The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Let’s see.’ Ashley took a bottle of grey mercury powder from his bag and dusted both the surface of the letter and the chessman and its box.

  ‘Well, there are prints,’ he said, looking at them through a magnifying glass, ‘but I’d say they all belong to the same person. Let me have your fingerprints for comparison, Sir Thomas.’

  Thomas Vardon obligingly pressed his fingers first on an ink pad, then on a card.

  ‘Yes, they’re yours,’ said Ashley, after a brief examination. ‘There’s nothing there, unfortunately. Whoever typed this is a careful beggar.’

  Jack examined the envelope. ‘Did you notice this was posted on Tuesday, Ashley?’

  ‘What’s special about Tuesday?’ asked Thomas, wiping his hands on the cloth Ashley had given him.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Ashley blandly. ‘It was just an observation. Will you leave the letters and the chess piece with us, sir? I’d like to investigate this matter further. And thank you for bringing it to our attention.’

  Thomas Vardon stood up to leave. As he picked up his hat, he hesitated. ‘Look,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I don’t want you to think I’m losing my nerve, but I must say those letters have worried me.’

  ‘You leave things with us, sir,’ said Ashley reassuringly. ‘I may say that anonymous letters are fairly common in cases of this sort. Try not to worry about it unduly, but if you do happen to receive any more letters, or hear of anyone else who does, let me know right away. Can I ask you what your plans are for the next few days?’

  ‘My immediate plan is to see if the Red Lion still serves as good a pint of home-brewed as I remember,’ said Thomas with a smile. ‘Other than that, I’ll be living at the Manor for the next few weeks at least.’ His smile faded. ‘You’ll let me know if you find out more about those letters, won’t you?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ said Ashley as he ushered Sir Thomas out of the door. ‘You enjoy your pint and don’t let this prey on your mind.’

  He came back to the desk to find Jack holding the black knight and the black king.

  ‘They’re from the same set,’ Jack said, placing them on the desk. ‘I know you told Thomas Vardon anonymous letters are commonplace, but this seems a little out of the way to me.’

  ‘I had to reassure him somehow,’ said Ashley. ‘I don’t mind telling you, though, that those letters and the chess pieces made a very nasty impression on me. I think we’re dealing with a criminal lunatic, but I hardly wanted to tell Sir Thomas that’s what he’s come home to.’

  ‘No. Especially when he’s been told he’s in the firing line. So who’s next?’ Jack demanded.

  Ashley’s eyebrows crawled upwards. ‘Who’s next? You want another murder?’

  ‘Want is the wrong word,’ complained Jack. ‘You make me sound ghoulish. Expect is, perhaps, better. After all, Thomas Vardon’s letter said he was being saved until last. That implies there’s more to come.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Ashley stood stock still, then shook himself. ‘Come on, Haldean. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. What have we got?’

  ‘Well, to take the events in order, we’ve also got two letters from the Chessman to Sir Matthew, threatening murder. Incidentally, the rumour I mentioned originates with a Nurse Pargetter who was Sir Matthew Vardon’s nurse. What it amounts to is that Dr Lucas didn’t seem exactly heartbroken that his patient failed to recover.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Ashley, ‘but it doesn’t seem much. These letters, on the other hand, and the chess piece that Lady Vardon received, are solid evidence.’

  Jack picked up the black king and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. ‘It seems bizarre, doesn’t it? We have to take it seriously though, because whoever killed the poor devil in the church is obviously very serious indeed.’

  ‘We know that on Tuesday, the day of the murder, the killer posted a letter to Sir Thomas. Why, Haldean? Why would the killer warn his intended victim?’

  ‘Terror, I suppose,’ said Jack. ‘I can’t think of any other reason. Leaving aside murder committed on the spur of the moment, which this obviously isn’t, a murderer who wants to gain something will keep his plans very quiet. However, a murderer who kills for hate or revenge would enjoy seeing his victims squirm.’

  Ashley blinked. ‘Blimey, Haldean, you’re making my flesh creep.’

  ‘Was Sir Thomas worried, would you say?’ demanded Jack.

  ‘Of course he was. Anyone would be.’

  ‘And if he knew we’d found a chessman at the scene of that revolting murder this morning? What would his reaction be then?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t scared stiff.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But who the blazes is this man?’

