Chessman's Manor

Chessman's Manor

The advert had indicated that they required an odd-jobs man, but also that the perfect candidate would show an understanding of chess. Bizarre, I know, but it intrigued me. I had been taking whatever short-term work I could after being laid off by the factory I had poured my sweat into for seventeen years; worse was that the bankruptcy of the firm had left any redundancy payments we should have been due non-forthcoming. I had also played for the factory's chess team in the Glasgow League Division Three and considered myself, if not an expert, at least proficient. I felt quite upbeat about my chances for this job I had found in the small ads, therefore, and dialled the number given.

“Good morning, Chessman's Manor, Palmerston here. How may one help you?” intoned a rich baritone voice.

“Er, hi...sir,” I responded, cursing my own relative inadequacy at being articulate on the phone, “My name is Gordon Carmichael and I was wondering about the handyman job?”

“Do you have general experience in repairs and maintenance?” the smooth voice went on.

“Yes sir, well I have done a variety of jobs and I have always fixed up my family's houses when they've needed something done,” I replied, feeling a little more positive.

“Excellent. And how, may I ask, would you note castling queenside on a chess scoresheet?”

I nearly burst out laughing at this, so taken was I by surprise. “Oh dash oh dash oh!” I blurted.

“Very good,” he declared, “When can you start?”

And that was essentially the shortest job interview I have ever had. The terms of employment were generous and included bed and board. I packed up my belongings from my lodging-house and headed off in a taxi early the next day. The main gates bore a chessboard crest, I was amused to notice. Well it was Chessman's Manor, I told myself. I was not really prepared for what followed. To start with, the driveway was lined with hedges cut into topiary chesspieces ascending from eight pawns each side from the entrance's end, through knights, bishops, rooks and finally queens then kings; there was a full set of the thirty-two bits in hedgerow, a lighter variety of plant used on the left hand side to indicate white pieces. The manor itself was an impressive gothic structure but with the strange castle-like addition of four towers, one at each corner. With a start, I realised that each tower was in the shape of a rook. The taxi pulled up at a small entrance to the right of the building rather than the grand one front and centre. This must be the servants' entrance, I guessed; the driver had asked me if I was visiting on the way and must have known the address well enough to know which end to drop me at.

I approached the house and a middle-aged lady in an apron opened the side-door to me. She introduced herself as Mrs Bryson, welcomed me inside and showed me up to a bedroom on the second floor via a small winding staircase from the kitchen. For all that I was being taken probably one of the less glamorous routes, I was impressed with the grandeur of it all. The bedroom I was led to had a white pawn on the door, I was amused to see; inside it was basically, if comfortably, furnished – a bed, a table and chair, an armchair and two lamps. After I deposited my meagre possessions, Mrs Bryson led me down again to the kitchen where a tall fellow, very respectable looking and clearly a butler, waited: this, I found out, was Palmerston. Not Mr, just Palmerston. He outlined briefly that my role would comprise of any maintenance work that needed done around the manor house – limited electrics or plumbing and the occasional stair-replacement and so on. There was an extensive workshop/supply shed at the back of the house for this purpose, as the present owner Arthur Chessman, like his father before him, believed in being ready for eventualities. I breathed a huge sigh of satisfaction after being left alone there to look things over. I was barely in the door and I felt already that I had found my place in life.

I felt I had the measure of the workshop – it was well kitted-out with a mixture of power tools and more traditional implements. I was sorting through some spare pieces of timber when a knock at the shed's door indicated someone's presence. Mrs Bryson was there and she invited me to come back to the kitchen for a cup of tea. When I got there I was introduced to Joan, a maid and kitchen helper, and Sam Travis, a grizzled gardener who I was told had been in service there for forty years. He spoke with some pride when I mentioned the lovely topiary chesspieces I had seen from the taxi and offered to show me round the other features: 'orticultural achievements or blooming marvels as he imparted with a wink. I dutifully laughed; the old boy was pleasant enough, but that was probably the only joke in his arsenal. Palmerston informed me that the five of us would be the only regular staff but that other tradesmen could be called on if needed. I liked that – a small team was so much more satisfying than a large faceless organisation.

After our cuppas, Sam led me out to the gardens. I must admit: I was suitably impressed. The chess theme continued strongly there, starting with a chequered path of light and dark paving stones, which led between various feature areas. There was a nice bit with a few stone tables with marble inlaid chessboards, coupled with wooden benches, but what drew my eye instantly was a massive board about fifty feet wide set into the main lawn, with large wooden pieces, even the pawns as big as a man. As we drew nearer, I could see that they would be moved around the grid by means of wheels (which Sam pointed out I would need to oil once a month) and that the pieces were treated for all-weather conditions. I realised that from the manor house upper floor windows the board would be a magnificent spectacle. Sam led me on, though, to his pride and joy: a large flowering area. Again, the chessboard motif was there in the form of 64 distinct flower beds with a little grass border delineating each square, just wide enough to walk on, so as not to damage the blooms. The soil used for the beds was of two shades, alternately laid and many of the flower beds were empty of plants, which only served to emphasize the chequer pattern more instead of looking like an unfinished garden, which you might think. I noticed that the flower groupings were shaped into the design of pieces, some white and some brown. Sam commented sadly that the flowers were in season now but not for much longer and said he wished there was a way he could have flowers in season all year round, so it could be enjoyed for longer. I looked again at the flower-shapes and realised they were set in a particular diagram – I stood back, trying to appreciate it and work out who was winning. Black's queen was attacked and he looked to be under considerable pressure, having a knight en prise also.

