The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  The oddest expression flickered across his face. ‘Obviously.’ It was almost as if he was satisfied. He turned away to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky, spilling some on the polished surface. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I saw you.’ He leaned with his back against the sideboard. ‘How long has it been going on?’

  She looked up quickly. ‘There’s nothing going on.’

  His hand tightened on the glass. ‘Don’t treat me like an idiot. I may be many things, but I’m not stupid.’

  She jumped up and came towards him. ‘Ned! It just happened. There’s nothing going on.’

  He flung up his arm, palm outstretched, to prevent her coming any closer.

  She stopped, bewildered. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘Because I know what I saw.’ He closed his eyes for a moment as if to shut her out. He opened his eyes again. ‘I suppose you want a divorce?’

  ‘No! No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘It’s perhaps for the best, really,’ he carried on, oblivious to her words. ‘Anything’s better than this constant pretence. I’ve known for a long time that all I have is your pity.’

  She twisted her hands together. ‘It’s not true!’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘So I’ve lost your pity as well now, have I? Well, it was a miserable little remnant, wasn’t it? We should have admitted it was all a mistake years ago. Don’t worry, Sue. You can have your divorce. God knows, it’s not worth fighting over.’ He gave her a death’s head smile. ‘Happy?’

  ‘No!’ The word was wrung out of her. ‘I don’t understand why you’re talking like this.’

  He shut his eyes again. ‘Because I’m trying to salvage what’s left of my self-respect. Do you want me to plead, to beg? Well, I’m damned if I will. And damn you, Sue. Leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough?’

  He snapped his eyes open and glared at her. ‘I said I’d give you a bloody divorce. What more do you want?’

  ‘I just don’t understand.’

  He laughed without a trace of humour. ‘How it’s done? Do you really need the filthy details? I’ll get a woman, go to a hotel, and arrange to be discovered.’

  ‘It sounds so sordid.’

  ‘It is. For God’s sake, woman, will you go?’ He put his hand to his face. ‘Just go.’

  She took a step towards him then, frightened by the look she saw, left.

  For a few moments he stood rigidly, then drained his whisky. He walked to the mantelpiece and picked up the wedding photograph, looking intently at the faces in the picture.

  He drew back his hand and smashed the heavy frame against the wall. The glass shattered and the frame fell to the floor. He made as if to kick it away then, with a sudden change of heart, snatched the picture up and held it close. Head cradled in his arms, he whispered her name, but she was gone.

  When Jack arrived at Isabelle and Arthur’s, he found a domestic crisis had occurred.

  Sue Castradon had turned up in an awful state and Isabelle had invited her to stay. Sue was upstairs in the spare bedroom, getting ready for dinner. She hadn’t wanted to eat anything, but Isabelle insisted she’d feel better for some food.

  Arthur, who had given Jack a very biased account of the situation, raised his eyebrows at his wife as she came into the room. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Is she going to stay?’

  Isabelle made sure the door was properly shut behind her.

  ‘What else could I do but ask her?’ she demanded, flinging herself into a chair. ‘For heaven’s sake, give me a sherry, Arthur. I need a drink. Poor Sue was terribly upset.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Arthur.

  ‘Ned’s talking about a divorce.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He saw her kissing Thomas Vardon.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And wouldn’t listen to a thing she said.’

  ‘I know,’ complained Arthur, passing her a sherry, ‘but why did she have to come here?’

  ‘Because there’s nowhere else for her to go,’ said Isabelle in exasperation. ‘She’s got no money of her own and no relatives to turn to. Not only that, but she’s worried sick about Ned. She’s got an awful fear he’ll try and make away with himself or something. That’s when she’s not worrying that the police are going to arrest him for murder.’

  Jack’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Does she think that’s on the cards?’

  ‘The entire village thinks it’s on the cards, Jack. Everyone knows he was called into the police station this afternoon and it’s obvious why. It’s common knowledge that the tartan rug that Simon Vardon was wrapped in came from the Castradons’ car and everyone knows that the Castradons and the Vardons loathed each other. It seems only too obvious to most people that Ned Castradon’s carrying on the family feud. Everyone knows he had a violent argument with Simon Vardon and he really has got the most dreadful temper.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Jack curiously.

