Death At The Bar ra-9

by Ngaio Marsh

  “It’s a scientific necessity,” said Mr. Nark. “The country has to be purged. Cast out your waste material is what I say, and so does Stalin.”

  “So does Hitler if it comes to that,” said Cubitt. “You’re talking of massed slaughter, aren’t you?”

  “You can slaughter in a righteous manner,” said Mr. Nark, “and you can slaughter in an unrighteous manner. It’s all a matter of evvylution. Survival of the fittest.”

  “What on earth’s that to say to it?” asked Cubitt.

  “We’re talking about capital punishment in this country, aren’t we?” Decima asked.

  Throughout the discussion, though she had launched several remarks at Watchman, she had not spoken directly to him. In each instance Watchman had answered exactly as if the conversation was between those two alone. He now cut in quickly.

  “I thought so,” said Watchman. “My learned friend is a little confused.”

  “I regard it,” Decima continued, always to Cubitt, “as a confession of weakness.”

  “I think it’s merely barbarous and horrible,” said Parish.

  “Terrible,” murmured Miss Darragh drowsily. “Barbarous indeed! If we can’t stop men from killing each other by any better means than killing in return, then they’ll persist in it till their dying day.”

  Cubitt, with some difficulty, stifled a laugh.

  “Quite right, Miss Darragh,” he said. “It’s a concession to the savage in all of us.”

  “Nonsense,” said Watchman. “It’s an economic necessity.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Nark with the air of one clutching at a straw. “Ah, now you’re talking.”

  Abel came back with a bottle in his hands.

  “There you are, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s Mr. Watchman’s brand and no doubt about it. See for yourself, sir.”

  Watchman looked at the bottle.

  “By God, you’re right, Abel.”

  “This is magnificent,” cried Parish. “Come on. We’ll open it. Have you any brandy glasses? Never mind, tumblers’ll do. It’s a bit cold, but we’ll humour it.”

  Abel opened the bottle.

  “This,” said Watchman, “is my affair. Shut up, Seb; I insist, Abel, you and Will must join us.”

  “Well, thank you very much, sir, I’m sure,” said Abel.

  “I’m afraid,” said Decima, “that I really dislike brandy. It’d be wasted on me.”

  “What will you have, then?”

  “I’m sorry to be so tiresome but I’d really rather not have a drink.”

  “My poor girl,” said Watchman.

  “Dessy’ll have a stone-ginger with me,” said Will Pomeroy suddenly.

  “With me,” said Watchman. “Eight brandies, two stone-gingers, Abel, and kill the bottle.”

  “Good Lord, Luke,” expostulated Cubitt, “you’ll have us rolling.”

  “None for me, thank you, Mr. Watchman,” said Miss Darragh. “I’m afraid that I, too, am a Philistine.”

  “You’ll have a drink, though?”

  “I shall join you,” said Miss Darragh, “in the nonalcoholic spirit.”

  “Seven brandies, Abel,” amended Watchman. “The first half now, and the second hereafter.”

  Abel poured out the brandy. They watched him in silence.

  The rain still poured down, but the thunder sounded more distantly.

  Watchman took the first tot to Legge and put it on a table at his elbow.

  “I hope you’ll join us, Mr. Legge,” he said.

  Legge looked at the brandy and then directly at Watchman.

  “It’s very kind of you,” he said. “As a matter of fact I’ve some work to do, and—”

  “ ‘Let other hours be set apart for business,’ ” quoted Watchman. “To-day is our pleasure to be drunk. Do you like good brandy, Mr. Legge?”

  “This,” said Legge, “is the vintage of my choice.”

  He took the glass and nursed it between those callused hands.

  “An exquisite bouquet,” said Mr. Legge.

  “I knew you’d appreciate it.”

  “Your health,” said Legge, and took a delicate sip.

  The others, with the exception of Mr. Nark, murmured self-consciously and sipped. Mr. Nark raised his glass.

  “Your very good health, sir. Long life and happiness,” said Mr. Nark loudly, and emptied his glass, at one gulp. He drew in his breath with a formidable whistle, his eyes started from his head and he grabbed at the air.

