Perhaps if Morton had not stopped to mop his brow in that precise spot, he might never have noticed the black-and-white house. As it was, he had just replaced his cap and swung his foot over the crossbar of his bicycle when he caught sight of the wrought-iron gate in the wall, and, beyond, a fleeting impression of light and dark: so brief that he hardly knew what he’d seen, only that it prompted him to manoeuvre sideways, half perched on the saddle, and peer between the metal bars. Through the clouds of his breath he saw a house of a familiar type, ancient and half-timbered, surrounded by a sparse formal garden. It was like a pen-and-ink sketch: the narrow timbers of the house, the wintry drive white with hoar frost, the clipped symmetry of the yews and their long shadows… But the other, similar, houses he’d seen were ramshackle, their gables leaning sideways or tipped forward, sagging with the weight of centuries; this one was upright, its lines straight and its angles true. And yet it was not, to all appearances, a new house.
Morton regarded it at length. He enjoyed order, rules and discipline; this house, with its refusal to compromise, its apparent mastery over the forces of gravity and time, met with his approval. He stood for a long time, staring through the bars of the gate. It was peculiarly quiet. The place reminded him of something, but it wasn’t until he had – at last – wrenched himself away and pedalled a little way down the road that he realised what it was, and only then because in glancing back he saw the house from another direction, where more rows of topiary stood on either side of a wide lawn. These trees were cut into elaborate, familiar shapes: rooks, knights, bishops, king and queen, and in front of them the long ranks of pawns. On a summer day the effect might have been playful; as it was, in the cold stillness, it was sombre, arresting. Morton and his bicycle wobbled, and he fought to regain his balance as he rounded the corner. Yes, that was it. The house had put him in mind of a chess set: a box of pieces, a flat board, the monochrome pattern of frost and shadow. It was a coincidence that he had thought so before he saw the topiary – unless the owner of the house had had the same fancy, and designed the garden accordingly – or, no, Morton thought, he must have caught a subconscious glimpse of the trees through a gap in the wall, and made the association without realising. No doubt that was it.
He bent over his handlebars and pedalled harder, resisting the impulse to turn back. At first he seemed to feel the house recede into the distance, as though every turn of the wheels took an extra effort, but after a few minutes he encountered a most demanding hill and the exertion required drove everything else out of his head. The sun rose higher, flashing into his eyes above the trees. He grew pleasantly warm, and then hungry. His itinerary brought him round in a figure-of-eight, back towards the village where he had planned to stop for lunch at a famous old inn; but the road by which he returned was a different one, and when he finally dismounted at the Swan he was thinking of nothing but a pint of local beer and a plate of rabbit stew or devilled kidneys. He walked into the bar, divested himself of his cap and gloves, and sat down in front of the fire.
It was only then, as he felt a pleasant lassitude creep over him, that the house came back into his mind’s eye. He saw again the clipped yews in their ranks, facing one another across the pale lawn, and in his imagination he gave a little push to the queen’s pawn, moving it forward. He had a fondness for chess; he had happy memories of triumphs over his cousins and his sister – who had once, in tears, thrown the board across the room, and refused to play ever since. There were few things so satisfying as announcing checkmate, or watching an opponent’s resentful finger tip over the king to concede defeat. He still felt the interior glow of his victory in a House match: he’d been playing the captain of the Chess Club, who had given him a limp, hateful handshake before slinking away in humiliation. Morton had enjoyed that.
A woman’s voice said, ‘What’ll you have, sir?’
Morton blinked and ordered a pint of ale and – after some deliberation – a plate of mutton chops. The food, when it came, was surprisingly good, and half an hour later he was still sitting in his armchair, feeling as satiated and content as he had for some time – since, indeed, he had left his previous address somewhat precipitously, after a certain little unpleasantness had come to light. It was fifteen miles or so back to his boarding house in Ipswich, but he sank deeper into his chair and asked for another pint of beer. When the maid put it in front of him, he said, watching the firelight play in the amber liquid, ‘Do you happen to know the house just east of here, with the chess pieces of topiary?’
She hesitated. Surprised, he raised his eyes, just in time to catch a flicker of wariness in her expression. She said, ‘The black-and-white house, sir?’
‘That’s the one,’ he said. Somehow, although surely that description could be applied to hundreds of houses, he was certain that she knew which one he meant.
‘Yes,’ she said. There was a silence, and she turned away.
This was impertinence. ‘Who owns it?’ Morton said, reaching out – not that he would actually take hold of her, naturally, but his outstretched hand was enough to make her flinch and halt mid-step.
‘No one local,’ she said. ‘The old man was the last.’
