Death at the Bar

Among the guests at the Plume of Feathers on the memorable evening of the murder were a West End matinée idol, a successful portrait painter, an Oxford-educated farmer’s daughter, a radical organizer and assorted rustics and villagers. Each of them had an opportunity to place the deadly poison on the dart that seemingly had been the instrument of murder. But no one admitted seeing any suspicious movement on the part of anyone else. And what exactly had been the method of the killer? This was the problem Inspector Alleyn had to solve — and he does so with all of his accustomed verve and brilliance.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Luke Watchman, K.C.

Sebastian Parish, his cousin.

Norman Cubitt, R.A.

Abel Pomeroy, proprietor, Plume of Feathers, Devon.

Will Pomeroy, his son.

Mrs. Ives, housekeeper at the Plume of Feathers.

The Honourable Violet Darragh, of County Clare, Ireland.

Robert Legge, Secretary and Treasurer to the Coombe Left Movement.

Decima Moore, of Cary Edge Farm and of Oxford.

George Nark, farmer, of Ottercombe.

Richard Oates, P.C. of the Illington and Ottercombe Constabulary.

Dr. Shaw, Police Surgeon, Illington.

Nicholas Harper, Superintendent of Police, Illington.

Dr. Mordant, Coroner for Illington.

Roderick Alleyn, Chief Detective-Inspector, Criminal Investigation Department.

T. R. Fox, Inspector, Criminal Investigation Department.

Colonel, the Honourable Maxwell Brammington, Chief Constable.

i

As Luke Watchman drove across Otterbrook Bridge the setting sun shone full in his eyes. A molten flood of sunlight poured towards him through the channel of the lane and broke into sequins across Otterbrook waters. He arched his hand over his eyes and peered through the spattered dazzle of the windscreen. Somewhere about here was the turning for Ottercombe. He lowered the window and leant out.

The warmth of evening touched his face. The air smelt of briar, of fern, and, more astringently of the distant sea. There, fifty yards ahead, was the fingerpost with its letters almost rubbed out by rain. “Ottercombe,
7 miles
.”

Watchman experienced the fulfillment of a nostalgic longing and was content. Only now, when he was within reach of his journey’s end, did he realize how greatly he had desired this return. The car moved forward and turned from the wide lane into the narrow. The curves of hills marched down behind hedgerows. There was no more sunlight. Thorns brushed the windows on each side, so narrow was the lane. The car bumped over pot-holes. The scent of spring-watered earth rose coldly from the banks.

“Downhill all the way now,” Watchman murmured. His thoughts travelled ahead to Ottercombe. One should always time arrivals for this hour when labourers turned homewards, when lamps were lit, when the traveller had secret glimpses into rooms whose thresholds he would never cross. At the Plume of Feathers, Abel Pomeroy would stand out in the roadway and look for incoming guests. Watchman wondered if his two companions had got there before him. Perhaps his cousin, Sebastian Parish, had set out on his evening prowl round the village. Perhaps Norman Cubitt had already found a subject and was down on the jetty dabbing nervously at a canvas. This was the second holiday they had spent together in Ottercombe. A curious trio when you came to think of it. Like the beginning of a funny story… “A lawyer, an actor, and a painter once went to a fishing village in Devon.” Well, he’d rather have Cubitt and Parish than any of his own learned brethren. The law set too deep a seal on character. The very soul of a barrister took silk. And he wondered if he had failed to escape the mannerisms of his profession, if he exuded learned counsel, even at Ottercombe in South Devon.

The lane dived abruptly downhill. Watchman remembered Decima Moore. Would she still be there? Did the Coombe Left Movement still hold its meetings on Saturday night and would Decima allow her arguments with himself to end as they had ended that warm night nearly a year ago? He set his thoughts on the memory of the smell of seaweed and briar, and of Decima, trapped halfway between resentment and fright, walking as if by compulsion into his arms.

The hamlet of Diddlestock, a brief interlude of whitewash and thatch, marked the last stage. Already as he slid out of the shadow of Ottercombe Woods, he fancied that he heard the thunder of the sea.

Watchman checked his car, skidded, and changed into low gear. Somewhere about here, Diddlestock Lane crossed Ottercombe Lane and the intersection was completely masked by banks and hedgerows. A dangerous turning. Yes, there it was. He sounded his horn and the next second crammed on his brakes. The car skidded, lurched sideways, and fetched up against the bank, with its right-hand front bumpers locked in the left-hand rear bumpers of a baby two-seater.

Watchman leant out of the driving window.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled. The two-seater leapt nervously and was jerked back by the bumpers.

“Stop that!” roared Watchman.

He got out and stumbled along the lane to the other car.

It was so dark down there between the hedgerows that the driver’s features, shadowed both by the roof of his car and the brim of his hat, were scarcely discernible. He seemed about to open the door when Watchman, bareheaded, came up to him. Evidently he changed his mind. He leant farther back in his seat. His fingers pulled at the brim of his hat.

