Free The Saltmarsh Murders by Gladys Mitchell Page A

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.
    â€œWe
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 itto 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 fête, 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.
    â€œFunny 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 fortuneteller’s beard, hair and hat into a small gladstone, I set out for the fête. 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.
    â€œThe cocoanut-shy is doing fine, Noel,” he said. “Mr. Burt is the very chap for the job, and old Froth-blower is backing him up like a good ‘un. How do you feel?”
    â€œRotten,” I replied, getting out the appurtenances and sticking them on. “How do I look?”
    â€œAll right. Shall I start playing now?”
    â€œI 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:
    â€œNearly through, darling! Stick it! They are going to start