The Chessman

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Vardon put down the letter and frowned. This was all he needed! He sat down at the desk and pulled a sheet of notepaper towards him, then, changing his mind, reached for a telegram form.

  Telegram from T. Vardon, Croxton Ferriers, West Sussex to L. Vettori, C/O Old Fleece, Stratford-Upon-Avon, Warwickshire. Meet six o’clock Wednesday, Bull’s Head, Upper Eadsley stop Yes to Mayer stop

  ‘There’s a telegram for you, Mr Vettori,’ said Mrs Knowle who, as well as owning the Old Fleece, combined in her ample person the offices of receptionist, barmaid, part-time cook and occasional chambermaid.

  Mrs Knowle liked Mr Vettori. You’d expect him to be foreign with a name like that, but he was as English as she was. He was a nice-looking man with a high forehead, curly brown hair and a hesitant manner. ‘Since the war, I always worry so about telegrams,’ she said. ‘Is is good news?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Is there a telephone I can use?’

  ‘It’s in the hall, sir.’

  Passing through the hall minutes later with some cutlery for the dining room, she heard Mr Vettori on the phone. It was none of her business, of course, but she did wonder why Mr Luke Vettori had said, ‘Hello, Jack. This is Arthur.’

  In the Residents’ Lounge of the Bull’s Head, Upper Eadsley, Ashley introduced the two men who had accompanied him to Jack and Arthur. ‘This is Sergeant Thurrock and Constable Birch,’ he said, sitting down. ‘I thought it best to have two trustworthy witnesses with me.’

  Jack liked the look of the two policemen. They were sturdy, intelligent-looking men who managed to wear their dark suits without making it obvious they were in plain clothes.

  ‘I wanted witnesses,’ continued Ashley, ‘and some support should anything go wrong,’ he added, with a meaningful look at Jack. ‘Why don’t you bring Thurrock and Birch up to date? They know,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘we’re after Sir Thomas Vardon.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jack obligingly. ‘If Sir Thomas is guilty, he’s a very dangerous and a very clever man. In order to draw him out, Captain Stanton travelled to Derbyshire to post a letter I’d written in the name of his colleague, Luke Vettori, asking Sir Thomas to meet Mr Vettori here.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘As soon as I had the reply, I telephoned, and here we are.’

  ‘Sir Thomas is due at six,’ said Ashley. ‘He’ll ask for Mr Vettori and be shown up to his room.’ He raised an eyebrow at Jack. ‘What d’you think he’ll do when he finds out it isn’t this American chap waiting for him, but you? He’ll know you’re not Vettori straight away.’

  ‘I’m hoping,’ said Jack, ‘he’ll go off pop. The discussion should prove interesting, to say the least. You’ll be in the next room, together with Captain Stanton, listening to every word we say. I’ll rely on your discretion to step in should it seem necessary.’

  The two policemen nodded. ‘Is the landlord all right?’ asked Sergeant Thurrock. ‘He won’t speak out of turn, I mean?’

  ‘He won’t say a word,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ve known him for years. My old home, the Priory, is nearby. I suggested meeting here.’

  ‘The room’s fine, too,’ Ashley said. ‘There’s an adjoining door. We won’t have any trouble hearing what’s being said – or intervening, if we need to.’

  ‘We need to keep out of sight before the kick off,’ said Jack, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ve got over two hours to fill. I’m blowed if I’m going to be cooped up in my room all afternoon. I’m going for a walk. D’you fancy coming, Arthur? We could revisit some of your old haunts.’

  For a moment Arthur looked tempted, then he shook his head. ‘I think I’d better have a word with Jim in the garage,’ he said. ‘I didn’t like the feel of the brakes when I drove over this morning.’

  ‘Well, keep an eye on the time,’ said Jack, standing up. ‘We all need to be in position by quarter past five at the latest.’

  Jack swung his legs over the top of the stile and jumped down to the dried mud of the lane. Long ago this had been the main road up to the quarry where the stones of the Priory had come from. The house itself was invisible behind a rise of ground and the quarry belonged to the birds and rabbits, undisturbed amongst the stones. Jack lit his pipe and strolled down the track.

  Arthur Stanton found Jim in the garage, only too willing to help with his brakes.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a long time, Captain,’ Jim said, from under the car. ‘I heard as how you’d got married. It’s the cable,’ he added. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’

  A conversation, mainly about brakes and the smooth running of cars followed, interspersed with biographical details.

