by L. A. Nisula
“You, in fact. I heard you had received some papers by mistake, and I was hoping to have a look at them.”
“Where did you hear that?” I asked before my mind caught up and told me to be subtle about it.
“Cricket practice. I thought since the boys are always losing things there, particularly the tinkering students, I might be able to help you identify the writing.”
I was quite disappointed to realize that it was both a logical solution and something I should have already thought of. That made me happier than I ought to have been to say, “I’m afraid I don’t have them anymore. You’ll have to ask Inspector Burrows to show them to you. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“Inspector Burrows? Well, I wouldn’t want to disturb him. That’s not necessary. I’ll just...” He waved his hand around implying that I could get back to what I was doing even though he had no idea what that actually was.
Now, that seemed quite curious to me, his sudden change from helpful to not wanting to disturb. Inspector Burrows was not someone to get annoyed if someone came with real information, and finding out who the papers belonged to seemed like something that would be very helpful, even if only to rule them out. “I’m sure he won’t mind. I’ll tell him to expect you when I see him next.” Let him try to get out of that, then.
“No need. I don’t want to inconvenience him.”
I gave him my best innocent smile. “It’s no trouble at all. I’ll be meeting him for tea.” At least that was the plan for about three seconds now.
“Really, I... Thank you, though. I’ll let you get back to work.” He dashed out the door.
I went back to the books wondering why he really wanted to see those papers.
Grey coats and cricket notes. That's what I had told Inspector Burrows. Maybe there was something in it. It couldn't hurt to take a closer look at why tinkering students were so forgetful.
There had been the one boy, Bailey, his name had been. He’d been helpful, a tinkering student, and a member of the cricket team. I wondered where he was now. The library was always a good starting point.
I found Bailey sitting at one of the tables in the back of the tinkering section of the library. He was bent over a textbook but looked up when I sat across from him. “Miss Pengear, right?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry to bother you again.”
“I need a break. Did you have some more questions?”
“I did. The other day, your teammates were teasing you about losing things.”
“Like a tinkering student. Yeah.”
“Is that a common joke at all schools, or just here?”
“I’d never heard it before here. I think it’s a cricket team tradition here, actually. That’s the only place I hear it.”
“Is there any truth to it?”
“Of course not, I mean not really, I mean...”
I let him think for a moment, then asked, “But there’s something odd?”
“There is something about practice. Maybe since so few of us have group activities. That must be it. Tinkering is a solitary pursuit. We get overstimulated in the team environment.”
“And what happens?”
“Just silly stuff. I left my notes for my final theoretical Newtonian steam drives project behind the other day. Before that, I lost my end-of-year project notes at practice. We found them eventually. I had put them under the bench.”
“And you didn’t see them under the bench?”
He shrugged. “We’re tired after practice.”
“So tinkering students leave a lot of things behind at practice? Notes, paper, textbooks.”
“Not so much textbooks; those are pretty heavy and noticeable. But lots of notes.”
“Class notes?”
“Not too often. Mostly project stuff. We get so nervous around our projects. They can determine your whole future. Tommy Rockbridge got offered a job with Graham Tinkering and Steamworks on the strength of his last project. They thought he was thinking along the same lines as their people and would fit in well.”
“And why was that?”
“It was similar to something they had just come up with, so they said that meant he was pursuing ideas that were in line with theirs. You see, wonderful opportunities.”
“I think I’m beginning to see. Thanks for explaining it to me.”
It seemed it was time to look into the cricket team, and perhaps whoever had the field after them. Mr. McAvery would know.
Mr. McAvery was sitting behind his desk sorting what appeared to be the day’s mail. He looked up when I came in. “How goes the murder, Miss Pengear?”
“Tolerably well, I think. How are you?”
“Can’t complain. Was there something you needed help with?”
I made a mental note to visit him sometime when I didn’t need anything from him as I said, “I was wondering who uses the cricket field when Professor Graham’s team is done with it?”
“That would be Mr. Pickering’s team from the Hillcrest Preparatory School.”
“And would they be there soon enough after to find anything that was left by Professor Graham’s team?”
Mr. McAvery’s eyebrow went up as if he were trying to figure out what I was thinking with that question. “Yes, they would. In fact, they do. They have brought me items that have been left there on more than one occasion.”
That was interesting. “Any class notes?”
“Sometimes.”
“And what about tinkering notes?”
Mr. McAvery put down the letters he was holding. “Now that you mention it, no, I don’t think I have ever received and tinkering notes from them. Of course, they may have another way to return those.”
“Of course. And what time do they meet?”
“Half past five, just after the Serringford College team leaves.”
“Thank you, Mr. McAvery.”
“I hope I’ve been of some assistance.”
“You have, thank you.” I left him to his letters and went back out to the courtyard. Now the only question was would the boys’ team notice something as boring as tinkering notes being left lying around? Mr. McAvery seemed to think so, but it didn’t hurt to be certain. And it shouldn’t be that hard to determine. I’d simply leave something even more boring, at least as far as a prep school cricket team was concerned, and see if they found it. It wouldn’t be necessary to watch the entire Serringford practice, I decided; showing up at the end should be enough to qualify. I went back to the guest house to find something that would qualify as boring to prep school boys.
