‘How did Vardon hope to get away with it?’ asked Arthur.
‘He took me in,’ said Sue regretfully. ‘Even though he’d shaved off his moustache and darkened his hair, I thought he resembled his brother, but I never dreamt they were the same man.’
Jack nodded. ‘All the Vardons had a marked family likeness – it’s startling when you see it in Ryle – and Simon resembled his brother enough to make the impersonation credible. All he had to do was avoid Hollywood and stay out of London for a couple of years. After that time he’d be so well-established as Thomas Vardon that anyone who questioned him would have to be very sure of their ground. Simon knew enough about Thomas to see him through most situations that would crop up.’
Jack took a sip of his whisky. ‘Let me take you back to the Sunday you had your fight with Ryle, Castradon.’
‘Do you have to?’ said Ned, reluctantly. ‘I’d rather forget it.’
‘It’s important,’ said Jack with a grin. ‘Ryle tried to get away from you in a car.’
‘He didn’t get very far. He leapt out of it, yelling his head off, as I recall.’
Jack flicked the ash off his cigar. ‘That’s because there was a body in it.’ He looked at Isabelle. ‘I guessed as much and Ryle confirmed it when I asked him.’
‘A body?’ questioned Isabelle. ‘Whose body, Jack?’
‘Alan Leigh. He was the first one to be killed, despite the evidence Vardon manufactured to the contrary, and the one murder that Simon Vardon was upset by. He really did seem to have cared about Leigh. When he saw the body – Leigh’s body – in the mortuary, he was grief-stricken, but it was Alan Leigh he was grieving for, not his brother.’
Isabelle shuddered. ‘But why kill him?’
‘Because Simon Vardon wanted an alibi. A cast iron, twenty-four caret, hundred per cent alibi. Not only that, but he knew that where there’s a murder, there’s a murderer, and the police never give up. He created the character of the Chessman and, Castradon, tried his level best to pin it on you. After all, the feud between your two families was well known and you stood to gain a gold mine if all the Vardons died.’ His gaze slid to Sue. ‘But perhaps, most importantly of all, you had something he wanted very much indeed.’
Ned reached out to Sue in a protective gesture.
‘I knew he was sincere,’ she said thoughtfully, squeezing Ned’s hand. ‘I trusted him because of that. I felt sorry for him, too.’ She paused a moment. ‘When did he come up with this dreadful plan?’
‘Before his father died. Incidentally, I don’t believe that Simon Vardon knew Ryle was his half-brother or that Ryle had conspired with his father to steal his mother’s diamonds. His father might have been going to tell him about the robbery but from what I’ve gathered of Sir Matthew’s character, I think he’d have kept that knowledge to himself.’
‘I think you’re probably right,’ said Ned. ‘He was a selfish, secretive devil, who wouldn’t give away anything without a good reason. I wouldn’t like the Vicar to hear me say as much, but I wasn’t sorry when I heard he’d died.’
‘No,’ agreed Jack. ‘He wasn’t a nice man, was he? Anyway, Lady Vardon got the first of the Chessman letters before Sir Matthew died. Sir Matthew was clearly on the way out and, looking back, it all seemed very much part of a pattern, that some lunatic had a grudge against the entire Vardon family. Simon Vardon saw you, Mrs Castradon, at his father’s funeral and the identity of the Chessman, which he had probably decided anyway, was assured. He knew his brother was coming back from Hollywood, so he had to act.’
‘And this is where that poor beggar, Leigh, comes in?’ asked Arthur.
‘Exactly. On the Sunday, he doped Leigh up, drove him to Croxton Ferriers and killed him. His plan was to leave Leigh in the church, but he wanted to sneak into your garage, Castradon, and steal something – anything – that would point to you. He chose the tartan rug, the axe and the wrench. He used that tartan rug to lay a nice little trail of evidence back to your garden gate.’
‘The devil,’ growled Ned. ‘Was he there, d’you think? Near the car on Sunday night, I mean?’
Jack nodded. ‘I bet he was. It must’ve been a nasty moment for him when Ryle actually tried to drive off in the car but, fortunately for him, Ryle made a run for it instead. It could’ve all gone wrong then, but Ryle was so shaken by what he’d seen, it was quite a job to get him to admit it. After leaving Alan Leigh in the church, Vardon had one last job, late on Sunday evening, and that was to post a letter that would be collected and therefore postmarked on the Monday, addressed to himself in London. It was from the Chessman, warning Simon Vardon to stay away from Croxton Ferriers.’
‘Hang on,’ said Ned slowly. ‘You say the murder happened on Sunday? But we know it was Tuesday the body was left in the church.’
Jack shook his head. ‘No. You remember the lilies that were stolen from the Dysons’ garden and left on the corpse?’
‘Don’t,’ said Sue. ‘I’ll never forget it. It seemed such a mockery of the dead man.’
Jack shook his head. ‘The lilies were taken for one purpose only, to make us think the body had been left there on Tuesday. Simon Vardon had a busy day on Tuesday. First of all he left that note in the flat, purporting to come from Alan Leigh. That made us think that Leigh had been alive on the Wednesday. Then Vardon left his car at London Bridge station and came, quite openly, to Croxton Ferriers.’
