The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘It looks as if it’s been recently cleaned,’ said Ashley. ‘The registration might tell us something but there’s no papers in the car. There’s some muddy marks on the seats, but that’ll be from the boys. Major Haldean’s gone to get a tyre lever from his car to prise the boot open.’

  He looked up as Jack came back into the tunnel, holding a long iron bar.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Jack. ‘Those kids told me they had a car. I thought they’d found an old wreck, but this Vauxhall is in perfectly good running order, I’d say.’

  ‘Me, too,’ agreed Ashley. ‘It’s far too good to be abandoned.’

  Jack wedged the end of the tyre lever into the rim of the boot. His mouth set in a grim line. This, he thought, might be very nasty. He heaved on the lever and the boot opened.

  The smell hit him like a blow from a hammer.

  He lurched back, a hand to his mouth. Beside him, Sergeant Haddon and Ashley choked, then all three of them ran for the open air.

  Once back in the sunshine, all three men, pale and shaken, breathed again.

  Jack thought there was every chance Sergeant Haddon was going to be sick. ‘Have a cigarette, man,’ he said, lighting one himself.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the sergeant gratefully. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that. And the smell!’

  Ashley, pale and shaken, leaned against the wall. ‘I reckon we’ve found Alan Leigh, but I’m not going near that car without the proper gear …’

  He broke off. Jack wasn’t listening. He was staring at the broken flight of wooden steps, leading up to the shabby old white hut of a signal box on the banking. There was mud on the steps and the grass stems were broken where they had grown up between the treads.

  ‘There’s a new padlock on the door,’ Jack said quietly. ‘Someone’s been using the signal box.’

  Ashley ran up the steps. ‘This could be the break we’ve been waiting for! Bring that tyre lever, Haldean!’

  Jack inserted the tyre lever in the clasp and splintered the lock away from the rotting door.

  Inside, the dust which layered the room was broken by innumerable footmarks. Carefully avoiding the footprints as much as possible, the two men walked into the signal box. Light from the cobweb-covered window showed them a seized set of signal levers, an old-fashioned chair and a table, ringed with stains. A chess board, made of inlaid black and pink marble, stood on the table, garishly opulent against its grimy surroundings.

  Jack knew that such a chess set must exist but, just for the moment, his eye was caught, not by the marble and crystal chess pieces, but by a small wooden crate that stood on the floor by the table, its lid askew. He had seen boxes like that before. Gesturing to Ashley to keep back, he walked very cautiously towards the crate, then breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ashley.

  ‘Gelignite.’

  Ashley gave a startled yelp.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Jack with a grin. ‘It’s perfectly safe. It needs a detonator to set it off.’

  He put his hand in the crate and pulled out something that looked like a sausage in greased paper. He unwrapped it. The gelignite was yellow, soft like marzipan and smelt of sickly grease. ‘An engineer showed me how to handle this stuff in the war. I was looking for wires, as an electric current would set it off. A knife blade would do the trick too, as it can rasp on the grit inside.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, put it down, will you!’ pleaded Ashley. ‘I’ve got enough to worry about without you standing there, waving sticks of gelignite around. What the devil’s it doing here? And where the dickens did it come from?’

  Jack returned the gelignite to the box and wiped his hands on his handkerchief. ‘There’s tons of this stuff around, when you think of all the unused munitions stores there are. As to what it’s doing here, I don’t know. It’s a worrying find, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very,’ agreed Ashley tightly. ‘Let’s see what else we can find. That chess set is familiar, isn’t it?’

  The chess set was laid out, as if for a game, but the black king, the black knight, the red rook, the red queen and a black pawn were missing. In the centre of the board stood the black rook. The Chessman had promised Thomas Vardon he would be the black rook, thought Jack with a shudder.

  A Bartlett typewriter and a cardboard box containing a quire of paper stood on the table. On the wall was a rough chart with a series of names: Matthew Vardon, Simon Vardon, Alan Leigh, Esmé Vardon, Adeline Vardon, Thomas Vardon and then, scrawled in a different ink: Sue?.

  The first five names were crossed out. ‘It’s his murder list,’ said Ashley quietly.

