The Crack In the Teacup Read online

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  The Crack In The Teacup

  First published in 1966

  © Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1966-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  075510515X 9780755105151 Print

  0755132181 9780755132188 Kindle

  0755132181 9780755132188 Epub

  0755146581 9780755146581 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.

  After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.

  HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime andmystery books ever published. “The plot,” wrote Keating, “is inevery way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatlydovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and asfull of cunningly-suggested red herrings.” It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series wasbuilt around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted)who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Othermemorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless andprepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for theiryounger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically uponreceiving a bank statement containing a code.

  Muchof Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home tohis office in London: “I always take a latish train to work,” heexplained in 1980, “and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble inwriting because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.”. After retirementfrom the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘TheDaily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.

  Gilbertwas appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen ofthe British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the BritishCrime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by theMystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievementaward at the 1990 Boucheron in London.

  MichaelGilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and theirtwo sons and five daughters.

  From all that terror teaches,

  From lies of tongue and pen,

  From all the easy speeches

  That comfort cruel men,

  From sale and profanation

  Of honour and the sword,

  From Sleep and from Damnation

  Deliver us, good Lord.

  G. K. Chesterton

  This verse from O God of earth and altar is reprinted from The English Hymnal by permission of Oxford University Press.

  Chapter One

  Anthony Takes Tea

  “Another cup of tea, Mr. Sudderby?”

  “Thank you, Lady Mayoress, but two cups are all I ever take. Even of your truly delicious China tea.”

  “Mr. Brydon?”

  “No more,” said Anthony. “What beautiful cups.”

  “They are Royal Worcester,” said Mrs. Lord, “and are just over two hundred years old. As you see, they have no saucers. In the days when they were made, saucers were thought rather common.”

  Anthony Brydon examined his cup curiously. It was so shallow that it hardly held any tea. The vivid greens had faded to brown. The gold had almost disappeared. Like everything about Mrs. Lord it was old, precious and very slightly impracticable.

  “About your cricket field. Or pitch, do you call it?”

  “The pitch is the bit in the middle, actually.”

  “Sporting terms are confusing. I received a deputation last week. They wanted to discuss bowling. I was under the impression that bowling was something which took place in the open, on a bowling green. Nowadays, apparently not. It is an indoor occupation, and involves elaborate machinery. Will croquet go the same way, I wonder?”

  “I was once very fond of croquet,” said Mr. Sudderby, tugging at his short beard. “I had a trial for Sussex.”

  “You’re a man of unexpected accomplishments, Mr. Sudderby. But we were talking about cricket. How large is a cricket field?”

  “The smallest possible area would be a circle of fifty yards radius from the middle of the pitch. Sixty would be better.”

  “And you could fit one into my home meadow?”

  “Oh, easily.”

  “You are sure that my windows would not be in danger?”

  “It’s rare for a cricket ball to be hit full-pitch for more than three hundred yards.”

  “These technicalities are beyond me. But if you assure me that my windows and glass-houses are safe, you shall have your field.”

  “It’s very kind of you.”

  “I feel I owe it to you,” said Mrs. Lord. “Since the Corporation, of which I have the honour to be head, are taking away your own field, it’s appropriate that I should offer you a replacement. When will it be required?”

  “We shall be able to go on using the one we lease from the Corporation until the end of this season, and we shan’t want to start playing on the new one until next May. We’d like to come and do some work on it in the off-season – particularly if we’re going to return the square.”

  “The square?”

  “The square is all the different pitches.”

  “I don’t pretend to follow you. Tell me, Mr. Brydon, do you not find it dangerous, playing cricket in glasses?”

  Anthony Brydon smiled. When he did so he looked even younger than his twenty-three years. “It’s an advantage,” he said. “It makes the fast bowlers sorry for you. Actually I have a special pair of glasses for cricket. The lenses are plastic.”

  After tea, he gave Mr. Sudderby a lift back into Barhaven. The gentle, bearded Town Clerk was an old friend. As a small boy, and later, in holidays from school, Anthony had gone for long walks with him over the downs. He was an enthusiastic, if inaccurate, ornithologist and local historian.


  All around them Dollington Park slept in the late afternoon sun. The home meadow would make a fine cricket field. A bit farther from Barhaven than their present one, and off the bus route, but almost everyone had cars nowadays. They would have to think about traffic control. Mrs. Lord wouldn’t want a stream of cars coming down her front drive every Saturday afternoon. Could they open an exit from the far side of the field into Cow Lane?

