The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  He opened the door and stopped short.

  Simon Vardon was sitting in a chair with his feet on the desk, smoking a cigarette. He was toying idly with a chess piece, a rook, from the set that Castradon kept on the side table, and generally looked the picture of supreme relaxation.

  Castradon put down his briefcase. ‘Did we have an appointment?’ He knew perfectly well they didn’t.

  Simon put down the rook, swung his legs off the desk and stood up with an easy grace. ‘No, we didn’t, Mr Castradon, but I wanted to see you. No one was in the outer office, so I popped in to wait. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Ned did mind, but there was nothing he could do about it. His clerk would hear about this, though. And, he thought grimly, hear at some length.

  ‘It’s Mr Vardon, isn’t it?’ They had never been formally introduced. ‘What can I do for you? I would ask you to take a seat,’ he added, for he was damned if the man was going to stroll in as if he owned the place without any comment at all, ‘but you seem to have made yourself at home.’

  Simon’s eyebrows rose. ‘You sound quite put out.’

  ‘I am, a little. What did you want to see me about?’

  Simon flicked his cigarette ash onto the floor. ‘You like chess, don’t you, Mr Castradon?’ he asked inconsequentially.

  ‘Chess?’ Castradon was puzzled. ‘You didn’t come here to discuss chess.’

  ‘No.’ Simon Vardon smiled. ‘I was just trying to lighten the atmosphere. Social chit-chat, you know. As I said, you sound a little put out.’

  ‘The feeling’s growing,’ said Castradon curtly. ‘What do you want?’

  Simon leaned forward. ‘It’s a matter of shares. Shares in Antilla Exploration Limited.’

  Castradon’s brow wrinkled. ‘Shares in what?’

  ‘Antilla Exploration. I believe my late father wrote to you about the matter.’

  Castradon drew back. A little knot of anger began to pulse in his temple. ‘So you know about that, do you?’

  He knew his father had disliked Sir Matthew Vardon intensely. There were family reasons, reasons which went back a long way, to when his father was a young man and had gone to South America with Matthew Vardon and Stamford Leigh.

  Castradon never knew what had happened in Peru. His father had been dead a few years now, so the story was lost, but Castradon had always believed it was something very discreditable to Matthew Vardon.

  His father and Matthew Vardon had obviously been friends once, but his father wanted nothing to do with Matthew Vardon after they’d returned to England. His father had been a good man. It must have been something really nasty to have changed his opinion of Sir Matthew.

  Then, about two months ago, Sir Matthew had written to him, asking for an interview. Castradon’s mouth narrowed into a thin line at the memory. Sir Matthew had hinted that he knew something that had happened in Peru, something that would reflect very badly on his father’s reputation.

  That was enough to damn him. There was a whiff of coercion in that letter, a threat to his father’s memory, which set Edward Castradon’s teeth on edge.

  His first instinct had been to write a curt refusal, but then he decided he might as well find out what foul lie Sir Matthew was nurturing. He agreed to a meeting, but Sir Matthew’s sudden illness meant the meeting never occurred. Sir Matthew, he thought with a grim smile, had been silenced for good.

  His hands unconsciously curled into fists. If Simon Vardon was here to repeat Sir Matthew’s lies … Be fair, he told himself. Be fair.

  The trouble was, he didn’t want to be fair. He had seen the way Sue looked at Simon Vardon during the funeral and Vardon’s admiration for Sue had been unmistakable. He might have thought it was just his imagination, if that old harridan, Mrs Cunningham-Price, hadn’t come in to fuss about her affairs. She’d mentioned it. He’d been hard-pressed to keep his temper.

  ‘I may say,’ said Simon in a drawl that set Ned’s teeth on edge, ‘that I do have proof of what I’m about to say. There were certain papers in my father’s possession, papers that I’m sure you would not want to be made public …’

  ‘And really,’ said Henry Dinder, to his wife, Corrie, that evening, ‘I’d give a lot to know what Mr Vardon said to the boss. I’ve never seen Mr Castradon so angry. I didn’t even know Mr Vardon was in the office. The boss really took me to task about that but I said, I’m sure I didn’t see him come in, and nor did the girl. He might have climbed through the window for all I know.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Henry,’ said his wife. ‘A gentleman like Mr Vardon wouldn’t climb through the window. You just missed him, that’s all. What was Mr Castradon so angry about? Not that Mr Vardon had come into the office without you knowing, surely?’

