked and the likeness was gone.

  She must have imagined it. After all, Ryle was a thin cringing whippet of a man, with a dreadful Cockney accent and her husband was a powerful, well-built, masterful man, who still retained those handsome looks she had been so charmed by. Adeline Vardon hated the way Matthew allowed Ryle to be so familiar. She must speak to him about it. She was not going to allow any servant – and especially Ryle – to get above themselves.

  Ryle picked up Sir Matthew’s bag and the two men walked up the drive together.

  Adeline Vardon’s frown deepened into frank disapproval. She went into the hall and out onto the drive. Ryle looked up, smothered a grin and touched his cap in what seemed to Adeline Vardon to be a very off-hand way.

  ‘You can put the car away, Ryle,’ said Sir Matthew. ‘I won’t need it again today.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ryle in that Cockney twang she hated, adding, as a seeming afterthought and with a glance at Lady Vardon, ‘sir.’

  Adeline Vardon waited until she and Sir Matthew were in the house. ‘You allow that man to be far too familiar.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear,’ he said, kissing her.

  ‘There are other chauffeurs, I suppose.’

  ‘There aren’t any other chauffeurs who worked for Ned Castradon.’

  She was frankly puzzled. ‘Why does that make any difference?’

  ‘Because I want to know as much as I can about that gentleman. Don’t ask me why, Adeline. It’s a matter of business.’

  She tossed her head impatiently. ‘I don’t understand anything about business.’

  He laughed delightedly. ‘I know, my dear. And a very proper attitude it is, too. Simon seems well.’

  All her irritation vanished in a flash. ‘Simon?’ Her voice softened. ‘Oh, Matthew, I’m so glad you’ve seen him. I’ve sometimes thought you don’t appreciate dear Simon enough.’

  That, thought Sir Matthew, was probably true. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to appreciate Simon as deeply as his mother thought he should be appreciated.

  ‘Is he coming here?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I do wish we saw more of him. Why, he’s hardly been home since the war ended.’

  ‘There’s nothing for him here, Adeline. You go up to town often enough. You see him then.’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ said Adeline obstinately. ‘Did you ask him to the county ball? I’m sure he’d enjoy it.’

  Sir Matthew’s mind went back to the scene in Simon’s flat. The idea of discussing something as refined as a county ball in the presence of that drug-sodden wreck of a human being, Alan Leigh, struck him as very funny indeed.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t, my dear,’ he said with high good humour. ‘We had other things to talk about. Talking of the county ball, I must arrange to get your diamonds out of the bank.’

  Lady Vardon glanced down at her nails. ‘I don’t know if I want to wear my diamonds, Matthew. What I really want are pearls.’

  ‘You’ve got pearls, my dear.’

  Adeline sighed. Men just didn’t understand these things. ‘I’ve got a pearl necklace, Matthew, but I can’t wear that to the ball. I need a rope of pearls. Really good pearls. Everybody has pearls.’

  ‘You wear your diamonds, Adeline. They can outshine any pearls in the county.’ He looked at her petulant expression and grinned. ‘If my little bit of business comes off – and it will – you can take a trip to any jeweller you fancy.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should have to wait. I want them now.’

  ‘You’ll have them. All in good time.’

  TWO

  Isabelle Stanton glanced up in surprise from the breakfast table to where the window overlooked the drive. ‘Arthur, Sue Castradon’s here. I wonder what she wants so early in the morning?’

  Arthur put the newspaper down and, pushing his chair back, stood up to greet Sue as Mabel, their maid, showed her into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at breakfast,’ said Sue, taking the chair Arthur pulled out for her, ‘but I wondered if you’d heard the news.’

  ‘No,’ said Isabelle, pouring out a cup of coffee for her friend. ‘What’s happened? It’s not Ned, is it?’ she added with a tinge of anxiety. Arthur liked Sue’s husband, Ned Castradon. Isabelle wasn’t so sure. She felt sorry for Ned – he’d had a tough time in the war – but there was no getting around it, he was moody and bad-tempered and, thought Isabelle, very difficult to live with.

