The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Castradon.’ Ashley drew out the syllables of the name. ‘Edward Castradon.’ He jerked his thumb at the door leading to the corridor. ‘He’s banged up nice and tight in the cell at the back until the van comes to take him to Lewes. He’s the Chessman.’

  ‘But he can’t—’ began Jack when Ashley silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  ‘There’s no doubt about it. He came quietly enough when we arrested him. All he said was, “I’ve been expecting this,” when I read him the charge. He came as meekly as a lamb, with all the fight knocked out of him. I think,’ said Ashley, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe, ‘that we might find that he’s one of these Jekyll and Hyde personalities. I always did think we were looking for a lunatic.’

  ‘But what evidence have you got?’ demanded Jack.

  ‘It’s all from the Vauxhall. He made one crucial mistake. He forgot the number plates on the car.’

  ‘The Vauxhall’s registered to him?’ Jack asked in astonishment.

  ‘Not exactly. The last registered owner is a Gerald Randall of the Pioneer Garage, Pevensey Road, Eastbourne. He always has a few second-hand cars at fairly knock-down prices. He sold the Vauxhall to a man who gave his name as John Smith and paid the cash price of forty-five pounds for it. The description Randall gives fits Castradon to a T. In the boot of the car we found a wrench and a small axe – you remember a wrench and an axe were missing from Castradon’s garage – and we also found Castradon’s knife. It’s very distinctive. Henry Dinder, the clerk, recognized it as one he’d seen Castradon use as a paper knife and Castradon acknowledged the knife was his. He didn’t seem to care,’ added Ashley in an aggrieved voice.

  ‘He could be reserving his defence,’ suggested Jack. ‘He is a solicitor, after all.’

  ‘True, but he appeared completely indifferent. Anyway, at least we know what that farrago with the false telegram was about. You remember he said he had a telegram from Sir Arnold Stapleton from Eastbourne on Tuesday evening? There was no telegram sent from any of the Eastbourne offices on Tuesday.’

  ‘We thought,’ said Jack mildly, ‘that it was an alibi. The fact that he wasn’t here, I mean.’

  ‘He must’ve got round it somehow, that’s all I can say. After all, it was never impossible, only unlikely. I’m not sure how he did it, but he managed it somehow. After all, there’s only Mrs Dyson’s word for it that the lilies were taken from her garden on Tuesday night. They could’ve easily have been taken earlier in the evening. He dropped his silver matchbox while he was carrying the body around. He could have easily got the church key and copied it at any time. He only lives next door to the Vicarage, after all.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said Jack doubtfully.

  ‘Absolutely it is. After all, Castradon’s local, he’s notoriously bad-tempered, he suffered from shell-shock or its first cousin, his family had a grudge against the Vardons, he’s got no alibi worth tuppence, he lied about the telegram, his property was found at the scene of the crime and there’s a clear connection between him and the Vauxhall. I just don’t know where Alan Leigh fits in to the picture, but we know from that revolting diary entry that he was the next in line. Maybe Leigh saw him and Castradon realized he had to act, otherwise his alibi would be blown sky high. We might very well find that he bought the Vauxhall with the express intention of meeting Leigh and seeing him off.’

  ‘Why leave the body in the car?’

  Ashley shrugged. ‘Why not? He might have intended to move it or dispose of the car and body together. Perhaps he always intended to abandon the body in the car. The railway tunnel was a good hiding place. It was only because of those scamps of kids that we found it, after all.’

  ‘Speaking of the boys, what does Castradon say he was doing when they heard the man in the tunnel? He should’ve been at work, surely.’

  ‘He wasn’t. He says he’d gone for a walk. Apparently he’s hardly been in the office all week and when he was there he didn’t do much. Henry Dinder, the clerk, was worried that Castradon was heading for a breakdown or, as he delicately put it, “problems with his nerves”. That sounds like the understatement of the year.’

  ‘What about Esmé Vardon’s murder? I just don’t see how he could have got from Croxton Ferriers to Southampton in time. Certainly not in that Riley of his.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it,’ said Ashley. ‘If he bought one car, the Vauxhall, what’s to stop him buying another? A car that’s a damn sight faster than the Riley. Again, to refer back to the diary, he didn’t know that murder was going to come off. He chanced it, and it did.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Jack said slowly, ‘there is another car involved.’

