Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

by Ngaio Marsh

  Presently a burst of applause broke out, and Will Pomeroy shouted that Legge was a wizard and invited Decima and Cubitt to look at what he had done. The other. followed, peered into the public bar. A colossal red-faced man stood with his hand against the public dart-board. His fingers were spread out, and in the gaps between darts were embedded, with others outside the thumb and the little finger.

  "Look at that 1"cned WU1. "Look at it I " "Ah,"said Watchman. "So Mr. Legge has found another victim. A great many people seem to have faith in Mr. Legge." There was a sudden silence. Watchman leant over the private bar and raised his voice.

  We are going to have a match,"he said. "Three-aside.

  Mr. Legge, will you join us? " Legge took his pipe out of his mouth and said,"What'!

  the game? " Darts. Round-the-Clock." Round-the-Clock? " Yes. Haven't you played that version? " A long time ago. I've forgotten——" You have to get one dart in each segment in numerical sequence, ending on a double,"explained Cubitt.

  "In fact."said Watchman very pleasantly, "you might call it ' Doing Time.' Haven't you ever done time, Mr. Legge? " "No,"said Legge, "but I'll take you on. I'll be there || in a minute." "Right. And if you beat me at this I'm damned if to-morrow night I don't let you take a pot at my hand." "Thank you,"said Legge. "I'll remamber."

  CHAPTER THREE FURTHER ADVANCE BY WATCHMAN

  "the chief fault in Luke,"said Sebastian Parish. "is that he is quite incapable of letting well alone." Norman Cubitt tilted his hat over his eyes, peered from Parish to his canvas, and began to scuffle among his tubes of paint. He uttered a short grunt.

  "More than that,"added Parish,"he glories in making bad a good deal worse. Do you mind my talking, old boy?" "No. Turn the head a little to the right. Too much.

  That's right. I won't keep you much longer. Just while the sun's on the left side of the face. The shoulders are coming too far round again." "You talk like a doctor about my members--' the' head,' the' face,' the' shoulders." "You're a vain fellow, Seb. Now, hold it like that, do. Yes, there's something persistently impish in Luke.

  He jabs at people. What was he up to last night with Will Pomeroy and Legge? " "Damned if I know. Funny business, wasn't it?

  Do you think he's jealous of Will? " "Jealous? "repeated Cubitt. With his paletteknife he laid an unctuous stroke of blue beside the margin of the painted head. "Why, jealous? " "Well--because of Decima." "Oh nonsense 1 And yet I don't know. He's not your cousin for nothing, Seb. Luke's got his share of the family vanity." "I don't know why you say I'm vain, damn you. I don't think I'm vain at all. Do you know I get an average of twelve drivelling letters a day from females in front?

  And do they mean a thing to me? " "You'd be bitterly disappointed if there was a falling off. Don't move your shoulders. But you may be right about Luke." "I'd like to know,"said Parish, "just how much last year's little flirtation with Decima added up to." "Would you? I don't think it's relevant." "Well,"said Parish, "she's an attractive wench.

  More ' It' to the square inch than most of them. It's hard to say why. She's got looks, of course, but not the looks that usually get over that way. Not the voluptuous type. Her----" "Shut up,"said Cubitt violently and added : "I'm going to paint your mouth." His own was set in an unusually tight line. He worked for a time in silence, stood back, and said abruptly: "I don't really think Will Pomeroy was his objective.

  He was getting at Legge, and why the devil he should pick on a man he'd never seen in his life until last night is more than I can tell." "I thought he seemed to be sort of probing. Trying to corner Legge in some way." Cubitt paused with his knife over the canvas.

  "Yes,"he said slowly. "That's perfectly true.

  I thought so too. Trick of the trade perhaps. Counsels' curiosity. Almost one expected him to put his foot on the seat of a chair and rest his elbow on his knee. Now I come to think of it, I believe he did hitch his coat up by the lapels." "Characteristic,"pronounced Parish seriously. He himself had used these touches several times m trial scenes.

  Cubitt smiled. "But he sounded definitely malicious," he added.

  "He's not malicious,"said Parish uncomfortably.

