The Amazing Test Match Crime

by Adrian Alington

  But that morning’s cricket was sadly disappointing. England’s wickets tumbled. Teddy Trimmer was almost immediately adjudged l.b.w., young Gayheart had his wickets spreadeagled before he had scored. The others followed in a disconsolate procession. Only Norman Blood stood firm. Disdaining his flashing strokes, he concentrated on rock-like defence. “Captain’s innings” wrote thirty-five journalists.

  Shortly after lunch the last wicket fell. Imperia had only to get one hundred and twenty-two to win. England’s supporters, surrounding the pitch during the interval, were disconsolate. It seemed an easy task.

  But it was soon seen that the match was by no means over. In the very first over of the Imperian innings there was a confident shout of appeal and Thrust was seen returning to the pavilion, caught at the wicket, 0-1-0. Lethbridge came in, looking stern.

  “England,” said Mr. Beltravers, “are definitely on the offensive. It is still anyone’s game …”

  Slowly runs came, the batsmen taking no chances. Lethbridge, like Norman Blood before him, was content to defend and score by singles. But the score inexorably mounted. 25-1-0.

  “Back-to-the-wall stuff,” said Mr. Beltravers to listening England. “Every ball full of drama …”

  And then listening England heard a mighty roar as Parry fell, clean bowled by Manleigh. “He’s out,” cried Mr. Beltravers. “Parry is out. Bowled by a real beauty. Well, well, this is exciting stuff …”

  Slowly, grimly the struggle went on, the English fieldsmen crouching almost at the end of the bat, the English bowlers, Truth and Frank Manleigh, exerting their greatest efforts. More wickets fell, but indomitable Lethbridge remained.

  Tea Score. Imperia, 77 for 6. Lethbridge, not out 44. In English hearts new hope was growing.

  At five o’clock Lethbridge reached his fifty, at five-ten the seventh wicket fell, ninety-two runs on the board. At five-twenty the hundred went up. At a quarter to six Gayheart made a remarkable catch, falling prostrate to hold the ball, and the eighth wicket fell with the total one hundred and fifteen. Two wickets to fall, seven runs to make.

  The Imperian wicket-keeper entered, and off his first ball inadvertently scored a boundary. But three runs required to win. A single and the Imperians were one run behind. And then, with the last ball of the over, Manleigh sent the wicket-keeper’s off-stump cartwheeling.

  The last man, Bumper, Imperia’s burly fast bowler, came in amid an extraordinary silence. No batsman, Bumper, as all the world knew, but could he keep up his end, while Lethbridge scored the required runs? In any case, Lethbridge had the bowling.

  The tension became appalling. In the Press-box Miss Felicia Portcullis, through sheer nervousness, kept muttering aloud, “Lean bronzed men, lean bronzed men,” to the great annoyance of Mr. Beetling Grim, who found himself incorporating this unsuitable phrase in his own account of these concluding moments. Mr. John Beltravers was practically speechless with excitement. In the pavilion Sir Timothy gnawed his moustache; even the doyen of cricket could not in all his vast experience recall so close a finish. Monica had absent-mindedly snatched off the hat of the man next to her and was lightly swinging it, while her saintly old father repeated aloud large sections of the marriage service. In a stand near the Vauxhall end a Bishop was sick.

  Bumper reached the wicket. One run to make to equal England’s score, one wicket to fall and Lethbridge facing the bowling. The fieldsmen went to their stations. Truth stood nervously tossing the ball from hand to hand.

  * * *

  And then it was that the amazing thing happened.

  In the general tension which prevailed the drone of the approaching airplane was hardly noticed. Even when the machine circled low above the Oval, little attention was paid to it, for behind it a deceptive streamer fluttered out, bearing the slogan, “Keep that Schoolgirl Fragrance.”

  Here and there old-fashioned people muttered about the intrusion of modern advertising methods, but that was all. No-one anticipated what was about to happen. Once, twice the airplane circled low above the heads of the players and then just as the fielders were in place for Truth’s historic over, it suddenly dived. A great gasp went up from thousands of throats, as for the first time during an important match at the Oval there was heard the deadly rattle of a machine-gun.