‘But someone must own it, a place like that.’ She shrugged. ‘Then who lives there?’
‘No one, at the moment.’ She bent to wipe the table next to him, avoiding his gaze.
An odd spark leapt in Morton’s breast. He said, ‘It’s empty, then?’
She didn’t answer, and he took a deep breath, repressing his irritation. They were perhaps unused to educated men in these parts; presumably they catered more for peasants and farmers. He said, more loudly, ‘I should very much like to see the garden. To visit, I mean.’
‘The gates’ll be locked, I expect.’
‘Yes, I’m quite aware of that. I simply wondered whether… oh, never mind.’ He threw himself back in his chair and flapped his hand to dismiss her. She left, with neither an apology nor a backward glance.
‘It’s for rent.’
Morton gave a start. The voice – a wheedling, desiccated one – had come from a dim corner of the room, which until now he had assumed to be empty; but now he saw that there was a figure at a little table there. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, leaning forward.
‘The black-and-white house,’ the man said, without moving, so his face remained in darkness. Until that moment Morton had not realised that the winter sun no longer reached into the room, and the afternoon was drawing in. ‘Forgive me,’ he went on, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing. It is a handsome property, isn’t it?’
‘It is certainly very striking,’ Morton said.
‘If you want to look around, I imagine the agent will be able to show it to you. Letterman, on the Square.’ The man gestured; he had a jerky, awkward manner, as though he was held together with string. ‘Up by the Guildhall. You had better hurry, he closes early in winter.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see.’ Morton found himself on his feet, although only a moment ago he had been too full and drowsy to move, and most of his beer still stood in its glass. He was glad of this new information, of course, and eager to make enquiries at the letting office; his haste had nothing to do with the man’s glinting eyes, or the way the shadows huddled and plotted on the wall behind him. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Not at all.’
‘Good afternoon.’ Morton fumbled for his cap and gloves, knocking one to the floor; as he bent to retrieve it he saw that the man was sitting in front of a chessboard. ‘Ah,’ he said, conscious that his hurry to get away was unseemly, ‘a fellow enthusiast.’
‘Ye-es,’ the man said, and smiled. ‘You might say that.’
There was a short silence. Morton might, under other circumstances, have lingered for a while longer to indulge in a little learned chatter regarding, say, the relative merits of king’s pawn and queen’s pawn openings. Instead he said, ‘Well, thank you,’ and hurried outside, glad to feel the door shut behind him and cold air on his face.
The letting agent – a little man with spectacles and a threadbare collar – couldn’t conceal his surprise at Morton’s query, but after the first widening of his eyes he said, ‘Yes, yes, indeed, yes,’ and produced a key with great enthusiasm. ‘The black-and-white house,’ he said, ‘my goodness, yes. A very reasonable rent. Very reasonable. Have you looked at other properties in the area?’
Morton explained that he had taken a room in a lodging-house in Ipswich, and that until that day he had not wanted – it had not even occurred to him – to rent a house. He expected further questions, since after all it was hardly a rational position, but after a single twitch of his eyebrows the agent said, ‘Ah, yes, yes, indeed,’ and reached for his hat. ‘I expect you want to view it.’
It was closer than Morton had realised, just on the outskirts of the village, but by the time the agent unlocked the gate the sun had sunk below the trees and the garden was in shadow. In the gathering twilight the topiary seemed massive and solid, like black stone. He paused, turning slowly to look at the ranks on either side of him. Black against black, he thought, and the back of his neck prickled. ‘Mr Morton?’ the agent said, from the doorway. ‘Shall we?’
Morton shook himself. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and hurried forward to lean his bicycle against the wall.
‘As you see, it’s fully furnished,’ the agent said. ‘I understand the current owner takes no interest, so the house is exactly as it was when the old man— yes, well. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but you could move in immediately. This evening, if you wanted!’ He gave a little braying laugh. ‘This way, please…’
It was dark inside; the ceilings were low and the furniture – which was more than a little old-fashioned – took up so much space that Morton had to weave his way around it as he followed the agent. The rooms were long, with wide mullioned windows that glowed bluish in the dusk. They went through into a narrow passage, and then up the stairs; the agent said, ‘Here are the bedrooms,’ but now he was moving quickly, not giving Morton time to look properly. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said, ‘and it’s rather gloomy in here. I don’t want to rush you, but…’
‘Is there gas?’
‘No – lamps, still, I’m afraid. Or candles, of course. But it would spoil the charm to have gas, don’t you think?’ His tone belied the words; he turned, manoeuvred past Morton and went briskly down the stairs. ‘Have you seen enough?’
