Berry Scene (13 page)

“Of course that’s wanton,” said her husband. “You won’t be forgiven for that. Think of the starving tramps that would sell their souls for—”

“Yes, you thought of them, didn’t you? Which d’you think they’d like best – six slices of Dundee cake or a cup of tea?”

“The cake wasn’t wasted,” said Berry. “I was failing, and it restored me. My God, I’m thirsty.” He looked pleadingly at Jill. “Let me have one mouthful, my sweet. You know, Just a sip.”

“Not a tea-spoon,” said Jill. “Besides, if I said yes, you’d swallow the lot and then say you’d made a mistake.”

“I shouldn’t dream of such a thing” – piously. “I’m not like that. Haven’t you got any water? My tongue’s beginning to swell.”

“Not a drop,” said Daphne.

“There’s always the stream,” said I.

“Yes, I don’t fancy that,” said Berry. “We’re not near enough to its source.”

“There’s some spirit left,” said Jill, “if you like to boil some more.”

Berry shuddered. Then he glanced at his watch.

“I think we should be going,” he said.

“Why?” said Daphne. “It’s only a quarter to five. As long as we’re at Dovetail by six…”

Berry stifled a scream.

“I – I must be home,” he declared, “by half-past five. I’m expecting a telephone-call.”

“Who from?” said Jill.

“Derry Bagot,” said Berry boldly.

“That’s all right,” said Daphne. “He’s coming to tennis on Thursday and he can tell you then.”

“That won’t do. It’s business.”

The association of Derry with business made us all laugh.

“It’s about the match,” said Berry. “Bilberry’s playing Gamecock on Saturday afternoon. Derry wants to know if I’m going to turn out.”

“Of course you’re playing,” said I. “And so am I. I’ll ring him up and tell him at eight o’clock. And don’t get worried – Janet’ll give you some milk.”

“And what’s the beer done? But the point is I want it now. My salivary glands aren’t working. My gorge can’t rise.”

“It serves you right,” said Jill. “When I think of that rat and its baby… They would have loved it so.”

Berry swallowed – with difficulty.

“I, er, did it without thinking,” he said. “Busy with my reflections, absorbed in thought, I consumed what there was. Had there been forty pieces, I might have devoured them all.”

“Abstractedly?” said I.

“That’s right,” said Berry. “That’s the word. I don’t think I ought to suffer because of that.”

“Don’t you, indeed?” said his wife. “And what about us? We’ve lost our cake, and then we’re to leave an hour early because you’ve eaten it all. Is it Gamecock The Butcher plays for?”

“Not on your life,” said Berry. “He works for Riding Hood.” He turned to me. “Your turn this year, my hearty. I hope he won’t smash your nose.”

Cricket. One or more of us always played for the village, provided that we were at home. This was an understood thing. The one match we did not enjoy was that against Riding Hood. This was because of The Butcher, who fairly deserved his name. The wickets he took were few, but he got his men. Three years ago, when Riding Hood had played Dovetail, four of the Dovetail batsmen had had to be helped from the ground. Berry and I took it in turns to face him. Last year it was Berry’s turn, and he was hit on the throat. The bowling was lawful, but of a fearful kind. And village wickets are imperfect. To say that the ball ‘rose sharply’ is nothing at all.

“But I shan’t be here,” said I.

“Yes, you will. You’re coming here with Granite.”

“That’s the Cleric match. Riding Hood’s the week before.”

“Then you’ll have to come back,” said Berry.

“I can’t,” said I. “I shall be attending the Judge. That afternoon we shall entrain for Forage.”

Berry looked dazedly round.

“D’you mean to say,” he said, “that I’ve got to face that murderer again? That, after what I suffered last year, I’ve got to stand up there and be maimed or disfigured for life?” He clasped his head in his hands. “I had to be massaged last time – for weeks on end. Damn it, I’ve only just recovered.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said. “I’d be here if I could.”

“The thing’s a scandal,” said Daphne. “Can’t something be done?”

“Everyone’s waiting,” said I, “on everyone else. If Cleric lodges a protest, Cleric lays itself open to a charge of cowardice. It’s the same with Gamecock and us. Look at Dovetail: four men ‘retired hurt’ in one innings: but Dovetail wouldn’t protest. The truth, of course, is that it’s up to Riding Hood. They shouldn’t play the man.”

