The squad cheered their assent to this rather lamely concluded motivational speech as if it had been delivered by Leonidas upon the brow of Thermopylae, and Millington Junior in fact Xerxes Junior: Fripp’s passion was so evident that his words were secondary to his purpose.
Lenox took his place rather shy of the boundary on the covering side, shielding his eyes against the sun. He watched their bowler — Fripp’s cousin Thorpe — toss a few lazy practice balls. A new cherry! How long had it been since he had seen that brilliant red, soon to be dulled by bats and dirt!
In cricket, of course, an out is a rare thing — hours may pass between them — and the goal of the batsman is simply to stay alive, often unspectacularly. The batsmen of the King’s Arms were steady and merciless. Lenox came to loathe their opening batsman in particular, who stroked short, sharp balls in every direction, none of them ever coming within five feet of the outstretched arms of a Royal Oak man. At last the KA lad made out on a spectacular curve of the ball from the bowler, Thorpe — Fripp’s shout of glee might have been heard in three counties, and all the men crowded around to congratulate him.
The next batsman was equally consistent, only once hitting the boundary rope on the bounce — for a four — and never hitting it over the rope altogether for a six, but stringing together one run, one run, two runs, one run, until the score began to mount.
So the morning wore on. The Royal Oak changed bowlers from time to time, switching over from Thorpe’s wicked spin to the straight, hard bowling of a groomsman with an enormous mustache called Gibbs.
Though it seemed as if it would take years for their ten to go out, gradually the men of the King’s Arms fell. One, standing stock-still, had his wicket nicked by Gibbs, another was caught out by Fripp, and Lenox, too, made one sharpish catch, one-handed and with his body fully elongated, so that he landed painfully on his ribs. That was for the seventh out, and he felt a flush of joy — perhaps the purest joy he could recall — as it was his turn to be crowded about and receive the plaudits of the team, even Symes, his wound flaring under the sunlight, grinning like a baboon.
Then, just after noon, it ended very rapidly. In ten minutes two King’s Arms batsmen were dismissed — one stumped, one bowled — after many of their compatriots had each batted for well over an hour.
Frederick, who had taken a shaded and obscure spot and seen nothing of the cherry as he fielded, waved to Lenox. “What are they out for?” he called.
The two men converged near the wicket, and walked toward the side of the field together, after congratulating their teammates. “Two hundred seventy-seven,” said Lenox.
“Rather steep.”
“We shall have our chance to respond,” said Lenox. The Royal Oak’s ten would bat now, until they were out or the sun fell.
Frederick looked doubtful, and it was true that twenty-eight runs per batsman was a high number. If one or two of them went out for a two or three — or even a duck, a turn at bat with no runs — then that number could rise quickly, too, demanding thirty runs from each remaining batsman, thirty-five.
Fripp was having none of it. Just as his dourness before the match had brought the men’s lazy cheer — a day of cricket! — into line, now, when they were feeling somewhat downtrodden, he was all high spirits, we shall get at ’em, the pints tonight shall taste sweet (the victors by tradition receiving theirs from the purses of the losers), have your tea and then prepare yourself to bat as you’ve never batted.
He sidled up to Lenox just as the detective was setting out toward the pavilion. “You shall bat fourth,” he said.
“Are you sure?” asked Lenox.
“I remember how excellent you were with a stick, my boy.”
“And Freddie?”
Fripp shook his head. “Won’t bat anywhere but last. We shall have gotten to three hundred before then, anyhow! Go on, find your wife. Good catch, though, Charles — I thought for sure it was going for a four, and just when they had all the momentum! That saved us.”
Lenox, pleased as a schoolboy, found his wife. “Did you see my catch?” he asked.
“I did, and I must say I thought you should have run faster, so you didn’t have to dive.”
“I—’
“And you’ve gotten your sweater covered in dirt!”
“But Jane—” Then he realized, from a slight slyness in her eyes, that she was teasing him. “You’re rotten,” he said.
