The Amazing Test Match Crime Read online

  “Eh,” proceeded Mr. Prestwick after a long pause, during which he drew his great knotted arm across his mouth, and filled his filthy old pipe, “but I be main powerful feared.”

  “Aböut läad, Fäther?”

  “Näy, Möther, aböut t’öld söw. Faïr main gürt sick, sö ’ër be dönee.”

  After this interchange the senior Prestwicks rose from the table and prepared to spend an evening of bestial sloth.

  Joe, meanwhile, after a quick, loving look at the belt, left Stark Cottage and walked towards the village green. It was a lovely evening. Behind the Earthy Peasant the sun was sinking, a fiery red disc, just, thought Joe in one of his poetical flashes, like a gigantic new cricket ball. He came to the green and sat down upon the seat to wait. The sun sank lower, painting the westward sky with a mass of fiery tints. Was it coincidence, wondered Joe, or was it a favourable omen that Nature in her grandeur should reproduce almost exactly the colours of the Glebeshire Globetrotters? As the minutes passed he could no longer sit still. The suspense was worse than waiting to go in number eleven, as he always did, during a close finish.

  Presently he saw her approaching. He watched her walk gracefully round the pond. She was wearing a simple girlish white frock and was swinging a golf club which she had lightly caught up on leaving the Vicarage. His heart bounded.

  She drew near. He stood up and raised his cap.

  “Good evening, old Joe.”

  “Good evening, Monica.”

  They sat down upon the seat. Joe was seized with shyness and remained silent.

  “You said in your note,” she prompted him at last, “that you wanted to ask me a question.”

  “It’s true.” For another long minute Joe wrestled with himself. Then he took the plunge. He said in a low voice, “Monica, yesterday I missed a catch.”

  “I know,” she answered gently, “I read of it in the paper.”

  “The paper said that it was a chance that should have been accepted. It’s true. It should have been accepted.”

  “Then why,” asked Monica artlessly, “did you not accept it?”

  Joe bowed his head.

  “I was thinking of something else.”

  She was not the kind of girl to spare even those she loved.

  “That was very wrong, Joe.”

  “I know, I know,” he answered wildly. “Don’t think I haven’t tasted the bitterest remorse. But I could not help myself.” He was silent for a moment and then faltered, “I was making up a poem. A love-poem, Monica.”

  “Oh, Joe! When you were fielding at long-leg!”

  “Don’t reproach me, Monica. I know I deserve it, but I just couldn’t help it. Would you like to hear the poem?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Staring at the façade of the Earthy Peasant behind which the sunset had now almost faded, Joe began to recite,

  “O, Monica, whose lovely face

  Is matched by thy tremendous grace—”

  Beside him he heard Monica gasp.

  “Oh, Joe! You mean you missed a catch because of me?”

  “Yes,” he answered boldly. “That’s why I had to speak to you tonight. The thought of you is spoiling my fielding. Monica, my darling, I’m only a cricket pro—”

  “Only!” she exclaimed in a thrilling voice.

  “But I love you, Monica. I’ve loved you ever since that day you bought me a belt. Do you remember?”

  “The day you won the match for Wattlecombe Ducis.”

  “But in my boyish ignorance I played in braces. Until you saved me from shame. That was like you, Monica. So tender always, so thoughtful for others. Oh, Monica, will you marry me?”

  There, he had spoken now. What would she answer? Would she be angry? Would she think him presumptuous even to have aspired to her hand? He could scarcely believe it when he heard her sweet voice reply,

  “Here, Joe, is a chance that will certainly be accepted.”

  “You mean you will marry me?”

  “If Father consents, Joe.”

  “Oh, Monica darling, I can hardly believe it.” And then in his elation a sobering thought occurred. He said slowly, “Are you sure you don’t mind my parents being only rude old peasants?”

  “As though I could!” she answered. “Besides, I don’t suppose they are as rude as all that.”

  “I’m afraid they are,” he said sadly. “They are a bit gnarled too. It comes of wringing a bare living from the soil. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Gnarled or not,” cried Monica proudly, “they are the parents of the man I love.”

