“Simon could never beat you,” said Rosie, “but he’d leave Neil standing, especially if he had your endorsement. It could be the answer, Martin. You’re spared the hassle yet you’d still have huge influence on affairs through Simon. It’s the best of both worlds.”
“It would certainly leave Neil with egg on his face.”
“Why not give Simon a ring tomorrow?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m not turning my back on a fight.”
“I don’t want to see you hurt, Martin.”
“I’ve never lost a committee punch-up yet.”
“Think of the upheaval it will cause to the club.”
“All I’m thinking about is putting Neil in his place once and for all.” He squeezed her hand affectionately. “I know you have my best interests at heart, Rosie, and I love you for it, but I’m not afraid. I’ll defy any motion of no confidence and come out of it stronger than ever.”
“Martin—”
“No,” he said firmly. “My mind is made up. I stay.”
“In that case, I’ll support you to the hilt. So will Peter.”
“God bless you both!”
“By the way,” she said, opening the car door, “Peter thinks we should put someone else on the list of suspects.”
“And who’s that?”
“Neil himself. Let’s get you inside, then I’ll tell you why.”
After a storming victory against Crowford on the following Saturday, the players felt entitled to celebrate, even if it meant doing so on the bare floor of the clubhouse bar. The place was crowded and Doug Lomas was grateful for the assistance of a couple of volunteers. It was a long day for the barman. Having arrived midmorning, he would not come off duty until well after midnight. Lomas did not mind that. Long hours meant more money and he enjoyed the camaraderie that really blossomed on such occasions. He felt part of it. People like Neil Woodville might treat him with frank suspicion, but most of the club members liked their barman. He was friendly and hard-working.
Because he had to drive home on his motorbike, Lomas never drank on duty. While others ordered round after round, he remained sober and was able to watch the effects of alcohol on them. Towards the end of the celebrations, he was washing glasses behind the bar with the help of Peter Rayment, always a man to take on some of the more menial chores when needed. Lomas drew his attention to Martin Hewlett.
“He can really put his beer away. Did he always drink that much?”
“No,” said Rayment. “Martin loves a pint but he didn’t used to get plastered in the way he does now. I feel sorry for Rosie. He’s a big man. It’s not easy to put him to bed when he’s in that state.”
“What was he like as a player?”
“Martin? He was brilliant. First-team captain for five consecutive years. They were real glory days. Martin was good enough to play rugby as a full-time professional, but he was too loyal to Shelton.”
“Then he had that freak accident,” said Lomas.
“I know. I was playing fullback in that match.”
“What exactly happened?”
“Martin was on the wing,” recalled the other, “and they put in this high kick over his head. He ran back after it but the ball bounced way above his head. He leapt up like a basketball player to pluck it out of the air. Unfortunately, one of their players crash-tackled him from behind.” He gave a shudder. “There was this almighty thud as he hit the ground and that was that. It was gruesome, Doug.”
“So he was tackled when he was in midair?”
“Yes, that was an offence, for a start. But the man who thundered into his back didn’t worry about the rules. Martin had already scored two tries that afternoon, so it was a deliberate attempt to knock him out of the game. Not that there was any intention to cause permanent damage, mind you,” Rayment said. “But that was the result.”
“Poor man!”
“A tragedy — for Martin and for his wife.”
“Yet he never talks about it.”
“That’s him all over. No good crying over spilt milk, he always says. Since he can’t play, he’s devoted himself to running the club instead. And I, for one, think he’s done a grand job.”
“So do I,” said Lomas, “but not everyone agrees, I’m afraid.”
“No, Doug.”
“I heard rumors that Mr. Woodville is trying to replace him.”
“We’ll see.”
“If that happens, I can kiss this job goodbye.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure that it doesn’t happen, won’t we?” said Rayment cheerily. “A good barman is worth his weight in gold.”
“I do my best.”
“I know that. More importantly, so does Martin.” He saw Hewlett waving to him. “Pull him a last pint, Doug, he wants one for the road.”
News of the outrage reached the club chairman on the following morning. Propped up in bed, Martin Hewlett was having a late breakfast when the telephone rang. Rosie was on hand to pick up the receiver. An anxious voice came on the line.
“Mrs. Hewlett? It’s Doug Lomas here.”
“Oh, hello.”
“Any chance of speaking to your husband?”
“He’s having his breakfast at the moment. Can you ring back?”
“This is urgent. It won’t keep.”
“In that case, hold on.” She passed the phone to Hewlett. “It’s Doug Lomas and he sounds upset about something.”
“Doug?” said Hewlett, speaking into the receiver. “What’s up?”
“It’s happened again,” replied Lomas.
“What has?”
“Someone’s flooded the bar again.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m ringing from the clubhouse. When I got up today, I had this funny feeling that something was wrong so I drove over here just in case. It’s maddening,” said Lomas. “To make sure we wouldn’t lose any more beer, I disconnected the barrels before I left last night. Someone must have connected them up again and left the taps open.”
“Bastard!”
“And that wasn’t the only thing.”
Hewlett listened with horror as the barman told him what he had found. He became so agitated that Rosie lifted the tray from his lap and moved it to a place of safety.
“Call the police, Doug,” said Hewlett. “I’m on my way.”
“You’re not going anywhere in a hurry,” said Rosie, taking the phone from him. “What’s all this about the police?”
“Doug is at the clubhouse. Someone’s vandalized the place.”
“Not again!”
“It’s worse this time,” said Hewlett. “The intruder wasn’t content with spilling barrels of beer all over the place. He smashed our display cases, broke up all the team photographs hanging on the walls, and tore down the honors board.”
“That’s dreadful,” said Rosie, knowing how much it meant to her husband to see his name on the board five times in gold lettering. “Who could possibly do a thing like that?”
“Some clever dick from Crowford.”
“I can’t believe that, Martin.”
“Never mind what you believe,” he said irritably. “I need to get over there. Help me to dress, Rosie. This is a crisis.”
“Then ring Peter. Let him take charge. Learn to delegate.”
“It’s my responsibility. Drive me to the clubhouse.”
“But you haven’t even shaved yet.”
“Who cares?”
“At least finish your breakfast.”
“No,” he said, throwing back the bedsheets. “Food can wait. I have to be there before Neil Woodville catches wind of this. Hurry up, Rosie. There’s no time to waste.”
Sunday afternoon found a hastily assembled work party clearing up the mess at the clubhouse. The police had come, but the intruder had left no visible clues for them. Rosie Hewlett had joined the others in removing the debris. Her husband sat alone before the shattered honors board on which the names of the club captains for the past fifty years were listed, along with the various trophies won by Shelton RFC. Hewlett was torn between tears and impotent rage.