on good terms with the girls who'd spent the night with me.
We went to the cinema and theatre together, and
occasionally we'd go for long walks in the forests around
Oslo. I told her several stories, though now only when she
asked for them, but we no longer lay together in the bilberry
bushes. We didn't share Maria's bed at the campus either.
The bilberries were ripe now. I missed her body.
One warm summer's evening when we'd thrown our-
selves down on the manicured landscape in front of
Frognerseter's caf? and restaurant, I spent several hours
relating a long story about a chess game with living pieces.
This was after we'd spoken to a Scots couple who'd pointed
across Oslofjord and remarked how like Scotland Norway
was. I made the story up as I went along; it had a large cast of
characters, and Maria was particularly impressed by the way
I managed to think up all the Scottish names. The basic
outlines of the story were these:
Lord Hamilton had been widowed early in life and lived on a large
estate in the Scottish Highlands. From his childhood he'd been an
ardent chess player and, as he also loved being out in the sumptuous
garden behind his stately home, he'd built a large, outdoor chess
board in the open space between an intricate maze of clipped hedges
and a fine fish-pond. The chess board itself consisted of sixty-four
black and white marble slabs two metres square, and the chessmen,
which were of carved wood, were between two and three feet high
depending on the value and rank of the individual piece. The
servants of the house might stand at the windows and watch their
master moving about the marble slabs and shifting the huge
chessmen late on summer evenings. He sometimes seated himself
in a garden chair, and then it could be an hour before he rose to make
the next move.
The laird had a loud bell that he rang when he wanted his butler
to bring him a tray of whisky and water, and sometimes the butler
would ask him if he wasn't coming indoors soon. He was solicitous
for his master's health and, at the back of his mind, there was
probably also the fear that Lord Hamilton's sorrow at the loss of his
wife, combined with his passionate love of chess, might one day turn
his brain. This nascent anxiety was in no way diminished when one
evening the laird told him to stand on the chessboard and pretend to
be the black knight, as the real black knight had gone in for repair
after a violent thunderstorm. For almost two hours the butler stood
on the chessboard, and only occasionally in the course of the game
did the laird come out on to the marble slabs and push him two
squares forward and one to the side, or one square back and two to
the side. When, finally, he was taken by a white bishop and could
at last return to the house ? though many hours before the game
itself was over? he was cold and cross, but naturally most relieved as
well.
When the laird moved the black and white chessmen, it was
impossible to tell if he favoured one side or the other in the game.
This was because he was in fact playing both sides as well as he
could, he was playing both for and against himself, so he both won
and lost every game, unless it ended in a stalemate. But with
growing frequency he would also carry all the chessmen off the board
and place them on the great lawn. Then, for hours, he would sit
staring out over the marble squares. His employees said that in this
state he could see the chessmen on the board even though they
weren't there, and so could play against himself without even getting
up from his chair.
For a long time the butler had been doing what he could to make
the laird think of other things besides chess, and one evening he
suggested that Hamilton should hold a summer party as they'd done
in the days when her ladyship had been alive. This was one of the
rare evenings when the laird, who generally preferred his own
company, had offered the butler a glass of whisky, and now they
were both seated beside the fish-pond, whisky glass in one hand and
lit cigar in the other. The laird sat for some moments following one
of the carp with his eyes before he turned to the butler and signalled
his agreement that a summer party was an excellent idea, but that
he should prefer a masquerade.
For an hour or two they sat there drawing up a guest list, but
from the moment Hamilton mentioned that he wanted precisely 31
guests, the butler's suspicions were aroused, for he was all too aware
that there were 32 pieces in a game of chess, and his two-hour ordeal
on the chessboard at the laird's heartless behest was still fresh in his
memory. The laird made no bones about the fact that one of the
objects of the prospective masquerade was a chess tournament with
live chessmen as a kind of after-dinner entertainment. An invitation
was sent out several days later announcing that a chess masquerade
was to be held at the Hamilton mansion at which the respective
guest was requested to come dressed as a king, queen, castle, bishop,
knight or pawn. The guests who were to be pawns really were sons
of the local soil, eight farmers and eight farmers' wives, and the
pieces were either army officers, senior officials or representatives of
the nobility or aristocracy.
The butler wasn't surprised when everyone accepted the invita-
tion, because although Lord Hamilton had been a grumbler of
almost unrivalled proportions in recent years, both he end his house
stood in high regard. With the single exception of the Duke of
Argyll, who'd been invited to come dressed as a king, the laird
outranked all his guests. For the farmers who'd been invited, the
mere chance to visit the Hamilton estate was an occasion in itself, an
almost inconceivable event in a society where, even beyond the
confines of the chessboard, a very rigid system of rank and order held
sway.
During the weeks prior to the party, which was to be held on
Midsummer's Eve, the forthcoming masquerade was the sole topic of
conversation in the locality. One of the farmers had to withdraw just
a few days before the great event because of illness in the family, but
there was no difficulty in finding another agricultural couple. There
were plenty of farmers in the district, and they didn't have to be all
that particular about their costumes ? they were only going to play
themselves, after all.