  “It’s wonderful how she keeps the place up,” said Mr. Sudderby.

  “Most of her money comes from the toll bridge,” said Anthony. “If the Government ever took the tolls away she’d be in the soup. They’re tax-free, too. I’ve never understood why.”

  “The original Act of Parliament makes it quite clear. The tolls were to be regarded as returns of the capital sum expended on constructing the bridge.”

  “I don’t know how much it cost to put a bridge over the River Barr in 1790,” said Anthony, “but since she must now be getting five thousand a year out of it, I don’t call it a bad investment.”

  “It’s a very good investment,” said Mr. Sudderby. “Good for her, and good for the town. Particularly as the Act authorises us to raise the tolls on any three days in the year which we choose. It’s my belief that the half-crown toll we impose on Bank Holidays is all that saves Barhaven from an invasion of those horrible young men—” Mr. Sudderby screwed his face up—“known, for reasons I have never been able to fathom, as Mods and Rockers. Mod, I suppose, is short for modern. But what do the Rockers rock?”

  “Their elders and betters,” said Anthony. “Of course, they haven’t got to come over the toll bridge, but if they don’t use it, it means a detour of nearly thirty miles, and that’s enough to put them off, I expect.”

  “Do you know, I nearly had a fit this morning. I thought I had seen a Kirtlands Warbler.”

  It took Anthony a few seconds, his mind being on teenagers, to realise that this was the ornithologist, not the Town Clerk, speaking.

  “Would that have been exciting?”

  “Epoch-making. It’s the only warbler that is entirely yellow underneath. The global population of Kirtlands Warblers is hardly a thousand individuals. They winter in the Bahamas and are only commonly found in Michigan.”

  “I take it that it wasn’t.”

  “I’m afraid it turned out to be a canary. It must have escaped from one of the pet stores on the Parade. Our Friday influx has well and truly started, hasn’t it?”

  At that point the by-road from Dollington Park and village joined the coast road. The tide had set towards Barhaven. There were sedate family saloons, crowded station wagons, rakish sports cars, impudent Minis, cars with luggage piled on roof racks, cars towing caravan trailers, cars towing boats.

  “Not too many motor-cycles, thank heavens,” said Mr. Sudderby. “Do you think you could pass that car ahead?”

  “I expect so. There’s not a lot of point in it, though. We shall only be held up by the next one.”

  “I wanted to see the people in it. I thought—yes—they are—” As Anthony drew level with the car ahead, a well-preserved 1960 Hillman, Mr. Sudderby leaned dangerously out of the window and waved. The driver and the plump little woman beside him looked up in surprise at the bearded figure, then smiled and waved back.

  “The Burgesses,” said Mr. Sudderby. “He’s a chartered accountant. He works for a big firm in the City. His wife’s name is Doris.”

  Mr. Sudderby reseated himself.

  “They told me they might be coming down here for their summer holiday. I’m so glad they’ve managed it. The Burgesses are just the sort of visitors we ought to encourage in Barhaven.”

  “They looked a nice couple,” said Anthony. He had been so busy with his driving that he had not actually seen them at all.

  “They’re not only nice,” said Mr. Sudderby. “They are the right type. People with a bit of money to spend, and who like to spend it quietly. Not like that sort.”

  He looked with distaste at a boy in a black leather, brass-studded jerkin, wearing a red scarf round his neck and a crash helmet on his head, with a similarly dressed figure, male or female, it was hard to say which, on the pillion. He was threading his motor-cycle through the stream of traffic with the insolent verve of a destroyer needling a convoy of laggard merchant-men.

  “Not quite the Barhaven type,” agreed Anthony. “This is your turning, isn’t it?”

  “It’s very kind of you. That will do nicely. Unless you’d care to come in and take a glass of sherry.”

  “I’ll have to get home. I want to see how my father’s getting on.”

  “Of course. I hope he’s no worse.”

  “He’s no worse,” said Anthony. “But I should be fooling you if I said he was any better. He’s had to take things very quietly after that last attack, and he hates it. Left to himself, I think he’d much rather go out on to the golf course, play a strenuous eighteen holes of golf, and drop down dead on the last green.”

