by Howard Mason
Mr. Mott looked reassured, and after we’d run over a few other possibilities in a desultory manner, without getting anywhere, he came to some minor points of the inheritance, and I then got up to go.
After we had shaken hands, Mott said:
“I see, by the way, that you have been the subject of some attention in the press of late. A most curious case, that, most curious.”
He eyed me with an avid interest, and I sighed, audibly. I was growing tired of the Red Bishop Case. I could see that he was longing to hear the whole story from my own lips, no doubt in order to regale his wife with it when he got home. I said, discouragingly, “Yes,” and made for the door.
Mott followed me decorously, and persisted:
“I should be so interested to see the—ah—memento of the case; the chessman, that is. I am by way of being quite an amateur of old chessmen. A collector, in fact—in a small way, of course. Most interested. In fact, if you had no use for it, I had quite thought of making you an offer for it. I couldn’t offer a large sum, of course—”
I told him that the bishop was still in the hands of the police, that I didn’t know whether I would ever get it back, and that no sum under three-quarters of a million pounds was of very much interest to me at the moment.
I left his office with a feeling of frustration. I had never had the right to expect anything from Stony, but now that I had, by chance, become his heir, it was doubly infuriating to find that there had been, after all, nothing to expect. As for the entailed estate, this was a liability rather than an asset. Stony Castle would have to be sold, eventually, to cover the death duties. In fact, the only relic of Stony’s worldly goods to be handed down to his heir was a vast, ancient, but rather distinguished Rolls-Royce, whose doors were embossed with the Stonybridge crest, a lion rampant, with the motto, Semper Petimus.
Since I had never been able to afford a car, this magnificent relic afforded me considerable pleasure, and on the morning of its delivery I allowed Nobby to drive me three times round St. James’s Park, before deciding that the thing would have to be sold.
At this time, I was making a living as a racing correspondent for a famous newspaper, and with the aid of occasional cautious bets—placed always on the selections of my rivals, never on my own—I maintained a flat in Flood Street, with Nobby in attendance. Nobby’s baptismal name was Norton Chalmers. He had been christened after a learned judge of the same name, by his father, a bookmaker from Battersea to whom a narrow escape on a point of law from a thoroughly deserved conviction for fraud had given an immense respect for British justice. Nobby himself had been a bookie’s runner. He would have followed his father’s footsteps into the dock, had I not rescued him with the aid of my friend Inspector Churt, who, like me, had found him useful as a tipster. He had worked for me ever since, and was now a reformed character, as reformed characters go. He had a wide and stimulating circle of acquaintance, and was a fount of information on the racecourses. In fact, he did all the real work of my newspaper column for me, and provided me with all Captain Scrivener’s Selections, as well as cleaning my shoes for me at least twice a month; which all goes to show that it’s worth while doing a man a good turn, especially if you save him from three years’ hard into the bargain.
Personally I considered my way of life to be modest, but there must have been something at fault somewhere, because my debits always seemed to add up to more than my credits. As far as I could work it out, on leaving Mott’s office that morning, my debits consisted of a number of unpaid bills, some nasty-looking death duties on Lord Stonybridge’s estate, and an overdraft. My assets: one Rolls-Royce, vintage 1929, and a small red chessman left to me by a dying man whom I had never seen before in my life.
It is perhaps time I said something about the Red Bishop Case. For those who do not read the Pictorial, I have given the relevant cuttings at the beginning of my story. The account, though colourful, is exact, and fuller than the one provided by “that prodigious prosing journal, The Times” (which, as Hazlitt once suggested, appears to have been written as well as printed by a steam-engine) and to the account, puzzling and sparse though it may appear, I can add nothing. A man I didn’t know chose to die of pneumonia in my flat, after leaving a chess bishop on my mantelpiece. He wasn’t identified. That was all there was to it.
I was fortunate in being able to get Churt on to the case. I had got to know Churt in his earlier days as a racecourse constable, and was still in the habit of giving him tips from time to time. He was an excellent policeman, in spite of his habit of interrupting his work several times an hour in order to drink three cups of strong Indian tea; but he hadn’t cracked the case. It was all very mysterious, and once the inquest was over, I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind as fast as I could.
In this endeavour I was of course thwarted by my Pictorial-reading acquaintances, who persisted in addressing me, facetiously, from time to time, as “Tall, fair Captain Scrivener.” (In at least one edition it was “Tall, fair, good-looking Captain Scrivener,” but I grew tired of correcting them. After all, I’m not vain. As a matter of fact, I’m not a captain, either. This rank, the professional mark of racing men, dress-designers, and Dornford Yates heroes, was bestowed on me by my editor for the purposes of my column, and has no military significance.)
I was intrigued enough by the case at the time, though, to ask my friend Churt if I could have the red bishop back as a souvenir; and it was on the evening of my visit to Mr. Mott that a police messenger called at my flat to present me with a brown-paper parcel, containing, he assured me, the red bishop and Inspector Churt’s compliments.