  "Oh yes, he is,"said Cubitt coolly. "It's one of his more interesting qualities. He can be very malicious." "He can be very generous too." "I'm sure he can. I like Luke, you know. He interests me enormously." "Apparently, he likes you,"said Parish. "Apparently."

  "Hallo 1 "Cubitt walked back from his canvas and stood squinting at it. "You said that with a wealth of meaning, Seb. What's in the air? You can rest a minute if you like." Parish moved off the boulder where he had been sitting, stretched himself elaborately, and joined Cubitt.

  He gazed solemnly at his own portrait. It was a large canvas. The figure in the dull red sweater was threequarter life-size. It was presented as a dark form against the lighter background which was the sea and sky. The sky appeared as a series of paling arches, the sea as a simple plane broken by formalised waves. A glint of sunlight had found the cheek and jawbone on the right side of the face.

  "Marvellous, old boy,"said Parish. "Marvellous I " Cubitt, who disliked being called ' old boy,' grunted.

  "Did you say you'd show it in this year's Academy? " asked Parish.

  "I didn't, Seb, but I will. I'll stifle my aesthetic conscience, prostitute my undoubted genius, and send your portrait to join the annual assembly of cadavers.

  Do you prefer ' Portrait of an Actor.' ' Sebastian Parish, Esq.' or simply ' Sebastian Parish? ' " "I think I would like my name,"said Parish seriously.

  "Not, I mean, that everybody wouldn't know----" "Thank you. But I see your point. Your press agent would agree. What were you going to say about Luke? His generosity, you know, and his apparently liking me so much? " "I don't think I ought to tell you, really." "But of course, you are going to tell me." "He didn't actually say it was in confidence,"said Parish.

  Cubitt waited with a slight smile.

  "You'd be amazed if you knew,"continued Parish.

  "Yes? " "Yes. Oh, rather. At least I imagine you would be.

  I was. I never expected anything of the sort, and after all I am his nearest relation. His next-of-kin." Cubitt turned and looked at him in real astonishment.

  "Are you by any chance,"he asked, "talking about Luke's will? " "How did you guess? " "My dear, good Seb----" "All right, all right. I suppose I did give it away.

  You may as well hear the whole thing. Luke told me the other day that he was leaving his money between us." "Good Lord I " "I know. I happened to look him up after the show one evening, and I found him browsing over an officiallooking document. I said something, chaffingly you know, about it, and he said: ' Well, Seb, you'll find it out some day, so you may as well know now.' And then he told me." "Extraordinarily nice of him,"said Cubitt uncomfortably, and he added : "Damn 1 I wish you hadn't told me." "Why on earth? " "I don't know. I enjoy discussing Luke and now I'll feel he's sort of sacrosanct. Oh well, he'll probably outlive both of us." "He's a good bit older than I am,"said Parish.

  "Not, I mean, that I don't hope with all my heart he will.

  I mean--as far & I'm concerned----" "Don't labour it, Seb,"said Cubitt kindly. "I should think Luke will certainly survive me. He's strong as a horse and I'm not. You'll probably come in for the packet." "I hate talking about it like that." Parish knocked his pipe out on a stone. Cubitt noticed that he was rather red in the face.

  "As a matter of fact,"he muttered, "it's rather awkward." "Why? " "Well I'm plaguilly hard up at the moment and I'd been wondering----" "If Luke would come to the rescue? " Parish was silent.

  "And in the light of this revelation,"Cubitt added, "you don't quite like to ask. Poor Seb 1 But what the devil do you do with your money? You ought to be rolling. You're always in work. This play you're in now is a record run, isn't it, and your salary must be superb." "That's all jolly fine, old man, but you don't know what it's like in the business. My expenses are simply ghastly." "Why? " "Why, because you've got to keep up a standard.


  Look at my house. It's ruinous, but I've got to be able to ask the people that count to a place they'll accept and, if possible, remember. You've got to look prosperous in this game, and you've got to entertain. My agent's fees are hellish. My clubs cost the earth. And like a blasted fool I backed a show that flopped for thousands last May." "What did you do that for? " "The management are friends of mine. It looked all right." "You give money away, Seb, don't you? I mean literally. To out-of-luck actors? Old-timers and so on? " "I may. Always think ' there but for the grace of God I. It's such a damn. chancy business." "Yes. No more chancy than painting, my lad." "You don't have to show so well if you're an artist.