Morton hesitated, staring through the open door into the bedroom, where there was a bed with hangings, a looking-glass, a table with twisted barley-sugar legs, a candelabra with wax-shrouded, half-burnt candles. But his attention was caught by the view outside, the massed rows of chess pieces waiting on the lawn. It was hard to wrench his gaze away. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Quite enough.’
‘Oh. Well, then, shall we…?’ The agent gestured, with a limp arm. ‘It wouldn’t suit everyone. I can see that. These historic places can be oppressive in the winter.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘And of course—’ He stopped. ‘Pardon me?’
‘I’ll take it,’ Morton repeated. Why were the local people so slow to understand the simplest utterance? ‘I shall have my things brought over tomorrow. Should we go back to your office? I suppose there’s something I should sign.’
‘Oh – no, no, plenty of time, whenever you’ve settled in,’ the agent said, stammering. ‘That’s – well – I’m pleased it suits. We’ll sort out the details of the lease at your convenience.’
Morton nodded. There was a brief silence; then, with a faint incredulity, he realised that the agent was waiting for him, so that they could leave together. ‘I’ll stay here,’ he said. ‘It’s late to cycle back to my lodgings. I imagine I can dine at the Swan?’
‘Certainly, but—’
‘You did say I might move in this evening, if I chose.’
‘I did, yes.’ The agent cleared his throat. ‘It’s up to you, naturally. If you’re anxious to take possession.’ He held out the key. ‘Tomorrow morning, then. You know where to find me. And…’ He shifted from foot to foot; then he added, ‘If you change your mind overnight – we’ll say no more about it.’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ Morton said. ‘I can get a good fire going in the parlour.’
‘Yes. Well, goodnight, then.’ The agent gave him a nod and disappeared. Morton heard his footsteps accelerate along the passage, and the heavy closing of the front door. He waited until he thought the agent would have had time to make his way along the drive and out into the road. Then he heaved a deep, gratified breath, and strode along the passage, feeling the thrill of possession. How unexpected, how miraculous! He could almost laugh at the memory – had it only been this morning? – of seeing the house from the road; now it was his, to explore, to conquer…
In the last few moments night had nearly fallen, so he picked up the candelabra from the table in the bedroom and lit the candles. Then he lifted the candelabra and went from room to room, skirting around clawed-foot chairs and dusty hangings to pick books from shelves, and open cabinets and drawers. The agent had called the house ‘furnished’, but it was more than that; it gave the impression of having been left untouched, of being abandoned between one chime of the clock and the next. Only one room was in perfect order: a child’s bedroom, at the back of the house, with a neat shelf of toys, a miniature cricket bat propped in a corner and, in the window seat, a child-sized chessboard and a pile of books. Morton paused in the doorway; then he shut the door with more force than he needed, and moved on.
In every other room there were traces of the old man: nothing so obvious as food left uneaten, or a half-smoked pipe left on a side-table – but the candles, the soap left on the washstand, the towel hung upon a rail… He found a copy of the Chess Player’s Chronicle in the parlour, splayed across the arm of the couch, as though the reader had wanted to mark his place. In front of it – in the corner of the room, where the shadows gathered – was a chess set, arranged for the beginning of a game. It was made of stone – or was it jet and ivory? Morton picked up a pawn, feeling the oil-smooth weight of it, and then replaced it neatly in front of the queen. Later, perhaps, he would find a chess problem in the Chronicle and study it until he was sleepy enough to retire to bed; he always found them easier when he could contemplate the pieces on a real board. He straightened the pawn with the tip of his finger, ensuring that it was exactly in the middle of its square, and then turned away. As he left the room he had the sudden, irrational sense that he had forgotten something – or made some mistake, like leaving a glass where a careless sleeve would almost certainly catch it, or a window unlatched before a storm. But it was only when he was in the kitchen, taking stock of the dried goods that still remained in the cupboards, that he realised, with a wry smile at his own whimsy: he should, like any polite player, have murmured J’adoube.I
It was freezing. The first thing to do was to dull the biting edge of the cold; and as he stared at the enormous unlit range, Morton had to concede that it was not, in fact, the most convenient place to stay the night. But he seemed to remember that on the way here the agent had mentioned a charwoman – no doubt that accounted for the absence of dust and cobwebs – and tomorrow he could make proper arrangements for her to look after him; in the meantime there was something rather exciting about being here alone, searching in the cupboards for everything he needed. Once, as a child – after some misdemeanour or other – he had hidden for hours, listening with growing pleasure to his mother’s voice as she grew worried and then, finally, afraid. He had let her call for a long time before he finally emerged, savouring his power. He didn’t know why that came into his head now, but he felt a sort of dry, uncharacteristic grin on his face as he rummaged for old newspapers and kindling, and then knelt to build a fire in the great drawing-room hearth. Once he had got the fire going, he sat back on his knees and drew a deep satisfied breath. He had meant to go to the inn for dinner, but he wasn’t hungry, and now that the fire was lit he had no inclination to venture out into the bitter night. He stood up, brushed ash from the knees of his trousers, and crossed to the window to draw the curtains. As he drew them across he paused, struck by the sight of the garden. The moon had risen, tinting the lawn silver, the trees and their shadows a dense black; under its wintry glare the whole world was transformed into pearl and ebony. It was otherworldly, alien, and Morton thought he had never seen anything so lovely.