  “You’m dashed at it too ferocious, George,” said Abel.

  Mr. Nark shuddered violently and fetched his breath.

  “It’s a murderous strong tipple,” he whispered. “If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Watchman, I’ll break it down inwardly with a drop of water.”

  But presently Mr. Nark began to smile and then to giggle and as he giggled so did Cubitt, Parish, and Watchman. By the time the first tot of Courvoisier ’87 had been consumed there was much laughter in the private bar, and a good deal of rather loud aimless conversation. Watchman proposed that they have a Round-the-Clock competition on the dart board.

  Parish reminded him of Legge’s trick with the darts.

  “Come on, Luke,” cried Parish. “If you let him try it on you, damme if I won’t let him try it on me.”

  Mr. Legge was understood to say he was willing.

  Watchman pulled the darts out of the board.

  “Come on now,” he said. “I’m equal to the lot of you. Even Mr. Legge. Round-the-Clock it is, and if he beats me this time, we’ll have the other half and he can do his circus trick with my hand. Is it a bargain, Mr. Legge?”

  “If you’re not afraid,” said Legge indistinctly, “I’m not. But I’d like a new set of darts.”

  “Afraid? With a brandy like this on board, I’d face the Devil himself.”

  “Good old Luke,” cried Parish.

  Abel fished under the shelves and brought up a small package which he clapped down on the bar counter.

  “Brand new set o’ darts, my sonnies,” said Abel. “Best to be bought, and come this evening from London. I’ll fix the flights in ’em while you play Round-the-Clock with the old ’uns. Bob Legge can christen ’em with this masterpiece of an exhibition.”

  He broke the string and opened the package.

  “Come now, Mr. Legge,” said Watchman. “Is it a bargain?”

  “Certainly,” said Legge. “A bargain it is.”

  Chapter V

  Failure of Mr. Legge

  i

  P.C. Oates had gone as far as the tunnel, had returned, and had descended the flight of stone steps that leads to the wharf from the right-hand side of the Feathers. He had walked along the passage called Fish Lane, flashing his lamp from time to time on steaming windows and doorways. Rain drummed on Oates’s mackintosh cape, on his helmet, on cobblestones, and on the sea, that only a few feet away in the darkness, lapped at the steaming waterfront. The sound of the rain was almost as loud as the sound of thunder and behind both of these was the roar of surf on Coombe Rock. A ray of lamplight from a chink in the window-blind shone obliquely on rods of rain and, by its suggestion of remote comfort, made the night more desolate.

  Far above him, dim and forlorn, the post office clock told a quarter past nine.

  Oates turned at the end of Fish Lane and shone his light on the second flight of Ottercombe Steps. Water was pouring down them in a series of miniature falls. He began to climb, holding tight to the handrail. If anyone could have seen abroad in the night, lonesome and dutiful, his plodding figure might have suggested a progression into the past, when the night-watchman walked through Ottercombe to call the hours to sleeping fishermen. Such a flight of fancy did not visit the thoughts of Mr. Oates. He merely told himself that he was damned if he’d go any farther, and when the red curtains of the Plume of Feathers shone through the rain, he mended his pace and made for them.

  But before he had gone more than six steps he paused. Some noise that had not reached him before threaded the sou
nd of the storm. Someone was calling out — shouting — yelling. He stopped and listened.

  “O-O-Oates! Hullo! Dick! D-i-i-ick! O-O-Oates!”

  “Hullo!” yelled Oates, and his voice sounded very desolate.

  “Hullo! Come — back — here.”

  Oates broke into a lope. The voice had come from the front of the pub. He crossed the yard, passed the side of the house and the door into the Public, and came in sight of the front door. A tall figure, shading its eyes, was silhouetted against the lighted entry. It was Will Pomeroy. Oates strode out of the night into the entry.

  “Here!” he said, “what’s up?” And when he saw Will Pomeroy’s face: “What’s happened here?”

  Without speaking Will jerked his thumb in the direction of the private top. His face was the colour of clay and the corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Well, what is it?” demanded Oates impatiently.

