Murder Must Advertise

Chapter XVIII. Unexpected Conclusion of a Cricket Match

The party from Pym’s filled a large charabanc; in addition, a number of people attended in their own Austins. It was a two-innings match, starting at 10 a.m., and Mr. Pym liked to see it well attended. A skeleton staff was left to hold the fort at the office during the Saturday morning, and it was expected that as many of them as possible would trundle down to Romford by the afternoon train. Mr. Death Bredon, escorted by Lady Mary and Chief-Inspector Parker, was one of the last to scramble into the charabanc.

The firm of Brotherhood’s believed in ideal conditions for their staff. It was their pet form of practical Christianity; in addition to which, it looked very well in their advertising literature and was a formidable weapon against the trade unions. Not, of course, that Brotherhoods’ had the slightest objection to trade unions as such. They had merely discovered that comfortable and well-fed people are constitutionally disinclined for united action of any sort-a fact which explains the asinine meekness of the income-tax payer.

In Brotherhood’s regime of bread and circuses, organized games naturally played a large part. From the pavilion overlooking the spacious cricket-field floated superbly a crimson flag, embroidered with the Brotherhood trademark of two clasped hands. The same device adorned the crimson blazers and caps of Brotherhoods’ cricket eleven. By contrast, the eleven advertising cricketers were but a poor advertisement for themselves. Mr. Bredon was, indeed, a bright spot on the landscape, for his flannels were faultless, while his Balliol blazer, though ancient, carried with it an air of authenticity. Mr. Ingleby also was correct, though a trifle shabby. Mr. Hankin, beautifully laundered, had rather spoilt his general effect by a brown felt hat, while Mr. Tallboy, irreproachable in other respects, had an unfortunate tendency to come apart at the waist, for which his tailor and shirt-maker were, no doubt, jointly responsible. The dress of the remainder varied in combining white flannels with brown shoes, white shoes with the wrong sort of shirt, tweed coats with white linen hats, down to the disgraceful exhibition of Mr. Miller, who, disdaining to put himself out for a mere game, affronted the sight in grey flannel trousers, a striped shirt and braces.

The day began badly with Mr. Tallboy’s having lost his lucky half-crown and with Mr. Copley’s observing, offensively, that perhaps Mr. Tallboy would prefer to toss with a pound-note. This flustered Mr. Tallboy. Brotherhood’s won the toss and elected to go in first. Mr. Tallboy, still flustered, arranged his field, forgetting in his agitation Mr. Hankin’s preference for mid-on and placing him at cover-point. By the time this error was remedied, it was discovered that Mr. Haagedorn had omitted to bring his wicket-keeper’s gloves, and a pair had to be borrowed from the pavilion. Mr. Tallboy then realized that he had put on his two fast bowlers together. He remedied this by recalling Mr. Wedderburn from the deep field to bowl his slow “spinners,” and dismissing Mr. Barrow in favour of Mr. Beeseley. This offended Mr. Barrow, who retired in dudgeon to the remotest part of the field and appeared to go to sleep.

“What’s all the delay about?” demanded Mr. Copley.

Mr. Willis said he thought Mr. Tallboy must have got a little confused about the bowling order.

“Lack of organization,” said Mr. Copley. “He should make out a list and stick to it.”

The first Brotherhood innings passed off rather uneventfully. Mr. Miller missed two easy catches and Mr. Barrow, to show his resentment at the placing of the field, let a really quite ordinary ball go to the boundary instead of running after it. The eldest Mr. Brotherhood, a spry old gentleman of seventy-five, came doddering cheerfully round from the pavilion and sat down to make himself agreeable to Mr. Armstrong. He did this by indulging in reminiscences of all the big cricket matches he had ever seen in a long life, and as he had been devoted to the game since his boyhood, and had never missed a game of any importance, this took him some time and was excessively wearisome to Mr. Armstrong, who thought cricket a bore and only attended the staff match out of compliment to Mr. Pym’s prejudices. Mr. Pym, whose enthusiasm was only equalled by his ignorance of the game, applauded bad strokes and good strokes indifferently.