  He told Ashley the gist of what Ryle had seen on the Sunday night. Ashley was horrified.

  ‘You mean there’s yet another body, Haldean?’

  ‘That’s what Ryle said, and I believe he’s telling the truth. He didn’t want to admit it. He’s convinced that we’ll try and pin the murder on him.’

  ‘Idiot,’ muttered Ashley. ‘Didn’t you tell him we were after a madman? Ryle’s as sane as you and me. I suppose I’d better get him to amend his statement. Now we’ve got Castradon under lock and key, he might be a bit more forthcoming.’

  Jack ran his thumb round his chin. ‘I did wonder if there was a simpler explanation. I might be wrong, but I can’t help thinking we’ve been led up the garden path by this idea that the killer’s a lunatic. There’s one way of looking at things which makes the killer horribly sane.’

  Ashley looked at him blankly. ‘And what’s that, when it’s at home? And why are you saying the killer? We know who the killer is. It’s Castradon.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  There was a frozen pause.

  ‘Not Castradon?’ demanded Ashley. ‘If it’s not Castradon, then who the hell is it?’

  He broke off in irritation as a high-pitched woman’s voice, punctuated by the low rumble of Constable Stock’s replies, sounded in the outer room. ‘What the dickens is going on out there?’ he muttered, rising to his feet.

  The door was abruptly flung back and Sue Castradon erupted into the room, Constable Stock, red-faced and apologetic behind her. ‘I couldn’t stop her, sir,’ he said heavily.

  ‘Mr Ashley!’ yelped Sue. ‘Isabelle Stanton telephoned to say my husband had been arrested. Is that true?’

  ‘Quite true, I’m afraid, Mrs Castradon.’

  Sue’s mouth quivered and she swayed on her feet. Jack caught hold of her arm and guided her into a chair.

  ‘Thank you,’ she muttered absently, then took in who he was. ‘Mr Haldean? It can’t be true, can it? Not Ned. Surely not Ned.’ She reached out and clutched his chest. ‘Isabelle swore you’d find the truth. She knows it can’t be Ned who’s done these dreadful things. She told me you’d find out the truth and set him free.’

  Considering what he’d heard Isabelle say on the subject of Ned Castradon, that seemed a bit rich, but Jack wasn’t going to argue. He gently covered her hand with his. ‘We’ll find the truth, Mrs Castradon.’

  She gave a long shuddering sigh. ‘Let me see him! Is he here?’ She read the expression in his face. ‘He is here!’

  Ashley was a kind-hearted man and couldn’t resist that look. ‘You can see him if you like, but I’m afraid I’ll have to be there, too.’ He nodded at Jack. ‘You’d better come too.’

  Her eyes widened but Jack knew the reason for Ashley’s caution. Sue’s name had been on the Chessman’s list.

  ‘All right,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Anything, as long as I can see him.’

  The tiny cell at the back of the police station was a stone-built room with a solid door with a peephole, a barred window, a shelf and a plank bed, which usually housed drunks and petty thieves.

  Jack stood for a moment in awkward silence, looking at the man sitting on the plank bed.

  Sue pushed past and flung herself down beside her husband. Castradon looked at his wife. Jack saw his expression, an expression o
f bewildered, delighted hope. Despite Ashley’s warning movement, Castradon held out his arms and Sue clung to him, her breath coming in little gasping sobs.

  ‘I came as soon as I could, Ned. I know it’s not true. It’s not you. Why don’t you tell them it’s not you?’

  He kissed her hair, oblivious to the presence of the two men. ‘Do you care?’

  She drew back. ‘Care? Of course I care!’

  ‘I thought you wanted to be free. If I was out of the way you’d be free.’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘Ned! Tell me you’re not guilty.’

  ‘Of course I’m not guilty,’ he said with a spark of his old self. ‘I thought it would be better for you if I was.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I was going to end it, anyway.’

  Her eyes sparked grey fire. ‘No you damn well don’t! Now stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself and fight!’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Do you love me?’ she demanded.

  Jack touched Ashley’s arm and the two men withdrew tactfully round the corner and out of sight. That, thought Jack, was more to spare his feelings than Ned or Sue Castradons’. Although their voices were clear, he didn’t want to witness such raw emotion.