  Beside the typewriter was a manila folder. Jack opened it. There was a single sheet of typewritten paper inside. The edges were creased and the lines of type weren’t level. It had been taken in and out of the machine many times.

  Ashley held the paper up to the dim light from the filthy window and read it aloud. His voice was expressive.

  ‘“Thursday, Nineteenth of June. I wanted to kill Matthew Vardon,”’ he read, ‘“but he’s dead. He was my black king. I should have killed Matthew Vardon. I will not be cheated again.” My God! “Tuesday, Twenty-first of July. Today I will kill Simon Vardon.” This next bit’s on a different line, Haldean. “Simon Vardon struggled and paid the price. The black knight! The knife is good.” There’s a short sentence, added here,’ he said. ‘It’s underlined. It says, “Job done!” Then we’ve got, “Wednesday, Twenty-second of July. Alan Leigh shouldn’t have interfered. He went the same way as his friend. The knife is very good. He was just a pawn.” The next sentence is underlined again. “Job done!”’

  Ashley breathed deeply, then went on reading. ‘“Monday, Twenty-seventh of July. Today I will kill Esmé Vardon. If not today, then soon, very soon.” Then, underneath, he’s added, “Esmé, beautiful Esmé, the red rook, doesn’t look so beautiful now. My hands are even better than the knife.” This bloke’s a monster! “Job done! And enjoyed.” Then we’ve got, “Today I will kill Adeline Vardon. She is my red queen. I want to use my hands.” Then there’s a gap and …’ He was silent for a moment.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jack urgently.

  ‘It’s the next entry. “Thomas Vardon, the black rook, will be utterly destroyed. Gelignite in his car? I will enjoy that.”’ Ashley put down the paper. ‘Haldean, he’s written the date. Friday, Thirty-first. It’s going to happen today!’

  Leaving Sergeant Haddon guarding the Vauxhall, they scrambled up the steps and into the Spyker.

  How they escaped an accident, Jack didn’t know. All he knew was that he came near to overturning the car as they raced along the narrow country lane, back up to the village.

  ‘Go to the police station,’ shouted Ashley above the noise of the engine. ‘We’ll telephone Vardon from there.’

  Jack had to slow down as they came over the humpbacked bridge and into the village, but instead of making for the police station, he brought the car round in a long swoop around the green.

  ‘Vardon’s car!’ shouted Jack in explanation. ‘It’s parked in front of the Vicarage!’

  He screeched to a halt some way in front of the Lanchester and, swinging himself out of the Spyker, set off running.

  Thomas Vardon, who had evidently just driven up, sat in the driver’s seat, looking at Jack in amazement as he pelted towards him.

  ‘Get out of the car!’ yelled Jack. Panting, he slammed his hands down on the rim of the driver’s door. ‘Vardon! Get out! We’ve got a message from the Chessman. He’s put a bomb in your car!’

  Thomas’s eyes widened and he flung open the door. Together he and Jack hurtled themselves onto the green. Ashley stood in the road, his arms wide, forcibly preventing two women, one with a pram, from coming any closer. Jack caught his shouted words.

  ‘Unexploded bomb!’

  Then, with a deep boom, the Lanchester blew up.

  Jack slapped a hand on Thomas’s back, forcing him to the ground. They lay flat on th
eir faces while glass and metal crashed down onto the road behind.

  Thomas craned his head to look at the Lanchester. ‘My car,’ he said shakily. ‘My God, it’s my car! I could’ve been in that.’

  Jack caught his breath. ‘Ashley,’ he called unsteadily, scrambling to his feet. ‘Is everyone okay?’

  Ashley was comforting the two women. The baby in the pram was crying. ‘It’s all right here, Haldean,’ he called and turned to the women. ‘There, Missus, don’t upset yourself. There’s no harm done. Why don’t you go and have a sit-down and a nice cup of tea?’

  Ashley came back to the twisted metal shell that was the wreck of the Lanchester. The car was still more or less intact outside, but the interior was completely destroyed. Broken glass and bits of metal littered the road.

