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Overview
The message consisted of one neatly typewritten line: I am killing you slowly. You are going to die. The Chessman.
Isabelle Stanton and Sue Castradon always arranged the flowers in the village church on Fridays. But Sue was glad to escape the church that morning. She had rowed over breakfast with her husband Ned, who bitterly resented her association – however fleeting – with the handsome Simon Vardon. Sue didn’t think things could get worse – until she opened the cupboard…
When a mutilated corpse is discovered in the sleepy village of Croxton Ferriers, Jack Haldean finds an odd clue at the scene of the crime: a black marble chess knight with crystal eyes. Is murder just a game? It could be – to a killer who calls himself The Chessman.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727885418 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 12/01/2015 |
| Series: | Jack Haldean Series , #9 |
| Edition description: | First World Publication |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.70(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Dolores Gordon-Smith lives in Greater Manchester and is married, with five teenage children and assorted dogs and cats.
Read an Excerpt
The Chessman
A Jack Haldean Mystery
By Dolores Gordon-Smith
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 Dolores Gordon-SmithAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7278-8541-8
CHAPTER 1
Alan Leigh shuddered in relief as he heard the key turn in the lock of the front door of the flat. Simon! At last. He'd been a hell of a long time. Hell. His hell.
'Simon!' he called as the door to the sitting room opened. There was a catch in his voice. 'Simon, where've you been?'
He trailed off, staring as a man entered the room. The man looked like Simon, but he wasn't Simon. He was older for a start, a big, middle-aged, muscular man with high cheekbones and vivid blue eyes. Alan swallowed hard and, with an effort, spoke. 'Who are you? Where's Simon?'
The stranger looked down at Alan slumped helplessly on the sofa, then nodded slowly, as if unsurprised by what he saw. 'So you're Alan Leigh.'
It wasn't a question. His voice was oddly soft for such a large man. Soft but with power and the hint of menace.
'Where's Simon?' asked Alan once more. He knew his voice was breaking. 'Simon said he'd ... he'd ...'
He broke off as the man opened the briefcase he was carrying and took out a small glass bottle full of colourless liquid. 'Simon said he'd give you this?'
Alan made a grab for the bottle, then fell back with a little cry as the man, with an amused laugh, put the bottle in his pocket.
'Later, Mr Leigh. We have a matter of business to discuss.'
Alan clenched his fists together and breathed deeply, fighting for a measure of control. There was a veiled threat in the words. Alan had come across many men who not only threatened, but enjoyed carrying out their threats. That's why he'd been so grateful to Simon. Simon had protected him, looked after him, helped him, and now, here in Simon's flat, this scary man with the vivid blue eyes and the quiet voice had tracked him down.
There was a time – not so very long ago – when Alan wouldn't have been scared. He'd been a fighter once. A little flicker of courage flared. He didn't want to show how afraid he was.
'Who are you?'
The man sat down in the chair opposite Alan.
'I am Sir Matthew Vardon. You probably know my name. I'm Simon's father.'
Alan tried to make sense of the words. 'Simon's father? But ...?'
'He's told me all about you, Mr Leigh. You're Stamford Leigh's nephew.'
He reached in his pocket and, taking out the little bottle, placed it on the low table between them.
Alan gave a whimper. He couldn't help it. The tiny bottle seemed to grow in size, until it filled his entire vision.
'I knew your uncle well. As a matter of fact, he was a cousin of mine.'
What did he care about his uncle? His uncle was dead.
'You're Stamford Leigh's heir.'
Alan blinked in irritation. He knew he'd been his uncle's heir, but what did that matter? He'd run through his uncle's money long since and there was nothing left. He didn't care. All he cared about was that bottle on the table in front of him.
Despite himself, he reached out for the bottle.
The man – Simon's father – moved with lightning speed for such a big man.
'Naughty,' he murmured, his mouth curving in a smile. He held the bottle between his thumb and forefinger so the light shone through it. 'You can have this, Mr Leigh, when we've had a little chat.'
Alan felt as if his insides were being wrung together. He fell back into the sofa, his hand covering his eyes. 'What d'you want?'
