The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘It’s a natural reaction, sir,’ said Ashley sympathetically. ‘Do you mind if we hold on to these letters for the time being?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Thomas with a shrug.

  He wandered gloomily into the sitting room and stood, hands in pockets, looking round. ‘There’s damn all here. God knows why I came.’ He sank down in an armchair, wrapped in his own thoughts.

  After a few moments’ silence, Bill and Ashley went back into the hall to explore the rest of the flat.

  Thomas put a hand to his forehead. ‘He’s gone.’ There was no mistaking that ragged raw edge of grief.

  Jack stood awkwardly in front of the fireplace. Any words he could say would be inadequate but he wanted, simply by being there, to convey some sort of human sympathy.

  Almost despite himself, he couldn’t avoid looking round. Thomas was sunk in torpor. Jack crouched quietly down beside the bookcase, trying to get some sense of Simon Vardon’s personality.

  Simon Vardon had, judging from the pile of papers in the rack beside the sofa, been a newspaper rather than a book reader. There were a few popular detective stories and some reference books. The top of the bookcase was a sort of smoker’s corner, with a box of cigarettes, a packet of cigars, a table lighter and a jar of pipe tobacco. A small tin of highly scented, greenish tinged tobacco also contained a packet of cigarette papers.

  Jack replaced the lid on the tin thoughtfully and turned his attention to the mantelpiece. Amongst the litter of various oddments were two photographs. One was a flattering studio portrait of a younger Lady Vardon. The other was clearly Sir Thomas together with a man, who, despite his moustache and fair hair, shared that startling, unmistakable family resemblance. Simon Vardon.

  He picked up the photograph and examined it closely, trying to get some sense of the character.

  ‘He’d changed,’ said Thomas from the armchair. Jack looked round, photo in hand. ‘When that picture was taken, he was a light-hearted beggar. Everyone liked him. He was a happy-go-lucky sort of guy. He made quite a bit from stocks and shares, but he earned a very respectable income from acting as a commission agent to high-class gaming clubs. Obviously you have to get on with people very well to make that pay, but he did. I wouldn’t like the risk of living like that, but he thrived on it. I always felt protective towards him. He was my younger brother, after all. Obviously, I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years, but I’d sensed a change. His letters became more and more infrequent and when they came, he always seemed anxious. They’d become duty letters, if you know what I mean, and the fun had gone out of them. I actually felt slightly anxious about meeting him again.’

  Ashley put his head round the door. ‘Haldean, can you spare a moment, please? There’s something I’d like your opinion on.’

  Haldean followed Ashley down the hall and into the bathroom. Bill was standing by the bathroom cabinet, holding a small corked bottle. There were two syringes on the shelf in the cabinet.

  ‘We’ll need to get this analysed,’ said Bill, ‘but I’ll bet my boots it’s either heroin or melted snow.’

  ‘Melted snow?’ asked Ashley, puzzled.

  ‘Cocaine,’ translated Bill.

  Jack nodded. ‘It’s nothing more than we expected. In addition, there’s a packet of cigarette papers and a tin with some very dubious tobacco in the sitting room. Apparently Simon Vardon acted as a commission agent, introducing clients to high-stake gambling clubs. It’s the sort of society where it’d be easy enough to get hold of cocaine. Although I didn’t say as much to Sir Thomas, he could make quite a nice income from dope dealing.’

  ‘I wonder if Leigh was one of his clients?’ asked Bill. ‘After I spoke to the porter last night, I did wonder if Leigh was our killer. If Simon Vardon was supplying him with dope, who knows what quarrel they could have had.’

  ‘If Leigh murdered Vardon on Tuesday, he’d hardly leave a note for him the next day enquiring where he was,’ pointed out Jack. ‘And I can’t see why he’d take Vardon’s body all the way to Croxton Ferriers in order to conceal it in a cupboard in the church, no matter how doped up he was.’

  ‘No, that’s true enough,’ agreed Bill.

  ‘That latest Chessman letter was posted in Croxton Ferriers,’ said Ashley. ‘Our murderer’s in Croxton Ferriers all right.’

  ‘Have you any idea who it might be?’ asked Bill.

  Ashley looked at Jack and shrugged. ‘We did have our suspicions of the local doctor and his son. That’s when we thought the victim was Ryle. Now the body’s been identified as Vardon, it’s a different matter. We know Simon Vardon came to Croxton Ferriers on Tuesday. He had a very stormy interview with the local solicitor, a chap called Edward Castradon.’