  People expect you to live in a peculiar way." Cubitt looked at him, but said nothing.

  Parish went on defensively: "I'm sorry, but you know what I mean. People expect painters to be Bohemians and all that." "There was a time,"said Cubitt, "when actors were content to be Bohemians, whatever that may mean. I never know. As far as I am concerned it means going without things you want." "But your pictures sell." "On an average I sell six pictures a year. Their prices range froin twenty pounds to two hundred. It usually works out at about four hundred. You earn that in as many weeks, don't you? " "Yes, but——" "Oh, I'm not grumbling. I've got a bit of my own and I could make more, I dare say, if I took pupils or had a shot at commercial art. I've suited myself and it's worked out well enough until——" "Until what? "asked Parish.

  "Nothing. Let's get on with the work, shall we?

  The light's no good after about eleven." Parish walked back to the rock and took up his pose.

  The light wind whipped his black hair away from his forehead. He raised his chin and stared out over the sea. He assumed an expression of brooding dominance.

  "That right? "he asked.

  "Pretty well. You only want a pair of tarnished epaulettes and we could call it' Elba.' " "I've always thought I'd like to play Napoleon." "A fat lot you know about Napoleon." Parish grinned tranquilly.

  "Anyway,"he said, "I'd read him up a bit if I had to. As a matter of fact Luke looks rather like him." "The shoulders should come round,"said Cubitt.

  "That's more like it. Yes, Luke is rather the type." He painted for a minute or two in silence, and then Parish suddenly laughed.

  "What's up? "asked Cubitt.

  "Here comes your girl." "What the devil do you mean? "demanded Cubitt angrily and looked over his shoulder. "Oh—I see." "Violet,"said Parish. "Who did you think it was? " "I thought you'd gone dotty. Damn the woman." "Will she paint me too? " "Not if I know it." "Unkind to your little Violet? "asked Parish.

  "Don't call her that." "Why not? " "Well damn it, she's not very young and she's--well, she may be a pest, but she's by way of being a lady." "Snob I " "Don't be so dense, Seb. Can't you see--oh Lord, she's got all her gear. She t's going to paint. Well, I've just about done for today." "She's waving." Cubitt looked across the headland to where Miss Darragh, a droll figure against the sky, fluttered a large handkerchief.

  "She's put her stuff down,"said Parish. "She's going to sketch. What is there to paint, over there? " "A peep,"said Cubitt. "Now, hold hard and don't talk. There's a shadow under the lower Up----" He worked with concentration for five minutes, and then put down his palette.

  "That'll do for to-day. We'll pack up." But when he'd hitched his pack on his shoulders and stared out to sea for some seconds, he said suddenly: "All the same, Seb, I wish you hadn't told me." n

  It was understood among the three friends that each should go his own way during the weeks they spent at Ottercombe. Watchman had played with the notion of going out in the dawn with the fishing boats. He woke before it was light and heard the tramp of heavy boots on cobble-stones and the sound of voices down on Ottercombe Steps. He told himself comfortably that here was a link with the past. For hundreds of years the Coombe men had gone down to their boats before dawn. The children of Coombe had heard them stirring, their wives had fed them and seen them go, and for centuries their voices and the sound of their footsteps had roused the village for a moment in the coldest hour of the night. Watchman let the sounds die away, snuggled luxuriously down in bed, and fell asleep.

  He woke again at half-past nine and found that Parish had already breakfasted and set out for Coombe Rock.

  "A mortal great mammoth of a picture Mr. Cubitt be at,"said Abel Pomeroy, as Watchman finished his breakfast. "Paint enough to cover a wall, sir. and laid on so thick as dough. At close quarters it looks like one of they rocks covered in shell-fish, but 'od rabbit it, my sonnies, when you fall away twenty feet or more, it's Mr.

  Parish so clear as glass. Looking out over the Rock he be, looking out to sea, and so natural you'd say the man was smelling the wind and thinking of his next meal. You might fancy a stroll out to the Rock, sir, and take a look at Mr. Cubitt flinging his paint left and right." "I feel lazy, Abel. Where's Will? " "Went out along with the boats, sir."Abel rasped his chin, scratched his head, and re-arranged the objects on the bar.

