The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘What is it, dear?’

  ‘It’s his mine, Mother. The Huánuco River mine. They’ve made a gold strike. A big one, by the sound of it.’

  It came as something of a shock to Jack to realize that Sir Thomas didn’t know about the papers they’d discovered in his brother’s flat, or of Ashley’s conversation with Mr Flood.

  Thomas looked up from the letter. ‘Old Flood is telling you that as you get the receipts from the mines under the guv’nor’s will, you’re going to be a very rich woman. Very rich.’

  She snatched the letter back from him and read the paragraph he was pointing to. ‘Rich?’ she said faintly. ‘Rich?’ she repeated in a much firmer voice. ‘I told you,’ she said wildly. ‘I told you what the spirits said! Peace and prosperity!’

  Her plump little hands tightened on the letter and it suddenly seemed to Jack that they looked like claws.

  SIXTEEN

  Over a pint of home brewed in the Red Lion, Ashley was in serious need of consolation. It was five o’clock, tea time, but Ashley felt in need of something a bit stronger than tea.

  ‘Every lead,’ he said morosely, ‘seems to disappear like water in the sand. Ever since hearing what Alan Leigh thought of Sir Matthew, I can’t get it out of my mind that he might have something to do with it, but I can’t see what. I can tell you something else, too. Lady Vardon’s fond of money and no mistake. Did you see the way she held onto the solicitor’s letter? She was absolutely cock-a-hoop.’

  ‘Exultant,’ agreed Jack.

  ‘That too. It was heartless the way she reacted when she realized that Chessman letter wasn’t meant for her. I mean, I’m not surprised she was relieved but she could have at least pretended to be sorry for the girl.’

  He looked at Jack thoughtfully. ‘How come the Chessman slipped up? He obviously intended to murder poor Esmé Vardon once she’d got to Croxton Ferriers, not before.’

  ‘You can’t really say he slipped up,’ argued Jack. ‘After all, Esmé Vardon is dead, which is what he wanted. He wrote that letter yesterday and, during the course of yesterday, saw an opportunity and took it.’

  ‘You mean he saw a chance to tamper with Sir Thomas’s car?’

  ‘That, certainly, but he couldn’t know his plan to meet Esmé Vardon was going to come off. He was just lucky.’

  ‘Lucky,’ repeated Ashley with a shudder. He looked round the dark, cool pub. They were alone in the saloon and couldn’t be overheard. ‘I don’t know. Every single lead seems to point to Castradon and yet I can’t make it stick.’

  Jack walked across the green to where he’d left the Spyker parked on the road outside the Vicarage. This was where, he thought, Ned Castradon had his punch-up with Ryle. There had been a car parked there that evening too, the car Ryle had tried to drive off in. Who owned the car? It probably wasn’t important, but it was odd, all the same, that no one had ever mentioned it.

  He was about to climb into the Spyker when his name was called from the Vicarage garden.

  It was Mrs Dyson. She straightened up with a hand on her back and waved a trowel at him in a cheery way. ‘Do come in, Major, and give me an excuse to break off for a few minutes. Unless you’re busy, that is?’

  Jack went into the garden. ‘I’m afraid I’m not,’ he said with a smile. ‘Busy, that is. As a matter of fact, I was just wondering who owned the car which was parked here the other Sunday.’ He lowered his voice in deference to the fact that the Castradons lived next door. ‘The night Castradon had his set-to with Ryle.’

  Mrs Dyson stopped to think, unconsciously rubbing her chin with the point of the trowel, leaving a smear of earth. ‘D’you know, I don’t know,’ she said at last, in surprise. ‘There aren’t that many cars in the village and I thought I knew them all. For instance, I knew you were around, because I saw your car – it’s a very handsome thing, isn’t it, and so stylish – but I didn’t recognize the car that was here that night. I haven’t seen it since, either.’

  She stooped and prodded viciously at an emergent dandelion that was sullying the path, then tossed the now defunct weed on a heap of garden rubbish. ‘I really should do something about my poor lilies,’ she said with a shudder. ‘It’s Tuesday, a week since they were taken. I intended to tackle them today, but when we heard the awful news about Sir Thomas’s wife, all the heart went out of me.’

