The Golf, Cheese and Chess Society

by Jason Blacker

  Pelly carried a satchel that held the first of this morning’s translations and she walked briskly up the steps of The Mansion. The chaps in the entrance knew her and she wasn’t required to produce her ID. She walked up the winding staircase from the main foyer to the second level and down a long wooden paneled wall that still held old painted portraits of chubby Englishmen and the occasional woman. She was observant and she could name them in order without looking, just by counting her steps down the hall. They were all portraits of the original families who had lived inside these walls. Most of them now long since dead and buried.

  There were guards roaming around this level of The Mansion too, dressed as butlers and footmen. She knew all of them except for one, who requested her ID which she fished out of her jacket pocket just before she got to the room. She knocked on the open door. A boyis looking man in a grey suit turned from looking down over a colleague’s shoulder and smiled at her.

  “Pelly, punctual as usual,” he said, looking at his watch.

  She walked into the room. This room held a couple of desks, a couch and filing cabinets amongst other things common to an office. On the wall which was now just behind her was a large map of the UK and another of Western Europe.

  “I have this morning’s first translations for you, Captain,” she said. “Football and beer halls apparently.”

  Captain Frederick Torchier was her contact at The Mansion and his shift mirrored hers exactly, and unlike Captain Hagues, Torchier always seemed punctual and available. He was also a more likable man.

  “How are the girls doing this morning?” asked Torchier.

  “Mine or Maisey’s?” asked Pelly.

  “Both,” said Torchier.

  “Maisey’s group just came off the cemetery and they’ll be back at 4 so they’re not as happy as you’d like them to be,” said Pelly. “We’ve just started and we’re as chipper as ever.”

  “Yes, that is tough for Maisey. Though we all do it. Everything’s fair in love and war. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Appears to be in war, Captain, but not sure I can speak about love.”

  Torchier didn’t say anything to that. Pelly opened up her satchel and started to gather the documents. There were four men in here usually and she knew them quite well. Even socialized with them in Hut 2 during down times and lunch breaks, but today she was jolted by a fifth man that she knew from before. He was standing off to the side and she hadn’t noticed him at first. She looked a little longer than perhaps she should have.

  “Ah yes, I wanted you to meet Group Captain Stanley Dowd. Group Captain, this is Pelagia Paterson, one of our WRENS from Hut 3. She’s in charge of this morning’s shift.”

  Pelly offered him her hand which he didn’t take. He held a cigarette in his right hand which he took a puff of. He didn’t say anything to her. He just nodded.

  “Do you know each other?” asked Torchier, attuned to the subtle awkwardness between the two of them.

  “I’m afraid not, Fred,” said Group Captain Dowd. He turned to Pelly. “Delighted to meet you.”

  Pelly smiled feebly and nodded.

  “If you don’t mind, Fred, we have important work to do this morning.”

  Torchier nodded.

  “Sorry, Pelly, can I have the documents? The Group Captain’s up from London with some important news. We can’t dilly dally this morning I’m afraid.”

  “Of course,” she said. She reached into her satchel again and pulled out the folder of documents. She handed them to Torchier and turned to walk out.

  “See you next hour,” said Torchier.

  Pelly nodded and walked out. At least he wasn’t lying about his name, she thought on the way back to her hut. And he was working on the right side of the war too. That gave her immense relief. She wasn’t sure before if he was spying for the Germans. She sighed. She hadn’t thought he did, but that had been more hope than anything. She had so many questions to ask him this Sunday when they met again.

  THREE

  Avalon at Ambleside

  ALFRED walked down the rolling grass lawn towards Lady Marmalade. She was sitting having her morning breakfast and reading one of her papers. The papers had belonged to her husband. They were his businesses, but now they belonged to her, though her son Declan ran them. Had done for the last two and a bit years since Lord Marmalade had passed. Avalon at Ambleside was a large property in the Lake District. She owned several hundred acres around Lake Windermere. From where she sat the lake was at her feet. In a manner of speaking. She was looking down towards the lake which was several hundred yards away from the house, but it was all hers.