  ‘No, it was more than that. We knew someone was in with the boss, because we heard voices and couldn’t think who it could be. It started off all right, very polite and so on, but then there were raised voices and Mr Castradon, he was white with anger when he rang for me to show Mr Vardon out.’

  ‘Was it about Mrs Castradon?’ asked Corrie, mindful of the conversation in the Palm Tree.

  Henry Dinder shrugged. ‘It might have been. I heard something about shares, but I couldn’t catch what. You’ve always got to watch Mr Castradon’s temper, but I’ve never seen him in such a state.’

  ‘They weren’t fighting, were they?’ asked Corrie Dinder breathlessly.

  ‘Fighting?’ Henry Dinder laughed. ‘Of course not. Mr Castradon’s a gentleman. He wouldn’t do such a thing, no matter how angry he was.’

  ‘He had a punch-up with Jonathan Ryle in the street on Sunday,’ said his wife.

  ‘A punch-up?’ repeated Henry Dinder. ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘It’s true,’ insisted his wife. ‘Mrs Cunningham-Price said as much in the Palm Tree this afternoon.’

  It was quarter to seven on Friday morning. A chilly wind lapped the grey waters of the Ocean Dock, Southampton. Thomas Vardon leaned over the rails of the Olympic, waiting for the gangway to be secured. The crowd around him were excited, anxious to disembark. Thomas shivered and thought longingly of California. At least he wouldn’t have to face his father. From the towering bulk of the ship, he searched the upturned faces of the crowd. Simon should be there to meet him but he never could rely on Simon …

  THREE

  A couple of hours later, Sue Castradon sat down to breakfast. She steeled herself to appear absolutely and completely at ease. It wasn’t easy.

  Naturally enough, Sue knew her husband had come to blows in the street, but Ned simply wouldn’t talk about it. When he had strode back into the house on Sunday night he was in a boiling rage and in no mood for conversation.

  His face was cut and grazed, his knuckles were bleeding, his ribs were obviously sore and his clothes ruined, but he curtly refused her aid and rejected her sympathy.

  For some reason Sue couldn’t even begin to guess at, she knew Ned blamed her. It was so unfair! She hadn’t done anything wrong and yet she knew Ned was really angry with her. He was nearly as angry with Mr Dyson. He had, apparently, interfered.

  The day after the fight she went to see the vicar. Mr Dyson, a big, kindly man, assured her that he wouldn’t tell anyone – especially Ned – that she had been to see him. Sue was sincerely grateful to him. She didn’t want Ned to know she had been forced to ask the vicar what her husband had been up to. That would make Ned even angrier.

  Having said that, there was little Mr Dyson could tell her. All he really knew was Ned had come to blows with Jonathan Ryle, the Vardons’ chauffeur, and he had intervened to stop them. He simply didn’t know the reason for the quarrel.

  Ned’s bad mood lasted all week. On Friday morning, Sue looked across the breakfast table at the barrier of the Daily Telegraph and sighed. She knew Ned was using the newspaper as an excuse not to talk. When he was in a good mood, he propped the paper up on the coffee pot and commented on the news.

  This was the fifth day Ned had sulked and she had had en
ough. If he had to fight in the street, that was up to him. What she wasn’t going to put up with any longer was being ignored. Sue braced herself and attempted a conversation on what she hoped was a neutral topic.

  ‘I’m meeting Isabelle Stanton this morning. It’s our turn to arrange the flowers in church this week.’

  Silence.

  Sue took a sip of tea and waited. All right, so he wasn’t interested in her and Isabelle Stanton’s doings.

  ‘How did you get on in Eastbourne the other day, Ned?’

  Ned had received a telegram from a client, Sir Arnold Stapleton, summoning him to a meeting that Wednesday. The meeting, so Sir Arnold had said, was urgent.

  The paper rustled. ‘He wasn’t there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stapleton wasn’t there. It was a complete waste of time.’

  ‘That seems strange.’

  Ned didn’t reply. Sue sighed once more and tried again. What else could she talk about? An item of genuine news occurred to her.

  ‘I spoke to Mrs Dyson yesterday. She told me that Sir Matthew Vardon’s son – the eldest son, I mean – was expected home from Hollywood today.’