  They walked back presently to the Vicarage, for Monica was impatient to ask the Vicar’s consent at once. When they reached the door, she said,

  “Wait here, Joe. I will go in and ask Father.”

  The saintly old Vicar was in the library, a Wisden’s Almanac for 1907 open upon his knee. Monica ran to him and fell on her knees beside him, her eyes glowing.

  “Father, I have wonderful news—”

  The saintly old Vicar looked up from his reading.

  “Just a moment, my dear. I was just studying the score of the Harborough and Egby match of 1907. I remember that well. It was the year my straw-hat was cleaned. R. J. Trump not out two. A dreadful snick through the slips that was.” For a moment the old man was silent, his eyes far away, as though he gazed upon scenes long past. Then with an effort he returned to the present. “Well, now, my child, what is this exciting news?”

  “Didn’t you ever guess, Father, that a day would come when I should bring you the most wonderful news of all? Mr. Right has come along, Father.”

  “Would that,” said the saintly old Vicar, “be R. T. Wright, who played for Cambridge in 1902?”

  “No, no, Father, you don’t understand. I am in love. I want to be married.”

  “But, my dear,” her father protested, “R. T. Wright must be quite an elderly man by now. He was certainly an admirable bat in his day, if a little uncertain in the field, but I don’t see how you can possibly marry him.”

  “Father, Father, please listen—”

  In a few eager words she told him all. The Vicar shook his snowy head doubtfully.

  “Young Joe Prestwick is undoubtedly a first-rate spin-bowler, but he lacks social advantages. His parents are very rude.”

  She flashed back,

  “Joe is one of Nature’s gentlemen.”

  “Ah, my dear, but that does not entitle him to use the Gentleman’s Entrance of Life. I had always hoped that one day you would marry young Norman Blood.”

  “I am very fond of Norman, Father. But I love Joe.”

  “Well, my child,” the old man answered, “I hardly know what to say. This is a great shock to me. Young Joe comes of peasant stock. The elder Prestwicks, to be candid, are but little removed from the beasts.”

  “But some beasts,” argued Monica, “are gentle and quite human in their ways.”

  She thought sadly, as she spoke, of her beloved fox-terrier, Wiggles. How she had adored that dog and loaded him with kindness! Unfortunately her custom of swinging him lightly by the tail, as she walked, had undermined the beast’s nervous system. He had begun to bite people in the village quite recklessly, and had been found a new home.

  “Besides,” she added, “Joe may play for England at the Oval.”

  The old man’s face softened.

  “In that case, my child, I dare not refuse.”

  “Oh, thank you, Father. May I bring in Joe and tell him?”

  A moment later Joe was in the library.

  “Joe,” cried Monica, “Father says we may be married if you play for England at the Oval.”

  Joe replied in manly style,

  “I could wish for nothing better, sir. We are in the hands of the Selection Committee.”

  “Yes, my boy,” replied the saintly old Vicar, and added reverently, “May Providence guide them rightly in their decisions!”

  “Oh, Father,” cried Monica, “that means that you want m
e to marry Joe?”

  “No,” replied the Vicar, “I am thinking of the supreme importance of beating Imperia.”

  “Amen,” said Joe.

  * * *

  Later that night, when Joe had gone home, Monica stood alone at her bedroom window. She was swinging her toothbrush which she had lightly caught up on leaving the bathroom.

  Her thoughts were all with her beloved Joe. He must play at the Oval. He must. She thought of his strength and his manliness and of his googly which no batsman could ever detect until too late. Looking forward into the future she saw herself as the perfect cricket professional’s wife. She saw herself bringing gladness into the lives of the Glebeshire eleven, she saw herself upon the county ground watching her man bowl—even her adoring heart could not shirk the fact that Joe’s batting was of a primitive kind—she saw herself at home in the long domestic evenings, oiling his bats, working out his average with loving care, teaching his children, perhaps, the first simple rudiments of bowling.

