Death At The Bar ra-9

by Ngaio Marsh

  “I’d say it was a lie. He didn’t. He never put his hand in his pocket.”

  “What makes you so positive, Mr. Pomeroy?”

  “For one thing he was in his shirt-sleeves.”

  “What about his waistcoat and trousers pockets?”

  “He hadn’t a waistcoat. His sleeves was rolled up and I was watching his hands. They never went near his trousers’ pockets. He held the darts in his left hand, and I was watching the way he felt the points, delicate-like, with the first finger of his other hand. He was saying they was right-down good darts, well made and well balanced.” Will leant forward and scowled earnestly at Alleyn.

  “Look ’ee here, sir,” he said. “If Bob Legge meant any harm to they darts would he have talked about them so’s we all looked at the damn’ things? Would he, now?”

  “That’s a very sound argument,” agreed Alleyn. “He would not.”

  “Well, then!”

  “Right. Now the next thing he did, was to throw all six darts, one after the other, into the board. He had six, hadn’t he?”

  “Yes. There were six new ’uns in the packet. Usual game’s only three, but he took all six for this trick.”

  “Exactly. Now, what did he do after he’d thrown them?”

  “Said they carried beautiful. He’d thrown the lot round the centre, very pretty. Mr. Watchman pulled ’em out and looked at ’em. Then Mr. Watchman spread out his left hand on the board and held out the darts with his right. ‘Fire ahead,’ he says, or something like that”

  Alleyn uttered a short exclamation and Will looked quickly at him.

  “That wasn’t brought out at the inquest,” said Alleyn.

  “Beg pardon? What wasn’t?”

  “That Mr. Watchman pulled out the darts and gave them to Mr. Legge.”

  “I know that, sir. I only thought of it to-day. I’d have told Mr. Harper next time I saw him.”

  “It’s a little odd that you should not remember this until a fortnight after the event.”

  “Is it, then?” demanded Will. “I don’t reckon it is. Us didn’t think anything at the time. Ask any of the others. Ask my father. They’ll remember, all right, when they think of it.”

  “All right,” said Alleyn. “I suppose it’s natural enough you should forget.”

  “I know what it means,” said Will quickly. “I know that, right enough. Mr. Watchman handled those darts, moving them round in his hands, like. How could Bob Legge know which was which, after that?”

  “Not very easily one would suppose. What next?”

  “Bob took the darts and stepped back. Then he began to blaze away with ’em. He never so much as glanced at ’em, I know that. He played ’em out quick.”

  “Until the fourth one stuck into the finger?”

  “Yes,” said Will doggedly, “till then.”

  Alleyn was silent. Fox, note-book in hand, moved over to the window and stood looking over the roofs of Ottercombe at the sea.

  “I’ll tell you what it is,” said Will suddenly.

  “Yes?” asked Alleyn.

  “I reckon the poison on those dart’s a blind.”

  He made this announcement with an air of defiance, and seemed to expect it would bring some sort of protest from the other two. But Alleyn took it very blandly.

  “Yes,” he said, “that’s possible, of course.”

  “See what I mean?” said Will eagerly. “The murderer had worked it out he’d poison Mr. Watchman. He’d worked it out he’d put the stuff in his drink, first time he got a chance. Then, when Bob Legge pricks him by accident, the murderer says to himself: ‘There’s a rare chance.’ He’s got the stuff on him. He puts it in the brandy glass and afterwards, while we’re all fussing round Mr. Watchman, he smears it on the dart. The brandy glass gets smashed to pieces but they find poison on the dart. That’s how I work it out. I reckon whoever did this job tried, deliberate, to fix it on Bob Legge.”

  Alleyn looked steadily at him.

  “Can you give us anything to support this theory?”

  Will hesitated. He looked from Alleyn to Fox, made as if to speak, and then seemed to change his mind.

  “You understand, don’t you,” said Alleyn, “that I am not trying to force information. On the other hand, if you do know of anything that would give colour to the theory you have yourself advanced, it would be advisable to tell us about it.”