But he was not the sort of man to be seduced by anything so intangible as beauty. He closed the curtains with such a decisive jerk that a cloud of dust made him cough, and turned back into the room. His eye was caught by a decanter of brandy on the sideboard. He sniffed at it – first gingerly, and then exultantly – and poured a generous measure into one of the glasses that sat beside it. Then he settled beside the hearth, leant back on the couch and presented the soles of his shoes to the fire. He congratulated himself: a house like this, for a minimal rent… The brandy was excellent, the fire was taking the chill out of the air and after the morning’s exercise and the afternoon’s unexpected events he felt almost light-headed. He could feel the heat lapping around his ankles, spreading out into the rest of the room; the crackles of the flames were accompanied by the roar of air in the chimney and the groans of old walls settling. The joists overhead murmured a little as the warm air reached them. As Morton’s eyes began to close he heard a long chain of thuds along the floor, approaching him, and he jolted upright, his heart in his mouth, half expecting to see someone there. His eyes took a moment to focus, and for an instant he thought he saw a dark blur pass and dissolve into nothing before he could blink. His heart skipped a beat. But of course there was no one. It must have been the wood shifting in the joints between the boards; he’d heard other old houses make noises that were uncannily like voices or footsteps. He relaxed, tried to chuckle, and let his head fall back against the corner of the couch. At the same time the leather armchair opposite him, across from the chessboard, gave a little sigh, as though someone had settled into it.
It was easily explained – even more easily than the floorboards: the air inside the cushion must have expanded and contracted, according to some eddy of fire-warmed air. But he couldn’t help staring at the chair with narrowed eyes and a foolishly hammering heart. Nothing moved. The leather held the shape of a body – a man, he thought, bony and narrow-hipped, with the habit of leaning his elbows on the padded arms – and for a fraction of a second Morton almost saw him there, among the dipping fire-shadows. He blinked the image away and took another sip of brandy. The fierce sweetness of it calmed the shiver at the back of his neck. He took a bigger mouthful for luck, and shifted his buttocks, trying to find the comfort of a few moments ago. His gaze drifted to the chessboard.
The white pawn was out of place.
Morton froze. Instead of waiting neatly in line, the pawn had advanced, and was standing clear of the others: the queen’s pawn opening. It was impossible. He had replaced it – hadn’t he said to himself, J’adoube?
But – no. He must have moved it. He had picked it up to feel the weight of it, and put it down again. He must have misremembered its position, that was all. It was the most natural thing in the world, to set that pawn down in a new position – to begin a game, automatically – so automatically it had hardly registered – and then forget – so that now, absurdly, staring down at it, he felt stuck, short of breath… He reached out, but his hand stopped above the board as though he had encountered a pane of glass. He didn’t want to touch it. He remembered the heft of it in his palm, and the faint greasiness that had made him wonder if it was ivory, not stone.
He drew back. Some instinct made him raise his eyes again to the armchair in the shadows: but it was empty, and the contours of the leather were impersonal, after all, just the shape of an old chair, imprinted by years of use. The electricity that had tingled in Morton’s spine died, leaving only weariness. This was the effect of exertion and excitement and – he glanced at his glass, noting that he had drunk nearly all of his brandy – intemperance. He swallowed the last drops and set the goblet down beside the chessboard. It was time for bed.
He slept uneasily. The bedroom was icy, and he had been too squeamish to crawl under the blankets, choosing instead to lie fully dressed on the eiderdown and cover himself with his overcoat; so perhaps it was unsurprising that in his dreams he was back in his dormitory at boarding school, part-remembering, part-reinventing the endless mischiefs and tricks that he had inflicted on other boys. When he awoke – as soon as he understood where he was, for the vivid aftermath of his dream hung like fog in front of his eyes for a few moments – he thought of coffee, hot shaving-water, and the merry fire in the breakfast-room of his lodging-house. He cursed. What had possessed him to stay here – worse, to have agreed to rent the place? He swung himself stiffly off the bed and hobbled into the passage and down the stairs, groaning aloud.