  The astonishing events of the next few minutes may be best described in the words of Mr. John Beltravers, as they were heard all over the country, in mansion and cottage, on portable sets, by spellbound parties at the seaside and by horror-stricken chauffeurs sitting tensely in expensive cars.

  “By Jove,” said Mr. Beltravers, “this is extraordinary. I never remember anything like this on a cricket ground before. The plane is diving down towards the pitch. There are three men in her. They must be the Bad Men. They’ve got masks on. But I can see from here that one of them has a tremendously magnetic personality. One of them seems to be chewing something. Yes, through my glasses I can see his jaws working. He’s the chap at the gun. He’s shooting now. I expect you can hear. One, two, three, four. All the players are lying full length on the ground. Blood at cover, Hugh at mid-off, Crigh in the gully. No, I’m sorry, Gayheart in the gully; it’s a little hard to tell when they’re all lying flat. Crigh seems to be trembling a little, but Hugh looks just as kingly as ever.… Here’s the plane diving again. I can see the man leaning out, still chewing. He shoots. A long burst. By George, he’s got Trimmer. He’s DEAD. No, he’s not. He’s rolling over. My word, that must have been a near thing. Fortunately this fellow’s shooting is not very accurate. Hostile, but not accurate. He hasn’t found a length yet. Well, really, this is all tremendously exciting. There’s an old man over there standing up and waving a panama hat. I can see several women fainting. Up in the Press-box Miss Felicia Portcullis, the well-known novelist, has just uttered a tremendous scream … Hullo, here are the Guards doubling out. They’ve got their rifles. They’re going to shoot. Splendid fellows, these Guards, equipment beautifully clean, buttons winking in the sun. The airplane gives them a burst, but they don’t mind. They’re opening fire. And here come a couple of tanks waddling along from the pavilion end. Well, this must be absolutely a record …”

  Spellbound the crowd watched that strange struggle. They saw the detachment of Guards double out of the pavilion, shake out into line and open rapid fire upon the marauding airplane.

  A cheer went up from the more unthinking section of the crowd, as the tanks came into play, their guns blazing, but in the pavilion the gravest fears were expressed. Q. E. D. Marjoribanks said gloomily,

  “Something of this kind was bound to happen sooner or later when they raised that foolish cry about brighter cricket.”

  And R. S. V. P. Hatstock agreed,

  “It’s bad enough when fellows suggest that the ball should be smaller and the wickets larger, but—really—flying-machines and machine-guns and tanks! It’s not cricket.”

  As for Sir Timothy, he was beside himself with indignation. Springing up, his fine old face purple with anger, he rushed down the pavilion steps, shouting,

  “Take that ridiculous aeroplane away. This is a cricket match not a revolution. We’re not in foreign parts now.”

  Several people rushed to hold him back, explaining that he was exposing himself to great danger.

  “I would rather,” declared the Grand Old Man, “see myself dead at my own feet than a cricket match interfered with in this abominable foreign fashion. Tell them to take that aeroplane away.”

  Hotter and hotter grew the fire of the Guards and the tanks. And presently a great shout went up as it was seen that the airplane was making off. Away it roared over the heads of the spectators at the Vauxhall end, its streamer, with the words, “Keep that Schoolgirl Fragrance”, floating out behind it. A final volley of rifle-fire followed it.

  “The enemy plane is making off at full speed,” announced Mr. Beltravers. “The Guards are coming back into the pavilion. The players will be getting up in a minute, I expect. Ah, yes, the umpires are
just cautiously raising their heads …”

  All over England a sigh of relief went up. The dastardly attack had been beaten off.

  * * *

  When at length, following a little good-natured barracking from the spectators—for an English crowd never loses its sense of humour—the players rose cautiously to their feet, it was observed that all were unscathed save Trimmer who had been slightly hit in the leg. Amid sympathetic cheers and cries of “Got a blighty one, Teddy?” he was carried from the ground.

  Monica all through this strange battle had been excitedly swinging her neighbour’s hat. Although bullets were flying about the Oval in this alarming manner, she was determined that she would be splendid and keep her head and not start a panic. For she knew that when women and children kept cool, even cowardly men were shamed into a show of courage.