  “I know Bob Legge didn’t interfere with the dart.”

  “After it was all over, and the constable looked for the dart, wasn’t it Legge who found it?”

  “Sure-ly! And that goes to show. Wouldn’t he have taken his chance to wipe the dart if he’d put poison in it?”

  “That’s well reasoned,” said Alleyn. “I think he would. But your theory involves the glass. Who had an opportunity to put prussic acid in the glass?”

  Will’s fair skin reddened up to the roots of his fox-coloured hair.

  “I’ve no wish to accuse anybody,” he said. “I know who’s innocent and I speak up for him. There won’t be many who’ll do that. His politics are not the colour to make powerful friends for him when he’s in trouble. I know Bob Legge’s innocent, but I say nothing about the guilty.”

  “Now, look here,” said Alleyn, amiably, “you’ve thought this thing out for yourself and you seem to have thought it out pretty thoroughly. You must see that we can’t put a full-stop after your pronouncement on the innocence of Mr. Legge. The best way of establishing Legge’s innocence is to find where the guilt lies.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Will. “Really.”

  “I see. Well, can you tell us if Mr. Legge stood anywhere near the brandy glass, before he threw the darts?”

  “He was nowhere near it. Not ever. It was on the table by the board. He never went near it.”

  “Do you remember who stood near the table?”

  Will was silent. He compressed his lips into a hard line.

  “For instance,” Alleyn pursued, “was Mr. Sebastian Parish anywhere near the table?”

  “He might have been,” said Will.

  ii

  “And now, Fox,” said Alleyn, “we’ll have a word with Mr. Sebastian Parish, if he’s on the premises. I don’t somehow think he’ll have strayed very far. See if you can find him.”

  Fox went away. Alleyn took a long pull at his beer and read through the notes Fox had made during the interview with Will Pomeroy. The light outside had faded and the village had settled down for the evening. Alleyn could hear the hollow sounds made by men working with boats; the tramp of heavy boots on stone, a tranquil murmur of voices, and, more distantly, the thud of breakers. Within the house, he heard sounds of sweeping and of quick footsteps. The Pomeroys had lost no time cleaning up the private bar. In the public bar, across the passage, a single voice seemed to drone on and on as if somebody made a speech to the assembled topers. Whoever it was came to an end. A burst of conversation followed and then a sudden silence. Alleyn recognized Fox’s voice. Someone answered, clearly and resonantly: “Yes, certainly.”

  “That’s Parish,” thought Alleyn.

  The door from the public tap-room into the passage was opened and shut. Sebastian Parish and Fox came into the parlour.

  The evening was warm and Parish was clad in shorts and a thin blue shirt. He wore these garments with such an air that the makers might well have implored him to wear their shorts and shirts, free of cost, in and out of season, for the rest of his life. His legs were olive-brown and slightly glossy, the hair on his olive-brown chest was golden brown. He looked burnished and groomed to the last inch. The hair on his head, a darker golden brown, was ruffled, for all the world as if his dresser had darted after him into the wings, and run a practised hand through his locks. There was something almost embarrassing in so generous a display of masculine beauty. He combined in his appearance all the most admired aspects of a pukka sahib, a Greek god, and a wholesome young
Englishman. Fox came after him like an anticlimax in good serviceable worsted.

  “Oh, good evening, Inspector,” said Parish.

  “Good evening,” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry to worry you.”

  Parish’s glance said, a little too plainly: “Hullo, so you’re a gentleman.” He came forward, and, with an air of manly frankness, extended his hand.

  “I’m very glad to do anything I can,” he said.

  He sat on the arm of a chair and looked earnestly from Alleyn to Fox.

  “We hoped for this,” he said. “I wish to God they’d called you in at once.”

  “The local men,” Alleyn murmured, “have done very well.”

  “Oh, they’ve done what they could, poor old souls,” said Parish. “No doubt they’re very sound at bottom, but it’s rather a long way before one strikes bottom. Considering my cousin’s position I think it was obvious that the Yard should be consulted.”

  He looked directly at Alleyn, and said: “But I know you!”