  Ashley briefly recounted the circumstances of the meeting and what they knew about Castradon.

  ‘I see,’ said Bill thoughtfully. ‘So on Tuesday afternoon, Edward Castradon, who’s got a notoriously rocky temper, slings Simon Vardon out on his ear. Not only that, but his monkey wrench and axe, which you suspect was used on the body, is missing, in addition to his travelling rug, which was actually found with the body.’

  ‘To be fair, we don’t know it’s actually Castradon’s rug,’ put in Jack. ‘It does seem likely, though.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Bill. He cocked an eyebrow at Ashley. ‘How come you haven’t arrested him?’

  ‘Mainly because of the time we’ve wasted running round after Ryle.’ said Ashley.

  ‘And,’ added Jack, ‘there’s that very inconvenient alibi. Although the telegram that summoned him to Eastbourne was fake, he certainly was in Eastbourne that evening.’

  ‘There’s something dodgy going on, all the same,’ said Bill.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Jack. ‘What exactly the dodginess is, we’re not sure of yet. I want to know more about these shares that Simon Vardon was so keen to get hold of. There’s a desk in the sitting room. There might be some relevant paperwork in there.’

  They went back into the sitting room. Thomas Vardon was still sitting motionless in the armchair, staring blankly in front of him. He hardly seemed to hear Ashley when he asked for permission to look in his brother’s desk. ‘What?’ he said, when Ashley repeated the question. ‘Yes, of course. Go ahead.’

  Ashley sighed when he opened the desk. There was a mass of papers, all jumbled up together.

  Vardon shook his head. ‘You know, Simon was always such a tidy sort of bloke. I can hardly credit these were his things.’ He stood up and shook himself impatiently. ‘I don’t think I can stand this any longer. I need a drink.’

  He looked at his watch and groaned. ‘I’ve still got this appointment with the solicitor. I suppose he’ll have to know what’s happened. God knows what he’ll say. It just doesn’t seem possible.’ He looked round the flat and shuddered. ‘I’ll make my own way home, Haldean.’

  After he’d gone, Ashley turned back to the desk. ‘Let’s get this lot in order. It’ll probably be easier without Sir Thomas here. If we split them up into personal, business and private affairs, bills and such like, we’ll be able to see what we’ve got.’

  They had been working for no more than a few minutes, when Bill looked up. ‘You know your favourite suspect, the solicitor?’ He held out a manila folder. Attached to the cover with a paper clip was a note: Castradon knows!

  Ashley whistled. ‘Let me see that!’

  They crowded round as he opened the file. There were two lots of share certificates and certificates of ownership in Antilla Exploration Limited. Both blocks of shares belonged to Matthew Vardon. One block of shares, Jack noted, had previously belonged to a Stamford Leigh. The file also contained a geologist’s report, a sheaf of receipts and three letters on thin, foreign notepaper. The letters were headed J.B. Crossland, Mining Agent, Jirón Silverio, Huánuco and addressed to Sir Matthew Vardon.

  ‘“Dear Sir Matthew,”’ read Jack, picking up the topmost letter. ‘“I am pleased to report the first consignment of machinery has arrived inta
ct and is being shipped to the Huánuco River workings where, allowing for difficulties with the terrain, I expect excavation will commence within the next month …”’

  He read on rapidly to the end of the letter, then picked up the geologist’s report. He skimmed through it quickly, then sat back, running his hand through his hair. ‘They’ve made a strike.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Bill.

  ‘They’ve made a strike. Antilla Exploration Limited – they’ve found gold.’ Jack jabbed his finger at the report. ‘Lots of gold, by the sound of things.’

  He stood up excitedly. ‘This explains why Sir Matthew suddenly came down hard on Dr Lucas. He wanted more money to finance the mine. It explains why he robbed his own wife of her diamonds and it also explains why Simon Vardon wanted the Antilla Exploration shares from Castradon.’

  ‘Because they’d found gold,’ said Ashley, in an awestruck voice. ‘A gold mine, Haldean! My God! It could be worth thousands and thousands of pounds.’

  ‘Was Simon Vardon in on it?’ demanded Bill. ‘He must’ve been, as he’s the one who tried to get the shares from Castradon.’