  “Keep cool,” she said firmly to her neighbour. “Don’t panic. We shall pull through.”

  “I don’t know what on earth you are talking about,” answered the man irritably.

  “Oh,” replied Monica earnestly, “I’m just being splendid.”

  “I can’t say that I see it,” he said rudely. “And I wish you’d give me back my hat.”

  “What is going on?” inquired the saintly old Vicar, perceiving that something of an argument had arisen.

  “This young lady,” the man said, “insists on being splendid with my hat. It’s a most irritating habit.”

  “The younger generation,” the Vicar replied peaceably, “are often impulsive. But their hearts are in the right place.”

  “It would be more to the point,” the man said, “if my hat was in its right place, which in my opinion is on my head.”

  “Give the gentleman back his hat, Monica,” said the Vicar. “You can be splendid just as well without it.”

  Monica did so. To tell the truth, she had suddenly lost interest in keeping her neighbour cool. For Trimmer just then was being removed from the ground, and she felt a wave of ecstasy pass through her at the sight. For now the twelfth man would be called on, Joe would play for England. If he were on the field, while only one ball was bowled, he would have played for England. She must be the first to embrace him and wish him luck. She sprang up and murmuring alternately “Heaven bless you, Joe” and “Excuse me”—for she was at once a pious and polite girl—forced her way into the pavilion. She had no right to be there at all, but in the general confusion no-one stopped her. She made her way directly, as though by instinct, to the players’ dressing-room. It was empty. No sign of Joe. His flannels hung there, his blazer, his Glebeshire cap, but of her beloved man himself no sign. She looked round her in dismay. Where could he be? Surely he was not going to miss this heaven-sent opportunity.

  Just then Norman Blood entered, looking worried and anxious. She ran to him at once.

  “Norman, where is Joe?”

  His answer amazed her.

  “He is, at present,” he said, sadly shaking his head, “bound and gagged in the heart of a minor county called Loamshire.”

  “Then,” she gasped, “he will not be able to field.”

  “No,” replied Norman. “I am sorry for that because he is a noble-hearted youth and saved me from those villains.”

  “But who will field now instead of Trimmer?”

  “That is just what I have to decide. Perhaps one of the ground staff.”

  Then it was that Monica had the inspiration of her life.

  “Norman,” she cried with shining eyes, “let me take his place.”

  The English captain looked at her in amazement.

  “You, a girl!”

  “Why not?” she pleaded. “You remember how we used to play together in the old days at the Manor House. You always said what a good fielder I was, even though we used a soft ball. I will put on Joe’s things. No-one will know.”

  “But why do you want to field, Monica?”

  “I love Joe,” she said earnestly. “Father said we could be married, if Joe played for England. Perhaps if I play it will do as well. Joe has sacrificed his chance to save you. Do this in return. Oh, Norman, please. I promise I won’t drop a catch.”

  And so presently the crowd saw Norman return accompanied by a slim figure in white flannels. They could not see the fair bobbed hair tucked beneath a Glebeshire cap, and the word went round, “That’s Prestwick.”

  As they walked to the wicket Monica had her second inspiration. She and Norman had not partaken together in a game of cricket since those distant days, when she was a child with golden ringlets. In those days she had nearly always contrived to get a wicket when the efforts of the butler, the gardener and the chauffeur had failed …

  “Norman,” she exclaimed, “I believe I could get Lethbridge out. May I bowl?”

  But Norman replied,

  “No, the twelfth man cannot bowl. Besides Truth must finish his over.”

  “May I whisper to Truth?” she pleaded prettily. “I’ve got a lovely idea.”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Very well.”

  The great crowd saw the slim figure in the Glebeshire cap approach Truth and speak to him. But they could not see the amazed look which came upon Truth’s face, nor hear him suddenly mutter,

  “By George, I’ll try it.”

  “It nearly always comes off,” replied the slim figure. “It takes people by surprise.”