  ‘He has to be local,’ said Jack. ‘The body in the church tells us that and, if I’m right about the killer wanting to watch Sir Thomas sweat things out, he’d have to be on the spot to see it.’

  ‘All right, I’ll grant he’s a local. That’s what I thought anyway. But why on earth should he want to kill Sir Thomas? He’s lived in America since the war. He can’t have any enemies here. He’s not been around to make any.’

  ‘No …’ Jack leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. ‘We’ll know more when we can identify the victim in the church,’ he said eventually.

  Ashley rolled his eyes upwards. ‘Well, I could’ve told you that.’

  ‘Yes, but who is the poor beggar? I’d guess he has to be some connection of the Vardons. I talked to Isabelle’s servants, her cook, Mrs Jarvis, and a very sharp kid called Mabel. Mabel leapt to the conclusion that the victim was Jonathan Ryle. I’m willing to bet,’ he added with an apologetic grin, ‘that’s all round the village by now. Mabel isn’t one to keep her opinions to herself.’

  ‘Nothing on earth will stop women talking,’ said Ashley morosely. ‘Jonathan Ryle, eh? It could be, I suppose. And if it is Ryle, then, to my mind, Edward Castradon is the obvious suspect. He had a fight with Ryle and threatened to kill him, and putting the body in the church can be explained by his quarrel with Mr Dyson. He certainly wasn’t best pleased that the vicar intervened.’

  ‘Apparently he’s a chess fiend as well,’ said Jack absently. ‘Dr Lucas is a possible, too.’

  ‘Dr Lucas?’ repeated Ashley in surprise. ‘You’re not thinking about the rumours Nurse Whatsername started, are you?’

  ‘Partly. What’s really bothering me though, is that Arthur saw Dr Lucas and Ryle meeting in what you could call a furtive sort of way.’

  Ashley looked a question. Jack told him what Arthur had seen. ‘And Ryle,’ he finished, ‘definitely had the upper hand.’

  ‘Ryle,’ commented Ashley, ‘seems to have annoyed a good few people. But look here, Haldean. I know Ryle was connected with the Vardons. He was their chauffeur, but surely that’s not nearly enough by any stretch of the imagination. If the victim is Ryle, it doesn’t square with this theory that Sir Matthew Vardon was murdered.’

  ‘No …’ Jack smoked his cigarette down to the butt and stubbed it out. ‘Ashley, let’s go and hunt up Sir Thomas. I want to catch him before he leaves the pub. If there are any photographs of Ryle, they’ll be at the house. I have a feeling that a photograph of Ryle might be very useful.’

  ‘A photograph of the chauffeur?’ said Sir Thomas in surprise. He drained the remains of his bitter and put the tankard on the table. ‘My word, that tasted good. I suppose there might be a photo somewhere, although I can’t see why my father or my stepmother should keep pictures of the servants.’

  ‘What sort of car did your father have?’ asked Jack. ‘If he had a chauffeur he must’ve had a car.’

  ‘He had a Lanchester 21. He picked it up a couple of months ago. He was very proud of it. I prefer something a bit more sporty.’ He grinned. ‘That Spyker of yours looks pretty good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jack. ‘To go back to your father’s car, if it was fairly new, then he might have a photograph of it.’


  Thomas put his head to one side thoughtfully. ‘As a matter of fact, that rings a bell. Yes, dammit, you’re right. It’s on the hall table. I hadn’t really noticed it but I’m sure it’s there. I can let you have it tomorrow.’

  ‘Could we have a look at it now?’ asked Jack. ‘I’m sorry to rush you, but it might be important. My car’s outside the Vicarage. It won’t take long.’

  With a certain amount of reluctance Sir Thomas let himself be escorted out of the Red Lion.

  Ten minutes or so later they were in the hall of the Manor. There were a few photographs on the table, but it was easy to find the one they wanted. It was a large print in a modern silver frame. The Lanchester, its hood down, was drawn up in front of the house beside the steps sweeping down to the drive. The photograph reeked opulence. Sir Matthew, a big, handsome man, reclined in the back of the car, his top hat pushed to the back of his head. His astrakhan collared coat was open to show the silk lining, and the hand that was negligently draped over the door held a fat cigar. Beside him the chauffeur, in his cap and coat, stood stiffly to attention.

