Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 787 & 788, March/April 2007

Crash Tackle by Keith Miles

Copyright © 2007 by Keith Miles

Keith Miles worked in theater, radio, and television while pursuing his career as a novelist and short-story writer. The prolific author has some forty crime novels in print; the latest one in the U.S., under his popular pseudonym Edward Marston, is The Princess of Denmark: An Elizabethan Theater Mystery Featuring Nicholas Bracewell. (St. Martin’s Press; 8/06).

The crime did not come to light until Tuesday evening when they arrived for the training session. As soon as they stepped inside the clubhouse, they were met by an overwhelming stink of beer.

“What the hell is going on?” demanded Neil Woodville, leading the way swiftly to the bar. He felt something moist underfoot and came to a halt. “Jesus!”

A string of expletives followed and even Peter Rayment, normally so restrained, gave vent to some foul language. The whole of the bar was awash with beer. Someone had opened the taps on every barrel and the alcohol had poured out in a series of small rivulets. Not only was the bar in an appalling state — its carpet sodden, the legs of its furniture inch-deep in brown sludge — but there would be no draught beer for those coming to Shelton Rugby Football Club that evening. It was nothing short of disaster. Training sessions were extremely hard. Players worked up a healthy thirst.

“I blame Doug for this,” decided Woodville.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“He forgot to check the taps last thing on Saturday.”

“Doug would never do that,” said Rayment, defensively. “You blame him for everything, Neil, and it’s not fair. He does his job well.”

“Not in my book.”

“You tried to stop us hiring him in the first place.”

“And now you can see why,” said Woodville with a gesture that took in the whole of the room. “Look around — he’s ruined the place with his incompetence.”

“This is not a case of incompetence — it’s sabotage.”

“Then you can bet that Doug Lomas is behind it.”

Neil Woodville was a chunky man in his forties, a former prop whose weight had gone up dramatically since he stopped playing. A sly punch off the ball had left him with a broken nose that gave his face a sort of crumpled dignity. Peter Rayment, by contrast, was a tall, thin, bespectacled man in his late thirties with a diffident manner. As club secretary, he was a tireless workhorse, handling all the paperwork and doing a dozen other important jobs behind the scenes. By profession, Rayment was an accountant. Woodville, the waddling vice-chairman of the club, ran his own scrap-metal business.

“I’ll call the police,” said Woodville, taking out his mobile phone.

“Wait for Martin.”

“Why?”

“It’s his decision,” warned Rayment.

“Well, I’m taking it instead of him. This is a crime scene. We need to report the fact straightaway. Wait for Martin!” he said with contempt. “What bloody use will he be in an emergency like this? The last thing we need right now is a man in a wheelchair. Besides,” he added, his lip curling, “it was Martin who foisted Doug Lomas onto us. Our chairman has a lot to answer for.”

Martin Hewlett knew at once that there was something wrong. When the clubhouse came in sight, he could see no players out on the pitch. Instead of going through their routines, they were clustered in the car park. None of them had even changed into his kit.

“What’s the matter?” he said, peering through the windscreen.

“Perhaps they can’t get in,” suggested his wife, Rosie, at the steering wheel. “Maybe Neil hasn’t turned up with the key.”

“Neil always turns up with the key. It’s an act of faith with him. In any case, I can see his BMW. We’ve got problems, Rosie.”

“Then let someone else sort them out for a change.”

“But I’m the chairman.”

It was a matter of great pride to Martin Hewlett that he was chairman of a successful rugby club that ran three regular teams and a youth side. Every Saturday, sixty players took the field, wearing the colors of Shelton RFC, and they maintained the high standard of play that their many supporters had come to expect. Hewlett had been an outstanding captain of the First XV until a crash tackle had brought his playing career to a sudden end and left him paralyzed from the waist down. Others might have been disillusioned with the game as a result but Hewlett’s love of rugby seemed to increase. Unable to play, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the running of the club.