  ‘That was only last week,’ said Jack. ‘His father died a couple of months ago. Let’s see what else we can gather from this file.’

  After quarter of an hour or so, the history of the Huánuco River strike was fairly clear. Following a discovery of gold ore further up river by an American mining company, Sir Matthew had commissioned the mining agent, J.B. Crossland, to assay the land held by Antilla Exploration. In order to exploit the find, however, which was in remote mountainous jungle, money for machinery, transport and workers was needed. Some money had evidently been found; more had been promised.

  ‘That’s clear enough,’ said Bill. ‘I reckon Simon Vardon found this file in his father’s papers after his death. We know Simon Vardon tried to bully Castradon into selling his shares but who actually owns this mine?’

  Jack lit a cigarette. ‘The company, Antilla Exploration, actually owns it, I suppose. The question is, who owns Antilla Exploration? Castradon told us that his father, Michael Castradon, Matthew Vardon and this chap, Stamford Leigh, who has to be a relation of Vardon’s pal, Alan Leigh, travelled to South America together. The three men set up the company, but subsequently quarrelled. The shares were divided between the three of them. The agreement was that if the shares hadn’t been sold or willed elsewhere, then each party’s share would be split between the survivors or their heirs.’

  ‘So that means Sir Thomas Vardon owns two thirds of this gold mine,’ said Bill slowly.

  Ashley nodded. ‘And Edward Castradon owns the other third.’ He tapped the notepaper clipped to the folder. ‘Castradon knows.’ He sat back in his chair, chin in his hands.

  ‘I think this changes everything,’ he said at last. ‘Granted the circumstances of Simon Vardon’s murder – the church, the lilies, the chessman, the Chessman letters and the threats against the Vardon family – there didn’t seem to be any motive apart from sheer lunacy. That’s all changed. There was obviously a family feud between the Castradons and the Vardons, but that hardly seemed an adequate reason for the murder. Castradon knows. Maybe what he knows is that if the Vardons are dead, he acquires the shares as the last survivor. I’d say the ownership of a gold mine was a very strong motive indeed.’

  ‘Did Sir Matthew Vardon die a natural death?’ asked Bill. ‘I know your village doctor says so, but there’s quite a bit of circumstantial evidence to suggest otherwise.’

  ‘The village doctor, luckily for him, called in a second opinion, Dr Jacob McNiece of Harley Street,’ said Jack. ‘He’s worth a visit, Ashley. Now we know there was a gold mine at stake, it all seems a lot more plausible that Sir Matthew was bumped off.’

  ‘Castradon knows,’ repeated Ashley. ‘All I can say is, that if he did know about the gold mine, he was keeping it to himself. All right; let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Castradon did kill Sir Matthew Vardon. There was certainly no love lost between them, that’s for sure. But why kill Simon Vardon? If Sir Thomas is Sir Matthew’s heir, he’s the one who should be in the firing line.’

  ‘Maybe Simon was the nearest Vardon to hand,’ suggested Jack. ‘If Castradon really is the killer, he’d have to bump off Simon Vardon eventually, in order to scoop the pool.’ He frowned. ‘Where does Lady Vardon fit into this, I wonder? After all, as Sir Matthew’s wife, she surely inherited something. Could you look into who inherits what, Ashley?’

  ‘Speaking of Sir Thomas,’ said Bill, ‘I know he seems innocent enough, but leaving Edward Castradon aside, he does benefit. It appears he now owns two thirds of a gold mine.’

  Ashley shook his head impatiently. ‘Sir Thomas couldn’t have murdered Simon Vardon, no matter how many gold mines he owns. For one thing, if he’s the heir, he gets the lot, not his younger brother. Why turn to murder?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘If he’s the heir.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the Vardons’ solicitor,’ said Ashley. ‘That’s Newson, Harvey and Flood of Gray’s Inn. Sir Thomas said as much yesterday. All the same, no matter what the terms of Sir Matthew’s will are, Thomas Vardon can’t be in two places at once. We know he was on the Olympic in the middle of the Atlantic when the murder happened. Simon Vardon had been dead for days by the time Sir Thomas showed up.’

  ‘You don’t doubt that, do you, Jack?’ asked Bill, looking at his friend’s expression.

  ‘Call it unnecessary caution,’ said Jack with a laugh, ‘but I’m going to pay a visit to the White Star Shipping office, all the same. I want absolute proof Sir Thomas was on that boat.’

