The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘So you don’t think these letters really have anything to do with Matthew?’ she said slowly. ‘That this crank could write to anyone?’

  ‘That’s exactly it, Lady Vardon,’ said Dr Lucas, rather more heartily than he intended. ‘However,’ he added, ‘I’m afraid your husband is very ill. I would value a second opinion.’

  At Dr Lucas’s insistence, Dr Jacob McNiece of Harley Street, was called in to give a second – and expensive – opinion that there was little hope.

  At twenty past two the following morning, Sir Matthew Vardon died. He was buried four days later.

  It was at Sir Matthew’s funeral that Simon Vardon first saw Sue Castradon. That’s when the rumours started.

  Two days after Sir Matthew’s death, 5,500 miles away in a white-walled Spanish-style bungalow on Ryder Avenue, West Hollywood, Thomas Vardon came down to breakfast. He took a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon from the dishes on the sideboard – Thomas retained his English breakfast habits – poured himself a cup of tea, then, picking up a paperknife, slit open the cablegram that lay beside his plate on the breakfast table.

  ‘Good God!’

  His wife, known to her fairly small public as Esmé Duclair, looked up from her copy of Motion Picture Magazine. ‘What is it, Tom?’

  ‘It’s my father. He’s dead,’ Thomas said simply.

  Esmé drew her breath in. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes.’ He pushed his hair back from his forehead in bewilderment. ‘I know Simon said in his last letter he was really worried about him, but I had no idea it was so serious.’ He looked at his wife. ‘I’ll have to go to England, I suppose. Damn!’

  He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It could be worse,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘A Woman’s Trust is more or less finished and I can give Paris Nights to Dusselberg.’ He paused once more. ‘Yes, that should be okay.’

  He pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I’ll sort everything out at the studio but—’

  ‘You don’t seem exactly heartbroken,’ interrupted his wife reprovingly.

  Thomas shrugged. ‘You didn’t know my father.’

  ‘Had you quarrelled with him?’ Esmé knew very little about her husband’s relations. She knew he wrote to his brother, but he’d hardly mentioned the rest of his family.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Not quarrelled exactly, but we never saw eye to eye.’

  A calculating expression came into Esmé’s eyes. Although she knew virtually nothing about her husband’s family, one fact she was sure of. ‘Tom, your father was Sir Matthew, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘And that’s aristocracy, right?’

  Thomas sighed. No matter how many times he explained things, Esmé was convinced that a genuine English title equated to a genuine English aristocrat. ‘Hardly. He was a baronet.’

  Esmé’s eyes glazed over. ‘A baronet? It sounds good to me. What’s a baronet, Tom?’

  ‘A baronet is one of the landed gentry.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘Not that there was much land in the estate.’

  Esmé shook her head impatiently. ‘But you do get the title? I mean, you’re Sir Thomas now?’

  Thomas laughed cynically. He knew exactly what was in his wife’s mind. ‘I suppose I am. Which means, Esmé, that you’re Lady Vardon.’

  ‘Lady Vardon,’ she repeated softly, then said it again, with great satisfaction. ‘Lady Vardon. I like it.’

  It was quarter past ten on Sunday evening, a fortnight after Sir Matthew Vardon’s funeral.

  Jonathan Ryle lurched out of the Red Lion and across the green in a state of boiling resentment. He wasn’t drunk. He could handle his drink. And, even if he had had a couple, that was what pubs were for, weren’t they? If Sir Matthew had still been alive, that swine of a landlord, Brandreth, wouldn’t have dared to speak to him like that. He sniffed hard and brushed his sleeve across his eyes, feeling an unexpected tear well up. He missed the guv. The guv had been good to him. It had been all right when the guv was alive. People respected him then.

  He looked down the quiet high street of Croxton Ferriers with disgust. Croxton Ferriers was a lousy little dump. If this was the country, they could keep it. Everyone was against him but he’d show them. Once he got his hands on some real money he could get up to London and real life. He’d have some respect, then. He hated bloody Croxton Ferriers and all the bloody stuck-up snobs who lived here.

  He walked unsteadily up the road until he came to three large houses. There was the Vicarage, with that stuck-up snob of a vicar, all hale and hearty, with his football and cricket and boxing for young lads. The guv had despised him.