  “Do you?” said Alleyn politely. “I don’t think—”

  “I know you!” Parish repeated dramatically. “Wait a moment. By George, yes, of course. You’re the — I’ve seen your picture in a book on famous trials.” He turned to Fox with the air of a Prince Regent.

  “What is his name?” demanded Parish.

  “This is Mr. Alleyn, sir,” said Fox, with a trace of a grin at his superior.

  “Alleyn! By God, yes, of course! Alleyn!”

  “Fox,” said Alleyn, austerely, “be good enough to shut the door.” He waited until this was done and then addressed himself to the task of removing the frills from the situation.

  “Mr. Parish,” Alleyn said, “we have been sent down here to make enquiries about the death of your cousin. The local superintendent has given us a very full and explicit account of the circumstances surrounding his death, but we are obliged to go over the details for ourselves.”

  Parish made an expressive gesture, showing them the palms of his hands. “But of course,” he said.

  “Yes. Well, we thought that before we went any further, we should ask to see you.”

  “Just a moment,” interrupted Parish. “There’s one thing I must know. Mr. Alleyn, was my cousin murdered?”

  Alleyn looked at his hands, which were joined together on the table. After a moment’s thought, he raised his eyes.

  “It is impossible to give you a direct answer,” he said, “but as far as we have gone, we can find no signs of accident.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Parish, and for the first time his voice sounded sincere.

  “Of course something that will point to accident may yet come out.”

  “Good God, I hope so.”

  “Yes. You will understand that we want to get a very clear picture of the events leading up to the moment of the accident.”

  “Have you spoken to old Pomeroy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose he’s talked about this fellow Legge?”

  Alleyn disregarded the implication and said: “About the position of everybody when Mr. Legge threw the darts. Can you remember—”

  “I’ve thrashed the thing out a hundred times a day. I don’t remember, particularly clearly.”

  “Well,” said Alleyn, “let’s see how we get on.”

  Parish’s account followed the Pomeroys’ pretty closely, but he had obviously compared notes with all the others.

  “To tell the truth,” he said, “I’d had a pint of beer and two pretty stiff brandies. I don’t say I’ve got any very clear recollection of the scene. I haven’t. It seems more like a sort of nightmare than anything else.”

  “Can you remember where you stood immediately before Mr. Legge threw the darts?”

  Alleyn saw the quick involuntary movement of those fine hands, and he thought there was rather too long a pause before Parish answered.

  “I’m not very certain, I’m afraid.”

  “Were you, for instance, near the table that stands between the dart board and the settle?”

  “I may have been. I was watching Legge.”

  “Try to remember. Haven’t you a clear picture of Legge as he stood there ready to throw the darts?”

  Parish had a very expressive face. Alleyn read in it the reflection of a memory. He went on quickly:

  “Of course you have. As you say, you were watching him. Only, in the medley of confused recollections, that picture was, for a time, lost. But, as you say, you were watching him. Did he face you?”

  “He — yes.”

  Alleyn slid a paper across the table.

  “Here, you see, is a sketch plan of the private bar.” Parish looked at it over his shoulder. “Now, there’s the dart board, fairly close to the bar counter. Legge must have stood there. There isn’t room for more than one person to stand in the corner by the bar counter, and Will Pomeroy was there. So, to face Legge, you must have been by the table.”

  “All right,” said Parish restively. “I don’t say I wasn’t, you know. I only say I’m a bit hazy.”

  “Yes, of course, we understand that perfectly. But what I’m getting at is this. Did you see Legge take the darts after the trial throw?”

  “Yes. My cousin pulled them out of the board and gave them to Legge. I remember that.”

  “Splendid,” said Alleyn. “It’s an important point and we’re anxious to clear it up. Thank you. Now, standing like that, as we’ve agreed you were standing, you would see the whole room. Can you remember the positions of the other onlookers?”

  “I remember that they were grouped behind Legge. Except Abel, who was behind the bar counter. Oh, and Will. Will was in the corner, as you’ve said. Yes.”