I thanked him and set the thing down on my desk. I had been engrossed in the Sporting World, and I returned to it conscientiously, trying to decide between Misty Nook and Gorgonzola for the three-thirty at Kempton on the following day. (Nobby had let me down over the three-thirty: his selection had scratched, leaving me with only an hour or so before my deadline.)
It was getting late, and I was thinking of using a pin—I always keep one in my lapel for this purpose—when I was interrupted by a second ring at my doorbell.
I went irritably to the door and opened it. The man who stood in the hall was a stranger: a seedy-looking man with mournful jowls and a sagging middle. He was wearing a greenish bowler-hat of advanced age, and a suit which did not fit him and had clearly been designed for higher things. The total effect was not prepossessing.
He removed the bowler-hat, but it didn’t help much.
“Lord Stonybridge?”
I nodded, my hand still on the door.
“Hedge is the name, my lord. Alfred Hedge. His late lordship’s servant.”
He must have been prepared for my look of disbelief, for he handed me a crumpled piece of paper, which proved to be a letter written by my great-uncle, engaging one Alfred Hedge as his chauffeur and valet. I didn’t think much of Lord Stonybridge’s taste, and could only assume that Alfred Hedge was one of his economies.
I told him to come in.
He entered with a brisk air of false confidence, taking a good look round the room. He seated himself on my sofa, and placed his bowler reverently on a cushion beside him.
“Nice place you’ve got here, my lord,” he assured me, patting the sofa with a vaguely proprietary air. The hat, jarred from its dignified resting-place, slid to the floor, and Hedge bent to retrieve it, losing a little of his first assurance. He stared at me with defiance, waiting for me to make the next move.
I said: “What can I do for you?”
He relaxed a little.
“Well, it was about his lordship,” he said cautiously. “Terrible thing, his passing over like that. Very sudden, it was.”
“Seeing that he was 84 and had already had two strokes, it doesn’t seem remarkable,” I said, conversationally.
Hedge offered me an uncertain smile. “Funny you should mention those strokes. It
was about his last stroke I wanted to see you, my lord.” He paused, thoughtfully. “Money,” he continued suddenly, “money. That’s what we all want, living or dead. Am I right?”
I was not in the mood for philosophical discussion, so I waited for him to come to his point. This, I expected, would prove to be a touch. I was in no mood to be touched, either.
“Lord Stonybridge,” said Hedge, “had a great deal of money in his time.”
I nodded.
“The question is, what did he do with it? That’s what we’d all like to know.” He waited. “That’s what you’d like to know, my lord. Am I right?”
I said: “Do I assume that you’re going to tell me?”
He leaned back on the sofa, with a sigh. “That all depends,” he said.
“What do you know?”
“He didn’t spend it, I’ll tell you that.”
“What else?”
“He converted it.”
“Into what?”
“He didn’t trust the pound sterling, not in 1938 he didn’t.”
“Where did you get your information?”
“Where do you think? From his lordship, of course.” He sat facing me with growing assurance, stroking his hat. I ran my eye over him, judging the suit to be one of Stony’s; it had a faintly Edwardian air. I found myself suddenly wishing I’d known the old man.
Hedge began to rattle off a story, glibly. “When he had his last stroke, he knew he was done for. And he sent for me. ‘Hedge,’ he said, ‘I’m worth a fortune. You may not think it, but a good many people suspect it, and they’re right.’” He looked at me to see how I was taking it. “‘What’s more, it’s there for the picking up,’ he told me. And he made me fetch pen and paper, and take down his very words. He gave me the whole works; what he’d done with it, where it is. ‘It’s there for the picking up, Hedge’ he told me.”
Hedge leaned back, with a conclusive nod.
I said: “If that’s the case, what are you waiting for?”
“I wanted to let you in on a good thing, my lord. I felt it was my duty.”
“And how much is your sense of duty going to cost me?”
He looked me full in the eyes.
“Five thousand quid,” he said.
He was cool, all right. I lit a cigarette and thought things over.
For an attempt at extorting money on false pretences, the whole thing seemed curiously clumsy and amateurish; a child could have spun a more likely tale. There was nothing to prevent me from handing him straight over to the police. Only I had had enough of the police, lately, to last me for quite a while; I didn’t want any more trouble.
I said suddenly: “How long were you in Lord Stonybridge’s service?”
He shifted uneasily. “Oh, quite a time; I hardly remember.”
“Show me that letter again.”
He handed it over. From the date at the top, I worked it out as just under six months.
I handed it back. “And you expect me to believe he told you the secrets of his deathbed?”
“All the same, it’s true.” Hedge watched me, slyly. “And if you don’t want the information, there’s others will.”
“You’re very anxious to sell it. Why don’t you walk straight in and collect for yourself?”
“There’s more in it than meets the eye,” said Hedge, shiftily.
“I’m sure there is. Listen,” I said, “I don’t believe a word of your story, I haven’t got five thousand pounds, and if you feel like leaving now, I shan’t try to keep you.”
