The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  He reached out for Ashley’s notebook, frowning as he spoke. ‘Look here. The ship docked at half one, near enough, and Lady Vardon should have had her luggage checked, delivered to a carrier, and been through customs in about an hour. We know she was murdered between two and four this morning. Vardon called the AA at two forty-five. Bourne turned up at ten past three, taking ten minutes or so on the job. Vardon first called at the shipping office at about ten to four.’

  He tapped the map. ‘There’d be nothing to stop Vardon meeting his wife at the docks, driving a few miles to deserted country, killing her and then driving off. All he’d have to do then is to stage a breakdown a couple of miles away – I appreciated your point that the breakdown could’ve been caused deliberately, Major – and Bob’s your uncle.’ He pointed to the thin lines of connecting roads. ‘He could have done it.’

  ‘He could, sir,’ agreed Ashley cautiously, ‘but there’s more to this case than you realize. You’ve heard of the mutilated body found in the church in Croxton Ferriers?’

  ‘Of course I have. What’s that got to do with it?’

  Ashley told him.

  ‘Upon my soul,’ muttered the Colonel. ‘That’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever heard. You say you found a chess piece in Lady Vardon’s handbag?’

  Ashley took Esmé Vardon’s bag from his briefcase and, taking out the little box, opened it.

  Colonel Kimberly-West gazed at the pink marble rook in horrified fascination. ‘You’re sure this is from the same set of chessmen as the one that was found with Vardon’s body?’

  ‘Absolutely certain, sir,’ said Ashley.

  ‘So Lady Vardon’s murderer is this maniac, the Chessman,’ said Colonel Kimberly-West slowly.

  ‘It more or less has to be the Chessman, sir,’ said Jack. ‘Another point is the page torn from Cinema Weekly that we found. Thomas Vardon wouldn’t need a picture to help him identify his wife.’

  ‘But who is he?’ demanded the Colonel. ‘Damn it, you must have some idea!’

  Ashley hesitated. ‘Unfortunately, sir, our favourite suspect has an alibi for Simon Vardon’s murder.’

  Jack nodded. ‘What we are certain of though, is that the Chessman is from Croxton Ferriers. That’s what was actually in my mind when I asked Mr Bourne if Vardon’s car could have been tampered with in advance. It’s far too much of a coincidence to suppose that Vardon’s car broke down by chance and the Chessman just happened to be around to meet Esmé Vardon. That breakdown was planned.’

  A knock sounded on the door and the sergeant looked into the room. ‘Superintendent Ashley, there’s a telephone call for you. It’s Chief Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard.’

  Nearly ten minutes had passed before Ashley rejoined them. ‘Well, sir, we can scrub Vardon out for certain,’ he said, addressing the Chief Constable. He looked at Jack. ‘Your idea that the killer was wearing a chauffeur’s uniform is a non-starter, too. We’ve had a statement from a Mr David Jordan, American citizen, currently residing at the Savoy. He read about the murder in the stop press of the lunchtime editions and came forward with his story. According to Rackham, he was horrified by the news. He travelled with Lady Vardon on the train from Chicago and sailed with her on the Mauretania. They parted at the exit to the customs sheds, but he saw the man who picked up Lady Vardon.’

  The Chief Constable leaned forward eagerly. ‘Did you get a description?’

  ‘Yes …’ said Ashley. His voice was abstracted.

  ‘Well?’ demanded the Colonel. ‘Let’s hear it, man!’

  ‘The man was wearing an ordinary felt hat and trench coat, not a chauffeur’s uniform. His height was about six feet or thereabouts. What Mr Jordan did hear was what Lady Vardon said. The man waved to her, she walked up to him and said, “Where’s Tom? I was expecting Tom to be here.” He can’t swear to the exact words, but that was the gist of it. Then they walked off together.’

  ‘There’s something else, Ashley,’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes, there is. Mr Jordan thought there was something odd about the man’s face, a sort of shadow. He’s been puzzling about it ever since he read the news and thinks – this was completely unprompted, mind – that the man was wearing an eye patch.’

  FIFTEEN

  On his return from Southampton, Ashley asked Edward Castradon to come down to the police station.

  Castradon arrived in a very unhappy mood, irritated at being called out of his office. His statement was short and to the point.