  She looked at him, her honest, kindly face puzzled. ‘People are saying the most awful things.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They say the most obvious person to have killed Esmé Vardon is her husband.’

  ‘I can set your mind at rest, Mrs Dyson. Sir Thomas is in the clear.’

  She looked relieved. ‘Thank goodness for that. I know it shouldn’t make a difference that he’s so handsome, but it does.’ She looked worried again and lowered her voice. ‘On the other hand, Edward Castradon has come in for suspicion. It got around that he was called into the police station this afternoon and I’m afraid that’s given rise to a lot of ill-natured gossip. It’s not helped by the fact that the two families loathed each other.’

  She smothered a yawn. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Poor Frederick’s been awake with toothache for the last couple of nights and he does hate suffering alone. If he wasn’t such a baby about going to the dentist it would all be over before he knew it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ said Jack, struck by a sudden thought, ‘you heard Mr Castradon getting his car out about one o’clock, did you?’

  ‘I can’t say I did,’ she said after a few moments’ thought. ‘I was certainly awake at that time and so was Frederick. I think I would have noticed because the Castradons’ garage door makes such a squeak and we had the windows open, naturally, because the nights have been so warm.’

  She transferred another small portion of earth to her chin. ‘But I wouldn’t like to swear to it, Major Haldean. I wouldn’t indeed.’ She looked at him with concerned brown eyes. ‘Is that important?’

  ‘It might be …’ began Jack, when a car horn sounded outside the gate. To Mrs Dyson’s startled gaze, it seemed as if her visitor had been jerked backwards by invisible wires. He shot out of the gate and, when she joined him, was holding two wriggling small boys by their ears.

  ‘Nathan and Ben Halford,’ she said reprovingly. ‘What are you doing to the Major’s nice car?’

  Jack released their ears and the boys stood, abashed, on the verge. ‘Well?’ he demanded, taking a swift glance at the immaculate blue-and-silver paintwork of the Spyker.

  ‘We weren’t doing nuffin,’ said Nathan at length.

  ‘Nuffin,’ echoed Ben appointing himself as a sort of Greek chorus.

  ‘We was just minding it. And the horn sort of went off.’

  ‘By itself,’ said Ben, with an air of gentle distance from the entire proceedings.

  ‘Honest, Miss,’ threw in Nathan, rubbing his ear.

  Mrs Dyson resumed the attack. ‘Why aren’t you in school?’

  ‘It’s me jersey, Miss,’ volunteered Nathan. ‘Our mum said it wasn’t fit to be seen and me other one’s in the wash.’

  Jack found himself agreeing with Nathan. The jersey presented for his inspection seemed to be a collection of holes.

  Mrs Dyson looked at the offending garment and frowned. ‘It’s too bad, Nathan. I knitted that jersey myself at Christmas and look at it now. Why aren’t you in school, Ben?’ she asked, rounding on him.

  ‘I can’t go without Nathan,’ said Ben, shocked to his very core. ‘He’d be by himself!’

  ‘And a good thing too,’ said Mrs Dyson, briskly. ‘Talk about double trouble! Have they done any damage, Major?’

  ‘None,’ answered Jack with a grin. ‘But look here, boys, I can’t have you climbing all over my car. If you see it parked, you can guard it, but you mustn’t climb on it.’ They nodded dumbly. ‘Of course I’ll pay you,’ he said casually, with an eye on the future. ‘What would you rather have? Sixpence each or a ride home?’

  ‘Coo!’ They said with one
voice. ‘A ride home, please, sir.’

  ‘Climb in then. Carefully!’ He turned to Mrs Dyson. ‘I’ll just run this pair of monkeys home. If you do remember hearing anything last night, please let me know.’

  Jack started the car and headed towards the cottages on the other side of the village, fending off innumerable questions as to the Spyker’s speed, brake horsepower, age and endurance.

  ‘We’ve got a car,’ said Ben happily, ignoring his brother’s signals to keep quiet.

  This seemed monumentally unlikely to Jack, but he played along. ‘Oh, really? What sort is it?’