  The next house belonged to that doctor, Lucas, and his son. Ryle grinned. Young Lucas was twitching with nerves. The guv showed them, all right. It had made him laugh, that had.

  Next door to them was the house that belonged to the worst of the lot. Castradon.

  Ryle leaned over Castradon’s front gate, looking resentfully at the neat garden with its neat path leading up to the house. Who the hell did Castradon think he was?

  Castradon was the ugly bugger who’d thrown him out of a job. Ugly bugger was about right, too. He had an eyepatch and a great ugly scar, the freak.

  A little bit of gossip came to his mind and he grinned. Castradon wouldn’t like to hear that. My God, he’d like to see him squirm. So why not tell him?

  Ryle leaned over the gate. ‘Castradon!’ he yelled. ‘Castradon! Get yourself out here!’

  Nothing happened. Ryle threw back his head and shouted again.

  Lights went on in the house. The front door was flung open and Ned Castradon came out. ‘Who the devil’s making all that noise?’

  He saw Ryle and, shoulders squared and fists clenched, marched towards him. ‘Clear off, damn you!’

  Ryle had drunk a substantial amount of beer washed down with a fair amount of whisky and was spoiling for a fight. A proper fight, a street fight, a fight which ended in giving Castradon a good kicking. He leaned over the gate, grinning. ‘Clear off? Make me.’

  Castradon stopped dead. ‘Say that again and I will.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Ryle was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘You, with that ugly mug of yours? Let me tell you something, pal. Mr Simon, the guv’s son, didn’t half fancy your wife and good for him.’ He leered over the gate. ‘Got places as well, if you ask me. Sweet girl, your missus. Very tasty.’

  For a moment Castradon said nothing then, taking off his jacket, he undid his cuffs slowly and pushed his sleeves up his arms. ‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ he said quietly.

  His expression was so terrifying that Ryle backed away, all his whisky-fuelled courage evaporated. ‘Leave it out,’ he said quickly. ‘I was only joking. Honest, guv.’

  Castradon opened the gate. Grabbing Ryle by the scruff of his jersey, he pulled back his fist to strike.

  Ryle twisted away, yelling, and kicked out. His heavy boot struck Castradon on the knee. Castradon, shuddering with pain, relaxed his grip and Ryle punched him on the nose.

  Castradon reeled back, then, gathering himself, leapt forward. Grabbing Ryle, he forced him to the ground and the two men rolled over in the dust. There was a confusion of shouts and blows, then Castradon, nose bleeding, ended up on top, kneeling firmly astride Ryle. Ryle reached out and, grabbing a heavy stone, brought it up hard under Castradon’s chin.

  Castradon fell away. As Ryle scrambled to his feet, he caught hold of his leg, sending him sprawling. Castradon rolled towards him. He raised his fist high. Ryle’s face contorted with fear. ‘No! No, guv, don’t!’

  There was the sound of running footsteps behind then, then Castradon’s fist was caught from behind and he was forcibly wrenched away.

  ‘For pity’s sake, man!’ It was Mr Dyson, the vicar. A big man, he pulled Castradon to his feet. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re doing? The entire village must’ve heard you!’

  Panting, Castradon ignored him, and tried to pull away.

  ‘Stop it!’ shout
ed Mr Dyson, keeping a firm grip on his arms.

  ‘Let me get at him!’ yelled Castradon.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said the vicar shortly.

  Ryle rolled over on the ground and got to his feet, backing away. ‘He’s mad,’ he said to Mr Dyson. ‘He just attacked me for no reason. He’s bloody mad, he is.’

  Castradon made another grab for Ryle and, once again, was restrained by Mr Dyson. ‘Let me go, damn you!’ he bellowed, turning to face the vicar. ‘I’m going to kill him!’

  ‘No, you’re not, man,’ growled Mr Dyson, wrestling to keep his grip. He looked at Ryle. ‘Get out of here. Run, you fool!’

  Ryle backed cautiously away. ‘I’ll get you for this, Castradon. So help me, I’ll get you for this.’

  ‘Get out!’ growled Mr Dyson once more as, muscles straining, he restrained Castradon. ‘Castradon, for God’s sake, man, will you calm down!’

  Castradon dug an elbow into the vicar’s ribs and, grunting, Mr Dyson relaxed his grip.