But when he passed the window at the head of the staircase his spirits lifted. The day was as clear as a diamond; the garden was silvery green in the dawn, the topiary a miracle of symmetry. It would, after all, take very little to make this place habitable. Good fires, clean sheets, a delivery of groceries and the services of some respectable biddy, and then he would be – Morton smiled – the master of all he surveyed… He hurried down the stairs and out into the bright, bracing air; a minute later he was sailing down the drive on his bicycle, in and out of the shadows of the trees, and then out onto the road that led to the village.
And he had a most satisfactory morning. If the agent was taken aback that Morton was still as eager as ever to rent the black-and-white house, he concealed it admirably, and dealt so briskly with the papers that Morton left his office within a quarter of an hour. He even gave Morton the address of the charwoman who was in the habit of dusting the rooms every week or so; and she, with the glint of avarice in her eyes, agreed to provide food for Morton to heat up, and to manage his washing and ironing and any other domestic details that might prove necessary. Morton left her cottage and rode along the High Street with a light heart, whistling. He had only foreseen a temporary sojourn here – a few months at most, until that unfortunate entanglement at home had blown over – but he might stay here longer, even permanently… He stopped at the post office, to send instructions to his lodging-house to have his things delivered; then he went to break his fast at the inn. This time he sat deliberately on the other side of the room, feeling a mysterious reluctance to encounter the gentleman who had spoken to him previously; but, it being market day, the room was packed with farmers and traders, and when the crowds parted enough for Morton to glimpse the shadowy corner opposite he saw that it was empty, and even the chair and chessboard had been removed, presumably to allow a greater crush of people.
He took a long detour on his journey back to the house, enjoying the exercise and the clean breeze in his face, and arrived back to find that, as agreed, the charwoman’s son had left a meat pie and a pot of some sweetish-smelling pudding on the doorstep. Morton put them in the kitchen and – after a long battle – lit the range, hissing with triumph when the sooty old beast finally bent to his will. A little while later he had hot water. He performed his overdue ablutions as best he could – although he used a half-petrified bar of old soap, he stopped short at using another man’s razor – and then, with a pleasing sense that he had done all his chores, he took himself into the library, lit another fire there and began to peruse the bookshelves. Clearly the previous inhabitant had not been much of a reader, for Morton took down book after book – all handsome editions of the classics – only to discover that their pages were uncut. He put them back and moved on, until he came across a little cloth-bound volume on local history, more a pamphlet than a book. He flipped through the pages, which were dotted with neat line-sketches of notable buildings: the Guildhall, the church, and – aha! – the black-and-white house itself.
Built in the late seventeenth century by Sir Jeremiah Hope, of whom we know little except that he was known by his neighbours, in a play on his surname, as ‘Abandon’… More recently, the house has become notable for its formal garden and elaborate topiary, created by the current inhabitant, Mr E. E. Hope, M.A. (Cantab.) in memory of his son, who inherited his father’s passion for chess, becoming a prodigy before his tragic death at the tender age of…
Morton yawned and flicked forward, but there was very little more on the house, and nothing of interest. He settled himself on a chaise longue and let the book slide to the floor. After his broken night, his bicycle ride, and the day’s achievements, he was drowsy; he slept, and dozed, and slept again. Finally he surfaced, with a clear head and an appetite for dinner. As he got up, his mind running ahead to the meat pie, he hardly noticed the pamphlet underfoot; going out into the passage he shut the library door, and forgot it entirely.
After dinner – which was substantial if not especially enjoyable – he retired to the parlour. He cleaned out the grate, clumsily, getting ash on his trousers, and resolved to tell the charwoman, when she came, to make up every fire in the house; then he poured himself another brandy, lit the candles against the gathering dusk and sat down in the place he’d sat the evening before. It was then that he remembered the little book, and wondered whether he could be bothered to brave the draughty passage to go and get it; but no, there was the Chess Player’s Chronicle, and the board set ready. Perhaps, if he was going to stay here for a long time, he should prepare a programme of reading or correspondence to while away the solitary hours. In the meantime, there would be several meaty problems in the Chronicle to pass the time until he felt tired enough for bed. He took up the journal. By chance it fell open on a page of problems, with their neat little hieroglyphs and chequered tiles. By R. B. Wormald, B.A., London. White to play and mate in three moves. At first glance he could see a promising first attack – the bishop to take the rook – but there was a tempting pawn on the last rank of the board, which would take only one move to transform into a queen. He pulled the chessboard towards him, to set it out. His heart stuttered.