'Your uncle left you quite a lot of money, didn't he, Mr Leigh?'
'It's gone.' His voice was a whisper.
'So I understand. He also left you a portfolio of shares, most of which, if I understand your affairs correctly, have been sold.'
Alan hardly registered the words, but nodded dumbly.
'You do, however, have one block of shares which you have not been able to sell. A block of shares in Antilla Exploration Limited.'
'For God's sake, tell me what you want, damn you!' It was a weak, futile, defiance.
The man raised his eyebrows and laughed. 'I want those shares, Mr Leigh.'
Alan could hardly make sense of what the man said. 'Why?'
The man grinned. 'Call it a whim.' He held up his hand. 'I know they're worthless. But, Mr Leigh, I'm feeling generous. I am prepared to pay you twenty pounds.'
Alan wasn't capable of much emotion apart from the desperate desire for the little glass bottle, but he was conscious of a flicker of surprise when the man took out his wallet and, opening it, laid four white five-pound notes on the table.
'There's this, too,' said the man, holding up the bottle. 'I'll throw this in as a gesture of goodwill.'
Alan nearly sobbed. 'Yes! Damn you, yes. Have anything you like.'
The man took a legal-looking form from his briefcase. 'I need you to sign this form, Mr Leigh.' He laid the form on the table and took a fountain pen from his jacket pocket. 'Sign it!'
There was a jag of menace in his tone.
Alan took the pen and, hand trembling, managed to sign his name at the bottom of the form.
'Very good,' said the man, with what was virtually a purr of approval. 'Very good indeed.'
He reached into the briefcase once more and, taking out a flat black case, opened it and, removing a hypodermic syringe, unscrewed the top. Lips pursed, he poured the contents of the bottle into the syringe. He attached the needle to the end and handed the syringe to Alan. 'Yours, I believe, Mr Leigh.'
Sir Matthew swirled the brandy round in its glass and sipped it with satisfaction. 'It's damn good brandy this, Simon.'
'I'm glad you like it,' said Simon absently. He looked across the room to Alan's slumped body on the sofa. His mouth twisted. Alan's arm was flung over the side of the sofa, the syringe on the floor beside him where it had fallen. 'I hope he's going to be all right.'
'He'll be fine,' said Sir Matthew easily. 'Don't you worry.'
Simon ignored his father, crossed the room and stooped over his friend. 'Alan? Alan, can you hear me?' he asked gently. There was no answer. Alan's eyes were open but his mind was far away.
Simon glanced at his father. 'Did he have the entire bottle?'
'Why shouldn't I give him the entire bottle? He wanted it badly enough.'
Simon ran a hand through his fair hair. 'It was a very pure solution. I told you as much. I said it should be mixed with glycerine.'
Sir Matthew laughed dismissively. 'He didn't want glycerine. I just gave him what he wanted. Why shouldn't I? Think of it as a last kindness.' He paused and looked quizzically at his son. 'Don't tell me you're worried about him. I wouldn't believe it, Simon. You haven't got a compassionate bone in your body.'
Simon faced him squarely. 'Perhaps I inherited that from you. You don't seem to understand. If he does croak, what am I meant to do?'
'Get rid of the supplies in the bathroom for a start. The police would be very interested in them.'
Simon's eyes narrowed. That cupboard was locked. Or had been locked. He didn't know his father had rummaged round the flat. 'Are you threatening me?'
His father shrugged. 'You're a grown man. If you want to stuff yourself with dope, that's your lookout, but you're a fool.' He jerked his thumb at Alan. 'I wouldn't want you to end up like that.' He snapped the lock shut on his case. 'Look at him. What a useless wreck.'
'He saved my life on the Somme.'
'And I'm sure you were very grateful to him. What use is he now? I must say, m'boy, I very much appreciate your part in the deal. Your friend Mr Leigh reacted exactly as you said he would.' He clapped his hands together and rubbed them enthusiastically. 'All I need now is that final block of shares from Castradon and the sky's the limit.'
Simon looked at Alan and laughed cynically. 'Excuse me for not fainting with delight.'
'There's money to be made.' Sir Matthew drew the words out with lingering pleasure. 'A lot of money.'
