A little flutter of applause rose from the spectators as the ball slammed against the pavilion rails. A man ran leisurely after it, his face very brown against the whiteness of his shirt. He picked up the ball and threw it effortlessly towards the wicket-keeper, who took it off the first bounce and tossed it to the bowler, who in his turn caught it one-handed and walked back for his run. A short, stout man, his red face split by a set of splendid teeth, fiddled with his pad buckle, tapped a spot on the pitch, took his stance and waited for the next ball. Through the silence over the ground, a silence punctuated by the twittering of small birds and the occasional caw-caw of a low-flying rook, the pounding of the bowler’s feet came clearly.
‘Long run, that fellow takes,’ murmured the Rev. Denbigh Morse, tipping his clerical straw further over his eyes.
‘And on a day like this,’ sighed the clergyman’s neighbour, Colonel Martin Wyett; a tall, stout, perspiring man.
‘But effortless,’ said Mary Randall, niece to both the cleric and the soldier.
The cleric said ‘Hmmm’ and the soldier said ‘Ah!’ They were both past middle age, and both old blues. Cricket was as much a part of them as eating and drinking.
Mary Randall watched the bowler’s final leap, and saw the red ball fly from his hand. There was something fascinating about that fast bowler. There was the concentrated energy of thirteen stone behind each ball, but it was delivered effortlessly. A little card in her hand told that he had bowled nineteen overs, with seven maidens and thirty runs—no mean performance on an August day with the temperature eighty-one in the shade, and heaven-knew-what in the sun.
‘Ah!’ The exclamation exploded from the Colonel’s lips.
‘Got him!’ said the Rev. Denbigh Morse, sitting upright and removing his straw altogether. The little white circle round his forehead, glistening with sweat, would have amused his niece at any other time, but she was intent on the game.
The ball hurtled against the stumps. The wicket-keeper made a joyous but ineffectual grab at a flying bail. The red-faced batsman waved his bat cheerfully at the bowler, and turned towards the pavilion. The bowler grinned back, and dropped to the grass, his limbs spread-eagled. Half a dozen fieldsmen followed suit, while the others gathered round the wicket and held the usual inquest.
‘Kenyon’s third, all clean bowled,’ said Piggot, a small, wiry man who was relaxing in this homely atmosphere of country house cricket from the strenuous round of county grounds. ‘He’d create a riot at Lord’s, on his day.’
‘And he’s bowling as fast as when he started,’ said Driver, who was skippering Randall’s Eleven against Colonel Wyett’s strong combination of county and university players. (The Colonel owned Greylands, where the game was being played, and treated the cricket field with a reverence that his brother-in-law, the Vicar, might have envied for his church).
‘Why doesn’t he play more?’ asked Mick Randall. Mick had two religions: cricket and his sister.
Driver shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose he’s in England for two consecutive months in the year.’
‘Man in,’ said Piggot.
The inquest was over. Kenyon picked up the ball and strolled back for his run. The rites of initiating the incoming batsman were performed. Kenyon’s feet pounded the grass. The ball pitched a trifle short, and went away to the off. The bat flashed out, fatally, there was a click of leather on wood, and Mick Randall, at first slip, flung himself sideways. The ball smacked into his left hand and stuck. That thrill of sheer joy which is the right of any cricketer who makes a good catch went through him. The batsman walked pavilionwards, disconsolate.
Kenyon strolled towards the inquest.
‘Good work, Randall,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you could reach it.’
‘More luck than judgment,’ Randall disclaimed.
‘It wasn’t luck that you got off the mark quickly,’ returned Kenyon. ‘Well, Sam—what chance of getting ‘em out before lunch?’
‘Depends on you,’ said Sam Driver. ‘Five wickets to go, and forty minutes to do it in. The best men have gone, of course. I’m glad you got rid of Serle. He was getting set, and he can hit like Jupiter. Hallo—man in.’
