Death At The Bar ra-9

by Ngaio Marsh

  Norman Cubitt pulled out his darts and paused for a moment. He looked from Watchman to Parish. It struck him that there was a strong family resemblance between these cousins, a resemblance of character rather than physique. Each in his way, thought Cubitt, was a vain man. In Parish one recognized the ingenuous vanity of the actor. Off the stage he wooed applause with only less assiduity than he commanded it when he faced an audience. Watchman was more subtle. Watchman must have the attention and respect of every new acquaintance, but he played for it without seeming to do so. He would take endless trouble with a complete stranger when he seemed to take none. “But he’s getting no change out of Legge,” thought Cubitt maliciously. And with a faint smile he turned back to the dart board.

  Watchman saw the smile. He took a pull at his tankard and tried again.

  “Are you one of the dart experts?” he asked. Legge looked up vaguely and Watchman had to repeat the question.

  “I play a little,” said Legge.

  Cubitt hurled his last dart at the board and joined the others.

  “He plays like the Devil himself,” he said. “Last night I took him on, 101 down. I never even started. He threw fifty, one, and the fifty again.”

  “I was fortunate that time,” said Mr. Legge with rather more animation.

  “Not a bit of it,” said Cubitt. “You’re merely odiously accurate.”

  “Well,” said Watchman, “I’ll lay you ten bob you can’t do it again, Mr. Legge.”

  “You’ve lost,” said Cubitt.

  “Aye, he’s a proper masterpiece, is Mr. Legge,” said old Abel.

  Sebastian Parish came across from the inglenook. He looked down good-humouredly at Legge.

  “Nobody,” thought Cubitt, “has any right to be as good-looking as Seb.”

  “What’s all this?” asked Parish.

  “I’ve offered to bet Mr. Legge ten bob he can’t throw fifty, one, and fifty.”

  “You’ve lost,” said Parish.

  “This is monstrous,” cried Watchman. “Do you take me, Mr. Legge?”

  Legge shot a glance at him. The voices of the players beyond the partition had quieted for the moment. Will Pomeroy had joined his father at the private bar. Cubitt and Parish and the two Pomeroys waited in silence for Legge’s reply. He made a curious grimace, pursing his lips and screwing up his eyes. As if in reply Watchman used the K.C.’s trick of his and took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Cubitt, who watched them curiously, was visited by the fantastic notion that some sort of signal had passed between them.

  Legge rose slowly to his feet.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Certainly, Mr. Watchman, I take you on.”

  ii

  Legge moved, with a slovenly dragging of his boots, into a position in front of the board. He pulled out the three darts and looked at them.

  “Getting a bit worn, Mr. Pomeroy,” said Legge. “The rings are loose.”

  “I’ve sent for a new set,” said Abel. “They’ll be here tomorrow. Old lot go into Public.”

  Will Pomeroy left the public bar and joined his father. “Showing ’em how to do it, Bob?” he asked.

  “There’s a bet on, sonny,” said old Pomeroy.

  “Don’t make me nervous, Will,” said Legge with a grin.

  He looked at the board, poised his first dart and, with a crisp movement of his hand, flung it into the Bull’s-eye.

  “Fifty,” said Will. “There you are, gentlemen! Fifty!”

  “Three-and-fourpence in pawn,” said Watchman.

  “We’ll put it into the C.L.M. if it comes off, Will,” said Legge.

  “What’s the C.L.M.?” demanded Watchman.

  Will stared straight in front of him and said: “The Coombe Left Movement, Mr. Watchman. We’ve a branch of the South Devon Left, now.”

  “Oh Lord!” said Watchman.

  Legge threw his second dart. It seemed almost to drop from his hand but he must have used a certain amount of force since it sent home solidly into the top right-hand division.

  “And the one. Six-and-eightpence looking a bit off-colour, Mr. Watchman,” said Abel Pomeroy.

  “He’s stymied himself for the other double twenty-five, though,” said Watchman. “The first dart’s lying right across it.”

  Legge raised his hand and this time took more deliberate aim. He threw from a greater height. For a fraction of a second the dart seemed to hang in his fingers before it sped downwards athwart the first, into the narrow strip round the centre.

