“Croquet?”
Jane looked at the playing field. Instead of bases and a pitcher’s mound there were six perfectly laid out croquet pitches outlined in white chalk. At each one a man dressed all in white was inspecting the six wickets and the striped peg.
“I thought you said croquet was too difficult to arrange,” Jane said to Beverly, who was watching the proceedings with a keen eye. Like the referees, she too was dressed all in white, although she wore a full-length dress instead of trousers.
“Did I?” Beverly said. “I don’t know why I would have said that. At any rate, we’re playing croquet.”
Jane looked down at the T-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes she was wearing. A softball glove—bought just that morning at P.J.’s House of Sports—was tucked under her arm, and her hair was pulled back into an unflattering ponytail and hidden by a baseball cap (purchased along with the glove) emblazoned with the name and logo of a team she had never heard of but which the salesman helping her had assured her was very popular.
“You asked me to be a team captain not two weeks ago,” Jane reminded her. “Remember, it was going to be the Janeites versus the Brontëites?”
“Oh, it still is,” said Beverly. “And you’re still captain of the Janeites. But we’re playing croquet. You do know how to play, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “But I look ridiculous.”
Beverly looked Jane up and down. “I’m sure no one will notice,” she said.
They’ll notice, Jane thought. And you did this on purpose to make me look like a fool.
“This is so exciting,” said Beverly. “There will be six matches played concurrently, with four players per match. Whichever team wins the most matches will be the victor.”
“And if each team wins three matches?” Jane asked.
“Then we’ll have a playoff game, of course,” said Beverly.
“That’s sensible,” Jane said. “Who is the captain of the Brontëites?”
“Why, I am,” Beverly replied. “Oh, and did I tell you that we have mascots?”
“Mascots?” said Jane.
Beverly nodded. “Every sports team needs a mascot,” she said. “The fans love it. It generates excitement.”
“I suppose,” Jane said doubtfully. “What are they?”
Beverly craned her neck. “There they are now,” she said, pointing behind Jane.
Jane turned to see two creatures walking toward them. One of them was pink and tubular, with a large flared head. The other seemed to be some kind of bird. It was black with an orange beak.
Jane indicated the pink mascot. “Is that a—”
“It’s a squid,” said Beverly. “See the tentacles?”
“It looks like a—”
“It’s a squid,” Beverly said.
Jane decided not to press the issue. “And is the other one a crow?” she asked.
Beverly sighed and rolled her eyes. “It’s a moorhen,” she said. “It’s the mascot for the Brontëites. I think it’s very appropriate.”
“You were able to find a moorhen costume?” said Jane.
“I had it made,” Beverly explained.
“And why a squid for the Janeites?” Jane asked. She found it a peculiar choice, and wondered why Beverly thought it appropriate to represent her work.
“It symbolizes the—”
“Good morning, ladies.” Byron’s greeting interrupted Beverly’s explanation. He then looked at the two approaching mascots. “Is that a—”
“It’s a squid!” Jane and Beverly said in unison. Jane glared at Beverly, who pretended not to notice.
“And a moorhen,” said Byron. “I imagine that’s for the Brontë fans.”
Jane turned on him. “Why would you assume that?” she asked. “What is it about a squid that says Austen?”
Byron shrugged. “It’s just that—”
“Time to begin!” Beverly shouted. “Players, please gather round.”
The twenty-four croquet players assembled around Beverly. All of them, Jane noticed, were dressed in pristine white. Only she was dressed for softball. I look like a tourist, she thought. All I need is a fanny pack. She realized she was still holding the softball glove, and she tried to hide it behind her back.
“We’ll be playing by International Association laws,” Beverly informed them. “If you don’t know all of them, don’t worry. Our referees are here to help. I will be captaining the Brontëites and Jane Fairfax, one of our illustrious local authors, will captain the Janeites. Let us now break up into our respective teams and discuss strategy. Brontëites, follow me.”
Beverly moved off, taking half of the players with her. Jane couldn’t help but notice that the Brontëites as a whole were a dour-looking team. Almost none of them smiled, and they seemed uncomfortable in the warm, sunny weather. Several of them kept looking up at the sky, as if praying for dark clouds and rain.
