The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Castradon closed his eyes in momentary relief.

  ‘Shall we go, Belle?’ asked Jack in a deliberately cheerful voice. ‘You look all in. Talking of routine, though,’ he added, turning to Castradon, ‘you run a car, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ned in surprise. The surprise was mirrored by Ashley. ‘I’ve got a Riley. Why d’you want to know?’

  Jack gave Ashley an almost imperceptible wink. ‘It’s the rug that was covering the body. It looked like a travelling rug, the sort that’s kept in a car. It could’ve been stolen, so we’re asking anyone with a car to see if their rug’s missing.’ Was it his imagination or did Sue Castradon suddenly look very worried?

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Ashley, lying manfully. ‘It’s just a matter of routine. Do you have a travelling rug?’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said Sue in a low voice.

  ‘You’re welcome to take a look,’ said Ned. ‘Would you mind coming back tomorrow, though? My wife really is very tired.’

  ‘Let’s look now, Ned,’ said Sue quickly. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’

  Castradon shrugged. ‘Just as you like. The car’s in the old stable block.’

  He led the way out of the house and, picking up a torch from the drawer in the hall table, led them round to the old stables. ‘I can’t see it being ours,’ he said as he bent down, lifted up a stone and drew a key out from underneath. ‘I keep the stables locked when the car’s inside.’

  He creaked open the door, and, striking a match, lit the oil lamp on the shelf inside the door.

  In the warm light Jack saw the bulk of the car, but he also saw a line of tools hung neatly on hooks on the wall. He nudged Ashley. There were a couple of gaps in the line of tools.

  ‘Are you missing any tools, sir?’ asked Ashley, pointing to the gap.

  Ned stared at the wall. ‘That’s odd. My monkey wrench has gone. My axe is missing too. Where the blazes are they? I always put my tools back after I’ve used them.’

  ‘When did you last use them, sir?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Some time ago. I haven’t taken the car out for a couple of weeks, so I haven’t been in here. Where the dickens can they have got to?’

  ‘Do you keep an outdoor man, sir? Could he have taken them?’

  ‘We’ve got a gardener who does odd jobs, but he won’t have used my wrench. He’s got his own tools.’

  Sue was standing beside the car. ‘Ned,’ she said in an odd voice. ‘The rug from the car’s gone. When I saw that rug round the man this morning, I thought, Isn’t that strange – we’ve got a rug just like that one.’

  ‘Sue!’ said Castradon quickly.

  ‘And now it seems as if we had …’

  NINE

  The telephone in the hall rang. After a brief conversation, Arthur Stanton, smiling broadly, came into the morning room where Isabelle and Jack were having breakfast.

  ‘That was Ashley on the phone,’ he said, picking up the coffee pot. ‘He’s been on to the Grand in Eastbourne and I’m glad to say Ned Castradon’s got a complete alibi.’

  ‘Thank God,’ murmured Isabelle fervently. ‘That’s wonderful. I knew Ned couldn’t be guilty. Do Ned and Sue know? Sue was worried to death last night.’

  ‘Yes, Ashley’s told them,’ said Arthur, stirring his coffee. ‘Apparently Castradon always stays at the Grand and not only is he in the register, the receptionist recognized him, as did the head waiter in the restaurant where he had dinner. He stayed in the hotel all evening. I’m glad to say there’s no doubt about it.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ repeated Isabelle. ‘Isn’t it, Jack?’

  ‘Yes …’ he said doubtfully, picking up the marmalade.

  She glared indignantly at him. ‘Jack! Don’t tell me you want poor Ned to be arrested. What about Sue?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Belle,’ he said, spreading his hands out pacifically. ‘And don’t bite my head off. But don’t you see? That telegram to Ned Castradon, the one that took him down to Eastbourne in the first place, has to be explained.’

  ‘It was sent by mistake,’ said Isabelle dismissively. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘Do they? It’s remarkable that it happened on the evening Ned Castradon needed an alibi.’

  ‘Ashley said he was going to contact Sir Arnold Stapleton,’ put in Arthur. ‘That’s who supposedly sent the telegram. He wants to confirm that Castradon really did show up at his house on Wednesday morning.’

