DEATH BEFORE WICKET - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

Death Before Wicket
‘I certainly will,’ said Phryne. ‘When is it to be?’
‘On Friday,’ Professor Jones told her. ‘Faculty against students.
Relying on you, Bretherton, to get a hundred.’
‘You said,’ Professor Bretherton pointed out, ‘that cricket
was a young man’s game.’
‘Test cricket is a young man’s game,’ the old man corrected. ‘If
we have you and Bisset opening the batting, and that chap from
Edinburgh bowling, we might give the students a surprise.’
‘And you will be there?’ asked Phryne.
‘Certainly. I’ve seen every University match since the year ’12,
and I’m not going to miss this one. Come and sit with me, m’dear.
You can tell me about Warwick Armstrong’s last hurrah. The Big
Ship, eh? He was a man, not like these namby-pamby modern ones.
He knew he was a Captain and the artists—Trumper and Mailey—
flourished under his leadership. Knew what he wanted, see? He
wanted to win. Nowadays Australia’s lost the will to win.’
‘Delighted,’ said Phryne. The faculty showed signs of enthusiasm.
The annual cricket match against the students might be
amusing, after all.
At eleven precisely Phryne was escorted to the door by
Professor Bretherton and handed into the VC’s Daimler. The
driver did not blink an eyelash when she asked him to take her
to an address in Chinatown.
‘Theo’s, is it, Miss? Lots of my gentlemen go there. Interested
in poetry, Miss?’
‘Yes,’ murmured Phryne, who was very sleepy. ‘Very interested.’
She slept lightly until the door opened and she was escorted
across a hot pavement. The driver rang three times—one long
and two short—at a bell in a dingy green door. A peephole slid,
there was a pause, then the door swung open. A doorkeeper
surveyed her without a word and allowed her to pass. Phryne
climbed some stairs into a very noisy cafe and immediately felt
herself begin to rouse. Universities were foreign to Phryne; her
natural habitat was a cafe. She knew how cafes worked.