Count Rigel Del Kensington: The Immortal Player

by Richard Kennison

			My name is James W. Spheeris. The tale I'm about to tell sounds admittedly like fiction. But I swear, as a matter of course, it's also true.       
			As a retired homicide detective, I've seen more than my share of living nightmares but nothing quite as extraordinary as what follows. I do believe, dear reader, if given your full considaation, the sincerity of my narrative will be more than self-evident.       After my wife passed away last spring, I was left alone with my only other consuming passion, Chess, and an unsolved murder which took place some one hundred years ago. I would never have suspected the two were pieces in the same puzzle, or that their connection would materialize in the person of one Count Rigel Del Kensington.      
			 But I fear I'm getting ahead of myself. My credibility will be sorely tested if I reveal the crux of the whole mystery this early. Perhaps if I turn the attention on chess and proceed in a n unhurried by deliberate direction, the possibility 
of gaining your ultimate trust will be much more likely.       
		I present an example of legerdemain on the boardÑa chess problem. I do this fully knowing the chess-playing part of your psyche cannot ignore it and the solution is somewhat related to the underlying theme of this chronicle. 

Chess board goes here


              Joseph C. J. Wainwright
                 Les Tours de Force
                        1906

             White mates in two moves.


      At this point I'd be remiss if I didn't confess I am not a grandmaster, nor a master, nor an expert. Alas, I'm not even rated. In reality, I cannot even hope to aspire to any such plateau.       
			Quite bluntly, I'm a god-awful player. How god-awful you ask? Somewhere between very bad and moderately dreadful. My inadequacy, however, in no way restricts my love of the game.       
			And where, if I may be so bold, do you fit in? For below my mediocre playing level comes very terrible, perfectly wretched, and finally, just pitiful. Against an opponent in one of those categories, I play like an inspired artist. My opening is dynamic, my middle game is sound, and the end game is coldly mechanical. Resigning is the only rational move left to my adversary. So do not take on too superior of an attitude. Remember, there is always someone slightly better than you.       
			In all likelihood it is not me. But it could be, so beware.       
			Theoretically speaking, I ought to revere chess because it leaves nothing to chance. Reason and logic reign supreme. Each piece is allowed one mode of action, which is further cramped by severe limitations on both time and space. The conditions imposed on the game are absolute, consistent and mandatory. But again and again, after having done my best to find the strongest move, my own reasoning proves unreliable. I am forced therefore to conclude, I admire chess for its uncertainties. 
			And it's history.       
			Philidor, Deschapples, LaBourdonnais, Staunton, Anderssen, Morphy. . .romantic names from the past. But these are living, breathing characters of today. Brought back to life through the tomes in which they reside. Their games and lives recorded for all time. Any public library is the final resting place to these chess giants and their legacy.       
			Most people have no idea of the wealth of knowledge waiting to be unearthed at the library. Many chess clubs, including the one in which I'm a member, The Knights of the Round Table, hold their weekly meeting at a public library. In fact, the murder I mentioned earlier, I discovered, investigated, and ultimately came to solve, all without ever leaving the library.       
			Paul Morphy is the chess virtuoso whose life has held me spellbound for the past year. A veritable Mozart at the board, for two brief years he provided the chess world with a glory of which none had even dreamed. The 'Unhappy Genius' is also unfortunately the center of the aforementioned murder.       
			As far as being unsolved, many experts argue over the question of whether or not the murder even took place. David Lawson, the author of what many consider the definitive biography, Paul Morphy: The Pride and Sorrow of Chess, outright dismisses the claim Morphy was rejected by a woman because he was a 'mere chess player.' However this notion is the foundation to Frances Parkinson Keyes' The Chess Players: A Novel of New Orleans and Paris. After reading many accounts including Paul Morphy: His Later Life, by Charles A. Buck, and Morphy and Madness, by Gary Donovan, and Morphy and New Orleans, by E. Ehrhardt, I concluded that the murder did indeed take place.       
			Since the Keyes novel is readily accessible, I will relate its version:  
      Morphy was rejected by Charmain Sheppard, a social climber of sorts. Although she married Gilbert de Lixin, she and Morphy continued their relationship as lovers. One night, Morphy was to meet Charmain at her home for a rendezvous. Upon arrival, Morphy discovered the bodies of both De Lixin and Charmain. Charmain had been beaten to death. The husband allegedly had taken poison, then killed his wife before he died. According to Keyes, the result of this was the rapid decline in Morphy's mental state.       