  ‘He’ll have been there all right,’ Jack said confidently. ‘If Castradon did receive the telegram, then of course he’d keep the appointment. If he sent the telegram to himself, then he’d be equally keen to show up.’

  ‘Sent it to himself?’ Isabelle repeated blankly. ‘Jack, you seem to be determined to make out Ned Castradon is guilty.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m just pointing out that the telegram isn’t the cast-iron alibi that you seem to think it is.’

  Arthur stretched out his hand for the marmalade. ‘Castradon can’t be in two places at once, Jack.’

  ‘He could’ve made sure that everyone in the hotel saw him, gone up to his room, then sneaked out and returned here. It’s perfectly possible. After all, he was in Eastbourne, not Timbuktu. It’s not that far away.’

  ‘But how?’ demanded Isabelle. ‘There isn’t a train at that time of night and he said himself he hadn’t taken the car out for over a fortnight.’

  ‘That’s what he said, I agree.’ Jack looked at Isabelle and Arthur’s disapproving faces and laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’m just pointing out flaws in his alibi. It’s a far cry from saying he’s guilty. Ashley and I are going to see Dr Lucas this morning to get the post-mortem results. In view of what you told us about the doctor’s secret quarrel with Ryle, he’s got some explaining to do.’

  ‘For Pete’s sake, Jack,’ protested Arthur. ‘It was a revolting crime. Do you have to accuse one of the neighbours?’

  ‘We worked out the murderer had to be a local man. That means, I’m afraid, that, like it or not, one of your neighbours is guilty.’

  As arranged, Jack met Ashley at the police station just before ten.

  ‘I’ve had a busy morning,’ Ashley said as they strolled across the green to Dr Lucas’s together. ‘I’ve asked the War Office to dig out Ryle’s record for me and I’ve been onto the Criminal Records Bureau. It turns out our pal Ryle has quite a history of thieving and extortion. He got mixed up with a gang running a drugs racket last summer and tried to be clever.’

  ‘Whoops,’ said Jack. ‘That doesn’t sound very clever at all.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Ashley with a grin. ‘He made some very nasty people very angry indeed. He disappeared last September and since then, no one in London’s seen hair nor hide of him. Last September was when Castradon picked him up, if you remember.’

  ‘You’re not saying Ryle was bumped off by one of the drug gang, are you? It doesn’t seem very likely.’

  ‘No, I agree. Mind you, we still don’t know that the body in the church is Ryle. I’ve requested a full search for him and I’m hoping at the very least we’ll find someone who saw him after he scarpered last Sunday. It isn’t a gang killing, though. Leaving a body in a cupboard in a village church is not how London gangs operate and it doesn’t begin to explain this odd business of the Chessman letters.’

  ‘Talking of the Chessman letters, isn’t that Thomas Vardon coming out of Dr Lucas’s house?’

  It was. Sir Thomas shut the gate, turned, saw them and waved.

  ‘I’ve just been to see Dr Lucas,’ he said, catching up with them. ‘He hadn’t heard any rumours at all about my father’s death and was hugely indignant that there’d been any suggestion of foul play. I must say, I found his complete certainty that nothing untoward happened very reassuring. He thinks the letters my mother received can be put down to some crank who had some reason to dislike my father.’

  ‘Did you tell him you’d had a letter?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Yes, and
he set my mind at rest about that, too. He thought it quite likely, as I’ve got the title, that this crank would include me in this beastly campaign.’ Sir Thomas laughed ironically. ‘The title is about all I have got. I’ve looked at the accounts. There’s a mortgage on the estate and it’s been running at a loss for years. So, I’m afraid that my poor wife’s dream of living a life of ease as lady of the manor will have to wait for a while. I’ll have to go back to Hollywood. I can’t afford not to.’

  ‘What about the estate?’ asked Jack. ‘Will you sell it?’

  ‘Sell it? I wish I could, but it’s entailed.’ He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘The only thing I can do is find a trustworthy man to manage it, so the running costs, at least, will be met, and then set about paying off the old debts. It’s my responsibility but I want to speak to my brother about it. I don’t know if he’d be willing to take on the job of running the place, but he’d be the obvious choice. He hasn’t any experience but he is part of the family. I’ll have to see what he thinks about the idea when he arrives.’