  "He's restless, is Will,"he said suddenly. "My own boy, Mr. Watchman, and so foreign to me as a changeling." "Will is? "asked Watchman, filling his pipe.

  "Ah, Will. What with his politics and his notions he's a right down stranger to me, is Will. A very witty lad, too, proper learned, and so full of arguments as a politician.

  He won't argufy with me, naturally, seeing I'm not his equal in the way of brains, nor anything like it." "You're too modest, Abel."said Watchman lightly.

  "No, sir, no. I can't stand up to that boy of mine when it comes to politics and he knows it and lets me down light. I'm for the old ways, a right down Tory, and for why? For no better reason than it suits me, same as it suited my forebears." "A sound enough reason." "No, sir, not according to my boy. According to Will it be a damn. fool reason and a selfish one into the bargain." I shouldn't let it worry you." "'More I do, Mr. Watchman. It's not our differences that worry me. It's just my lad's restless mumbudgetting ways. You saw how he was last night. Speaking to you that fashion. Proper 'shamed of him, I was." "It was entirely my fault, Abel, I bated him." "Right down generous of you to put it like that, but all the same he's not himself these days. I'd like him to settle down. Tell you the truth, sir, it's what's to become of the Feathers that troubles me, and it troubles me sore. I'm nigh on seventy, Mr. Watchman. Will's my youngest. 'Tother two boys wurr took in war, and one girl's married and in Canada, and 'tother in Australia.

  Will'U get the Feathers." "I expect,"said Watchman, "that Will'll grow out of his red ideas and run the pub like any other Pomeroy." Old Abel didn't answer and Watchman added: "When he marries and settles down." "And when will that be, sir? Likely you noticed how 'tis between Will and Miss Dessy? Well now, that's a funny state of affairs, and one I can't get used to. Miss Dessy's father, Jim Moore up yurr to Carey Edge Farm, is an old friend of mine. Good enough. But what happens when Dessy's a hi' maid no higher than my hand? 'Od rabbit it, if old Jim don't come in for a windfall. Now his wife being a ghastly proud sort of a female and never tired of letting on she came down in society when she married, what do they do but send young Dessy to a ladies' school where she gets some kind of free pass into a female establishment at Oxford." "Yes. I know." "'Ess and comes home at the end of it a dinky lil' chit, sure enough, and husband-high; but speaking finniky-like and the equal of all the gentlefolks in the West Country." "Well? "said Watchman.

  "Well, sir, that's fair enough. If she fancies our Will above the young sparks she meets in her new walk of life, good enough. I'm proper fond of the maiden, always have been. Good as a daughter to me, and just the same always, no matter how ladylike she'm grown." Watchman stood up and stretched himself.

  "It all sounds idyllic, Abel. A charming romance." "Wait a bit, sir, wait a bit. 'Baint so simple as all that. These yurr two young folks no sooner meets again than my Will sets his heart, burning strong and powerful, on Decima Moore. Eaten up with love from time he sets eyes on her, was Will, and hell-bent to win her. She come back with radical notio
ns, same as his own, and that's a bond a'tween 'em from the jump. Her folks don't fancy my Will, however, leastways not her mother, and they don't fancy her views neither, and worst of all they lays blame on Will. Old Jim Moore comes down yurr and has a tell with me, saying life's not worth living up to farm with Missus at him all day and half night to put his foot down and stop it. That's how 'twurr after you left last year, sir, and that's how 'tis still. Will burning to get tokened and wed, and Dessy----" "Yes? "asked Watchman as Abel paused and looked fixedly at the ceiling. "What about Decima? " "That's the queerest touch of the lot, sir,"said Abel.

  Watchman, lighting his pipe, kept his eye on his host and saw that he now looked profoundly uncomfortable.

  "Well? "Watchman repeated.

  "It be what she says about wedlock,"Abel muttered.

  "What does she say? "asked Watchman sharply.

  "'Be shot if she haven't got some new-fangled notion about wedlock being no better than a name for savagery.

  Talks wild trash about freedom. To my way of thinking the silly maiden don't know what she says." "What,"asked Watchman, "does Will say to all this? " "Don't like it. The chap wants to be tokened and hear banns read, like any other poor toad, for all his notions.