“We’ve been attacked by our rivals — Crowford.”
“Attacked?”
“They cut off our beer supply.”
As he propelled himself towards the clubhouse, Hewlett gave him a brief account of what had happened, then they viewed the damage for themselves. Doug Lomas was horrified when he saw the state of the bar. He took the sabotage as a personal insult.
“I cleaned up in here on Saturday night,” he said balefully, “and left the place spotless. Then I switched on the burglar alarm and locked up. There’s no sign of forced entry. How could anyone get in here to do something like this?”
“The police will ask the same thing,” said Rosie, glancing through the window at an approaching patrol car. “Here they are. I suggest that we get out of here and let them take over.”
After taking statements and examining the scene of the crime for evidence, the police authorized a cleanup of the bar. Doug Lomas was the first to grab a mop. Short, stringy, and still in his twenties, he was deeply grateful to the club for giving him paid employment, even if it was only for one full day and three evenings a week. It was the start he needed after coming out of prison. Having stolen to support a drug habit, Lomas had turned his back on crime and narcotics, and was leading a much happier life now that he was sharing it with his girlfriend and baby son.
The position at Shelton RFC was only one of five part-time jobs that he did in the course of a week, but it was his favorite. He liked rugby, got on well with the players, and ran the bar efficiently. Though he handled a large amount of money when the bar was full, not a penny had ever gone astray. With the glaring exception of Neil Woodville, everyone trusted him and he repaid that trust with total commitment to his work. While the barman mopped away, Peter Rayment moved all the furniture out of the room. Rosie Hewlett helped him, using a cloth to wipe the chairs and tables dry.
“I can manage, Rosie,” said Peter. “You keep an eye on Martin.”
“He’s fine. Martin is much better off watching the training session from the touchline and yelling at the players. Good exercise for his lungs. Anyway,” Rosie went on, grabbing another table, “this is no time to stand on ceremony. It’s a case of all hands to the pumps.”
Peter had the greatest admiration for her. Rosie was a buxom woman in her thirties with a practical streak that had come to the fore since her husband had been disabled. That streak was in evidence now as she heaved the furniture about. Unlike many of the players’ wives, Rosie had an insider’s knowledge of the game, having played rugby herself and represented the county in a Women’s XV. The crash tackle that ended Martin Hewlett’s days on a rugby field had also separated her from the sport. It was a double loss.
“That’s it,” said Rosie as the last of the chairs was moved out of the bar. “We’ll give Doug a hand to mop up the beer then get that carpet out of there. It stinks to high heaven.”
“One moment,” said Rayment, a gentle hand on her arm. “There’s something I think you should know. It’s about Neil Woodville.”
She heaved a sigh. “It always is!”
“I don’t need to tell you how much he resents Martin.”
“Martin is the heart and soul of this club,” she said loyally. “He’s put years of his life into it, on and off the field. It’s about time that Neil accepted that and stopped bitching.”
“He’s got friends, Rosie.”
“Friends?”
“You know the way Neil works — buying drinks, whispering in ears, building up his own little gang of sycophants. Except that it’s not so little anymore.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked.
“There’s a plot to oust Martin.”
“But he was elected chairman by majority decision.”
“That majority might not still be there,” said Rayment worriedly. “Neil has been busy. I’ve done a quick head count and I think the vote will be close — too close, for my liking. Neil wants to call an Extraordinary General Meeting to pass a vote of no confidence in Martin.”
“That’s downright cruel!”
“The awful thing is that it might succeed.”
“We can’t have Neil Woodville as chairman.”
“A lot of people think that we should.”
“He’s got to be stopped.”
“That won’t be easy,” he warned. “I just wanted to tip you the wink so that you can alert Martin. He can always rely on my vote.”
“Thank you, Peter. You’re a real friend.”
“Neil is so ambitious. He’ll stop at nothing.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure that nobody else was listening. “And that raises a strange possibility.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you heard the statements we gave to the police. Neil still wants to blame our barman for the mess in there. Martin is convinced that Crowford may be the villains of the piece, and neither he nor Neil has ruled out the gypsies on our doorstep.”
“We’ve had trouble with them before.”
“Quite. But suppose we add another name to the list of suspects.”
“And who’s that?” Rosie saw the look in his eye. “Neil?”
“Why not?”
She shook her head. “No, Peter. He’s got a lot of faults but I don’t think he’d stoop to this. Why cause damage to a club when he wants to be its chairman?”
“Because it undermines Martin’s position.”
“Martin was not responsible,” she retorted.
“Neil will make it look as if he is. You weren’t at the committee meeting when we discussed the idea of having security cameras. Neil was all for it. Martin was against because we’d already spent a fortune on a state-of-the-art burglar alarm. Honestly,” said Rayment, “I wouldn’t want to sit through another meeting like that. It was a real dogfight. Talk about ‘Nature red in tooth and claw.’ Martin finally won the day, so we have no cameras. As a result — Neil will claim — we have no film of someone breaking in here to trash our bar.”