  Jack felt a twinge of sympathy for Edward Castradon. Castradon was under enough of a strain already without Simon Vardon popping up and living permanently in the village to add to his woes. ‘When should your brother arrive?’

  ‘He was meant to be here yesterday,’ said Sir Thomas with a shrug. ‘I did try and phone him but couldn’t get any answer. Simon does things in his own time. He’ll show up eventually. By the way, I’m glad to have seen you. I haven’t told my stepmother about my father’s …’ He paused, finding the right words. ‘My father’s connection, shall we say, with Ryle.’ He lit a cigarette with nervous fingers, his eyes alight with entreaty. ‘If it possibly can be kept quiet, I’d be very grateful. It’d only upset her.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, sir,’ said Ashley. ‘Unless it’s absolutely necessary, your stepmother need never know.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ Sir Thomas tipped his hat and walked away.

  ‘I could feel quite sorry for that man, title or no title,’ said Ashley as he departed. ‘He’s had a dickens of a homecoming. There’s the murder in the church which has set everyone by the ears, the estate’s in a mess and his brother, who doesn’t sound anything to shout about, can’t be bothered to show up. From what I’ve heard, his stepmother isn’t jumping for joy to see him, and to top it all, he’s having kittens that she’ll find out that Ryle’s her husband’s illegitimate son.’

  ‘It’s a fair old list,’ agreed Jack, mentally adding Thomas Vardon’s obvious liking of Sue Castradon to the catalogue. ‘Incidentally, Ashley, I was thinking about the link between Ryle and Dr Lucas.’

  Ashley looked at him sharply. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Drugs,’ suggested Jack quietly. ‘Doctors have access to drugs.’

  Ashley stopped dead. ‘Drugs! Dammit, you’re right! Of course! Lucas could’ve been supplying Ryle with dope. And the victim in the church was a drug addict.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, well. This is growing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Steady on,’ warned Jack. ‘It’s only a possibility. We don’t know who the victim is yet or where these Chessman letters fit in.’

  ‘We’re not doing too badly,’ said Ashley enthusiastically. ‘Let’s see Dr Lucas.’

  Dr Lucas, a rotund middle-aged man with a friendly, if rather pompous, manner, had carried out the post-mortem in the basement of his house. Rather to Jack’s relief he didn’t offer to conduct the conversation downstairs over the laid-out remains of the corpse.

  ‘This house,’ said Dr Lucas chattily, as he escorted them into the surgery, ‘was built to the specifications of the local surgeon in the 1850’s and has always been known as the Doctor’s House. I am fortunate in possessing my own facilities with a purpose-built stone table with the sinks, the water supply and the drains and so on that are needed, which means any coroner’s work in the district is usually referred to me. However, as I do not possess any storage facilities, the remains will be removed to St Peter’s hospital later today until a burial can be arranged. That, I may say, is becoming a necessity, as the corpse is beginning to show distinct signs of decay.’

  Ashley winced and took the offered seat. ‘Talking of which, Doctor, do you have a more definite time of death?’

  Dr Lucas shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, no. Between three to six or seven days is the closest I can get with any certainty. Dating a death is trickier than you may suppose.’

  ‘Could he have died on Tuesday?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and perhaps even earlier. Putrefaction as a greenish tinge is clearly visible over the lower abdomen …’

  ‘I know. I saw it,’ put in Jack, hastily.

  ‘And rigor, which is a very helpful guide, has virtually passed away. Is there any particular reason you have settled on Tuesday, Superintendent?’

  ‘The lilies on the corpse were taken from the Dysons’ garden on Tuesday night.’

  Dr Lucas’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Were they indeed? From the Dysons, you say? Why, that’s only next door! I heard nothing untoward that evening.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir? There was no disturbance front or back?’

  Dr Lucas shook his head. ‘None whatsoever.’

  Ashley sighed and moved on. ‘Tell me, Doctor, the cause of death was the stab wound, wasn’t it?’