Eventually Brotherhood’s were dismissed for 155, and the Pym Eleven gathered themselves together from the four corners of the field; Messrs. Garrett and Barrow, both rather ill-tempered, to buckle on their pads, and the remainder of the team to mingle with the spectators. Mr. Bredon, languid in movement but cheerful, laid himself down at Miss Meteyard’s feet, while Mr. Tallboy was collared by the aged Mr. Brotherhood, thus releasing Mr. Armstrong, who promptly accepted the invitation of a younger Brotherhood to inspect a new piece of machinery.

The innings opened briskly. Mr. Barrow, who was rather a showy bat, though temperamental, took the bowling at the factory end of the pitch and cheered the spirits of his side by producing a couple of twos in the first over. Mr. Garrett, canny and cautious, stonewalled perseveringly through five balls of the following over and then cut the leather through the slips for a useful three. A single off the next ball brought the bowling back to Mr. Barrow, who, having started favourably, exhibited a happy superiority complex and settled down to make runs. Mr. Tallboy breathed a sigh of relief. Mt Barrow, confident and successful, could always be relied upon for some good work; Mr. Barrow, put off his stroke by a narrowly missed catch, or the sun in his eyes, or a figure crossing the screens, was apt to become defeatist and unreliable. The score mounted blithely to thirty. At this point, Brotherhood’s captain, seeing that the batsmen had taken the measure of the bowling, took off the man at the factory end and substituted a short, pugnacious-looking person with a scowl, at sight of whom Mr. Tallboy quaked again.

“They’re putting on Simmonds very early,” he said. “I only hope nobody gets hurt.”

“Is this their demon bowler?” inquired Bredon, seeing the wicket-keeper hurriedly retire to a respectful distance from the wicket.

Tallboy nodded. The ferocious Simmonds wetted his fingers greedily, pulled his cap fiercely over his eyes, set his teeth in a snarl of hatred, charged like a bull and released the ball with the velocity of a 9-inch shell in Mr. Barrow’s direction.

Like most fast bowlers, Simmonds was a little erratic in the matter of length. His first missile pitched short, rocketed up like a pheasant, whizzed past Mr. Barrow’s ear and was adroitly fielded by long-stop, a man with a phlegmatic countenance and hands of leather. The next two went wide. The fourth was pitched straight and with a good length. Mr. Barrow tackled it courageously. The impact affected him like an electric shock; he blinked and shook his fingers, as though not quite sure whether his bones were still intact. The fifth was more manageable; he smote it good and hard and ran.

“Again!’ yelled Mr. Garrett, already half-way down the pitch for the second time. Mr. Barrow accordingly ran and once again stood ready for the onslaught. It came; it ran up his bat like a squirrel, caught him viciously on the knuckle and glanced off sharply, offering a chance to point, who, very fortunately, fumbled it. The field crossed over, and Mr. Barrow was able to stand aside and nurse his injuries.

Mr. Garrett, pursuing a policy of dogged-does-it, proceeded systematically to wear down the bowling by blocking the first four balls of the next over. The fifty produced two runs; the sixth, which was of much the same calibre, he contented himself with blocking again.

“I don’t like this slow-motion cricket,” complained the aged Mr. Brotherhood. “When I was a young man-”

Mr. Tallboy shook his head. He knew very well that Mr. Garrett suffered from a certain timidity when facing fast bowling. He knew, too, that Garrett had some justification, because he wore spectacles. But hew knew equally well what Mr. Barrow would think about it.

Mr. Barrow, irritated, faced the redoubtable Simmonds with a sense of injury. The first ball was harmless and useless; the second was a stinger, but the third he could hit and did. He whacked it away lustily to the boundary for four, amid loud cheers. The next kept out of the wicket only by the grace of God, but the sixth he contrived to hook round to leg for a single. After which, he adopted Mr. Garrett’s tactics, stonewalled through an entire over, and left Mr. Garrett to face the demon.