He was a big, broad-shouldered man with a ready smile and an unforced geniality. Hewlett was also very popular. When his car came to a halt, a number of players immediately came across to him. While they were helping him into his motorized wheelchair, they gave him varying accounts of what had happened. Neil Woodville pushed through the knot of players to give the newcomers a nod of welcome.

“I’ve rung the boys in blue,” he said.

“I’m more interested in the boys in blue and white,” said Hewlett, referring to the club colors. “Why aren’t they training? Cup match on Saturday. We need to be at our peak.”

“They wanted to see the damage, Martin.”

“They should think about the damage to their fitness instead. Go on,” he urged, clapping his hands. “Get changed and get out there. If you work hard, I’ll let you lick the carpet dry in the bar afterwards.”

After some good-natured badinage, the players drifted off to the changing rooms and left Hewlett and Rosie alone with Neil Woodville. The vice-chairman’s suspicions had had time to harden into certainty.

“I think that Doug Lomas is at the root of all this,” he said.

“Rubbish!” exclaimed Hewlett.

“It’s his revenge because we refused to put his wages up.”

“Doug is not a vengeful sort of person.”

“No,” said Rosie, stoutly. “He works hard. He has to, now that they have a child to look after. Doug needs this job. Why would he do anything that might make him lose it?”

“I don’t trust him,” said Woodville.

“You don’t trust anyone.”

“Rosie is right,” said her husband, twisting in his wheelchair. “You never give a man the benefit of the doubt. All right, Doug Lomas is no saint. We knew that when we took him on. But my brother vouched for him and that’s good enough for me.”

“Well, it’s not good enough for me,” snapped Woodville. “Once a thief, always a thief. That’s my feeling.”

“I can see why you didn’t become a probation officer,” said Rosie.

“Whereas my brother did,” noted Hewlett. “Adam deals with ex-cons all the time. His job is to keep them from reoffending.”

Woodville was blunt. “He slipped up badly with Doug Lomas.”

“This crime has nothing to do with him, Neil.”

“Then who did turn those taps on — the Phantom Beer Spiller?”

“I’d have thought there were two obvious suspects.”

“Go on — surprise me.”

“First of all, there’s our neighbors,” said Hewlett, pointing towards a nearby campsite. “I’ve lost count of the number of times the gypsies have tried to buy some of our land so that they can increase the number of permanent caravans. They’ve got more reason for revenge than Doug.”

“You said there were two obvious suspects.”

“We’re playing the other one on Saturday.”

“Crowford?”

“Who else?” asked Hewlett. “This is just the kind of stunt that they’d pull. We’ve had a terrific season, Crowford have been crap. They know we’ll beat them hollow on Saturday in the elimination match. We’ll kick seven barrels of shit out of them.”

“No need to be vulgar, Martin,” said his wife. “We take your point.”

“Question is — does Neil take it as well?”

“Yes,” admitted Woodville, thinking it through, “and you may be on to something. Last time we played Crowford, someone let down the tires of my car as a joke. And we know how their team cheats like mad on the pitch. This could be down to them, Martin.”

“Or to the gypsies,” Rosie reminded him.

“Anyone but Doug,” added Hewlett. The sound of a motorbike made him turn his head round. “Talk of the devil — here he is.”

“Late as usual,” complained Woodville.

“Bang on time, I’d say.”

Hewlett checked his watch, then waited until the motorbike bumped its way down the rough track that led to the club. Shelton RFC was situated in a leafy corner of Warwickshire, a beautiful, isolated spot whose tranquillity was only ever shattered by occasional jet aircraft from Birmingham International Airport some four miles away. Reaching the club meant a long drive for Doug Lomas, yet he was invariably punctual. He switched off his engine, dismounted, then put his motorbike up on its stand. Pulling off his crash helmet, he gave them a wary grin.

“What’s this, then?” he asked. “A reception committee?”

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” said Woodville aggressively.

“Leave this to me, Neil,” said Hewlett, “and give the man time to get his breath back.” He smiled at the barman. “Hello, Doug. Looks as if you won’t be pulling too many pints this evening.”

“Oh?” Fearing dismissal, the barman was cautious. “Why not?”

“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 wanted 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.”

