A Twist in the Tale

by Jeffrey Archer

  She checked her watch. “Time for a quick one,” she said, taking a seat behind the little white pieces.

  I quickly took my place opposite her. She smiled, picked up a white and a black bishop and hid them behind her back. Her dress became even tighter and emphasized the shape of her breasts. She then placed both clenched fists in front of me. I touched her right hand and she turned it over and opened it to reveal a white bishop.

  “Is there to be a wager of any kind?” I asked lightheartedly. She checked inside her evening bag.

  “I only have a few pounds on me,” she said.

  “I’d be willing to play for lower stakes.”

  “What do you have in mind?” she asked.

  “What can you offer?”

  “What would you like?”

  “Ten pounds if you win.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “You take something off.”

  I regretted the words the moment I had said them and waited for her to slap my face and leave but she said simply, “There’s not much harm in that if we only play one game.”

  I nodded my agreement and stared down at the board.

  She wasn’t a bad player—what the pros call a patzer—though her Roux opening was somewhat orthodox. I managed to make the game last twenty minutes while sacrificing several pieces without making it look too obvious. When I said “Checkmate,” she kicked off both her shoes and laughed.

  “Care for another drink?” I asked, not feeling too hopeful. “After all, it’s not yet eleven.”

  “All right. Just a small one and then I must be off.”

  I went to the kitchen, returned a moment later clutching the bottle, and refilled her glass.

  “I only wanted half a glass,” she said, frowning.

  “I was lucky to win,” I said, ignoring her remark, “after your bishop captured my knight. Extremely close-run thing.”

  “Perhaps,” she replied.

  “Care for another game?” I ventured.

  She hesitated.

  “Double or quits?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Twenty pounds or another garment?”

  “Neither of us is going to lose much tonight, are we?”

  She pulled up her chair as I turned the board round and we both began to put the ivory pieces back in place.

  The second game took a little longer as I made a silly mistake early on, castling on my queen’s side, and it took several moves to recover. However, I still managed to finish the game off in under thirty minutes and even found time to refill Amanda’s glass when she wasn’t looking.

  She smiled at me as she hitched her dress up high enough to allow me to see the tops of her stockings. She undid the suspenders and slowly peeled the stockings off before dropping them on my side of the table.

  “I nearly beat you that time,” she said.

  “Almost,” I replied. “Want another chance to get even? Let’s say fifty pounds this time,” I suggested, trying to make the offer sound magnanimous.

  “The stakes are getting higher for both of us,” she replied as she reset the board. I began to wonder what might be going through her mind. Whatever it was, she foolishly sacrificed both her rooks early on and the game was over in a matter of minutes.

  Once again she lifted her dress but this time well above her waist. My eyes were glued to her thighs as she undid the black suspender belt and held it high above my head before letting it drop and join her stockings on my side of the table.

  “Once I had lost the second rook,” she said, “I was never in with a chance.”

  “I agree. It would therefore only be fair to allow you one more chance,” I said, quickly resetting the board. “After all,” I added, “you could win one hundred pounds this time.” She smiled.

  “I really ought to be going home,” she said as she moved her queen’s pawn two squares forward. She smiled that enigmatic smile again as I countered with my bishop’s pawn.

  It was the best game she had played all evening and her use of the Warsaw gambit kept me at the board for over thirty minutes. In fact I damn nearly lost early on because I found it hard to concentrate property on her defense strategy. A couple of times Amanda chuckled when she thought she had got the better of me, but it became obvious she had not seen Karpov play the Sicilian defense and win from a seemingly impossible position.

  “Checkmate,” I finally declared.

  “Damn,” she said, and standing up turned her back on me. “You’ll have to give me a hand.” Trembling, I leaned over and slowly pulled the zip down until it reached the small of her back. Once again I wanted to touch the smooth, creamy skin. She swung round to face me, shrugged gracefully and the dress fell to the ground as if a statue were being unveiled. She leaned forward and brushed the side of my cheek with her hand, which had much the same effect as an electric shock. I emptied the last of the bottle of wine into her glass and left for the kitchen with the excuse of needing to refill my own. When I returned she hadn’t moved. A gauzy black bra and pair of panties were now the only garments that I still hoped to see removed.

  “I don’t suppose you’d play one more game?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

  “It’s time you took me home,” she said with a giggle.

  I passed her another glass of wine. “Just one more,” I begged. “But this time it must be for both garments.”

  She laughed. “Certainly not,” she said. “I couldn’t afford to lose.”

  “It would have to be the last game,” I agreed. “But two hundred pounds this time and we play for both garments.” I waited, hoping the size of the wager would tempt her. “The odds must surely be on your side. After all, you’ve nearly won three times.”

  She sipped her drink as if considering the proposition. “All right,” she said. “One last fling.”

  Neither of us voiced our feeling as to what was certain to happen if she lost.

  I could not stop myself trembling as I set the board up once again. I cleared my mind, hoping she hadn’t noticed that I had drunk only one glass of wine all night. I was determined to finish this one off quickly.

  I moved my queen’s pawn one square forward. She retaliated, pushing her king’s pawn up two squares. I knew exactly what my next move needed to be and because of it the game only lasted eleven minutes.