  Mr. Sudderby looked faintly shocked. “You mustn’t talk about death,” he said. “He’ll be with us many years yet, I hope.”

  The older you got, thought Anthony, the less you did want to talk about death. As if, by averting your eyes from him, you could placate the quiet, grey man who sat in the corner of the room, waiting to come forward, at the chosen moment, and tap you on the shoulder.

  Chapter Two

  Anthony Plays Cricket and Witnesses an Assault

  From the bowler’s action Anthony judged it was going to be a fastish ball, swinging away to the off, which would keep low and ask to be cut. Too late, he saw that it was going to be straight, but short and hookable.

  Five seconds later the ball was safe in the hands of deep square leg, and Anthony was walking back to the pavilion.

  He arrived to an ovation.

  ‘’The youthful hero,’ ’said Chris Sellinge, “blushed, removed his cap to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd, and—”

  “Bloody silly way to get out.”

  “When you’ve made eighty-five, you’re entitled to get out in any way you like.”

  “It was a cow-shot,” said Anthony. He started to unbuckle his pads. “My feet were in the wrong place.”

  “Speaking for myself,” said Sellinge, a thick rufous estate agent with rather less hair on his head than when he had left the Royal Navy at the Armistice, but the same unsinkable optimism which had made him a menace in most of the navigable waterways of the world, “I never have time to worry about my feet. I think of two things only. The bat and the ball. My concern is that they shall make contact.”

  “In any game,” said Anthony, “the thing that matters most is to have your feet in the right place.”

  “When you’re old enough to go out with girls,” said Sellinge, “you’ll realise how wrong you are. Did you have any luck with the Lady Mayoress?”

  “She’s going to let us have the home meadow.”

  “Ah! A bribe to stop us squealing when they turn us out of this one.”

  “It’ll make a very nice ground.”

  “It’ll take ten years to make a playable square.”

  “Less than that if we work at it. Anyway, I thought it was very decent of her to offer it at all.”

  “You’re young,” said Chris. “You go round in rose-tinted glasses. When you grow older, you’ll cultivate a decent cynicism.”

  “I can’t see that there’s anything to be cynical about.”

  “Don’t you realise that what is being perpetrated in Barhaven is the biggest and most barefaced land grab since Bishop Poore moved his cathedral from Old Sarum to Salisbury – having first taken options on all the best building plots along the River Avon.”

  “You’re always looking for ulterior motives.”

  “You don’t have to look for things when they hit you in the eye.”

  “Cover point is going to get hit in the eye if he crowds Charlie Roper like that.”

  But Chris was not to be diverted.

  “In th
e first World War,” he said, “there were, I understand, two bitterly opposed factions, the Westerners and the Easterners. That’s the position in Barhaven in a nutshell. There are only two ways the town can develop. It can’t go inland, because that’s all farmland, and untouchable. And anyway, in a coast resort nobody wants to build inland. Therefore, the town must spread east or west. Correct?”

  “Your reasoning,” said Anthony, “is irrefutable.”

  “The sensible way to develop is to the west. There’s a three-mile stretch up to Dollington and the river. It’s handy for the station. It’s the residential side already, so you’ve got the services laid on. And a lot of it belongs to my clients.”

  “I guessed you weren’t entirely disinterested.”

  “Of course I’m not disinterested. Who is? Certainly not the Council. You know why they want to develop east, don’t you?”

  “To spite your clients.”

  “It’s because a lot of the property on the east of the town belongs to them already – clear out, you stupid little bastards!”

  A couple of youths who were strolling unconcernedly across the sight screen stopped as Sellinge shouted, and started to retreat. The batsman lashed out wildly, and skied the ball into the hands of mid-off.

  “If I was Charlie Roper,” said Chris, “I’d get after those boys with a stick.”

  “About time we declared, anyway.”

  “Bad luck, Charlie. It was those kids walking across the screen.”

  Charlie Roper, the Barhaven wicket-keeper, was a larger man, with a red face and a shock of light hair. He said, “It wasn’t the boys, Chris. It was you bellowing like that. You’ve got a voice like a bloody foghorn. Come here, you two.”

  The youths approached.

  “This one’s my Terry,” said Charlie. “He’s my eldest. He’s got no more sense than a wooden rabbit.”

  Terry grinned, showing a tooth missing in his upper jaw.

  “What did you come up here for, anyway? I didn’t think you were interested in cricket.”