  Dr Lucas nodded. ‘Yes. Despite the terrific injuries the corpse sustained, they were not the cause of death. What the victim actually died from was a stab wound to the heart. It was a single upwards blow between the fourth and fifth ribs and death would have been virtually instantaneous. I should say the blade was at least six inches long. There is also another injury to the left upper arm which I am at a loss to account for. The hands and feet were removed rather crudely. I’d say they were chopped off.’

  ‘Chopped with an axe?’ asked Jack. Castradon’s axe was missing.

  ‘I believe so, yes. Considering the extent of the other injuries, the actual death blow was rather neatly done.’

  ‘Would the killing have required any specialized knowledge?’

  Dr Lucas shrugged. ‘I don’t really know how to answer that, Superintendent. The killer only struck once, so it certainly wasn’t a random blow, but all the killer would have to know is the position of the heart, which he could have acquired from any standard textbook. And, of course, since the war, there has been a great increase amongst the most unlikely people of a practical working knowledge of anatomy.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything about the man, Doctor? His age, for instance?’

  ‘I would say he was in his late twenties or early thirties. At one stage he underwent an operation for appendicitis, as is clear from the characteristic scar. He hadn’t eaten for some time before he died, but he had been drinking. In fact, there were indications, judging by the state of his internal organs, that he was a very heavy drinker.’

  ‘What about the needle marks on his arm?’ asked Ashley. ‘You pointed those out when you first inspected the body.’

  ‘Yes. He was certainly in the habit of injecting himself with some substance.’

  ‘So he was a drug addict?’ asked Jack.

  Dr Lucas shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to say. Naturally, one’s first thought is of a prohibited drug such as cocaine, but that leaves no post-mortem traces. Granted that he was a heavy drinker, though, I would remind you that various cures for alcoholism containing such substances as cocaine, bromides, opium and Indian hemp are sold quite legitimately and frequently cause as much of a problem as the condition they are supposed to alleviate.’

  ‘I bet they aren’t injected,’ muttered Jack. Something the doctor had said struck a chord. ‘Hemp!’

  Ashley blinked. ‘Excuse me, Haldean?’

  ‘Hemp. I’ve just remembered what the smell was, the odd smell that hung about the body. It’s hemp. I said it reminded me of the East.’

  ‘By jingo,’ muttered Ashley. ‘You’re right.’

  Jack turned to the doctor. ‘Granted that bot
h Mr Ashley and I smelt hashish, it gives credence to the idea that the man was a drug user, wouldn’t you say?’

  Dr Lucas blinked. ‘Perhaps. Indeed, yes. It is, as you say, suggestive. But who could the man be? I can think of no one in the immediate vicinity of whom I have ever suspected of having a drug habit.’

  Ashley cleared his throat, leaning forward in his chair. Now for it, thought Jack. Ashley looked at Dr Lucas squarely. ‘There’s a suggestion,’ he said slowly, ‘that he might have been the Vardon’s chauffeur. A man named Ryle.’

  The reaction was fleeting but unmistakable. Dr Lucas’s chin jerked upwards, his eyes bright, then he schooled his face into a look of concern. ‘Ryle, you say?’

  Despite what Jack was sure was a real effort, Dr Lucas couldn’t keep the note of satisfaction out of his voice.

  ‘Did you know him?’ asked Ashley.

  Dr Lucas looked him very straight in the eye. ‘I knew who he was, of course, but he wasn’t a patient of mine.’ He looked away. ‘I never had anything to do with him.’

  And that, as Jack would’ve guessed from his attitude and knew from Arthur’s story of seeing Dr Lucas and Ryle together, was a lie.

  Ashley knew it too. He sat back and, when he spoke, his voice was slow and his accent reassuringly stronger, a virtual invitation to a clever doctor to put one over on a dim-witted policeman. ‘Are you absolutely certain, sir? Naturally we’re interested in anything anyone can tell us about Ryle. When did you last see him?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’ Ashley said nothing and Dr Lucas hurried on. ‘I suppose it would have been last week. I called to see Lady Vardon. She suffers from a heart condition which requires supervision and I might have seen him then.’

  ‘Have you ever had what might be described as a private conversation with Ryle?’

  ‘No, certainly not.’

  ‘And yet, Doctor, we have information that such a conversation took place.’