Mr. Garrett did his best. But the first ball rose perpendicularly under his chin and unnerved him. The second came to earth about half-way down the pitch and bumped perilously over his head. The third, pitched rather longer, seemed to shriek as it rushed for him. He stepped out, lost heart, flinched and was bowled as clean as a whistle.

“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Hankin. “It seems that it is up to me.” He adjusted his pads and blinked a little. Mr. Garrett retired gloomily to the pavilion. Mr. Hankin, with exasperating slowness, minced his way to the crease. He had his own methods of dealing with demon bowlers and was not alarmed. He patted the turf lengthily, asked three times for middle and off, adjusted his hat, requested that a screen might be shifted, asked for middle and off again and faced Mr. Simmonds with an agreeable smile and a very straight bat, left elbow well forward and his feet correctly placed. The result was that Simmonds, made nervous, bowled an atrocious wide, which went to the boundary, and followed it up by two mild balls of poor length, which Mr. Hankin very properly punished. This behaviour cheered Mr. Barrow and steadied him. He hit out with confidence, and the score mounted to fifty. The applause had scarcely subsided when Mr. Hankin, stepping briskly across the wicket to a slow and inoffensive-looking ball pitched rather wide to the off, found it unaccountably twist from under his bat and strike him on the left thigh. The wicket-keeper flung up his hands in appeal.

“Out!” said the umpire.

Mr. Hankin withered him with a look and stalked very slowly and stiffly from the field, to be greeted by the chorus of: “Bad luck, indeed, sir!”

“It was bad luck,” replied Mr. Hankin. “I am surprised at Mr. Grimbold.” (Mr. Grimbold was the umpire, an elderly and impassive man from Pym’s Outdoor Publicity Department.) “The ball was an atrocious wide. It could never have come anywhere near the wicket.”

“It had a bit of a break on it,” suggested Mr. Tallboy.

“It certainly had a break on it,” admitted Mr. Hankin, “but it would have gone wide nevertheless. I don’t think anybody can accuse me of being unsporting, and if I had been leg before, I should be the first to admit it. Did you see it, Mr. Brotherhood?”

“Oh, I saw it all right,” said the old gentleman, with a chuckle.

“I put it to you,” said Mr. Hankin, “whether I was l.b.w. or not.”

“Of course not,” said Mr. Brotherhood. “Nobody ever is. I have attended cricket matches now for sixty years, for sixty years, my dear sir, and that goes back to a time before you were born or thought of, and I’ve never yet known anybody to be really out l.b.w.-according to himself, that is.” He chuckled again. “I remember in 1892…”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Hankin, “I must defer to your experienced judgment. I think I will have a pipe.” He wandered away and sat down by Mr. Pym.

“Poor old Brotherhood,” he said, “is getting very old and doddery. Very doddery indeed. I doubt if we shall see him here another year. That was a very unfortunate decision of Grimbold’s. Of course it is easy to be deceived in these matters, but you could see for yourself that I was no more l.b.w. than he was himself. Very vexing, when I had just settled down nicely.”

“Shocking luck,” agreed Mr. Pym, cheerfully. “There’s Ingleby going in. I always like to watch him. He puts up a very good show, doesn’t he, as a rule?”

“No style,” said Mr. Hankin, morosely.

“Hasn’t he?” said Mr. Pym, placidly. “You know best about that, Hankin. But he always hits out. I like to see a batsman hitting out, you know. There! Good shot! Good shot! Oh, dear!”

For Mr. Ingleby, hitting out a little too vigorously, was caught at cover-point and came galloping out rather faster than he had gone in.

“Quack, quack,” said Mr. Bredon.

Mr. Ingleby threw his bat at Mr. Bredon, and Mr. Tallboy, hurriedly muttering, “Bad luck!” went to take his place.

“What a nuisance,” said Miss Rossiter, soothingly. “I think it was very brave of you to hit it at all. It was a frightfully fast one.”