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with Ned,’ said Sue, picking up her coffee. ‘This is news. I simply had to tell you. Our maid, Rose, got it from the fish boy. I imagine your cook, Mrs Jarvis, will be full of it too. You know Lady Vardon’s diamonds?’

  ‘The ones she was wearing at the county ball?’ asked Isabelle.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It happened last night. Lady Vardon was attacked and her diamonds stolen.’

  Isabelle and Arthur stared at her, then Arthur let out a long whistle of surprise. ‘Attacked? Good Lord! Is she all right?’

  Sue nodded vigorously. ‘She’s all right, but in an awful state. The thief got clean away.’

  ‘How on earth did it happen?’ demanded Isabelle. ‘She doesn’t keep her diamonds at home, does she?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t, but they’d been taken out of the bank for the ball. They should’ve been sent back today, but she decided to wear them last night at dinner. There was only her and Sir Matthew at home, so it’s silly in a way for her to get all dressed up.’

  ‘If I had diamonds, I think I’d want to wear them whatever the occasion,’ said Isabelle. ‘Especially if they’re usually in the bank. So what happened?’

  ‘As far as I can make out, she went for a stroll on the terrace with Sir Matthew when the thief jumped out. He was armed with a cosh. He stunned Sir Matthew and chloroformed Lady Vardon. When Sir Matthew came to, he found Lady Vardon senseless beside him and the diamonds gone.’

  Arthur and Isabelle gaped at her. ‘Good grief,’ said Arthur eventually. ‘Do the police know?’

  ‘They’re at the house now, apparently, but I don’t know what they can do. Sir Matthew caught a glimpse of the man, but he had a scarf over his face. All he really knows is that he was a big, powerful man. Lady Vardon didn’t see the man but she’s convinced one of the servants must be to blame.’

  ‘That’s rotten for them all,’ said Arthur with a frown. ‘What does Sir Matthew say?’

  ‘He says it must’ve been a professional thief who’d been waiting his opportunity, but he thinks they’re in league with the servants, too.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound much fun for the servants,’ said Arthur dryly.

  ‘No, that’s what I thought. My Rose was very indignant on their behalf.’ Sue idly ran her finger round the rim of her cup. ‘Isabelle, doesn’t your cousin, Jack Haldean, solve mysteries and crimes and so on? I wonder if he’d be interested? After all, those diamonds must be worth thousands.’

  Isabelle shook her head. ‘I don’t think this is Jack’s sort of problem. He doesn’t solve mysteries for a living, you know. What he actually does is write detective stories. He just hap
pens to have been caught up in various cases.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Arthur. ‘Jack only gets involved if he’s interested or if someone appeals to him for help. If one of the Vardons’ servants were wrongly accused, say, then I could see Jack pitching in, but not otherwise.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Isabelle agreed. ‘Beside that, it does help if he likes the people involved and I’d be very surprised if he took to the Vardons.’

  ‘I don’t like them much,’ admitted Sue, ‘and Ned can’t stand them. There was some sort of history between Ned’s father and Sir Matthew. There’s no love lost between them, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Your Aunt Catherine warned us not to get too friendly with the Vardons, didn’t she, Arthur?’ said Isabelle. Arthur managed Aunt Catherine’s estate. ‘She’s always kept on good terms with them, because she says life’s impossible in the country if you don’t get along with your neighbours, but she doesn’t care for them at all. She thinks Sir Matthew is far too harsh with his tenants and she hates the way Lady Vardon treated Sir Matthew’s eldest son, Thomas. I must say I felt very sorry for Thomas.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Arthur, puzzled. ‘I thought Thomas Vardon had done very well for himself.’

  ‘He’s done very well indeed,’ said Sue. ‘He lives in Hollywood and married a film star.’

  ‘A film star?’ repeated Arthur in surprise. ‘Is she famous?’

  Sue pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. She’s called Esmé Duclair. I must say, I’d never heard of her.’

  ‘So why d’you feel sorry for him?’ asked Arthur. ‘He seems a lucky sort of beggar to me.’