			The popular current theory is Morphy killed them both, and then succumbed to insanity. I always doubted the Keyes version and I didn't want to believe the second theory, although it did seem more plausible.       
			In reading about this case, I kept running across the mention of an acquaintance of Morphy's, a Count Rigel Del Kensington. Both in New Orleans and at the Cafe Le Regience in Paris, they're reported playing chess against each other. One account describes Matthew Brady taking the famous photograph of Morphy. Brady then suggested a picture of Morphy and his friend together, but the Count vehemently refused.       
		There are not recorded games between the two known to exist.      
		I found a sketch of Morphy from the Havana tournament of 1862, in which he is surrounded by friends and admirers. In the background is Count Rigel Del Kensington. I was shocked because I recognized the face. And the name in a manner of speaking.       Recently, a local chess player had made the news. The story acknowledged his chess genius, but focused more on the fact that he refused to play in tournaments or even have his picture taken for the newspaper. I had seen him once at a chess lecture. His nameÑRigel Del Kent.       
			I sent a letter to him in care of the newspaper. I asked if perhaps his great grandfather was the Count Rigel Del Kensington. If so, I would like to discuss Morphy and the Count and specifically the murder. I suggested a meeting the following Friday prior to the gathering to the Knights of the Round Table. I received a reply with a startling admission: 
      I am preparlng to relocate in the West soon, consequently I can risk talking to you. In addltion to answering your questlons, I have some informatlon I would llke to Impart. As far as the specific incldent you inquired about, I can explain everything. I was there. I am a vampire.       
			I have very little time to sacrifice and do not wish to waste your time or mine trying to convince you of the authenticity of what I am. It is fact. I suggest you look up vampire at your library and you will find sufficient documentailon.       
			For starters, look up RousseauÑsocial philosopher and would-be chess player. Also the mornlng eiltion of the Time--Picayune will prove of interest. 
      It was signed Count Rigel Del Kensington.       
			I know chess players have a reputation for being eccentric, but this, as they say, was diculous. A vampire?       
			In spite of his wild claim I still wanted to taIk to him. In my years on the force I've learned  talk to people on their own terms. You always get more information. I took his advice and did some research.       
		In one afternoon I learned more about vampires than I wou!d ever have imagined existed. It turns out that throughout history the vampire is found in virtually every culture, in every part of the world. In Romania, they're called Strigoi. In Russia, Vrykolaka In Poland, Wampior. The list goes on and on. In France, Sauterelles. In Germany, Nachzehrer. In Africa, Asambosam.       
			Vampires and Vampirism, by Dudly Wright, The Vampire: His Kith and Kin, by Montague Summers, and Vampires: The Myth, by Renee Youree are just three of the seemingly endless scholarly works on the subject.       
			Literature also has the vampire motif woven through its history. Shelly's The Cenci, Coleridge's Christabel, and Byron's The Giaour all share vampirism. A particularly striking example is Keats, La Belle Dame Sans Merci. A book by J. Miller, Prisoners of the Night is an example of haunting erotic poetry dealing with vampires and their lovers. From Poe to Bronte, Matthew Lewis to Sir Walter Scott, Homer to Wilde, a host of literary greats have written outright vampire stories or at least have vampiric elements in their work.       
			I found the Rousseau quote he clearly intended me to find: 
      
			If there ever was in the world a warranted and proven history it is that of the vampire. 

      As a detective, I realized there was enough circumstantial evidence mounting to stop even the most die-hard skeptic from making a categorical denial of the vampires' existence.       
			But a Vampire?       
			I didn't know quite what to think. Or what to do. I decided all I could really do was go and meet Rigel Del KentÑThe Count, if that's what he wanted to be called. Claiming to be a vampire is strange alright, but there's nothing criminal about it.       
			At least that's what I thought until I saw the Friday morning newspaper. The article leaped right off the page: 
                     Mid-Town
                 Murders Continue
       The nude body of a young woman was dlscovered at 2 A.M. thls mornlng near a bus stop In mid-town. The victim, Brenna Marie Browne had ended her shift at the Cat People Nightclub where she had been employed as a dancer for the past five 
years. The police have refused to release details of the crime, but did admit the victim's neck had been mutliated in a manner consistent with a serles of recent slayings. 

