The Amazing Test Match Crime

by Adrian Alington

  “You sure loathe and despise yourself, Boss,” said Sawn-off Carlo.

  “I trust,” the Professor replied coldly, “that I have a tolerably just appreciation of my own remarkable powers. They are, however, not the subject under discussion at the present moment. To return, as the French say, to our muttons. As I have said, the object of our present operations is no less than the complete disruption of the British Empire, a task, which as you can imagine, would probably daunt an intellect less remarkable than mine. Having given the matter some thought, however, and having received reports from a certain trustworthy agent in London, I have been able to devise a scheme of unparalleled subtlety and effectiveness.”

  Having reached this point the Professor paused and sipped his coffee, while his companions remained in suspense.

  “It became obvious to me,” he continued presently, “after studying my reports, that the British Empire is held together entirely by a series of contests of this curious Crickets. These contests take place periodically between what is called the mother country and the natives of the various outlying dominions. They are known as Test Matches. Of these Test Matches, none are regarded as of such outstanding importance as those which take place periodically between England and the dominion of Imperia. Am I right, friend Ralph?”

  Ralph nodded without speaking.

  “They sound loopy to me,” remarked Sawn-off Carlo.

  “The English are naturally mad,” replied the Professor. “That goes without saying.” He opened his attaché case and took from it a thick bundle of type-written sheets. “I have here a series of notes and observations, made by an acute and reliable agent. I will read them to you.”

  He sipped his coffee again and began to read in a dry, precise voice.

  “It is almost impossible to realize, my dear Professor, the extraordinary reverence with which Crickets is regarded in England, not only by what is called in the Press the Sporting Fraternity, but by all classes from the highest to the lowest. When an important contest is in progress—and frequently these mimic battles endure for several days at a time—the arena is always crowded, and onlookers may be heard encouraging the participants with such cries as ‘Long live Sir Sutcliffe!’, ‘Leg before, my hat!’ or ‘Sockem, Patsyboy!’ (this last a technical shout of some kind, whose exact significance I have never been able to discover).

  “So firm is the hold which this Crickets has upon Englishmen of all classes, that it has in fact become a synonym for Virtue. Thus an outraged husband discovering his best friend in the embraces of his wife will exclaim, ‘This behaviour is not crickets, by Jove,’—a truth, my dear Professor, which would appear to be self-evident. In the course of my researches which have been deep and prolonged, I have only been able to discover one cricketer who was not also regarded as a Pattern of the Highest Virtue. This was a certain A. J. Raffles, who in his non-sporting moments pursued the calling of a burglar. So strongly rooted in the national character, however, is this veneration of Crickets that A. J. Raffles has always been acclaimed as a hero, whereas criminals who do not share his sporting proclivities are universally execrated.”

  The Professor laid down his notes and regarded his companions through his spectacles.

  “And so, you see, my friends, a blow struck at this national custom is a blow at the very heart of proud Albion. Let the natives of Imperia defeat the mother country and her prestige is gone. It will be our duty to see that the mother country is defeated. It shall be done, moreover, in a manner that will lead the English to suspect Imperia of foul play. Thus the Matches of Crickets will cease to be played and the Empire will fall to pieces.”

  Ralph the Disappointment spoke in a low voice.

  “How are you going to do this thing?”

  The Professor smiled.

  “As a preliminary, my dear Ralph, we shall hamstring the horses of the Englishmen.”

  “Gee,” exclaimed Sawn-off Carlo, “it’s dough for nix, Boss.”

  “Simplicity, my dear Carlo, was ever the hall-mark of genius.”

  “Cricket,” said Ralph the Disappointment, still in a low voice, “is not played upon horses.”

  “You are in error, Ralph,” replied the Professor, taking from his case another sheaf of notes. “I have here an extensive report upon English Sporting Life in all its branches. Listen. ‘The game is played between two teams chosen from the aristocracy and upper classes, who, mounted upon horses, ride hither and thither waving long poles and simultaneously exclaiming, “Chukka and Tiffin!” These shouts must not be confused with the somewhat similar equestrian exclamations (Yoicks, Tallyho, etc.) which are emitted while in pursuit of the fox.’”

