Death at the Bar (10 page)

“Well,” said Alleyn, “let’s go through the list while we’re at it. What about young Pomeroy?”

“Will? Yes. Yes, there’s young Will.” Harper opened the file and stared at the first page, but it seemed to Alleyn that he was not reading it. “Will Pomeroy,” said Harper, “says he didn’t like Mr, Watchman. He makes no bones about it. Mr. Parish says they quarrelled on account of this chap, Legge. Will didn’t like the way Mr. Watchman got at Legge, you see, and being a hotheaded loyalish kind of fellow, he tackled Mr. Watchman. It wasn’t much of an argument, but it was obvious Will Pomeroy had taken a scunner on Mr. Watchman.”

“And — what is the lady’s name? — Miss Decima Moore? What about her?”

“Nothing. Keeps company with Will. She’s a farmer’s daughter. Old Jim Moore, up to Cary Edge. Her mother’s a bit on the classy side. Foreigner to these parts and can’t forget she came down in society when she married Farmer Moore. Miss Decima was educated at Oxford and came home a red Leftist. She and deceased used to argufy a bit about politics, but that’s all.”

Alleyn counted on his long, thin fingers.

“That’s five,” he said, “six, counting old Pomeroy. We’re left with the Honourable Violet Darragh and Mr. George Nark.”

“You can forget ’em,” rejoined Harper. “The Honourable Violet’s a rum old girl from Ireland, who takes views in paints. She was there writing letters when it happened. I’ve checked up on her and she’s the genuine article. She’ll talk the hind leg off a donkey. So’ll George Nark. He’s no murderer. He’s too damned silly to kill a wood-louse except he treads on it accidental.”

“How many of these people are still in Ottercombe?”

“All of ’em.”

“Good Lord!” Alleyn exclaimed. “Didn’t they want to get away when it was all over? I’d have thought—”

“So would anybody,” agreed Harper. “But it seems Mr. Cubitt had started off on several pictures down there, and wants to finish them. One’s a likeness of Mr. Parish, so he’s stayed down-along too. They waited for the funeral, which was here. Deceased had no relatives nearer than Mr. Parish, and Mr. Parish said he thought his cousin would have liked to be put away in the country. Several legal gentlemen came down from London, and the flowers were a masterpiece. Well, they just stopped on, Mr. Cubitt painting as quiet as you please. He’s a cool customer, is Mr. Cubitt.”

“How much longer will they be here?”

“Reckon another week. They came for three. Did the same thing last year. It’s a fortnight to-night since this case cropped up. We’ve kept the private bar shut up. Everything was photographed and printed. There was nothing of interest in deceased’s pockets. He smoked some outlandish kind of cigarettes. Daha— something, but that’s no use. We’ve got his movements taped out. Arrived on Thursday night and didn’t go out. Friday morning, went for a walk but don’t know exactly where, except it was through the tunnel. Friday afternoon, went upstairs after lunch and was in his room writing letters. Seen in his room by Mrs. Ives, the housekeeper, who went up at 3.30 to shut windows and found him asleep on his bed. Also seen at 4 o’clock by Mr. Cubitt, who looked in on his way back from painting down on the wharf. Came downstairs at 5.15, or thereabouts, and was in the private bar from then onwards till he died. I don’t think I missed anything.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“You know,” said Harper, warming a little, “it’s a proper mystery, this case. Know-what-I-mean, most cases depend on routine. Boil ’em down and it’s routine that does the trick as a general rule. May do it here but all the same this is a teaser. I’m satisfied it wasn’t accident but I can’t prove it. When I’m told on good authority that there was cyanide on that dart, and that Mr. Watchman died of cyanide in his blood, I say: ‘Well, there’s your weapon,’ but alongside of this there’s six people, let alone my own investigation, that prove to my satisfaction nobody could have tampered with the dart. But the dart was poisoned. Now, the stuff in the rat-hole was in a little china jar. I’ve left it there for you to see. I got another jar of the same brand. They sell some sort of zinc ointment in them, and Abel had several; he’s mad on that sort of thing. Now, the amount that’s gone from the bottle, which Noggins says was full, is a quarter of an ounce more than the amount the jar holds and Abel swears he filled the jar. The jar was full when we saw it.”