  Oh, Joe must play at the Oval! He must!

  * * *

  Up in a balloon, boys, up in a balloon,

  Choosing the English team, while sailing round

  the moon.

  Song of the Selection Committee

  The Eve of The Match

  Days of suspense followed, during which all England held its breath. A kind of hush of expectancy seemed to brood over the country. One question occupied all minds. Who would be the thirteen men chosen by the Selection Committee from whom the final eleven would be picked? Would Frank Manleigh, the fast bowler, be given another chance or would he be displaced by Plugg of Downshire? Would Prestwick be chosen, as well as or in place of Truth, that veteran of twenty Test Matches who had hitherto been England’s favoured spin-bowler? Would young Gayheart of Wessex be given another chance? Everywhere these burning questions were discussed; every day the Press was full of letters from those who advocated their favourites. The form of likely players was eagerly watched. Glebeshire supporters were overjoyed when Joe advanced his claims by taking five wickets against Gritshire, the champions. The doings of the Imperians were also closely watched; the whole nation shuddered when on Wednesday Lethbridge scored 427 not out in two hours against Dudshire.

  Much was written too in the Press upon the subject of Timeless Tests, and Mr. R. B. Parsley, the famous dramatist, caused much confusion by an article in which he explained that there could be no such thing as a Timeless Test, since all the Test Matches that had ever been played were still being played as well as all the Test Matches which were as yet in the womb of time. This was felt to make the whole subject much more difficult and to have complicated the work of the Selection Committee to an unnecessary degree, since if Mr. Parsley were right they might just as well choose W. G. and Ranji and make quite sure of beating Imperia.

  So all England waited, and no-one, it can be readily understood, waited more impatiently than Monica, for though she was patriotic to the core and placed England’s honour above everything, she was, as Miss Felicia Portcullis has remarked in her great political romance Susie O’ the Left Wing or Clean of Heart though a Communist, “a woman above all and her girlish heart cried out for Love of her Man.” It was difficult for her, as she went about her humble tasks in the village, gladdening the lives of those about her, swinging various objects that came handy, to think of anything but the match at the Oval and Joe’s chances of playing. Suffering villagers found her, though sympathetic and radiant as usual, oddly absent-minded.

  Suspense ended at last. Very late upon Saturday night the Selection Committee ascended in their balloon. When, their deliberations concluded, they descended in time for the names of the chosen to appear in the stop-press columns of the Sunday papers, it was discovered that the thirteenth and final name was that of Prestwick (Glebeshire).

  Monica rushed to tell her saintly old father the glad news.

  “He’s chosen, Father. Joe is chosen. Here is the list of names.”

  The Vicar scanned the list, carefully.

  “That is a very interesting selection,” he said at last, “but, of course, Prestwick may not play. He may be twelfth man, or even,” he added as an afterthought, “thirteenth man.”

  That, alas, was true. In her elation Monica had not thought of it. But she said bravely, “I’m sure he will play, Father. Fate could not be so unkind.”

  “Well, well, my dear, we must wait and see. Much will depend upon the state of the wicket.”

  “Oh, Father, I love Joe so dearly.”

  “Quite, my dear child, quite. But there are more important things in this life than our own personal feelings. There is, for example, the question of getting Lethbridge out twice on an Oval wicket. I suppose it would hardly be in order to pray for rain at today’s services. Lethbridge has never been quite at home on a wet wicket.”

  “Father, I do so want to be married.”

  “Yes, my dear, I know. By the way, I have discovered that the R. T. Wright we were talking about the other day died in 1927. So you couldn’t have married him, anyhow.”

  Monica felt that she could wait no longer. She must see Joe and talk over the great news with him. She left the Vicarage, swinging the umbrella-stand which in her excitement she had absent-mindedly caught up, and set out in the direction of Stark Cottage. At the same time Joe, having broken the news to his sweaty old parents, who had received it with brutish indifference, set out to visit the Vicarage. Many times on his way he was stopped by peasants who had heard the news and wished to congratulate him.