“Look here,” Watchman began, “you’re a hell of a fellow, aren’t you, bucketing about the countryside like a blasted tank! Why the devil can’t you sound your horn? You came out of that lane about twenty times as fast as—
What
?”

The man had mumbled something.

“What?” Watchman repeated.

“I’m extremely sorry. Didn’t hear you until…” The voice faded away.

“All right. Well, we’d better do something about it. I don’t imagine much damage has been done.” The man made no move and Watchman’s irritation revived. “Give me a hand, will you.”

“Yes, certainly. Of course.” The voice was unexpectedly courteous. “I’m very sorry. Really, very sorry. It was all my fault.”

This display of contrition mollified Watchman.

“Oh well,” he said, “no harm done, I dare say. Come on.”

The man got out on the far side and walked round to the back of the car. When Watchman joined him he was stooping over the locked buffers.

“I can heave mine up if you don’t mind backing an inch or two,” said the man. With large callused hands he gripped the buffers of his own car.

“All right,” agreed Watchman.

They released the buffers without much trouble. Watchman called through his driving-window: “All clear!” The man lowered his car and then groped uncertainly in his pockets.

“Cigarette?” suggested Watchman and held out his case.

“Very kind,” said the man. “Coals of fire!” He hesitated and then took a cigarette.

“Light?”

‘I’ve got one, thanks.”

He turned aside and cupped his hands round the match, dipping his head with extravagant care as if a wind threatened the flame.

“I suppose you’re going to Ottercombe?” said Watchman.

He saw a flash of teeth.

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? I’m sorry I can’t let you through till then.”

“I shan’t be on your heels at the pace you travel,” grinned Watchman.

“No,” agreed the man, and his voice sounded remote as he moved away. “I’ll keep out of your way. Good night.”

“Goodnight.”

That ridiculous little car was as good as its driver’s word. It shot away down the lane and vanished over the brow of a steep drop. Watchman followed more cautiously and by the time he rounded the hill the other car had turned a further corner. He caught the distant toot of a horn. It sounded derisive.

ii

The lane ran out towards the coast and straight for Coombe Rock, a headland that rose sharply from the downs to thrust its nose into the Channel. A patch on the hillside seemed to mark an inconsequent end to the route. It was only when he drew close to this patch that a stranger might recognize it as an entrance to a tunnel, the only gate into Ottercombe. Watchman saw it grow magically until it filled his range of vision. He passed a road-sign, — “Ottercombe. Dangerous Corner. Change down,”—and entered the mouth of the tunnel. He slowed down and switched on his lights. Dank walls closed about him, the sound of his progress echoed loudly and he smelt wet stones and seaweed. Before him, coldly and inkily blue, framed in black, was the sea. From within, the tunnel seemed to end in a shelf; actually it turned sharply to the left. Watchman had to stop and back his car before he could get round. There, down on his left and facing the sea, was Ottercombe.

Probably the alarming entrance into this village has saved it from becoming another Clovelly or Polperro. Ladies with Ye Olde Shoppe ambitions would hesitate to drive through Coombe Tunnel, and very large cars are unable to do so. Moreover, the village is not too picturesque. It is merely a group of houses whose whitewash is tarnished by the sea. There are no secret stairs in any of them, no ghosts walk Ottercombe Steps, no smuggler’s cave looks out from Coombe Rock. For all that, the place has its history of grog-running and wrecking. There is a story of a fight in the tunnel between excisemen and the men of Coombe, and there are traces of the gate that once closed the tunnel every night at sunset. The whole of Ottercombe is the property of an irascible eccentric who keeps the houses in good repair, won’t let one of them to a strange shopkeeper, and breathes venom on the word “publicity.” If a stranger cares to stay in Ottercombe he must put up at the Plume of Feathers, where Abel Pomeroy has four guest rooms, and Mrs. Ives does the housekeeping and cooking. If the Coombe men like him, they will take him out in their boats and play darts with him in the evening. He may walk round the cliffs, fish off the rocks, or drive seven miles to Illington where there is a golf course and a three-star hotel. These are the amenities of Ottercombe.

The Plume of Feathers faces the cobbled road of entrance. It is a square building, scrupulously whitewashed. It has no great height but its position gives it an air of dominance over the cottages that surround it. On the corner of the Feathers, the road of approach splits and becomes a sort of inn-yard off which Ottercombe Steps lead through the village and down to the wharf. Thus the windows of the inn, on two sides, watch for the arrival of strangers. By the corner entrance is a bench occupied on warm evenings by Abel Pomeroy and his cronies. At intervals Abel walks into the middle of the road and looks up towards Coombe Tunnel as his father and grandfather did before him.

As Watchman drove down, he could see old Pomeroy standing there in his shirt sleeves. Watchman flicked his headlights and Pomeroy raised his hand. Watchman sounded his horn and a taller figure, dressed in the slacks and sweater of some superb advertisement, came through the lighted doorway.