  The two girls looked at each other. ‘It’s the way Lady Vardon treated him,’ said Sue. ‘I had this from Mrs Dyson, the vicar’s wife, and you know what a dear she is. She’d never be nasty about anyone who didn’t thoroughly deserve it. Thomas is Sir Matthew’s son by his first wife and, when she died, Sir Matthew married again.’

  ‘That’s right,’ put in Isabelle. ‘As soon as Lady Vardon had a son of her own – he’s called Simon, I think – she resented the fact that Thomas would inherit the estate.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought the estate amounted to much, however much Lady Vardon resents him,’ said Arthur. ‘He’ll be far better off in Hollywood. The diamonds weren’t part of the estate, were they?’

  ‘No,’ said Sue, shaking her head. ‘They were a wedding present from Lady Vardon’s father. Lady Vardon received a very generous marriage settlement from her father. Not that it’s done her much good,’ she added darkly.

  ‘What on earth d’you mean?’ asked Arthur. ‘And how the dickens d’you know all this?’

  ‘Mrs Dyson again,’ said Isabelle with a grin. ‘Sir Matthew hasn’t been lucky with money.’ She looked up as the door opened and Mabel, their young and very bright maid, came in with a tray to clear the breakfast things.

  ‘Have you heard about the robbery at the Vardons, ma’m?’ asked Mabel, loading up the tray. ‘The fish boy’s just told us. The police haven’t got a clue who did it. The thief got clean away and left Lady Vardon and Sir Matthew senseless. Lady Vardon suspects the servants as being in league with the villain, but that doesn’t seem right, to go saying that sort of thing without any proof,’ she added with a censorious sniff. ‘And that’s not all,’ she added, her eyes bright.

  Isabelle hesitated. She knew she shouldn’t encourage Mabel to gossip but … ‘What else has happened?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Sir Matthew,’ said Mabel. There was no doubt she was enjoying being the bearer of news. ‘He’s been took mortal bad. It must’ve been the shock. He was acting queer this morning – he didn’t seem to know where he was or where anything should be – and then he keeled over. Dr Lucas was sent for and he says as how Sir Matthew’s been struck down with apoplexy. He’s been struck bad,’ she repeated with emphasis.

  Arthur, Isabelle and Sue stared at her. ‘Apoplexy?’ said Arthur. ‘A stroke? Is it … I mean, will it be fatal, does anyone know?’

  ‘Folk do recover from apoplexy,’ admitted Mabel grudgingly. ‘My mum says she’s heard of those who you’d expect to be measured for their box to get up, bright and lively, and to shake it off as if nothing had happened, but from what I’ve heard, this is a real bad one. Cook says as how it’s a judgement.’

  There was no mistaking the relish in Mabel’s words. ‘Cook says he might linger for a while, but it sounds like there’s not much hope. By all accounts he was beside himself last night, ranting and raving and carrying on at the staff. He threatened to sack the lot of them and Hester Drewitt – she’s nice, Hester – says she’s never been spoken to like that in all her born days. I agree with Cook,’ continued Mabel, warming to her theme and stacking the plates onto the tray, ‘I say it’s a judgement, but time will tell.’

  Time did tell. Despite Adeline Vardon’s protestations there was nothing seriously wrong, over the next three weeks Matthew Vardon’s condition worsened.

  In Sir Matthew’s bedroom, Dr Lucas checked the thermometer and glanced at the wasted body of the once virile man on the bed. It couldn’t be much longer.

  He wasn’t sorry. He wiped the thermometer and put it back in its case before snapping the lock on his bag.

  ‘There’s not much hope, is there, Doctor?’ asked Nurse Pargetter at his elbow.

  ‘I’m afraid the longer he remains in this semi-conscious condition, the likelihood of him either simply slipping away or suffering another apoplectic stroke is greatly increased. There’s very little I or anyone else can do. No,’ he added, ‘there isn’t much hope.’

  The nurse looked at him quizzically. There was an odd note of satisfaction in his voice, but his face betrayed nothing but professional concern.

  The doctor rubbed a hand through his thinning hair. ‘I must speak to Lady Vardon. I’ll have to prepare her for the inevitable. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. She refused point-blank to listen to me when I tried to bring the subject up before.’ He couldn’t keep the brightness out of his voice. ‘Still, it can’t be helped.’