Another piece had been moved.
Morton noted, automatically, that it was the Dutch Defence: the bishop’s pawn had advanced two squares, unbalancing the board, an aggressive but dangerous move, weakening the king… But that was by-the-by. There was no possibility that he had moved the black pawn himself. Last night he could blame forgetfulness or even drunkenness; but now he was sure – icily, sickly sure – that he had not touched the black piece. And yet it was there. The two pawns faced each other across the ranks. A riposte. As though an unseen opponent had—
He raised his eyes to the chair. His neck and head muscles were rigid, as if he were bracing himself for a shock: but the chair was empty. Of course the chair was empty. There was only the old leather, with its cracks and valleys, the memory of limbs and fingers. Absence. He stared at it, reluctant to blink. The firelight flickered and played, and the shadows slid over the walls; the wood gleamed, smooth as water, dustless…
Morton exhaled, sharply. The charwoman must have been here. It must have been she who moved the black piece – or her son, perhaps, when he came to drop off the food. Yes, more likely to be the son – the charwoman was old and ignorant, hardly the type to play chess – but whichever of them it was, it was a cheek, a damned cheek, Morton thought. He wondered fleetingly if the woman might have knocked the pawn with a duster. But the move was considered – a true reply to his opening – and it could hardly be a coincidence. It was definitely intentional, and definitely the son. He must have some rudiments of education. Morton clenched his jaw. He didn’t believe for a second that the boy wanted an honest game of chess; boys were nasty little beasts. No, it was to get a rise out of him. How dare he? Morton remembered a similar campaign at school, which had been successful – too successful. Well, he was not going to fall for it.
He considered the chessboard for another moment. Then, with a quick gesture, he pushed his king’s pawn forward to the square beside its fellow. The Staunton gambit: offering a pawn as sacrifice, in order to launch an attack on the black king. That would show the little bastard that he wasn’t scared. He sat back, rubbing his hands on his thighs, imagining the look of disappointment on the little boy’s face when he realised that Morton had called his bluff.
But that flash of satisfaction died almost as soon as Morton felt it, and a few seconds later he got up and paced, first to the sideboard and then to the window. He pulled the curtain aside, but the garden was in darkness – clouds blotted out the moon and stars – and he saw nothing more than indistinct patches of deeper black where the trees stood against an obscure sky. Moving his own pawn would only encourage the child, the last thing he wanted to do. He tapped his fingernails against the glass, considering, but the noise rang out oddly in the quiet room and after a moment he dropped his hand. The most dignified course of action would be to set the pieces back in their places. Or – better still – to put them away, out of sight. The boy could hardly ask what had happened to them, could he? And Morton’s own appetite for chess problems had lost its keenness; indeed, the presence of the board behind him made his vertebrae tingle, like a hostile gaze. He swung round to look at it. It was absurd, but he wished, heartily wished, that he had not played that counter-move.
The candles were burning low. Now the shortest one flared, licking thirstily upwards. As Morton watched, the shadows in the corner leant forward, avid; then the candle flame shrank to a tiny bubble of blue, and vanished. For a second – while his eyes adjusted – the stains on the chair seemed to grow solid, like a vessel filling with smoke, so that a casual glance might have given the impression that there was someone there. Something in Morton’s insides tightened, and with a sudden resolve he strode across to the chessboard, reached for the box and threw the pieces into it higgledy-piggledy. There were two compartments for black and white, but he ignored them; he pushed and pushed at the lid until at last something gave – was it the head of a bishop, snapping off? – and it slid shut. The sound echoed off the walls. He had never stopped halfway through a game before, never begged for quarter, never admitted weakness. He felt it now, even though he was alone: a curious mixture of shame and defiance and, underneath, a creeping unease. Another candle dipped, threatening to gutter. He flinched. Somehow the thought of being left here, alone with the leaping firelight, was unbearable. He grabbed convulsively at the stem of the candelabra and went out into the passage; and although the skin between his shoulder blades crawled, he didn’t allow himself to glance back.
It took a very long time for Morton to fall asleep. He despised those who dwelt unnecessarily on the past, but for some reason he found memories of his school days running through his mind’s eye, over and over. He could see the boy who had been so terrorised by their jokes – Simms Minor, was it, or Simmons? – and his wide eyes, the night he had asked Morton for help… He had been a weakling, anyway. He should have dealt with their treatment of him as Morton had dealt with the chess set: sweeping it away, disdainfully. That was the manly thing to do. And the accident— well, that was hardly Morton’s fault. But nonetheless Morton felt sticky and uncomfortable, and tossed and turned on the eiderdown, wrapping himself more tightly in his overcoat.
