Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

by Ngaio Marsh

  He wants no free love for his wife or himself. He won't talk to me, not a word, but Miss Dessy does, so open and natural as a daisy. Terrible nonsense it be, I tells her, and right down dangerous into bargain. Hearing her chatter, you might suppose she've got some fancy-chap up her sleeve. Us knows better of course, but it's an uncomfortable state of affairs and seemingly no way out.

  Tell you what, sir, I do blame this Legge for the way things are shaping. Wili'd have settled down, he was settling down, afore Bob Legge come yurr. But now he've stirred up all their revolutionary notions again. Miss Bessy's along with the rest. I don't fancy Legge. Never have. Not for all he'm a masterpiece with darts. My way of thinking, he'm a cold calculating chap and powerful bent on having his way. Well, thurr 'tis, and talking won't mend it." Watchman walked to the door and Abel followed him. They stood looking up the road to Coombe Tunnel.

  "Daily-buttons 1"exclaimed Abel, "talk of an angel and there she be. That's Miss Dessy, the dinky little dear. Coming in to do her marketing." "So it is,"said Watchman. "Well, Abel, on second thoughts I believe I'll go and have a look at that picture." in But Watchman did not go directly to Coombe Rock.

  He lingered for a moment until he had seen Decima Moore go in at the post-office door, and then he made for the tunnel. Soon the darkness swallowed him, his footsteps rang hollow on the wet stone floor, and above him, a luminous disc, shone the top entry. Watchman emerged, blinking, into the dust and glare of the high road. To his left, the country rolled gently away to Illington ; to his right, a path led round the cliffs to Coombe Rock, and then wound inland to Cary Edge Farm where the Moores lived.

  He arched his hand over his eyes and on Coombe Head could make out the shape of canvas and easel with Cubitt's figure moving to and fro, and beyond a tiny dot which must be Sebastian Parish's head. Watchman left the road, climbed the clay bank, circled a clump of furze and beneath a hillock from where he could see the entrance to the tunnel, he lay full length on the short turf. With the cessation of his own movement the quiet of the countryside engulfed him. At first the silence seemed complete, but after a moment or two the small noises of earth and sky welled up into his consciousness. A lark sang above his head with a note so high that it impinged upon the outer borders of hearing and at times soared into nothingness. When he turned and laid his ear to the earth it throbbed with the far-away thud of surf against Coombe Rock, and when his fingers moved in the grass it was with a crisp stirring sound. He began to listen intently, lying so still that no movement of his body could come between his senses and more distant sound. He closed his eyes and to an observer he would have seemed to sleep. Indeed his face bore that look of inscrutability which links sleep in our minds with death.

  But he was not asleep. He was listening : and presently his ears caught a new rhythm, a faint hollow beat.

  Someone was coming up through the tunnel.

  Watchman looked through his eyelashes and saw Decima Moore step into the sunlight. He remained still, v/hile she mounted the bank to the cliff path. She rounded the furze-bush and was almost upon him before she saw him. She stood motionless.

  "Well, Decima,"said Watchman and opened his eyes.

  "You startled me,"she said.

  "I should leap to my feet, shouldn't I? And- apologise ? " "You needn't trouble. I'm sorry I disturbed you.

  Goodbye." She moved forward.

  Watchman said : "Wait a moment, Decima." She hesitated. Watchman reached out a hand and seized her ankle.

  "Don't do that."said Decima. "It makes us both look silly. I'm in no mood for dalliance." "Please say you'll wait a moment and I'll behave like a perfect little gent. I've something serious to say to you." "I don't believe it." "I promise you. Of the first importance. Please." "Very well, said Decima.

  He released her and scrambled to his feet.

  "Well, what is it? "asked Decima.

  "It'll take a moment or two. Do sit down and smoke a cigarette. Or shall I walk some of the way with you? " She shot a glance at the distant figures on Coombe Head and then looked at him. She seemed ill at ease, half-defiant, half-curious.

