Midsomer Madness

Midsommer Murders got off the mark this week with a story based around the local village cricket team. The Lower Pampling village cricket team is extremely well supported by its well-heeled residents. Far better supported, in fact, than village cricket actually is in the real world where clubs are, largely, kept going on the playing side by a hard-core of old retainers and young farmers and, financially, by the memberships modest subscriptions, fund raisers, donations from local benefactors and the odd hard-fought grant provide by some trickle-down lottery funds. This, generally speaking, provides such illustrious facilities as a couple of mowers, a roller and a selection of stumps and bails. Some clubs are ostentatious enough to afford a sight screen or two but, I for one, never saw one in my career as a village batsman.

Lower Pampling, on the other hand, is slightly more fortunate. Their ground boasted not one, but two sightscreens, one at either end. Not just oversized bedsheets, but real sightscreens. On wheels. This alone would have made them stand out as a freakishly over-funded club in most village leagues, however, it did not stop there. Such was the popularity of the recently imported “C10 Slam” format from Australia, (where else) the Lower Pampling Panthers had attracted a crowd of around 300 spectators who sat in a temporary stand next to what was referred to as the ‘members area’. This, on a weekday afternoon as, we were informed, the competition was played on consecutive days leading to a final at the weekend. It was little wonder that the tournament was staged at the Little Pampling ground as they must be the only club outside the first-class game that has a fully equipped indoor practice net complete with state-of-the-art bowling machine, a large video scoreboard and, as was revealed later, floodlights. Yes, floodlights. It was not actually relevant to the plot exactly how much ‘match fees’ were or what the opposition were paying for teas on regular weekend match days but, I can only assume, it runs into hundreds, if not, thousands. Either that or the people quaffing champagne in the members area are only too please to squander the best part of £50 grand each to support their local cricket club, the Chairman, after all, was a wealthy architect who spent most of his time betting on the outcome of matches involving Lower Pampling and their C10 opponents.

Whilst the credibility of betting rings on the sub-continent placing large sums on the outcome of a 10 over village cricket match is not in doubt, (eh?) it stretched the imagination somewhat to believe that players on the ‘Panthers’ team were colluding with the local pub landlord to fix the matches to such an extent that thousands of pounds were changing hands every day – or does it, I really don’t know any more.

What I do know is that murder was afoot and consecutive Pampling captains had been gruesomely done for in two extremely symbolically ritual ways. The first was strung up by the wrists in crucifix position and pummeled with cricket balls projected at him at full speed. That these practice balls were, naturally, brand new ‘cherries’, straight from the box, was sooo “Pampling”. The second was skewered to an oak tree with sharpened stump in the middle of the night as he loitered awaiting further instructions from Mr. Big, or should that be, Mr Little (Pampling)? The third murder was about to be committed when Insp Barnaby rumbled the do’er inner in the act. Ben Jones, the unlikely hard man of Midsomer had been beaten unconscious and then strung-up by his wrists from a convenient rafter where, when suitably revived, he was to be finished off good and proper with a cricket bat. This, Kray-style, murder was about to be perpetrated by none other than a former England cricket captain. However, you have to believe me when I tell you that the cricketer involved was, not only well into their 70’s, but was also a frail old lady called Geraldine. As she was marched away by two burley policemen, I half expected her to rip off her mask and say, in a deep cockney baritone, ‘I’d have got away wiv it too if it wasn’t for Brian Johnstone laughing so much at that ‘leg-over’ joke’

Midsomer is a dangerous place to live. However, I shall be returning often.