‘That’s the day he called at my office,’ said Ned.
‘Exactly. I remember you said he was waiting for you when you arrived.’
‘That’s right. I found him with his feet on my desk. The clerk swore he hadn’t admitted him.’
‘He didn’t,’ said Jack. ‘Vardon watched his moment and sneaked in. He needed a few minutes alone in your office.’
‘Is that when he stole my paper knife?’ asked Ned.
Jack nodded. ‘And your silver matchbox, I imagine. He was setting you up, remember, so he deliberately forced a quarrel with you, knowing it would count against you, but what he was really after was the name of one of your clients. Anyone would do, as long as they lived some distance away and preferably in or near a large town. He wanted to make sure that you’d be away the following day.’
‘Hang on,’ said Ned. ‘Is this where the telegram comes in? The one from Sir Arnold Stapleton?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Sir Arnold’s file was on the desk,’ said Ned, his eyes narrowing. ‘But Haldean, I really did get a telegram, you know. I was told it couldn’t be traced at Eastbourne.’
‘No more it could,’ said Jack with a grin. ‘That was a very black mark against you. I worked that one out. He actually sent it from a village called Easebourne. It’s not far away – just outside Midhurst – and easy to get to. When we traced the telegram, it convinced Ashley I wasn’t just clutching at straws.’
Ned whistled. ‘It’s such a little thing.’
‘It showed you were telling the truth though, and that’s what Ashley needed.’
‘Why was Vardon so anxious to get me to Eastbourne?’
‘He wanted to buy a car – or, rather, he wanted you to buy a car, the Vauxhall we found in the railway tunnel. To anyone working from a police description alone, you’re an easy man to impersonate. You and Vardon are about the same build and, with an eye patch and a greasepaint scar, it’s no wonder the man in the garage at Eastbourne identified you as the John Smith who’d bought the car. Vardon then returned to Croxton Ferriers and, when it was dark, stole the lilies from the Dysons’ garden and placed them on the corpse in the church.’
‘Where did he get the key to the church, Jack?’ asked Arthur. ‘Come to that, why put the body in the church at all?’
‘He must’ve taken an impression of the key at his father’s funeral. It’s hung up in the vestry and it’s easy to find. He put the body in the church because he wanted the body discovered on Friday. The rota for the various church duties is in the parish magazine and pinned up on the not
iceboard at the back, so he would have known that the body was safe, barring accidents, until Friday. He must’ve known that for most of the year the only time that cupboard was ever opened was on Fridays to get the flower things out.’
Sue Castradon stirred. ‘When I spoke to Simon Vardon after Sir Matthew’s funeral, he asked me about the flowers, and who did them and where we kept the things and everything. I thought he was just being polite.’
‘It’s natural enough to talk about flowers at a funeral,’ agreed Jack. ‘That conversation could have given him the whole idea.’
‘But why Tuesday?’ demanded Isabelle. ‘Why did he want to make us think the murder had happened on Tuesday?’
‘Because, Belle, on Tuesday he had, as Simon Vardon, had a row with Castradon and then, to all intents and purposes vanished off the face of the earth. He intended to re-appear – as he did – as Thomas Vardon on Friday, fresh off the boat and obviously innocent of any murder that had happened earlier in the week when, as could be later proved, Thomas Vardon was in the middle of the Atlantic.’
‘So what happened to Thomas Vardon?’ asked Ned. ‘The real Sir Thomas, I mean.’
Jack ran his forefinger across his throat in a significant gesture. ‘Simon knew when his brother was due to arrive at Southampton. Thomas had sent him a cable from the boat. Simon must’ve met him at the docks in the Vauxhall, murdered him and abandoned the body in the car in the tunnel.’
‘That’s the body you thought was Alan Leigh,’ said Arthur.
‘That’s the body we were meant to think was Leigh’s, certainly. Simon Vardon wanted it to be left for a good few days. By that time it would be impossible to say with any certainty when the poor beggar had been killed. Naturally, he confused matters as much as he could by making the bodies practically unidentifiable. That worried me, you know. Why, if the Chessman was perfectly happy to crow about Simon Vardon’s murder, had he taken such pains to disfigure the body?’
‘I thought it was because he was a lunatic,’ said Isabelle.
‘Yes, and that’s what we were meant to think. Now we come to what I’m sure was supposed to be the last murder, that of Esmé Duclair.’
‘Why d’you say that was supposed to be the last?’ asked Ned.
‘Because, old son,’ said Jack, ‘you only escaped being arrested for it by the skin of your teeth. Vardon had done such a good job of casting suspicion on you for the first murder, we were bound to think of you. If you hadn’t had a nightcap with your chess pal that didn’t break up until quarter to one in the morning, you’d have been for it. Simon Vardon wore an eye patch to meet Esmé. That was seen, as it was meant to be seen. Naturally Simon couldn’t allow Esmé to live; she’d rumble him right away. In fact, that’s precisely what she did do. He was sufficiently like Thomas for her to walk up to him, and sufficiently unalike for her to say “Where’s Thomas? I expected Tom to be here,” or words to that effect. He must have been kicking himself when you had enough of an alibi to make it very improbable, if not impossible, for you to have killed Esmé. However, he turned that mistake to his advantage, when he decided to murder his mother.’