  “That is polo.”

  “What, my good Ralph, is polo?”

  “The game you’ve been reading about.”

  The Professor frowned and consulted his notes.

  “It would appear that you are right,” he said at last. “I was not unnaturally confused by the multiplicity of athletic contests prevalent in England. The matter, however, is of small importance.”

  “Say,” interrupted Sawn-off Carlo, “ain’t there goin’ to be no hoises?”

  “There will be, as you say, no horses. I shall, however, be able without difficulty to devise some alternative plan.”

  “Say, Boss, how would it be we take them cricketing palookas for a ride?”

  “A little crude, my dear Carlo.”

  “I ain’t shot up a guy in weeks,” pleaded Sawn-off Carlo wistfully.

  The Professor muttered impatiently and turned once more to his notes.

  “Here is what my agent has to say upon the subject of Crickets. ‘The game of Crickets takes place between two teams of eleven men, suitably arrayed in costumes of white flannel. The regulations are of extreme complexity and can only be comprehended in their entirety by the English who begin to study them in earliest infancy.’ We need not, however, consider these absurd regulations just now. I flatter myself that what it takes an Englishman a lifetime to understand I shall assimilate within a few hours. The important point is this.” The Professor leaned forward and behind his spectacles shone the light of genius, contemplating supreme achievement. “The natives of Imperia are even now upon a visit to England. Four of these Test Matches have already taken place without result. The final culminating contest is to take place in a month’s time at a centre of English sporting life known as the Oval. It is there, my friends, that we must strike and strike hard.”

  At this point there occurred an unexpected interruption. With a sudden harsh cry Ralph the Disappointment sprang to his feet. He began to speak and his voice was choked with emotion.

  “No,” he cried, “no. I cannot be a party to this thing.”

  The Professor, his cigar poised, regarded him coldly.

  “Rebellion, Ralph?” he asked in a soft voice, which held infinite menace. The man was always most dangerous when he spoke softly.

  Ralph answered wildly,

  “Heaven knows I am not a pukka fella, in fact I am a really bad fella. Mine has been a life full of shame. But there are limits beyond which even the worst fella cannot go. I was ready to join in assassinating the President of Guamelia and in blowing up the National Bank of Gloritana. But to interfere with a cricket match and in particular a Test Match—no, Professor, low as I have sunk, I am not as loathsome as that.”

  The Professor had listened to this outburst in silence. Now he spoke, and still his tone was one of dreadful softness.

  “Look at me, Ralph.”

  There followed a strange battle of wills. And yet it was hardly a battle. What chance had Ralph, weakened by years of dissipation, against the mighty indomitable will of the man whose eyes bored into his? It was the old story of the rabbit helpless before the boa-constrictor. With a low moan Ralph the Disappointment sank back into his seat, like a man hypnotized.

  “So,” said the Professor slowly. “You will obey my orders?”

  “I will obey your orders,” Ralph repeated, “even th
ough I become a really filthy fella.”

  “It is well, my friend,” said the Professor. “You shall have your complete instructions, both of you, within a few days. For the moment I have no more to say.”

  He arose, picked up his case, and bowing from the waist, said in the loud voice, which he had adopted at the beginning of the conversation,

  “Good day, my old friends. It is, indeed, a pleasure to have revived these happy memories.”

  “So long, Boss,” replied Sawn-off Carlo. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  The Professor walked away. The others sat on at the table watching the small figure as it made its way through the crowd of spies, financiers, and others. As he went, the Professor’s lofty brow was furrowed in tremendous concentration beneath the yachting cap, and he hummed softly to himself, a sure sign that the great brain was at work.

  * * *

  “Gee,” said Sawn-off Carlo, “it’s tough about them hoises, brother.”

  There came no answer from Ralph the Disappointment. Glancing at him sideways, Sawn-off Carlo was astonished to see that his companion sat with his head in his hands, his whole being shaken with sobs.