The great day came, and even during the banquet many new
acquaintances were being cemented across social divides. After
dinner, coffee and dessert were served in the garden, and shortly
afterwards Lord Hamilton rang his loud bell and requested his
guests' attention. Everyone was already aware that a game of chess
was shortly to be played on the marble flags with themselves as the
living chessmen, but the laird had first to allocate each one his or her
particular place on the board.
At table, the seating had been fairly informal and at least
seemi
ngly unplanned, but this was far from how it was on the
chessboard. First, the laird arranged the pawns: eight men and an
equal number of women. Farmer MacLean was placed as a white
pawn on a2 with his wife opposite as the black pawn on a7. On his
right stood Mrs MacDonald on b2, and she faced her husband, the
black pawn on b7. This carefully worked-out pattern meant that all
spouses could observe one another across the chessboard, and they
could also keep an eye on how their other half was doing with the
farmer or farmer's wife to the left or right of them. Precisely the same
logic was applied to the pieces. The white knight, Chief Constable
MacLachlan, took up his position on b1 behind Mrs MacDonald
and with his own wife as the black knight on b8 behind farmer
MacDonald on b7. There were sixteen women and sixteen men on
the board, there were two sides and two sexes facing each other,
always divided by marriage. The only thing that disturbed this
symmetry was the placing of the kings and queens. Lord Hamilton
himself took up position as the white king on e1, he had the duchess
on his left as the white queen on d1 and she was opposite the Duke
of Argyll as the black king on e8. But Lady Hamilton was no
longer amongst them. Hamilton had therefore given the role of black
queen on d8 to a widow called MacQueen of whom he was rather
fond and to whom, when by some rare chance he met her in town or
at the cemetery, he sometimes chatted.
The two kings were the only people who ever decided which pieces
to move, the other guests were no more than extras in the formal
aspect of the game. Lord Hamilton had made no secret of the fact
that the game itself might take some time, perhaps until well into
the small hours, as both the duke and he were very experienced
players, but the match was also to be a social game in which all the
participants would have ample opportunity to get to know one
another. Each chess piece was a living soul, and the guests were
exhorted to entertain each other as best they could while they waited
for the laird and the duke to make a move. Then gradually, as the
chessmen fell, they could continue their informal socialising out in
the spacious garden.
Lord Hamilton made his opening by ordering the white pawn ?
it was MacArthur ? to advance two squares from e2 to e4, and the
Duke of Argyll retaliated by moving Mrs MacArthur two squares
up from e7 to e5, and the game had begun. The butler, chasing
about the chessboard with drinks for those who wanted them, was
the best witness to what ensued. He didn't find chess particularly
engrossing himself, but soon ? and with interest ? he noted the
rising suspense on the marble flags. Only one of the many climaxes
will be highlighted here, but it was the most important one.
Mary Ann MacKenzie was an uncommonly beguiling young
woman in her mid-twenties. She appeared on the chessboard as the
white pawn on d2 opposite her husband Iain MacKenzie on d7.
Iain was several years older than her and had always had a reputa-
tion as a bit of a Casanova. Even after marrying Mary Ann he'd
had several mistresses, and he'd also flirted with several of the local
married women, a couple of whom were present on the chessboard
that night, a glass of sweet wine in their hands.
Over the years, everyone in the district had felt considerable
sympathy for lovely Mary Ann. It was whispered that not only was
MacKenzie unfaithful to her, but he was also a tyrant at home. So
they were two diametrical opposites. Of Mary Ann it was said that
she was probably the sweetest-natured young girl in the entire
Scottish Highlands. She was so wonderfully captivating that it was
no exaggeration to say that everyone who met her fell in love with
her almost instantly. And not only men. There was something so
singular about Mary Ann that even many women had to admit to
having sleepless nights filled with tender thoughts of her.
If Iain was a potential cause for anxiety who'd at times
threatened the stability of a number of local marriages, the same,
paradoxically, could not be said of Mary Ann. When both a farmer
and his wife felt themselves drawn to the selfsame person they
usually remained on good terms, and so this mystifying woman
often merely served to strengthen the marriage bond. It may perhaps
be added that even the physical love between a couple could be spiced
up by a common yearning for Mary Ann MacKenzie.
The very first to be taken on the board that evening at Lord
Hamilton's was Mary Ann. And so she was free at once to wander
round the large garden, to stroll in the exquisite labyrinth of clipped
hedges or to stand by the pond and throw breadcrumbs to the fish. It
was obvious that Iain felt uncomfortable about the freedom she'd
been granted so early in the game. Right from the very start he
followed his wife with a watchful gaze.