  Silence.

  Sue sighed and persisted. ‘He’ll be Sir Thomas Vardon, now, of course.’

  Silence.

  ‘Mrs Dyson told me he’s married to a film star. It all sounded very exciting. We’ve never had a film star in Croxton Ferriers.’

  The silence seemed to become slightly more charged.

  Sue, an angry glint in her eye, carried on. ‘I wondered if we should invite him and his wife round for dinner or a sherry party. Actually, we could have cocktails instead of sherry. Americans drink cocktails all the time, don’t they?’

  ‘Not unless they want to end up in chokey,’ grunted her husband grimly, behind the Daily Telegraph. ‘You must have heard of Prohibition.’

  Sue ignored Prohibition. She felt as if she had scored a minor triumph. She couldn’t pretend that Ned’s tone had been friendly but at least he had spoken.

  ‘Shall we invite them, Ned?’

  Ned Castradon impatiently folded the paper and tossed it to one side. ‘Do what you damn well like.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to the office.’

  Sue reached breaking point. ‘Ned, will you please tell me what it is I’m supposed to have done? You’ve hardly said one word to me all week. I’ve had enough.’

  Ned drew his breath in dangerously. ‘Enough? Enough, you say? You have no idea what enough is. Invite them round if you want to, Sue. Why not?’ His voice was icy. ‘After making eyes at Simon Vardon all through his father’s funeral, the least you can do is weigh up his brother as well.’

  Sue gazed at him, appalled. ‘Ned!’ she said in a shocked whisper. ‘I didn’t do any such thing. It was a funeral, for heaven’s sake. I hardly noticed Simon Vardon.’

  ‘Didn’t you, by George! I wasn’t the only one to notice, my girl. That old cat, Mrs Cunningham-Price, came to see me, fussing about her trust funds. The last thing she said was: “Do give my regards to your wife, Mr Castradon. Why, I believe she quite took young Mr Vardon’s mind off his father’s funeral.” I’ll say you did.’

  Sue flushed angrily. ‘I hardly spoke to him.’

  Ned started forward, his hands clenched. Sue knew he had just stopped short of banging his fists on the table. ‘Don’t give me that! You spoke to him, all right.’

  Sue met his gaze squarely. ‘What if I did? It was his father’s funeral.’

  ‘It’s nice you had something to occupy your mind. Good-looking, is he?’

  ‘I don’t know! I wasn’t thinking about him.’

  ‘Oh yes? I don’t believe you. And,’ he added bitterly, ‘I’m damned if I can blame you. After all, I’m not much to look at, am I?’

  ‘Don’t speak like that!’ Even as she spoke, she knew how angry she sounded. She wasn’t really angry, but she was very hurt. She knew how much his injury and the loss of his looks had meant to Ned, but she loved him. Or had done.

  Pushing back her chair, she went to stand beside her husband. She wanted to love him still. She reached out and tentatively touched his shoulder. ‘Ned,’ she said in a softer voice. ‘I wish you’d believe that I really don’t mind.’

  He shook her off. ‘And I wish you’d believe that I really don’t care.’

  He turned and left the room.

  Sue blinked very rapidly. She needed to get out, she needed to get away.

  I’m not going to cry, she told herself, as she snatched her hat from the hall cupboard. I’m not going to do anything silly like that. I am not going to let him know how much he’s upset me. I am not going to let Ned see me in tears. She picked up her bag and left the house. With enormous restraint, she did not bang the door.

  At least she didn’t have to face the village street. She went through the back garden onto Coppenhall Lane, which ran along to the church. She should have at least a quarter of an hour before Isabelle was there, which was plenty of time to compose herself. She didn’t want anyone, not even Isabelle, to know there was anything wrong.

  She turned into the churchyard and, with a feeling of dismay, saw that Isabelle Stanton had arrived before her and was perched comfortably, if sacrilegiously, on an old grey box tomb, a trug of flowers beside her.

  Isabelle waved cheerily. ‘Isn’t it a heavenly day? I’m awfully early, I know. Arthur’s going to meet us here. I’ve asked him to bring some more flowers from the garden.’

  She looked happy, thought Sue resentfully. And why shouldn’t she look happy? She was married to Arthur, who cared for her deeply. Lucky Isabelle. Her life had turned out as expected. Unlike mine, Sue thought resentfully. When she married Ned she thought the future would be wonderful. It could be, she thought desperately. We could be as happy as the Stantons, if only Ned would let himself be happy.