  “Ee be pröud, läad, räckon,” they said in their honest way. For they were all rude countrymen, and spoke with two dots over their vowels, though none were as rude as Joe’s parents. The elder Prestwicks were by far the rudest people in Wattlecombe Ducis, probably, in fact, in all Glebeshire.

  Joe thanked them all and continued on his way with a full heart.

  It was in the old spot by the village green that he met Monica. As he saw her approaching his honest young being was flooded with love. How beautiful, how graceful she looked, carelessly swinging the umbrella stand! What a mate for a humble village youth, born of rude parents! By the time they met, he was so overcome that he could hardly speak. It was left to Monica to open the conversation.

  “Oh, Joe!”

  “Oh, Monica!”

  “If only you are chosen, Joe!”

  “If only I am chosen, Monica!”

  “Oh, Joe!”

  “Oh, Monica!”

  The two young people stood side-by-side on the green, talking, dreaming …1

  * * *

  The Panatrope Palace of Varieties. The great auditorium packed, beneath a heavy pall of tobacco smoke. Upon the gaily lit stage the Five Dreary Sisters, the rage of the present season, singing in their own inimitable fashion the song which was just then sweeping all England,

  “The Warder’s son and heir

  Lisped his first young baby prayer

  In the little old prison underneath the elms.”

  So sang the Five Dreary Sisters clustered about a microphone, and the simple touching words floated out over the auditorium, awed into tense silence. In the third row of the stalls sat the Professor, smoking his inevitable thin cigar and surveying the Five Dreary Sisters through his great round spectacles. He was attired in a dinner jacket, and none of those about him in the stalls guessed that he was anything but a tired business man seeking recreation. In order to complete the illusion the Professor occasionally murmured aloud in a tired voice such phrases as “invoice” and “overhead charges”. He believed in leaving nothing to chance.

  A few rows farther back sat Ralph the Disappointment. His dissipated face wore a haggard and morose expression, but this was due not so much to the moving performance of the Five Dreary Sisters, as to the bitter thoughts which stirred in his mind. He was back now in the land from which years ago he had fled in shame. All about him in the stalls sat his fellow-countrymen, relaxing after a day of honest toil. How these men w
ould shrink from him in repulsion if they could guess the appalling crime upon which he was engaged! And now, not for the first time, he regretted his own mad folly in drinking port while still at a great public school. Men of his own breed would have forgiven him that unfortunate affair of the French master, but the other was unforgivable. Small wonder that in the Foreign Legion no-one had ever thought of calling him Beau Ralph!

  In the dress circle Sawn-off Carlo sat and placidly chewed, his round soft hat upon the back of his head. He watched the Five Dreary Sisters without enthusiasm. A dumb set of janes. This London seemed to him a kinda slow burg. Twenty-four hours he had been here, and had not seen a single citizen beaten up or a single bank raided. Say, what did these saps do with their time, anyway? It sure set a guy thinking of his home town, where such simple pleasures as he loved could be had for the asking. Only this afternoon he had visited a cinema to see a film called Pride of the Homicide Squad. To sit in the darkness and listen to the homely sounds of a machine-gun and the sirens of police cars had filled him with nostalgia almost too great to be borne.

  On the stage the Five Dreary Sisters, clustered about the microphone, still sang:

  “Little old lags forgot their shame

  And learned to play the game

  In the little old prison underneath the elms.

  Each man after arrest

  Came to that cosy nest,

  He tried to do his best.

  And when the Governor’s wife was blessed,

  In the little old prison underneath the elms

  All loved the infant maid

  And the prison organ played

  In that little old prison underneath the elms …”

  The song ended presently amid thunderous applause. The curtain descended, rose again to display the Five Dreary Sisters smirking and bowing, descended. The interval.

  With the final descent of the curtain each of the three Bad Men rose from his seat and joined the stream flowing towards the bars. It was in the Dress Circle Bar that, apparently by the merest accident, the three met for the first time since leaving foreign parts.

  On perceiving the others the Professor threw up his arms and exclaimed,