The next person who had to vacate the marble squares was
Aileen MacBride, who'd been the black pawn on g7. Mary Ann
was so intoxicated by the great garden, the lovely summer evening
and all the wine she'd drunk, that she immediately took Mrs
MacBride's hands and began to dance about the spacious lawn with
her. Next, they ran hand in hand into the maze, and a number of
the chess pieces caught glimpses of Aileen and Mary Ann standing
there kissing and caressing one another. Hamish MacBride also took
in what was happening behind the topiary but, far from feeling
jealous, he rejoiced on his wife's behalf, for he felt certain that if he'd
had the opportunity, he would have been the first to fondle Mary
Ann himself. It was a long while before other guests were free to step
off the marble slabs.
This is a very complex story and one that has been the subject of
much commentary and analysis, but I'll give it here as briefly and
concisely as humanly possible.
It was an enchanted evening, it was as if good spirits and
guardian angels held their protective wings over what happened that
Midsummer's Eve. The laird and the duke concentrated ever more
deeply on their game as it moved slowly towards a conclusion, and
gradually the garden became full of elated guests who'd been released
from the chessboard. They all swarmed about Mary Ann, and even
the officials and their wives who'd never met her before, now began
to flock around her full of adulation and desire.
For the first time in her life Mary Ann felt free to be herself and
give of her boundless love and, though there was no malice in her,
she relished the sight of Iain continuing to be pushed this way and
that on the marble squares by the duke. For Iain MacKenzic was
kept on the chessboard right up to the moment, not long before
dawn, when the Duke of Argyll checkmated Lord Hamilton.
Mary Ann had good cause to fear that Iain would punish her when
they got home, but she wasn't thinking that far ahead now. She
thought instead of Iain's many years of unfaithfulness and decided
that there was some
justice in the world after all. It was still her
night.
Gradually, as the pieces on the chessboard thinned, the party got
more riotous and it was said that Mary Ann shared her love with
everyone in the garden that night. All that time, Iain MacKenzie
had to stand quietly on the marble slabs witnessing his own wife
being belle of the ball and the object of an almost collective lust, a
sensual sport in which, on this one night, Mary Ann was more than
willing to be enveloped. In a sense, therefore, MacKenzie found
himself standing in the corner. He was quite powerless to do
anything, because it would have been thought deeply shameful to
ask to be released from the chessboard before the game was over. It
would have been like spurning Lord Hamilton's hospitality. But he
raised his arm more and more often as a sign to the butler that he
wanted the whisky glass in his hand replenished. Soon, though he
wasn't as steady on his feet as before, he could still keep a constant
watch on Mary Ann who, time and again, ran playfully in amongst
the hedges of the maze with some new woman, man or married
couple. Jealousy was banished from the laird's garden that night.
Everyone loved Mary Ann and in a way, through her, everyone
loved each other.
No sooner had Lord Hamilton conceded that the Duke of Argyll
had checkmated him and shaken hands on the outcome, than Iain
MacKenzie lurched out into the garden to search for his wife. He
discovered her sitting on the grass closely entwined with both the
MacIvers, but he pulled her away and slapped her hard across the
face with the flat of his hand. In a matter of seconds, however, he
was surrounded by a dozen pawns and pieces from the chess game
and Chief Constable MacLachlan, who'd served his time as the
white knight, took him into custody.
Mary Ann didn't leave the Hamilton estate that morning. Her
marriage to Iain was clearly irretrievable and the laird, who needed a
new housekeeper anyway, offered her a home.
Hamilton recalled all the moves from his game with the Duke of
Argyll, and for safety's sake he wrote them down, so that he could
carefully study how he'd been beaten. He could often be seen in the
garden reliving the game move by move on the marble slabs. On
these occasions Mary Ann would sometimes sit on a chair by the
fish-pond and talk to him.
For a while enthusiastic gossip circulated about Midsummer's
Eve at Hamilton's house, and no one begrudged Mary Ann her
final revenge for Iain's many years of depravity. But if good spirits
and guardian angels had watched over Hamilton's garden that
night, ogres and demons took a hand in its sequel. Not long after,
there was a series of dreadful murders in the district and after the
third, Chief Constable MacLachlan noted that all of the victims had
occupied a place on Hamilton's marble slabs some weeks earlier.
Hamilton's butler got in touch with the chief constable after the fifth
murder to tell him that the deceased had also all been killed in
precisely the same order as the laird's guests had been knocked off the
chessboard. These were two pawns, two bishops and a knight.
There was only one exception to this sequence: the very first who'd
run out into the garden that Midsummer's Eve - Mary Ann
MacKenzie. MacLachlan, who'd never forgotten the ethereal Mary
Ann, noted the fact with interest. He had no difficulty guessing why
this brutal serial killer had spared the charming young woman.
Quite the reverse, he thought, it wasn't difficult to hazard that the
motive for all the murders was that the murderer ? or murderers ?
wished to eliminate all possible competition and have the beautiful
goddess completely to themselves. This, in turn, meant that there
were a great many suspects to be considered.
The sixth and seventh murders were committed, continuing the
macabre replay of the fatal chess game. The police now knew at any
given time who would be the next victim, and gave the threatened
individual a certain degree of protection, but they were still unable to