  He hadn’t killed Esmé Duclair or Lady Vardon or whatever the blessed woman was called. He was sorry she was dead, but he certainly had nothing – nothing whatsoever – to do with her death.

  He didn’t know why anyone, American or not, should say they’d seen him at Southampton docks last night. The fact that the presumed killer was wearing an eye patch seemed about as thin an identification as it was possible to have.

  Lots of men wore eye patches. There had, if the Superintendent had noticed, been a fairly major war a few years ago. Eye patches were not uncommon. And no, he refused absolutely to give the police chapter and verse of the details of what he did last night. It wasn’t any of their business. He was a perfectly innocent citizen carrying out his normal duties and pastimes in a perfectly innocent way. And no, he didn’t want a lawyer present, damn it. He was a lawyer himself and perfectly capable of dealing with any nonsense, real or imagined, the police could dream up.

  Ashley sighed. ‘Please, Mr Castradon, I am trying to be fair about this.’ He hesitated, finding the right words. ‘We know that you resent the friendship that has sprung up between Sir Thomas Vardon and your wife. I believe your wife had invited Sir Thomas and Lady Vardon to dinner and you disliked the idea.’

  Edward Castradon stared at him. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Who the devil’s told you that?’

  Ashley didn’t answer.

  Castradon leaned back in his chair and gave a short laugh. ‘Are you honestly suggesting I’d commit a murder to get out of a dinner party?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir,’ said Ashley evenly. ‘But it’s quite true that you don’t care for Sir Thomas, isn’t it?’

  Castradon frowned. ‘I don’t think I want to answer that question.’

  ‘In fact, you’ve never made any secret of the fact you dislike the whole Vardon family. You disliked Sir Matthew Vardon and quarrelled with his son, Simon.’

  ‘I quarrelled with him, yes. I told you as much. I threw him out the day he came to my office, attempting to bully me into selling him some shares my father left me.’

  Ashley drummed a pencil on the desk. ‘You told us those shares were worthless, Mr Castradon.’

  ‘Well? So they are.’

  Ashley shook his head. ‘Apparently not. In fact, it appears they may be worth a great deal of money. But you knew that, didn’t you?’

  Castradon gaped at him. ‘I knew no such thing. Look, what’s all this about these shares? They were owned jointly and severally by my father, Matthew Vardon and Stamford Leigh. They haven’t ever returned a dividend.’

  ‘Alan Leigh, Stamford Leigh’s nephew, sold his shares to Sir Matthew Vardon. If all the Vardons die, under the terms of the original agreement, you end up with all the shares. We know they’re about to be very valuable indeed. They’ve found gold, Mr Castradon.’

  Ashley picked up his pipe and, stuffing tobacco into it, struck a match and lit it, watching Castradon’s reactions. ‘Gold. Added to your dislike of the Vardons, I think that’s a motive.’

  Ned Castradon’s jaw dropped. His eyes widened and for the first time he looked worried. ‘Gold?’ he repeated quietly.

  Ashley nodded. Castradon reached for a cigarette and lit it absently. There was no doubt he was rattled.

  ‘Look,’ he said eventually, blowing out a mouthful of smoke. ‘You’ll have to take my word that I didn’t know anything about these wretched shares. However, I can see, however fantastic it may appear, it does constitute a motive. What can I say? I know I’ve got a rocky
temper. I admit that, but it falls far short of murder.’

  ‘So can I ask you again, sir, what you were doing last night?’

  Castradon nodded. ‘All right. Look, I’m sorry I was shirty earlier on, but the whole thing struck me as utterly ridiculous and I resented it. All I did last night was have dinner with my wife, then go to the Red Lion for a meeting of the chess club. I had a couple of games, a short one with Tommy Martin and then a real ding-donger with Joe Hawley. We were the only two players left in the end, but some of the other men stayed to watch. That finished about eleven o’clock. It was past closing time, but Charlie Brandreth, the landlord, treated us to a drink on the house. It must’ve been ten to twelve when I left the pub. Hawley walked across the green with me. I’d offered to lend him a book we’d been discussing, so I invited him in for a nightcap. I let myself in with my own latchkey. Sue was fast asleep and the girl had gone to bed long since.’

  ‘What time did Mr Hawley leave, sir?’