  I have never been so comprehensively beaten in my life. Amanda was in a totally different class to me. She anticipated my every move and had gambits I had never encountered or even read of before.

  It was her turn to say “Checkmate,” which she delivered with the same enigmatic smile as before, adding, “You did say the odds were on my side this time.”

  I lowered my head in disbelief. When I looked up again, she had already slipped that beautiful black dress back on, and was stuffing the stockings and suspenders into her evening bag. A moment later she put on her shoes.

  I took out my checkbook, filled in the name “Amanda Curzon” and added the figure “£200,” the date and my signature. While I was writing out the check she replaced the little ivory pieces on the exact squares on which they had been when she had first entered the room.

  She bent over and kissed me gently on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said as she placed the check in her handbag. “We must play again sometime.” I was still staring at the reset board in disbelief when I heard the front door close behind her.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, rushing to the door. “How will you get home?”

  I was just in time to see her running down the steps and toward the open door of a BMW. She climbed in, allowing me one more look at those long tapering legs. She smiled as the car door was closed behind her.

  The accountant strolled round to the driver’s side, got in, revved up the engine and drove the champion home.

  HONOR AMONG THIEVES

  THE FIRST OCCASION I met Sefton Hamilton was in late August last year when my wife and I were dining with Henry and Suzanne Kennedy at their home in Warwick Squar
e.

  Hamilton was one of those unfortunate men who have inherited immense wealth but not a lot more. He was able quickly to convince us that he had little time to read and no time to attend the theater or opera. However, this did not prevent him from holding opinions on every subject from Shaw to Pavarotti, from Gorbachev to Picasso. He remained puzzled, for instance, as to what the unemployed had to complain about when their dole packet was only just less than what he was currently paying the laborers on his estate. In any case, they only spent it on bingo and drinking, he assured us.

  Drinking brings me to the other dinner guest that night. Freddie Barker, the President of the Wine Society, sat opposite my wife and unlike Hamilton hardly uttered a word. Henry had assured me over the phone that Barker not only had managed to get the Society back onto a proper financial footing but was also acknowledged as a leading authority on his subject. I looked forward to picking up useful bits of inside information. Whenever Barker was allowed to get a word in edgeways, he showed enough knowledge of the topic under discussion to convince me that he would be fascinating on his own subject if only Hamilton would remain silent long enough for him to speak.

  While our hostess produced as a starter a spinach soufflé that melted in the mouth, Henry moved round the table pouring each of us a glass of wine.

  Barker sniffed his appreciatively. “Appropriate in bicentennial year that we should be drinking an Australian Chablis of such fine vintage. I feel sure their whites will soon be making the French look to their laurels.”

  “Australian?” said Hamilton in disbelief as he put down his glass. “How could a nation of beer-swiggers begin to understand the first thing about producing a half-decent wine?”

  “I think you’ll find,” began Barker, “that the Australians—”

  “Bicentennial indeed,” Hamilton continued. “Let’s face it, they’re only celebrating two hundred years of parole.” No one laughed except Hamilton. “I’d still pack the rest of our criminals off there, given half a chance.”

  No one doubted him.

  Hamilton sipped the wine tentatively, like a man who fears he is about to be poisoned, then began to explain why, in his considered view, judges were far too lenient with petty criminals. I found myself concentrating more on the food than the incessant flow of my neighbor’s views.

  I always enjoy Beef Wellington, and Suzanne can produce a pastry that doesn’t flake when cut and meat that’s so tender that once one has finished a first helping, Oliver Twist comes to mind. It certainly helped me to endure Hamilton’s pontificating. Barker just about managed to pass an appreciative comment to Henry on the quality of the claret between Hamilton’s opinions on the chances of Paddy Ashdown reviving the Liberal Party and the future role of Arthur Scar-gill in the trade union movement, allowing no one the chance to reply.

  “I don’t allow my staff to belong to any union,” Hamilton declared, gulping down his drink. “I run a closed shop.” He laughed once more at his own joke and held his empty glass high in the air as if it would be filled by magic. In fact it was filled by Henry with a discretion that shamed Hamilton—not that he noticed. In the brief pause that followed, my wife suggested that perhaps the trade union movement had been born out of a response to a genuine social need.

  “Balderdash, madam,” said Hamilton. “With great respect, the trade unions have been the single most important factor in the decline of Britain as we know it. They’ve no interest in anybody but themselves. You only have to look at Ron Todd and the whole Ford fiasco to understand that.”

  Suzanne began to clear the plates away and I noticed she took the opportunity to nudge Henry, who quickly changed the subject.

  Moments later a raspberry meringue glazed with a thick sauce appeared. It seemed a pity to cut such a creation but Suzanne carefully divided six generous helpings like a nanny feeding her charges while Henry uncorked a 1981 Sauternes. Barker literally licked his lips in anticipation.

  “And another thing,” Hamilton was saying. “The Prime Minister has got far too many Wets in her Cabinet for my liking.”

  “With whom would you replace them?” asked Barker innocently.