  Who knows what bitter memories stirred in the mind of that poor besmirched outcast, as he sat here in this café in foreign parts, confronted with the crowning ignominy of his life—memories of his own first little bat, of happy study of the first-class averages in far-off innocent days? Life can be very cruel.

  ***

  W.G.

  It is easy to see

  Was accustomed to wear

  Great masses of hair.

  Cricketers, however, of a later day

  Refuse altogether to clutter up their faces with beards in this ridiculous way.

  From Wisden’s Almanac Designed to be read as Literature

  Cricket-Lovers All

  There is no need to describe in detail the immense wave of enthusiasm which swept the country during the visit of the Imperian team. It might be—and frequently was—described as unprecedented. From the very moment when, led by Lethbridge their captain, that maker of mammoth scores, they set foot upon these shores, their doings were followed with passionate interest. Their chances and abilities were everywhere discussed. Was this new fast bowler Bumper as great as the fast bowlers of a past day, was the illustrious Lethbridge himself, despite his countless records, the peer of departed giants? Could eleven men be found in all England to withstand the might of Imperia? Lethbridge himself was a silent man. On his arrival he contented himself with observing, “Everyone is very fit”. When questioned about the prospects of the Test Matches he said simply, “May the best team win”—a sentiment which was reciprocated by Norman Blood, the Glebeshire captain, who was ultimately chosen to lead the English eleven at a midnight meeting of the Selection Committee, convened in a cellar in the north of Scotland.

  No need to describe the series of grim struggles which took place, without any decision being reached, at Nottingham, Lords, Manchester and Leeds. Worthier pens have already accomplished the task. Never, indeed, have so many writers of the first calibre been engaged to describe a series of sporting events. Not only famous cricketers and journalists but eminent novelists were retained for the purpose at enormous expense. Much startling literature resulted. Mr. Beetling Grim’s description of Old Trafford in the rain was generally considered a masterpiece of sombre and ruthless description, as powerful as anything in his celebrated Stinking Splendour. Miss Felicia Portcullis (authoress of Her Chap, Misty Eyes, A Rich Maris Secretary, etc.) was, on the other hand, a writer who was never very good at weather, and reached her greatest heights in her description of Norman Blood’s century at Lords.

  “With a ripple of his bronzed boyish shoulders,” so wrote that enthusiastic and prolific woman, “Blood swings his bat. Away flashes the ball, away, away! Instantly pandemonium breaks loose, for Blood has reached his century. A hundred runs for England, you readers. Our Norman. Strong men bite their lips to keep their emotion in check. We, their weaker sisters, frankly shed tears of delight. Lords Cricket Ground rings with happy plaudits. And amidst it all our hero stands leaning gracefully upon his bat, just six foot of clean English thew and sinew. We shall not be there to hear it, of course, but some motherly instinct deep down in the heart of me whispers that when Blood returns to receive the full-throated congratulations of his fellow-cricketers he will say modestly, ‘It is for England, you chaps, and after all it’s nothing to what Drake did.’ Heroes, you know, are like that.”

  A description of every ball bowled was broadcast to Imperia, and in England the accounts of the play by John Beltravers were listened to raptly all over the country. Business, it might be said, came practically to a standstill everywhere, as the well-known voice related ball by ball the chances and changes of the game. Listeners everywhere shared his emotions at the great first-wicket stand achieved by England’s opening batsmen, Hugh and Crigh, at Leeds, at the downfall of the mighty Lethbridge at Trent Bridge, when he had scored a bare seventeen runs.

  Letters on all subjects connected with the Test Matches filled the Press to the exclusion of every other topic. Should they be played to a finish? Should Norman Blood have declared earlier at Lords? Should the players wear numbers on their backs, so that they might be distinguished by the crowd? This last suggestion, it may be said, drew from Sir Timothy Blood, father of the English captain and doyen of English cricket, the characteristic retort, “I would rather see the entire English eleven dead at my feet than see them with numbers on their backs.”

  So the country was engrossed in the one great topic. Gardeners named their newest blooms after the Imperian captain, society women scented themselves with the new Perfume Lethbridge, almost all boys born that year were named after him. It is no exaggeration to say that all England waited with passionate eagerness for the final match to be played at the Oval. For this was to be played to a finish and would decide the fate of the Ashes.