“Is he such a good bowler?”

“He’s rotten,” said I. “Unfortunately, most of us are very indifferent bats. Any county batsman would put him where he belonged.”

“It’s really shameful,” said Jill. “I mean, it isn’t as if the ball was soft.”

“You’re telling me,” said Berry, feeling his throat. “What I went through last year. The wonder is I’m alive. And now I’ve got to go through it all over again. This time, I suppose, he’ll knock my teeth down my throat. The pillory isn’t in it. After all, dead cats may smell, but they’ve got some give. And now what about this rat? Let’s see if some bread and butter will help it up.”

Under Jill’s direction, he laid a slice upon the lip of the hole from which the rats had emerged. Before we left for Dovetail, we had the very great pleasure of watching the mother taste and then commend it to her child. While they were making their meal, the father returned, and, by his advice or instruction, what remained of the slice was drawn carefully into the hole and out of our view.

“There you are,” said Berry. “You couldn’t have done that with cake.”

Forty-eight hours had gone by, and Derry Bagot and Daphne were playing Jane Bagot and me.

“Love fifteen,” said Derry, and served out of court.

His second service was treated as it deserved.

“Sorry, my dear,” said Derry. “I seem to be out of form. If only Jane were better – a bad opponent invariably puts me off.”

The game went to deuce four times, but we won it at last.

Three all. We were very evenly matched.

Surrounded by limes and chestnuts, the court was a pleasant court, and its turf was good. Since we were ten years old, we had, all of us, larded its earth. It knew no tournaments. Always we played for pleasure – and nothing else. Not even for exercise. So, I think, games should be played. On one side, a miniature terrace served lookers-on; from a height of four feet, one could see the play very well.

I was about to serve, when Berry appeared.

“Lake – and friend,” he said. “They feel they’d like to see you. I’ll take your place.”

“And here’s trouble,” said Derry. “Who have you killed?”

“Very secret,” said Berry. “We’ll tell you as soon as we may.”

“Espionage,” said Derry. “And you be careful – one of my aunts is French.”

I took my coat and made my way to the house…

The Assistant Commissioner was speaking.

“So, you see, it’s a very big thing. Your blind man is the wallah we’ve wanted for years. He is ‘above suspicion’, but now we’re under his guard.” He pointed to the packet beside him. “That’s going back tonight. If it’s been looked for, we’re sunk. But I hope the box will be cleared on Sunday next. Whoever clears it will never be out of our sight. In that way, we should get home – by which I mean that we should get your blind man.

“That packet contains twenty sovereigns – for information received. It also contains two pages of information desired – highly important information, in the sight of the German Naval Staff. But that information, it says, is not to be put in that box. ‘Method Q’ is to be followed. That’s why we must trail the recipient by day and night. By using ‘Method Q’ he will lead us to your blind man. And then we shall be home, for his finger-prints are all over his questionnaire.”

“Any time limit, sir?”

“Happily, yes. He says he must have what he wants by July the nineteenth. Must. I believe there’s something coming – anyway, that’s what he says. I shouldn’t think we’ll need you. I hope we shall take him red-handed. But if we do, I take it you’d know him again.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I might,” said I. “I daren’t put it higher than that. With his grimace, I’d know him anywhere. But he was thirty yards off, when he made his face. And that’s some way, sir.”

The Assistant Commissioner nodded.

“Go on.”

“I’ve a vague idea of what he looked like – before he made his face. He had a curious look. His face was faintly suggestive of that of a skull. Square and grim. That’s the impression I had – at thirty yards. I’m sorry I can’t do better, but there we are.”

“Not at all your fault, Mr Pleydell. You’ve done very well. And you’re up against a big shot. He was ready for you, but you weren’t ready for him. But at least you’ve noticed the man – which is more than anyone else has ever done.

“Now I hope very much that X – that’s the petty traitor – will lead us to Y. But, just in case he doesn’t, please bear Y’s face in mind and keep your eyes wide open wherever you go. You never know – you might see him crossing Pall Mall. Bear him in mind, Mr Pleydell, wherever you go.”

“And if I should see him, sir?”

“On no account lose him. As soon as you can, call a policeman and say that he’s to detain him and ring my office up. Wait a minute – I’ll give you a card.”