  Lady Vardon dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief and blinked at the doctor. ‘It’s too awful. Poor Matthew.’

  Dr Lucas glanced surreptitiously at his watch, noting with surprise that the interview had only lasted ten minutes at the most. It felt like hours. What made it worse was that he believed the woman was quite sincere in her grief. Didn’t she have any idea of what the man was really like?

  He continued to nod sympathetically while his thoughts ran off at a tangent. He’d have to be careful. Nurse Pargetter was an observant woman and she had looked at him very oddly more than once over the last few weeks. But with Sir Matthew gone he would be free. Life could begin again, but there was danger.

  Let the nurse get any idea into her head that his attitude was anything other than completely professional, and it could destroy his career. Rumours were the very devil to counter but it was difficult not to let his feelings show. Even on his deathbed, Sir Matthew was a dangerous man. He suddenly realized that Lady Vardon had asked him a question. A question that brought him up short and suggested Nurse Pargetter had started her rumours already.

  He wiped a little bead of sweat from the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Vardon. I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘I asked you,’ repeated Lady Vardon, twisting the handkerchief round in her fingers, ‘if you had any doubt that Matthew’s condition is … is natural?’

  It was like running into a wall. There it was, the start of a ghastly nightmare of innuendo, suspicion and accusation. Danger. Stark danger. This could ruin him.

  ‘Natural?’ he repeated. ‘Of course it’s natural. Your husband suffered a severe apoplectic stroke, a condition sometimes referred to as a stroke of God.’ Anxiety made him bluster. ‘If you have any doubts about his condition or the course of treatment I am pursuing, I would be more than happy for you to call in a second opinion.’

  He gulped. A second opinion would help. It wou
ldn’t help Sir Matthew but it’d help him. With another doctor on the case, it would be impossible for anyone to accuse him of carelessness, of neglect and even, perhaps, something worse.

  ‘I haven’t any doubts about your treatment, Doctor,’ she said.

  Dr Lucas blinked. That was unexpected, if reassuring.

  ‘A second opinion—’ he began but she cut him off.

  ‘Matthew likes you, Dr Lucas.’

  Did he? That was really unexpected.

  ‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘I remember him laughing once when your name came up. He said that he did like a doctor without any ideas of his own, who’d do exactly what he was told.’

  All Dr Lucas’s loathing of Sir Matthew intensified. ‘I must insist, Lady Vardon, that you call in a second opinion. I can provide you with a list of suitable names but you are, of course, at complete liberty to choose your own man.’

  ‘I don’t want another doctor,’ she wailed. She held out a piece of notepaper to him. ‘I want someone to explain this.’

  Dr Lucas took the notepaper with a puzzled frown. The message consisted of one neatly typewritten line. I am killing you slowly. You are going to die. The Chessman.

  Dr Lucas looked at the note in bewilderment. ‘Who sent this?’

  ‘I don’t know! That’s the second letter Matthew’s had. The first arrived a couple of days after Matthew was taken ill.’ Her handkerchief was now a series of inextricable knots. ‘Someone’s hounding us, Doctor. First I was attacked and my diamonds were stolen and now this! There’s a plot, a wicked plot against us! I wanted to show the letters to Matthew, to ask him what I should do, but he’s been so under the weather, I can’t.’

  Dr Lucas wryly thought that under the weather was one way of describing acute apoplectic shock, but refrained from comment.

  ‘Anonymous letters are horrible, Lady Vardon. I’d chuck it in the fire and not give it another thought.’

  ‘But who can it be from, Doctor? Who could possibly hate Matthew so much?’

  Quite a lot of people, countered the doctor to himself, but he schooled himself into showing nothing but avuncular reassurance. ‘Please don’t upset yourself, Lady Vardon. I can assure you that your husband’s condition is entirely natural. These letters are probably written by some nasty-minded crank, taking advantage of your husband’s illness. They probably make a habit of such things, preying on unfortunate souls such as yourself who are in grave distress.’