Death of an Old Master by David Dickinson Page A

Johnny Fitzgerald of being a cautious chess player. He deployed his pieces with great vigour, forever seeking the advantage. ‘ L’audace ,’ he
would mutter to himself from time to time, like some headstrong French cavalry commander, ‘ toujours l’audace ,’ as his forces rolled forward up the board.
    Powerscourt was more cautious, more patient. He would trap the Fitzgerald advances in thickets of pawns, where they would be clinically captured by marauding knights. He always took great care
to guard his King. When he finally advanced it would often only be after a prolonged siege where the Fitzgerald battalions had hurled themselves in vain against the castle walls.
    But on this occasion it looked as if the rash were going to triumph over the cautious. The Fitzgerald squadrons, lubricated by regular canteens of Chateau de Beaucastel, were in the ascendant.
Left under his command he had his Queen, two rooks, a knight and a solitary bishop to bless his endeavours. He had a couple of lonely pawns, one on each side of the board. Johnny never bothered
much about his pawns, sacrificing them recklessly in his advances. Powerscourt had lost his Queen. He had two castles and one knight, and five foot soldier pawns remaining on the field of battle.
He was always very careful about his pawns. Powerscourt’s King was under heavy attack on the right-hand side of the field.
    ‘How long is it since I beat you at chess, Francis?’ said Fitzgerald, preparing already for the sack of the beleaguered citadel, the feast following the victory.
    ‘I think it was about five years ago, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt, staring with great concentration at his knight. ‘But I’m not finished yet. I shall fight till the last
pawn has been slain.’
    ‘Check,’ said Fitzgerald, moving his Queen three ranks down the board. The set had been made in India and the Queen was a particularly terrifying figure, resembling, Powerscourt
often said, what Queen Boadicea must have looked like when she rode into battle.
    Powerscourt hid his King behind a couple of pawns. The threatened monarch was now half-way up the board on the right-hand side. Fitzgerald began moving his knight forward for the final attack.
Lady Lucy came to watch the end of the battle, her hand resting lightly on her husband’s shoulder. Powerscourt moved one of his castles two squares to the left.
    ‘You could resign now, Francis,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald graciously. ‘Save you the trouble of playing on till the bloody end. Save your troops from the massacre.’
    ‘No, thank you,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. He moved his knight forward. The knight was protected by the castle.
    ‘Check,’ he said. It was completely unexpected. Was this a desperate move to gain time? Or had Powerscourt snatched victory from the jaws of defeat?
    The full impact of Powerscourt’s knight’s move hit Fitzgerald at the very centre of his strength. It was a fork. The King was in check and had to move. Or the piece checking could be
removed by one of the Fitzgerald forces. But none of them were in a position to do that. And the Queen, Fitzgerald’s gaudy caparisoned Queen, was on the other end of the fork, the audacious
knight protected by Powerscourt’s castle. Any piece rash enough to take the knight, after the destruction of the Queen, would itself be blown to pieces by Powerscourt’s castle.
    Johnny Fitzgerald laughed. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said, ‘just when I thought I had you in the bag, you’ve escaped! Houdini comes to the chessboard!’
    He could have fought on. But he knew that very soon Powerscourt would convert one of his pawns into a new Queen. Then it would only be a matter of time. In a single move the balance of advantage
had switched.
    ‘I shall spare my men the humiliation of captivity and exile,’ said Fitzgerald, striking a pose like Brutus in one of his nobler moments, ‘I resign.’
    The combatants shook hands. Lady Lucy patted them both in the