  ‘Thank God you got out of there, Sir Thomas,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

  Thomas, white-faced, nodded. ‘I got a message from Sue, asking to meet me at the Vicarage,’ he said. ‘It was a note delivered by hand. I should’ve realized there was something wrong.’ He laughed, a little choking, humourless sound. ‘I don’t suppose it was from Sue, was it?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Ashley. ‘It was from the Chessman. We stopped him this time. And,’ he added grimly, ‘with any luck, we’ll soon have him stopped for good.’

  NINETEEN

  Jack drove Thomas Vardon home, leaving Ashley and the police to deal with the destroyed Lanchester. He wanted a hot bath – the smell from the tunnel seemed to linger on his clothes – a hot meal with Isabelle and Arthur, and a peaceful night.

  Ashley telephoned halfway through dinner. The grisly contents of the Vauxhall in the tunnel had been brought out and, according to Ashley, the remains were as gruesome as the smell.

  That wasn’t all; deep within the tunnel they found undeniable evidence that the tunnel wasn’t just a tomb but was the scene of the actual murder. There were the remains of a fire with calcified remnants of human bones.

  The body, who, as Ashley said, more or less had to be Alan Leigh, had been stabbed then mutilated in the same way as Simon Vardon. The only difference was that the left arm, where Simon Vardon had carried his telltale tattoo, was untouched.

  ‘That,’ said Jack to Arthur and Isabelle as he resumed his interrupted dinner, ‘was only to be expected, you know. The Chessman said in that ghastly note – I suppose you could call it a diary entry – which we found in the old signal box that Leigh, the poor devil, went the same way as his friend.’

  ‘But who is this maniac?’ demanded Arthur, finishing the last of his pork chop.

  ‘Sue’s name was on that list,’ said Isabelle significantly.

  Arthur squared his shoulders defiantly. ‘It’s not Ned Castradon. I won’t believe it until I absolutely have to. Ned’s got a dickens of a temper but he’s not insane.’

  ‘Do you think the Chessman is insane?’ asked Jack thoughtfully.

  ‘There’s no other explanation,’ said Isabelle. ‘He’s just playing chess with people, and as for all the horrible things he does to them afterwards …’ She shoved her plate away. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what we saw in the church. Why treat someone like that?’

  Jack, knife and fork in hand, stared at her.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Jack,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘I can’t help being upset.’

  ‘No, of course you can’t,’ he said absently. ‘It’s just what you said rang a bell. I said as much to Ashley earlier on. Why treat someone like that … ?’

  He sat silently for a few moments, then pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Excuse me a moment, will you? I need to talk to Ashley again.’

  He came back a few minutes later, looking cheerful. ‘It’s all right,’ he announced. ‘Ashley’s promised to square it with the authorities for me. I’m going to see Jonathan Ryle in the morning.’

  ‘Jonathan Ryle?’ repeated Arthur blankly. ‘The chauffeur, you mean? What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘I’m hoping,’ said Jack, ‘I’ll find out in the morning. Don’t ask any questions just at the moment. I need to work something out.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ryle. ‘This is a pleasure. There’s one thing about being a guest of His Majesty’s, and that’s the butler doesn’t need to enquire if you’re at home.’

  Jack grinned and took a carton containing a hundred Gold Flake from his case. ‘Are these any use to you?’

  Ryle’s eyes gleamed but he hesitated before he picked up the cigarettes. ‘What’s the game, squire? I mean, I’m lagged up in here safe and sound, just waiting to do my bit of time like a good boy. I’ve told you everything I know. You can’t pin anything more on me.’

  Jack leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t want to pin anything more on you, Mr Ryle. Do take the cigarettes, by the way, they’re yours. What are the charges against you?’

  ‘Assault, blackmail and larceny,’ muttered Ryle. ‘It isn’t fair, I tell you. Yes, I had a pop at that bugger, Castradon. He’d been asking for it and no mistake, but all the rest I did for the boss. He was my old man, after all. I had to do what he said, didn’t I? He was family.’

  Leaving aside this perhaps skewed notion of family values, Jack moved on. ‘That’s quite a collection of charges.’

  Jack’s voice sounded admiring and Ryle couldn’t help but preen himself. ‘Now, it’s possible,’ Jack went on, ‘not to put it any stronger, that things might be easier if you helped the police. I’m not offering anything. I’m just pointing out the obvious.’ Jack pushed his cigarette case and a box of matches across the table. ‘Have one of those and think about it.’