      I thought about calling my friends at the station, but what would I tell them? That I had exchanged correspondence with a vampire? Someone who thought he was a vampire? Maybe a killer?
      No, probably all had here was a twisted genius who knew a lot about vampires and somehow knew about the murder of the nightclub dancer. There had been a series of murders recently, perhaps the Count had just made a lucky guess.       
			Back to square one. My first move was forced. All I could do was go and meet him.       I did, however pack my piece.       
		The afternoon passed slowly. I tried to use the time to plan a strategy for dealing with the Count, but I never could settle on one.       
		I had just finished setting up a board in the library's meeting room when a small elderly man entered through the heavy oak doors and with a burst of nervous energy began to search through the room.       
			"Who are you?"       
			"Not important. Not important," he muttered to himself as he frantically inspected the room.       
			"What are you looking for?" I asked.       
			He ignored the question. "Everything is in order. With your permission, the Master will be here promptly," he said as he exited. An instant later, the doors re-opened and the Count entered.       
			He looked exactly the same as the Count in the sketch, right down to the tux and lapel carnation.       
			I reached out to shake the Count's hand but he declined.       
			"Please forgive my rudeness, but I do not have time for protocol," he said as he sat at the dark side of the board.       
			"Shall we play as we talk?" I said as I moved my queen's pawn.      
			"Most definitely. But I only have time for a lightening game," the Count replied.       "I hope this is not a waste of your time. I'm really not much more than an aficionado." 
      "Not to worry. I enjoy all types of players."       
			I reached for my score pad.       
			"There is no reason to record this game," the Count said in a whisper.       
			"Since it is informal, I don't think we need to record this game," I heard myself sayÑ as if I had made the decision.       
			"Let's cut to the heart of the matter. I came here this evening because it is imperative to clear Paul's name. Paul didn't kill anyone. His emotional state was admittedly precarious, but he was not capable of murder.       
			"What did happen?"       
			"The explanation is simple. My dear companion Count Isouard introduced us. We became immediate friends. Comrades, if you will. We had much in common. We both depended on the generosity of our donors for our livelihoods," he laughed. "My joke." He grew serious. "On the night in question, I suspected something was awry. I decided to spy on Paul and Charmain. I inadvertently arrived first. Charmain was already dead, beaten to death by her wretched husband. He was waiting to kill Paul. I had no recourse but to kill him.  Unfortunately, Paul walked in on the scene. I'm afraid his already weak mental condition would not sustain both Charmain's death and the revelation of my true nature." 
			"A vampire." 
			"Yes."       
			"You're clinging to this absurd idea? You were there over a hundred years ago?"       
			"I am what I am."       
			"If indeed I am to believe you, I must also conclude you're a murderer."       
			"I've admitted as much."       
			"How did you know I wouldn't bring the authorities?"       
			"For centuries the strength of the vampire has been that people will not believe in them. The facts were there. I knew that even after I added the nightclub dancer as further proof, you could not suspend disbelief."       
			I decided to change the conversation to the game at hand. "What do you recommend?" I said, motioning toward the board.       
			"I've always had an affinity for castles. If you get my point," he said.       
			"Yes, I think I do," I said irritated. "Why did you take up chess?" I said as I followed his advice.       
			"The world of the 64 Black and White squares . . . governed by such simple geometric patterns provide for a kalcidoscope of exciting subtlety, endless complcxity, and irresistiblc beauty. Don't you agree?"       
			"Yes, you are quite right. Chess is a substitute for life itself. The opening, 
middlegame, endgame. We are born, we live, we die. Well most of us."       
			"Touche. Although there are many advantages of my condition, my life is a solitary one. Aristotle advised, 'When you are lonely, when you feel yourself alien in the world, play chess."' He moved his rook to a threatening position.       
			His moves were swift and calculated. "You certainly play an aggressive game."       
			"In chess, as in any conflict, success lies in attack. As the French sayÑ'On ne jous pas aux e'checs avec un bon coeur."'      
			There was dead silence. I did not know how to respond to the Count's grave tone. He spoke again.       
			"I would also like to inform you of the true origin of the Dragon Variation of the Sicilian Defence."       
			"And what is that?"       
			"It is minc."       
			"I believe the Dragon is so named because Black's pawn structure in the early stages of play resemble the silhouette of a dragon."       
			"Obviously! That is one of the reasons I chose the name. I invented it because the fianchetto of the Dragon Bishop at KN2 is my way of getting back the 'odds' I grant by preferring to play Black. I couldn't take direct credit for it, of course, but I did name if for one of the more famous of my kind. . ."       
			"Infamous I think you mean," I said under my breath. My earlier research had revealed the Romanian world for dragon is Dracul. As the Count moved his queen, I noticed the Dragon insignia on his ring.       
			"Are you familiar with the problem which is the subject of Charles Godfrey Gumpel's How the Devil Was CaughtÑA Chess Legend? It appeared in the April, 1878 issue of La Strategie."       
			"I think so . . ."       
			"Unlike Gumpel's version, it was not Satan but myself playing the game. The author must have realized he could only present it in myth form. In reality, I was playing the White pieces, which I am, of course, unaccustomed to, and inadvertently reached the position where I had the mate in hand but could not follow through with the kill. That sort of thing had much more of an effect on my composure back then." 