Sam was watching my trying to puzzle out what was going on in the position and announced “You'll never get it, son. It's from a famous game between RJ Fischer and Donald Byrne, from 1956.” We got to chatting and I discovered that he, like all the staff, played chess to some extent. I left him for now, promising to play him at some point. That was something I found in all of them – as they all played chess, they welcomed a fresh style to play against.

When I got back to the manor, Palmerston looked me up and down and stated that it was time to meet our employer, Arthur Chessman. I was looking forward to it but did wonder what sort of man owned a fabulous residence like this. Palmerston led me through the entrance hall and along a passage to the master of the house's study. Mr Chessman was seated at a grand old desk which he stepped out from with a warm smile on his face and an outstretched hand. He was an older man, somewhere in his sixties and very well presented in tweed. I was reminded a little of Sean Connery; he had an easy manner and was endowed with a voice many actors would have killed for. He asked me about my life and goals. I told him briefly of my background and desire for a simple life, taking my pleasure in the occasional game of chess or evening of chat with friends. I was not playing up to him here: I have never sought much from careers or the like and never aimed to have a family as such. He bade me to feel free to admire the galleries of pictures or browse the books in his library; I thanked him and left with Palmerston.

Time passed swiftly at the manor, I found. I enjoyed the work, fixing up everything from a broken wheel on one of the giant pieces to pipes in one of the many guest bedrooms. I noticed that each bedroom had a piece on the door, the grander ones having knight, bishop or rook. I surmised therefore that Mr Chessman's door would have a white king, a fact Joan the maid confirmed. I spent the evenings either playing chess with other staff-members or reading the odd novel from the library. This was indeed extensive and was split into two sections – chess theory books in one half, covering any opening system you could wish for; works of fiction in the other. The fiction was all chess-centred, some of it with it in the plot like the Dorothy Dunnett series or Katherine Neville's books, some of it merely displaying it in the title or cover. It spoke to a great deal of searching to fulfil an obsession; having been born to a legacy like the manor, Arthur Chessman appeared to have eagerly embraced the house's ethos of devotion to chess. The paintings on many of the walls were likewise of chess scenes, everything from oils to watercolours to charcoal drawings. One room was filled with paintings and prints of the world champions, for example; one long hallway was lined with framed signed scoresheets from Grandmasters' games; another more modern room was sprinkled with screenshots of famous chess scenes from movies.

Once a month Mr Chessman would run a mini chess tournament with the staff and a couple of his friends who would visit. We were a bit far out from Glasgow to run a team in the league but this more than made up for it. The winner would get a special certificate printed out in colour and for the first-time winner Mr Chessman presented a folder to store the certificates in. Palmerston had a whole bundle of the folders, each numbered with the date periods they spanned; Sam Travis had a few too. I was proud as a peacock when I won a tournament in my fourth month there, just beating Palmerston in the final round by a small margin. These chess tournaments were a great leveller – it was only during those that I saw the normally restrained butler show any emotion. In fact, the only people who ever visited Chessman's Manor who were not chessplayers were Mr C's nephew, Roger Chessman and the family lawyer, Arnold Fitzsimmons. The former visited once every couple of months and the latter four times a year, I was informed by Mrs Bryson. Sometimes Mr Chessman would have me come to his study and we would play some wild chess – Sicilians and King's Indians mainly - and talk about a range of things. My respect for him grew and grew; here was a man who could have what he wanted from life yet he took time to be friendly with the handyman. Also, with chess, there could be no deceit – you played someone and grew to know them, their anxieties and their strengths.

I had been working there for about three and a half years when Mr Chessman's health started to deteriorate. Round about this time his nephew Roger started visiting much more frequently and I, along with the other staff, shared the unthinkable thought that he would be the next owner of the manor. Our blissful little Utopia was threatened along with the employer we served and loved. Arthur, as he had come to encourage us to call him, seemed to withdraw into himself. One time I saw his face after a visit from Fitzsimmons his lawyer; he was deep in thought and for just a flicker I thought I saw anger there. A few times he looked as though he was going to say something to me, something which seemed really important, but then the moment passed and he went on by. After a while he became bed-bound and slept for most of the time of each day. The nephew Roger moved in and was a constant by his uncle's side.

