The Amazing Test Match Crime

by Adrian Alington

  Today Monica presented a picture of radiant young womanhood. Not only was she extremely beautiful, but glowing health seemed to inform her every movement. Needless to say, she was adored by young and old in the village of Wattlecombe Ducis, being often compared by the inhabitants to a ray of sunshine. The Girl Guides, of whom she was the moving spirit, all prayed that they might grow up to be just like Miss Monica; aged villagers, to whom she brought small comforts, declared, in the accustomed manner of aged villagers when presented with small comforts, that “the sight of Vicar’s lass did them a power of good”. As she approached she swung a tennis racquet, which she had lightly caught up when leaving the Vicarage. She had not been playing tennis, but she was the kind of girl who liked swinging things.

  “Cheerioh, you two men-things!” she called gaily as she approached.

  The two men greeted her, and Sir Timothy inquired what she had been doing.

  “I’ve been up at Farmer Clutterbuck’s,” she answered smiling, “sitting by a sick cow.”

  “How good you are,” said Norman, “and how unselfish!”

  Monica laughed unaffectedly, and gave her racquet a tremendous swing.

  “I like to bring gladness wherever I go. Of course it was no good reading aloud to the cow, but I sat beside it reminding it that it was an English cow and must keep a stiff upper lip. The poor animal understood me, I’m sure. It mooed once or twice just as though it were promising to keep steady and not lose its nerve.”

  “Everyone and everything in Wattlecombe Ducis loves our Monica,” said Sir Timothy heartily. “How is your father, my dear?”

  Monica smiled roguishly.

  “Poor dear, he is in disgrace. He has been dreadfully absent-minded again. In giving out the second lesson this morning, he said the Epistle to the Imperians, instead of the Galatians.”

  “Did he, by Gad?”

  “Old Simkins, the verger, has been scolding him dreadfully.”

  “Well, well,” said Sir Timothy. “A stupid mistake, but not altogether unnatural. Though, of course, there are wide differences. The Galatians, for example, were not cricketers.”

  “But we must remember,” said Monica, who, though radiant, was a just girl, “that Cricket had not then been invented.”

  “True,” replied Sir Timothy, and was silent for a moment contemplating the remarkable phenomenon of a cricketless world. “It seems extraordinary that nobody thought of it. I mean to say I can’t think what the beggars did with themselves.”

  “I suppose,” suggested Monica, “that they had some games of their own. Ancient sort of games.”

  “I suppose so,” agreed Sir Timothy doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem natural though.”

  Just then a stately butler came from the house followed by a footman. They laid tea in the shade of the great trees and withdrew.

  “Ah, the tea interval,” exclaimed Sir Timothy jovially. “Monica, my dear, you must pour out for us.”

  The three formed a charming group as they sat about the tea-table in the shadow of the immemorial trees, Sir Timothy’s elderly and highly coloured dignity contrasting with the youthful vitality of the other two. It was not often that a woman’s presence graced the Manor tea-table, for Lady Blood had passed away almost unnoticed during the University match of 1927. It was a mellow picture such as could occur only in a corner of rustic England. Through the immemorial trees shone Old Sol.

  More than once, as they ate cucumber sandwiches and sipped tea, Norman’s eyes rested upon the slim girlish form of Monica. How strange, he thought, that the gay child of the golden ringlets, who had bowled donkey-drops with such devastating effect should develop into this beautiful young woman! Quite often recently he had wondered whether he should not invite her to become mistress of the Old Manor. He felt that she would grace it worthily. Certainly she was tremendously radiant, but then the Manor was a large house, and after a while you would not notice it. Sometime, when the all-important match at the Oval was over and the Cricket Season finished, he must give the matter serious consideration.…

  From time to time he caught Monica’s eye and smiled. She blushed slightly and looked away.