     For readers not acquainted with the problem, I include it here to be worked out on your own. 


Chess board goes here

1. RxN ch     K-B3
2. OxR ch     RxO
3. RxR ch     0~3
4. RxO ch     PxR
5. N-B7       P 04
6. NxP ch     K-K3
7. R-K7 mate


			"Check," I said beaming.       
			"I'm afraid, my friend, I must answer with Check. . .and Mate," the Count said coldly.       
			The game happened in a flash. He mentioned his opening was called 'The Vampire Gambit,' and as of yet he had chosen not to share it with the world. Oddly, I have no real recall of the moves. It's as though the game was played in a haze. And the opening. I simply do not remember any of it. Only that it was powerful. Overwhelming.       
			The Count was standing. "I must take my leave."       
			I stood quickly, my knees catching the table causing the chess pieces to topple. I heard myself announce, "I'm taking you in on suspicion of murder. On second thoughtÑ murders," I said as I moved to block the doors. I pulled my gun out for the first time in years and pointed it at him. "Stop!"       
			He smiled. "Your weapon is useless. Don't embarrass yourself."       
			"Don't make me use this." I said feeling stupid for using yet another police cliche. Before I knew it, in one whirling motion, the Count knocked my gun away, sending it flying across the room, where it landed out of sight under a bookcase. In the same swift movement, he gripped my hand turning it back on itself. The pain was excruciating. "I certainly don't envy your position. For despite your genius, you're nothing more than a beast," I strained to say. The was a loud snapping sound. The Count was holding me up like a limp rag; my shoes barely scraped the carpet. 
      "I'll take that as a compliment. I'm proud of my superior intellect, but I'm just as proud of my animal instincts. They allow me to make up for any errors in judgement. A strong mind and a strong body. Humans can't possess both. Case in point: At Bled '61, a youngster showed the promise of a Paul Morphy, but unfortunately also demonstrated his same delicate mental balance. Therefore I did not approach him. My initial impression has since proven correct."       
			"What gives you the right to judge mankind?" I grunted.       
			"As a member of the Illuminati I stand vigil over human progress. Chess is one of the few worthy products of human intellect. The chessboard is the world. The pieces are the phenomenon of the universe, the rules of the game are the laws of nature."       
			"No one is above the law," I rasped.       
			"Human law does not apply to me," he hissed.       
			In spite of the pain, I wanted to antagonize him. "Chess is only a game."       
			"It is ancient. It would have perished long ago if it had not been destined to live forever. My quest for an equal, for a complete genius to match my own is likewise never-ending, but I will prevail. . . " The sound of muffled conversation of the gathering chessplayers outside the room interrupted the Count's speech.       
			He released me and I fell to the floor. Then he said the last words I ever heard from his deep red lips.       
			"For I am, like chess. . .immortal."       
			And then. . .       
			Well, I looked up and the Count was not there. The doors hadn't opened or closed.       The Count had vanished.       
			My fellow club members discovered me laying on the ground, my hand broken. I made up a story about tripping and falling and grabbing the table on the way down. I took a lot of good natured ribbing about it for a long time after.       
			So, I simply submit my tale to you, dear Reader, to accept or decline as you see fit. But permit me, if you would, one last thought.       
			You may happen to find yourself hanging on to a a hopelessly lost game, a victim of an opponent whose pieces are obviously being directed by a very strong and imaginative mind. Across the board hovers a handsome, very polite gentleman, whose black, magnetic eyes render you powerless. All your moves seem in vain, and on reflection, you realize you never even had a ghost of a chance.       
			In all probability, it is not him.       
			But it could be, so beware.