  "We may as well get it over,"she said.

  "Splendid. Sit down now, do. If we stand here, we're in full view of anybody entering or leaving Ottercombe, and I don't want to be interrupted. No. I've no discreditable motive. Come now." He sat down on the hillock under the furze-bush and after a moment's hesitation she joined him.

  "Will you smoke? Here you are." He lit her cigarette, dug the match into the turf, and then turned to her.

  "The matter I wanted to discuss with you."he said, "concerns this Left Movement of yours." Decima's eyes opened wide.

  "That surprises you? "observed Watchman.

  "It does rather, she said. "I can't imagine why you should suddenly be interested in the C. L. M." "I've no business to be interested,"said Watchman, "and in the ordinary sense, my dear Decima, I am not interested. It's solely on your account—no, do let me make myself clear. It's on your account that I want to put two questions to you. Of course if you choose you may refuse to answer them." Watchman cleared his throat, and pointed a finger at Decima.

  "Now in reference to this society——" "Dear me,"interrupted Decima with a faint smile.

  "This green plot shall be our court, this furze-bush our witness-box; and we will do in action as we will do it before the judge." "A vile paraphrase, and if we are to talk of midsummer-night's dreams, Decima----" "We certainly won't do that,"she said, turning very pink. "Pray continue your cross-examination, Mr.

  Watchman." "Thank you, my lord. First question : is this body-- society, club, movement, or whatever it is--an incorporated company? " "What does that mean? " "It means among other things that the books would have to be audited by a chartered accountant." "Good Heavens, no. It's simply grown up, largely owing to the efforts of Will Pomeroy and myself." "So I supposed. You've a list of subscribing members? " "Three hundred and forty-five,"said Decima proudly.

  "And the subscription? " "Ten bob. Are you thinking of joining us? " "Who collects the ten bobs 3 " "The treasurer." "And secretary. Mr. Legge? " "Yes. What are you driving at? What were you at last night, baiting Bob Legge? " "Wait a moment. Do any other sums of money pass through his hands? " "I don't see why I should tell you these things,"said Decima.

  "There's no reason, but you have my assurance that I mean well." "I don't know what you mean." "And you may be sure I shall regard this conversation as strictly confidential." "All right,"she said uneasily. "We've raised sums for different objects. We want to start a Left Book Club in Illington and there are one or two funds-- Spanish, Czech and Austrian refugees and the fighting fund and so on." "Yes. At the rate of how much a year? Three hundred for instance? " "About that. Quite that, I should think. We've some very generous supporters." "Now look here, Decima. Did you inquire very carefully into this man Legge's credentials? " "I—no. I mean, he's perfectly sound. He's secretary for several other things. Some philatelic society and a correspondence course, and he's agent for one or two things." "He's been here ten months, hasn't he? " "Yes. He's not strong, touch of T.B., I think, and some trouble with his ears. His doctor told him to come down here. He's been very generous and subscribed to the movement himself." "May I give you a word of advice? Have your books audited." "Do you know Bob Legge? You can't make veiled accusations——'' "I have made no accusations." "You've suggested that——" "Tliat you should be business-like,"said Watchman.

  "That's all." "Do you know this man? You must tell me." There was a very long silence and then Watchman said : "I've never known anybody of that name." "Then I don't understand,"said Decima.

  "Let us say I've taken an unreasonable dislike to him." "I'd already come to that conclusion. It was obvious last night." "Well, think it over."He looked fixedly at her and then said suddenly : "Why won't you marry Will Pomeroy? " Decima turned very. white and said : "That, at least, is entirely my own business." "Will you meet me here to-night? " "No." "Do I no longer attract you, Decima? " "I'm a
fraid you don't." "Little liar, aren't you? " "The impertinent lady-killer stuff,"said Decima, "doesn't wear very well. It has a way of looking merely cheap." "You can't insult me,"said Watchman. "Tell me this. Am I your only experiment? " "I don't want to start any discussion of this sort.

