Death Before Wicket: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 10 (7 page)

‘Was the safe damaged?’

‘Scratches around the lock and so on, you mean? Not that I saw. Of course, the Bursar might have forgotten to lock it. Such an idiot, Sykes. I fancy that may be the explanation, you know. Someone just walked in, found the room empty, and helped themselves—to my papyrus!’

‘But why take everything in the safe? If they were after your papyrus—’

‘Oh, no, they were after the exam papers. Took the rest of the stuff to cover up what they were really after. Anyway, there was a flap to end all flaps, the Dean bellowing, the Bursar whimpering, Professor Kirkpatrick going all Scotch and rigid with fury. Each and every one reverting to type. If I hadn’t been so worried about my papyrus I would have enjoyed it even more. It’s probably on some rubbish heap even now, being taken away by the Municipal van and dumped in the tip.’

He brooded darkly while plates were laid and the waiters returned in a group, bearing huge salvers of roasted beef and tureens of vegetables and gravy. A young man leaned over Phryne and filled her glass with dark red wine.

‘Sorry, Miss Fisher, I should have asked if you preferred a light hock,’ apologised Professor Bretherton. ‘Server, another glass for Miss Fisher.’

‘No, I would rather have red wine.’ Phryne sipped. It was robust and a little raw and tingled on her palate.

‘Good, eh? We laid down dozens of the new Tahlbilk vintage in ‘20 and it’s come along well. Shiraz. The wine of the ancients. Only place the phylloxera didn’t get to, mainly because the place is so far from a road it would have had to be a very athletic little beast indeed to plod all that way. The Vice Chancellor believes that we should support our own vignerons, and that is one point on which I agree with him. A country that doesn’t grow its own wine grapes has no claim to civilisation. Also, of course, it’s cheaper than imported burgundy.’

‘And better,’ agreed Phryne, sipping again. ‘Did you find your examination papers?’

‘Yes, the papers—and they were no advantage, you know. Poor little tick who stole them was some scholarship boy, Harcourt. The Dean instituted an immediate search of all the students’ carrels and there they were in Harcourt’s. The boy absolutely refuses to answer any questions about where the rest of the stuff is, drat him. Those Andersonians are tough. I don’t care about the examination papers: I can easily fudge up another set with my fellows. But I want my papyrus back. I say, Miss Fisher.’ He leaned a little towards Phryne. ‘You’re an investigator, aren’t you? You wouldn’t consider a little investigation on my account, would you?’

‘I promised not to investigate anything.’ Phryne was wondering just how much Professor Bretherton wanted his papyrus back. ‘I’m on holiday.’

‘But you’ve an interest in this matter, haven’t you? Otherwise how would you have heard of it and why would you ask me about it?’

‘It’s no use trying to pull the wool over a Juvenalian’s eyes,’ sighed Phryne. ‘If you can get me an interview with all of the participants, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Nothing simpler, my dear Miss Fisher.’ The scholar’s eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘I’ll just mention that you are very wealthy and childless and thinking of a bequest. Then your only problem will be drying off your shoes.’

Phryne raised an eyebrow.

‘Wet with all that drooling,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps you might call at the Faculty Office tomorrow? And tell me,’ he added, as the Vice Chancellor’s conversation with the aged academic died away, ‘why did you favour Sydney with your presence, Miss Fisher?’

‘I came to see the Test match,’ Phryne replied.

The old man on the other side of the VC quavered, ‘Test match? Waste of time. Bludgeoners. Butchers. They don’t have the sort of games we had when I was young. All killed off in the war,’ he said sadly.

‘You must have seen some great games,’ said Phryne gently. Her voice was clear and the old gentleman had no difficulty understanding her.

‘I saw the greats: F.E. Woolley of Kent, C.B. Fry and Rantjit-singhi of Sussex. Used their bats like a conductor’s baton. Elegance, m’dear!’

‘Miss Fisher, might I introduce our Emeritus Professor of Engineering, Mr Jones?’ The VC, after a moment’s astonishment, picked up the social thread.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said the old man. ‘That was the Golden Age, depend on it. Fast. Nothing for a batsman to score over a hundred runs an hour. Beautiful to watch. Now they’re just boring them out. I remember bowlers who terrified batsmen out—you should have seen the Demon Spofforth. Ran like the wind. Delivered a ball so fast you couldn’t see it in the air. I was there on the day when Ernest Jones fired a ball right through

W.G.’s beard. But it’s not common to see one of the fair sex interested in the great game,’ he added, his voice rising to a question mark.