Jane turned her attention to her own group. In contrast to Beverly’s team, the Janeites were a far cheerier bunch. Equally comprised of men and women, they chatted gaily and seemed eager to begin. This lifted Jane’s spirits considerably. She was also very pleased to see that Sherman Applebaum—dressed in a white suit—was among her players.
“Good morning,” she said. “We have a lovely day for playing today, so I hope you’re all excited.”
All around her heads nodded vigorously.
“Brilliant,” Jane said. “Now, before I pair you up, how many of you have croquet experience?”
She expected eleven hands (not counting her own) to be raised. After a suitable amount of time had passed, however, only three were seen. Two of them belonged to a pair of elderly men whose white hair and mustaches matched their clothing. The third was that of a girl who appeared to be no older than thirteen.
“I see,” said Jane, her hopes sinking quickly. “Well then, the three of you will be captains of your individual teams. You may choose your playing partners. The rest of you can pair up as you like.”
There was a minute or two of looking around, finger-pointing, and raised eyebrows as the players assembled themselves into duos. At the end of this time one player remained unpaired. Sherman smiled at Jane. “I believe this puts us together,” he said, coming to stand beside her.
Jane gave him a smile of gratitude. If she had to suffer through the next two hours, she preferred to do it with a friend.
“Very good,” she said. “Now each team will go to a pitch and we can begin.” She pointed at the first team. “You’ll play on one.” She went through the remaining teams in succession, sending each to its respective pitch. “And that leaves us with the sixth pitch,” she said to Sherman as her players dispersed.
“I must confess that I told a small untruth,” said Sherman as he and Jane walked across the field. “I have played a bit of croquet in my time.”
“How much of a bit?” asked Jane.
“Grand Champion of St. Basil’s Preparatory School for Boys, 1959,” said Sherman. “Although I haven’t played much since. I know I might have been of service assisting those who have not had as much experience, but frankly, I am a poor teacher.” He looked at Jane. “Also, I hate to lose.”
“You are a treacherous old goat,” Jane said, adopting a scolding tone.
“Positively diabolical,” Sherman agreed as they reached their pitch. “By the way, we haven’t discussed the note found in Jessica Abernathy’s pocket.”
“I’d almost forgotten,” said Jane. “Is there any more to it?”
Sherman shook his head. “No more than I told you last night,” he said. “Apparently this Violet Grey person was to meet Miss Abernathy. That’s all I know. I was hoping you might have some thoughts on the matter.”
Jane considered whether or not she should tell Sherman that she did indeed know Violet Grey, and that Violet was one of Jessica’s sorority sisters. She could not, of course, reveal Violet’s true identity, but she felt she owed Sherman something.
“There’s a Violet Grey who writes a blog about romance literature,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s the same one, but given Jessica’s position, it wouldn’t surprise me that the two knew each other.”
“Is this the same Violet Grey who wrote some unflattering things about your novel?” Sherman asked.
“Yes,” said Jane, slightly horrified that Sherman had read Violet’s crushing review of Constance, in which she’d stopped just short of accusing Jane of plagiarism.
“I wonder if we ought to mention this to Officer Bear,” said Sherman. “Not now, of course, but when the festivities are over.”
“You’re probably right,” Jane said. “It might be helpful.”
“Right now, however, I believe it’s time for us to kick some serious ass,” Sherman said.
The two of them met their opponents, neither of whom they knew, at the edge of the pitch. After introductions the referee performed the coin toss, which Sherman and Jane won after calling tails. They elected to go second.
Unfortunately for their opponents, neither of whom appeared to have any experience, the match was a massacre. Starting at the A baulk line, one of the opposing players placed the black ball into play by hitting it out of bounds. The referee placed it back on the yard line, and Jane then struck the red ball so that it too went out of bounds. She then watched as the second opponent inexplicably placed the blue ball on the B baulk line and attempted to roquet his partner’s ball. The distance between them was too great, however, and he succeeded only in rolling past the south boundary, resulting in his ball being placed on the yard line a short distance from the black ball.
After that it was all over. To the amazement of Jane and the consternation of their opponents, Sherman passed through all the wickets on his first turn. Unnerved by this display of prowess, the other team made blunder after blunder, and after only three turns Jane too had traversed the course forward and back and knocked her ball against the peg. The game over, she and Sherman shook hands with the other team and with the referee then went to watch the other matches.