  Castradon made a lunge for Ryle. Ryle, with a whimper of terror, dashed across the road to where an open-topped car was parked. With Castradon after him, he dodged behind the car. ‘Help!’ he yelled. ‘Help!’

  Mr Dyson ran across the road and planted himself firmly in Castradon’s way. ‘Leave him be!’

  Ryle scrambled into the car, searching anxiously for the self-starter. The engine roared into life and the car jerked forward.

  Castradon ducked under the vicar’s arm and flung himself at the moving car, grabbing hold of the door. Ryle twisted to one side, flinging out an arm to fend him off. The front wheel clipped the deep ditch by the side of the road and the car lurched to a halt, the wheel spinning in the soft mud. Ryle was jolted over the seat, slithering in a tangle of arms and legs over the smooth leather into the back.

  Castradon made a wild grab for him. Mr Dyson caught at Castradon’s arm once more, then – Mr Dyson wasn’t sure what happened – Ryle gave a shriek and erupted out of the car as if he’d been flung bodily from it.

  With Mr Dyson hanging onto him, Castradon leapt after Ryle again, but Ryle had had enough. Feet pounding, he hurtled down the road, yelling, and away from the two men.

  Furiously Castradon shook himself free from the vicar. Standing in the middle of the road, he shook his fist after the running man. ‘Ryle!’ he bellowed. ‘If I see you again, I’ll kill you!’ He spun round to face the vicar. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re doing, eh? How dare you interfere?’

  ‘I was trying to stop you killing him!’

  ‘I’ll murder him the next time he shows up. What did it have to do with you? My God, man, that was a private quarrel. Private.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ retorted Mr Dyson. ‘It was a public brawl.’ He felt his cheek tenderly where a blow had landed. ‘Come on, Ned,’ he added, in a quieter voice. ‘What if you had injured him? Perhaps seriously? Calm down and don’t be a complete fool. You’re a lawyer. What d’you think the law would do if you’d managed to land one on him, eh? You might have killed him.’

  ‘It’d be worth it,’ snarled Castradon, and, dusting himself down and clamping a handkerchief to his nose, turned away and strode back into his house.

  Mr Dyson, breathing deeply, watched him go. His wife, alerted by the noise, was waiting anxiously for him on the garden path.

  ‘I heard what he said to you. Freddy, what are we going to do about Ned Castradon?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said wearily. ‘Don’t interfere, Phyllis. You’ll only make things worse. I’ve got a deep regard for Ned Castradon.’

  Phyllis Dyson sniffed disapprovingly. ‘I had, but his temper’s getting unbearable.’

  ‘Possibly,’ agreed the vicar uneasily. He was worried about Ned Castradon.

  It was only to be expected that the news that the solicitor, Edward Castradon, had been involved in a street brawl with the Vardon’s chauffeur should travel quickly round the village.

  What was lacking, much to the chagrin of Croxton Ferriers, was any detail.

  Why Edward Castradon had brawled with Jonathan Ryle was something that simply couldn’t be established. And that was despite it being rumoured that Mr Dyson, the vicar, knew a great deal more about it than he let on.

  As Mrs Cunningham-Price, one of the leaders of public opinion in Croxton Ferriers, said in the Palm Tree tea shop to her bevy of listeners the following Tuesday afternoon, Dr Lucas and the Dysons lived next door to the Castradons and could therefore be assumed to have had a ringside seat.

  ‘I really do think the vicar should consider it his public duty to openly reprove such behaviour,’ said Mrs Cunningham-Price. ‘It was utterly disgraceful. Mr Castradon’s late father, old Mr Castradon, would turn in his grave.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Mary Clegg. ‘He would never have countenanced anything of this sort.’

  ‘Well, who would, my dear?’ agreed Corrie Dinder. ‘It’s his wife, poor Mrs Castradon, I feel sorry for. Mrs Castradon is a very sweet girl.’

  There was general consent to this proposition.

  ‘She could be a film star,’ sighed Winifred Charteris. Miss Charteris was an avid picture-goer and uncritical reader of film magazines. ‘She has those looks, don’t you think? So sweetly pretty.’

  ‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ said Mrs Cunningham-Price mysteriously. ‘She keeps herself rather aloof, don’t you think? She’s not what I call an organiser.’

  ‘Well, dear, we can’t all be as active as you, can we?’ said Margaret Hernshaw. Mrs Cunningham-Price looked at her dubiously, detecting a whiff of criticism, then was sidetracked by Corrie Dinder.