  “So that it would have been impossible, if any of the others came to the table, for their movement to escape your notice?”

  “I suppose so. Yes, of course it would. But I can’t see why it matters.”

  “Don’t you remember,” said Alleyn gently, “that Mr. Watchman’s glass was on that table? The glass that was used afterwards when Miss Moore gave him the brandy?”

  iii

  Parish was not a rubicund man but the swift ebbing of what colour he had was sufficiently startling. Alleyn saw the pupils of his eyes dilate; his face was suddenly rather pinched.

  “It was the dart that was poisoned,” said Parish. “They found that out. It was the dart.”

  “Yes. I take it nobody went to the table?”

  “I — don’t think anybody — Yes, I suppose that’s right.”

  “And after the accident?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “What were your positions?”

  “Luke — my cousin — collapsed on the settle. I moved up to him. I mean I stooped down to look at him. I remember I said — oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  “We should like to hear, if we may.”

  “I told him to pull himself together. You see, I didn’t think anything of it. He’s always gone peculiar at the sight of his own blood. When we were kids, he used to faint if he scratched himself.”

  “Did anybody but yourself know of this peculiarity?”

  “I don’t know. I should think Norman knew. Norman Cubitt. He may not have known, but I rather think we’ve talked about it recently. I seem to remember we did.”

  “Mr. Parish,” said Alleyn, “will you focus your memory on those few minutes after your cousin collapsed on the settle? Will you tell us everything you can remember?”

  Parish got to his feet and moved restlessly about the room. Alleyn had dealt with people of the theatre before. He had learnt that their movements were habitually a little larger than life, and he knew that in many cases this staginess was the result of training and instinct, and that it was a mistake to put it down to deliberate artifice. He knew that, in forming an opinion of the emotional integrity of actors, it was almost impossible to decide whether their outward-seeming was conscious or instinctive; whether it expressed their sensibility or merely their sense of theatr
e. Parish moved restlessly, as though some dramatist had instructed him to do so. But he may not, thought Alleyn, know at this moment how beautifully he moves.

  “I begin to see it,” said Parish, suddenly. “Really it’s rather as if I tried to recall a dream, and a very bad dream at that. You see, the lights kept fading and wobbling, and then one had drunk rather a lot, and then, afterwards, all that happened makes it even more confused. I am trying to think about it as a scene on the stage; a scene, I mean, of which I’ve had to memorize the positions.”

  “That’s a very good idea,” said Alleyn.

  The door opened and a tall man with an untidy head looked in.

  “I beg your pardon. Sorry!” murmured this man.

  “Mr. Cubitt?” asked Alleyn. Parish had turned quickly. “Do come in, please.”

  Cubitt came in and put down a small canvas with its face to the wall. Parish introduced him.

  “I’d be glad if you’d stay,” said Alleyn. “Mr. Parish is going to try and recall for us the scene that followed the injury to Mr. Watchman’s hand.”

  “Oh,” said Cubitt, and gave a lop-sided grin. “All right. Go ahead, Seb. Sorry I cut in.”

  He sat on a low chair near the fireplace and wound one thin leg mysteriously round the other. “Go ahead,” he repeated.

  Parish, at first, seemed a little disconcerted, but he soon became fortified by his own words.

  “Luke,” he said, “is lying on the settle. The settle against the left-hand wall.”

  “Actors’ left or audience’s left?” asked Cubitt.

  “Audience’s left. I’m deliberately seeing it as a stage setting, Norman.”

  “So I understand.”

  “And Inspector Alleyn knows the room. At first nobody touches Luke. His face is very white and he looks as if he’ll faint. I’m standing near his head. Legge’s still out in front of the dart board. He’s saying something about being sorry. I’ve got it now. It’s strange, but thinking of it like this brings it back to me. You, Norman, and Decima, are by the bar. She’s sitting on the bar in the far corner. Will has taken a step out into the room and Abel’s leaning over the bar. Wait a moment. Miss Darragh is further away near the inglenook, and is sitting down. Old George Nark, blind tight, is teetering about near Miss Darragh. That’s the picture.”