  Jack picked up the photo and examined it closely.

  ‘That’s my father,’ said Sir Thomas, looking at the photograph over Jack’s shoulder. ‘He looks pretty pleased with himself, doesn’t he?’

  Ashley took a magnifying glass out of his bag and, taking the photograph from Jack, looked at it through the lens. He glanced from Thomas Vardon to the face in the photo. ‘I can see he’s your father, sir. There’s a very striking resemblance.’

  ‘Yes, both my brother and I take after him in appearance, if not in character, I hope.’

  ‘And this is Ryle,’ muttered Ashley, turning the lens on the chauffeur.

  ‘He’s worth a second look,’ said Jack meaningfully.

  Ashley glanced up, puzzled, then studied the photo again. ‘Good God!’

  ‘You’ve seen it, Ashley?’ asked Jack.

  ‘It’s unmistakable, now you’ve pointed it out. Well, I’ll be damned.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Thomas with understandable sharpness. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  Ashley thrust the magnifying glass and the photo into Sir Thomas’s hands. ‘Take a look for yourself, sir. Look at the chauffeur’s face.’

  Puzzled, Thomas looked carefully at the picture and then stiffened. ‘My God,’ he breathed. ‘This guy Ryle is my father’s son.’

  EIGHT

  ‘You knew,’ said Ashley as they drove back to the village. ‘I’m blowed if I know how you knew, but you knew.’

  ‘It was a lucky guess, really,’ said Jack. ‘We were looking for a connection of the Vardons and, in view of Sir Matthew’s reputation, I thought it was possible. Thomas Vardon didn’t have any difficulty believing it, did he?’

  ‘None whatsoever. D’you know, I can feel sorry for Lady Vardon. Apparently she’s not much liked, but I feel sorry for her all the same.’

  ‘Having said that, Sir Thomas didn’t think his stepmother had guessed the real state of things. She can’t be a very observant woman.’

  Ashley shrugged. ‘To be fair to her, it doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone. Sir Matthew was a big, well-built man and Ryle wasn’t. I imagine it’s one of those likenesses which are much easier to spot in a photograph than in real life. After all, when you look at a photo, all you’re looking at is the face. That’s not the case when you actually meet someone.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Jack. ‘So what now, Ashley? The idea that there’s a connection between the Chessman and the Vardons seems tenable, at least.’

  ‘It certainly does. It also seems tenable that our victim really is Ryle. We have to identify that body.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly half past eight. Dr Lucas won’t have the post-mortem results for me until tomorrow, but I think it’s about time we called on Edward Castradon.’

  As the doorbell jangled for the second time, Ned Castradon flung down his pen and swore under his breath. Rusty, the elderly springer spaniel, who had been asleep at his feet, raised his head, looked at his master, and woofed impatiently.

  ‘Quiet, boy,’ muttered Castradon. Where the devil was the maid? Blast that girl! Couldn’t she hear the damn doorbell? He’d have to get Sue to speak to her again. Why wasn’t Sue here? After the shock she’d had, the last thing he’d expect her to do was to go gallivanting off to meetings, even if they were only next door.

  With a guilty start he remembered the last thing she’d said to him was that it was Friday night, Rose’s night off, and he’d have to answer the door.

  He pushed his chair back and, with Rusty at his heels, strode into the hall.

  He should’ve remembered it was Rose’s night off. He really had forgotten. He seemed to forget things so easily these days. He hadn’t told Sue, but it worried him. Appointments, meetings, things people had said … He’d managed to get away with it so far. No one wanted a legal advisor who couldn’t remember where they were supposed to be and what they were supposed to be doing. He didn’t think anyone had noticed so far – he was good at covering up his lapses – but it worried him.

  He opened the door to find Superintendent Ashley and that cousin of Isabelle Stanton’s, Jack Haldean, on the doorstep. His insides twisted. Rusty, with the odd telepathy of dogs, picked up his master’s feelings and growled faintly.

  ‘Quiet, boy,’ Ned said once more. They must be here about the business in the church. He shrank from the thought of answering a whole raft of questions about times and dates and who had seen who and when. It had been a long day but he forced himself to be friendly.