“I can’t believe that, Martin.”

“Never mind what you believe,” he said irritably. “I need to get over there. Help me to dress, Rosie. This is a crisis.”

“Then ring Peter. Let him take charge. Learn to delegate.”

“It’s my responsibility. Drive me to the clubhouse.”

“But you haven’t even shaved yet.”

“Who cares?”

“At least finish your breakfast.”

“No,” he said, throwing back the bedsheets. “Food can wait. I have to be there before Neil Woodville catches wind of this. Hurry up, Rosie. There’s no time to waste.”

Sunday afternoon found a hastily assembled work party clearing up the mess at the clubhouse. The police had come, but the intruder had left no visible clues for them. Rosie Hewlett had joined the others in removing the debris. Her husband sat alone before the shattered honors board on which the names of the club captains for the past fifty years were listed, along with the various trophies won by Shelton RFC. Hewlett was torn between tears and impotent rage.

To his credit, Neil Woodville had rolled up his sleeves and taken his turn with a mop. When the bar was cleaned, and the worst of the stink had fled through the open windows, Woodville took Peter Rayment aside.

“This proves that it was Doug,” he insisted.

“That’s absurd. It was Doug who raised the alarm.”

“Yes, but what brought him here in the first place?”

“Instinct,” said Rayment. “Pure instinct. He had a strange feeling that something was amiss and he drove over here.”

“Well, I think that he wrecked the place when he arrived.”

“No!”

“It all goes back to that wage rise we turned down.”

“This isn’t to do with money, Neil. Look at the facts. The clubhouse has been attacked twice now but nothing at all has been stolen. There’s hundreds of pounds’ worth of spirits and liqueurs here, not to mention all the silver cups we’ve won over the years. If Doug was the culprit,” argued Rayment, “don’t you think he’d have made off with a tidy haul? And why would any man who’d committed a crime then report it to the police?”

“That was a cunning ploy.”

“No, this was done by someone from Crowford.”

“Or by someone from Crowford who paid Doug Lomas.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s a possibility. I mentioned it on the quiet to the coppers.”

“No wonder they were giving our barman such a grilling.”

“Security cameras,” said Woodville solemnly. “That’s what we should have installed. An isolated clubhouse like this needs protection. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to contact a security firm.”

“That’s a committee decision.”

“This is too important to be left to the committee.”

“Then let Martin take over,” said Rayment. “He’s the chairman.”

Woodville was determined. “I’m going over his head,” he said. “It’s the only way to get anything done around here. Wait for Martin to take action and we could wait forever. This club needs a chairman with real initiative — not a bloody cripple trying to relive his playing days from a wheelchair.”

In spite of the protests of Martin Hewlett, closed-circuit cameras were installed almost immediately. Since he insisted on paying for them, Neil Woodville was the first person to see them in operation. He was certain that they would act as a deterrent and, for a couple of weeks, they seemed to do just that. There were no further incidents. Shelton RFC then won the cup in a thrilling final that was in the balance until the very last minute. It was an occasion for a riotous party in the clubhouse that went on into the small hours. Doug Lomas had a lot of clearing up to do afterwards. The last thing he did before he locked up was to switch on the burglar alarm and the cameras.

The night wore on. It was almost dawn when a car pulled up in the lane at the rear of the clubhouse. A hooded figure got out and moved furtively across the field. Taking care to approach the building in a blind spot between two cameras, the intruder used a key to open the door and stepped quickly inside. The security system was switched off at once. The clubhouse was now at the mercy of its nocturnal visitor yet again. It was time to inflict some real damage.

The intruder had brought some rags that had been soaked in paraffin. Shelton RFC would not merely lose its supply of draught beer this time. Its clubhouse would go up in smoke. Before a match could be struck, however, the lights suddenly went on and Doug Lomas came charging into the bar to jump on the arsonist. They fell to the floor and rolled over. The barman was just about to throw a first punch when he realized whom he had caught.

“Mrs. Hewlett!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

Martin Hewlett was roused early that morning. After a night of steady drinking, he usually slept for twelve hours, but his wife shook him awake. He was surprised to see Doug Lomas standing at the foot of his bed.