  “In there. Been an accident.”

  “Accident. What sort of a accident?”

  But before Will could answer, Decima Moore came out of the tap-room, closing the door behind her.

  “Here’s Dick,” said Will.

  “Will,” said Decima, “there’s no doubt about it. He’s dead.”

  “My Gawd, who’s dead?” shouted Oates.

  “Watchman.”

  ii

  Oates looked down at the figure on the settle. He had remembered to remove his helmet but the water dripped off his cape in little streams. When he bent forward three drops fell on the blind face. Oates dabbed at them with his finger and glanced round apologetically.

  He said, “What happened?”

  Nobody answered. Old Pomeroy stood by the bar, his hands clasped in front of him. His face spoke only of complete bewilderment. He looked from one to another of the men as if somewhere there was some sort of explanation which had been withheld from him. Sebastian Parish and Norman Cubitt stood together in the inglenook. Parish’s face was stained with tears. He kept smoothing back his hair with a nervous and meaningless gesture of the right hand. Cubitt’s head was bent down. He seemed to be thinking deeply. Every now and then he glanced up sharply from under his brows. Mr. Nark sat on one of the bar stools clenching and unclenching his hands and struggling miserably with intermittent but profound hiccoughs. Legge, as white as paper, bit at his fingers and stared at Oates. Decima and Will stood together in the doorway. Miss Darragh sat just outside the inglenook on a low chair. Her moonlike face was colourless but she seemed composed.

  Watchman lay on a settle near the dart board and opposite the bar. His eyes were wide open. They seemed to stare with glistening astonishment at the ceiling. The pupils were wide and black. His hands were clenched; the right arm lay across his body, the left dangled, and where the knuckles touched the floor they, like the back of the hand, were stained red.

  “Well,” repeated Oates violently, “can’t any of you speak? What happened? Where’s your senses? Have you sent for a doctor?”

  “The telephone’s dead,” said Will Pomeroy. “And he’s past doctoring, Dick.”

  Oates picked up the left wrist.

  “What’s this? Blood?”

  “He got a prick from a dart.”

  Oates looked at the clenched hand and felt the wrist. In the third finger there was a neat puncture on the outside, below the nail. It was stained brown. The nails were bluish.

  “I did that,” said Legge suddenly. “It was my dart.”

  Oates laid the hand down and bent over the figure. A drop of water fell from his coat on one of the staring eyes. He fumbled inside the shirt, looking over his shoulder at Will Pomeroy.

  “We’ll have to fetch a doctor, however,” he said.

  “I’ll go,” said Cubitt. “Is it Illington?”

  “Dr. Shaw, sir. Main road in and the last corner. It’s on the left after you pass the police-station. He’s police surgeon. I’d be obliged if you’d stop at the station and report.”

  “Right.” Cubitt went out.

  Oates straightened up and unbuttoned his cape.

  “I’ll have to get some notes down,” he said and felt in the pocket of his tunic. He stepped back and his boots crunched excruciatingly.

  “There’s glass all over the floor,” said Will.

  Decima Moore said: “Can’t we — cover him up?”

  “It would be better, don’t you think?” said Miss Darragh, speaking for the first time. “Can I—?”

  Will said: “I’ll get something,” and went out. Oates looked round the group and at last addressed himself to Sebastian Parish.

  “How long ago was this, sir?” he asked.

  “Only a few minutes. It happened just before you came in.”

  Oates glanced at his watch.

  “Half-past nine,” he said, and noted it down.

  “Let’s hear what happened,” he said.

  “But it’s not a case for the police,” said Parish. “I mean because he died suddenly—”

  “You called me in, sir,” said Oates. “It’s no doubt a case for the doctor. Leave it, if you wish, sir, till he comes.”

  “No, no,” said Parish, “I don’t mean that I object. It’s only that your notebook and everything — it’s so awful, somehow.” He turned to Abel Pomeroy. “You tell him.”