  The thing's at an end. It's been dead a year." "No. Not on my part. It could be revived; and very pleasantly. Why are you angry? Because I didn't write? " "Good Lord, no 1 "ejaculated Decima.

  "Then why----" He laid his hand over hers. As if unaware of his touch, her fingers plucked at the blades of grass beneath them.

  "Meet me here to-night,"he repeated.

  "I'm meeting Will to-night at the Feathers." "I'll take you home." Decima turned on him.

  "Look here,"she said, "we'd better get this straightened out. You're not in the least in love with me, are you? " "I adore you." "I dare say, but you don't love me. Nor do I love you. A year ago I fell for you rather heavily and we know what happened. I can admit now that I was-- well, infatuated. I can even admit that what I said just then wasn't true. For about two months I did mind your not writing. I minded damnably. Then I recovered in one bounce. I don't want any recrudescence." "How solemn,"muttered Watchman. "How learned, and how young." "It may seem solemn and young to you. Don't flatter yourself I'm the victim of remorse. I'm not.

  One has to go through with these things, I've decided.

  But don't let's blow on the ashes." "We wouldn't have to blow very hard." "Perhaps not." You admit that, do you? " Yes. But I don't want to do it." Why? Because of Pomeroy? " Yes." Are you going to many him, after all? " I don't know. He's ridiculously class-conscious about sex. He's completely uneducated in some ways, but—I don't know. If he knew about last year he'd take it very badly, and I can't marry him without telling him." "Well,"said Watchman suddenly, "don't expect me to be chivalrous and decent. I imagine chivalry and decency don't go with sex-education and freedom anyway.

  Don't be a fool, Decima. You know you think it would be rather fun." He pulled her towards him. Decima muttered, "No, you don't,"and suddenly they were struggling fiercely.

  Watchman thrust her back till her shoulders Were against the bank. As he stooped his head to kiss her, she wrenched one hand free and struck him clumsily but with violence, across the mouth.

  "You——"said Watchman.

  She scrambled to her feet and stood looking down at him.

  "I wish to God."she said savagely, "that you'd never come back." There was a moment's silence.

  Watchman, too, had got to his feet. They looked into each other's eyes; and then, with a gesture that, for all its violence and swiftness suggested the movement of an automaton, he took her by the shoulders and kissed her. When he had released her they moved apart stiffly with no eloquence in either of their faces or-figures.

  Decima said, "You'd better get out of here. If you stay here it'll be the worse for you. I could kill you.

  Get out." They heard the thud of footsteps on turf, and Cubitt and Sebastian Parish came over the brow of the hillock.

  CHAPTER FOUR THE EVENING IN QUESTION

  watchman, Cubitt and Parish lunched together in the taproom. Miss Darragh did not appear. Cubitt and Parish had last seen her sucking her brush and gazing with complacence at an abominable sketch. She was still at work when they came up with Watchman and Decima.

  At lunch, Watchman was at some pains to tell the others how he and Decima Moore met by accident, and how they had fallen to quarrelling about the Coombe Left Movement.

  They accepted his recital with, on Parish's part, rather too eager alacrity. Lunch on the whole, was an uncomfortable affair. Something had gone wrong with the relationship of the three men. Norman Cubitt, who was acutely perceptive in such matters, felt that the party had divided into two, with Parish and himself on one side of an intangible barrier, and Watchman on the other.

  Cubitt had no wish to side, however vaguely, with Parish against Watchman. He began to make overtures, but they sounded unlikely and only served to emphasise his own discomfort. Watchman answered with the courtesy of an acquaintance. By the time they had reached the cheese, complete silence had overcome them.

  They did not linger for their usual post-prandial smoke.

  Cubitt said he wanted to get down to the jetty for his afternoon sketch. Parish said he was going to sleep, Watchman, murmuring something about writing a letter, disappeared upstairs.

