The Golf, Cheese and Chess Society

by Jason Blacker

  Frances smiled at him. He exuded a great confidence that immediately put you at ease.

  “Thank you, Constable. I’m off to bed this evening. If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to disturb Alfred.”

  “I shan’t. That is, I shan’t need anything, my Lady. And it really is unnecessary for your man to be helping out in these matters. He should rather be in bed resting himself. The watch is best left to the police, mum.”

  Frances nodded.

  “I shall speak with him, Constable. But sometimes when Alfred gets an idea in his head, it can be difficult to unhinge it.”

  Frances wished them all a goodnight and left to return into the house. Constable Swales and Bea sat back down and he finished his cigarette. Inside the house, Frances found Alfred in the study. He had set it up with a blanket over the buttoned leather couch, and upon that couch lay an over-and-under Purdey shotgun. Frances looked at it, and then looked at the gun cabinet in the corner of the room. It held 4 Purdey shotguns from when Eric was still around and entertained his colleagues with hunting tours on the property.

  Frances no longer allowed for sport hunting here at Avalon at Ambleside though Reginald did hunt small game when needed for food. So these 4 shotguns were mostly for show though they were well maintained by Reginald.

  “It is loaded, my Lady. I’ve put in SG shot, what the Americans call double ought,” said Alfred.

  “Do you think that’s quite necessary, Alfred?” she asked.

  “Well, it should stop him if not put the brakes on his incursions.”

  “Yes, but we don’t even know he knows where we live.”

  “My Lady,” said Alfred, with just a tinge of exasperation creeping into his tone. “It is quite apparent to anyone visiting the Lake District which property is the largest. I shouldn’t think he’ll have any trouble at all finding us, if that is what he wants to do.”

  Frances had used these Purdeys before. They were heavy for her at over 7 pounds with a good kick in the shoulder. She wasn’t opposed to shooting, and Eric had insisted she learn how, though she only shot clay. She didn’t have a taste for killing animals unnecessarily.

  Frances smiled at Alfred. He was, if nothing else, loyal and protective, and since Eric’s death almost 3 years ago she had come to rely on him for that.

  “Constable Swales is certain that you’re not needed in keeping watch overnight. And I’m inclined to agree. I think you should rather get some sleep and leave the watching to the police.”

  “My Lady, if you’ll forgive me, but Constable Swales also declined the use of a shotgun saying that it would be too heavy to lug around on his tours of the estate. I should be much happier to know that at least one of us is armed, for if this Jerry comes, he will surely come armed himself.”

  Frances couldn’t argue with that. She imagined that Edsel Schmidt, or whatever his real name was, would indeed come armed, and perhaps not with just a knife this time. Frances didn’t think he’d be coming in any event. But having Alfred armed and Constable Swales walking the estate did give her immense comfort. She felt certain she’d sleep like a baby.

  FOURTEEN

  Bump in the Night

  THE night was quiet and the sky black as ink. Constable Swales had walked the perimeter every hour on the hour as he had promised. There was nothing to see and nothing to hear. There was an occasional rustling he heard from a small animal. Perhaps a pheasant or a rabbit. But there wasn’t much of it and he couldn’t see it. There was no moon, and a thick fog had descended over the lake and crept up the fell like a ghostly mass thick enough to blot out the stars. So much so that Swales lit a lamp for each tour around the house and he kept it lit for much of his tour inside the house too.

  Everyone in the whole world, it seemed, was asleep. Alfred had fallen asleep shortly after 2am. Swales had checked on him before he went out at 2 and Alfred was clearly on his way to slumberland. By the time Swales had come back from his 10 minute walk around the property Alfred was asleep when he had checked in on him. He had laid down on the couch and put the blanket over himself. The shotgun leaned like a drunken sentry against the arm of the couch.

  Bea had gone to bed shortly after Lady Marmalade had left the two of them outside with Swales smoking a cigarette. It was now after 3am. Swales had done his last tour outside. He was tired. There was nothing to see and nothing to hear. Water trickled in pipes and wood in the home creaked here and there. But other than that there was nothing to hear.