  In the cell, Ned stood up. ‘Do I love you?’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘I love you more than I can say, but I can’t see why you should give a damn. Knowing I’ve got a foul temper and how I look and all the—’

  She interrupted him indignantly. ‘Will you stop being so bloody silly? I couldn’t give a … a bugger what you look like!’

  Castradon blinked. ‘Sue! I’ve never heard you use language like that before.’

  ‘Well, you’re hearing it now. And I’ll use a bit more language if you don’t stop being so stupid. What the … the …’

  ‘Careful!’ he warned, his mouth starting to lift at the corners.

  ‘What on earth,’ she amended, ‘does it matter if you have got a few scars? It’s been hell, Ned, trying to get you to believe it. Because I loved you I stuck it for so long until you finally managed to convince me you didn’t give a damn.’

  ‘Oh, hell.’ He sat down heavily on the bed, holding her hands in his. ‘I’ve been every kind of fool I can think of. After the war I was so ill and useless. I’d wanted to make things wonderful for you. All I did was bring one worry after another. And then – I know this is horrible – I convinced myself that you didn’t love me, that you couldn’t love me and I hated you for pretending. I wanted you to get it over with and go. Prove me right.’ His voice trailed off to a whisper. ‘And you did.’

  She squeezed his hands. ‘Do you care?’

  He looked up quickly. ‘I care.’

  Jack stepped outside the police station. He wanted fresh air and he wanted to think.

  He was surprised to see Isabelle and Arthur sitting in their car.

  ‘I telephoned Sue,’ Isabelle explained, ‘and we picked her up from the train.’ She looked at him with that determined expression he knew so well. ‘Jack, Ned’s innocent.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he couldn’t resist saying.

  She gave a little toss of her head. ‘That’s before I saw how Sue reacted. She couldn’t be so wrong about him, Jack. She’s lived with him for years. She’d know if he was the Chessman.’

  ‘I never thought Castradon was guilty,’ said Arthur.

  ‘I told Sue you’d sort it all out, Jack,’ said Isabelle with complete conviction.

  Jack winced. ‘Thanks. How the dickens am I meant to do that? There’s evidence against him, Belle. Good evidence.’

  She looked at him shrewdly. ‘I thought you had an idea. Did you see Ryle?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I knew it!’ said Isabelle triumphantly. ‘You’re on to something.’ She reached for his hand. ‘Jack, you’ve got to do something. What’s the problem?’

  ‘A total and complete lack of evidence,’ he said glumly. He lit a cigarette and flicked the match onto the green. ‘I have an idea but not a shred of proof. I need facts and facts don’t grow on blackberry bushes. I have to show Ashley something concrete.’ He broke off, staring into the middle distance. ‘We need another body,’ he said quietly. ‘We need another murder.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jack,’ cried Arthur, seriously alarmed. ‘That’s about the last thing we need.’

  Jack grinned. ‘Don’t worry. The next victim will be me.’

  ‘That’s not a terribly good idea—’ began Arthur, when Jack cut him off impatiently.

  ‘I don’t intend to actually die. That’s taking devotion to the cause a little too far.’ He bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘Where’s Sue Castradon staying tonight?’

  Isabelle shrugged. ‘I was going to ask her to stay with us.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Jack quickly. ‘She can stay in her own house. She strikes me as a very honest sort of person and I don’t want her to give the game away.’

  ‘What game?’ demanded Arthur. ‘Come on, Jack. Tell us what you’ve got in mind.’

  ‘Take Sue home, then meet me back here,’ said Jack. ‘Isabelle, you can stay with Sue for a time if you like, but Arthur and I need to have a word with Ashley. You can be as sympathetic as you like to Mrs Castradon but don’t, for heaven’s sake, let her know I’ve got an idea. For one thing, I might be wrong – I really might be, you know – in which case it’s cruel to offer false hope and, for another, we don’t know who she’ll talk to. One hint that anyone, bar Sue, thinks that Castradon’s not guilty could really upset the apple cart.’

  TWENTY

  Edward Ashley looked at Arthur and Jack in stupefaction. They were in Ashley’s office and Jack had made sure that the windows and door were shut. He didn’t want anyone to overhear what they were saying.