Simon looked at him sharply. 'What are you going to do about Castradon? What if he won't sell you the shares? I've never met the man but, from what I've heard, he's a stubborn devil.'
Sir Matthew nodded. 'Castradon's stubborn and, in my opinion, unstable.'
'It's probably shell shock,' said Simon thoughtfully. 'He was badly shot up in the war, wasn't he?'
'Yes, he's our very own war hero with the scars to prove it. I think it's affected his mind. He walks round, muttering to himself, and he's got a filthy temper. He's an ugly devil, too. Why his wife stays with him, I can't guess.' He looked at his son with a glint in his eye. 'His wife, I may say, is a very beautiful woman. She's wasted on him.' He paused. 'You could have a lot of fun, getting her away from that husband of hers. I'd do it if I was twenty years younger.' He grinned. 'I might yet.'
Simon drew back in disgust. 'What about my mother?'
Sir Matthew grinned. 'She's a very tolerant woman. But, perhaps you're right. You really ought to try your luck. I certainly would've done at your age.'
Simon gave a sudden crack of laughter and sat back in his chair. 'Are you seriously suggesting that I should come down to a one-horse hole in the country for the sole purpose of charming the village belle? I think you've been away from London for too long. Besides that, considering you want Castradon to sell you his shares, committing adultery with his wife is probably not the best way for me to set about helping you.'
'There is that about it,' conceded Sir Matthew. 'It's perhaps just as well that you feel so straight-laced.'
'I'm not straight-laced. I've got a certain amount of sense. How are you going to get Castradon's shares?'
'He's got a great sense of family pride. Don't forget, I knew his father, Mike Castradon, very well indeed.' An odd expression, half-shifty, half-defiant crossed Sir Matthew's face. 'If I do a little bit of digging into the past, who knows what I might come up with?'
Simon looked at his father with sudden interest and sat down on the arm of the chair. 'You've got something in mind, haven't you?'
Sir Matthew hesitated. 'There was an incident. It was long ago, when Stamford Leigh, Mike Castradon and I were in Peru. Things got a bit lively one night and, to cut a long story short, a woman died.' Simon's eyebrows rose expressively. 'Don't look at me like that, boy!' growled Sir Matthew. 'You'd be a lot better off if you took your pleasures like a real man, rather than messing around with filthy chemicals. She was only an Indian woman, one of the natives. She didn't matter, but Castradon cut up rough about it. He blamed me.'
'Were you to blame?' asked Simon quietly.
His father shrugged. 'It was her own fault. If she'd have kept quiet there wouldn't have been any trouble. It wasn't as if Castradon was a plaster saint,' he added, more to himself than to his son. 'He could be a dangerous man. From then on Castradon wanted nothing more to do with me. I was just unlucky. It could have happened to anyone, but he was very peculiar about the whole business.'
Simon stared at his father. 'Peculiar, you say? That's an interesting choice of words. Were there any witnesses?'
'A couple of natives,' said Sir Matthew with a shrug. 'I squared them easily enough, but I could never make Castradon see sense. I always resented that.' He gave a sudden, wolfish grin. 'It would be very sweet indeed to tell his son about that incident.' He laughed. 'With a few minor alterations, you understand.'
'But won't Castradon know the truth?' demanded Simon.
'I doubt it!' Sir Matthew grinned once more. 'He got very respectable in his old age, did Mike Castradon. He won't have told anyone, especially his precious son.'
Simon sat back thoughtfully. 'I'm your son,' he murmured. 'You don't seem to mind telling me.'
'I give you enough credit for knowing which side your bread's buttered on, boy. You're safe enough. Besides that, you are my son. We're pretty alike, you and me.'
Again, Simon said nothing for a while. 'Maybe,' he conceded eventually. 'Have you told Tom? My brother?'
Sir Matthew's lip curled dismissively. 'Thomas? He wouldn't believe it.'
Simon moved impatiently. Tom probably wouldn't believe it. Tom was a good man, decent, straightforward and honest. Simon suspected his father resented that. Tom would never credit how much the old man had relished telling that story.
From the sofa, Alan Leigh gave a sudden groan and threw out his arm in a convulsive gesture.