“Um!” said Mr. Ingleby.

The dismissal of Mr. Ingleby had been the redoubtable Simmonds’ swan-song. Having exhausted himself by his own ferocity, he lost his pace and became more erratic than usual, and was taken off, after an expensive over, in favour of a gentleman who bowled leg-breaks. To him, Mr. Barrow fell a victim, and retired covered with glory, with a score of twenty-seven. His place was taken by Mr. Pinchley, who departed, waving a jubilant hand and declaring his intention of whacking hell out of them.

Mr. Pinchley indulged in no antics of crease-patting or taking middle. He strode vigorously to his post, raised his bat shoulder-high and stood four-square to whatever it might please Heaven to send him. Four times did he loft the ball sky-high to the boundary. Then he fell into the hands of the Philistine with the leg-break and lofted the ball into the greedy hands of the wicket-keeper.

“Short and sweet,” said Mr. Pinchley, returning with his ruddy face all grins.

“Four fours are very useful,” said Mr. Bredon, kindly.

“Well, that’s what I say,” said Mr. Pinchley. “Make ’em quick and keep things going, that’s my idea of cricket. I can’t stand all this pottering and poking about.”

This observation was directed at Mr. Miller, whose cricket was of the painstaking sort. A tedious period followed, during which the score slowly mounted to 83, when Mr. Tallboy, stepping back a little inconsiderately to a full-pitch, slipped on the dry turf and sat down on his wicket.

Within the next five minutes Mr. Miller, lumbering heavily down the pitch in gallant response to an impossible call by Mr. Beeseley, was run out, after compiling a laborious 12. Mr. Bredon, pacing serenely to the wicket, took counsel with himself. He reminded himself that he was still, in the eyes of Pym’s and Brotherhood’s at any rate, Mr. Death Bredon of Pym’s. A quiet and unobtrusive mediocrity, he decided, must be his aim. Nothing that could recall the Peter Wimsey of twenty years back, making two centuries in successive innings for Oxford. No fancy cuts. Nothing remarkable. On the other hand, he had claimed to be a cricketer. He must not make a public exhibition of incompetence. He decided to make twenty runs, not more and, if possible, not less.

He might have made his mind easy; the opportunity was not vouchsafed him. Before he had collected more than two threes and a couple of demure singles, Mr. Beeseley had paid the penalty of rashness and been caught at mid-on. Mr. Haagedorn, with no pretensions to being a batsman, survived one over and was then spread-eagled without remorse or question. Mr. Wedderburn, essaying to cut a twisty one which he would have done well to leave alone, tipped the ball into wicket-keeper’s gloves and Pym’s were disposed of for 99, Mr. Bredon having the satisfaction of carrying out his bat for 14.

“Well played all,” said Mr. Pym. “One or two people had bad luck, but of course, that’s all in the game. We must try and do better after lunch.”

“There’s one thing,” observed Mr. Armstrong, confidently to Mr. Miller, “they always do one very well. Best part of the day, to my thinking.” Mr. Ingleby made much the same remark to Mr. Bredon.

“By the way,” he added, “Tallboy’s looking pretty rotten.”

“Yes, and he’s got a flask with him,” put in Mr. Garrett, who sat beside them.

“He’s all right,” said Ingleby. “I will say for Tallboy, he can carry his load. He’s much better off with a flask than with this foul Sparkling Pompayne. All wind. For God’s sake, you fellows, leave it alone.”

“Something’s making Tallboy bad-tempered, though,” said Garrett. “I don’t understand him; he seems to have gone all to pieces lately, ever since that imbecile row with Copley.”

Mr. Bredon said nothing to all this. His mind was not easy. He felt as though thunder was piling up somewhere and was not quite sure whether he was fated to feel or to ride the storm. He turned to Simmonds the demon bowler, who was seated on his left, and plunged into cricket talk.

“What’s the matter with our Miss Meteyard today?” inquired Mrs. Johnson, archly, across the visitors’ table. “You’re very silent.”