The remaining games took far longer to complete, but one by one they ended until the score stood at three matches for the Janeites and two for the Brontëites. The final match pitted Jane’s youngest player and her partner against Miriam Ellenberg and Walter. Seeing them there, Jane wondered how she could have missed them earlier. Had Beverly hidden them from her, or had Jane simply been too preoccupied to notice them? Ultimately it didn’t matter, but Jane was still unnerved by the situation. She was particularly distressed to see Walter playing for the Brontëites, although she knew this was due to Miriam’s literary preferences and not his.
The game was nearing its end, and it was a close one. Each team had two balls out of play, and only Miriam’s and the girl’s remained on the pitch. The girl had played her red ball through the penultimate wicket, and Miriam was on the 4-back. It was her shot.
Her first hit delivered a roquet to the yellow ball, which she then deftly hit back toward the number two wicket while sending her own ball back toward its starting point. Her next stroke took her ball through the penultimate wicket. That entitled her to an additional stroke, which she used to hit her ball toward the rover.
With her chances running out, the girl attempted to roquet Miriam’s ball. Her nerves got the better of her, however, and her shot rolled past Miriam’s ball by inches. Miriam seized the opportunity to roquet the red ball and then croquet it toward the southwest corner while positioning herself to pass through the final wicket. She did this on her next shot, and with her final tap her ball struck the peg.
As the dejected girl was comforted by her partner and teammates, Walter hugged his mother in celebration. Only then did Jane realize what the win meant—she and Sherman would have to play Miriam and Walter for the championship.
The final event was played on a pitch neither team had used. The Janeites took up position on the north end of the pitch, while the Brontëites claimed the south end as their territory. The mascot for each team moved among the fans, urging them to clap and call out for their players. The excitement was very much not in keeping with the croquet tradition of silence and decorum, and the noise only added to Jane’s anxiety.
The coin toss was a blur. Jane heard Miriam call heads and saw the coin in the referee’s palm, tails up. He looked at Sherman and Jane, and Jane called first shot. Miriam gave her barely a glance as she turned away, and Jane felt an echo of the sickening emotion that had washed over her when she’d grasped Miriam’s hand at the dance. But then Walter held out his hand to Jane and said, “Good luck.”
Jane played the black ball. As her cheering section was situated on the north end, she began on the B baulk line. Not knowing what strategy Walter and Miriam might employ, she hit her ball past the third and sixth wickets so that it came to rest near the peg. Sherman nodded his approval but said nothing.
Walter played next, sending the blue ball through the first wicket and earning a chorus of cheers from the Brontëites. The moorhen jumped up and down, flapping its wings. In response the Janeites’ squid waggled its tentacles provocatively as the team booed.
This is all ridiculous, Jane thought as she watched Walter send his ball through the second wicket and earn more cheers from his teammates. He used his extra stroke to move the ball in the direction of the third wicket.
This was his undoing. Sherman, playing as Jane had from the B baulk line, sent his ball into Walter’s. He then cleverly croqueted Walter’s ball toward the fourth wicket, where it came to stop almost exactly at the fourth corner. Sherman’s ball, in the meanwhile, went toward the number one corner and collided with Jane’s ball near the peg. His turn thus continued, Sherman croqueted both Jane’s ball and his own toward the first wicket and used his additional stroke to move his ball into position to the right of that wicket.
It was a clever move, well done, and the Janeites applauded madly. As they screamed their approval Miriam took up position on the A baulk line and hit her ball into Jane’s. On the croquet she looked at Jane and continued staring at her as she hit Jane’s ball back toward the number two corner and subsequently sent her own ball back toward the baulk line.
The game proceeded in this way for some time, with neither side gaining an advantage and each player gradually passing through wicket after wicket. Every time one of them played a beautiful shot it was responded to with an equally clever one, so the balls moved across the pitch like marbles and the players were constantly changing directions.
As play crept toward the two-hour mark the tension rose higher and higher, until the match more resembled a prizefight than a lawn game. Every well-placed croquet earned applause from the supporting team, and the two mascots were kept busy working the crowd into a frenzy.