But he must have dozed, because he awoke. There was a peculiar stillness in the air – the same stillness he had remarked when he first saw the house through the gate, as though the world itself was listening. He had the impression that some particular sound, now extinguished, had woken him: that, or a movement inside the room, like a person coming within a few feet of his bed. It was not the latter, since when he sat up he was clearly alone. Clearly, because the moon had come out from behind the clouds, and was shining in through the window-panes in squares of black and white.
He pulled his coat closer about his shoulders and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was icy under his bare feet, but he got up and padded silently to the window. He stood there, waiting for the sound to repeat itself. He heard nothing, not even the call of an owl or the rattle of a draught hissing through the gaps in the window frame. Could it have been the very depth of silence that jerked him out of sleep? But no, he was sure – almost sure – that he had heard something. He tried to describe it to himself: a low grinding, a deep resonant creak, halfway between wood and stone. He stared down at the trees, feeling a kind of vertigo that was not quite fear. The unearthly light – the dark shapes against the moon-drenched sky – the clarity of outline, the density of the shadows… He felt the space contract, so that for a sickly second the chess pieces were both huge and small enough to fit in his hand. He shut his eyes, but it made him dizzy and he hastily opened them again. The shadows flickered against the pale glare of the moon, seeming to shift.
He clutched at the window frame. He’d thought – only for an instant, he’d seen— No. No, nothing had changed, nothing had moved. It should have been reassuring to see all the trees lined up, orderly, exactly as they should have been: but the pressure built in his ears, humming. If he saw one of the trees move forward – the pawn, say, advancing across the silver expanse of grass – then he would know he was hallucinating, he would almost be relieved. But this sense of waiting – and that weight in the air, the immobile trees, the game set out – it was unbearable, terrifying, somehow worse; and he couldn’t move, he couldn’t turn away.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, gazing at the pieces, waiting for something that never came. At last he became conscious that the moon had dipped behind the house, a soft breeze was murmuring in the chimney and his feet were numb with cold. He hobbled back to bed; and, unexpectedly, he dropped swiftly into sleep, exhausted as though from some great struggle.
He was roused by knocking. He rolled blearily down the staircase and along the passage, rubbing his eyes, and wrenched open the front door. A small boy was standing there, with a pudding basin and a parcel in brown paper. He thrust them towards Morton.
‘… Empties,’ he mumbled.
‘What?’
‘My ma said to collect the empties.’
‘You can have them tomorrow,’ Morton said, and started to shut the door.
‘You’ll be snowed in tomorrow.’
Morton paused. In his half-asleep hurry to answer the door he had hardly noticed, but it was true that there was a new rawness to the wind, and the low clouds were flat and featureless. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Wait here.’ A few moments later he returned with the empty pot and pie-dish and held them out. The boy was shifting from foot to foot as though he needed the lavatory; he grabbed at the dirty crockery, shoved it into a knapsack and turned to leave without another word. His haste – although not quite insolent – flicked Morton on the raw: he was paying the child’s mother’s wages, wasn’t he?
‘I say,’ Morton said, ‘not so fast. You’ve been messing about in the parlour, haven’t you? Well, you can jolly well stop it.’
The boy stared at him. ‘En’t been inside,’ he said, after a pause.
‘Your mother, then. I’m not an idiot.’ Morton glared at him, but the boy held his gaze, his expression blank. ‘Tell her not to fiddle with anything. As she did yesterday. Just tell her to keep her hands off things, all right?’
‘She en’t been in yesterday, either,’ the boy said. ‘She only cleans on Sundays. Sundays there’s nothing walking.’
‘What?’ But the boy didn’t answer. He hunched his shoulders and let them drop again. Morton took a deep breath. ‘The gardener, then. There is a gardener, isn’t there?’
‘He en’t got a key to the house. Only does the trees.’
‘Well – whoever it is,’ Morton said, ‘if I catch them at it…’
The boy went on staring at him, chewing his lip. Finally – as if Morton had missed some opportunity – he turned away. He walked down the drive with his eyes on the ground, and when he had cleared the last rank of trees he broke into a run.