  ‘Thomas Vardon,’ said Ashley disbelievingly. ‘You think Thomas Vardon is the Chessman? But he can’t be! Damn it, it was only yesterday we saved him from being blown to smithereens.’

  ‘He could’ve easily planted that bomb himself,’ said Jack. ‘All he needed to do is to wait until we came running up to him like a pair of maniacs and bingo! He sets off the bomb and bang!’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Ashley, his voice rich with scepticism. ‘He can’t be guilty.’ He ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘One, he was on the Olympic when Simon Vardon and Alan Leigh were murdered; two, Esmé Vardon would’ve recognized him; three, he’s not a local and wouldn’t know where anything was, such as the keys to the church and so on; and four – and most important of all – he’s not a lunatic.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not so sure about that,’ said Jack.

  ‘But where’s your evidence?’

  Jack put his hands wide. ‘That’s the snag. I haven’t got any.’

  Ashley rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘I need a damn sight more than your hunch.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jack in a placatory way. ‘Don’t get so agitated, old thing. It’s to get some evidence that I’ve asked Arthur to come along. Now, this is what I’ve got in mind …’

  That evening Jack drove himself and Arthur up to London. He saw Arthur off on a train north from King’s Cross, garaged his car, and went home to his rooms in Chandos Place.

  The next morning, he packed a suitcase for a few days and augmented his travelling wardrobe with his old service Webley. Silverthorne’s, he thought, as he pocketed the pistol. Silverthorne’s should do it nicely.

  Silverthorne’s in Vigo Street (established 1793) no longer sells the sword-sticks and life-preservers referred to in the flowing eighteenth-century gilt script on the window; instead its steel and glass cabinets gleam with creations of burnished blue metal and polished wood that epitomize the very zenith of the gunsmiths’ art. Jack’s requirements were modest but precise; and Silverthorne’s met those requirements exactly.

  There were two letters for Sir Thomas Vardon. One was local, one was postmarked Matlock, Derbyshire. Vardon opened the local letter with a twisted smile. He could gue
ss what it contained. He was right.

  … and so I think you’ll agree, Tom, that in the circumstances we had better see as little of each other as possible. I shall always value your friendship and I am more sorry than I can say that I allowed you to believe your feelings were returned.

  It was a confused and unhappy time when I thought the best thing would be for me to make a complete break. I hope you will understand when I tell you that is no longer so. This has been a horribly difficult letter to write. Please try to forgive me.

  Sue.

  Vardon rested his head in his hands. Sue! He could visualize her so clearly that it filled him with a sick hunger. He knew this would be a difficult time but after the trial was over and the inevitable verdict returned, she would find her way back to him. All he had to do was wait. He knew that patience wasn’t his strong point, but Sue was worth waiting for.

  He idly slit open the second letter and read it with growing surprise.

  Dear Tom,

  First let me say how sorry I and everyone else was to hear about Esmé. [Stacks more about Esmé]

  I realize this is a bad time, but I have to see you about the contract we had with Lord Evedon. Thanks to you, he’s agreed to let us use the Priory for filming and the really good news is that Doug Fairbanks and Mary Pickford are signed and secured. Old Burnford is excited about the gross on this one! Lord Evedon wants to see you, though. I guess, as you did all the preliminary work, he thinks he can trust you and, as you’re now a real English aristocrat, the studio are keen for you to wrap it up.

  I got into Liverpool last night and I’m travelling down through England, seeing some of your country on the way. It looks just like the movies! I know you asked me to stay, but it might not be convenient for you right now, as the house will still be mourning for Esmé, so I suggest that we meet at Upper Eadsley, Sussex, the village near Lord Evedon’s place on Wednesday 3rd.

  I’ll be staying at the hotel there, the Bull’s Head. Sounds cute. You can write to me at the Old Fleece at Stratford-upon-Avon. I’ll be there on Monday. Can you let me know in your letter if you want to go ahead with the Mayer contract? We could do with a definite answer. Let me know and I can cable him right away. Those were the only two bits of unfinished business you left but the Mayer contract is urgent. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come to Croxton Ferriers directly, as we originally arranged. See you soon. Luke Vettori.