  On the lake she could see little white boats. Rowing boats mostly, though even now there were a few sailboats out too. It was wonderfully peaceful out here. The sun was shining and the day was cool with a light breeze. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but perhaps more importantly, there wasn’t a German airplane up there either. That was a nice change of pace. She had only been up since the previous Friday. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be up here for. Alfred had suggested at least a couple of weeks. Though in reality he was hoping she might see the rest of the war out up here in relative safety.

  As she looked around she couldn’t see any signs of the chaos that bombs wrought. But why should there be? It didn’t make any sense from a military perspective to bomb mostly vacant land. Frances picked up her teacup and took a sip. What a relief. What a moment of respite for her.

  “My Lady,” said Alfred, walking up and standing off to her right side, slightly in front of her.

  “Please sit down, Alfred,” she insisted, pointing at a chair near her. Alfred sat down reluctantly.

  “Everything is ready for Lady Amelia and Alfred’s arrival this afternoon.”

  Frances nodded.

  “That’s wonderful, Alfred. Thank you.”

  She continued to look out towards the lake and the small boats dotted upon it like little toys.

  “Perhaps we can lunch on the lake on The Windermare?”

  Alfred stood up.

  “I’ll have to get Reg right on it, my Lady. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Sit, sit, Alfred. It doesn’t have to be done right away.”

  “I’m afraid there’s quite a bit to be done to get The Windermare ready for guests, my Lady. It hasn’t been used yet this season.”

  “I understand, Alfred. I wasn’t thinking. I just thought Amelia might like it. Don’t rush Reginald. We can do it tomorrow or Wednesday.”

  Alfred sat back down and looked out towards the lake.

  “It is a wonderful day for sitting out here, my Lady,” said Alfred. The sun was warm on his tweed coat. He had wanted to wear his butler’s uniform but Frances insisted he wear something more comfortable. They were, after all, in the countryside.

  “I do wish you would call me Frances, Alfred.”

  He looked over at her. “I will try… Frances,” he said, smiling at her.

  “You’ve been more than an employee, Alfred, all these, what is it now, 40 years?”

  “39 this past month,” he said.

  Frances nodded.

  “39 years. For 39 years you’ve taken very good care of Eric and me and of course Declan and Amelia. You’ve always been a part of the family and so much more than our butler.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, Frances,” he said. “I fondly remember my first year with Lord Marmalade in 1901. I suppose that means I’ve served the family for 41 years.”

  Truth be told, it was difficult for him to call her by her first name. With a moment to reflect as he sat there next to her, he perhaps realized his reticence was nothing more than just old habit. After all, Frances, like him, was not born into her title, rather she married into it. Not that it mattered. Eric might have been born into a well-titled family, but that was nothing of his own doing. At the end of the day we are all born alone and we all die alone. What lies between are just accoutrements.

  “I think Amelia would love to lunc
h on The Windermare this week,” he said. “I remember fondly how much she liked to play at the water’s edge when she was younger.”

  He trailed off. Frances looked at him.

  “What is it?”

  He smiled at her. It wasn’t a happy smile, but rather the sad, melancholic smile of reminiscence.

  “I was just remembering an earlier occasion here when the whole family was together. When Amelia, who loved the water but was too nervous to go in, went in with Eric as he carried her in his arms.”

  Frances looked down towards the lake as if she could, in this very moment, see the two of them doing exactly what it was Alfred was describing. She smiled wistfully.

  “That must have been around the beginning of the Great War,” she said. “Perhaps just before.”

  “I remember it being just before. The spring of 1914. The spring of our youth, our naïveté, our innocence.”

  He looked over at her and smiled. She nodded.

  “And here we are, not necessarily the wiser, for we’re at it again.”

  “The war to end all wars. Wasn’t that what the American President had said at the time.”