  “And fifty it is!” said Will. “There you are. Fifty. Good for you, comrade.”

  A little chorus went up from Parish, Cubitt and old Abel.

  “The man’s a wizard.”

  “Shouldn’t be allowed!”

  “You’m a proper masterpiece.”

  “Well done, Bob,” added Will, as if determined to give the last word of praise.

  Watchman laid a ten-shilling note on the table.

  “I congratulate you,” he said.

  Legge looked at the note.

  “Thank you, Mr. Watchman,” he said. “Another ten bob for the fighting fund, Will.”

  “Good enough, but it’s straight-out generous to give it.”

  Watchman sat down again on the table-edge.

  “All very nice,” he said. “Does you credit, Mr. Legge. I rather think another drink’s indicated. With me, if you please. Loser’s privilege.”

  Will Pomeroy glanced uncomfortably at Legge. By Feather’s etiquette, the winner of a bet at darts pays for the next round. There was a short silence broken by old Pomeroy who insisted that the next round should be on the house, and served the company with a potent dark ale, known to the Coombe as Treble Extra.

  “We’ll all play like Mr. Legge with this inside us,” said Parish.

  “Yes,” agreed Watchman, looking into his tankard, “it’s a fighting fund in itself. A very pretty tipple indeed.” He looked up at Legge.

  “Do you know any other tricks like that one, Mr. Legge?”

  “I know a prettier one than that,” said Legge quietly, “if you’ll assist me.”

  “I assist you?”

  “Yes. If you’ll stretch your hand out flat on the board I’ll outline it with darts.”

  “Really? You ought to be in the sawdust ring. No. I don’t think I trust you enough for that, you know. One would need a little more of Mr. Pomeroy’s Treble Extra.”

  He stretched out his hand and looked at it.

  “And yet, I don’t know,” he said. “I’d like to see you do it. Some other time. You know, Mr. Legge, as a good Conservative, I feel I should deplore your gesture. Against whom is your fighting fund directed?”

  But before Legge could speak, Will answered quickly: “Against the capitalist, Mr. Watchman, and all his side.”

  “Really? So Mr. Legge is also an ardent proletarian fan?”

  “Certainly,” said Legge. “I have the honour to be Secretary and Treasurer for the Coombe Left Movement.”

  “Secretary and Treasurer,” repeated Watchman. “Responsible jobs, aren’t they?”

  “Aye,” said Will, “and it’s a responsible chap that’s taken ’em on for us.”

  Legge turned away and moved into the inglenook. Watchman looked after him. Cubitt noticed that Watchman’s good humour seemed to be restored. Anyone would have thought that he had won the bet and that it had been for a much larger sum. And for no reason in the world Cubitt felt that there had been a passage of arms between Legge and Watchman, and that Watchman had scored a bit.

  “What about you, Abel?” Watchman asked abruptly. “Are you going to paint the feathers red?”

  “Me, sir? No, I don’t hold with Will’s revolutionary ideas and he knows it, but us’ve agreed to differ. Does no harm, I reckon, for these young chaps to meet every Friday and make believe they’re hashing up the laws and serving ’em out topsy-turvy: game in servants’ hall and prunes and rice for gentry. Our Will was always a great hand for make-believe from the time
he learned to talk. Used to strut about tap-room giving orders to the furniture. ‘I be as good as Squire, now,’ he’d say in his little lad’s voice and I reckon he’s saying it yet.”

  “You’re blind to reason, Father,” said Will. “Blind-stupid and hidebound. Either you can’t see or you won’t. Us chaps are working for the good of all; not for ourselves.”

  “Right enough, sonny. A fine noble ideal, I don’t doubt, and when you’ve got us all toeing the line with no handicaps and nothing to run for—”

  “The good of the State to run for. Each man equal—”

  “And all coming in first. Damn queer sort of race.”

  “The old argument,” said Legge from the fireplace, “and based as usual on a false analogy.”

  “Is it a false analogy?” asked Watchman. “You propose to kill private enterprise—”

  “A chap,” said Will Pomeroy, “will be as ambitious for the public good as he will for his own selfish aims. Give him the chance, that’s all. Teach him to think. The people—”

  “The people!” interrupted Watchman, looking at Legge’s back. “What do you mean by the people? I suppose you mean that vast collection of individuals whose wages are below a certain sum and who are capable of being led by the nose when the right sort of humbug comes along.”

