Saltmarsh Murders

morrow. This was a fearful blow to us. Bob, although no scientist with a bat, was the sort of chap you find in some village teams—a man with a good eye and a gift for perfect timing. On his day you simply couldn’t get him out. We always used to put him in first, because he was a highly restive, excitable sort of bloke underneath his bovine, brooding exterior, and would work himself up into a fearful state of nerves while waiting for his knock. So he went in first, and I’ve known him, not once, but twenty times, carry his bat. And he was no stonewaller, mind you. He would pick out unerringly and smite unmercifully every ball that was hittable. The others he would leave alone or block. He held a straight bat as though by nature. A natural player, in fact, if ever there was one. And as rotten a field as you’d meet in a fortnight’s progress through the shires. We used to play him at mid-off, because village batsmen always hit to leg. It’s using a scythe does it. Bred in the bone, those leg strokes of a village batsman. Bob had his uses at mid-off, of course. For instance, you could depend upon him to appeal, in a threatening bass, at every doubtful point in the game. Useful that, with an umpire like Sir William, who wants to do his best for the village, but isn’t really taking much interest in the match. It guides his decision, so to speak. Unsporting, of course. But then, village cricket always is. That’s what makes it so frightfully sporting, if you know what I mean.

Bob, therefore, was a real loss to us. He would give no reason for dropping out at the last minute, except to say that Lowry had given him a holiday until six o’clock and he didn’t want to go to the fete, so he was going off by himself. In the end, we had to let it go at that. A cursed nuisance, of course. We argued for about an hour, but it was not a scrap of good. The poor mutt had made up his mind. Apart from this, I went to bed a happy man. I soon fell asleep, and dreamed about Daphne. It was one of those nebulous dreams. Nothing exactly happened, but we were together and I was extraordinarily bucked. William woke me at six-thirty on the following morning to come and bowl to him, and I was so full of beans that I actually arose from a perfectly comfortable bed, and went and did it. Got him second, fifth and seventh balls, too.

CHAPTER V

the village fEte

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The fete at Saltmarsh was an all-day affair. The villagers paid sixpence to be admitted, and the tickets, printed by Daphne and perforated by me, were in three portions, so that persons who left the grounds to go home to a mid-day meal or to their tea, could be readmitted without further charge. People from all the outlying villages came to the fete, and occasionally we got a beanfeast party in motor-coaches, or people from the adjacent seaside resort of Wyemouth Harbour. We reckoned upon taking twelve pounds at least in ticket and gate money, five pounds from the fair people, at least twenty pounds for refreshments—(this of course, was not all profit, since we had the caterers to pay) and anything from five pounds upwards from the various amusements which we ourselves had staged. Of these, I may say that the cocoanut-shy was the most profitable, although we had made up our minds this year that the fortune-telling must be made a great success. The fortune-telling was an innovation, of course, and we wanted it to justify itself. It had been impossible to arrange it during the afternoon because of the cricket match, but stumps were to be drawn at six precisely, and it would take me less than half an hour to bathe, change, have my tea and sneak into the fortune-teller’s little tent.

The match began at ten-thirty. We had first knock and made one hundred and five, of which I contributed thirty and the vicar a snappy twenty-seven. As at the last moment Bob Candy had refused to play, and, as we simply had not another male in the village who could hold a bat, so to speak, we consulted with the rival captain, a large, red fellow called Mogston, and decided to play Daphne, who added a beautiful twenty-six to the score and then touched a fast one and point held it.

It was turned two o’clock by the time our innings was over, so we adjourned for an hour and left Much Hartley just three hours in which to beat us.

“We must get them out,” said the vicar. Old Brown, the constable, bowling slows, opened at the pavilion end, and I took the other. We had altered the field a bit to give Daphne the job of wicket- keeper, for she could get old Brown’s slows all right, and was thoroughly accustomed to my bowling, of course. We were lucky from the outset —so lucky that I might have known something was going to happen. Their captain, a left-handed bloke, carted old Brown’s first ball clean over my head into the road, and his second, curiously enough, into mid-off’s hands. Bob Candy at mid-off would have dropped it as sure as eggs, but this mid-off, sometimes called William Coutts, stuck to it and shrieked his appeal. The umpire, Sir William, of course, woke up, started visibly, and gave the man out. The next bloke played out the over very cautiously. Then Daphne, the peach, picked my first ball off the bat, and their second man retired to the pavilion. Suffice it to say that we dismissed Much Hartley for seventy-nine runs in two and three-quarter hours.

Daphne and I made tracks for the vicarage, William made a bee-line for the fete, and the vicar stayed to give the visiting team their tea. The squire sheered off home for his tea, promising to return and help with the sports finals.

“Funny about Bob Candy,” said Daphne, as I sat on the edge of my bed while she sewed me into my fortune- teller’s skirt in order that no risks might be run of my coming apart in the excitement of the job. “He’s so keen on cricket.”

I hadn’t time to talk about Bob Candy. To tell the truth, now that this fortune-telling stunt had come to fruition, I had the most fearful wind up. Besides, I had been in the open air for more than eight hours, all told, and I was tired and sleepy. However, the ghastly business had to be gone through with, so, putting my coat on over the get- up, and cramming the fortune-teller’s beard, hair and hat into a small gladstone, I set out for the fete. I was lucky enough to get into the tent without attracting much notice. William, whose job it was to stand outside the tent and blow his scout’s bugle until a crowd collected, was already on the scene. He stuck his head inside the opening of the tent.

“The cocoanut-shy is doing fine, Noel,” he said. “Mr. Burt is the very chap for the job, and old Frothblower is backing him up like a good ’un. How do you feel?”

“Rotten,” I replied, getting out the appurtenances and sticking them on. “How do I look?”

“All right. Shall I start playing now?”

“I suppose so,” I said. The little tent contained a small table and two chairs. Two candles, which I had lighted before I donned the hair, beard and hat of the fortune-teller, stood in saucers on the table. A skull, made of white calico and stitched on to a piece of black casement cloth, showed up rather eerily just beside me. William set his bugle to his lips and began to blow.

I suppose I put up a pretty good show, really, take it all in all. Of course, I got on better with our own village people than with the strangers, because I knew more about them. For the look of the thing, and so as not to give the show away, Daphne came in and had hers done. She murmured, as I bent over her hand:

“Nearly through, darling! Stick it! They are going to start the dancing in a minute. The Adj. has already gone into hiding, I expect. I haven’t seen her about lately. I shall go home as soon as you’ve finished, I think. I’m awfully