The Amazing Test Match Crime

by Adrian Alington

  Joe stooped to kiss his mother’s rude old cheek and passed into the simple squalor of the cottage. In the rough kitchen sat his father, smoking a filthy clay pipe and spitting frequently, as men do when they wring a living from the soil. A sheep lay asleep on the hearth-rug.

  “’E mün bör gürt wür dönee,” snarled Mr. Prestwick senior, at the same time aiming a brutal kick at the recumbent sheep.

  Joe did not answer, but pursued his way upstairs to his attic.

  “I love my old parents, of course,” he reflected, as he went, “but what a pity that wringing a bare living from the soil makes people so terribly rude!”

  ***

  “It is a solemn thought that if I had been born in the underworld, I might have been the most sensational criminal in the country instead of just the most sensational dean.”

  Dean Crunch at the Annual Gala of “The Old

  Lag’s Uplift Association”

  Proceedings of a Super-Criminal

  None of his fellow-passengers patrolling the deck of the cross-channel boat that summer afternoon, ten days before the great Oval Test Match, realized that there was anything unusual about the seemingly inconspicuous little man with the lofty, dome-like forehead, who sat by himself, smoking a thin cigar. Those who troubled to consider him set him down as possibly a harmless University don, returning from a holiday abroad. Certainly none of them guessed that here was a man, upon whom half the police in Europe would have liked to lay their hands, a man who was destined within a very short while to convulse an Empire to the very roots of its being.

  The Professor was deeply engrossed in a book. And it was typical of his Napoleonic care for detail that the book which he perused was Principles of Sound Batsmanship, by L. E. G. Glance, with twenty-five action photographs. He had begun to read the book in the train from Paris, and so great was his intellectual grasp that he felt himself already master of this complex and difficult subject.

  Nothing, as the steamer ploughed its way onward, disturbed his tremendous concentration. Only for a moment, when the white cliffs of Folkestone first came into view, did he raise his eyes and gaze through his spectacles at that distant prospect, while his lips twitched in a sardonic smile. Then he returned to his studies.

  “The off-drive,” he read, “of which the late S. P. Q,. Marshbanks (Cambridge and Southshire) was perhaps the greatest exponent (see plate seven) …”

  He read on …

  His plans were now practically complete, for it was his custom to reach decisions with lightning rapidity. As in the case of the assassination of the President of Guamelia, the blowing up of the National Bank of Gloritana and his other major achievements, he preferred to mature his schemes in solitude. To Ralph the Disappointment he had already given certain vital secret instructions, but not until the last moment would he impart to his subordinates the exact nature of his plans and their own part in them. Before he left for England he had arranged for the three to meet, as though by accident, at The Panatrope Music Hall in London. Before then he had certain highly important preparations to make.

  Folkestone. Amid the bustle and confusion of arrival, the Professor, still inconspicuous, descended the gangway.

  He found himself presently in the train heading for London. He was seated in a smoking compartment, which he shared with two men, a stoutish prosperous-looking man, who sat in the far corner and a tall man with a thin moustache, who sat opposite the Professor. Upon the platform at Folkestone a newsboy had been shouting, “Latest Cricket Scores.” Each of the Professor’s neighbours had bought a paper and become instantly immersed.

  “Evidently,” mused the Professor, “I have had the good fortune to encounter at the outset two members of the Sporting Fraternity. Here is an opportunity to test my knowledge, acquired from the admirable L. E. G. Glance.”

  The opportunity occurred shortly. The man with the moustache looked up from his paper and ejaculated,

  “Cor, Blood out for six.”

  The Professor, seizing this chance to break through the celebrated English reserve, leaned forward and addressed him.

  “You are interested, my friend, in crickets?”

  The member of the Sporting Fraternity started slightly, but admitted,

  “Ar, that’s right.”