  ‘It’s a Vauxhall with a roof on. It’s all right, Nathan. He won’t tell anyone, will you, sir? Our car won’t go anywhere, but we’re going to save up our pocket money and buy some petrol and then we can drive it. We’re going to take it out on trips and go on adventures in it and do races in it. We’ve got it in a secret place until it can go. Morry Blandford’s dad drives a van and he’s always showing off about it but wait till he sees our car. Ours u’ll be better’n any car in the world.’

  ‘’Cept this one,’ said Nathan, politely.

  ‘Even this one,’ demurred Ben, with fewer social graces than his brother. ‘This is our house, sir. I suppose we’d better get out now. Thanks a lot. It was smashing.’

  Jack watched them run into the tiny terraced cottage, which was not, if he knew anything about it, tenanted by the car-owning classes. He briefly wondered what rusting heap the two boys had managed to find, then, dismissing the problem from his mind, abstractedly drove away.

  Sue overheard the gossip as she went into the grocers. ‘If you ask me, Mr Castradon knows more about it than he should. He was taken to the police station yesterday …’

  Ned had said nothing. That was only what she’d learnt to expect, but she knew he was worried, desperately worried, about something. She stood to one side as Margaret Hernshaw and Jane Lawson came out of the shop, still chatting. They broke off abruptly as they saw her and smiled in an artificial way.

  Sue forced herself to make some ordinary, commonplace remark and the two ladies walked on. ‘Poor Mrs Castradon,’ she heard as they walked away. ‘I feel so sorry for her.’

  Sorry for her? Why? Sue could have flared up or run away. Instead she went to the Vicarage, where she had gone once before when she wanted to know the truth about Ned. What Mrs Dyson told her didn’t make for very pleasant listening and her advice, ‘To go home, dear, and forget all about it,’ was impossible to follow.

  She went home but she couldn’t think of anything else. Was it really possible that Ned should be suspected?

  If only Ned had been like he used to be, she could talk to him, ask him why the police had this awful idea, asked him to explain things, but Ned wasn’t like he used to be.

  Could it be true? The thought came unbidden to her mind. She tried to dismiss it. Of course it wasn’t true. Ned would never do anything like that. She wished she could talk to him. If only Ned was like he used to be …

  It was with relief she heard the knock at the door. At the moment she’d welcome anyone, even Margaret Hernshaw or Jane Lawson, to distract her from the thoughts – the awful thoughts – racing round her mind.

  It wasn’t Margaret Hernshaw or Jane Lawson; it was Thomas Vardon.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asked. He seemed very shy, not his usual confident self.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone with Tom. She knew perfectly well that he liked her very much and she was guiltily aware of liking him, too. She was about to refuse, when she saw how haggard he looked. He’d just lost his wife, after all, lost her in horrible circumstances.

  He saw her hesitation. ‘Please? I – I need someone to talk to.’

  Talk. The word chimed in with her own thoughts so exactly, she couldn’t help feeling a surge of fellow feeling. And after all, talk was harmless enough.

  ‘We’d better go into the garden.’ She had a vague feeling the garden was a safer, more public place than the enclosed walls of the house. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, nothing thanks.’

  He followed her through the house, out of the side door to the sweet-scented garden, sank gratefully into a deck chair, and put his head in his hands.

  ‘It’s good to be here,’ he said eventually. He wearily brushed the hair out of his eyes. ‘The police suspect me. I suppose I’m the obvious suspect. I told them how things were between Esmé and me.’

  ‘They don’t suspect you,’ she said. Sue was certain of that at least, after her talk with Mrs Dyson.

  He looked up with sudden hope. ‘Are you sure? How?’

  Sue told him.

  ‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t believe it. You don’t think your husband …’

  He let the sentence trail off as Sue shook her head vigorously. Whatever her private nightmare was, she wasn’t going to state it out loud. That would make it oddly real. ‘I’m terribly sorry about your wife,’ she said instead.

  He nodded. ‘It was pretty rough.’ He relaxed back into the chair. ‘I don’t have to pretend with you. You know how things were, but to have it to end like that was foul.’ His mouth tightened. ‘She was so looking forward to being Lady Vardon. It was worse than anything I could imagine.’

  ‘Poor Tom,’ Sue said softly.

  ‘I hate this country,’ he said suddenly. ‘I want to get away. Right away.’