Finally Walter and Sherman had pegged out and the match, as Jane had known it inevitably would, came down to her and Miriam. Jane’s wrists ached from holding the mallet and the back of her neck was sunburned. Miriam, by comparison, looked as fresh as she had on her first stroke. She moved around the pitch calmly and methodically, like a cat stalking a mouse that was becoming more and more desperate for escape.
Oh no you don’t, Jane thought. You’re not going to make me look foolish.
Jane’s ball had passed through the 3-back and was lying halfway between it and the next wicket. Miriam’s was through the 4-back and lined up to reach the penultimate wicket on her next stroke. It was Jane’s turn to hit. She could either take a simple hit through the 4-back, hope Miriam faltered on her turn, and then try to roquet Miriam’s ball, or she could attempt a much more difficult move and try to roquet Miriam’s ball on this turn and hope it gained her an advantage.
She looked at Miriam, who gazed implacably at the peg as if daring it to elude her grasp. This was the deciding moment. Jane could feel it. If she played it safe and waited for Miriam to make a mistake, she could win. Or she could go on the offensive and take the win from her by force. If successful, this would humiliate Miriam utterly. If it failed, however, Miriam would be victorious in more than one arena.
It’s time to show her who the stronger woman is, Jane told herself. If she wants a fight, that’s what she’s going to get.
Standing beside her ball, she acted as if she was going to take the easier road. At the last moment, however, she turned her mallet and sent her ball rolling to the left of the wicket. She saw a look of surprise on Miriam’s face as they both watched the ball’s progress. For a moment it looked as if Jane might miss the mark, but then her ball tapped ever so gently against Miriam’s.
Trembling with excitement, Jane positioned her ball behind Miriam’s and hit it from the side. Miriam’s ball rocketed toward the baulk line on her team’s end of the field, while Jane’s rolled toward the east side and came to rest only inches in front of the 4-back wicket. The Janeites went wild.
Now it was Miriam’s turn. There was no way she could roquet Jane’s ball, as the penultimate wicket was between them. However, she hit it neatly into the space between the 1-back and the 4-back, placing it in position near Jane’s ball.
Again Jane had a choice—roquet Miriam once more or pass through the 4-back and dare her to attempt her own roquet. She chose the latter option, using a quick, neat strike to pass through the wicket. She was now directly in line with Miriam’s ball, and it was Miriam’s turn to decide on a strategy.
When Miriam opted to hit her ball through the penultimate wicket Jane knew she was afraid. She was now simply trying to get to the peg before Jane. Sensing this, Jane felt a surge of excitement.
Because of the angle she could not pass through the penultimate wicket behind Miriam. It would take two shots. She knew that Miriam expected her to attempt a roquet. But she didn’t. Instead she merely tapped her own ball and lined it up to go through the next wicket.
Miriam, sensing that Jane was toying with her, hit her next ball to the left of the peg, going toward the final wicket. She hit it too hard, however. Jane could hear the collective gasp from the crowd as the ball stopped just shy of the 3-back wicket.
Jane saw her chance. If she could roquet Miriam’s ball now, she had a good chance of passing her in the race to the peg. But it was a tricky shot, with the peg in the way. Still, if she could bounce her ball off the peg at just the right angle, her ball might hit Miriam’s. It was a ridiculously stupid shot to attempt, and Miriam would never expect it. Which is precisely why Jane chose to attempt it.
She approached her ball and stopped. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. She felt her wrist muscles tense as she brought the mallet back. Then she struck the ball and prayed.
The ball rolled toward the peg, struck it, and changed course slightly. At first it appeared to be wide, but then Jane saw that it was heading for Miriam’s ball. She watched, her heart pounding, as it slowed down. Go, go, go, she willed the ball.
When the soft click of contact sounded you could hear a pin drop. Both teams knew what might come next, and no one made a sound as Jane walked to the two balls. Nor did they make a sound as she placed her ball against Miriam’s, struck it, and sent the blue ball back to the southwest corner. This lined her own ball up perfectly with the final wicket. A moment later it sailed through and connected with the peg.
Jane found herself caught up in a tangle of spongy tentacles as the Janeites’ mascot lifted her up and swung her around. Her teammates encircled them, yelling madly, and there was much backslapping and general carrying on. Finally the celebration quieted and Beverly appeared with a trophy, which she handed to Jane.