  “I too,” said the Professor, “though I have never wielded the willow, am a devotee of the National Pastime. As L. E. G. Glance has observed in the preliminary pages of his noble work Principles of Sound Batsmanship, ‘What sweeter music than the crack of the bat, despatching the leather to the ropes across the green tapis?’”

  “Go on,” said the member of the Sporting Fraternity cautiously.

  The Professor, taking this as an invitation to proceed, did so.

  “The off drive, of which the late S. P. Q. Marshbanks (Cambridge and Southshire) was possibly the greatest exponent, has always seemed to me a particularly noble stroke. Do you not agree?”

  “That’s right,” said his neighbour. At this point, English reserve set in again and he returned to his newspaper. It was not long, however, before a second startling piece of news led him to exclaim, “Cor, old Lethbridge has got another century.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the Professor. “One of the natives, I think. Indeed, if my memory is not at fault, the outstanding native.”

  “Cor,” went on the man with the moustache, “he’s a treat, that boy. I grant you he’s not cultured, not classical, but can he adopt the long handle?”

  It was now the Professor’s turn to be cautious.

  “No doubt,” he said. “Probably the longest of handles.”

  “Cor, yes. Look at Lords. If it hadn’t been for old Lethbridge at Lords—” He leaned forward and with the air of one imparting a vital and confidential piece of information, added, “If you ask me, old Blood ought to have declared earlier at Lords.”

  “Declared what?” asked the Professor unguardedly and realized instantly that he had made a mistake. The member of the Sporting Fraternity was staring at him with an air of the greatest surprise and distrust. The Professor recovered himself quickly.

  “Excuse my humour, by Jove,” he said gaily. “I am one that can never resist a jest.”

  He realized, however, that he had lost the confidence of the member of the Sporting Fraternity. With a slightly bewildered murmur of “Ar, that’s right,” the man returned to his paper.

  At this point, the stout gentleman joined in, addressing the man with the moustache.

  “If you ask me, do you know who is the boy we want at the Oval?”

  “No.”

  “Young Prestwick.”

  “Ar.”

  “He mixes ’em, young Prestwick does. I saw him bowl against Gritshire in June. Give him the kind of wicket he wants and he’d run right through the Imperians.”

  “Ar, that’s right.”

  “Funny to think that only last season that boy was playing for the Second XI. If I was on the Selection Committee—”

  In this vein the two members of the Sporting Fraternity continued all the way to London. The Professor, leaning back in his corner, permitted himself to smile ironically. Let England array all her heroes; they would avail her nothing. A single small man with a giant’s brain would defeat them all.…

  * * *

  It is impossible to follow too closely the movements of the Professor upon his arrival in London. Let it suffice to say that he proceeded with that mixture of audacity and caution which had always been one of his most striking characteristics, and which served to keep police-dossiers all over the world empty concerning him. His astonishing faculty for disguise and his amazing powers of impersonation also stood him in good stead.

  Upon a certain morning, for example, he might have been observed, carefully attired in sporting costume, grey bowler, check suit, field-glasses slung about him, upon his way to the Oval. He had always regarded it as of the first importance that the terrain should be carefully studied beforehand. Before the assassination of the President he
had spent many hours in the Guamelian presidential dwelling, disguised as a member of the staff. Moreover, he was anxious to see for himself this crickets which appeared to loom so large in the national life of England.

  A contest, he found on his arrival, was in progress—a match, indeed, between the Clergy of the South and the Clergy of the North—but he was amazed to find the vast arena practically deserted.

  “Can it be,” he thought, “that I have been deceived about the national enthusiasm for crickets? Or is this an indication of religious decay in England? In any case it is very strange. Since, however, I am here, I will make such observations as I can.”