Morton watched the boy until he had slammed the gate shut and disappeared along the road. Then he turned back into the house, shivering. Now he had time to notice, he could smell the metallic tang of snow. Perhaps, after all, it was foolishness to stay here; perhaps a room at the Swan might be more cheerful… But that would mean admitting defeat. He went into the parlour, slapping his arms against his body to warm himself, and knelt to see to the fire. His hands were stiff and his head was aching. He fumbled for a long time with matches and sheets of newspaper before the fire eventually took hold. Then he collapsed onto the sofa. He might be coming down with something; he was neither hungry nor thirsty, although when he consulted his watch he discovered that he had slept very late, and it was well past noon.
A single flake of snow drifted past the window, pale against the grey sky. He blinked, wondering whether it had been a trick of his eyes, but then there was another and another, until a whirling veil blotted out the low clouds. Slowly Morton relaxed. It was comforting to be inside, beside the crackling fire, while the noiseless storm swirled around the house. He sank into a kind of trance, watching the white dance of the blizzard, the almost-shapes that blew and billowed against the window-panes. This time – perhaps it was because it was colder outside than before – the groans and murmurs as the warmth spread through the room were louder and more distinct: the creaking of hinges, the pattern of knocking in the floorboards that sounded so like footsteps, the sigh of the chair… He turned his head, reflexively, although he knew that there would be no one there.
The chess set was on the table.
The blood roared in his ears. He took in a trembling breath. Surely he was seeing things: but no, it was there, perfectly solid, one bishop splintered at the neck where he had pushed it too roughly into the box. Four pawns were out of place, two white, two black. Someone had set it out, painstakingly, and played another move. Someone who had been in the house; someone who was not the charwoman, or the gardener, or the boy.
And it had not been there when Morton knelt to make up the fire.
He sat very still. He would have liked to cry out, or run from the room, but he could do neither. For a long, horrible moment he thought he might never move again. Then, at last, a wave of anger came over him, strong enough to drive away the terror that had paralysed him. He pushed himself forward and with shaking hands swept the set into its box, ducking for a pawn that rolled to the floor. Then he shuffled to the fire on his knees, and dumped the box and its contents into the flames. The fire sank under the new weight, and, horrified, he reached for the poker; but then it flared, leaping around the box, catching at the corners and gulping at the pieces that jutted from the top. Dark crowns and towers and horse-heads were silhouetted against the red-gold dazzle. Then they were gone, enveloped in flames, and the room was full of jumping firelight. Morton felt triumph flood through him. He sat back, breathing hard. Then he glanced into the corner and the air caught in his throat.
There was a man in the chair.
A malevolent, eager, hungry old man, made of shadows and hollows: there and not there, withered and thread-thin but dreadful, a man whose only wish was to win…
How Morton got to his feet he didn’t know; how he staggered to the door and into the passage, how he made his way blindly to the door and out… He never knew how he stumbled out into the snow, or whether he cried for help, or whether that terrible shadow-man followed him; all he felt was the consciousness of his own powerlessness, and an appalling, desperate panic. He had no time to wonder who the man was, or to care. All he knew was the awful burden of his mistakes, and the impossibility, now, of ever righting them.
It caused little surprise that Morton did not stay in the black-and-white house; no one ever did. Since the old man died there only a few strangers had remained more than a few hours under that roof, and all of them had left without notice and never returned. It was generally assumed that Morton, like the others, had found the atmosphere unwelcoming, and had packed his things and made his way back to wherever he came from; and the local people, who were pleased not to concern themselves with the house, were equally pleased not to concern themselves with Morton. If it had not been for the snow, no one, not even the agent, would have given him a second thought. As it was, only Robbie, the charwoman’s boy, questioned what had become of him; and he told such an outlandish story that his mother instructed him sternly to hold his tongue.
It seemed that, the next morning, when the storm had blown over and the sun had risen, little Robbie had ventured out to play. The world was glittering white, the sky blue and gold with winter sunshine, and he had wandered a long way, throwing desultory snowballs and wading through drifts. When he finally turned for home his path brought him past the back gate of the black-and-white house. He paused, shivering, to look through the bars, and saw… something. In the end his curiosity overtook his habitual wariness of the place, and he crept forward into the dazzling space to look more closely.
What he saw was the footprints of a man, emerging from the front door: blurred by the wind and more snow, but still unmistakable. He had walked – run, perhaps – in a straight line for a little while, until he was between the ranks of trees, and then… Then, Robbie said, the tracks changed. They were jagged, zig-zagging, in broken lines, as though he had gone hither and thither like a man in a maze, and now and then he had fallen and struggled again to his feet. If he had been running from something, it had left no trace in the white snow. But the strangest thing, Robbie said, was that the tracks ended so abruptly, at the foot of one of the taller trees; as though Morton had disappeared entirely, taken by the black king.