  The crowd saw the slim figure run lightly in the direction of mid wicket where she was to take Trimmer’s place. They saw Truth run up to bowl. And then they witnessed the final sensation of that amazing day. Truth tossed the ball high into the air. Higher than anyone present ever remembered to have seen a ball bowled. Up and up and up soared that extraordinary ball and presently amid a profound hush began to descend. Lethbridge, as was subsequently revealed upon the News reel, watched its gradually accelerating approach with feelings which veered from amazement and contempt to apprehension and sudden dismay. The crowd saw the greatest batsman of modern times stand undecided and then leap suddenly backwards, as the ball threatened to descend upon his head. They saw him swing his bat in a last desperate swipe. Then a great shout went up, as it was seen that the wicket was shattered. Lethbridge was out. Bowled Truth, 65. England had won the match by one run.

  Instantly pandemonium broke loose. While the cricketers grabbed up the stumps and ran for shelter, the vast crowd, almost delirious with excitement, surged towards the pavilion. There they remained cheering and shouting for the players. Every member of both teams—save one who had mysteriously vanished— appeared and was applauded. Norman Blood and Lethbridge shook hands. Norman Blood made a speech, in which he referred to the gallantry of his team under what were practically war conditions. Finally Lethbridge spoke,

  “It has been a remarkable match,” he said simply. “It’s a pity the best team did not win. But still everyone is very fit.”

  Not for nearly an hour did the vast crowd begin to stream away.

  * * *

  All England rejoiced that evening. In country districts beacons were lit. In London there were scenes of almost hysterical enthusiasm. The west-end was filled with a cheering throng. A huge crowd surrounded the Blood town house in Sleek Street and would not be satisfied until Norman had appeared upon the balcony and spoken a few words.

  The sound of cheering penetrated into the bedroom in the Blood house where lay Joe Prestwick, conscious now and, in fact, little the worse for his night’s adventures.

  Monica sat beside him, agog with womanly sympathy. A profusion of grapes and flowers lay at his bedside and his head was lightly bandaged, not because there was anything the matter with it, but because Monica was in that sort of mood.

  “Lie still, my heroic one,” she said, gently stroking his bandaged forehead. “Shall I bring you a glass of water or change your pillows?”

  “You’ve just changed them,” said Joe.

  “A woman loves to serve,” she replied simply. “Keep lying still and I will bring you a cold-water com
press.”

  “Monica,” he said at last somewhat feebly, when she had performed this womanly act with loving care.

  “Well?”

  “You know, don’t you, that I had to do what I did? I couldn’t leave the Skipper in the hands of those villains.”

  “Of course not, Joe.”

  “But because of it, you see, I never played for England.”

  “No,” replied Monica, and then at last she brought herself to break her wonderful news, “but I did.”

  Joe stared incredulously,

  “You!”

  “I took your place, Joe. It was I who went on the field as twelfth man, and I who advised Truth to bowl that donkey drop.”

  Quickly she explained to the bewildered Joe what had happened.

  “And so you see,” she concluded, “one of us has played for England. I’m sure Father wouldn’t mind which it was.”

  “Monica,” he said weakly, “you’re wonderful.”

  “I think I am rather,” she replied softly. “Lie still, dear Joe, while I take your temperature and then I will put your arm in a sling.”

  ***

  “One woe doth tread upon another’s heels.”

  Hamlet, or The Prince who lacked the Test Match Temperament. Shakespeare (W.) (Warwickshire).

  Aftermath

  Upon the following morning the Press rose to the occasion with unanimity and gusto. Such headlines as BLOODSHED AT THE OVAL, STORM OF LEAD INTERRUPTS LAST OVER flared across front pages. Moreover, the events of the previous night had now become generally known and were suitably related.

  Further Outrages England’s Captain Kidnapped Prestwick (J.) at Bay in Lonely Cottage N. Blood’s Dash for the Oval

  “Emissaries of the Bad Men kidnapped N. Blood, England’s popular captain, last night at the point of a revolver. But for the gallantry and presence of mind of Prestwick (J.), the well-known Glebeshire spin-bowler, it is extremely doubtful whether N. Blood would have been present at the Oval for yesterday’s play. Such is the latest development in the story of the most amazing Test Match of modern times …”