“Don’t tell me there’s been more trouble!” moaned Hewlett.

Lomas shifted his feet uneasily. “Your wife will explain.”

“Explain what?”

She took a deep breath and launched into her story. Hewlett was so shocked at what he heard that he felt as if he were being hit by the fatal crash tackle all over again. At the moment of impact, his whole body went numb. There was a mist before his eyes. The sense of panic and helplessness returned.

“Can this be true?” he gasped.

“I hate the game, Martin,” she confessed. “It gave me a lot at one time but it took away far more. It cost me my husband, my lover, my best friend, my chances of ever having that child we wanted.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t hear all this,” said Lomas, embarrassed.

“No, no,” she insisted. “You’ve earned the right. You stopped me from doing something I’d have been ashamed of for the rest of my life.” She bit her lip. “I was desperate, Martin. I married this wonderful man, then he disappeared in a split second one afternoon on a rugby field. Instead of being a wife, I’m nothing but an unpaid carer, feeding you, dressing and undressing you, seeing to your needs, taking you here and there, stage-managing your public appearances. And I don’t mind doing any of that,” she went on with passion, “because you’re my husband and I love you. But I simply couldn’t go on putting this helpless drunk to bed every time you went to the clubhouse. I couldn’t go on hearing the name of Shelton Rugby Football Club, morning, noon, and night. I just couldn’t take any more. It was killing me.”

Hewlett was dazed. “Was I such a monster?”

“It’s not your fault, Martin. I can see that. It was the game itself. I felt that I just had to get you away from it somehow. It’s ruining what we have of a life together. Our whole marriage has been crash-tackled.” She gave a wan smile. “At least I got what I wanted. You’ll have to resign now. Shelton RFC can’t have a chairman whose wife is serving a prison sentence.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Lomas firmly.

“It must, Doug. I deserve my punishment.”

“They can’t prosecute without a witness, and there’s no way you’ll get me into court again. I’ve been on the wrong side of the law, yet your husband gave me a second chance. I appreciate that. One good turn deserves another. Nobody need know what happened at the clubhouse tonight,” he went on, looking Rosie in the eye. “Especially Mr. Woodville. If he knew that I’d spent the night there, he’d probably sue me for trespass. My only concern is that the place is still standing and I still have a job as barman.”

“You deserve a medal for what you did, Doug,” said Hewlett.

“Yes,” agreed Rosie. “Thank God you were there.”

“Let’s keep the police out of this,” advised Lomas. “This is between the two of you — nobody else.” He moved to the door. “Goodbye.”

They stared at each other in silence, not even hearing the front door open and shut. Rosie was contrite, but it was her husband who felt most at fault. His obsession with the club had blinded him to the strain it placed on Rosie. His behavior had driven a law-abiding wife to commit a succession of crimes. It was a cry for help that had to be answered.

Reaching for the telephone, he dialed a number and waited.

“Simon?” he said as he heard the familiar voice of Simon Mifflin. “Good morning. Martin here. How would you like to be the next chairman of Shelton RFC?… No, no, don’t argue. I’m stepping down at the end of the season and want you to take over… I’m sure that a large majority will vote you in. There’s just one proviso, if you want my backing… Doug Lomas must stay on as barman. He’s been a real hero for us. At the next committee meeting, I’ll make sure that we increase his wages… And by the way, the insurance company has been bellyaching about our claims so — to hell with them! I’ll foot the bill for any damage we incurred at the clubhouse. It’s my parting shot as chairman… What’s that?… I’ll tell you when I see you, Simon. Cheerio.” Hewlett put the receiver down. “He was asking why I decided to retire.”

“What are you going to tell him?” she asked softly.

“The truth, love. You talked me into it.”

“I’m so sorry, Martin. I was at the end of my tether.”

“Not anymore. You’ll take precedence from now on, Rosie, and who am I to complain? When you’re confined to a wheelchair,” he said with a ripe chuckle, “you have to let your wife push you around.”