“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.