  “Did I ever tell you youngsters,” said Sir Timothy presently, drawing a cigar from his case, “how I scored twenty-five in one over from Slogger Jameson in the Middlesex match of ’94? We were playing at Lords, which as you know, Monica, my dear, is the Mecca of cricket-lovers all over the world …”

  * * *

  Remarkable as it may seem, Norman Blood was not the only inhabitant of Wattlecombe Ducis whose name was illustrious in the cricket world. For in that doubly blessed hamlet dwelt also Prestwick (J.) the young Glebeshire spin-bowler, whom pundits were tipping as a possibility for the match at the Oval on the strength of a remarkable performance against Wessex only last week. Seven good Wessex wickets had Prestwick taken for a meagre twenty-four runs, bringing his total bag for the season up to one hundred and nineteen. If he did well in the Westshire match which was now in progress, his inclusion at the Oval seemed almost certain.

  Prestwick’s rise to fame had been one of the sensations of the present season. It was only last year that had occurred that memorable day when Prestwick played first for the village of Wattlecombe Ducis. The occasion was the match against Boghurst Parva, always regarded as a “needle” match by the inhabitants of Wattlecombe Ducis. The rival teams were already assembled round the pavilion, the two captains were about to toss for innings, when word came that Tom Apps, the blacksmith, Wattlecombe’s demon bowler, had had an accident with a horse he was shoeing and could take no part in the match. Consternation reigned. To take the field without Tom Apps spelled certain disaster; more particularly as among the stalwarts of Boghurst Parva was observed a young gentleman actually wearing a Harlequin cap. Rumour went swiftly round that this was a friend of the Vicar of Boghurst Parva’s eldest son, a batsman of the highest order.

  Something, however, had to be done and Providence in its inscrutable fashion ordained that young Joe Prestwick should be standing by the Pavilion about to watch the game. To him spoke Bill Sniper, the Wattlecombe Ducis captain,

  “Ever played cricket?”

  “Only once or twice.”

  “You’ve got to play now. Come on.”

  So hurriedly was it all arranged that, Boghurst Parva having won the toss, Joe Prestwick most regrettably had taken the field wearing braces.

  The opening phase of the game more than confirmed the pessimistic feelings of Wattlecombe Ducis. The young gentleman in the Harlequin cap proceeded to score freely off the depleted bowling, while his partner, Bill Wicks, the Boghurst Parva grocer, stolidly kept up his end. At the end of half an hour the scoreboard read:

  40

  0

  0

  In despair the Wattlecombe Ducis captain looked round his men. All his regular bowlers and others had tried and failed. At last he inquired of Joe,

  “Can you bowl?”

  “I can try,” replied the youth who was to become famous as Prestwick (J.).

  They still talk of that day in Wattlecombe Ducis. Joe tossed his first ball into the air; the young gentleman in the Harlequin cap smiled contemptuously. And then a shout went up from the assembled spectators. The young gentleman’s off-stump was seen to be leaning backwards.

  When he got back to the pavilion, he explained angrily,

  “His braces put me off. You can’t expect a fellow to bat against a man in braces.”

  But before long his colleagues knew that he was lying. Within half an hour the entire Boghurst Parva team was back in the pavilion for a meagre total of forty-seven. Joe had taken ten wickets for one run.

  Monica, of course, was watching the match. It was she who, mounting her bicycle, bore the news to Sir Timothy at the Manor.

  “Sir Timothy, Sir Timothy, come quickly. They have discovered a demon bowler.”

  Sir Timothy, calling for his car, reached the ground in time to see Joe take the last Boghurst Parva wicket.

&n
bsp; “But, good heavens, child,” he exclaimed, “the fellow is playing in braces.”

  Monica was excited and momentarily off her balance.

  “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “I would rather,” said Sir Timothy in his outspoken way, “see the whole village dead at my feet than a man bowling for the team in braces.”

  Monica said nothing. Of course, Sir Timothy was right… In her first girlish enthusiasm she had allowed herself to be blinded to the real and important things of life. Suddenly she was inspired. Mounting her bicycle, she rode rapidly into the village, not dismounting until she reached a haberdasher’s shop.

  “I want please,” she said breathlessly, “a gentleman’s cricketing belt.”

  “Yes, Miss. Did you fancy any particular shade?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Only hurry.”