Kenyon strolled back, thoughtfully. A slight, rather enigmatic smile curved his lips. He’d got rid of Serle; Serle with the plump red face and the splendid teeth. Driver didn’t know it, but the duel between the fast bowler and Arnold Serle had much more in it than straightforward cricket. ‘In fact,’ Kenyon told himself, as he started his run, ‘I’d give a lot to get rid of him as quickly, in that contest more serious than this. Damn, a full toss. He’ll swipe it.’
The incoming batsman did swipe it, but not where it deserved. It shot upwards, high into the heavens, and the wicketkeeper stood waiting for it, his hands held upwards as though imploring manna. Manna came. Another murmur of applause ran round the circle of spectators, for Kenyon’s hat-trick.
Twenty-five minutes later Mick Randall took an easy catch in slips, and Colonel Wyett’s Eleven were all out for the paltry—in view of the plumb wicket—score of a hundred and twenty-three. Kenyon’s bag was six for thirty-five. Mary Randall had a feminine passion for the arithmetical niceties of the game.
Her brother waved to her, and spoke to Kenyon, who was walking with him. Since that brief congratulation on his first catch Mick Randall had developed a great admiration for the big man—Kenyon stood six feet two.
‘You haven’t met Mary, have you? My sister, I mean?’
‘No,’ admitted Kenyon, looking at the little group towards which Randall headed him, and wondering whether Mary was the tall, angular woman dressed in abominable red, the fat, dumpy schoolgirl who had cornered the Colonel, or the tall, slim girl, dressed in a plain cream-coloured dress, with a wide-brimmed hat set aslant a head of dark brown hair.
It would be the slim girl, he hoped. It was. As he approached her and she smiled at Mick Randall, Kenyon was suddenly aware that she was lovely. It was not a loveliness easily defined. Her lips were perhaps a shade too full, her nose tip-tilted, her chin was pleasantly rounded, with a thrust that some take to mean determination, but Kenyon doubted whether chins and characters had anything in common. Her eyes—grey, wide-set and clear—held frankness; her complexion, despite the heat, was good.
‘A good catch, Mick,’ she said. Kenyon noted the attractive huskiness of her voice.
‘Couldn’t have made it if he hadn’t given me the chance,’ said Randall. ‘Mary, meet Jim Kenyon—Mary, my sister.’
Kenyon smiled. He had looked attractive from a distance; now his clear-cut features, large, but not too large, held handsomeness with an indefinable suggestion of strength. He was darker than the girl; and his eyes were flecked grey.
‘You ought to feel tired,’ said Mary.
‘I am.’ Kenyon nodded towards a deck chair. ‘Do you mind if...?’
As all three sat down, the Vicar sauntered towards them, proffering cigarettes. Kenyon smoked. A small crowd of spectators, including the Colonel—who came to congratulate the man who had done most to humble his, the Colonel’s, team—maintained a sporadic conversation. Kenyon felt lazy, but his ears were keyed to the sound of Mary Randall’s voice. Finally a procession was started towards the house and lunch.
Kenyon was with the Randalls. Randall père, who had arrived at Greylands too late for the early play, was pleased with himself, for he liked to win the annual match with Wyett’s Eleven. Michael Randall senior belonged to the old school of diplomats. He was attached to the Embassy in Paris, a fact which annoyed him because little cricket was played in France, and in few countries had the post-war hurdy-gurdy played a more discordant tune. White-haired, he had that very clear, pinkish complexion which seems to be the right of English gentlemen who are temperate in most things except their devotion to sports. He took to Kenyon immediately.
A pleasant family, Kenyon thought.
Probably his expression revealed something of this, for at that moment the big man looked across the table, to find Timothy Arran regarding him. Toby Arran, one of the Arran twins often called—and with good reason—the Unholy,* was screwing his ugly face into a grimace. To one who knew that face well that could easily be interpreted as a wink.
And without apparent cause, Kenyon felt himself blushing. At the same moment Timothy Arran, his expression guileless, leaned across the table to ask if Mary Randall had noticed and admired, as he had, Kenyon’s rosy, schoolgirl complexion.
‘Did Tim and Toby have to play?’ enquired Mary of her father. ‘We needed a particularly strong team, Daddy.’