“He’s got a point,” she conceded. “But hang on, Peter. Weren’t you and Neil the ones who discovered what had happened? You said that he was as upset as you.”
“He certainly seemed to be upset, Rosie. But that could have been an act. The simple fact is that this serves his purpose. Neil can kill two birds with one stone — he can blame Martin for not having security cameras installed and he can point the finger at the barman.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “What price Doug’s job if we have a new chairman? Neil would have him out of here in two seconds.”
It was at that precise moment that Lomas appeared, sweating profusely from his exertions but wearing a smile of triumph.
“I’ve moved the empty barrels out,” he said, “and connected three full ones. The lads will be able to have their booze, after all.”
Martin Hewlett had an unfailing capacity to look on the bright side. Not even the horrendous injury that he had suffered could dampen his spirits. He saw it as an opportunity to direct his life to worthier goals, getting heavily involved in church and charity work. It was the same with the damage at the clubhouse. Hewlett pointed out an advantage.
“We needed a new carpet in the bar,” he said airily. “I’ll screw every penny I can get out of the insurance company and we’ll be walking on luxury carpet up to our ankles.” He laughed merrily. “The rest of you will, anyway. My walking days are over.”
“How was the training session?”
“Good. Very good — once I lit a fire under them.”
“You always could inspire a team, Martin.”
“It’s not inspiration but naked fear. I frighten the buggers.”
Rosie was driving him home after the evening at the club. As usual, her husband had downed his fair share of beer and she knew that he would be asleep soon after she put him to bed. If she needed to raise a sensitive topic, now was the time.
“Peter had a quiet word with me earlier on,” she began.
“Oh?”
“He wan
ted to pass on a warning.”
“What about?”
“Neil Woodville.”
Hewlett cackled. “Dear old Peter. He’s been warning me about Neil for the last five years but I still haven’t felt a knife between my shoulder blades. What’s the latest scare?”
“It’s more than a scare, Martin,” she said. “There’s a move to unseat you as chairman by passing a vote of no confidence.”
“Bollocks!”
“And it’s no good swearing. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Nobody can unseat me. I was properly elected.”
“The result could be overturned.”
“Only if an Extraordinary General Meeting is called,” he said, “and that would require twenty signatures.”
“Neil has got them, apparently.”
“Never!”
“I’m only telling you what Peter said.”
Hewlett lapsed into a brooding silence. In the days when they had played on the same team, he and Woodville had been friends, but that had all changed. Woodville was now his implacable enemy, a man who was determined to take over the club and lift it to new heights. To that end, he had made generous donations to Shelton RFC, enabling them to buy auxiliary floodlights and to resurface the car park. In financial terms, Hewlett could never compete. Though he continued in his law firm, he was only there three days a week and was given a light workload. It was Rosie’s salary as a college lecturer that really kept them afloat.
She pulled the car up their drive and switched off the engine.
“There is another way of looking at this,” she said.
“Is there?”
“Maybe what happened at the club is a sort of sign.”
“You sound like Neil,” he said bitterly. “He reckons that it’s a sign that Doug must go and security cameras must be installed.”
“Being the chairman is such a strain on you, Martin.”
“Nonsense!”
“It is. You make light of it but I know how anxious you get. There’s always some new headache. Tonight’s is just the latest one.” She slipped an arm around him. “Perhaps it’s time to consider retirement.”
“And let that slimy Neil Woodville, take over? Oh, no!”
“You could spike his guns. If you were to announce that you’d resign at the end of the season, there’d be no need to call that EGM. You’d be spared any humiliation.”
“What would be more humiliating than seeing Neil replace me?”
“But that might not happen,” she reasoned. “If it was a straight fight between you and him, then he’s in with a real chance. But if you were to nominate someone else as your successor, Neil could have the rug pulled from under him.”
“Nominate someone else?” He shrugged expressively. “Who?”
“Simon Mifflin.”
The name made Hewlett blink. It was an interesting notion. A well-liked former player, Mifflin ran a profitable building company and had donated far more money to the club than anyone. When he built the new grandstand for Shelton RFC, he gave them a generous discount. He was older than either Hewlett or Woodville, but was as dedicated to the club as either of them. Mifflin commanded wide respect.
“Simon could never beat you,” said Rosie, “but he’d leave Neil standing, especially if he had your endorsement. It could be the answer, Martin. You’re spared the hassle yet you’d still have huge influence on affairs through Simon. It’s the best of both worlds.”
“It would certainly leave Neil with egg on his face.”
“Why not give Simon a ring tomorrow?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m not turning my back on a fight.”
“I don’t want to see you hurt, Martin.”
“I’ve never lost a committee punch-up yet.”
“Think of the upheaval it will cause to the club.”
“All I’m thinking about is putting Neil in his place once and for all.” He squeezed her hand affectionately. “I know you have my best interests at heart, Rosie, and I love you for it, but I’m not afraid. I’ll defy any motion of no confidence and come out of it stronger than ever.”
“Martin—”
“No,” he said firmly. “My mind is made up. I stay.”