  She felt an unexpected pang at the idea. ‘You can’t leave now.’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘Why not? I can’t bring Simon back, or Esmé. My stepmother doesn’t want me around. Why should I stay?’

  Sue clasped her hands together, picking her words carefully. ‘We have to find who’s doing these dreadful things. If you go now, it’ll seem like running away.’ Tendrils of her nightmare resurfaced. It couldn’t be true about Ned, but …

  ‘I might need you.’

  The look on his face took her breath away.

  ‘I like you to need me,’ he said quietly. Their eyes met for a second, then he dropped his gaze. ‘Would it make much difference if I left? To you, I mean?’

  There was a long pause. The gentlest of breezes stirred the tops of the trees and when her answer came, it was so quietly spoken it seemed like an echo of the wind. ‘Yes.’

  He started up and, kneeling beside her, caught her hands in his. ‘Sue, I love you. You must know that. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you. Come away with me.’

  She drew back but he pulled her towards him. ‘I want to take you to places you’ve only dreamed about. We can go anywhere. Paris, New York, Italy, Spain. Far away, in the sun. If you loved me, Sue, I’d do anything for you. Climb mountains, build bridges, even discover another gold mine! I’d spend every minute making you happy.’ He reached up and touched her face with the palm of his hand. ‘You deserve to be happy, Sue. Please.’

  She didn’t immediately pull away but looked at him with worried grey eyes. ‘What about Ned?’

  He shook his head impatiently. ‘He’s had his chance. It’s time for your happiness now, Sue.’ He stood up, holding her hands lightly. ‘I know what it’s like to be trapped with someone who doesn’t care.’

  ‘But I think he does care, Tom.’ she said, half-fearfully.

  ‘Then he’s got a damn funny way of showing it,’ said Thomas robustly. ‘If you’d let me care for you, Sue, you’d know I loved you.’ He slipped a hand under her shoulder and gently pulled her up beside him. He bent his head and kissed her.

  She couldn’t help it. For a split second she responded, then froze. ‘Stop! I – I thought I saw someone in the house.’

  He ignored her.

  She put her hands on his chest, pushing him away. ‘Stop it, Tom! It’s no good, I tell you.’

  He stepped back and bowing slightly, carried her hand to his lips. ‘I’ll go, if that’s what you want. I’ll do anything but hear you say no.’

  She took him to the back gate but before she could open it he paused and, putting his hand
s on her shoulders, kissed her forehead lightly.

  ‘I love you,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll be back.’

  The gate clicked shut behind him. Sue stood for a moment then walked slowly back to the house.

  She went into the sitting room, wishing fervently that her thoughts would steady themselves. Did she love Tom? He was attractive, certainly, and it had been good – with a burst of guilt she realized how good – to be held like that and to feel she mattered.

  But to leave Ned? She sat in the big armchair, hands clasped on her lap. If only she could believe that Ned still loved her, she would never dream of leaving him. But did he? There were times when she thought he hated her being there. And yet … And yet.

  Their wedding photograph in its heavy silver frame stood on the mantelpiece. She picked it up. Ned had been so handsome then and so sure that life together would be wonderful.

  She had thought so too. She had loved him the first time she’d seen him. Mr and Mrs Ansty had held a dance for the local young people and there was Ned, a godlike eighteen to her fifteen.

  When he’d left to go to Cambridge at the end of the summer she’d wept buckets in the privacy of her bedroom. When she saw him the next year he seemed so much older and mature and hardly seemed to notice her. And then – her mouth lifted in an unconscious smile – it became obvious he had noticed her. ‘We’re getting up a party to go for a picnic. I wondered if you’d like to come? Do say yes.’

  Going home in the twilight, the horse plodding patiently in front, the shafts creaking. The others, tired, quiet and happy and she, content beyond all measure, knowing that Ned was beside her. She shuddered. That was all so long ago. She had been little more than a child. Maybe – just maybe – it was time to put away childish things. She put back the photograph and sank into an armchair. She was so absorbed in her thoughts she didn’t notice when a shadow fell across her.

  ‘I saw you.’

  She looked up with a startled gasp. ‘Ned! I didn’t know you were here.’