  Castradon shrugged. ‘It must’ve been about half twelve or quarter to one, I suppose. I know it was late. I heard the church clock strike as I saw him out, but whether it was the half hour or the quarter, I couldn’t say.’

  Ashley steepled his fingers together in thought. The Mauretania had docked at half one and David Jordan estimated it had been about half two by the time they were cleared through customs. If Castradon had left Croxton Ferriers at quarter to one, could he have reached Southampton in that time? It would be very tight. Tight enough, he decided, for him to want to investigate further.

  He looked up with a smile. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Castradon. I very much appreciate it.’

  ‘Blimey,’ was Jack’s comment, when he called in on Ashley at the police station. ‘Croxton Ferriers to Southampton in under two hours? I could do it – just – in the time, but I’ve got both eyes and a rather better car than Castradon’s Riley. If I really was going to do the journey, I doubt I’d be having nightcaps with old pals until half past midnight.’

  ‘Joe Hawley left Castradon at a quarter to one,’ said Ashley morosely. ‘I’ve asked him. He checked his watch with the church clock as he left.’

  He rubbed his hand disconsolately over his chin. ‘I must say, Haldean, I was prepared to question everything Mr Hawley said, as his story gives Castradon an alibi, but I can’t really say I doubted him. He struck me as absolutely honest and very circumstantial, too. He showed me the book Castradon had lent him – a chess thing called Strategies of the Grand Masters – and also mentioned that his wife was awake when he got in and asked him what time did he call this?’

  Jack laughed. ‘I imagine she did.’

  ‘So you see, it’s not a rock-solid alibi, but it’s one that I think would carry conviction in court, which is why I didn’t arrest Castradon on the spot. I really thought we had him this time.’

  ‘You’re certain he’s our man?’ Jack asked curiously.

  Ashley put his hands wide. ‘Who else can it be? Incidentally, I’ve had Constable Stock check if anyone answering to the description of Alan Leigh arrived in Croxton Ferriers last Wednesday. I’m afraid he drew a complete blank. The only place to stay is the Red Lion and they didn’t have any guests at all.’ He broke off as the telephone rang.

  It was Bill Rackham from Scotland Yard. ‘I’ve got some information about Alan Leigh,’ he said. Jack could hear him clearly through the tinny speaker.

  ‘We’ve just been talking about him,’ said Ashley eagerly, picking up his pen and pulling his notepad towards him. ‘There’s no trace of him in Croxton Ferriers.’

  ‘There’s no trace of him in London, either. He left his lodgings a week ago, owing a month’s rent, and no one seems to have seen him since. It’s my guess that, with Vardon gone, Leigh’s changed his name and the odds are that we’ll never find him. I’ll tell you something though. He fairly hated Sir Matthew Vardon.’

  Ashley and Jack looked at each other sharply. This was something new.

  ‘I spoke to a Dr Allerdyce, who occasionally attended Simon Vardon. Vardon called him out on the twenty-third of May to see Leigh, who was in a bad way from an overdose of heroin. He pulled through, but told Dr Allerdyce his condition was due to Sir Matthew Vardon, who’d bullied him into selling him some shares, given him an overdose, and was quite happy to let him die. Vardon, who was with Leigh when the doctor saw him, agreed with Leigh’s account of what happened. Well, strictly speaking, it wasn’t any of the doctor’s business. It’s not against the law to take heroin, unlike some other drugs, but it is dangerous, and the doctor told him so. Leigh swore that when he had properly recovered, he’d make Sir Matthew pay for what he’d done. He wanted, according to the doctor, to make him feel what it was like to be really scared.’

  Ashley whistled. ‘And this is the man who’s disappeared?’

  Jack motioned for the phone. Ashley handed it over. ‘Bill, I heard everything you’ve said. Can you dig out Alan Leigh’s army record for me? And while you’re about it, we might as well have Simon and Thomas Vardons’, too.’

  ‘All right, I can do that. Why d’you want them?’

  Jack sighed. ‘I can’t really say at the moment, but at least army records are facts, and facts seem to be like hen’s teeth in this case.’

  He rang off.

  ‘Alan Leigh,’ said Ashley softly. ‘He’s someone I’ve never considered.’

  The phone rang again. It was Sir Thomas Vardon. ‘Mr Ashley? Could you come up to the house? I’ve got something I’d like you to see.’