“Full?” said Alleyn sharply. “When did you see it?”

“The next morning.”

“Was the stuff in the jar analyzed?”

Harper turned brick-red.

“No,” he said, “Abel swore he’d filled it and the jar’s only got his prints on it. And, I tell you, it
was
full.”

“Have you got the stuff?”

“Yes. I poured it off and kept it. Seeing there’s a shortage, the stuff on the dart must have come from the bottle.”

“For how long was the bottle uncorked?”

“What? Oh, he said that when he used it he uncorked the bottle and put it on the shelf above the hole, with the cork beside it. He was very anxious we should know he’d been careful, and he said he didn’t want to handle the cork more than was necessary. He said he was just going to pour the stuff in the jar, when he thought he’d put the jar in position first. He did that and then filled it, holding the torch in his other hand. He swears he didn’t spill any, and he swears nobody touched the bottle. The others were standing in the doorway.”

“So the bottle may have been uncorked for a minute or two?”

“I suppose so. He plugged up the hole with rag, before he did anything else. He had the bottle on the floor beside him.”

“And then?”

“Well, then he took up the bottle and corked it. I suppose,” said Harper, “I should have had the stuff analyzed, but we’ve no call to suspect Abel Pomeroy. There was none missing from the jar and there are only his prints on it, and there’s the extra quarter-ounce missing from the bottle. No, it’s gone from the bottle. Must have. And, see here, Mr. Alleyn, the stuff was found on the dart and nowhere else. What’s more, if it was the dart that did the trick, and it’s murder, then Legge’s our bird, because only Legge controlled the flight of the dart.”

“Silly sort of way to kill a man,” said Fox, suddenly. “It’d be asking for a conviction, Super, now wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe he reckoned he’d get a chance to wipe the dart,” said Harper.

“He had his chance,” said Alleyn, quickly. “Wasn’t it brought out that Legge helped the constable— Oates, isn’t it? — to find the dart? He had his chance, then, to wipe it.”

“And if he was guilty, why didn’t he?” ended Fox.

“You’re asking
me
,” said Superintendent Harper. “Here’s the Colonel.”

iii

The Chief Constable was an old acquaintance of Alleyn’s. Alleyn liked Colonel Brammington. He was a character, an oddity, full of mannerisms that amused rather than irritated Alleyn. He was so unlike the usual county-minded chief constable, that it was a matter for conjecture how he ever got the appointment for he spent half his life in giving offence and was amazingly indiscreet. He arrived at Illington Police Station in a powerful racing-car that was as scarred as a veteran. It could be heard from the moment it entered the street and Harper exclaimed agitatedly:

“Here he comes! He knows that engine’s an offence within the meaning of the Act and he doesn’t care. He’ll get us all into trouble one of these days. There are complaints on all sides. On all sides!”

The screech of heavy tyres and violent braking announced Colonel Brammington’s arrival and in a moment he came in. He was a vast red man with untidy hair, prominent eyes, and a loud voice. The state of his clothes suggested that he’d been dragged by the heels through some major disaster.

He shouted an apology at Harper, touched Alleyn’s hand as if it was a bomb, stared at Fox, and then hurled himself into a seagrass chair with such abandon that he was like to break it.

“I should have been here half an hour ago,” shouted Colonel Brammington, “but for my car, my detestable, my abominable car.”

“What was the matter, sir?” asked Harper.

“My good Harper, I have no notion. Fortunately I was becalmed near a garage. The fellow thrust his head among her smoking entrails, uttered some mumbojumbo, performed suitable rites with oil and water, and I was enabled to continue.”

He twisted his bulk in the creaking chair and stared at Alleyn.

“Perfectly splendid that you have responded with such magnificent celerity to our
cri du coeur
, Alleyn. We shall now resume, thankfully, the upholstered leisure of the not-too-front front stall.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, sir,” said Alleyn. “It looks as if there’s a weary grind ahead of us.”