“Congratulations,” Beverly said. “It was a fine match, and either of our finalists could have won it.”
Jane looked at Miriam, who stood on Beverly’s other side, her mouth set in a rictus of a smile. Anyone could have, she thought. But only I did.
Beverly handed Jane the trophy. “Austen wins this time,” she said. “But Brontë will have her revenge next year.”
Again the Janeites cheered, while the Brontëites looked glumly at one another and shook their heads.
“I hope you’ll all join us for the picnic lunch,” Beverly called out. “Baskets can be picked up at the refreshment tent at the far end of the field.”
Byron approached Jane, who was sharing her victory moment with Sherman. “Shall we lunch?” he asked them.
“By all means,” Sherman said. “In fact, I’ve been looking forward to talking to you.”
“Really?” said Byron. “I can’t imagine why. I’m dreadfully boring.” He looked at Jane. “Are you coming?”
“In a moment,” Jane said. “I want to change out of these shorts. I have some jeans in the car.”
“Well, give us the trophy,” said Byron, taking it from her. “We can celebrate by drinking champagne out of it. It will make the Brontëites furious.”
Jane left the two men talking and walked back to where she’d parked her car. It was some distance from the playing field, and she had to walk through the corridor of now-shuttered game booths. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the row that she realized she was being followed.
She turned just in time to see the moorhen running at her. It held a croquet peg in one hand and a mallet in the other. Jane only had time to raise her hands in defense before the bird was upon her.
“Die!” the moorhen screamed as the two of them fell to the ground. Jane ended up on the bottom, the weight of the mascot knocking the breath from her. She stared in horror as the bird raised the peg and prepared to bring it down on her.
Jane twisted to the side, throwing the moorhen off balance. The bulky costume slipped sideways, and the bird dropped the mallet. It righted itself however, and once more the pointed end of the stake hovered over Jane’s chest.
Her fingers found the handle of the mallet and closed on it. With great effort she swung her arm up. The mallet connected with the moorhen’s head. It slid sideways, the long beak grazing Jane’s cheek. Then it fell off.
A sweaty, dirt-streaked face stared down at Jane with murder in its eyes.
“Charlotte?” Jane said.
“Yes,” Charlotte hissed. “And this time you won’t get away.” Her hands went around Jane’s throat, the wings attached to her arms flapping wildly as she began to shake Jane up and down, her head hitting the hard-packed dirt beneath her.
Jane again brought the mallet up, but this time it only glanced off Charlotte’s shoulder.
“You killed Jessica,” Charlotte said as Jane struggled to breathe.
Jane tried to deny this, but she couldn’t speak. Why was Charlotte accusing her of killing Jessica? It didn’t make any sense. At the moment, however, she was more concerned with getting Charlotte off her.
Wrapping her legs around Charlotte was difficult due to the shape of her costume, but Jane managed to get a purchase on the tail. Twisting to the side, she threw Charlotte off and scrambled away from her. Charlotte lay on her back, her bird feet kicking in the air as she shrieked.
“You killed her!” she wailed. “You killed her!”
“I did no such thing,” Jane said. “And you know it.”
Charlotte’s arms flailed as she managed to right herself. As she pushed herself up Jane grabbed the dropped croquet peg. She held it out in front of her, the pointed end toward Charlotte. “I didn’t kill Jessica,” she said. “You did.”
“Lies!” Charlotte said.
“No,” said Jane. “They found the note.”
“What note?” said Charlotte. “I don’t know anything about a note.”
Jane didn’t know what to say. Charlotte seemed to believe that Jane had killed Jessica, and if she knew anything about a note, she was certainly hiding it well. She thinks she’s telling the truth, she realized.
“Jane?”
Jane looked over Charlotte’s shoulder and saw Byron running toward them. Charlotte too turned and saw him. Her head snapped back to Jane. “This isn’t over,” she said as she turned and ran. Before Byron could reach them she was gone. Only the head of her costume remained on the ground.
“What was that about?” Byron asked.
“Our Gloomy Friend is back,” said Jane. “And I don’t think she killed Jessica.”
Byron looked confused. “Then who did?” he asked.
“That,” said Jane, giving the moorhen head a good kick, “is the million-dollar question.”