‘I went to Leeds in 1921 and saw Lionel Tennyson’s innings,’ explained Phryne with pardonable pride.

‘Ah, yes,’ Professor Jones nodded. ‘They say it was glorious.’

‘He came out, broken arm in a sling, with a child’s bat in his other hand. We held our breath,’ said Phryne. ‘He made sixty-one. And that was off McDonald and Gregory, too, not some weak county attack.’

‘Cannon to the right of him,’ murmured Professor Bretherton sardonically, ‘volleyed and thundered.’

‘All the world wondered,’ agreed the old man, completing the quote from ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’. ‘Tennyson was a great captain. Hampshire and England. They say that he backed Hants at one hundred to one against Warwickshire after they made fifteen in the first innings. Then they went on to make over five hundred in the second and it was champagne all round on the proceeds. Of course, he had Mead. They say he has an honest face, for a left-hander. Great days,’ sighed Professor Jones. ‘Now these damned professionals have ruined the game. Cricket’s simple. As W.G. said, all you have to do is lay the bat against the ball.’

‘And you don’t like the present Test team?’ asked Phryne.

‘Pounders, and they’re all too old. Half that team are over thirty and some of ‘em are over forty. Need some new blood. Young man’s game, Test cricket. Look what happened in Brisbane. Disaster. Larwood, Jardine, Tate, Farmer White—fair bowlers and disgraceful Australian batting. And our bowlers can’t seem to make any breakthrough against Hendren, Hobbs and Hammond.’

‘A fair summary,’ commented Professor Bretherton, who was interested despite himself.

‘So I fear that the great days have gone,’ said the old man. ‘I’m not likely to see any batsman again as good as the men of my youth.’

He closed his eyes and appeared to enjoy a short nap; dreaming, perhaps, of the Croucher, Jessop, greatest office-emptier in the history of the game. Phryne drank more wine and attacked the mound of meat and vegetables in front of her. Talking always made her hungry.

The college meat was tender, the college vegetables correct, and the college plate remarkable. Phryne asked about it as yet another heavy silver salver was hauled past by a sweating waiter.

‘Oh, well, you see, Miss Fisher, if some chap is retiring, he might donate a piece of silver. The heavier the plate, the greater the importance, is the rule which many of ‘em seem to have stuck to. My college is rather big on loving cups.’

‘Loving cups?’

‘You’ll see later. You really are interested in cricket, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, her mouth full of beef.

‘Well, in that case, most of the faculty will be at the Test tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we can invite you into the Members? The ladies’ stand is quite comfortable. I could call at your hotel at about nine in the morning?’

‘Thank you,’ said Phryne, swallowing. ‘That would be delightful.’

The plates were cleared again. Cheese and biscuits were distributed. Phryne was suddenly as sleepy as a boa constrictor who has greedily tucked into its second coolie and drunk deep of an intoxicating mountain spring. The Vice Chancellor stood up, settled his robes, and gestured for silence.

‘We are here,’ he announced, ‘to say farewell to our good Professor Jones, who is now leaving the hurly burly of the academic life and devoting himself to his other loves, apart from engineering: gardening and cricket,’ and there was a scatter of applause.

‘Master of the obvious,’ murmured Professor Bretherton.

‘Goes with the job, I should think,’ returned Phryne.

Her mind wandered. Why should someone steal all the things in the safe? To cover up their real object. Quite sensible. Though she would have thought that someone with that level of planning would not keep the stolen papers in his carrel. She discounted the wandering thief hypothesis. The safe was probably quite impressive, and even if Sykes the Bursar had failed to lock it, it was very unlikely that he would fail to shut it. Phryne had met a number of burglars and could not see them trying the handle of a safe on spec, because she could not see them passing unnoticed in the University grounds, much less a faculty office. It was just possible that a thief might have walked in on business, a tradesman’s assistant, for instance, but what would he be doing in the office? It sounded unlikely, though it had to be investigated, as did the timing of the theft. The loss had been discovered in the morning, of course, but when had the contents of the safe been stolen? That went on Phryne’s mental list as well.