It was Watchman’s cousin, Sebastian Parish. Then the others
had
arrived.

He drew up and opened the door.

“Well, Pomeroy.”

“Well, Mr. Watchman, we’m right-down glad to see you again. Welcome to you.”

“I’m glad to get here,” said Watchman, shaking hands. “Hullo, Seb. When did you arrive?”

“This morning, old boy. We stopped last night at Exeter with Norman’s sister.”

“I was at Yeovil,” said Watchman. “Where is Norman?”

“Painting down by the jetty. The light’s gone. He’ll be in soon. He’s started a portrait of me on Coombe Rock. It’s going to be rather wonderful. I’m wearing a red sweater and the sea’s behind me. Very virile!”

“Good Lord!” said Watchman cheerfully.

“We’ll get your things out for you, sir,” said old Pomeroy. “Will!”

A tall, fox-coloured man came through the doorway. He screwed up his eyes, peered at Watchman, and acknowledged his greeting without much show of enthusiasm.

“Well, Will.”

“ ’Evening, Mr. Watchman.”

“Bear a hand, my sonny,” said old Pomeroy.

His son opened the luggage carrier and began to haul out Watchman’s suit-cases.

“How’s the Movement, Will?” asked Watchman. “Still well on the Left?”

“Yes,” said Will shortly. “It’s going ahead. Will these be all?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ll take the car around, Seb, and join you in the bar. Is there a sandwich or so anywhere about, Abel?”

“We can do a bit better than that, sir. There’s a fine lobster Mrs. Ives has put aside, special.”

“By George, you’re a host in a million. God bless Mrs. Ives.”

Watchman drove round to the garage. It was a converted stable, a dark building that housed the memory of sweating horses rubbed down by stable lads with wisps of straw. When he stopped his engine Watchman heard a rat plop across the rafters. In addition to his own, the garage held four cars. There was Norman Cubitt’s Austin, a smaller Austin, a Morris, and there, demure in the corner, a battered two-seater.

“You again!” said Watchman, staring at it. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

He returned to the pub, delighted to hear the familiar ring of his own steps, to smell the tang of the sea and of burning driftwood. As he ran upstairs he heard voices and the unmistakable tuck of a dart in a cork board.

“Double-twenty,” said Will Pomeroy, and above the general outcry came a woman’s voice.

“Splendid, my dear. We win!”

“So, she
is
here,” thought Watchman as he washed his hands. “And why ‘my dear’? And who wins?”

iii

Watchman, with his cousin for company, ate his lobster in the private tap-room. There is a parlour at the Feathers but nobody ever uses it. The public and the private tap-rooms fit into each other like two Ls, the first standing sideways on the tip of its short base, the second facing backwards to the left. The bar-proper is common to both. It occupies the short leg of the Public, has a counter for each room, and faces the short leg of the Private. The top of the long leg forms a magnificent inglenook flanked with settles and scented with three hundred years of driftwood smoke. Opposite the inglenook at the bottom angle of the L hangs a dart board made by Abel Pomeroy himself. There, winter and summer alike, the Pomeroys’ chosen friends play for drinks. There is a board in the Public for the rank and file. If strangers to the Feathers choose to play in the Private the initiates wait until they have finished. If the initiates invite a stranger to play, he is no longer a stranger. The midsummer evening was chilly and a fire smouldered in the inglenook. Watchman finished his supper, swung his legs up on to the settle, and felt for his pipe. He squinted up at Sebastian Parish, who leant against the mantelpiece in an attitude familiar to every West End playgoer in London.

“I like this place,” Watchman said. “Extraordinarily pleasant, isn’t it, returning to a place one likes?”

Parish made an actor’s expressive gesture.

“Marvellous!” he said richly. “To get away from everything! The noise! The endless racket! The artificiality! God, how I loathe my profession!”

“Come off it, Seb,” said Watchman. “You glory in it. You were born acting. The gamp probably burst into an involuntary round of applause on your first entrance and I bet you played your mother right off the stage.”

“All the same, old boy, this good clean air means a hell of a lot to me.”

“Exactly,” agreed Watchman drily. His cousin had a trick of saying things that sounded a little like quotations from an interview with himself. Watchman was amused rather than irritated by this mannerism. It was part and parcel, he thought, of Seb’s harmless staginess; like his clothes which were too exactly what a gentleman roughing it in South Devon ought to wear. He liked to watch Seb standing out on Coombe Rock, bareheaded to the breeze, in effect waiting for the camera man to say “O.K. for sound.” No doubt that was the pose Norman had chosen for his portrait of Sebastian. It occurred to him now that Sebastian was up to something. That speech about the artificiality of the stage was the introduction to a confidence, or Watchman didn’t know his Parish. Whatever it was, Sebastian missed his moment. The door opened and a thin man with untidy fair hair looked in.