Michael Ford: Jane Goes Batty

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.”

Byron was late. This was not an unusual occurrence, and so Jane wasn’t yet worried, but she’d also had a peculiar feeling all afternoon that something was wrong. She’d attributed this to the fact that Charlotte was indeed in Brakeston, but now she wasn’t sure. The dread surrounding her seemed larger somehow, more all-encompassing.

As if there’s going to be a storm of some kind , she thought. A very large storm .

They didn’t really have a plan, which was part of the problem. Byron was going to come over and they were going to see if they could track Charlotte down and find out what exactly was going on. Byron had even gently hinted at the idea of a truce while they figured out who had killed Jessica Abernathy and why that person apparently was trying to lay the blame on Violet Grey. Jane thought this to be a terrible idea and had said so in no uncertain terms. That’s when Byron had told her to go home and calm down. And that was when Jane had said some regrettable things.

It was all very confusing, and that made her cross. She preferred it when there were defined issues to be dealt with. At the moment things were all jumbled together, and knowing where to start was near to impossible. She hoped Byron had thought of something.

A scratching at the front door caught her attention. At first she thought she had imagined it but a moment later she heard it again, a frantic skritch-skritch-skritch . Wondering what it could be, Jane went and opened the door.