He shrugged, and stood up. “All right, if that’s how you feel. But if you change your mind, here’s where you can find me.” He gave me a scrap of paper. “And I don’t mind telling you that, when there’s others in the bidding, my price’ll go up.…” He stood looking about him; then he spoke in a different tone, casually: “Funny, that Red Bishop business. Read about it in the Pic. Did they ever find out who the stiff was?”
“No.”
“Tell you what, I’d like to of seen that chess gadget. Not thinking of selling it, are you?”
I looked at him sharply. “No. Why?”
“I’d like to of bought it off you, that’s all. Kind of a souvenir. I follow all these cases, you know. I’m a great reader.” He glanced round him again, with weasel eyes. “Got it anywhere handy?”
“No. Are you going, or have I got to call the police?” I demanded.
“I’m off, I’m going. No hard feelings, my lord. Let me know if you change your mind. Both offers still open.” He moved to the door, clasping his hat. “I suppose you keep it safe, that bishop? Wouldn’t do to have it stolen.”
“Get out,” I said. He got out.
When he had gone, I glanced at the paper he had given me. It contained an address in Pimlico; an accommodation address. I considered it, puzzled. I refused to believe that my great-uncle had told this man anything about his private affairs. The whole story had been shoddy and carelessly embroidered. I ought to have handed him over to the police. And yet—
There were two things that had interested me about Alfred Hedge.
The first was that he had been certain enough of my interest to have run the risk of being handed over for extortion. And the other was that he was the second person within twenty-four hours to have offered to buy my red bishop.
Thoughtfully, I went to the telephone and dialed the number of the doctor who had attended Stony at his club before he died.
When I got through to him, I asked him if he could tell me one or two things about Stony’s last illness.
“What would you like to know?”
“One: did he have a manservant with him when he died?”
“Yes. I think his name was Hedge. Not a very good type, I thought. Couldn’t think what your uncle was doing with him. Still, his own business, of course.”
He described Hedge for me, and the description tallied.
“One other thing: was he conscious and able to speak?”
“After the stroke? No. Muttered a word or two, but nothing coherent.”
I didn’t answer for a moment, and the doctor said: “Can I tell you anything else?”
“Those earlier strokes he had: were they within the last six months?”
“No. I believe they happened about a year ago. I didn’t attend him; he had them at Stour.”
“I see. Thank you very much.”
I put the receiver down. My eye alighted on the little brown-paper parcel that lay on the desk. I unwrapped it carefully, glanced at Churt’s card, and took out the little chessman. I studied it curiously for a moment. Then I set it down and went to get myself a drink.
When I had mixed it, I sat for some moments in an armchair, gazing thoughtfully at the small red bishop who surveyed me from the centre of the mantelpiece.
He had a face: a tiny, carved, sly, supercilious face, with two little eyes that seemed to hold mine in a steady, unwinking stare. His mouth curled up at one corner, in a little twisted smile; it gave him an expression of ironic cruelty. His cope hung in realistic folds to the ground; his mitre was worn at a slight tilt. His hands were folded piously across his breast, and they held a tiny ivory crucifix.
After a while, I picked him up and wrapped him in a piece of tissue paper. Then I placed him carefully in the desk drawer, and locked it. I put the key in my pocket, and went to bed.
CHAPTER II
On the following morning, I decided to go to Stour.
Mott had given me the keys, and I wanted to see Stony Castle at least once before it had to become a branch office of the Ministry of Fuel and Power. Besides, I couldn’t help having a nice, sneaking feeling that I might find a heap of buried treasure hidden in the West Tower, or at the least a skeleton, perhaps, in the East Wing. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t that sort of castle, but I didn’t know that u
ntil I got there.
Before I started, though, there was something I wanted to do.
I took the little chessman out of the drawer, slipped him into my pocket, and went to get out Stony’s Rolls.
I drove first to a shop called Constantine’s, in Church Street. Constantine was an antique dealer who specialized in old chessmen; and I knew the shop because I had once tried to buy a set of chessmen there as a present for a small boy of my acquaintance, only to find that there was nothing under fifty pounds.
Constantine was a tiny, shriveled old Jew, whose small myopic eyes gazed at me behind horn-rimmed spectacles that seemed too big for him. I handed him my bishop, and asked him if he could tell me what it was worth.
He took it and, after glancing at it, carried it away with him to a room at the back of the shop.
While I waited, I looked idly round at the strange collection of chessmen which lines his walls and counters. There was a Persian set, nine inches high, in which the knights had fluttering silk pennants on their lances and their horses had shaggy corded manes; there was a tiny Chinese set, the pawns no bigger than a fingernail, but every detail perfect, even to the two little Chinese players who sat facing each other across the miniature board; ivory, bronze, bone, wood, they were of every shape and form, standing there watchfully, in geometrical rows on their chequered boards, like medieval armies waiting to advance.
I turned to see Constantine emerging from the back of the shop.
“It’s an odd little figure,” he said, weighing the bishop in his wizened, dry little hand. “An odd little figure. Where did you say you acquired it?”
“I didn’t say. As a matter of fact, it was bequeathed to me.”