“Oh God, how insupportably dreary! What, hasn’t the solution been borne in upon you in a single penetrating flash? Pray expect no help from me. Have you got a cigarette, Harper?”

Alleyn offered his case.

“Thank you. I haven’t even a match, I’m afraid. Ah, thank you.” Colonel Brammington lit his cigarette and goggled at Alleyn. “I suppose Harper’s given you the whole tedious rigmarole,” he said.

“He’s given me the file. I suggest that Fox and I take it with us to Ottercombe and digest it.”

“Oh Lord! Yes, do. Yes, of course. But you’ve discussed the case?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Harper has given me an excellent survey of the country.”

“It’s damned difficult country. Now, on the face of it, what’s your opinion; accident or not?”

“On the face of it,” said Alleyn, “not.”

“Oh Lord!” repeated Colonel Brammington. He got up, with surprising agility, from his tortured chair and moved restlessly about the room. “Yes,” he said, “I agree with you. The fellow was murdered. And of all the damned unconscionable methods of despatching a man! An envenom’d stick, by God! How will you hunt it home to this fellow?”

“Which fellow, sir?”

“The murderer, my dear man. Legge! A prating, soap-box-orator of a fellow, I understand — some squalid little trouble-hatcher. Good God, my little Alleyn, of course he’s your man! I’ve said so from the beginning. There was cyanide on the dart. He threw the dart. He deliberately pinked his victim.”

“Harper,” said Alleyn, with a glance at the superintendent’s shocked countenance, “tells me that several of the others agree that Legge had no opportunity to anoint the dart, with cyanide or anything else.”

“Drunk!” cried Colonel Brammington. “Soaked in a damn’ good brandy, the lot of ’em. My opinion.”

“It’s possible, of course.”

“It’s the only answer. My advice, for what it’s worth, is, haul him in for manslaughter. Ought to have been done at first, only that drooling old pedagogue Mordant didn’t put it to the jury. However, you must do as you think best.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Alleyn gravely. Brammington grinned.

“The very pineapple of politeness,” he quoted. “Come and dine with me to-morrow. Both of you.”

“May I ring up?”

“Yes, yes,” said Colonel Brammington impatiently. “Certainly.”

He hurried to the door as if overcome by an intolerable urge to move on somewhere. In the doorway he turned.

“You’ll come round to my view,” he said, “I’ll be bound you will.”

“At the moment, sir,” said Alleyn, “I have no view of my own.”

“Run him in on the minor charge,” added Colonel Brammington, raising his voice to a penetrating shout as he disappeared into the street, “and the major charge will follow as the night the day.”

A door slammed and in a moment the violence of his engines was reawakened.

“Well, now,” said Alleyn. “I wonder.”

i

The sun had nearly set when Alleyn and Fox drove down Ottercombe Road towards the tunnel. As the car mounted a last rise they could see Coombe Road, a quarter of a mile away across open hills. So clear was the evening that they caught a glint of gold where the surf broke into jets of foam against the sunny rocks. Alleyn slowed down and they saw the road sign at the tunnel entrance.

“Ottercombe. Dangerous corner. Change down.”

“So I should think,” muttered Alleyn, as the sheer drop appeared on the far side. He negotiated the corner and there, at the bottom of the steep descent, was the Plume of Feathers and Ottercombe.

“By George,” said Alleyn, “I don’t wonder Cubitt comes here to paint. It’s really charming, Fox, isn’t it? A concentric design, with the pub as its axis. And there, I fancy, is our friend Pomeroy.”

“On the look-out, seemingly,” said Fox.

“Yes. Look at the colour of the sea, you old devil. Smell that jetty-tar-and-iodine smell, blast your eyes. Fox, murder or no murder, I’m glad we came.”

“So long as you’re pleased, sir,” said Fox, drily.

“Don’t snub my ecstasies, Br’er Fox. Good evening, Mr. Pomeroy.”

Abel hurried forward and opened the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Alleyn, sir. We’m glad to see you. Welcome to the Feathers, sir.”