  Isabelle got down and held out her hands. ‘Sue, what’s wrong? Something is, I know.’

  Oh, God, was it that obvious? ‘Nothing,’ she managed to say.

  ‘Come on, Sue, I know there is.’ Isabelle glanced round, then, with a hand on her friend’s arm, led her to the bench by the wall of the church. ‘Come and sit down. No one can see us here. Now, tell me what’s wrong.’

  Sue couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  Isabelle looked at her appraisingly. She hadn’t seen Sue for a good few days. In common with the rest of Croxton Ferriers, she had heard the tantalizingly sparse details of Ned Castradon’s altercation on Sunday night, but she’d assumed that it had all been greatly exaggerated. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Admittedly it was nearly a week ago, but, if the story was true, she could guess how upsetting it must have been for Sue.

  ‘I heard about Ned’s row last Sunday,’ she said gently.

  Sue shook her head. ‘It isn’t that,’ she managed to say, then, to her horror, burst into tears. She groped blindly into her bag for a handkerchief. Hand to her eyes, she turned her head away.

  Isabelle put her hand on Sue’s arm and waited.

  After a few minutes Sue blew her nose and managed a watery smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.’

  Isabelle squeezed her arm. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Sue told her. ‘It’s so unfair,’ she finished. ‘Of course I saw Simon Vardon at the funeral. I couldn’t miss him.’

  ‘I saw him too,’ said Isabelle. ‘If you must know, I thought he was very good-looking.’

  Sue wriggled guiltily. ‘Did you? I’ll be honest, Isabelle, so did I, but that’s all I thought. I certainly wasn’t making up to him. I wish Ned wasn’t so horribly jealous.’ She glanced around. The churchyard was deserted. ‘Do you think I could have a cigarette? I wouldn’t like anyone to know I’d been smoking in the churchyard, but …’

  Isabelle produced her cigarette case and Sue took one gratefully.

  ‘Thanks.’ She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. ‘We can’t go on like this, you know,’ she said eventually. ‘Ned’s temper’s getting worse. There’s no two
ways about it, Isabelle, if Mr Dyson hadn’t been there, I honestly think Ned might have killed Ryle.’

  ‘What on earth was it about?’ asked Isabelle.

  Sue shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Ryle used to work for us, you know. I never liked him. Ned caught him mistreating the dog and they had an awful row. Ned sacked him, but they didn’t come to blows.’

  ‘Could Ryle have said something about Mr Vardon?’ asked Isabelle, aware she was treading on delicate ground.

  Sue shrugged. ‘He might have done.’ She smoked her cigarette for a while. ‘Ryle could have taunted Ned about his injury, I suppose. Ned’s desperately sensitive about it. I’m not really allowed to mention it.’

  ‘That must be hard,’ said Isabelle sympathetically.

  ‘It’s damn nearly impossible,’ said Sue resentfully. ‘He broods about it all the time.’

  ‘It must be very difficult for him—’ began Isabelle.

  With a flash of anger, Sue interrupted. ‘It’s difficult because he makes it difficult. I wish he hadn’t been injured, but for months I thought he was dead. I’ll never forget the day I got the telegram to say he was alive. It was after the Armistice. He’d been found in a German hospital. I’ve honestly never been so happy in all my life, but when he eventually came home, it was awful. He was desperately ill and he’d been half-starved. I thought he was going to die.’

  She turned on Isabelle. ‘Do you know what it’s like to have just a sliver of hope?’ she demanded fiercely.

  Isabelle nodded her head.

  Sue stared straight ahead. ‘Then you might be able to guess what it was like. When I thought he was dead, there was a sort of blank end. Nothing mattered, but as soon as I started to hope … It was horrible. I couldn’t stop myself hoping everything would be as it was before.’ Her voice broke. ‘And now I sometimes feel that it would be better if he had died.’

  Isabelle reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘You know you don’t mean that.’

  ‘Don’t I? When they let me see him for the first time, I knew he’d been burnt and I knew he was scarred and he did look terrible. I was so glad that he was alive, it didn’t matter, but now he’s convinced I hate the way he looks. I’ve tried to tell him I don’t mind, but he won’t listen.’