Josh Baverstock always took his time, stroking his chin intelligently with his left hand, while his right hovered over the pieces on the board. Such gestures apparently compensated for his lack of skill. Poor Josh! He was as much an old crock as he was himself, but they’d both been dashing young fellows forty years ago. In this modern world of fair-weather friends and declining incomes, Josh was as true as steel.
Josh’s evening clothes were decidedly rusty, and stained with snuff, and there was no doubt that his laundress had begun to neglect his linen. His own housekeeper, Mrs Craddock, had only last week remarked on the fact in her no-nonsense, practical way. ‘Major Baverstock’s being neglected, sir,’ she’d said. ‘You should tell him to do something about it. It’s not right for a gentleman to be treated like that.’
Old Josh scowled at the board, and ventured a remark.
‘You shan’t get the better of me tonight, Charles,’ said Baverstock. ‘I’m going to checkmate you for once, no matter how long it takes.’
Wayneflete recalled the occasion when he had bought that set of chess men. It had been in Vienna, in 1856. They were carved from malachite, and had belonged to a seventeenth-century bishop of Cologne. A pity that the original board had been lost. That’s why he’d got the whole set cheap.
Major Baverstock made his move, and sat back in his chair, squinting defiantly at his friend from bright old eyes hooded by white bushy brows. Sir Charles leaned forward in his chair, and conducted a series of moves which first removed his opponent’s queen from the board, and then imprisoned his king in a gaol from which there was no hope of escape.
‘Check,’ said Sir Charles Wayneflete, ‘and also mate!’
He listened to his friend’s rueful laughter as he rose stiffly to pour them both a glass of port. Poor old Josh! He was hopeless at chess, but insisted on playing once or twice a week. He lived in a suite of rented rooms in a street off Cadogan Square, and came over by cab.
‘I read in the paper today that they’d found the murdered corpse of a young man in that Mithraeum place of Ainsworth’s,’ said Josh, gratefully accepting his glass of port. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘You can’t have a murdered corpse, Josh: it’s a contradiction in terms. I did read something about it in the Morning Post. I expect it was some poor fellow who ran down into the place to escape an assailant, and was cornered there. Still, it’s Ainsworth’s affair, not mine. Much good may it do him!’
‘A man who lives next door to me in Cadogan Square says that the dead man was an analytical chemist.’
‘Really? Well, that’s very interesting. I expect his death was some private affair. Nothing to do with Ainsworth, obviously. In any case, he’s up in Edinburgh at the moment, making a public spectacle of himself with one of his never-ending lectures on the “Clerkenwell Mithraeum”, as he likes to call that crypt of his in Priory Gate Street.’
‘Why, what would you call it?’ asked Major Baverstock. There was a sudden shrewd light in his eyes that Wayneflete didn’t much care for. Josh had always been a bit of a mind-reader.
He smiled and shook his head, at the same time retrieving his friend’s empty glass, and going over to the decanters which reposed on top of a bookcase beneath an old faded mirror. He was not a vain man, but he could not help comparing his own smart appearance with that of his old friend. Mrs Craddock bullied him – he admitted that – but she was an excellent housekeeper. Times were not as affluent as they had been, and a stroke two years earlier had made him a virtual recluse, more or less confined to the house; but they managed very well.
He looked at his own frail, narrow face, with its fringe of white whiskers. His eyes looked steadily back at him, as much as to say, ‘Well done, Charles, you’re telling lies very convincingly tonight!’ He didn’t know
Josh’s evening clothes were decidedly rusty, and stained with snuff, and there was no doubt that his laundress had begun to neglect his linen. His own housekeeper, Mrs Craddock, had only last week remarked on the fact in her no-nonsense, practical way. ‘Major Baverstock’s being neglected, sir,’ she’d said. ‘You should tell him to do something about it. It’s not right for a gentleman to be treated like that.’
Old Josh scowled at the board, and ventured a remark.
‘You shan’t get the better of me tonight, Charles,’ said Baverstock. ‘I’m going to checkmate you for once, no matter how long it takes.’
Wayneflete recalled the occasion when he had bought that set of chess men. It had been in Vienna, in 1856. They were carved from malachite, and had belonged to a seventeenth-century bishop of Cologne. A pity that the original board had been lost. That’s why he’d got the whole set cheap.
Major Baverstock made his move, and sat back in his chair, squinting defiantly at his friend from bright old eyes hooded by white bushy brows. Sir Charles leaned forward in his chair, and conducted a series of moves which first removed his opponent’s queen from the board, and then imprisoned his king in a gaol from which there was no hope of escape.
‘Check,’ said Sir Charles Wayneflete, ‘and also mate!’
He listened to his friend’s rueful laughter as he rose stiffly to pour them both a glass of port. Poor old Josh! He was hopeless at chess, but insisted on playing once or twice a week. He lived in a suite of rented rooms in a street off Cadogan Square, and came over by cab.
‘I read in the paper today that they’d found the murdered corpse of a young man in that Mithraeum place of Ainsworth’s,’ said Josh, gratefully accepting his glass of port. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘You can’t have a murdered corpse, Josh: it’s a contradiction in terms. I did read something about it in the Morning Post. I expect it was some poor fellow who ran down into the place to escape an assailant, and was cornered there. Still, it’s Ainsworth’s affair, not mine. Much good may it do him!’
‘A man who lives next door to me in Cadogan Square says that the dead man was an analytical chemist.’
‘Really? Well, that’s very interesting. I expect his death was some private affair. Nothing to do with Ainsworth, obviously. In any case, he’s up in Edinburgh at the moment, making a public spectacle of himself with one of his never-ending lectures on the “Clerkenwell Mithraeum”, as he likes to call that crypt of his in Priory Gate Street.’
‘Why, what would you call it?’ asked Major Baverstock. There was a sudden shrewd light in his eyes that Wayneflete didn’t much care for. Josh had always been a bit of a mind-reader.
He smiled and shook his head, at the same time retrieving his friend’s empty glass, and going over to the decanters which reposed on top of a bookcase beneath an old faded mirror. He was not a vain man, but he could not help comparing his own smart appearance with that of his old friend. Mrs Craddock bullied him – he admitted that – but she was an excellent housekeeper. Times were not as affluent as they had been, and a stroke two years earlier had made him a virtual recluse, more or less confined to the house; but they managed very well.
He looked at his own frail, narrow face, with its fringe of white whiskers. His eyes looked steadily back at him, as much as to say, ‘Well done, Charles, you’re telling lies very convincingly tonight!’ He didn’t know
Similar Books