She laughed and squeezed his hand. “It was well done.”
People tucked into their tea now — tea being an appellation in this instance not confined to that brew alone but encompassing cold beef, jam sandwiches, scones, pressed apple cider, toast with marmalade, suet pudding, cold fish pie, and cakes of every imaginable flavor and quality (some of which were of the same general edibility as one of the cricket bats). Lenox and Frederick split themselves, almost as if by silent consent, among their teammates, Lenox congratulating Thorpe and meeting his pretty young wife, Frederick making the rounds.
Just before the Royal Oak was to come to bat they rejoined. “Thank goodness the fielding bit is over,” said Frederick.
“No, you never liked it.”
“Terrible bore. Look, Symes is going up to bat. I do hope he shall stay up for a while, chip away at their number.”
Symes, however, almost immediately struck a lofted, harmless ball, which landed with a feathered thwock in the hands of a King’s Armer. A groan went up from the boys who were supporting the Oak. Symes looked furious.
When the next batsman up, a farmer called Winton, went out after only eight runs, things began to feel hopeless. Lenox, who was next after Fripp, felt his heart thud: they were going to lose! He hadn’t even thought about the possibility until now. But here Fripp came into his own. With Thorpe managing to stay alive across from him (for two men always batted at once), Fripp offered the spectators ranged along the boundaries, in their chairs, a clinic on batting. He might have been old but his body was still obeying his commands — he sprayed the brilliant red ball, so striking against the blue sky, the brown woods, the green field, in every direction, a two, another two, and then, to thunderous applause, two consecutive sixes. The King’s Arms changed bowlers to no avail: a four, a four, a one, a two, a one. Even in the force and anger of his batting he seemed strangely still, as alert as a hunting animal.
When he finally went out, bowled, it was for a score of seventy-three. As one, the men and women around the field, irrespective of their public house allegiance, stood and cheered.
Now Lenox was to come on.
The bowler was Millington Junior, who, despite his size, was a spin bowler. Lenox preferred that style, actually. He walked to his spot slowly, sizing up the light, tentatively loosening his wrists with the bat. He watched the first ball sail high. The second he cut cleanly, and though it didn’t go far it was a pleasure to feel it come off his bat. He realized that he could do this — that the old, cultivated skill still lingered somewhere in his arms.
In fact he fetched Millington’s third ball a tremendous wallop. That will go for a four, easily, was his first thought, when he realized, with a sense of dismay, that the KA’s annoying batsman, who had refused to go out, was sprinting pell-mell toward the boundary. At the last moment he dived.
And caught it. An enormous cheer gusted up from the crowd; it had been a spectacular catch. Lenox felt his chest go hollow. He looked up and saw Jane, whose mouth was pursed up in sympathy and sorrow. The walk back to his bench was the longest he had ever taken.
“Hard luck,” said Fripp, straining to be understanding. “Very hard luck.”
“No, I should have played for safety. Foolish grandstanding of me,” said Lenox.
“Never mind it,” said Frederick, and if he hadn’t been the squire the looks of disapproval at this casual attitude would have been sharper.
Lenox felt cruelly disappointed. The odds had lengthened against them again. He and Symes had both done badly, very badly. The next batsmen worked hard, gettin
g out for twenty-six and thirty-one, but that great number, two seventy-seven, seemed far away still. They had barely cleared two hundred runs, and it was getting on toward dark.
Soon the eighth batsman had gone up, and despite a couple of booming sixes, been retired relatively quickly. Lenox, somewhat recovered, looked at his uncle, who was deep in conversation with the curate, fifteen paces off.
“Freddie!” he called out.
“Oh, dear,” said the squire, after he had turned and assessed the situation. “I suppose I had better go up, Mr. Lanchester.”
The team cheered him, dutifully, but there was a feeling of defeat along the bench. Frederick walked toward the box, plump and unhurried, waved a friendly hand at Millington, stood, waiting for the ball — and when it came immediately and with great authority cracked it wide and right, for two fast runs.
