order to secure victory. Leonidas had taken four wickets. Sebastian had done nothing in particular to distinguish himself or bring glory on the name of his College and University; on the other hand, he had done nothing to bring them into disrepute, which is more than can always be said of my colleagues travelling abroad.
Tea was taken. I use the expression in a conventional sense, to signify the interval between one innings and the next, since players and spectators alike preferred for the most part to refresh themselves with lager. I felt for a moment a certain uneasiness at the thought of Sebastian and Selena taking food or drink in the midst of the Demetriou family; but the waiter brought a number of bottles and glasses on the same tray, and there seemed no way of anyone foreseeing who would drink from which.
Whether from a fixed regard for the quality of English batsmanship or because he thought it an honor proper to be accorded to a guest, Constantine selected Sebastian to be one of the opening batsmen. His partner was a dark man of saturnine appearance, whom I recognized with a slight effort of memory as an amateur historian of the Byzantine era and the author of a despondent epic novel set in that period: he batted cautiously, guarding his wicket as carefully as his sister’s honor from the brutal onslaughts of the bowler, but betraying no consciousness that the game was one which involved the scoring of runs. In spite of his caution, however, he was caught at square leg off the first ball of the fifth over. The spectators observed his departure with not unmixed regret; and Sebastian was joined at the crease by his captain.
Though I profess no expertise in the subtleties of the game, I had sufficiently often been persuaded to lend the encouragement of my presence at College and University matches at once to recognize the high quality of Constantine’s batmanship. He played with a fluency and majestic elegance I had seldom seen equalled. His eye and speed, no doubt, were not what they had been in his youth; but I thought that in his prime he could hardly have found himself outclassed in any side he chose to play for.
Sebastian also, as if inspired by his example, began to play with a sparkle and stylishness I had not known him to possess. It commonly happens, I have seen it often, that two batsmen playing together for the first time are unable, whatever their individual talents, to score with much rapidity: one calls for a run; his partner hesitates; the first retreats; the second sets forth down the wicket; the first shouts “No”; the second, according to temperament, goes back cursing under his breath or forward cursing at the top of his voice; at best there is no run, at worst there is a run-out. With Constantine and Sebastian there was none of this: between them there seemed to be so perfect a sympathy as to preclude such misunderstandings; and despite a defensive field they maintained a scoring rate approaching six runs an over.
It may be that some of my readers would wish me to give a full description of this agreeable interlude, relating in detail the particular attributes of each ball bowled and each stroke played. Regretfully, I must disappoint them: such an account would not be germane to my narrative, nor is mine the pen to undertake such a task. The partnership ended in the nineteenth over, when Sebastian fell victim to an interesting and original interpretation of the leg before wicket rule on the part of one of the umpires — who was, I now remembered, a cousin of the barrel- chested painter. Sebastian, being a well-brought-up young man, walked back without argument or reproach to rejoin the group gathered round Dolly at the edge of the cricket pitch.
I had hoped that when his innings was concluded Selena might be tempted to pay less attention to the game — perhaps to wander about a little, looking at the shop windows of the Liston, and so providing me with an opportunity of private conversation with her. She chose, however — whether from motives of politeness, or because the game had reached a sufficiently dramatic stage to engage her interest — to remain in her place beside Dolly. I resigned myself to making, if I could not speak to her before the match was concluded, a less discreet approach than I had hoped.
Aristotle, I suppose, would have approved of cricket — a game which peculiarly demonstrates how a moment’s error may bring down the protagonist from the heights of prosperity to the depths of disaster. At ten minutes past six o’clock the Writers seemed in an enviable position: a mere forty runs needed for victory; thirteen overs in which to make them; eight wickets standing; and their captain still at the crease in apparently invincible form. By half past the hour matters were very different.
The two batsmen who succeeded Sebastian (a minor poet and the nephew, I believe, of the epic novelist) were out of form or out of luck; their wickets fell before the score reached a hundred. Leonidas played a charming little innings, giving signs of having inherited something of his father’s talents; but he played at a ball which his father would have left to its own devices, and was caught behind the wicket with only a dozen runs to his credit. Four further batsmen (of whose literary achievements or connections I am unable to give particulars) came and went without making much contribution to the total; and the Writers, at the fall of their penultimate wicket, still needed six runs to win.
The influential critic and belles-lettriste who occupied eleventh place in the batting order, though undoubtedly familiar with Aristotelian principles, had assumed at some much earlier stage that his services would not be called on and that there was no reason to reject the generous offers of lager made by those anxious for his goodwill. After an unsteady progress to the wicket he stood leaning heavily on his bat, evidently grateful for its support, and smiled with hazy benevolence at those about him. When the bowler began to hurl projectiles in his direction, he took no offense at this unfriendly conduct but gently waved his bat in the air in what seemed to be a gesture of forgiveness and good fellowship. By some dispensation of Providence his wicket survived the three balls which remained of the over.
It could not be supposed that such a miracle would be repeated. Unless Constantine were able to make the necessary runs during the next over, the Artists would be assured of victory: it was merely a question — since his partner was clearly in no condition to participate in any running between the wickets — of ensuring that the ball never reached the boundary. The Artists accordingly set a defensive field.
Constantine, with Homeric calm, prepared to receive the bowling, looking carefully about him for any vulnerable space between the fieldsmen. The first four deliveries, however, all rather wide outside the leg stump, gave him no opportunity for any scoring stroke. It seemed to me — I suppose this cannot actually have occurred — but it seemed to me that all those in the Liston held their breath as he waited for the fifth ball of the over. It was slightly short of a length, and he took two majestic paces down the wicket to meet it. The sunlight gleamed on his bat as he drove the ball high over deep mid-on.
I heard a cry and a crash of breaking glass; I felt rather than saw a massive figure hurtling towards me; and I was enveloped in darkness.
CHAPTER 16
I looked up into eyes the color of lapis lazuli.“My dear Professor Tamar,” said Leonidas Demetriou, “I do hope you haven’t hurt yourself.”
“I feel,” I said, “no pain.” I feared this might signify that my injuries were unusually grave; but I accepted the boy’s assistance in rising from the undignified position in which I found myself. “Would you,” I continued, “be kind enough to tell me what has happened? Was I struck by the cricket ball?”
“Oh no,” said Leonidas, with his slightly malicious Byzantine smile. “Oh no, Professor Tamar, the ball was going far too high to have hit you. It went through the window of the cafe over there. The man who owns the cafe was rather put out about it — my parents are busy saying soothing things to him. But the lunatic fielding at mid-on thought it might be a catch — idiotic of him really, it was six all the way. He was running so hard to get to it, and not looking where he was going, that he went straight into your table and knocked your canopy down on top of you. And he’s quite a big chap, I’m afraid. I’m really extremely sorry.”
I considered his explanation and found it consistent with the evidence.
“Well,” I said, “I am glad at any rate that the Writers have been victorious. You are not, as it happens, my only acquaintance in the side. Sebastian Verity—”
“Oh yes, of course, Sebastian is a colleague of yours, isn’t he? And Selena — Miss Jardine — who is also a friend of yours, is here with him. Have you seen them yet? Do they know you’re here?”
“No,” I said. “My coming to Corfu was a matter of impulse and will be a surprise to them.” I looked towards the place where Selena and Sebastian had been sitting; but they were no longer there, nor could I see them elsewhere in the Liston. Indeed, although it could hardly have been for more than a minute or two that I had lain dazed and helpless under the wreckage of the canopy, the whole Demetriou family, with the exception of Leonidas