He took out a pencil and wrote on a slip of paste-board—

The bearer has my confidence. Do as he says.

“That will show you two things, Mr Pleydell. First, that I trust you implicitly: and, secondly, how very badly I want this man.”

I saw our guests off and made my way back to the court. But I was not thinking of tennis. My thoughts were of Minever Lane and the man whose face had been altered when he was thirty yards off. Square and grim – that was right. Faintly suggestive of a skull. And something else…

Seven weeks had gone by, and the Judge and I were at Forage, when a letter from Berry arrived.

July, 1914.

Dear Brother,

I am happy to inform you that the Riding Hood match is over, and, that except for a cracked rib, I am whole. I am still more happy to inform you that Mr Frederick Ballast, surnamed The Butcher, is, however, halt and like to stay halt, if not for years, at least for the remainder of the season. I tell you these glad tidings that you may hasten to the nearest place of refreshment and there order and consume a gallon of malt liquor to the honour and glory of St. Bertram of White Ladies, whose belated canonization is to be celebrated by the installation, equally belated, of a small soak-pit behind the Post Office.

This was the way of it.

Mr Ballast was bowling with the gleeful malignancy sometimes attributed to a fiend of Hell, who has been charged with and specially released for the discomfiture of the godly. That the Vicar was his first victim, I need hardly say. Hit him over the heart. Forty minutes later Young Tom was standing up well and beating the ball. He’d made twenty-five, when The Butcher sent down a fair – Let me put it like this. Had his delivery borne arms, these would have been distinguished by the bend sinister. Such was its pace that I couldn’t see where it pitched; but it rose like a rocket and took Young Tom under the chin. Well, they carried him off, and I strode down to the wicket, seeing blood-red. I was a crusader: my bat had become a morning star. I hit him for four twice running, and he didn’t like that. First ball, next over, I hit him for four again. To judge from the sinister manner in which he protruded his tongue – ostensibly to moisten the palms of his monstrous hands – he liked this still less. In a word, it was painfully clear that it was in his mind to bring to a horrid conclusion my services as a bat. I believe the euphemism is ‘dismiss’: I prefer the downright ‘dispatch’. Be that as it may, he sent down another b-b-b-ball, which got me full in the ribs. Of the agony, I will say nothing. Enough that I lost my balance and damned near fell into my wicket. But let that pass. The point is that I was annoyed. Could Mr Ballast have searched my heart, he’d have left the field, asked for police protection and hidden himself in a wood. Still, I think he was disconcerted – perhaps, by the look in my eye, for, immediately after that, he played clean into my hands. He sent one down dead straight, which kept very low: and I let him have it straight back with every ounce that I’d got. He tried to get out of the way, but he hadn’t time… We ran right away after that, and beat them handsomely.

Less good news from Lake. As you already know, X, the petty traitor, was being most carefully watched. Four days ago they watched him walk into an omnibus or hackney coach – but not by the door. He is now in hospital, with a fractured skull. Owing to this indisposition, he will be unable to keep his engagement with Y. And as no one has any idea of what ‘Method Q’ may be, the Special Branch is not exactly sanguine of laying Y by the heels. In fact, unless he should accost you and then do his famous nose-trick before your eyes – and that I feel to be unlikely – there seems to be little hope of his arrest. But watch and pray, luv. You never know.

All is ready for your coming on Thursday next. The floors have been smeared over, the ginger-beer ordered, the water in the flower-vases changed. We assume that you will sleep in the same room as his lordship, and, as we have no truckle-bed, a pallet will be spread to leeward of his four-poster. And your place will be laid next to his at meals, so that you can taste his food without inconvenience. Indeed, as is my wont, I have thought of everything. But there you are. To live for others has always been my motto, and a stiff upper lip, my crest.

Kind regards to Gran-Gran.

Your beloved cousin and brother-in-law,

Berry.

PS. The car will be at Bloodstock, to meet the 3.15.

PPS. Our women are well, and Jonah has arrived. He has come from Germany – and prophesies no good, but evil.

The news about X depressed me. And when I told the Judge, he shook his head. Fortune’s smile had faded. My chances of seeing – let alone recognizing Y, were painfully thin. For what it was worth, I must, of course, keep my eyes open: but now, as luck would have it, my days were spent in court and I could not go out and about, as I usually did.