  Within a few minutes she was back at the ground. Joe, who was more astonished than anyone else by what had happened, stood about watching the efforts of the Wattlecombe Ducis batsmen. He stood alone, for although he had taken ten wickets for one run, no-one cared to be seen with him while he still wore his shameful costume.

  Suddenly a feminine voice beside him said,

  “Wear this, please.”

  Turning, he beheld the most radiant girl he had ever seen, holding in her hand a cricket belt. So overcome was he that at first he did not recognize the Vicar’s daughter. She seemed to him a goddess from Heaven. He contrived to stammer,

  “Thanks, awfully.”

  “Not at all,” she answered correctly, and then her impulsiveness gaining the upper hand once more, added, “Wear it, please, for my sake. Good luck!”

  And that was all. But it was enough for Joe. He had fallen in love above his station.

  Joe was no batsman, but inspired by Monica’s presence, he compiled two not out. The Wattlecombe Ducis total reached sixty-four, and in the second innings Joe bowled the entire Boghurst Parva team out for twelve runs.

  As the last wicket fell, Monica approached Sir Timothy.

  “Well, Sir Timothy, isn’t he good?”

  “Trousers,” replied Sir Timothy grudgingly, “should be kept in position by invisible means or failing that by a scarf bearing the colours of a good club. But,” he added, his sense of justice coming to his rescue, “the boy is undoubtedly a discovery.”

  After that memorable day progress was rapid. Joe was tried for the Glebeshire 2nd XI and repeated his success. Towards the end of the season he was tried for the county itself. In the following year, that of the Imperian visit, he became a regular member of the team, earning the dark blue cap of Glebeshire with its crest of a scarlet dragon. More than one fine achievement he had to his name, and once he had been awarded by a well-known firm a cake for the outstanding sporting feat of the week. And now he was spoken of as a “possible” for the great match at the Oval.

  All England knew of Joe’s sudden rise. But what all England did not know was that Joe still kept the belt which Monica had given him, and gazed at it often in rapturous adoration. No knight ever preserved his lady’s favour with greater enthusiasm. Since that day of the Boghurst Parva match he had loved Monica with all the ardour of his simple athlete’s nature. The home of the Prestwicks was very different from the Manor house, for Joe’s parents were but rough peasants, who wrung a living from the soil. It was in the little attic where he slept that he kept his belt hidden away. It was a red and white belt with a snake-shaped buckle, which it was Joe’s pride to keep clean and shining. Often he would take it out and look at it, and though he still reddened with shame, as he thought of how he had taken the field wearing braces, the belt brought him thoughts of Monica and what she had done for him that day.

  In his simple adoring way he had studied the habits of his beloved. It was not by chance that he and Monica so often met in the village. This evening, for instance, being Sunday, she would, he knew, walk to church. And so it happened that while Monica, having finished tea at the Manor House, walked gracefully back to the village, Joe was waiting to meet her.

  He waited upon the village green. Here was a scene of much natural beauty, which could easily be described at great length and with much erudition. But for our present purposes it is sufficient to say that Wattlecombe Ducis was a delightfully old-world village, and that picturesque cottages and suitable vegetation were present in generous quantities. The Earthy Peasant, the old-world village inn, was not yet open and the green was almost deserted. Joe’s thoughts, as he loitered, ran upon Monica, his Lady of the Cricketing Belt, as he sometimes poetically called her in his own mind. How lovely she was! He began as he stood there to compose a poem in his own mind.

  “O Monica, whose lovely face,

  Is matched by thy tremendous grace.”

  Suddenly he started and blushed violently. She was coming. Monica was coming. He watched her approach gracefully round the village pond, still swinging her tennis racquet. He heard her call out in her radiant fashion to the ducks,

  “Cheerioh, you old ducks!”

  Small wonder that all Wattlecombe Ducis adored her.