Slowly Kenyon regained his normal colour. He was meeting the Randalls for the first time; to have had that meeting spoiled by the Arrans’ individualistic sense of humour was more than he would allow.
‘The Arrans?’ Sir Michael entered into the joke without knowing what it was: ‘Ah, yes, we were two short at the last minute. Yes.’ He smiled, absently.
‘I’ll have some more ham,’ said Timothy Arran, plaintively. He spoke with a deliberate and affected drawl, which matched the immaculacy of his clothes and the perfection of his features.
‘Beef,’ said Toby, whose conversation consisted of a series of stops and starts. ‘When are you going to learn to bowl a length, Jim?’
‘He saved you from fielding this afternoon,’ retorted Mick Randall with spirit.
‘The lad,’ drawled Toby, transferring his glance from Kenyon to Randall, ‘is growing up. That catch made a man of him.’
The diplomat turned a deaf ear to his son’s retort.
‘How did Serle do this morning?’ he asked Kenyon.
‘Batted very well.’
‘Forty-three,’ supplied Mary, promptly. ‘He had a fight with Jim,’ she went on, ‘and the honours were about even.’
For the next half-hour the subject was cricket, and to all but the enthusiast the vagaries of their discussion would be mystery. Kenyon forgot the Arrans, not noticing their constant efforts to catch his eye, and was surprised when Colonel Wyett started to deliver his annual ‘may the best side win’ oration. The Colonel was too serious-minded to be amusing, but he was funny at times; usually those at which he was least aware of it.
After lunch, Randall’s Eleven passed Wyett’s score with three wickets down, and Kenyon electrified the somnolent spectators with some fierce hitting. Rarely for him, he wanted the limelight that day. Arnold Serle, a slow bowler of some merit, tricked him with a leg break, and the big man passed the fat one on his way to the pavilion. Serle was smiling, as usual.
‘We’ve been at each other all day,’ he said pleasantly.
‘About fifty-fifty,’ Kenyon murmured back.
But as he walked to the pavilion he was wondering whether there was anything behind those straightforward words. They had been at each other all day....
Did Serle know that he, Kenyon, had been sent an invitation to play for Randall’s Eleven for no other purpose than to meet the fat and red-faced cricketer? Was Arnold Serle aware of the interest he had aroused in that room at Whitehall, headquarters of the department conveniently labelled Z?
Kenyon believed that he was. Kenyon also believed that Serle knew him as an agent of the Department.
That slight, rather enigmatic smile curved Kenyon’s lips as he waved his hand in acknowledgement of the applause. The Arrans were on either side of Mary Randall, who looked cooler, calmer and more lovely than ever. The Arrans were staring at him without expression as they automatically clapped. Kenyon clattered up the wooden steps of the pavilion. Mary Randall, meeting his eye, leaned forward and winked at him.
The shade of the pavilion was pleasantly cool. Kenyon dropped on to a seat and unbuckled his pads. The only other occupant was a large-boned man sitting and looking out of the window, towards the field. The man said nothing, and did not turn round. Kenyon shrugged his shoulders; lack of sociability in others mildly irritated him.
As he threw his pads down he saw a bag opposite him, gaping open and revealing the odds and ends which comprise the cricketer’s wardrobe. The initials ‘A.S.’ stencilled on the leather brought his mind back to the day’s major problem—Arnold Serle.
Kenyon took a shower, and as he rubbed himself down, he was still thinking of Serle. He had had a summons from Craigie two days before, and had cancelled a round of social engagements in order to call at the office of that remarkable man who was known, by reputation, throughout the world.
Gordon Craigie, Chief of the British Counter Espionage, was at once the best-known and the least-known man in England. The Men Who Mattered rarely did anything without consulting him. His influence on foreign policy was considerable, but he could walk through the streets of London without being recognised, and it was on record that his photograph had never been taken; certainly it had never been published.
Kenyon had worked for Craigie for five years. Most of his work had been done abroad, and he saw his Chief very rarely. His father, however, had been a friend of Craigie for years, and as such Kenyon had known him from his childhood.
These things and others flashed through Kenyon’s mind as he leisurely re-dressed. He had seen Craigie on the morning of his summons.