  Constable Swales decided to take just a short five minute break to rest his feet. He went into the kitchen and sat on one of the kitchen chairs and put his feet up on another. It was a great relief. He had been on his feet since 11pm touring the home and the exterior. Within minutes, Swales’ chin was tucked into his chest and he was snoring softly. It looked like an awkward way to sleep. His arms were crossed over his stomach and his head rested upon his chin which lay on his chest. But a tired man can sleep in the most awkward of places and positions. The lamp glowed softly on the kitchen table, leaking the smallest amount of yellow-orange light out into the air around it. A handful of fireflies might have given off more light. But it was enough to see a good portion of the kitchen close to where Swales slept, especially with eyes adjusted to the darkness of this night.

  Outside a dark figure approached the rear of the house by the kitchen. He wore a black coat and a black watch cap pulled snug over the tops of his ears. In his left hand he held a knife. Its blade no longer than four inches. He crept up to the kitchen door. Through a window on the side, a stingy glow of light came from the kitchen table. The man peered in and saw another man sleeping awkwardly on a chair by the kitchen table.

  He crept back towards the kitchen door. It would open and the sleeping man’s back would be toward the intruder. The man with the knife tried the latch on the kitchen door ever so softly and deftly with his right hand holding a handkerchief. From his skill and patience you got the impression he had done this sort of thing before. The latch lifted and the door was unlocked. He pushed it in to open it and it creaked. He heard a chair scuff across the floor, so he pushed in quickly.

  Constable Swales was suddenly awoken by a creak just behind him. It brought him out of deep sleep. He spun around on his chair and got up like a drunkard.

  “Oi, who are you?” asked Swales loudly.

  The dark figure was upon him quickly and they struggled for a while. They banged up against the kitchen table and knocked the lamp off of it. It crashed upon the kitchen floor where its glass enclosure broke. Oil leaked out and trickled towards the curtains and window. The lit wick licked at the oil and flame swam upon its surface towards the curtains. Wooden chairs were clanging. In the study Alfred awoke and tried to make sense of the noise. It didn’t take him long.

  Constable Swales was in a fight for his life. The man had caught him unawares and groggily coming out of a deep sleep. The knife in his left hand glinted like a mirror in the light from the growing flames as they climbed the curtains. The two of them jostled a little while longer like new lovers. Trying to twist him off of himself, Constable Swales slipped under the intruder, losing his grip on the man’s left hand which allowed him to thrust the knife into his side. If felt like he had been stabbed with an icicle at first.

  Alfred rushed into the kitchen, the Purdey in front of him ready to be fired. He saw a man in a black coat over Constable Swales but they were too close for Alfred to fire without injuring the constable. Nevertheless, he brought the shotgun up to his shoulder menacingly.

  “Stop!” yelled Alfred.

  The intruder reached into his coat and brought a revolver. Alfred ducked behind a cupboard as the man squeezed a round off and then darted out the kitchen door.

  Alfred ran out after him. He could barely make out his figure. The man in the black coat was fast disappearing into the fog, and would be out of sight within seconds even with the orange glow of the flames behind Alfred. Alfred brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and squeezed the
trigger as the man disappeared into a veil of fog. Alfred felt certain he heard a grunt or an exclamation of pain. He was eager to follow, but behind him Avalon at Ambleside was burning.

  Alfred ran back into the kitchen, leaving the shotgun up against a small tree not far from the house. The kitchen was quickly becoming inflamed as the curtains had now all caught fire and had started to lick at the wood in the cupboards and chairs and elsewhere. He grabbed Constable Swales and dragged him out of the kitchen towards the front of the house.

  “My Lady… My Lady… Frances!” he yelled as he continued to drag Constable Swales towards the front entrance, as the handle of the knife still stuck out of him.

  Frances came running down the second floor stairs towards the main foyer where Alfred was dragging Swales towards the front door.