  Herod would have had little trouble in convincing the list of gentlemen Hamilton proffered that the slaughter of the innocents was merely an extension of the child care program.

  Once again I became more interested in Suzanne’s culinary efforts, especially as she had allowed me an indulgence: Cheddar was to be served as the final course. I knew the moment I tasted it that it had been purchased from the Alvis Brothers’ farm in Keynsham; we all have to be knowledgeable about something, and Cheddar is my speciality.

  To accompany the cheese, Henry supplied a port which was to be the highlight of the evening. “Sandeman 1970,” he said in an aside to Barker as he poured the first drops into the expert’s glass.

  “Yes, of course,” said Barker, holding it to his nose. “I would have known it anywhere. Typical Sandeman warmth but with real body. I hope you’ve laid some down, Henry,” he added. “You’ll enjoy it even more in your old age.”

  “Think you’re a bit of an authority on wines, do you?” said Hamilton, the first question he had asked all evening.

  “Not exactly,” began Barker, “but I—”

  “You’re all a bunch of humbugs, the lot of you,” interrupted Hamilton. “You sniff and you swirl, you taste and you spit, then you spout a whole lot of gobbledegook and expect us to swallow it. Body and warmth be damned. You can’t take me in that easily.”

  “No one was trying to take you in,” said Barker with feeling.

  “You’ve been keen to put one over on us all evening,” retorted Hamilton, “with your ‘Yes, of course, I’d have known it anywhere’ routine. Come on, admit it.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest—” began Barker.

  “I’ll prove it, if you like,” said Hamilton.

  The five of us stared at the ungracious guest and, for the first time that evening, I wondered what could possibly be coming next.

  “I have heard it said,” continued Hamilton, “that Sefton Hall boasts one of the finest wine cellars in England. It was laid down by my father and his father before him, though I confess I haven’t found the time to continue the tradition.” Barker nodded in belief. “But my butler knows exactly what I like. I therefore invite you, sir, to join me for lunch on the Saturday after next, when I will produce four wines of the finest vintage for your consideration. And I offer you a wager,” he added, looking straight at Barker. “Five hundred pounds to fifty a bottle—tempting odds, I’m sure you’ll agree—that you will be unable to name any of them.” He stared belligerently at the distinguished President of the Wine Society.

  “The sum is so large that I could not consider—”

  “Unwilling to take up the challenge, eh, Barker? Then you are, sir, a coward as well as a humbug.”

  After the embarrassing pause that followed, Barker replied, “As you wish, sir. It appears I am left with no choice but to accept your challenge.”

  A satisfied grin appeared on the other man’s face. “You must come along as a witness, Henry,” he said, turning to our host. “And why don’t you bring along that author Johnny?” he added, pointing at me. “Then he’ll really have something to write about for a change.”

  From Hamilton’s manner it was obvious that the feelings of our wives were not to be taken into consideration. Mary gave me a wry smile.

  Henry looked anxiously toward me, but I was quite content to be an observer of this unfolding drama. I nodded my assent.

  “Good,” said Hamilton, rising from his place, his napkin still tucked under his collar. “I look forward to seeing the three of you at Sefton Hall on Saturday week. Shall we say twelve thirty?” He bowed to Suzanne.

  “I won’t be able to join you, I’m afraid,” she said, clearing up any lingering doubt she might have been included in the invitation. “I always have lunch with my mother on Saturdays.”

  Hamilton waved a hand to sig
nify that it did not concern him one way or the other.

  After Hamilton had left we sat in silence for some moments before Henry volunteered a statement. “I’m sorry about Hamilton,” he began. “His mother and my aunt are old friends and she’s asked me on several occasions to have him over to dinner. It seems no one else will.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Barker eventually. “I’ll do my best not to let you down. And in return for such excellent hospitality perhaps both of you would be kind enough to leave Saturday evening free? There is,” he explained, “an inn near Sefton Hall I have wanted to visit for some time: the Hamilton Arms. The food, I’m assured, is more than adequate but the wine list is…” he hesitated, “considered by experts to be exceptional.”

  Henry and I both checked our diaries and readily accepted his invitation.

  * * *

  I thought a great deal about Sefton Hamilton during the next ten days and awaited our lunch with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. On the Saturday morning Henry drove the three of us down to Sefton Park and we arrived a little after twelve thirty. Actually we passed through the massive wrought-iron gates at twelve thirty precisely, but did not reach the front door of the hall until twelve thirty-seven.

  The great oak door was opened before we had a chance to knock by a tall elegant man in a tail coat, wing collar and black tie. He informed us that he was Adams, the butler. He then escorted us to the morning room, where we were greeted by a large log fire. Above it hung a picture of a disapproving man who I presumed was Sefton Hamilton’s grandfather. On the other walls were a massive tapestry of the Battle of Waterloo and an enormous oil of the Crimean War. Antique furniture littered the room and the one sculpture on display was of a Greek figure throwing a discus. Looking around, I reflected that only the telephone belonged to the present century.

  Sefton Hamilton entered the room as a gale might hit an unhappy seaside town. Immediately he stood with his back to the fire, blocking any heat we might have been appreciating.