  Frances nodded ruefully.

  “Yes. Wilson, I believe it was. Looking back in hindsight now. We might have called it the decade of hubris. Two years before the war, the unsinkable Titanic sank.”

  Alfred shook his head.

  “Yes, my Lady. Hubris and pride. So often the downfall of men’s supreme arrogance.”

  The breeze was cool on her face and her tea was becoming tepid. She topped it up with warmer tea from her pot. A corner of buttered toast with marmalade stood forlorn on her plate. She looked at it, and decided she wouldn’t eat it. It too would probably be cool to the touch and she was full enough.

  Frances loved the peace and quiet of Avalon at Ambleside. Especially escaping war-torn London as she had done this past weekend. One forgot how quiet the countryside could be. Free of distractions and the cacophony of city life. If you listened closely you could hear distant noises. A child’s squeal as she played on the beach by the lapping water. The leaves in the tree that would bring shelter as the sun moved across the blue tarp of sky. She cradled her teacup and closed her eyes. A seagull flew by overhead and squawked.

  FOUR

  In-bye the Fell

  ELMER Nisbet was a farmer in the Lake District. He owned property not far from Avalon at Ambleside. He mostly tended a flock of Herdwick sheep. He’d been a shepherd in this area of hills and valleys all his life. For over 50 years he’d tended a flock, and this was the worst he’d seen it. His father before him and his grandfather before that had cared for sheep in this area. It wasn’t easy, but the land didn’t allow for much more than that.

  If you weren’t a commercial operation you could grow vegetables and legumes in patches here and there. The government had been trying to change that since the war started, and as far as he was concerned they weren’t having much luck.

  His wife was trying to grow peas and beans and some vegetables down by the house. But it wasn’t easy, and at their age it was back-breaking labor. And the sheep. Don’t get him started on the sheep. His flock had been cut in half since the war and that wasn’t enough to sustain him fully. There were a couple of reasons for that. The first one being that finding help was difficult. Most able bodied men had joined the war effort. And even though farming was a reserved occupation, his son Daniel had chosen what he thought was the glamorous life of a fighter pilot. He’d been cut down during the Blitz in the winter of ’41.

  On top of that the government saw fit to set prices for foodstuffs during this time and the price of mutton and wool was extremely curtailed. It was better for him though. His neighbor had cattle and there was no secondary income off of that. Not like the wool from his sheep.

  Elmer Nisbet was a tall, lithe man as he walked with vigor up the hill towards the fell where he was going to check on his ewes and their lambs. He’d earlier in the morning been down by the in-bye where his ewes with multiple lambs were pastured. It was early May but the temperature was still cool and he’d lost several lambs already to the cold, since they’d started to lamb in April.

  As he climbed up from the in-bye towards the fell, the damp sat in his bones like it was his very marrow and his breath trailed him like steam from a locomotive. A mist had settled thick and gray as an old man’s wet beard over the land, and it was hard to tell if it was drizzling or if the air was just saturated with dampness. On his jacket small beads of moisture had formed from the climb up the hill. Elmer leaned down to pat Shaggy, his Old English Sheepdog, and his coat was cool and wet. He was an old boy, 10 years now and his gait answered the question of whether his best days were behind him with a resounding yes. But Shaggy was deaf to those questions. So long as he had a master to serve and sheep on the horizon he’d go until his last breath.

  Most of his ewes and their lambs were up here on the fell. He only had a small handful that had given birth to twins. They were still down by the in-bye. Easier for them to get at better food and back to the pens. Easier too to be sheltered from the winds and the colder weather up on the fell.

  As he came up towards the crest Shaggy saw it first, but it didn’t take long for Elmer to notice either. He’d found his footing and started to gaze out at his sheep when he noticed a man and a woman engaged in what looked like courting or wrestling. He was on top of her. They were about a hundred yards away by a row of hedges. Elmer stopped and watched for a brief second before he could tell what was going on. He was trying to kill her. He was stabbing at her. The knife Elmer couldn’t see very well but the motions were clear.