  “My God, what happened?” she asked.

  She was dressed in a robe and slippers. Her hair was a mess of curls. She looked behind her and the glow from the burning kitchen was apparent.

  “Good heavens,” she said. “Good Lord.”

  She ran to the front doors and opened them for Alfred as he continued to drag Swales towards the front door. Swales was clearly in agony. Not only from the dragging but from the pain in his side. He was breathing laboriously and quickly.

  Once they were both outside with Swales on the ground in front of them, Frances spoke.

  “I’m going to call for help,” she said.

  “My Lady, you can’t go back inside,” he said, grabbing her arm as she tried to reenter the home.

  “Alfred, this man will die if we don’t get help and this house is going up in flames. We have a short window of opportunity. Go and get Bea and Reginald and see if they can bring blankets to keep the constable warm.”

  Frances twisted out of his hand and ran back into the home. Alfred thought about following her and dragging her back out. But he knew she could take care of herself. She wouldn’t put herself in undue harm. He ran for the staff’s quarters which were, thankfully, tens of yards away from the main home.

  Frances lifted her coat’s collar over her mouth and nose. Flame was now making its way into the rest of the house. It was climbing up the doorway towards the second floor and much of it had reached the ceiling, though it hadn’t fully made it’s way to the front of the house. That was a small lucky break. There was a telephone just inside the front entrance. Frances dialed the operator and called for ambulance, fire and police. She hung up and left out the front door as the flames and smoke started in earnest to overwhelm the house.

  Frances knelt down by Swales.

  “How are you doing?” she said, looking down at the handle of the knife sticking out of his side. “Could just be a scratch I should think,” she said, smiling.

  Swales laughed, and then immediately winced. He tried to cough, but that was painful too.

  “I do hope so, mum. But I am cold. Very cold.”

  “Well, you just hold on, I’ve called for an ambulance. It won’t be long now. Alfred’s gone to get some blankets to keep you warm.”

  “Thank you, mum,” said Swales, his eyes fluttering like butterfly wings.

  Frances looked off towards the staff’s quarters. Alfred was coming back towards them, his arms full with blankets. He moved well and quickly for an older tall man. Behind him she could see Bea and Reginald.

  “Put a blanket over him, please, Alfred,” said Frances. “And perhaps a small one under his head.”

  They both helped maneuver him so that the blanket could fit under and over him. It took great effort and the job wasn’t fully done, though most of his body was covered. They were outside on the driveway. The gravel was cold and damp and the house aflame in fingers and tongues of orange fire. They must have been at least twenty to thirty yards away and yet the warmth could still be felt upon Frances’ bare cheeks.

  Frances watched her house burn for a short while, at least everything which wasn’t stone. Surprisingly that was a lot. At this moment she felt no emotion for her beloved Avalon at Ambleside. Her more immediate concern was for Constable Swales. She was holding his hand. His grip was weak, and his eyes were closed.

  “Good heavens, my Lady, what happened?” asked Bea as she and Reginald arrived upon the scene.

  Frances looked at Alfred.

  “Do tell us?” she asked.

  “I believe the Jerry came for a visit and Constable Swales fought with him in the kitchen. The Jerry managed to stab him when I came upon them then. I threatened to shoot him with the shotgun, my Lady, but he was on top of the constable. I couldn’t have done it without mortally wounding Constable Swales. In any event, before I could do anything the Jerry pulled out a revolver and shot at me. I ducked behind the cupboards by the entranceway…”

  “He didn’t hit you, did he?” asked Frances.

  “No, my Lady, he didn’t. He ran out the kitchen. I followed him and shot at him as he disappeared into the fog. I think I hit him for I’m pretty sure I heard him yell out in pain. I didn’t follow. I came back into the kitchen to get Constable Swales out of the house, and that’s when you heard me yelling and you came down the stairs. I left the shotgun out back. I should recover it.”

  “Where?” asked Frances.

  “By a small tree, my Lady. It’s perfectly safe.”