  To describe the conversation which followed in all its beauty and tensity would require the pen of a Felicia Portcullis. Indeed that excellent and best-selling woman has in most of her novels described very similar scenes. Perhaps the nearest is that in A Rick Man’s Secretary, in which a certain Frank Greatbatch “felt his whole virile being flooded with tenderness at the womanly fragility” of the lady he was ultimately to marry. Emotions upon this terrific scale took hold of Joe, as he watched Monica approach. Suppressing them, however, in manly style he raised his hat.

  “Good evening, Miss Monica.”

  “Hullo, old Joe.”

  She struck him as she spoke a light welcoming blow with the tennis racquet. Within her, too, emotions of the Felicia Portcullis order were aroused by the meeting. For it must now be disclosed that Monica, though above him in social standing, returned Joe’s love with an ardour equal to his own. That very first day when she had handed him the belt, her woman’s intuition had pierced beneath the shame of his costume and glimpsed the simple nobility beneath. She yearned now in her girlish way to bring gladness into Joe’s life.

  A long silence followed the greeting since Joe was struck speechless by her beauty, and remained with his eyes bashfully fixed upon the ground. At last he spoke.

  “Are you going to Church?”

  “Yes, I’ve been having tea at the Manor.”

  At this a series of sensations which Felicia Portcullis has aptly called “the searing torments of the green-eyed monster” attacked the luckless Joe. Norman Blood was his captain and the best amateur bat in the country, but it was heartbreaking to think of his wealth and all that he could give Monica, whereas he himself… This reminded Joe of his own gift to Monica, and he said shyly,

  “There’s something I’d like to give you, Miss Monica.”

  The tennis racquet wobbled in her grasp.

  “A present for me?”

  “Yes. It’s not much, I know. It’s not like the presents a rich man could give you, but I’d like you to have it.”

  He felt in his pocket and produced a cigarette card, which displayed a highly coloured version of his own features and beneath it his name. Joe, greatly daring, had added the words “With love”, so that the whole read “With love from Prestwick (Glebeshire)”.

  Monica’s eyes glowed as she took the present.

  “Thank you, Joe. Oh, it’s top-hole.”

  “They’re giving them away with packets of Red Queen,” he explained. “It’s got the story of my life on the back.”

  “I shall always value it,” replied Monica simply.

  They walked on in silence towards the church.

  “Only a week now,” said Monica presently, “until the team for the Oval is chosen. Oh, Joe, I hope you play.”

  “The Selection Committee,” Joe loyally replied, “is above reproach.”

  “Oh, of course. All the same it would be wo
nderful.”

  “Thank you, Miss Monica.”

  She turned towards him and said softly,

  “Won’t you call me Monica?”

  Joe started and rich colour flooded his face.

  “May I?”

  This was a great moment in his life. Never had he aspired to such intimacy. Various speeches formed in his mind—“Monica, darling, I am only a pro, playing his first season for the county—” “Dear Monica, I may be of lowly birth—” But he bit them all back. How could he, modest village lad that he was, aspire to win the hand of this radiant girl? All the same, he knew well that before long the time would come when he must speak.

  They came presently to the little village church. And here, with a tremendous handclasp on Monica’s part, they parted.

  “Good night, old Joe.”

  “Good night, Monica.”

  Monica, having left her tennis racquet in the porch, went into the church. It says much for the stability of her character that she was able to keep her mind upon the service. Not many girls, having received amorous glances from two first-class cricketers upon one day, would have been able to do so, but Monica was made of stern stuff.

  Joe, meanwhile, walked slowly home. His thoughts were mixed. Although the memory of her presence still made him dizzy, he could not help thinking sadly of Norman Blood and all the wonderful presents he would be able to make her. Jewels, tiaras …

  He was still lost in these thoughts when he reached Stark Cottage, the lowly, almost derelict home, where he dwelled with his rude old parents. His rude old mother, standing at the door, greeted him.

  “Thou bëest läte, läd.”

  The older Prestwicks, it must be confessed at once, were not peasants of the jolly “hey-nonny-no”, “green-grow-the-rushes-oh” type. On the contrary, they wrung a bare living from the soil and behaved accordingly. They conversed always in the manner which is called racy of the soil; that is to say with two dots over almost every word.