  His brakes now performing to his satisfaction, Arthur returned to the Bull’s Head. Mr Woods, the landlord, was in the lobby. ‘Did you get your brakes fixed, Captain?’

  ‘Yes, it didn’t take long. Has my friend come in? Mr Vettori?’

  ‘Mr Vettori?’ said Mr Woods, glancing at the board where the keys hung. ‘No, he hasn’t. He mentioned he’d probably stroll over to the old quarry. That’s what I told the gentleman who called for him.’

  Arthur stopped dead. ‘The gentleman?’ he repeated.

  Mr Woods nodded. ‘That’s right. He asked for Mr Vettori …’

  Arthur swore, turned, and hurtled out of the building. The ‘gentleman’ could be one man only. He remembered Jack’s smile as he said they needed another murder. His stomach churned. It seemed as if they might have one.

  Thomas Vardon shielded his eyes from the sun. There was the fellow. He noticed with grim satisfaction that the quarry was completely bare. There were some caves in the cliffs that rose to the overhang of trees. They could be useful later on. The man, a black solid against the dazzling white of the chalk slope, hadn’t seen him.

  Vardon walked purposely forward. ‘Vettori!’ he called again. He slowed as he got nearer.

  Jack froze as the voice rang across the open ground. His hand instinctively tightened on the comforting bulk of the pistol in his pocket. A fat lot of good that would do him! He was viciously angry with himself. All their preparations were useless because Vardon had arrived early. He should have known that’s what the man would do. He should have known.

  Vardon was nearly level with him now. ‘Vettori! I came a bit … Haldean! What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting,’ said Jack, as urbanely as he could, ‘to meet a murderer.’ He didn’t want Vardon to guess how frantically his mind was racing. ‘Waiting, in fact, to meet you.’

  Vardon frowned. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I’ve come to meet a colleague, Luke Vettori.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Jack with a smile. ‘It’s me.’

  Vardon’s face darkened. ‘You! You mean to tell me that you’ve dragged me all this way on a wild goose chase?’ Jack could see he was thinking fast. ‘I wondered who the devil this Vettori could be, so I came to see for myself.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jack smoothly. ‘Does that also explain why you sent a telegram agreeing to a contract you knew not to exist?’

  Vardon took a quick look round and sprang. He was the heavier man and Jack staggered back under his desperate rush. He twisted out from under the clutching hands and brought his knee up sharply. Vardon grunted and fell away, pulling Jack with him, rolling so he was on top.

  Dust gritted against Jack’s face and he shut his eyes as Vardon landed a hammer blow on his chest. Winded, he opened his eyes as Vardon’s hand clutched his throat and saw the glint of a knife. Desperately he hit upwards and was rewarded with the solid thump of fist against flesh. Vardon grunted and Jack, with a convulsive jerk, got to his knees, leaving Vardon sprawling.

  As Vardon got up, Jack pulled the pistol from his pocket. Vardon stopped warily, holding his knife loosely.

  ‘Drop the knife,’ Jack commanded.

  Vardon wiped his mouth and laughed. ‘You daren’t use that gun. Who’d be a murderer then?’

  ‘It’d be self-defence,’ said Jack curtly. The man was going to spring. He could see it in his
eyes.

  ‘Oh yes? Your word against mine, remember.’ Vardon brought the knife up and tested the blade with the ball of his thumb. ‘Now I, on the other hand, have done this before. Quite a few times before.’

  ‘Drop the knife!’ snarled Jack and, deflecting the gun, fired.

  Vardon crouched as the shot reverberated round the quarry. ‘You bloody idiot!’ he yelled and jumped. The knife came out, slashing, and Jack flinched back as Vardon’s foot, with all the weight of his body behind it, smashed into his weak leg.

  The gun flew out of his hand and clattered against the rocks. Blackness with dancing lights flared in front of his eyes. Through a red-speckled mist he saw Vardon scramble for the gun.

  Jack forced himself to his knees as Vardon whirled and took aim.

  ‘Talk yourself out of this one,’ Vardon crowed and, pointing the gun directly at Jack’s chest, pulled the trigger. The gun exploded in a shattering roar. Jack was flung back and keeled over, face down.

  The cliffs caught the noise in a series of reverberating echoes, which whispered into silence.