He used the same gestures, almost the same words, as those with which he had greeted Watchman, fourteen days ago. And Alleyn, if he had realized it, answered as Watchman had answered.

“We’re glad to get here,” he said.

“Will!” shouted old Abel. “Will!”

And Will, tall, fox-coloured, his eyes screwed up in the sunlight, came out and opened the back of the car. He was followed by a man whom Alleyn recognized instantly. He was nearly as striking off the stage as on it. The walk was unmistakable; the left shoulder raised very slightly, the long graceful stride, imitated with more ardour than discretion by half the young actors in London.

The newcomer glanced at Alleyn and Fox, and walked past the car.

“Another marvellous evening, Mr. Pomeroy,” he said airily.

“So ’tis, then, Mr. Parish,” said Abel.

Alleyn and Fox followed Will Pomeroy into the Feathers. Abel brought up the rear.

“Show the rooms, sonny. These are the gentlemen we’re expecting. They’re from London. From Scotland Yard,” said Abel.

Will Pomeroy gave them a startled glance.

“Move along, sonny,” said Abel. “This way, sir. Us’ll keep parlour for your private use, Mr. Alleyn, in case so be you fancy a bit of an office like.”

“That sounds an excellent arrangement,” said Alleyn.

“Have you had supper, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Pomeroy. We had it with Mr. Harper.”

“I wonder,” said Abel, unexpectedly, “that it didn’t turn your stomachs back on you, then.”

“This way, please,” said Will.

They followed Will up the steep staircase. Abel stood in the hall, looking after them.

The Feathers, like all old buildings, had its own smell. It smelt of wallpaper, driftwood smoke, and very slightly of beer. Through the door came the tang of the water-front to mix with the house-smell. The general impression was of coolness and seclusion. Will showed them two small bedrooms whose windows looked over Ottercombe Steps and the chimney-tops of Fish Lane, to the sea. Alleyn took the first of these rooms and Fox, the second.

“The bathroom’s at the end of the passage,” said Will, from Alleyn’s doorway. “Will that be all?”

“We shall be very comfortable,” said Alleyn, and as Will moved away, he added: “You’re Mr. Pomeroy’s son?”

“Yes,” said Will, stolidly.

“I expect Mr. Harper has explained why we are here.”

Will nodded and said nothing.

“I’d be very glad,” added Alleyn, “if you could spare me a minute or two, later on.”

Will said: “I’ll be serving in the bar all the evening.”

“I’ll see you there, then. Thank you.”

But Will didn’t move. He stared at the window and said: “This affair’s upset my father. He takes it to heart, like; the talk that goes on.”

“I know.”

“I reckon he’s right about it being no accident.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Nobody touched the bottle by mistake— ’tisn’t likely.”

“Look here,” said Alleyn, “can you spare a moment, now, to show me the rat-hole in the garage?”

Will’s eyelashes flickered.

“Yes,” he said, “reckon I can do that” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and added with a kind of truculence: “Reckon when the police come in, there’s not much use in refusing. Not unless you’ve got a pull somewhere.”

“Oh, come,” Alleyn said mildly, “we’re not as corrupt as all that, you know.”

Will’s face turned scarlet but he said doggedly: “It’s not the men, it’s the system. It’s the way everything is in this country.”

“One law,” suggested Alleyn, amiably, “for the rich, and so on?”

“It’s true enough.”

“Well, yes. In many ways, I suppose it is. However, I’m not open to any bribery at the moment. We always try to be honest for the first few days; it engenders confidence. Shall we go down to the garage?”

“It’s easy enough,” Will said, “to make the truth look silly. A man never seems more foolish-like than he does when he’s speaking his whole mind and heart. I know that.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn, “that’s quite true. I dare say the apostles were as embarrassing in their day, as the street-orator, with no audience, is in ours.”

“I don’t know anything about that. They were only setting up a superstition. I’m dealing with the sober truth.”

“That’s what I hope to do myself,” said Alleyn. “Shall we join the rats?”

Will led Alleyn across the yard to the old stables. A small evening breeze came in from the sea, lifting Alleyn’s hair and striking chill through his tweed coat. Gulls circled overhead. The sound of men’s voices drifted up from the waterfront.