  ‘I don’t need to think about it,’ said Ryle, striking a match. ‘Strewth, guv, the nick’s all right but you don’t want to go overdoing it.’ He grinned and the astonishing likeness to Sir Matthew and Thomas Vardon flared out. ‘But you haven’t come to tell me this out of the kindness of your heart. I’ll ask you again. What’s the game?’

  For an answer Jack drew a sheet of paper out of his case. ‘This is a copy of the statement you made to Superintendent Ashley concerning your fight with Mr Castradon. As a writer of fiction myself, I appreciated it. But that’s what it is. Fiction.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ blustered Ryle. ‘Every single word of that is God’s truth.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Oh no. Like all good stories it has large slices of truth in it, but that’s not the same thing at all. For instance, this part here, where you say after fighting with Mr Castradon you ran across the road, climbed into a car, got it to start, but fell into the back and abandoned the car when Mr Castradon caught up with you.’

  Jack put the statement down. ‘Mr Dyson and Mr Castradon, the other two witnesses, both stated that you leapt out of the car with a shriek, and ran off, yelling, down the road. What sort of car was it, by the way?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? I was trying to escape in it, not buy the ruddy thing.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Jack acknowledged with a grin. ‘I wondered if it was a Vauxhall.’

  ‘How the hell …?’ began Ryle again, then stopped. ‘No. No, I don’t think it was, guv. I couldn’t say what it was, but I don’t think it was a Vauxhall.’

  ‘In any case, you say you ran away because, “I had Castradon after me.” That’s not true.’

  Ryle blenched. ‘It is.’

  ‘I think not, Mr Ryle. What did you see in the back of the car?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ The nicotine-stained fingers started to shake. ‘Nothing. I saw nothing. They’d only twist it. They’d make out it was me. Once you get a record, guv, everyone’s after you, and it wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I know that, man. This isn’t official, remember. There’s only the two of us here. No one’s listening and as far as the authorities are concerned, what you said in your statement is the truth. But I know it’s not true and you know it’s not true, so why don’t you tell me what really happened?’

  Ryle shook h
is head. ‘Catch me! They’ve got a down on me, I tell you. Sorry, squire, I can’t do it.’

  Jack drew back his chair. ‘Pity.’ He examined his fingernails. ‘You saw a body in the back of the car, didn’t you? A body with a disfigured face and its feet and hands cut off.’

  Ryle jumped to his feet. ‘If you know that, why’re you asking? God ’elp, it was too. I fell right on top of it. Horrible, it was. The arms sort of jumped up and came round me. It had a coat over it but it was mother-naked underneath. If I say I seen it, they’ll have me strung up before you can say knife.’

  ‘Calm down, Mr Ryle. We’re alone, remember? As far as you’re concerned, this hasn’t changed a thing. Perhaps you’d consider changing your statement once we’ve caught the murderer?’

  Ryle relaxed. ‘Well, that’d be different, wouldn’t it? You catch him, squire, and I’ll sing for you. But you’ve got to get him first.’

  Jack stopped for a late lunch on the way back from Lewes. It was nearly four o’clock when he arrived back in Croxton Ferriers, a hot, quiet, sleepy afternoon, with few passers-by in the village. Even the geese on the green were roosting placidly under the shade of the willows by the river.

  He pulled up outside the police station and walked in to the back room to find Ashley on the telephone. Correctly interpreting Ashley’s silent gestures, Jack sat down and waited without speaking. Judging from the amount of times Ashley said ‘sir’, he was talking to someone important.

  He was. Ashley put the phone down, stretched back in his chair, reached for his pipe and lit it with a broad grin. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you this afternoon,’ he said. ‘That was the Chief Constable on the phone.’ He couldn’t help but pause. ‘He was telephoning with his congratulations.’ Ashley beamed at him. ‘We’ve cracked it, Haldean! It’s all over.’

  Jack looked at him sharply. ‘What d’you mean, it’s over?’

  ‘Just that. The case is solved. We’ve got the evidence and we’ve got the man.’

  ‘You’ve got the man! Who is it?’