  “Oi!” he shouted, as he started to walk as fast as he could towards them. Running was out of the question. He was both too old and his footing would be sure to let him down.

  “Oi, what’s going on,” he shouted again. Shaggy was right with him, unsure what to do as he had never been a guard dog.

  The man looked up towards them. He was dressed in a dark gray suit and he had black hair. He stood up and ran off towards the road that led to Elmer’s home where a black car waited for him. Elmer couldn’t see the car from where he was. You had to climb a little higher before the land then started to dip towards the road.

  As Elmer came on closer to the woman he could see she lay motionless. He was there within about 30 seconds. He heard the roar of the motor and saw the car leave quickly down the road. He bent down to her. There was blood all over her. All over her chest. Pink foam bubbled at her mouth. Her breathing was belabored. Elmer didn’t know what to do. He knelt down and took her right hand in his. She wore tan gloves, a long dress with a long over coat overtop. The overcoat was open and splayed out beside her. Her dress was plain and wet with blood.

  “I’ll go and get help,” he said.

  “Help,” she said. She brought her left hand over and opened it out over his hands. A small balled up piece of paper fell out.

  “Mar… mar… laid,” she said. At least that’s what it sounded like to him.

  “Who did this to you?” he asked.

  She looked at him. Her eyes were pale blue and almost vacant. She coughed the smallest cough and more pink foam dribbled from her mouth. She tried to say something.

  “Gee… Jar… man.”

  He heard her last breath leave her. Her eyes lost their life. She looked like a doll then. He closed her eyes. He looked at her for a moment. Then he looked up and around himself. He couldn’t see the car anymore. He had to go and ring for help. He stood up and looked down at Shaggy.

  “Stay boy,” he said.

  Shaggy sat upright and stayed where he was at the foot of her as Elmer made his way back down towards the house. He walked as fast as he dared. The ground was slippery and uneven. He wasn’t sure why he rushed for he knew she was certainly dead. But he had a sense of urgency nonetheless.

  FIVE

  Death so Damp

  DETECTIVE Chief Inspector Chester Milling was a short man who had a complex
about it. Not quite five and a half feet in height he was easy to anger and even more easily twisted by any mention of his stature. He was thin as a rail but tough as nails. He’d worked at Cumbria Constabulary for well over 40 years. He wore a brown suit with an overcoat to keep the drizzle away. On his head he had a brown bowler.

  He was looking down at the deceased and twirling the right side of his long English mustache. Shaggy was looking up at him. Elmer was looking down at the body.

  DCI Milling knew that Lady Marmalade was here at the Lake District. And although he could easily take offense at his stature he did not take offense at any help he could get from women, lay persons or even children when it came to solving a crime. And Frances had been helpful in that regard on more than one occasion.

  DCI Milling had left the station with a constable. He had sent another pair to Avalon at Ambleside on the hopes that Frances might be willing to help. The Cumbria Coroner was with him, leaning down at the side of the woman’s body, looking for evidence and determining cause of death which to DCI Milling was already quite apparent. Especially in light of Elmer’s first-hand account of what he had seen.

  Dr. Silas Cockle had his white coat on, overtop slacks, a shirt and waistcoat. He was cold but that didn’t worry him. In Cumbria he hardly saw a murder more than once or twice a year. This was of great interest to him for not only its savagery but also its young victim. It was one of the worst homicide cases he had seen in many years. The only one which came to mind in a similar fashion was the brutal murder and rape of a 12-year-old girl. And that happened about 10 years ago now, between the wars, in the city of Carlisle.

  Dr. Cockle didn’t think of himself as morbid but death intrigued him, especially its capricious and violent nature. And he knew how this interest came about. It was when his older brother Millard had slipped off the cliffs of Dover on the family holiday when he was just 10 and Millard was 12. They had been climbing up above not far from where his parents had been on the beach below.