  He sat down upon a seat of concrete and un-slinging his glasses surveyed the scene. The contest proceeded in a suitably religious silence; the flannelled priests ran about with the utmost enthusiasm, though there were no spectators to cheer them. From time to time the Professor called aloud, “Long live Sir Sutcliffe!” “Chukka and Tiffin!” and “Sockem Patsyboy!”, but it seemed that his efforts at encouragement met with little response. One priest, indeed, who was stationed close to where he sat was observed to start wildly at these strange cries issuing from the solitary spectator. Presently, the Professor abandoned his pose of enthusiastic sportsman; his great brain began once again to formulate his plans. Here upon the scene of his forthcoming operations he checked every detail and could find no flaw. Plan A, Plan B, Plan C …

  There was another day, when his small figure was to be seen in a part of England very far removed from London, in the streets of a small market town in the heart of Loamshire. For the purpose of this expedition he was impenetrably disguised as an artist. The great domelike brow was concealed beneath a wide-brimmed black hat; he wore a big floppy bow tie, and a black velvet jacket; with consummate attention to detail he carried an easel under his left arm.

  He halted presently before the premises of Messrs. Axley and Clutterbuck, the house-agents. After lingering a moment to read the advertisements displayed in the window he entered.

  A clerk rose to greet him.

  “Good morning,” began the pseudo-artist. “Are you Axley or Clutterbuck?”

  “Actually neither.”

  “Ah, well, it is of no importance.” The pseudo-artist deposited his easel and seated himself. “Listen, house-agent, I am the celebrated Popplewick, R.A., of whom you have doubtless heard. I am, as you are possibly aware, particularly famous for my painting of moorland scenes. My ‘Evening on the Moors’ which hangs now in the Tate Gallery is a case in point. Or again my ‘Morning on the Moors’ which was recently purchased by the Fulchester Art Gallery, instantly springs to the mind.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do not interrupt me, house-agent. I am now approaching the point of my visit. I have long intended to paint the sweeping expanses of scenery to be found in this neighbourhood. With this object in view I propose to settle here for a short while. In short, house-agent, as you say in your admirable profession, I desire a res.”

  “How many rooms?”

  “It is not of the slightest importance.”

  “Oh, but, I say—”

  “The only condition upon which I insist is that the res. must be sit. in surroundings of the greatest loneliness. For one of my temperament and artistic eminence seclusion is imperative. I should prefer, too, a res. with a cellar, with a strong door. Many of my canvasses are of immense value.”

  Before he returned to London upon the following day the spurious Popplewick, R.A., had become the tenant of an old deserted stone house in the very heart of the Loamshire moors.

  Finally there was an evening when the Professor might have been observed traversing one of the lowest thoroughfares of the city. It was a street of evil repute from which even the police shuddered and hurried away as quickly as possible. But the Professor entering it displayed no sign of fear. He was disguised with masterly thoroughness as a rough character, and as he walked he sang the roughest song in the English language which he knew would be well in keeping with his disguise. From mean dwellings upon either side the inhabitants regarded him with menacing looks. But the Professor was not daunted.

  “Blimey, by Jove,” he called out, adopting a rough accent, at the same time drawing his forefinger across his nose in a vulgar fashion, to indicate that he was one of the lowest of the low. The watchers assumed that he was a rough character like themselves and let him pass unmolested.

  He came at last to what was probably the vilest haunt in the street. Halting before the door he knocked three times. At last a glimmer of light showed and the door was cautiously opened by a hunchback Chinaman of repulsive aspect.

  Evidently the Professor was expected, for the Chinaman said at once,

  “You wishee speakee Flash Alice?”

  “At once, please,” said the Professor, momentarily dropping his impersonation of a rough character.

  The Chinaman stood aside and he passed in.

  Half an hour later he emerged, and, after a cautious glance up and down the street, set off on his return journey. As he neared the corner a policeman appeared. In a flash, the Professor, adopting his rough accent, called out,

  “‘Struth, old copper.”

  “Merely one of the criminal classes indulging in rough persiflage,” reflected the unsuspecting policeman.

  Little did he realize that the greatest criminal of the age had just addressed him!