  * * *

  And if all England was agog, it may safely be said that in no corner of it was interest so high as in the little village of Wattlecombe Ducis which nestled serenely in the Glebeshire downs. For it was in the Manor House upon the outskirts of the village that young Norman Blood, England’s captain, hero of the Lords match, had been born and bred. Upon its smooth lawns, in the shadow of its immemorial trees, he had played beneath his father’s tuition his first faltering infant strokes.

  Let us take a glance within those historic precincts. Upon a certain Sunday afternoon—exactly a week before the Selection Committee were to meet in a balloon, which was to ascend over the English Channel, to choose the men who would represent England at the Oval—Norman and Sir Timothy paced the lawn beneath the great immemorial trees. Father and son presented a distinguished and highly coloured picture. Norman, young, dark, handsome, an athlete to his finger-tips, was wearing the vividly striped blazer of the Glebeshire Globetrotters, tie of the Old Harburians and a straw hat surrounded by the colours of the Strolling Sportsmen; Sir Timothy, erect, distinguished, with a noble white moustache, which in its blacker days had been the admiration of cricket grounds all over the country, was attired in the blazer of the Wild Woodpeckers, an M.C.C. tie and a panama with the same ribbon. Sir Timothy, as has already been said, was generally regarded as the doyen of the game. His pronunciamentos upon all subjects connected with it were eagerly awaited. It was he who had said at a general meeting of the Glebeshire C.C:

  “I pray every morning and night that the captain of England may always be a man of irreproachable lineage.”

  And again,

  “I shall maintain with my last breath that umpires should be men of sound conservative views.”

  Sentiments which had won the applause not only of all Glebeshire, but of all England.

  As they strolled this Sunday afternoon, Sir Timothy was in reminiscent mood.

  “At Lords,” he said, “which as you know, my boy, is the Headquarters of the game as well as the Mecca of cricket-lovers in all cor
ners of the globe—”

  “I know, Father,” Norman replied.

  And indeed he did, for from his earliest days he never remembered hearing Sir Timothy mention Lords without introducing this noble qualifying phrase.

  “At Lords,” proceeded Sir Timothy, “and by George, my boy, I love every stick and stone, every brick and blade of the old place—”

  “I know, Father,” said Norman again.

  “At Lords in the Gentlemen and Players match of ’97 I was batting with Tiddles Marshbanks—”

  “S. P. Q. Marshbanks,” put in Norman reverently. “Cambridge and Southshire.”

  “The same, my boy. I was one of the few who were privileged to address him as Tiddles. Other pseudonyms by which he went were ‘The popular ex-Cantab’, ‘the celebrated Southshire crack’ and ‘the Chevalier of the Straight Bat’. Well, as I say, we were batting. It was, I remember, a lovely day. Jupiter Pluvius, as we old cricketers call rain, was conspicuous by its absence, while Old Sol, which as a result of your education, you will have no difficulty in translating for yourself, shone brightly. Both of us seemed set for a good score. But Cricket, which as you know, my dear boy, is the King of Games and the Game of Kings—”

  “Amen.”

  “—is full of surprises. And that day there were certainly surprises. Crocker (F.) was bowling from the pavilion end—”

  Sir Timothy’s anecdote, however, remained unfinished. For just then a new figure appeared from the direction of the house, that of a young girl. This was Monica, the Vicar’s daughter, who dwelt alone with her saintly and scholarly old father at the Vicarage. She was an old playmate of Norman’s; indeed, as a child with golden ringlets she had shared in those early games of cricket, during which Norman had laid the foundations of the skill which was to serve England so nobly. Sometimes they still laughed together over the memory of the donkey-drops, which Monica had been wont to bowl and which often enough had resulted in the shattering of the youthful Norman’s wicket. Many a time when the efforts of the butler, the two gardeners and the chauffeur had failed to dislodge the “young master” Monica with her artless girlish donkey-drops had succeeded.