“I’ve got a headache. It’s very hot. I think it’s going to thunder.”

“Surely not,” said Miss Parton. “It’s a beautiful clear day.”

“I believe,” asserted Mrs. Johnson, following Miss Meteyard’s gloomy gaze, “I believe she’s more interested in the other table. Now, Miss Meteyard, confess, who is it? Mr. Ingleby? I hope it’s not my favourite Mr. Bredon. I simply can’t have anybody coming between us, you know.”

The joke about Mr. Bredon’s reputed passion for Mrs. Johnson had become a little stale, and Miss Meteyard received it coldly.

“She’s offended,” declared Mrs. Johnson. “I believe it is Mr. Bredon. She’s blushing! When are we to offer our congratulations, Miss Meteyard?”

“Do you,” demanded Miss Meteyard, in a suddenly harsh and resonant voice, “recollect the old lady’s advice to the bright young man?”

“Why, I can’t say that I do. What was it?”

“Some people can be funny without being vulgar, and some can be both funny and vulgar. I should recommend you to be either the one or the other.”

“Oh, really?” said Mrs. Johnson, vaguely. After a moment’s reflection she gathered the sense of the ancient gibe and said, “Oh, really!” again, with a heightened colour. “Dear me, how rude we can be when we try. I do hate a person who can’t take a joke.”

Brotherhood’s second innings brought some balm to the feelings of the Pymmites. Whether it was the Sparkling Pompayne, or whether it was the heat (“I do believe you were right about the thunder,” remarked Miss Parton), more than one of their batsmen found his eye a little out and his energy less than it had been. Only one man ever looked really dangerous, and this was a tall, dour-faced person with whipcord wrists and a Yorkshire accent, whom no bowling seemed to daunt, and who had a nasty knack of driving extremely hard through gaps in the field. This infuriating man settled down grimly and knocked up a score of fifty-eight, amid the frenzied applause of his side. It was not only his actual score that was formidable, but the extreme exhaustion induced in the field.

“I’ve had-too much-gas,” panted Ingleby, returning past Garret after a mad gallop to the boundary, “and this blighter looks like staying till Christmas.”

“Look here, Tallboy,” said Mr. Bredon, as they crossed at the next over. “Keep your eye on the little fat fellow at the other end. He’s getting pumped. If this Yorkshire tyke works him like this, something will happen.”

It did happen in the next over. The slogger smote a vigorous ball from the factory end, a little too high for a safe boundary, but an almost certain three. He galloped and the fat man galloped. The ball was racing over the grass, and Tallboy racing to intercept it, as they galloped back.

“Come on!” cried the Yorkshireman, already half-way down the pitch for the third time. But Fatty was winded; a glance behind showed him Tallboy stooping to the ball. He gasped “No!” and abode, like Dan, in his breaches. The other saw what was happening and turned in his tracks. Tallboy, disregarding the frantic signals of Haagedorn and Garrett, became inspired. He threw from where he stood, not to Garrett, but point-blank at the open wicket. The ball sang through the air and spread-eagled the Yorkshireman’s stumps while he was still a yard from the crease, while the batsman, making a frantic attempt to cover himself, flung his bat from his hand and fell prostrate.

“Oh, pretty!” exulted old Mr. Brotherhood. “Oh, well played, sir, well played!”

“He must have taken marvellous aim,” said Miss Parton.

“What’s the matter with you, Bredon?” asked Ingleby, as the team lolled thankfully on the pitch to await the next man in. “You’re looking very white. Touch of the sun?”

“Too much light in my eyes,” said Mr. Bredon.

“Well, take it easy,” advised Mr. Ingleby. “We shan’t have much trouble with them now. Tallboy’s a hero. Good luck to him.”

Mr. Bredon experienced a slight qualm of nausea.

The remainder of the Brotherhood combination achieved nothing very remarkable, and the side was eventually got out for 114. at 4 o’clock, on a fiery wicket, Mr. Tallboy again sent out his batsmen, faced with the formidable task of making 171 to win.