  * * *

  An hour or so later, as the Professor removed the last traces of his disguise, he smiled to himself with a certain complacence. His preparations were complete. Nothing for him to do now but await the meeting at the Panatrope Music Hall.

  * * *

  “But only God can make a really effective spin-bowler.”

  Song

  The Proposal

  “T’öld sow be main gürt sick, sö ’er be, donee,” observed Mr. Prestwick senior.

  The family sat at supper in the squalid kitchen of Stark Cottage. Rough food was distributed on rough plates. Mr. Prestwick had been wringing a bare living from the soil all day; great hunks of it still clung to him and sweat glistened on all the visible parts of his person. Just now he was worrying a bone; great knotted veins stood out all over him, as he chewed and growled. Mrs. Prestwick, though not perspiring to quite the same extent as her husband, presented a typical picture of a rude peasant’s equally rude wife. She sat, for example, with her elbows on the table.

  Joe, sitting between them in his neat dark suit, made a strange contrast. He sat silent throughout the meal, though this was not because he despised his rude old parents, but because he knew that he was faced with a crisis, the greatest crisis, indeed, of his young life. He knew that the time had come when he must speak to Monica.

  The Westshire match was just over, Glebeshire having won by a narrow margin. But very nearly they had not won and Joe was fully conscious that, had they been defeated, the fault would have been largely his. During the Westshire second innings he had been fielding at long-leg. A lengthy stand by two of the Westshire men was in progress, and Joe most reprehensibly had allowed his thoughts to wander. He had begun to think about Monica. Indeed, he had begun to try and conclude the poem, the opening lines of which had come into his head upon the evening he gave her the cigarette card.

  “O, Monica, whose lovely face

  Is matched by thy tremendous grace—”

  So far the poem proceeded smoothly and without difficulty. It was the next couplet that teased and worried poor Joe. He tried,

  “I’d rather wed thee, Parson’s daughter,

  Than bowl out Lethbridge with a snorter.”

  But he was not altogether satisfied. He tried again,

  “I’d rather wed thee, dear, you ken,

  Than get Lethbridge l.b.w. (n.)”

  No, that was not good enough either.

  “I’d rather wed thee, lovely maid—”

  Then he gave it up and thought about Monica, how lovely she was, and how unworthy he was of her, and fixed his eyes
bashfully on the ground. It was then that disaster happened. Swiggins, the Westshire batsman, receiving a full-pitch outside the leg-stump, hit the ball to long-leg, a high swirling catch. Joe, his eyes fixed bashfully on the ground, did not observe it. A warning cry from his captain told him of the ball’s approach. Too late he perceived it dropping towards him out of the cloudless sky. Too late he made a desperate clutch. But without avail. The ball fell to the ground. From the supporters of Glebeshire arose a derisive groan.

  Trembling with remorse and shame Joe threw in the ball. He felt in his deep humiliation that he could not face the stern questioning eyes of Norman Blood, nor the silent reproaches of his colleagues.

  Next day the press had recorded his shame.

  “At this point Swiggins enjoyed a stroke of luck, being missed at long-leg by Prestwick. The chance was one that should certainly have been accepted.”

  Neither of his parents could read, and so fortunately need never know of their son’s disgrace, but Joe tasted the depths of bitterness, as he thought of Monica reading those shameful words. He knew that the crisis had come. He must speak to Monica at once and ask her if she could ever love him. If she could not, then he must just bite his lip and try to forget. But he must know. This suspense was interfering with his cricket.

  And so he had written her a note.

  “DEAR MONICA,

  “I must see you tonight. Can you meet me by the seat on the village green at nine o’clock? I have a very important question to ask you.

  “Yours faithfully,

  “J. PRESTWICK.”

  The time was now nearing nine o’clock. With a muttered word of apology Joe rose from the table and went out.

  “Häppen,” remarked Mrs. Prestwick, “läad be goin’ cöurtin’.”

  “Eh? Döst think thät, Möther?”

  “Häppen,” replied Mrs. Prestwick cautiously.