Simon rapidly crossed to him and felt under Alan's shirt for his heart. 'Oh my God!' He turned his head to his father. 'I'm going to call the doctor. He's in a bad way.'
'Why on earth are you so upset?'
'I just am,' said Simon tightly. 'I don't want him to die.' He smoothed back the hair from Alan's forehead, looking anxiously into his eyes. He was rewarded with a flicker of recognition.
He made his voice deliberately calm. 'Alan, I'm going to get help.' He caught hold of the trembling hand. 'I'm going to get a doctor.'
Alan Leigh made a little noise in his throat. 'Simon? Simon ... help.'
'I will. Don't worry.'
Sir Matthew Vardon looked on in surprise as Simon picked up the telephone and, getting through to the exchange, demanded the doctor.
'I'll leave you to it,' he said. 'Maybe we're not as similar as I thought.'
The great Lanchester swept up the drive and, with a scrunch of gravel, drew up outside the front door. Ryle, the chauffeur, got out and opened the door for Sir Matthew.
From the window of the drawing room, a frown of disapproval creased Lady Adeline Vardon's plump face. She disliked Ryle intensely. He did not show the deference she expected from a servant.
Adeline Vardon had been brought up to observe the most rigid divisions between employer and employee. She was the daughter of a wealthy Stoke-on-Trent pottery manufacturer and his wife, who saw their daughter's marriage as a definite step up the social ladder. Adeline had been dazzled by the prospect of a title and bowled over by the big, handsome man with his dashing manners. Her parents' enthusiasm was increased, if anything, by the fact he was a widower with a young son – it seemed so respectable – and had only been slightly dampened by the discovery that Sir Matthew had no money to speak of.
As she watched, the chauffeur inclined his head towards Sir Matthew. Sir Matthew threw back his head, laughing, then clapped the man on the shoulder. Ryle, grinning broadly, pushed his cap back and, hands in pockets, replied.
The sunlight caught his face and, for a few brief seconds, the two men looked exactly alike. Adeline Vardon blinked and the likeness was gone.
She must have imagined it. After all, Ryle was a thin cringing whippet of a man, with a dreadful Cockney accent and her husband was a powerful, well-built, masterful man, who still retained those handsome looks she had been so charmed by. Adeline Vardon hated the way Matthew allowed Ryle to be so familiar. She must speak to him about it. She was not going to allow any servant – and especially Ryle – to get above themselves.
Ryle picked up Sir Matthew's bag and the two men walked up the drive together.
Adeline Vardon's frown deepened into frank disapproval. She went into the hall and out onto the drive. Ryle looked up, smothered a grin and touched his cap in what seemed to Adeline Vardon to be a very off-hand way.
'You can put the car away, Ryle,' said Sir Matthew. 'I won't need it again today.'
'All right,' said Ryle in that Cockney twang she hated, adding, as a seeming afterthought and with a glance at Lady Vardon, 'sir.'
Adeline Vardon waited until she and Sir Matthew were in the house. 'You allow that man to be far too familiar.'
'Nonsense, my dear,' he said, kissing her.
'There are other chauffeurs, I suppose.'
'There aren't any other chauffeurs who worked for Ned Castradon.'
She was frankly puzzled. 'Why does that make any difference?'
'Because I want to know as much as I can about that gentleman. Don't ask me why, Adeline. It's a matter of business.'
She tossed her head impatiently. 'I don't understand anything about business.'
He laughed delightedly. 'I know, my dear. And a very proper attitude it is, too. Simon seems well.'
All her irritation vanished in a flash. 'Simon?' Her voice softened. 'Oh, Matthew, I'm so glad you've seen him. I've sometimes thought you don't appreciate dear Simon enough.'
That, thought Sir Matthew, was probably true. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to appreciate Simon as deeply as his mother thought he should be appreciated.
'Is he coming here?' she asked eagerly. 'I do wish we saw more of him. Why, he's hardly been home since the war ended.'
'There's nothing for him here, Adeline. You go up to town often enough. You see him then.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Chessman by Dolores Gordon-Smith. Copyright © 2015 Dolores Gordon-Smith. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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