At 5.30, the thing still looked almost feasible, four wickets having fallen for 79. Then Mr. Tallboy, endeavouring to squeeze a run where there was no run to be got, was run out for 7, and immediately afterwards, the brawny Mr. Pinchley, disregarding his captain’s frantic appeals for care, chopped his first ball neatly into the hands of point. The rot had set in. Mr. Miller, having conscientiously blocked through two overs, while Mr. Beeseley added a hard-won 6 to the score, lost his off stump to the gentleman with the leg-break. With the score at 92 by the addition of a couple of byes, and three men to bat, including the well-meaning but inadequate Mr. Haagedorn, defeat appeared to be unavoidable.

“Well,” said Mr. Copley morosely, “it’s better than last year. They beat us then by about seven wickets. Am I right, Mr. Tallboy?”

“No,” said Mr. Tallboy.

“I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said Mr. Copley, “perhaps it was a year before. You should know, for I believe you were the captain on both occasions.”

Mr. Tallboy vouchsafed no statistics, merely saying to Mr. Bredon:

“They draw stumps at 6.30; try and stick it out till then if you can.”

Mr. Bredon nodded. The advice suited him excellently. A nice, quiet, defensive game was exactly the game least characteristic of Peter Wimsey. He sauntered tediously to the crease, expended some valuable moments in arranging himself, and faced the bowling with an expression of bland expectation.

All would probably have gone according to calculation, but for the circumstance that the bowler at the garden end of the field was a man with an idiosyncrasy. He started his run from a point in the dim, blue distance, accelerated furiously to within a yard of the wicket, stopped, hopped, and with an action suggestive of a Catherine-wheel, delivered a medium-length, medium-paced, sound straight ball of uninspired but irreproachable accuracy. In executing this manoeuvre for the twenty-second time, his foot slipped round about the stop-and-hop period, he staggered, performed a sort of splits and rose, limping and massaging his leg. As a result, he was taken off, and in his place Simmonds, the fast bowler, was put on.

The pitch was by this time not only fast, but bumpy. Mr. Simmonds’ third delivery rose wickedly from a patch of bare earth and smote Mr. Bredon violently upon the elbow.

Nothing makes a man see red like a sharp rap over the funny-bone, and it was at this moment that Mr. Death Bredon suddenly and regrettably forgot himself. He forgot his caution and his role, and Mr. Miller’s braces, and saw only the green turf and the Oval on a sunny day and the squat majesty of the gas-works. The next ball was another of Simmonds’ murderous short-pitched bumpers, and Lord Peter Wimsey, opening up wrathful shoulders, strode out of his crease like the spirit of vengeance and whacked it to the wide. The next he clouted to leg for three, nearly braining square-leg and so flummoxing deep-field that he flung it back wildly to the wrong end, giving the Pymmites a fourth for an overthrow. Mr. Simmonds’ last ball he treated with the contempt it deserved, snicking it as it whizzed past half a yard wide to leg and running a single.

He was now faced by the merchant with the off-break. The first two balls he treated carefully, then drove the third over the boundary for six. The fourth rose awkwardly and he killed it dead, but the fifth and sixth followed number three. A shout went up, headed by a shrill shriek of admiration from Miss Parton. Lord Peter grinned amiably and settled down to hit the bowling all round the wicket.

As Mr. Haagedorn panted in full career down the pitch, his lips moved in prayer, “Oh, Lord, oh, Lord! don’t let me make a fool of myself!” A four was signalled and the field crossed over. He planted his bat grimly, determined to defend his wicket if he died for it. The ball came, pitched, rose, and he hammered it down remorselessly. One. If only he could stick out the other five. He dealt with another the same way. A measure of confidence came to him. He pulled the third ball round to leg and, to his own surprise, found himself running. As the batsmen passed in mid-career, he heard his colleague call: “Good man! Leave ’em to me now.”

