  I went to bed that night with a feeling of intense exhilaration. Mary’s challenge, with anything like ordinary luck, meant a pretty comfortable victory for me, for although only a moderate golfer—my handicap was twelve—the strength and power of my long game should prove too much for Mary whatever she might do with me on the green. And victory for me, according to the Considine Manor tradition, would mean the equivalent of “Yes” to my proposal. For Mary to run the risk of a defeat from me at golf was tantamount to an admission that she loved me. At the same time as I came to consider the matter more fully I began to realize that I shouldn’t be able to throw anything away. Mary had the well-merited reputation of winning many a hole by the uncanny accuracy of her short game. As Jack Considine had said to me more than once in the past when discussing his sister’s game—“Bill—she’s a perfect whale at putts.” I came to the conclusion that if I could consistently out-drive her and only keep my head on the green, I should be on velvet as regards the game’s ultimate result. When I woke next morning this idea was uppermost in my mind and the brilliant August sun that poured in at my bedroom-window only served to make me even more confident. Mary was a prize worth playing for! I forgot all the recent sinister associations of the Manor and, freshly tubbed and newly razored, floated gaily down to a light but pleasing breakfast. Anthony was nowhere to be found. He had breakfasted, I heard upon inquiry, very early, and had excused himself to the others, upon an errand of some importance. Also—there was no sign of Mary. I concluded—without any worrying—that she was taking full time over her matutinal toilet. The Cranwick course was a matter of half an hour’s easy stroll from the Manor so that leaving there at ten o’clock we should be able to make a start very little after half-past ten. “I’ve been as good as my word, Bill.” Sir Charles bustled into the breakfast room. “I’ve ’phoned to Baddeley and he’s coming along at once. He seems to think that last night’s affair has a bearing upon poor Gerry Prescott.” I’m afraid I wasn’t as interested as he was or even as I should have been—to me Prescott was dead. Past helping! My mind was of Mary. I muttered a commonplace answer and turned away. Then with an apology I wandered into the garden. When well away from the house, I tried a swing with an imaginary club and thought of all my golfing vices,—those my friends delighted in pointing out. Did I swing too fast?—Did I cut across the ball? Did I “grumph” a straightforward shot? I tried another swing and decided that there was nothing wrong with it. I was full of confidence as I looked at my watch. Time was getting on. I went back to the house, got my clubs, and strolled off towards Cranwick. I should keep my nerve better, I concluded, if I went alone—and the idea came to me that perhaps Mary had given way to the same idea. It was five and twenty minutes past ten when I reached the Cranwick course and the others had already arrived. Jack Considine, looking none the worse for his narrow escape on the previous evening, was talking to his sister when Anthony came forward to meet me. “Morning, Bill!” he sang out. “Fit and well?” He grinned. “Because you’ll need to be, my lad, to win. I’ve been giving Mary the benefit of some special coaching. Don’t see why you should walk away with all the plums.” I laughed. “I’m top-hole, old man—and out to win—take it from me.” As I spoke Mary looked straight across at me. I could see that she was frightfully nervous, and I can tell you I wasn’t sorry to see it. She walked over to me—her hands were trembling. As she noticed me glance at them she blushed deliciously and to cover her confusion bent down to tie the lace of her brogue that had come undone. She attempted to put it right—but unsuccessfully—so, looking up at me shyly, called me to fix things for her. “Are you ready—you two?” cried Anthony—“time’s getting on, you know.” “What’s your handicap, Mary?” I asked. She shook her head. “You have the honor, Bill, and please get it over quickly.” I took the first two holes easily—actually doing the second, of 400 yards, in birdie. Mary, on each occasion, finished hopelessly bunkered on the left-hand side of the “fairway.” Too confident, possibly, I approached the third somewhat carelessly. It was the shortest hole of the eighteen—135 yards only. I sliced my tee-shot badly and Mary with her best drive of the morning laid herself “dead” on the green. After I had blundered further into the rough she made me one-up only with the most nonchalant of “putts.” I was two-up after the fourth but by deadly work on the green Mary took the fifth and sixth. The seventh saw me hook my “tee-shot” most flagrantly but I recovered for a half. I took the eighth, but the ninth—another short hole—went like its fellow, the third, to my opponent. Thus at the turn we were “all square.” “There’s no wind, Bill!” exclaimed Anthony—“you ought to be doing better than you are. Keep your head down more and give your hips a bit more freedom. Then you’ll win in a canter, laddie.” Whether the advice helped me or not I can’t say but I went straight away with the tenth and eleventh—both in Bogey. The twelfth and thirteenth were each halved. The fourteenth went to Mary—the fifteenth was halved thanks to a magnificent “putt” by Mary. From a nasty lie, she holed at a distance of six feet and as the ball rattled against the back of the tin, her assurance and sang-froid were amazing. Now the sixteenth was another short hole of 158 yards—Bogey being three. In appearance and general “lie” it was something like the old Harley Street at Woking with its straight menacing lines of gorse and heather that seemed to converge upon the player. Nobody could ever go straight at that hole. But by now I was playing with the genius of inspiration. I did a four and took the hole. With sixteen holes played therefore I was dormy two. As we started for the seventeenth I saw Anthony wave to somebody in the distance. “There’s Baddeley,” he said. “Suppose there’s some news or something. He’s coming this way.” “Can’t help his troubles,” I replied as I teed up to lay a lovely shot well past the pin. Mary landed in a pot bunker to the right of the green. I smiled. The game was in my hands. My second shot left me with a two feet “putt.” But Mary had the light of battle in her eyes. “Give me my niblick, Mr. Bathurst, will you?” she said very quietly. She went to her ball and with a perfectly wonderful pitch-shot out of the wet sand landed beautifully on to the green along which her ball slowly trickled to hit the back of the tin. I gasped! It was her hole! “You’ve not won yet, Bill,” she uttered grimly. The last hole was over 400 yards—Bogey four. I took a fine straight drive down the “pritty.” Mary on the other hand hooked her tee-shot into the rough and after playing the odd she was still in the rough. She couldn’t hope therefore for anything better than a five. I rubbed my hands in unconcealed delight. I could reach the green with a full brassie shot, which was a trifle risky, or I could “kick my hat along” for a five and make absolutely certain of a half at the worst. I determined to be magnificent! “Give me the brassie,” I called to Jack. I struck fiercely and quickly—a good enough shot but with just the suspicion of a “pull.” To my utter consternation the ball pitched in a small bunker. Mary came well out of the gorse. I was rattled. My recovery was poor and I saw Mary, playing beautifully, get her five and the hole. All square! As her last shot rattled the tin, Baddeley walked up briskly, his face alight with excitement. “A grand game, Miss Considine. I never felt more excited in all my life than over that last hole. I want you to grant me a favor. Could I have that ball of yours as a memento?” Mary nodded—too overcome to speak and he looked towards me as though in support of his request. “I’ll get it for you, Baddeley,” I said and bent down to collect it. As I did so he sprang forward and something clicked on my wrists. I heard Baddeley’s voice—faint yet distinct—miles away seemingly! “William Cunningham, I arrest you for the Wilful Murder of Gerald Prescott and I warn you that anything you may say may be used as evidence against you.” Then Mary fell in a dead faint on the grass. |
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