  “It was like this, Dick,” said old Abel. “Mr. Legge, here, had told us how he could throw the darts like a circus chap between the fingers of a man’s hand stretched out on board. You heard him, Mr. Watchman, in his bold way, said he’d hold his hand out and Mr. Legge was welcome to have a shot at it. ’Twouldn’t do no great damage, Mr. Watchman said, if he did stick him. Us all said it was a silly rash kind of trick. But Mr. Watchman was hellbent on it.”

  “He insisted,” said Will.

  “So he did, then. And up goes his hand. Mr. Legge throws the first three as pretty as you please, outside little finger, atween little and third, atween third and middle. Then he throws the fourth, and ’stead of going atween middle and first finger it catches little finger. ‘Got me’, says Mr. Watchman, and then — then what?” asked Abel.

  “It was curious,” said Miss Darragh slowly. “He didn’t move his hand at once. He kept it there against the board. The blood trickled down his finger and spread like veins in a leaf over the back of his hand. One had time to wonder if the dart had gone right through and he was in a way, crucified.”

  “He turned mortal ghastly white,” said Abel.

  “And then pulled the dart out,” said Parish, “and threw it down on the floor. He shuddered, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Abel. “He shuddered violent.”

  “He always turned queer at the sight of his own blood, you know,” said Parish.

  “Well, what next?” asked Oates.

  “I think he took a step towards the settle,” said Parish.

  “He sat on the settle,” said Decima. “Miss Darragh said, ‘He’s feeling faint, give him a sip of brandy.’ Mr. Legge said he looked ill and could he have lockjaw? Someone else, Mr. Pomeroy I think, said he ought to have iodine on his finger. Anyway, Mr. Pomeroy got the first-aid box out of the bottom cupboard. I looked for a glass with brandy in it but they were all empty. I got the bottle. While I was doing that — pouring out the brandy, I mean — Mr. Pomeroy dabbed iodine on the finger. Mr. Watchman clenched his teeth and cried out. He jerked up his arms.”

  She stopped and closed her eyes.

  Will Pomeroy had come back with a sheet. He spread it over Watchman and then turned to Decima.

  “I’ll take you out of this,” he said. “Come upstairs to Mrs. Ives, Dessy.”

  “No, I’ll finish.”

  “No need.”

  Will put his arm across Decima’s shoulder and turned to Oates.

  “I’ll tell you, Mr. Parish, here, said Mr. Watchman couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Father said something about iodine like Dessy told you and he got the first-aid box out of the cupboard. He took out the bottle and it was nearly empty. Father tipped it
up and poured some on Mr. Watchman’s finger and then got out a bandage. Then Dessy gave him his brandy. He knocked the glass out of her hand.”

  “Miss Darragh was just going to tie his finger up,” said Abel, “when lights went out.”

  “Went out?”

  “ ’Ess. They’d been upping and downing ever since thunder set in and this time they went out proper for about a minute.”

  “It was frightful,” said Parish rapidly. “We could hear him breathing. We were all knocking against each other with broken glasses everywhere and — those awful noises. Nobody thought of the oil lamps, but Legge said he’d throw some wood on the fire to make a blaze. He did, and just then the lights went up.”

  “Hold hard, if you please, sir,” said Oates. “I’ll get this down in writing.”

  “But, look here—”

  Parish broke off and Will began again —

  “When the lights went on again we all looked at Mr. Watchman. He was in a kind of fit, seemingly. He thrashed about with his arms and legs and then fell backwards on settle where he is now. His breathing came queer for a bit and then — didn’t come at all. I tried to get the doctor but the wires must be down. Then I came out and called you.”

  Will turned Decima towards the door.

  “If you want me, Father,” he said, “I’ll be up-along. Coming, Dessy?”

  “I’m all right,” said Decima.

  “You’ll be better out of here.”

  She looked at him confusedly, seemed to hesitate, and then turned to Miss Darragh.

  “Will you come, too?” asked Decima.

  Miss Darragh looked fixedly at her and then seemed to make up her mind.

  “Yes, my dear, certainly. We’re better out of the way now, you know.”

  Miss Darragh gathered up her writing block and plodded to the door. Decima drew nearer to Will and, obeying the pressure of his hand, went out with him.