She was just speculating on John Bretherton’s strangely evasive response to her questions about his papyrus when the Great Hall broke out into cheers and everyone rose to their feet. Phryne did likewise.

‘What are we doing?’ she asked Professor Bretherton.

‘Cheering,’ he replied, demonstrating his own mastery of the obvious. ‘Now, Miss Fisher,’ he advised as they resumed their seats, ‘this ritual ought to amuse you.’

A heavy two-handled cup was presented to the aged Professor Jones. He stood up, and the VC and the Bursar rose as well as the old man drank. He passed the cup to the VC and immediately Professor Bretherton stood up.

Phryne was intrigued. Each time the cup passed, the passer stayed on his feet and two new people stood up, so that the one with the cup was always flanked by two standing men. It produced a charming ripple effect as the loving cup moved down the table, but it was a mystery to Phryne.

‘I would really like to know what gives rise to this strange procedure,’ she said to Professor Bretherton, who grinned.

‘In the bad old days, life was not safe for a man to let his hand stray too far from his sword,’ he said. ‘So anyone who takes a two-handled cup is vulnerable to attack. Therefore…’

‘Therefore his fellows stand to guard him while he is drinking.

How medieval,’ said Phryne, as the ripple effect reached Professor Jones again. ‘And I, of course…’

‘Being most emphatically and delightfully female…’ put in Professor Bretherton.

‘Don’t drink because I could not possibly guard you or Professor Waterhouse from attack by, say, a student maddened beyond bearing by the imperfect subjunctive,’ she reasoned.

‘They are more likely to be driven insane by Greek verb forms,’ he agreed.

Professor Jones, however, was determined to use his Emeritus for something useful, like honouring a young woman with sound ideas on the summer game, and he beckoned to Phryne to stand. She did so, wondering if she was about to commit a social solecism which would see Waterhouse demanding pistols for two and breakfast for one on the morrow.

‘Miss Fisher,’ said the old man, and handed her the loving cup.

With Bretherton and the VC flanking her so that she was safe from hypothetical assault, Phryne raised the cup and drank. The cup was extremely heavy, doubtless being donated by a fellow with importance to underline. It contained very good port. Phryne lowered it to find that she was being applauded. There seemed nothing to do but bow, so she bowed, gave the cup on to Professor Bretherton, and the ripple effect passed on again.

‘Well, that will give them something to talk about,’ said Bretherton, shaking Phryne’s hand.

‘For the foreseeable future,’ added Professor Kirkpatrick, on Bretherton’s other side. He had been occupied all through dinner with a discussion on certain early English grammatical borrowings from Old Norse with Jeoffry Bisset and had withdrawn his attention from Phryne, allowing Professor Bretherton to monopolise her.

‘Gosh, yes,’ exclaimed Bisset. ‘Unprecedented events don’t happen very often here, you know. You’ll go down in history as the first woman to drink from a loving cup.’

‘Honoured,’ murmured Phryne.

‘Only Jones would have dared,’ marvelled Bisset.

‘One can dare a lot if one is Emeritus,’ said Bretherton.

Phryne cut herself a lump of blue cheese and took a long sip of port from a conventional glass. When the VC announced, ‘Gentlemen, you may smoke,’ she assumed that she was an honorary gentleman for the evening and accepted a rather good cigar from the old man, who had clearly taken a shine to her.

‘I remember when I first saw a cricket match,’ he said, settling back and smiling. ‘E.M., G.F. and W.G—the Three Graces of Gloucestershire, they called them. I was eleven and a schoolboy and my father took me to the cricket—my first grown-up match. Cost sixpence to get in. Had a curiously high-pitched voice, W.G. Bowled a slow flighted ball at the leg stump, and his brother E.M. used to field a bare yard from the bat and even the batsmen worried about killing him, though it was Fred who was killed, tragically, but not on the cricket field. Took lots of catches at deep long leg off his brother’s bowling. Strange how one man can change history, Miss Fisher. Before W.G., the Players won nineteen in a row against the Gentlemen. Professionals always beat amateurs. In the next ten years the Players only won once. Just one man turned it around, from disaster to victory.’