  They did not see each other again until the evening when they met in the private taproom for their usual cocktail. The fishing boats had come in, and at first the bar was fairly full. The three friends joined in local conversation and were not thrown upon their own resources until the evening meal which they took together 111 the ingle-nook. The last drinker went out saying that there was a storm hanging about, and that the air was unnaturally heavy. On his departure complete silence fell upon the three men. Parish made one or two halfhearted attempts to break it but it was no good, they had nothing to say to each other. They finished their meal and Watchman began to fill his pipe.

  "What's that? "said Parish suddenly. "Listen I " "High tide,"said Watchman. "It's the surf breaking on Coombe Rock." "No, it's not. Listen." And into the silence came a vague gigantic rumour.

  "Isn't it thunder? "asked Parish.

  The others listened for a moment but made no answer.

  "What a climate I "added Parish.

  The village outside the inn seemed very quiet. The evening air was sultry. No breath of wind stirred the curtains at the open windows. When, in a minute or two, somebody walked round the building, the footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. Another and more imperative muttering broke the quiet.

  Cubitt said nervously: "It's as if a giant, miles away on Dartmoor, was shaking an iron tray." "That's exactly how they work thunder in the business,"volunteered Parish.

  "The business."Watchman said with violent irritation. "What business? Is there only one business?" "What the hell's gone wrong with you? "asked Parish.

  "Nothing. The atmosphere,"said Watchman.

  "I hate thunder-storms,"said Cubitt quickly. "They make me feel as if all my nerves were on the surface. A loathsome feeling." "I rather like them,"said Watchman.

  "And that's the end of that conversation,"said Parish with a glance at Cubitt.

  Watchman got up and moved into the window. Mrs. Ives came in with a tray.

  "Storm coming up? "Parish suggested.

  "'Ess, sir. Very black outside,"said Mrs. Ives.

  The next roll of thunder lasted twice as long as the others and ended in a violent tympanic rattle. Mrs. Ives cleared the table and went away. Cubitt moved into the ingle-nook and leant his elbows on the mantelpiece. The room had grown darker. A flight of gulls, making for the sea, passed clamorously over the village. Watchman pulled back the curtains and leant over the windowsill.

  Heavy drops of rain had begun to fall. They hit the cobble-stones in the inn yard with loud slaps.

  "Here comes the rain,"said Parish, unnecessarily.

  Old Abel Pomeroy came into the Public from the far door. He began to shut the windows and called through into the Private.

  "We'm in for a black storm, souls." A glint of lightning flickered in the yard outside.

  Parish stood up, scraping his chair-legs on the floorboards.

  "They say,"said Parish, "that if you count the seconds between the flash and the thunder it gives you the distance----" A peal of thunder rolled up a steep crescendo.

  "--the distance away in fifths of a mile,"ended Parish.

  "Do shut up, Seb,"implored Watchman, not too unkindly.

  "Damn it all,"said Parish. "I don't know what the hell's the matter with you. Do you, Norman? " Abel Pomeroy came through the bar into the taproom.

  "Be colder soon, I reckon,"he said. "If you'd like a fire gentlemen----" "We'll light it. Abel, if we want it,"said Cubitt.

  "Good enough, sir."Abel looked from Cubitt and Parish to Watchman, who still leant over the windowsill.

  "She'll come bounc
ing and teeming through that window, Mr. Watchman, once she do break out. Proper deluge she'll be." "All right, Abel. I'll look after the window." A livid whiteness flickered outside. Cubitt and Parish had a momentary picture of Watchman, in silhouette against a background of inn-yard and houses.

  A second later the thunder broke in two outrageous claps.

  Then, in a mounting roar, the rain came down.

  "Yurr she comes,"said Abel.

  He switched on the light and crossed to the door into the passage.

  "Reckon Legge'll bide to-night after all,"said Abel.

  Watchman spun round.

  "Is Legge going away? "he asked.