This drew a murmur of surprise in the crowd, and from opposite ends of their bench, Fripp and Lenox caught each other’s eyes and smiled; they knew, or at least had suspected, for age’s ravages are unpredictable, something that the others didn’t, that perhaps only a few of the older men and women in the crowds could recall.
It was this: that Freddie with a bat in his hand was a man reborn. He grew taller, surer. Lenox had to admit that his swing was slightly different — now the squire had a way of curving the arc of his bat around his paunch that was unlike his old batting style, but it was just as graceful, just as effective. He smacked ball after ball for a run, two runs, a run, rarely hitting one for four or six but never, ever looking in danger of getting out, either.
In fact, once he had swung a second time, proving that his first attempt was not a fluke, the outcome of the match never seemed in doubt. The men of the King’s Arms tried to gee each other up, shouting encouragement, telling the bowler that it was an easy one, but even to them it was as plain as day: Freddie wasn’t going to make an out anytime soon. Twenty minutes later, the light still not quite faded, his face red but grinning, he stroked a calm single, and had posted the forty-four runs—“the famous forty-four,” as Fripp and his friends at the pub would come to call them — that the Royal Oak needed to win.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
When do you imagine we shall return to London?” asked Lady Jane, late that evening.
“It has been on my mind, too,” said Lenox. “The speech is a week from today and I still need Graham to read it, as useful as the notes you gave me were.”
He was exhausted. The celebrations at the Royal Oak — attendance mandatory, Fripp insisted — would go on all night, but for he and Freddie an hour there, after a long day in the sun, had been enough to drive them home, amid good-spirited jesting about their lack of vigor. Freddie, of course, had been the real hero of the hour. The men of the King’s Arms had lined up to shake his hand after the match. The blacksmith had offered him a pint at a time of his choosing, which Freddie, whose loyalty to the Oak was strong only in matters of cricket, generously suggested that they might take at the KA. There had been more tea, more sandwiches, after that, in the pavilion. Only Lady Jane remembered Lenox’s failure, squeezing his arm and smiling when she saw him.
“For my part, I could stay a while longer,” she said. “Sophia rather enjoys it.”
“I’ll send a telegram to my brother in the morning and ask when he thinks I should return. It needs at least three or four days of preparation, the speech. I shall have to run it by one or two of the ministers.”
“Must you?”
“Can’t be avoided,” he said.
“Mm,” she said. She was sewing something or other.
He was sitting by the window, warm in his quilted red evening jacket, smoking and gazing out at Everley’s gardens under the moonlight. His eyes felt pleasantly heavy, his skin pleasantly warm. Parliament seemed a very long way off; though metropolitan to his bones, he understood at least to some degree why his brother always felt vexed at being in the city, away from Sussex and Lenox House.
“Perhaps a few more nights,” he said. “They cannot positively expect me before the Monday. And then I am curious to see Wells one last time.”
“And the funeral tomorrow.”
“Yes,” said Lenox.
In the morning he was dreadfully stiff in his arms and legs from his few exertions, and realized that it was a piece of luck that he had been caught out so quickly. He dressed himself gingerly.
The funeral was at St. Stephen’s, which was jammed with townspeople. Frederick had a pew, but he had given it over to Weston’s closest cousins, so that they might be near the front. All of the Somerset superstitions were in place: the clocks had been stopped at two o’clock, as close as possible to the time when Weston had died as they could guess; there were boxwood wreaths and candles lining the walls of the church; and along the pews were laid funeral cakes, wrapped in butcher’s paper and sealed with black wax.
As they were finding their seats, Lenox said to Lady Jane, “Did you know they consider it bad luck, in Plumbley, to wear anything new to a funeral? Hats in particular. Funny.”
“Of course, in Sussex they think that everything means you’re about to die — an owl in the daytime, the smell of roses when there aren’t roses nearby, the wrong fold in clean linen.”
He smiled. “I had forgotten one or two of those.”