  “That’s no argument,” began Will angrily. “That’s no more than a string of silly opinions.”

  “That’ll do, sonny,” said Abel.

  “It’s all right, Abel,” said Watchman, still looking at Legge. “I invited the discussion. No offence. I should like to hear what Mr. Legge has to say about private enterprise. As Treasurer—”

  “Wait a bit, Bob,” said Will as Legge turned from the fireplace. “I don’t like the way you said that, Mr. Watchman. Bob Legge here is well-respected in the Coombe. He’s not been long in these parts — ten months, isn’t it, Bob? — but we’ve learned to like him. Reckon we’ve showed we trust him, too, seeing the position we’ve given him.”

  “My dear Will,” said Watchman delicately, “I don’t dispute for a moment. I think Mr. Legge has done remarkably well for himself, in ten months.”

  Will’s face was scarlet under his thatch of fox-coloured hair. He moved forward and confronted Watchman, his tankard clenched in a great ham of a fist, his feet planted apart.

  “Shut up, now, Luke,” said Sebastian Parish softly and Cubitt murmured, “Don’t heckle, Luke, you’re on a holiday.”

  “See here, Mr. Watchman,” said Will, “You can afford to sneer, can’t you, but I’d like to know—”

  “Will!” Old Abel slapped the bar with an open hand. “That’s enough. You’m a grown chap, not a lad, and what’s more, the son of this house. Seems like I ought to give ’ee light draught and lemonade till you learn to take a man’s pint like a man. If you can’t talk politics and hold your temper then you’ll not talk politics at all. ’Be a job for you in Public here. ’Tend it.”

  “I’m sorry, Will,” said Watchman. “Mr. Legge is fortunate in his friend.”

  Will Pomeroy stood and looked under his brows from Watchman to Legge. Legge shrugged his shoulders, muttered something about moving into the public bar, and went out. Will turned to Watchman.

  “There’s something behind all this,” he said. “I want to know what the game is, Mr. Watchman, and damme I’m going to find out.”

  “Did I hear something about a game?” said a woman’s voice. They all turned to look at the doorway. There they saw a short fat figure clad in a purple tweed skirt and a green jersey.

  “May I come in?” asked the Honourable Violet Darragh.

  iii

  Miss Darragh’s entrance broke up the scene. Will Pomeroy turned, ducked under the flap of the private bar, and leant over the counter into the Public. Watchman stood up. The others turned to Miss Darragh with an air of relief, and Abel Pomeroy, with his innkeeper’s heartiness, intensified perhaps by a feeling of genuine relief, said loudly, “Come in then, miss, company’s waiting for you and you’m in time for a drink, with the house.”

  “Not Treble Extra, Mr. Pomeroy, if you don’t mind. Sherry for me, if you please.”

  She waddled over to the bar, placed her hands on the counter and with agility that astonished Watchman, made a neat little vault on to one of the tall stools. There she sat beaming upon the company.

  She was a woman of perhaps fifty, but it would have been difficult to guess at her age since time had added to her countenance and figure merely layer after layer of firm wholesome fat. She was roundabout and compact. Her face was babyish and this impression was heightened by the tight grey curls that covered her head. In repose she seemed to pout and it was not until she spoke that her good humour appeared in her eyes, and was magnified by her spectacles. All fat people wear a look of inscrutability and Violet Darragh was not unlike a jolly sort of sphinx.

  Abel served her and she took the glass delicately in her small white paws.

  “Well now,” she said, “is everybody having fun?” and then caught sight of Watchman. “Is this your cousin, Mr. Parish?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Parish hurriedly. “Mr. Watchman, Miss Darragh.”

  “How d’ye do” said Miss Darragh.

  Like many Irishwomen of her class she spoke with such a marked brogue that one wondered whether it was inspired by a kind of jocularity that had turned into a habit.