  ‘Me?’ Isabelle shrugged. ‘I think the murderer, the Chessman, to give him his own name, is insane. I don’t want to think it is Ned Castradon, but it does seem possible.’

  ‘He’s got an alibi for Simon Vardon’s murder.’

  ‘A rock solid one?’

  Jack was silent.

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ said Isabelle.

  ‘What about Thomas Vardon?’ asked Arthur. ‘I know he couldn’t have committed the first murder, but couldn’t he have taken advantage of the situation and bumped off his wife? After all, apparently it’s no secret that they didn’t get on and he’s clearly smitten with Sue Castradon.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Esmé Vardon was murdered by the Chessman. We found a chess piece in her bag and he wrote a letter into the bargain.’

  ‘So why hasn’t the Chessman attacked Thomas Vardon?’ asked Arthur. ‘I’d have thought he was the obvious target.’

  ‘The Chessman wrote to him,’ said Jack. ‘He said he’s saving Sir Thomas until the end.’

  Isabelle winced and drank her sherry. ‘As I said, he’s insane.’

  The telephone rang in the hall. Muttering an excuse, Arthur went to answer it. He returned with a wry expression. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said. ‘That was Thomas Vardon. Apparently the news has got round that Sue’s left her husband and fetched up here. Can’t you speak to the servants, Isabelle? They must’ve talked. I sometimes feel as if nothing’s private.’

  ‘We hadn’t a hope of keeping this private, Arthur. She had to send for her things and it’s only natural that the servants would talk. They’re only human.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he agreed glumly. ‘Anyway, Vardon wants to see Sue. I can hardly stop him, even if I don’t approve. What the devil was she doing, kissing Thomas Vardon in the first place?’

  ‘Thomas Vardon kissed her, not the other way round,’ said Isabelle sharply. ‘It’d be much easier for poor Sue to know what to do if you’d only buck up and solve these murders, Jack.’

  ‘What the devil d’you think I’ve been trying to do?’ he asked, stung. ‘I’m not a magician. If you’ve got any ideas, I’d love to hear them.’

  Isabelle gathered herself up for a reply.

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Arthur hastily, anxious to stop a full-scale row between his wife and her cousin, ‘the whole thing started with Sir Matthew Vardon. Are you sure he wasn’t murdered? After all, the Chessman claimed him as a victim.’

  Isabelle subsided. ‘I don’t see we’ll ever know. Even if we guess and guess right, we can’t prove it.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Jack, ‘I don’t know if it’d change anything even if he was bumped off.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Arthur in surprise. ‘Murders usually matter.’

  ‘So they do, but think about it. Sir Matthew owned two thirds of a gold mine. Murdered or not, his death suddenly got all that potential wealth on the move.’

  ‘I can’t make up my mind between the two motives,’ said Isabelle, her brow wrinkling. ‘When you told us about the gold mine and ho
w Lady Vardon reacted, I wondered if she’d bumped him off.’

  ‘She didn’t know about the gold mine,’ said Jack patiently.

  ‘No,’ agreed Isabelle discontentedly. ‘And she certainly didn’t kill Simon. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t have the strength. Besides that, I’m certain whoever killed Simon Vardon was insane.’

  ‘Maybe the Chessman knew Sir Matthew was dying,’ suggested Arthur. ‘Maybe he had intended to kill Sir Matthew but nature beat him to it. If only we knew who it was!’ he exclaimed in frustration.

  ‘Ned,’ muttered Isabelle, with a defiant glance at her husband. She stopped short.

  ‘Jack,’ she said, in a different voice. ‘If Ned really is the Chessman, then Sue’s in danger. He’s a very jealous man.’

  Arthur looked at her, appalled. ‘You can’t honestly think he’d harm his own wife?’

  ‘He’s a jealous man, Arthur,’ she repeated. She chewed her lip. ‘If only there was somewhere for Sue to go, somewhere where she’d be safe.’

  The words struck a chord with Jack. There was one place he always turned to when things got rough, somewhere that had always been home. Hesperus, with Isabelle’s mother and father, his beloved Aunt Alice and Uncle Philip. ‘What about asking your mother if Sue can stay with her, Isabelle?’

  Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Of course! My mother won’t mind a bit. That’s the perfect solution.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The next day Arthur drove Sue over to Hesperus, where she was warmly welcomed by Isabelle’s mother.

  Thomas Vardon missed her departure by an hour. ‘Where is she, Haldean?’ he demanded. He had walked up to the house and was dismayed to find Sue had gone. ‘I need to see her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Vardon, but I really can’t tell you. We thought – Sue thought – it would be better for everyone if she disappeared for a few days and the fewer people who know about it, the better.’ He paused and added significantly, ‘We thought it would be safer.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous! Who on earth would harm Sue?’

  Jack looked at him quizzically. ‘Do you honestly need me to answer that? You, of all people, shouldn’t need to be told. We’ve got a murderer on the loose.’

  Thomas looked honestly puzzled. ‘The Chessman, you mean?’ Jack nodded. ‘But the Chessman wouldn’t harm Sue! It’s my family he’s after, God help us. My stepmother, poor soul, hasn’t worked it out yet but I’m in no doubt that we’re in danger. But Sue—’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Jack broke in sharply. ‘Mrs Castradon’s left her husband. That’s common knowledge. It’s also common knowledge that the reason she left him was you.’ Sir Thomas still looked blank. ‘For Pete’s sake, join up the dots, will you?’ said Jack, wearily.

  Sir Thomas gazed at him uncomprehendingly, then his eyes widened. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘So what you’re telling me is that until these murders are solved, Sue has to remain hidden?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘Yes … perhaps it is safer that way.’

  On Thursday Lady Vardon went to see Edward Castradon. Unlike her son, Simon, the previous week, she did make an appointment, but her presence was no more welcome.

  Castradon regarded her with scarcely concealed antagonism as she was shown into his office. Henry Dinder, his clerk, took one look at his boss’s face, drew a deep breath and was sincerely glad to escape back to the sanctuary of the outer office. He knew, as everyone in the village knew, that Mrs Castradon had bunked off. His wife had told him Mrs Castradon had been staying at the Stantons, but where she was now was anyone’s guess.

  What he didn’t have to guess about was the effect Mrs Castradon’s disappearance had had on the boss’s temper. ‘Walking on eggshells,’ he muttered to himself. ‘That’s what we’re all doing. Walking on eggshells.’ Gladys, the office girl, gave her opinion that Poor Mr Castradon was heading for a nervous breakdown. The tension in the office was so great, Henry Dinder reckoned, it was only a matter of time to see if it was the boss or them that had the nervous breakdown first.

  Edward Castradon was icily polite. ‘How can I help you, Lady Vardon?’ he asked, sitting at the desk opposite her. ‘I believe your legal affairs are dealt with by a London firm.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said. She was dressed in widow’s black and sat ramrod straight in her chair, clasping her handbag like an offensive weapon. ‘Newson, Harvey and Flood of Gray’s Inn. I have not come here to consult you on a matter of business.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I have come here, Mr Castradon, because of this unfortunate situation that has arisen.’

  Castradon said nothing. He picked up a pencil and rolled it in his fingers, the joints on his knuckles showing white.

  ‘I would be paltering with the truth to say I was sorry that Esmé Duclair—’ Lady Vardon sniffed as she said the name – ‘is no longer with us, no matter how unsavoury the circumstances. With her background, there is no doubt she would have been a disruptive influence. However, her departure has left Sir Thomas open to machinations.’

  ‘Machinations?’ Castradon repeated bleakly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.’ There was a glint in his eye that would have warned a more sensitive listener to be careful.

  ‘I mean entanglements, Mr Castradon. Romantic entanglements. Although I say it myself, to be Lady Vardon is to be a person of some importance. I can only think that the girl has been dazzled by what must seem to be a golden opportunity.’

  ‘Lady Vardon!’ Castradon’s voice was biting. ‘Do you honestly mean to tell me that my wife is responsible for Sir Thomas’s behaviour?’