~*~*~
When I arrived at the cricket field, the Serringford team was already out on the field, doing what I assumed was playing cricket. It seemed to involve a lot of standing and watching. I made my way to the section of benches set up for spectators and selected a row far enough back that it wasn’t too noticeable, but not so far back that anything I left would be hidden too well.
Professor Graham spotted me as I edged along the row. I waved to him and sat down. He didn’t seem to know what to do and finally settled for waving back. I watched as the team huddled around him, presumably listening to their strategy for practice. Then they scattered around, gathering up bits of equipment. I pulled out my knitting and watched the game for a while, but none of it made any sense to me, so I switched to watching the players. I was able to identify three of them as tinkering students.
Just as I was getting incredibly bored, Professor Graham came into the stands. “Good afternoon, Miss Pengear.”
“Good afternoon, Professor Graham.”
He stood there staring at me as if he were trying to figure out what I was doing there and failing miserably. I kept quiet and let him become more and more nervous until he finally asked, “Was there a reason you came to practice?”
I smiled sweetly and gave my rehearsed answer. “We don’t have cricket in the States, and so many of my friends here talk about it, I was hoping if I watched a practice I might understand the rules a bit
better.”
Professor Graham seemed to find that a reasonable explanation. “And is it helping?”
“Not as much as I’d hoped it would.”
“I’m not really surprised. We’re just running some drills here. You should come to a match and see how the game is really played.”
“Perhaps I will. Is Mr. Donne, I think it is, motioning for you?”
Professor Graham turned. “I’ll go check.”
Mr. Donne had not been motioning at all but swinging the bat around, so I added, “It might have been part of the game, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell.”
“But I should check. I hope you’ve enjoyed the practice.” He made a quick bow, then hurried back to the field.
I waited until Professor Graham was deeply engaged in explaining the finer points of swinging the bat in a particular circumstance to make my exit. I slipped my book of knitting patterns under the seat in such a way that I was fairly certain it would be visible from the field. As I was edging back down the row, I saw Professor Graham dismiss the players. He glanced up in my direction, and I waved again as I made my way to the exit.
Now all I needed to do was give the boys’ team enough time to get to the field and have a chance of noticing the book on their own before I went back for it, so to kill time and stop myself from returning too soon, I went towards the shops. There wasn't much of interest in the ones near the cricket field. Since I didn’t want to stray too far, I stopped by the newsstand and glanced over the tinkering journals. My friend Kate had attended the tinkering program at Somerville College, so finding her something seemed to be a good way to pass the time. But there was nothing out of the ordinary in them that I could see. They were just the normal sort of journals I saw lying around my friend Kate’s shop and her flat all the time, with headlines as exciting as “Practical Uses for Franklin Connective Cog Theory” and “Graham Industries to Revolutionize Mining with Steam-Powered Drilling.” I picked up the latter, as it touted, “Great Advancements in Steam-Driven Personal Transport” and I knew that was an area several of her clients were interested in, and she had brought me yarn from her last trip to Edinburgh.
~*~*~
When I felt I'd given the boys enough time to find my book but had not been away so long that they would be deeply engrossed in some important part of their game, I returned to the practice field.
The prep school cricket team was made up of boys between twelve and thirteen under the leadership of a white-haired gentleman with small brass spectacles and a suit that seemed too neat for playing cricket, presumably Mr. Pickering. He saw me approach and cleared his throat. The boys all turned to look at him and, when he nodded in my direction, at me. When I was within a few yards of them, they all called, “Good afternoon, miss,” and tried not to fidget as they stood there.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I was wondering if any of you found my book. I’m afraid I may have left it here.”
A tall boy with red hair asked, “Was it a knitting book?”
“That’s it, yes.”
“We weren’t sure what to do with it,” a small blond boy said. “We didn’t think it belonged to the colleges, so we didn’t know who to give it to.”
“I said the tea shop,” someone in the back said, “but Joey said Mr. McAvery would know what to do.”
A shy boy with very blue eyes brought my book to me and held it out. He glanced at the coach, then gave me a little bow as I took it.
“Thank you.” I slipped the book into my handbag. “I was in the middle of a pair of socks, and I don’t know how I’d finish the second one without the pattern.”
The coach cleared his throat and all the boys said, “It was nothing, miss,” almost in unison.
“You must find a lot of missing things when you get here.”
I couldn’t sort out who said what as the boys all told me about what they’d found. Most of it seemed to be sporting equipment, although apparently someone had lost one shoe, a lizard, a magazine that had been confiscated at once by Mr. Pickering, two pairs of spectacles, and three different hats. Mr. Pickering let them ramble for a moment, then cleared throat again and they all stopped talking.
“What do you do when you find something?” I asked when I was certain I could be heard.