Mr. Haagedorn asked nothing better. He would run till he burst, or stand still till he hardened into marble, if only he could keep this miracle from coming to an end. He was a poor bat, but a cricketer. Wimsey ended the over with a well-placed three, which left him still in possession of the bowling. He walked down the pitch and Haagedorn came to meet him.

“I’ll take everything I can,” said Wimsey, “but if anything comes to you, block it. Don’t bother about runs. I’ll see to them.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Haagedorn, fervently. “I’ll do anything you say. Keep it up, sir, only keep it up.”

“All right,” said Wimsey. “We’ll beat the b-s yet. Don’t be afraid of them. You’re doing exactly right.”

Six balls later, Mr. Simmonds, having been hit to the boundary four times running, was removed, as being too expensive a luxury. He was replaced by a gentleman who was known at Brotherhood’s as “Spinner.” Wimsey received him with enthusiasm, cutting him consistently and successfully to the off, till Brotherhood’s captain moved up his fieldsmen and concentrated them about the off-side of the wicket. Wimsey looked at this grouping with an indulgent smile, and placed the next six balls consistently and successfully to leg. When, in despair, they drew a close net of fielders all round him, he drove everything that was drivable straight down the pitch. The score mounted to 150.

The aged Mr. Brotherhood was bouncing in his seat. He was in an ecstasy. “Oh, pretty, sir! Again! Oh, well played, indeed, sir!” His white whiskers fluttered like flags. “Why on earth, Mr. Tallboy,” he asked, severely, “did you send this man in ninth? He’s a cricketer. He’s the only cricketer among the whole damned lot of you. Oh, well placed!” as the ball skimmed neatly between two agitated fielders who nearly knocked their heads together in the effort to retrieve it. “Look at that! I’m always telling these lads that placing is nine-tenths of the game. This man knows it. Who is he?”

“He’s a new member of the staff,” said Tallboy, “he’s a public-school man and he said he’d done a good deal of country-house cricket, but I hadn’t an idea he could play like that. Great Scott!” He paused to applaud a particularly elegant cut. “I never saw anything like it.”

“Didn’t you?” said the old gentleman with asperity. “Well, now, I’ve been watching cricket, man and boy, for sixty years, and I’ve seen something very like it. Let me see, now. Before the War, that would be. Dear, dear-I sometimes think my memory for names isn’t what it was, but I fancy that in the Varsity match of 1910, or it might be 1911-no, not 1910, that was the year in which-”

His tinkling voice was drowned in a yell as the 170 appeared on the score-board.

“One more to win!” gasped Miss Rossiter. “Oh!” For at that moment, Mr. Haagedorn, left for an unfortunate moment to face the bowling, succumbed to a really nasty and almost unplayable ball which curled round his feet like a playful kitten and skittled his leg-stump.

Mr. Haagedorn came back almost in tears, and Mr. Wedderburn, quivering with nervousness, strode forward into the breach. He had nothing to do but to survive four balls and then, except for a miracle, the game was won. The first ball rose temptingly, a little short; he stepped out, missed it, and scuttled back to his crease only just in time. “Oh, be careful! Be careful!” moaned Miss Rossiter, and old Mr. Brotherhood swore. The next ball, Mr. Wedderburn contrived to poke a little way down the pitch. He wiped his forehead. The next was a spinner and, in trying to block it, he tipped it almost perpendicularly into the air. For a moment that seemed like hours the spectators saw the spinning ball-the outstretched hand-then the ball dropped, missed by a hair.

“I’m going to scream,” announced Mrs. Johnson to nobody in particular. Mr. Wedderburn, now thoroughly unnerved, wiped his forehead again. Fortunately, the bowler was also unnerved. The ball slipped in his sweating fingers and went down short and rather wide.

“Leave it alone! Leave it alone!” shrieked Mr. Brotherhood, hammering with his stick. “Leave it alone, you numbskull! You imbecile! You-”

Mr. Wedderburn, who had lost his head completely, stepped across to it, raised his bat, made a wild swipe, which missed its object altogether, heard the smack of the leather as the ball went into the wicket-keeper’s gloves, and did the only possible thing. He hurled himself bodily back and sat down on the crease, and as he fell he heard the snick of the flying bails.