‘His mother!’ said Isabelle, shocked. ‘But she committed suicide.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Actually,’ said Arthur, ‘I was going to ask you about Lady Vardon. She must’ve known Simon was Thomas all along.’
‘Yes,’ said Jack in an odd voice. ‘She must have done, mustn’t she?’
‘I told you!’ said Isabelle. ‘I told you Lady Vardon resented Thomas.’
‘You were obviously right,’ said Jerry Lucas dryly.
‘So why did he kill her?’ asked Arthur.
‘She was getting to be a nuisance. She was a greedy woman, and she owned the income from the gold mine. I don’t think she knew Simon was the Chessman, but she knew a great deal about Simon – a dangerous amount – and she knew how he felt about you, Mrs Castradon. She resented it bitterly.’
‘I’ll say she did,’ agreed Ned. ‘She called on me to say as much.’
Isabelle nodded. ‘Everyone heard about that. I think she was the sort of woman who’d always resent their son’s wife, Jack. There are mothers like that. They want to be the only one who matters.’
‘But, damn it, Jack, she got a letter from the Chessman,’ said Arthur. ‘Surely her natural reaction wouldn’t be to kill herself but to ask him what the devil was going on?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I don’t think she ever saw that letter. An envelope from the Chessman certainly arrived with the second post, but I bet the original contents were innocent enough. Simon must have planted the letter we found afterwards. I can’t prove this, but what I think happened is that Simon doped her coffee with choral, which made her sleepy. The butler said she was tired. After the butler had cleared away the coffee things, Simon came back through the window and injected her with digitalis. By the time he killed her, she must have been fast asleep. He’d leave the bottle to allow us to reach the obvious conclusion. She was a plump little woman, and one little pinprick from a hypodermic wouldn’t be noticed.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Jerry Lucas. ‘As it was classed as suicide right away, there wouldn’t be a post-mortem and, even if there was, I doubt if a single pinprick would be noticed. Doctors are as guilty of having preconceptions as anyone else. I suppose once Lady Vardon was dead, Simon Vardon thought it was all over.’
‘More or less. He had the gold mine and now it was time for him to lead us to the car, the body and the things in the old signal box. He must have known roughly what time those two little scamps of Halfords came to the tunnel – they went nearly every day, apparently – and so he contrived to frighten the living daylights out of them, knowing that they were bound to tell someone. I must say, Castradon, it did look black for you. Arthur never believed for a moment you were guilty.’
Ned reached across the table and clasped Arthur’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said simply.
‘I think a celebration is in order,’ said Isabelle.
Jack glanced at her suspiciously. There was a look in her eye that he knew only too well. She was planning something.
Isabelle got up and, going into the house, returned a few minutes later, accompanied by Mabel, who was carrying a tray containing six champagne glasses and an ice bucket from which protruded a gold-topped bottle.
Mabel, who was clearly on her very best behaviour, put the tray on the table. ‘I’ve put the other bottles to chill, ma’am, just as you said.’
‘Thank you,’ said Isabelle.
Arthur took out the bottle from the ice. ‘Isabelle,’ he said weakly, ‘this is my 1906 Dom Perignon! I was saving this for a special occasion!’
‘Isn’t this special enough?’ asked Isabelle wickedly and giggled. ‘I told you there was some wonderful news,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘Arthur, you don’t know, but Jerry does. Jack, open the champagne and pour a glass for everyone, will you?’
Jack, very conscious of Arthur’s bewildered consternation, opened the champagne.
‘Tell them, Jerry,’ said Isabelle happily.
Jerry laughed. ‘All right.’ He stood up. ‘Could you all raise your glasses to the new father – and mother – to be.’
Arthur, glass in hand, looked thunderstruck. ‘A baby? We’re going to have a baby?’
‘Congratulations,’ said Jack, kissing Isabelle. ‘That’s the best news yet.’
They had talked long into the night, and the night was mild and welcoming, as only a summer night in Sussex can be. Ned and Sue Castradon, refusing all offers of cars, walked home hand in hand, seeing their way by the light of the moon.
‘Sue …’ Ned suddenly looked very awkward. ‘If Lucas really can cure my headaches and I can stop being so – so difficult – are you absolutely sure it won’t matter what I look like?’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Ned. Don’t be so bloody silly.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t start swearing again! All rig
ht. I promise. A baby,’ he said softly. ‘Isabelle will be a wonderful mother. Arthur Stanton will be a great father, too.’
‘I always thought you’d be a wonderful father,’ she said thoughtfully.
He stopped and kissed her. ‘Now that,’ he said eventually, ‘is a really good idea.’
The Chessman Page 27