  Vardon approached the limp body. He stooped down with a grunt, then, holding Jack’s shoulder, rolled him over.

  Jack’s clenched fist came up and twisted in below his left ear where the carotid artery runs up the neck.

  There was a sound as if a wet towel had been smacked against a wall. Vardon rolled his eyes and fell, completely unconscious.

  Jack lay still, Vardon’s body across his. A vast silence descended which was broken by the sound of shouts and pounding feet thudding across the stones. Wearily Jack got up and started to dust himself down.

  Arthur Stanton’s arm came round his shoulders, holding him up. ‘Jack! Thank God you’re all right! When I saw him with the gun I thought …’ He gulped. ‘I thought …’

  ‘We thought you were a goner,’ said Ashley. ‘I don’t know how you got out of it, but you were damn lucky.’

  Jack leaned against Arthur. ‘I’d loaded the gun with blanks, of course,’ he said, irritated at having to explain. ‘I bought them in Silverthorne’s.’ His leg was on fire. ‘I’d have been really up the creek if I had shot him, wouldn’t I? Besides that – oh, hell, this leg! – I thought if he saw a gun he would use that to try and get me.’

  Arthur produced a handkerchief and a small silver flask of brandy. Jack wiped the grit off his face and took a cautious sip of brandy. ‘Whew, that’s better.’

  Ashley bent down beside the unconscious man. Producing a set of handcuffs, he snapped them round Vardon’s wrists. ‘I wonder how long he’ll be out for? That was a meaty crack you gave him.’

  ‘If I’d hit him properly, it would be twenty minutes or so, but I couldn’t get my strength behind it,’ said Jack, resting his head on his crooked knees.

  ‘I’d hate to see someone you did hit properly,’ muttered Ashley. ‘It’s a great pity we didn’t manage to get Sir Thomas’s confession.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Jack, groggily. ‘Now we know, we’ll have enough evidence to hang him five times over without it.’

  Vardon stirred and groaned. He tried to move his hands and stopped as he felt the handcuffs. Sergeant Thurrock helped him sit up.

  Vardon’s eyes rested warily on Jack. ‘He attacked me,’ he said to the policemen. ‘He lured me here and attacked me without warning. He’s mad, I tell you.’

  ‘Drop it, Vardon,’ said Ashley curtly. ‘We know what really happened.’

  ‘This is an outrage—’ he began when Jack interrupted him.

  ‘We know. We know you murdered your brother and quite a few others.’

  ‘I did no such thing!’ Vardon’s eyes gleamed brightly. ‘It was Castradon, I tell you! He did it. How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I couldn’t have killed my brother. I wasn’t there. I’m Sir Thomas Vardon.’

  ‘Oh no, you’re not,’ said Jack, leaning forward. ‘You murdered Sir Thomas. You’re Simon Vardon.’

  Simon Vardon gazed at him, then his face subtly changed. He seemed smaller somehow, dangerous yet pathetic like a cornered, injured rat.

  ‘There’s men who know you well and, what’s more, knew your brother well. They know who you are. Take off your shoe and we’ll see you’ve got a toe missing. Thomas didn’t. You not only murdered your brother,’ went on Jack, ‘you killed your best friend, the man who saved you, the man who trusted you. You murdered Alan Leigh.’

  Vardon’s lip quivered. ‘Alan …’ he whispered, and covered his face with his hands. ‘You don’t understand. I had to do it. It wouldn’t work without Alan. I had to kill him. I didn’t want to, but I had to.’

  ‘Because you wanted the gold.’

  ‘It was my idea! I knew there was gold there. It was my idea to have the survey. It was my idea, I tell you. My father was going to share it with me and then he died. It wasn’t fair! Tom wouldn’t share. Tom never liked me. Why should Tom have it?’

  ‘Simon Vardon,’ began Ashley heavily. ‘I charge you with the murders of—’

  But Simon Vardon wasn’t listening. ‘Alan would want me to do it,’ he said. He looked up and smiled brightly, his eyes wet with tears. ‘Alan would do anything for me. He told me so.’

  ‘And you took him at his word,’ said Jack.

  Simon Vardon nodded enthusiastically. ‘Alan wanted me to be happy. He told me so.’

  Jack glanced up at Ashley. ‘I didn’t think he was completely sane.’

  Ashley and the two policemen took Simon Vardon away in the police wagon.