“How’s that?”

“Not out.”

“The nincompoop! The fat-headed, thick-witted booby!” yelled Mr. Brotherhood. He danced with fury. “Might have thrown the match away! Thrown it away! That man’s a fool. I say he’s a fool. He’s a fool, I tell you.”

“Well, it’s all right, Mr. Brotherhood,” said Mr. Hankin, soothingly. “At least, it’s all wrong for your side, I’m afraid.”

“Our side be damned,” ejaculated Mr. Brotherhood. “I’m here to see cricket played, not tiddlywinks. I don’t care who wins or who loses, sir, provided they play the game. Now, then!”

With five minutes to go, Wimsey watched the first ball of the over come skimming down towards him. It was a beauty. It was jam. He smote it as Saul smote the Philistines. It soared away in a splendid parabola, struck the pavilion roof with a noise like the crack of doom, rattled down the galvanized iron roofing, bounced into the enclosure where the scorers were sitting and broke a bottle of lemonade. The match was won.

Mr. Bredon, lolloping back to the pavilion at 6.30 with 83 runs to his credit, found himself caught and cornered by the ancient Mr. Brotherhood.

“Beautifully played, sir, beautifully played indeed,” said the old gentleman. “Pardon me-the name has just come to my recollection. Aren’t you Wimsey of Balliol?”

Wimsey saw Tallboy, who was just ahead of them, falter in his stride and look round, with a face like death. He shook his head.

“My name’s Bredon,” he said.

“Bredon?” Mr. Brotherhood was plainly puzzled. “Bredon? I don’t remember ever hearing the name. But didn’t I see you play for Oxford in 1911? You have a late cut which is exceedingly characteristic, and I could have taken my oath that the last time I saw you play it was at Lords in 1911, when you made 112. But I thought the name was Wimsey-Peter Wimsey of Balliol-Lord Peter Wimsey-and, now I come to think of it-”

At this very awkward moment an interruption occurred. Two men in police uniform were seen coming across the field, led by another man in mufti. They pushed their way through the crowd of cricketers and guests, and advanced upon the little group by the pavilion fence. One of the uniformed men touched Lord Peter on the arm.

“Are you Mr. Death Bredon?”

“I am,” said Wimsey, in some astonishment.

“Then you’ll have to come along of us. You’re wanted on a charge of murder, and it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”

“Murder?” ejaculated Wimsey. The policeman had spoken in unnecessarily loud and penetrating tones, and the whole crowd had frozen into fascinated attention. “Whose murder?”

“The murder of Miss Dian de Momerie.”

“Good God!” said Wimsey. He looked round and saw that the man in mufti was Chief-Inspector. Parker, who gave a nod of confirmation.

“All right,” said Wimsey. “I’ll come with you, but I don’t know a thing about it. You’d better come with me while I change.”

He walked away between the two officers. Mr. Brotherhood detained Parker as he was about to follow them.

“You say that man’s called Bredon?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Parker, with emphasis. “Bredon is his name. Mister Death Bredon.”

“And you want him for murder?”

“For murder of a young woman, sir. Very brutal business.”

“Well,” said the old gentleman, “you surprise me. Are you sure you’ve got the right man?”

“Dead sure, sir. Well known to the police.”

Mr. Brotherhood shook his head.

“Well,” he said again, “his name may be Bredon. But he’s innocent. Innocent as day, my good fellow. Did you see him play? He’s a damned fine cricketer and he’d no more commit a murder than I would.”

“That’s as may be, sir,” said Inspector Parker, stolidly.

“Just fancy that!” exclaimed Miss Rossiter. “I always knew there was something. Murder! Only think! We might all have had our throats cut! What do you think, Miss Meteyard? Were you surprised?”

“Yes, I was,” said Miss Meteyard. “I was never so surprised in my life. Never!”