  ‘Superintendent Ashley? If it’s my wife you’re after, I’m afraid she’s attending a meeting in the Vicarage.’

  He hoped it was Sue they wanted to see. If it was, he could say that it was getting late, she would be too tired to answer any questions when she got home, and put the whole miserable business off until tomorrow.

  ‘It’s not Mrs Castradon but my cousin, Mrs Stanton, I’m looking for,’ said Jack. ‘I promised to give her a lift home after the meeting. I’m Jack Haldean. I’m staying with the Stantons.’

  Ned brightened. That sounded as if the call might be at least partly social. He didn’t mind that so much and maybe Haldean – he wasn’t a professional policeman after all – would be able to tell him if they’d discovered anything. He was curious about that.

  Superintendent Ashley coughed. ‘We were hoping to ask you a few questions, too, sir.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘Nothing too searching. It’s mainly verifications of times and so on and information we’ve gathered from your neighbours.’

  Ned’s spirits sank. So it was official, after all. He stepped back, inviting them into the hall. If he had to be grilled, he might as well do it with as good a grace as possible. ‘You’re welcome to come in and wait.’ He clicked his tongue for the dog to follow. ‘I’m expecting Sue back any time now.’

  Ashley and Jack followed Ned down the hall and into the sitting room, Rusty waddling behind them.

  ‘This is very kind of you, sir,’ said Ashley.

  ‘Not at all, Superintendent. However, you’ll excuse me if I say it’s been a very long day.’ He walked over to the sideboard. ‘Please sit down, won’t you? Can I get you a drink or is this strictly an official visit?’

  ‘I’d very much appreciate a whisky and soda, sir,’ said Ashley.

  ‘And the same for me, Castradon,’ said Jack. ‘Thank you very much.’

  The sitting room was a bright room, painted in cream and sage green. A bowl of red carnations stood on the sideboard, a bookcase filled one alcove and pictures of country scenes hung on the walls. It was a room to relax in, made hospitably untidy by an upturned book on a small table, a newspaper on the sofa, a few records stacked on their side against the radiogram and cushions placed with regard to comfort rather than precision.

  A chess set, with a game obviously in progress, stood on a green baize card table, with a newspaper folded back on itself bes
ide it. Lots of people play chess, Jack told himself, but even so, the innocent game pieces seemed to strike a sinister note.

  ‘Do you play chess?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Yes,’ said Castradon pouring out the drinks. ‘I prefer it to bridge. Sue doesn’t play, but I tackle the chess problems in the paper and there’s a chess club in the Red Lion. We meet once a week. Do you play?’

  ‘Not well enough to give an expert a run for their money, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You should take it up properly.’ He hadn’t, Jack noted, argued with the implied description of himself as an expert. ‘It’s terrific mental exercise.’

  Jack reached his hand out to the dog. Rusty, wary at first, sniffed his hand cautiously then gave him an approving lick, and settled down with his muzzle between his paws.

  ‘He’s a nice old boy,’ said Jack, scratching the spaniel behind its floppy ears. Dogs, he thought, were a great way to break the ice. It worked. He could see Ned Castradon’s shoulders relax.

  ‘He’s getting a bit stiff and creaky now, poor old beggar,’ said Ned, handing Jack his whisky and soda. ‘He’s Sue’s dog, really. Her father used to breed spaniels and he’s the last of the line. Help yourself to cigarettes, by the way. They’re in the box beside you.’

  He took a cigarette for himself, then reached down and patted the dog affectionately. ‘Look, talking of Sue, can we get the official part over before she returns? I’d rather not go into it all when she’s here. She was pretty shaken up this morning.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jack. ‘It would’ve shaken anybody.’

  Without seeming to, he looked carefully at his host. That Edward Castradon had once had a craggy charm was painfully obvious, for one side of his face was untouched, a brown eye showing under a dark brow. The other eye was covered by a patch and the skin running up to it was scarred and discoloured. He had a nervous habit of continually putting his hand to his face as if to cover his disfigurement.

  Could he be capable of that horrific murder? It seemed unthinkable and yet, Jack reminded himself, the mere fact that no one had pointed to an obvious suspect meant, in a small village like this, that the murderer had to appear sane.