‘I want you to go down to Greylands, Jim. A Colonel Martin Wyett owns the place, and there’s an annual cricket match between an eleven of his and an eleven of Randall’s.’
‘The French Embassy man?’
‘The British Embassy man in Paris,’ corrected Craigie with a grin. ‘The man you’re to watch is Serle.’
‘Arnold Serle?’
‘Arnold Serle.’ Craigie’s voice had hardened. ‘There have been rumours about the Rensham business. If the rumours are right, Serle knows something about that.’
Kenyon had protested that a man who played cricket for England and travelled the world on cricket tours, from India to Canada, was hardly the man to be connected with the Rensham case—or the drug scandal which a year before had shaken the indifference of the English aristocracy to its marrow. Lord Hugo Rensham had been murdered; before his death he had gasped out that he could tell the whole story of the dope racket. But the whole story was still untold, and dope was more widespread than ever before.
‘I know that there’s a nasty taste about associating cricket with crime,’ Craigie had added, his grey eyes twinkling, ‘but it’ll have to be done, Jim. There will be four other men down there. Two of them are watching the Randalls.’
At that time the Randalls had meant nothing to Kenyon, so he had asked why.
‘Sir Michael Randall was a good friend of Rensham, before Rensham took to drugs. It has been rumoured that Randall swore to discover what Rensham meant before he died. Therefore, if Serle had anything to do with Rensham’s death, he’s interested in Randall. So Randall is being watched.’
Kenyon had never properly accustomed himself to the care with which Craigie covered every possible line of inquiry. The Chief left nothing to chance, which accounted in no small measure for the success of Department Z.
Kenyon had left the Department, and on reaching his Gresham Street flat had found an invitation from Sam Driver to play for Randall’s Eleven. Craigie arranged everything.
The big man slipped on his blazer, lit a cigarette, and moved towards the lawn in front of the pavilion. He saw Mary Randall, still with the Arrans, and wondered whether the Arrans were Department men. There were disadvantages about the secrecy with which Craigie covered his agents. Four other men were among this crowd, and Kenyon knew none of them.
And then he felt a little pin-prick of anxiety. If Randall was in any kind of danger what of his daughter? Kenyon told himself that he must be careful. This was the first time the possibility had occurred to him, which meant that he was not thinking as he should be.
The Major’s voice, rather high-pitched, carried to Kenyon’s ears. Someone chuckled a few yards away. Toby Arran was rat-tatting a remark which made Mary Randall laugh. The scene was picturesque, for the setting of Greylands cricket field was beautiful, with the hills beyond and the woodlands in the distance and, partly hidden by trees, the old Manor House, stately and austere. The atmosphere had just that combination of activity and laziness which accompanies cricket. Many of the spectators seemed asleep, but the slightest incident on the field re-caught their attention.
Kenyon passed the window of the pavilion where the uncommunicative player had been sitting. He was still there, Kenyon noticed.
Mick Randall tried to hook a bad length ball for a six, failed to get on it properly, and skied it towards square leg, who took a good, running catch. Randall’s grimace could be seen as he turned pavilionwards, and there was the usual rumble of applause. Something struck Kenyon as being out of place. He hardly knew what it was, but something spoiled the perfection of that country house setting, and the cricket.
The cricket; Kenyon frowned suddenly. The man in the pavilion window had neither clapped nor spoken. The big man looked round, regarding the other more carefully.
Then intuitively, he knew what was the matter. He hurried back to the window. On the stranger’s face, pleasant if not handsome, there was an unmoving smile, which had in it some element of surprise. As Kenyon hurried past him he did not alter his position by so much as a hair’s breadth; nor did the set expression of his eyes alter.
A moment later Kenyon felt the man’s wrist; the flesh he touched was cold, with a clammy, inhuman chill. For an hour or more, Death had been staring with its sightless eyes across the green field, towards those memorably described as flannelled fools.
Something very cold touched Kenyon’s mind.
‘Craigie was right,’ he said aloud.
*See other ‘Department Z’ books by John Creasey.