“In that case, I’ll support you to the hilt. So will Peter.”
“God bless you both!”
“By the way,” she said, opening the car door, “Peter thinks we should put someone else on the list of suspects.”
“And who’s that?”
“Neil himself. Let’s get you inside, then I’ll tell you why.”
After a storming victory against Crowford on the following Saturday, the players felt entitled to celebrate, even if it meant doing so on the bare floor of the clubhouse bar. The place was crowded and Doug Lomas was grateful for the assistance of a couple of volunteers. It was a long day for the barman. Having arrived midmorning, he would not come off duty until well after midnight. Lomas did not mind that. Long hours meant more money and he enjoyed the camaraderie that really blossomed on such occasions. He felt part of it. People like Neil Woodville might treat him with frank suspicion, but most of the club members liked their barman. He was friendly and hard-working.
Because he had to drive home on his motorbike, Lomas never drank on duty. While others ordered round after round, he remained sober and was able to watch the effects of alcohol on them. Towards the end of the celebrations, he was washing glasses behind the bar with the help of Peter Rayment, always a man to take on some of the more menial chores when needed. Lomas drew his attention to Martin Hewlett.
“He can really put his beer away. Did he always drink that much?”
“No,” said Rayment. “Martin loves a pint but he didn’t used to get plastered in the way he does now. I feel sorry for Rosie. He’s a big man. It’s not easy to put him to bed when he’s in that state.”
“What was he like as a player?”
“Martin? He was brilliant. First-team captain for five consecutive years. They were real glory days. Martin was good enough to play rugby as a full-time professional, but he was too loyal to Shelton.”
“Then he had that freak accident,” said Lomas.
“I know. I was playing fullback in that match.”
“What exactly happened?”
“Martin was on the wing,” recalled the other, “and they put in this high kick over his head. He ran back after it but the ball bounced way above his head. He leapt up like a basketball player to pluck it out of the air. Unfortunately, one of their players crash-tackled him from behind.” He gave a shudder. “There was this almighty thud as he hit the ground and that was that. It was gruesome, Doug.”
“So he was tackled when he was in midair?”
“Yes, that was an offence, for a start. But the man who thundered into his back didn’t worry about the rules. Martin had already scored two tries that afternoon, so it was a deliberate attempt to knock him out of the game. Not that there was any intention to cause permanent damage, mind you,” Rayment said. “But that was the result.”
“Poor man!”
“A tragedy — for Martin and for his wife.”
“Yet he never talks about it.”
“That’s him all over. No good crying over spilt milk, he always says. Since he can’t play, he’s devoted himself to running the club instead. And I, for one, think he’s done a grand job.”
“So do I,” said Lomas, “but not everyone agrees, I’m afraid.”
“No, Doug.”
“I heard rumors that Mr. Woodville is trying to replace him.”
“We’ll see.”
“If that happens, I can kiss this job goodbye.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure that it doesn’t happen, won’t we?” said Rayment cheerily. “A good barman is worth his weight in gold.”
“I do my best.”
“I know that. More importantly, so does Martin.” He saw Hewlett waving to him. “Pull him a last pint, Doug, he wants one for the road.”
> News of the outrage reached the club chairman on the following morning. Propped up in bed, Martin Hewlett was having a late breakfast when the telephone rang. Rosie was on hand to pick up the receiver. An anxious voice came on the line.
“Mrs. Hewlett? It’s Doug Lomas here.”
“Oh, hello.”
“Any chance of speaking to your husband?”
“He’s having his breakfast at the moment. Can you ring back?”
“This is urgent. It won’t keep.”
“In that case, hold on.” She passed the phone to Hewlett. “It’s Doug Lomas and he sounds upset about something.”
“Doug?” said Hewlett, speaking into the receiver. “What’s up?”
“It’s happened again,” replied Lomas.
“What has?”
“Someone’s flooded the bar again.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m ringing from the clubhouse. When I got up today, I had this funny feeling that something was wrong so I drove over here just in case. It’s maddening,” said Lomas. “To make sure we wouldn’t lose any more beer, I disconnected the barrels before I left last night. Someone must have connected them up again and left the taps open.”
“Bastard!”
“And that wasn’t the only thing.”
Hewlett listened with horror as the barman told him what he had found. He became so agitated that Rosie lifted the tray from his lap and moved it to a place of safety.
“Call the police, Doug,” said Hewlett. “I’m on my way.”
“You’re not going anywhere in a hurry,” said Rosie, taking the phone from him. “What’s all this about the police?”
“Doug is at the clubhouse. Someone’s vandalized the place.”
“Not again!”
“It’s worse this time,” said Hewlett. “The intruder wasn’t content with spilling barrels of beer all over the place. He smashed our display cases, broke up all the team photographs hanging on the walls, and tore down the honors board.”
“That’s dreadful,” said Rosie, knowing how much it meant to her husband to see his name on the board five times in gold lettering. “Who could possibly do a thing like that?”
“Some clever dick from Crowford.”
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 787 & 788, March/April 2007 Page 31