The vicar Marsham gave young Weston an admirable eulogy, and it was Oates who stood by the door afterward, dressed in black and with a black armband, shaking the hands of people who left — walking out, in fact, to the very green where Weston had met his murderer. At the graveyard just by the church door was an open rectangle of earth, tidily excavated.
As the casket came out of the church (feet forward, always) it began gently to rain. There was a murmur of happiness among the guests at that: For it was thought to mean that Weston was in heaven, as promising an omen as rain on a wedding day.
When the funeral was over Lenox shook Oates’s hand, met Weston’s aunts and cousins, and then, with Frederick, Dallington, and Jane — Sophia and Miss Taylor having stayed at home, of course — said good-bye and returned to Everley.
That afternoon he sat in the great library, poring over his speech, slicing apart certain paragraphs to see where they were soft, tightening, tightening. After a few hours he stood up, suddenly sick of seeing these particular words in this particular order. It was a sure sign that he needed a fresh set of eyes.
The teatime post brought two letters to divert him.
The first was from Edmund, and had anticipated his telegram of that morning. It filled him in on the news from London, and added that Lenox had better come back Sunday evening or Monday morning, both to meet with the cabinet ministers who would like to check that the speech gave no ammunition to the other side, and — though it was unfortunate — to be seen in London. A retreat was one thing, invisibility another.
Still, that gave them three nights more in Everley. At tea he mentioned as much to Frederick, who had spent the past hours showing the governess his flowers between spells of rain. Both of them were full of chatter about what they had seen — apparently there was a budding yew tree they both found especially fine — but Frederick was brought up short by Lenox’s news.
“I had hoped you might stay longer,” he said.
“We shall return soon.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” said the squire stoutly. “Come any time.”
His expression troubled Lenox.
After they took their tea Lenox motioned to Dallington. “Come through to the library. I’ve a letter from Thomas, you can hear the news if you don’t mind watching me read.”
“With pleasure. Did I mention, by the way, that I had word from Bath just before tea?”
They were walking along a dim corridor now, oak-walled and lined with paintings. “No. What’s happened?”
“Fontaine admitted that he worked for Wells. Apparently he did the same as Randall, but he was given much more than usual on the day he had his spree. Wells needed the money and didn’
t care about the potential for exposure, I suppose.”
“To pay off his connection in Bath,” said Lenox.
“Yes. At any rate Fontaine will testify against Wells, too.”
“I mean to go see Wells himself in the morning, if you’d like to come.”
“Of course.”
They reached the library and went to sit in front of the fire.
Lenox read the letter, throwing out the pertinent bits of information as he came across them. It said:
Dear Charles,
Thank you for two very interesting problems. The powder was the trickier of the two. I shall come to that in a moment.
As you suspected the only fingerprints on the knife belonged to Constable Oates, who of course picked it up. They matched the second set of sample fingerprints you enclosed, which I believed to be his, though you didn’t mark them. (Sloppy science, Charles.) The more interesting discovery: The blood on the knife is human, not animal blood. I think it not much older than the parcel you sent me, certainly not more than a week or two.
Now the powder. It took a great deal of work in the laboratory on the second floor — and a fair few bangs, which made me glad Toto and George are out of the city — to determine that it is a common enough compound of magnesium, calcium, and arrowroot, a mixture that some doctors prescribe during difficult pregnancies. (Its medical value is doubtful — it may perhaps be what the Romans called a “placebo,” that is, “I will please.”)
Has it occurred to you that Musgrave’s wife may simply be in her lying-in period?
Let me know if I can be of any further assistance — I can put anything else aside, needless to say, should you need my help as your friend,
Thomas McConnell
PS: I should add of course that I send my best along to Jane and to Sophia. As I mention, Toto and the child are out of town, and have been for rather a long time. Perhaps Jane told you. I trust that John Dallington is not too badly off. Give him my best if he’s stayed in Somerset, otherwise I shall see him soon. TM.
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