  ‘I can’t help thinking it is so sad that Mrs Castradon was married so young. She was far too young, in my opinion. Some mothers are far too quick to marry their daughters off to the first man who comes along.’

  ‘I’d hardly say that was the case,’ put in Jane Lawson. ‘The Castradons were a most respected family. And, say what you will, many people really do think a great deal of Edward Castradon.’

  ‘His temper,’ opined Mrs Cunningham-Price, ‘is, I believe, simply frightful. Once before, when Ryle worked for him, Mr Castradon went for him in the most disgraceful manner.’

  A few of the ladies made interrogative noises.

  ‘Did you not hear about it? Mr Castradon had a violent argument with the man. He was heard shouting – yes, shouting – in the street at him, and turned the unfortunate man out neck and crop without a reference. Thank goodness, the chauffeur was able to find a position with Sir Matthew and Lady Vardon, otherwise heaven knows what would have become of him. Call me strict, if you will, but I believe it’s positively wicked to take away a servant’s reputation in that high-handed manner. We have a duty to those Providence has placed in a different class of life than ourselves.’

  ‘I thought it was such a shame poor Sir Matthew was taken so suddenly,’ sighed Winifred Charteris. ‘I did hear,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘that Dr Lucas wasn’t exactly heartbroken when poor Sir Matthew passed away.’

  ‘Dr Lucas is a most conscientious man,’ said Jane Lawson. ‘I do hope, Miss Charteris, that you’re not suggesting he was careless in any way?’

  ‘Not careless, exactly, but the nurse, Nurse Pargetter, did wonder … Apparently he seemed positively pleased that his patient was ailing. She said as much to Nurse Collins, who attended my poor cousin, Cynthia. She was disturbed by his attitude and I have to say that Dr Lucas’s son, Jeremy, sometimes strikes me as positively unbalanced.’

  ‘We all have our cross to bear,’ pronounced Mrs Cunningham-Price, irritated that what sounded like a real item of interest should have escaped her. ‘I agree with Mrs Lawson. Dr Lucas is a most conscientious man, no matter how odd his son may be on occasion. I’m sure that his care of Sir Matthew couldn’t be faulted. Lady Vardon, I know, is only too ready to find fault with those she considers to be of an inferior social position.’

  The sniff with which she finished this sentence gave a clue to her more obse
rvant listeners that Mrs Cunningham-Price had fallen foul of this failing. ‘She has nothing to be particularly proud of, for all her airs and graces. Her father was a manufacturer of cheap pots. The title was Sir Matthew’s.’

  ‘He was such a good-looking man, wasn’t he?’ put in Winifred Charteris. She had heard Mrs Cunningham-Price hold forth about Lady Vardon before and was anxious to change the subject. ‘I thought his son, Simon Vardon – so handsome – took after him. Didn’t I hear he had something to do with Hollywood?’ She said the word reverently.

  ‘You’ve got that entirely wrong,’ said Mrs Cunningham-Price briskly. ‘It’s Sir Matthew’s other son, Thomas, who’s in Hollywood. That’s why he wasn’t at the funeral. Naturally he couldn’t be expected to travel from America in such a short time.’

  ‘Hollywood,’ repeated Winifred Charteris in a dreamy voice. ‘So exciting. It’s a pity poor Mrs Castradon was married so young. I couldn’t help thinking, when I saw her and Sir Matthew’s son at the funeral, that they would make a lovely couple. So good-looking, the pair of them.’

  Margaret Hernshaw was shocked. ‘Miss Charteris, may I remind you that Mrs Castradon is a married woman? Besides that, you shouldn’t have such thoughts at a funeral. It isn’t seemly.’

  ‘It’s quite natural,’ sniffed Mrs Cunningham-Price. She was feeling distinctly put out with Margaret Hernshaw. ‘If you ask me, Sir Matthew’s son was completely distracted at the funeral. I won’t name the cause but others might.’

  ‘I still say dear Mrs Castradon and Sir Matthew’s son were like two film stars,’ repeated Winifred Charteris with a sigh, her mind still on Hollywood. ‘So glamorous. They’d make a lovely couple.’

  Unaware his affairs were being discussed in the Palm Tree, Edward Castradon entered his office on Croxton Ferriers High Street.