  THIRTEEN

  Edward Castradon walked up the path to his house. It was a lovely evening, just the sort of evening to have tea in the garden or, perhaps, go for a drive. He hadn’t been home this early for ages. They could run over to Croxton Magna and have dinner at that riverside place, The Royal George.

  It would do them good to get out. He hung up his hat and coat and put his briefcase down by the hall stand.

  It was the inquest tomorrow and Sue would have to give evidence. Poor Sue needed to put the whole business to one side, forget about it as much as was humanly possible. Yes, he’d like to take Sue out. He needed, he thought with a twinge of guilt, to talk to her, properly, without quarrelling. It was his rotten bad temper that was at the root of everything. He touched his face before he realized what he’d done. He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror and grimaced. Sue didn’t mind. She’d told him that dozens of times but he found it incredible. Surely, deep down, she must mind, but …

  The thought ran through his mind, along the old familiar, well-worn track. He looked at himself squarely in the mirror and forced himself to stop. Sue didn’t mind.

  He walked into the sitting room, looking for Sue. It was a restful room. He picked up a chessman from the board, momentarily distracted with thoughts of the game, then replaced it on the same square. He didn’t want to get drawn into a game against a newspaper opponent, he wanted to take his wife out to dinner. He saw the book she had been reading face down on the sofa and smiled. Everything was peaceful and just … well, just right, somehow. Home. Maybe she was out in the garden. He let himself out of the side door and then suddenly stiffened. Sue’s laugh rang out. She hadn’t laughed like that for months. Who the devil was here?

  He strode down the path, stopping at the corner. Sue was with a man. For a black moment Ned thought it was Simon Vardon, but Simon Vardon wouldn’t bother him again, not after their last encounter. This must be Thomas Vardon. Sue was pointing out the ivy where the sparrows had nested. Vardon said something he didn’t catch and Sue turned to him. The sun was on her face and she pushed her hair back with a heart-catching smile.

  Ned’s stomach turned to water. She used to look at him like that. Him! A small angry vein began to pulse in his forehead.

  His foot scraped on the path and the couple whirled. Was that guilt in her expression?

  ‘
Hello, Ned,’ she said in surprise. ‘I didn’t expect you home this early.’

  ‘No,’ he said stonily. ‘I can see.’

  Sue’s face altered. She became tense and wary. Vardon stood by politely.

  ‘Sir Thomas – Tom – has just got back from London,’ said Sue. ‘He called about our dinner invitation. His wife should arrive the day after tomorrow. How about the day after that?’

  He could hear the nervousness in her voice. What was she nervous of? Him? He was suddenly infuriated. Why should his wife be so nervous of speaking to him?

  He wanted to strike out, to hurt, to wipe that damn polite smile off Thomas Vardon’s face. He couldn’t do that. ‘I’ll go along with anything you’ve arranged.’

  Sir Thomas nodded politely, still with that damn self-satisfied smile. Sue looked so relieved he couldn’t help adding a rider. ‘You seem to have everything sewn up nicely without me.’

  He knew he shouldn’t have said it, but it worked. Vardon drew back in shock.

  ‘Oh, Ned,’ Sue said softly. She looked at him with a restrained, coping expression, the expression she used when he’d gone too far but she didn’t want to lose her temper. She was indulging him, as a mother might indulge a naughty child and it jagged into him like broken glass. He didn’t want to be indulged. He wanted the truth.

  He put his hand to his face again and felt his scars like raw, ugly ridges. Was it any wonder Sue didn’t want him? A beautiful girl tied to a circus freak? He looked at Thomas Vardon’s unblemished face with cold hatred.

  At that moment he could have killed the man, strangled him with naked hands and rejoiced. His father had loathed Sir Matthew and this was Sir Matthew’s son. ‘I’ll be in the house,’ he said and turned and walked away.

  After leaving Simon Vardon’s flat, Jack, Ashley and Bill paid a visit to Harley Street. Dr Jacob McNiece remembered Sir Matthew Vardon perfectly well.

  ‘An unnatural death?’ he repeated in answer to Ashley’s question. ‘Absolutely not, dear sir,’ he said with the authority only an upper-class Scotsman can command. ‘You can put that out of your mind right away. I know there was some ill-natured gossip, but Sir Matthew had suffered a severe apoplectic stroke. There was no doubt about it – and nothing either I or the local man could do.’