The red-head spoke first. “We try to determine which college it came from, then return it there.”
“If we can’t find the college,” the shy boy near me whispered, “We take it to Mr. McAvery at the porter’s office at Serringford College. Since it’s close, someone looking for it would try there first.” He glanced back at Mr. Pickering, who gave him an encouraging nod. He smiled.
“That’s why yours was such a problem,” a dark-haired boy said. “We knew it didn’t belong to anyone at the colleges, but we didn’t know if the owner would know to go to Mr. McAvery.”
“Well, I’m staying at Mrs. Eggleston’s guest house, but I do know Mr. McAvery, so either way it would have gotten to me.”
I could see both boys being subtly congratulated by their friends.
“Do you find a lot of class notes?”
“Some, not that many,” the dark-haired boy answered. Most of the other boys nodded.
“Probably a lot from tinkering students.”
They looked at each other and there was a lot of shaking of heads. The red-head spoke up. “Can’t remember seeing any from tinkering students. Unless they didn’t have diagrams in them. We could have mistaken them for something else.” He glanced back at Mr. Pickering, who gave a small nod of his head. Apparently that was an acceptable answer.
“Really? The team before has a lot of tinkering students on it, so I thought you might. But you do find class notes?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“And do you return them to the school?”
“We can’t usually tell what college they’re from, so we just bring them to Mr. McAvery. He knows everyone.”
“So you didn’t leave some on one of the desks in the college offices?”
They all shook their heads. “We wouldn't have been able to get into the college offices. They wouldn't let us past the secretary's desk.”
So then how had Mr. Redmond gotten the notes?
“Are you with the police?” the small blond asked. Everyone turned to look at me.
“I know the man they sent here from Scotland Yard.” That seemed non-committal enough.
Now I had their undivided attention. “Does it have something to do with the field?”
“Is the other team a suspect?”
“Did you see the body?”
“Would tinkering notes be helpful?”
Mr. Pickering let them ramble for a few minutes, then clapped his hands once. They all quieted down.
I wasn’t sure how to best answer them, so I tried, “I’m not sure what’s useful at this point in the investigation, but if it is, I’ll be certain Inspector Burrows knows I learned it here.”
Mr. Pickering glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. I nodded that I was done questioning them, so he turned to the team. “Now that you have all done your gentlemanly duty of returning this lady’s book to her, whose turn is it to set up the pitch?”
The boys all scrambled to get their gear. I waved goodbye and went to find Inspector Burrows.
Chapter 11
I found Inspector Burrows sitting on a bench a block away from the police station, reading his notes. I realized I wasn’t really angry with him for arresting Mr. Langley, particularly since I had the feeling that he had been chased out of the police station for it. “Hoping for inspiration?” I asked.
He looked up and half-rose while moving his papers over so I could sit beside him. “I had the feeling Inspector Crawley wanted the office to himself for a while, so I said I had some work to do.”
Moving the papers had done little to give me more room, so waved my hand to indicate he should stay seated and leaned on the armrest. “I just stopped by to tell you you should interview the Hillcrest School’s crick
et team. They practice on the same field as Serringford’s directly after them.”
“All right. Do they know something useful?”
“Nothing at all, actually. But it would be the highlight of their year to be interviewed by a real Scotland Yard detective.”
“Then I’ll be sure to wear my most official-looking suit. Was there something they didn’t know that was useful?”
“They haven’t found any tinkering notes all season.”
“And they would have noticed?”
“They found Miss Goodwin’s Book of Knitted Socks, so yes, I think they would.”
“And that suggests something to you?”
“Does it to you?”
He smiled. “Maybe. But nothing that relates to the murder. I’ll talk to them, though. What’s the coach’s name?”
“Mr. Pickering.”
Inspector Burrows made a note of it. “I’ll stop by next time they have practice.”
“Have you found anything new on the case?”
He smiled. “Nothing that would interest you. And you?”
“Other than the boys’ team? I haven’t had time.”
“Just be sure to tell me if you do.”
I smiled. “Don’t I always?”
“Eventually,” he allowed.
I grinned at him and set out for the guest house.
As I walked, I considered what I’d learned. The notes were disappearing before the boys’ team arrived, and re-appearing somewhere later, most recently on Mr. Redmond’s desk. I ruled out the boys’ team lying, not that I thought they weren’t capable of it, but they seemed so pleased to be acknowledged by their coach. I would think the promise of praise from him would outweigh any benefit the notes could have for them. So who would have taken them?
And then I thought of something else. Why were they being forgotten in the first place? Was it possible someone was taking them during the practice? Who would have been able to? The players were on the field for the whole match. They’d have to come up with an excuse to leave, and I suspected it would be remembered if the same player disappeared on the days the notes were forgotten. They weren’t stupid boys; they’d gotten into university, after all. So who wouldn’t be questioned or noticed if they left? I wondered if Mr. McAvery would have any ideas. He was sure to know more about cricket than I did anyway.