  “I’ve heard about you, of course, and read about you in the papers, for I dearly love a good murder and if I can’t have me murder I’m all for arson. That was a fine murder case you defended last year, now, Mr. Watchman. Before you took silk, ’twas. You did your best for the poor scoundrel.”

  Watchman expanded.

  “I didn’t get him off, Miss Darragh.”

  “Ah well, and a good job you didn’t, for we’d none of us been safe in our beds. And there’s Mr. Cubitt come from his painting down by the jetty, in mortal terror, poor man, lest I plague him with me perspective.”

  “Not at all,” said Cubitt, turning rather pink.

  “I’ll leave you alone, now. I know very well I’m a trouble to you but it’s good for your character, and you may look upon me as a kind of holiday penance.”

  “You’re a painter, too, Miss Darragh?” said Watchman.

  “I’m a raw amateur, Mr. Watchman, but I’ve a kind of itch for ut. When I see a little peep I can’t rest till I’m at it with me paints. There’s Mr. Cubitt wincing as if he had a nagging tooth, when I talk of a pretty peep. You’ve a distinguished company in your house, Mr. Pomeroy,” continued Miss Darragh. “I thought I was coming to a quiet little village and what do I find but a galaxy of the talents. Mr. Parish who’s turned me heart over many a time with his acting; Mr. Cubitt, down there painting within stone’s-throw of meself; and now haven’t we the great counsel to add to your intellectual feast. I wonder now, Mr. Watchman, if you remember me poor cousin Bryonie’s case?”

  “I — Yes,” said Watchman, greatly disconcerted. “I–I defended Lord Bryonie. Yes.”

  “And didn’t he only get the mere eighteen months due entirely to your eloquence? Ah, he’s dead now, poor fellow. Only a shadow of himself, he was, when he came out. It was a terrible shock to um.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “ ’Twas indeed. He never had any brains, poor fellow, and it was an unlucky day for the family when he took it into his head to dabble in business. Where’s Miss Moore? I thought I heard you speak of a game of darts.”

  “She’s coming,” said Cubitt.

  “And I hope you’ll all play again for I found it a great entertainment. Are you a dart player, too, Mr. Watchman?”

  “I try,” said Watchman.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “Here is Decima,” said Cubitt.

  iv

  A tall young woman came into the room and stood, very much at her ease, screwing her eyes up a little in the glare of the lights.

  “I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” said Decima Moo
re. “Good evening, everyone.”

  They all greeted her. There was a second’s pause and then Watchman moved into the centre of the room.

  “Good evening,” said Watchman.

  She faced him and met his gaze.

  “So you have arrived,” she said. “Good evening.”

  She touched his outstretched hand, walked over to the bar, and settled herself on one of the tall stools. She wore a fisherman’s jersey and dark blue slacks. Her hair was cut like a poet’s of the romantic period and was moulded in short locks about her head and face. She was good-looking with a classic regularity of beauty that was given an individual quirk by the blackness of her brows and the singular intensity of her eyes. She moved with the kind of grace that only just escapes angularity. She was twenty-four years of age.

  If an observant stranger had been at the Feathers that evening he might have noticed that on Decima’s entrance the demeanour of most of the men changed.

  For Decima owned the quality which Hollywood had loudly defined for the world. She owned a measure of attraction over which she herself had little governance. Though she must have been aware of this she seemed unaware; and neither in her manner nor in her speech did she appear to exercise conscious charm. Yet from the moment of her entrance the men, when they spoke to each other, looked at her, and in each of them was the disturbance of Decima’s attraction reflected. Watchman’s eyes brightened, he became more alert, and he spoke a little louder. Parish expanded as if in a spotlight and he exuded gallantry. Cubitt’s air of vague amiability contracted to a sharp awareness. Abel Pomeroy beamed upon Decima. Will, still flushed from his passage with Watchman, turned a deeper red. He answered her greeting awkwardly and was very much the solemn and self-conscious rustic.

  Decima took a cigarette from Parish and looked round the tap-room.

  “Has the dart game begun?” she asked.

  “We’re waiting for you, my angel,” said Parish. “What have you been doing with yourself all this time?”

  “Washing. I’ve attended a poison-party. I hope you didn’t spill prussic acid about the garage, you two Pomeroys.”