  Alfred got up and strode off towards the staff’s quarters to make his way round back, keeping a good berth from the fire.

  Bea put a blanket around Lady Marmalade’s shoulders. She was grateful for it as the night was cold and damp. Frances smiled at Bea.

  “Thank you, Bea,” she turned back to look at Alfred, but he had disappeared around the house. They waited for a minute or two until he returned. He came from the opposite direction on the return. The break action of the shotgun was open and the barrel rested over his forearm.

  “What woke me up was a racket that I thought I heard. It took me a moment to determine it wasn’t a dream. It must have been the constable and the German fighting in the kitchen. I heard what must have certainly been the upturned chairs. I got out of bed then and started to get ready when I heard the gunshot. That must have been the German shooting at you, Alfred.”

  Alfred nodded.

  “Then shortly after I heard a more powerful shot. That must have been you shooting at him.”

  Alfred nodded again.

  “That’s when I decided to make my way downstairs. I was hoping I might get to the study in time to get a Purdey for myself, and that’s when I saw you dragging Constable Swales out.”

  They all looked down at him. His eyes were closed, his breathing belabored.

  “Poor man,” said Bea. “Will he be alright?”

  “Constable,” said Frances. Swales eyes flickered open.

  “Yes, mum.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m tired, mum… So tired… Not sure I can make it.”

  He closed his eyes again.

  “That’s not very British of you,” she said. “You’re sounding like an awful Jerry,” she said.

  Swales tried to laugh at that but he couldn’t muster the strength.

  “Keep Calm and Carry On, Swales. That’s the motto for these times, and I expect you to adhere to it. Do you understand?”

  His eyes flickered open.

  “Yes, mum,” he said. His voice soft as a whisper.

  “It would be awfully bad form for you to die in the arms of the Marchioness of Sandown. Nobody has had the gall to do it and I should expect you to refrain from it yourself.”

  Swales managed a smile.

  “A Marchioness, eh?”

  “Quite correct. A Marchioness, and not just any run of the mill Marchioness, but the Marchioness of Sandown. The highest ranked Marchioness in all of the United Kingdom I’ll have you know.”

  Frances smiled down at him. He was looking up at her through heavy lidded eyes.

  “Well in that case…” he spluttered and coughed. A pink foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth. Bea looked on in
horror.

  “What can I do?” asked Reginald.

  “See if you can’t find some cloth to wrap around the wound to help stop the bleeding.”

  The handle of the knife was outside the blanket, and although there wasn’t a lot of blood, Frances was still concerned about the amount that was bleeding out. Reginald left quickly.

  “Did you get a good look at him, Constable?” Frances asked, more to keep Swales thinking upon other things than drifting off.

  “I did, mum… I should say he was five foot… nine or ten… Average build with black hair… He wore a black watch cap… and black coat… He was strong… skillful… He was left handed… He had…”

  Frances waited a long while for Swales to finish.

  “What did he have?”

  “His right hand… little finger… was missing…”

  Constable Swales was quickly losing more blood than was apparent from looking at the exterior of the wound. He was weak and tired, and darkness was clawing at him to bring him down into its deep well.

  “Stay awake, Constable, stay awake.”

  The eyes flickered open. They felt to Constable Swales to be made from lead. Reginald arrived with strips of white linen. Frances folded them up and placed them close to the wound, careful not to move the knife or to cause the constable anymore discomfort.

  “I see from your left hand that you are married, Ernest. Tell me about your wife,” she said.

  Swales smiled at the memory.

  “Tell her I love her.”

  “Nonsense, you’ll tell her yourself in no time at all.”

  Swales closed his eyes again.

  “What’s her name, Ernest?”

  The eyes flickered. Frances wondered what was taking them so long. It seemed as if day would break before the ambulance would get here.

  “Isabel… Her name is Isabel.”

  “And do you have any children?” asked Frances, desperately trying to keep the man amongst the living. In the distance sirens could be heard.