The family doctor came a few times and did suggest admission to hospital for tests but Arthur would have none of it. I began to get hints that his mind was not his own any more – he would give suspicious searching glances at everyone and was frequently deep in conference with his nephew or his lawyer. I spoke to Palmerston about it and for a moment his guard dropped and I could see the deep concern there. Over time, he had warmed to me, insofar as his natural reserve would let him. He said that he was usually cautious nowadays as Arthur's moods were hard to predict recently, but that he seemed to get more lucid sometimes and in those moments appeared to be desperately reaching out for some remedy to this slow deterioration in himself. Most times though he was confused and drowsy.

One day, though, I was repairing a lamp that had fallen over in his room and he whispered “Gordon, come here.” I hurried over to his bed and he pressed a note into my hand. Then his eyes defocused and I could swear he no longer knew I was there. At that point the nephew Roger came back into the room and some instinct made me keep the note concealed. Roger looked at me quizzically and I said “I thought he was better for a moment, he looked like he had something to say,” then shook my head sadly and picked up my small toolbag and left. I could feel his eyes on me as I left. Back at my workshop I looked at the note in my hand and realised my fingers were trembling a little. I unfolded the note and read:

Hidden from those who bear me ill

Is my last testament and will.

I could not leave it to be found

So buried it beneath the ground;

You'll find this vital piece of text

Located where Bobby went next.

Now find this note and set me free

From grip of evil tyranny.

I looked blankly at the note for a moment. In his delirium he no doubt imagined all sorts of mischief. Then I realised “where Bobby went next” must refer to the position he loved and had set out on the lawn. The flowers were not in season right now but I remembered the position, having admired it each year when it bloomed. The move, as I had discovered from Arthur Chessman in one of our talks, was Bishop to e6. I spent the rest of the day pottering around the workshop, having secreted the little note in a bag of screws, not entirely sure why but trusting my employer's instincts, wayward though they possibly were at the moment.

I went to bed as normal but rose silently about 2 am and made my way to the gardens via the winding servants' staircase to the kitchen. I had taken a cement trowel from the workshop and clutched this now as I proceeded to the flowerbeds. I carefully counted out files and ranks till I found the e6 square then started scratching at the earth. Underneath I came upon a small waterproof pouch – this must be it, the document! I slipped it in one pocket, replaced the displaced earth and put the trowel in the other pocket. Back at my room, now, I pulled open the little packet and read:

Let it be known that I am of sound mind and body just now but that I have fears for my life. I overheard my lawyer, one Arnold Fitzsimmons, in conference with my nephew Roger Chessman, when I by chance strolled by a room they were in. The lawyer advised him to have patience and that things were “in hand”. If anything should happen to me, it is my utmost wish that no part of my estate be either administered by this scoundrel lawyer or received by my most unworthy nephew, Roger. If I have misunderstood their communication then if nothing arises in time I will of course retrieve this missive. If I should die under strange circumstances, however, I urge you to bear this note to the police. I write this an unhappy man, but I hope that my fears are unfounded. Signed, Arthur Chessman.

I was shocked, of course. What was happening here, then? Were the lawyer and the nephew poisoning this dear man? I dare not leave the house in dead of night, lest I alert Roger that something was amiss and accelerate his plans in panic. If I called the police I likewise ran the risk of alerting him and would they believe a servant without seeing the damning documents I held? What if, unthinkably, one of the other staff was involved? I lay up all night thinking and worrying. The next morning I ate breakfast then announced I was taking one of the bicycles down to the village, to see if a catalog of joinery supplies was at the Post Office yet and maybe stop at the tearoom for tea and scones there for a change. Making sure I was not followed, I pedalled in the direction of the village then turned off at a convenient point and raced as fast as I could to the larger town nearby, where I knew they had a few policemen. Once there, I told my tale to the local constable on the desk and he made a phone call to his sergeant, who came back in their squad car and took me into the interview room. The poem and the signed letter were invaluable at this point, for the lawyer Fitzsimmons was well-respected locally and not an easy person to conceive of as having bad intentions for a client. We went to the local bank together and they compared the signature on file for Arthur with the note and confirmed it was his hand.

From there, things happened in a blur – the police instantly took the lawyer into custody and sent two men over to the house to question the nephew and watch over Arthur until an ambulance got there. Forensic officers were brought in from Glasgow and they discovered arsenic poisoning in small gradual doses in his drinking water in the jug by his bed. Roger, spineless wretch that he is, broke down on being confronted with this and immediately claimed it was all the crooked lawyer's idea, who was apparently well in debt to Mr Chessman through a large personal loan which he hoped to avoid repaying. This was verified and a confession was wrought from him also.

I am happy to say that Arthur made a full recovery and is back in his rightful place. We still play chess together and I am happy to confirm that I have won our monthly chess tournaments quite a few times now. I don't know how I would have coped had Arthur not been saved; I would say this goes for most of the staff – he is family to us, of a kind stronger than blood. For his part, Arthur has willed that in the event of his death we are to be employed till pensionable age and that the estate will be administered by the National Trust. For now, though, I look forward to many more Springs of seeing the beautiful game rise up in flowery form and many more evenings of chess play.

 Alls well that ends well.   

A+.

Thanks, crazy.

Great story!