  ‘If you do not know the truth of the matter, then it is my duty to inform you. Your wife has deliberately set her sights on becoming Lady Vardon and gone about it in the most shameless way. Whether you have aided and abetted her or not, perhaps with an eye to the future, I do not know, but this must stop! Divorce has become a mere matter of routine in our modern world, but I will not have my position usurped by a designing chit of a girl.’

  The pencil in Castradon’s hand snapped in half. ‘My wife,’ he said, standing up, ‘is not open to criticism from you or anyone else. This interview is at an end.’ He rang the bell. ‘Dinder!’ he snapped, as the luckless Henry Dinder came into the room. ‘Show Lady Vardon out.’

  ‘And really,’ said Henry Dinder to his wife that evening, ‘I don’t know what that old trout said to the boss—’

  ‘You mustn’t call Lady Vardon an old trout,’ said Corrie, shocked. ‘It’s disrespectful. She’s posh.’

  ‘Posh or not, the boss was like a bear with a sore head after she’d gone. He looked as if he wanted to murder her.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Henry,’ said his wife, suddenly worried. ‘You keep on the right side of Mr Castradon, d’you hear me? I wouldn’t like you to go upsetting him. Not after all the talk there’s been.’

  The following lunchtime, Ashley telephoned Jack, asking him to call in at the police station. The army records he had asked Bill Rackham to dig up had arrived.

  ‘You know, it’s a week since Simon Vardon’s body was found,’ said Ashley, as Jack took the papers from the envelope. ‘I wish we could make some progress with this case. I feel like we’re on a knife-edge, waiting for the next ghastly outrage. You heard Lady Vardon called to see Castradon yesterday?’

  ‘I did,’ said Jack absently. He spread the records over the desk and started skimming through them. ‘Castradon sent her off with a flea in her ear.’

  ‘It wasn’t the wisest thing she could’ve done, in my opinion. I wouldn’t go out of my way to cross our Mr Castradon.’

  Ashley inclined his head to see the records Jack was examining. ‘Have you found anything significant? I’ve had a look already, of course. There’s only one item of any interest as far as I can see, and that’s the fact that Simon Vardon was wounded by a mine and sustained an injury to his right foot.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jack, tapping the card. ‘His little
toe was amputated. Thomas Vardon and Alan Leigh ended the war with all their limbs intact.’

  ‘It explains why Vardon’s feet were removed,’ said Ashley. ‘That’s been bothering me ever since I saw him. If you want to conceal a body’s identity, you’d whip off his hands because of fingerprints and disfigure the face, but why bother with the feet unless there was something odd about them?’ He paused. ‘What’s the matter? You don’t look too pleased with yourself.’

  ‘I can’t say I am.’ Jack sat quietly for a few moments and Ashley let him think in silence. ‘I say, Ashley,’ he said eventually, ‘you haven’t got a copy of Ryle’s statement handy, have you?’

  ‘Ryle’s statement? Yes, I’ve got a copy here.’ He searched in the drawer and produced a file. ‘Here you are.’

  Jack read through it quickly, then gave a little grunt of satisfaction. ‘Would it be possible for me to see Ryle?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Ashley. ‘Whatever for, though?’ He looked at Jack hopefully. ‘You haven’t got one of your ideas, have you?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that, but like you, I wondered why Simon Vardon’s body was so badly disfigured. After all, once Ryle was out of the picture, it didn’t take us long to think of Vardon …’

  The telephone rang. With a muttered excuse, Ashley answered it. As he spoke, his face became grim. After a brief conversation, he replaced the receiver.

  ‘Come on, Haldean. We’ve got to get up to the Vardons, quick. Lady Vardon has committed suicide.’

  The door was opened by the Vardons’ butler, Mackay, who, pale and obviously very shaken, showed them into the dead woman’s sitting room.

  The last time they had been in this room, Jack thought, it had reeked with the pungent smell of brandy and Lady Vardon’s smelling salts. Now, thank goodness, at least the air was fresh. The curtains stirred gently in the breeze from the open windows which looked out on to the garden. A rosewood bureau and chair stood against the far wall. The lid of the bureau was down, forming a desk with letters scattered across the top. The chair was overturned as if Lady Vardon had upset it when she had stood up. Jack took in these details almost unconsciously as he looked at the sprawled body on the floor.