  Thomas Vardon greeted them with relief when they were shown into the drawing room. ‘Thank God you’ve come. It’s my stepmother. She’s had a letter from the Chessman. She’s absolutely beside herself. The letter arrived by the afternoon post.’

  ‘Can we see her?’ Ashley asked urgently.

  ‘Of course. She’s in her sitting room. I wanted to see you before you spoke to her.’ He looked utterly distraught. ‘She hardly seemed to take on board the news about poor Esmé, but this has really rattled her.’

  He paused before he opened the door into the hall. ‘Is there any news about Esmé? Surely someone must’ve seen her at the docks.’

  ‘Someone did see her, sir, but I’m afraid that what seemed like a very promising lead took us nowhere. We are trying very hard to get to the bottom of this case, sir. You mustn’t doubt our efforts.’

  ‘Esmé died, Superintendent,’ said Thomas, his voice thin. He shuddered. ‘Come and see my stepmother.’

  Lady Vardon was lying on the couch in her over-furnished sitting room, a bottle of smelling salts and a glass of brandy and water on the table by her elbow. A small pile of letters were on the table. Jack could see the topmost was the familiar typed envelope. The Chessman.

  ‘The police are here,’ said Thomas.

  Lady Vardon gave a little shriek. ‘So unfeeling,’ she muttered and struggled to sit up. Thomas helped her with weary patience.

  ‘I can’t understand why this is happening,’ she said, her eyes round with fear. ‘Why should anyone threaten me? I’ve asked the spirits for help and guidance. They know everything, absolutely everything. They give me words of comfort and help,’ she added, shooting a glance at Thomas, who she obviously thought was lacking in this respect. ‘They tell me everything will be well, that peace and prosperity await, but now this!’ Her pudgy cheeks trembled. ‘It’s evil. Why should I be threatened with evil?’

  ‘If I could see the letter, ma’am …?’ asked Ashley in the soothing tones suitable for a sickroom. Without waiting for permission, he picked up the envelope.

  It was, as Jack had seen, typewritten, and obviously typed on the same Bartlett machine with a slipping ‘e’ and an elevated ‘d’. It had been posted in Croxton Ferriers the previous day.

  So, Lady Vardon, you’re looking forward to a new life? Count the minutes. They’re all you have left. The end is very near. You are going to die.

  The Chessman.

  ‘Why should anyone threaten me?’
Lady Vardon wailed. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Jack, ‘I don’t know if this letter is meant for you.’

  Lady Vardon stopped mid-sniff. ‘What do you mean? That letter threatens me!’

  Jack shook his head and turned to Sir Thomas. ‘I think, Vardon, this was meant for your wife. After all, she’s the one who was looking forward to a new life.’

  ‘Esmé?’

  Lady Vardon tossed her head impatiently. ‘But she wasn’t Lady Vardon.’

  ‘Actually, Mother, she was,’ said Thomas. ‘We’ve had this discussion before.’

  Lady Vardon sat up straighter. She sniffed again but when she spoke, her voice was stronger. ‘I could never imagine a chit of a girl taking my place. It was inconceivable.’ She looked at the letter and shuddered. ‘Lady Vardon,’ she muttered. ‘How could I have dreamt it was meant for anyone but me?’ She took a deep breath and reached out for the brandy and water. ‘I knew the spirits couldn’t be wrong. Everything will be well. It’s all for the best.’ She closed her eyes as if summoning strength and muttered, ‘Peace and prosperity’ in the solemn tones of one uttering a prayer.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mother,’ said Thomas Vardon. ‘You can’t think it for the best that Esmé was killed!’

  A very shrewd, calculating look flashed into her eyes. ‘Are you quite sure it wasn’t?’

  Thomas turned away, his shoulders rigid with anger.

  Lady Vardon, who was recovering visibly by the second, finished her brandy and reached out for the rest of her letters.

  She read through two quickly, discarding them on the table, then picked up the last. ‘It’s from Mr Flood, the solicitor,’ she said in surprise and sighed. ‘I think it’s good news, but I can’t really follow legal letters. They’re always so complicated, but it’s something to do with the estate.’

  Thomas turned. ‘Let me see it,’ he said dully.

  He took the letter and skimmed through it, then stopped and read it through once again. When he looked up his eyes were bewildered. ‘Good news, Mother? I should say it is. The guv’nor’s long shot has come home.’