  Jack telephoned Isabelle from the Bull’s Head. ‘You’d better,’ she said, after he had finished his very brief explanation, ‘come back straight away. I want to hear the full story. And Jack – can I invite Jerry Lucas for the evening? He’s been to see Ned Castradon and he’s got some wonderful news.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘So what’s this wonderful news?’ asked Jack.

  It was a lovely evening, warm and rich with the scent of the roses and honeysuckle that cascaded over the sun-soaked stones that sheltered them. Jack, Isabelle and Arthur, together with Jerry Lucas and Ned and Sue Castradon, were on the terrace in Isabelle and Arthur’s garden.

  ‘I’ll let Jerry tell you,’ said Sue. ‘Jerry’s been marvellous.’

  Jerry Lucas, whisky and soda in hand, grinned. ‘It wasn’t anything much, you understand. Any doctor worth his salt would have seen it.’

  ‘Ned wouldn’t go to a doctor,’ said Sue, reprovingly.

  Ned drew a deep breath. ‘I was scared,’ he admitted. ‘It was getting worse. I forgot things, had blank periods, would arrive somewhere and not know why I was there, but worst of all, I couldn’t control my temper.’

  ‘And you had headaches,’ put in Sue.

  Ned nodded. ‘Funnily enough, it was the headaches that saved me in the end, wasn’t it, Jerry?’

  Jack looked a question.

  ‘I had a dreadful headache,’ continued Castradon. ‘I suppose it was made worse by being in prison, but it really was unbearable. Constable Stock, who’s a decent chap, called for the doctor and Jerry turned up.’

  ‘Not that you were particularly pleased to see me,’ said Jerry Lucas with a laugh. ‘However, you agreed to let me have a look at you.’ He laughed once more. ‘You very nearly took a swing at me when I examined you.’

  Ned held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry! But you can’t imagine what it felt like.’

  ‘To cut a long story short,’ said Sue, her eyes shining, ‘Jerry discovered that Ned’s had – what did you call them? Congestion headaches?’

  ‘It was a souvenir of the war, apparently,’ said Ned soberly.

  Jerry nodded. ‘The bone hadn’t set properly. It will be, once you’ve seen the surgeon.’ He looked at Castradon in sympathy. ‘You must be in nearly constant pain. It’s not surprising your temper was affected.’

  ‘You are a stubborn idiot, Ned,’ said Sue. ‘You literally had to be locked up before you’d let a doctor near you.’

  Castrad
on gave a crack of laughter and sat back with a delighted smile. Jack realized with a shock that he’d never seen him look genuinely happy before.

  ‘Tell us what happened this afternoon, Jack,’ said Isabelle. ‘Actually, don’t start there. Tell us the whole story. It started when Sue and myself discovered that hideous body in the church, but I don’t understand why it all happened.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Jack, taking a cigar from the box on the table and lighting it, ‘it started long before. Sir Matthew Vardon, as we know, had, together with his cousin, Stamford Leigh and your father, Castradon, explored the wilds of South America together.’

  ‘They quarrelled on that trip,’ said Castradon. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that cock-and-bull story Simon Vardon tried to blackmail me with was part of his father’s reminiscences.’

  ‘You might well be right,’ agreed Jack. ‘But they formed a company, Antilla Exploration. The shares were split equally between all three. From what he said, Simon Vardon knew an American company had made a strike further up the river, so had a survey carried out on the land owned by Antilla. As we know, they struck gold. Sir Matthew, according to Simon, was going to share the profits with Simon, but he suffered an apoplectic stroke and died. Incidentally, Castradon, we found a note in Simon Vardon’s flat that said you knew Antilla Exploration had found gold.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t suppose you did?’

  ‘Gold!’ repeated Ned incredulously. ‘Of course I didn’t know.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Sue. ‘Why go through all this elaborate charade? Why not – it sounds horrible, I know – just kill his brother? Then he’d have been Sir Simon and inherited the estate.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘He didn’t want the estate, he wanted the gold mine. Sir Matthew might have rewritten his will if he’d lived, but as things stood, Lady Vardon had the income from all Sir Matthew’s holdings for her lifetime. Those holdings, which included the Antilla gold mine, were bequeathed to Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas had willed all his possessions to his wife, Esmé Duclair. If Simon had merely bumped off Thomas, then Lady Vardon and Esmé Duclair would benefit but Simon would be left with nothing.’