“It’ll be dark in-along,” said Will.

“I’ve got a torch.”

“The rat-hole’s not in the proper garage, like. It’s in one of the loose-boxes. It’s locked and we haven’t got the key. Harper’s men did that.”

“Mr. Harper gave me the key,” said Alleyn.

The old loose-box had been padlocked, and sealed with police tape. Alleyn broke the tape and unlocked it.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you’d mind asking Mr. Fox to join me. He’s got a second torch. Ask him to bring my case.”

“Yes,” said Will, and after a fractional pause, “sir.”

Alleyn went into the stable. It had been used as an extra garage but there was no car in it now. Above the faint reek of petrol oozed another more disagreeable smell, sweetish and nauseating. The cyanide, thought Alleyn, had evidently despatched at least one rat. The place was separated from the garage-proper, an old coach-house, by a semi-partition; but the space between the top of the partition and the roof had recently been boarded up, and Alleyn awarded Harper a good mark for attention to detail. Harper, he knew, had also taken photographs of the rat-hole and tested the surrounding walls and floor for prints. He had found dozens of these.

Alleyn flashed his torch round the bottom of the walls and discovered the rat-hole. He stooped down. Harper had removed the rag and jar, tested them for prints, and found Abel’s. He had then drained off the contents of the jar and replaced it. There was the original rag, stuffed tight in the hole. Alleyn pulled it and the smell of dead rat became very strong indeed. The ray of light glinted on a small jar. It was less than an inch in diameter and about half an inch deep.

Fox loomed up in the doorway. He said:

“Thank you, Mr. Pomeroy, I’ll find my way in.”

Will Pomeroy’s boots retreated across the cobblestones.

“Look here, Br’er Fox,” said Alleyn.

A second circle of light flickered on the little vessel. Fox peered over Alleyn’s shoulder.

“And it was full,” said Fox.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “That settles it, I fancy.”

“How d’you mean, sir?”

“It’s a case of murder.”

ii

The parlour of the Feathers is the only room in the house that is generally uninhabited. For the usual patrons, the private tap is the common room. The parlour is across the side passage and opposite the public tap-room. It overlooks Ottercombe Steps, and beneath its windows are the roofs of the Fish Lane houses. It has a secret and deserted life of its own. Victoria’s Jubilee and Edward the Seventh’s Wedding face each other across a small desert of linoleum and plush. Above the mantelpiece hangs a picture of two cylindrical and slug-like kittens. Upon the mantelpiece are three large shells. A rag-rug, lying in front of the fire-place, suggests that in a more romantic age Harlequin visited the Feathers and slouched his skin before taking a leap up the chimney.

For Alleyn’s arrival, the parlour came to life. Someone had opened the window and placed a bowl of flowers on the plush-covered table. Abel Pomeroy hurriedly added a writing pad, a pencil, a terrible old pen and a bottle of ink. He surveyed these arrangements with an anxious smile, disappeared for a minute, and returned to ask Alleyn if there was anything else he needed.

“Two pints of beer, Mr. Pomeroy,” said Alleyn, “will set us up for the rest of the evening.”

Abel performed a sort of slow-motion trick with his right hand, drawing away his apron to reveal a thickly cobwebbed bottle.

“I wondered, sir,” he said, “if you’d pleasure me by trying a drop of this yurr tipple. ’Twurr laid down by my old Dad, many a year back. Sherry ’tis. ‘Montillady. I did used to call ’er Amadillo, afore I knew better.”

“But, my dear Mr. Pomeroy,” said Alleyn, “this is something very extra indeed. It’s wine for the gods.”

“Just what the old Colonel said, sir, when I told him us had it. It would pleasure the Feathers, sir, if you would honour us.”

“It’s extraordinarily nice of you.”

“You wurr ’straordinary nice to me, sir, when I come up to London. If you’ll axcuse me, I’ll get the glasses.”

“It should be decanted, Mr. Pomeroy.”

“So it should, then. I’ll look out a decanter tomorrow, sir, and in the meanwhile, us’ll open the bottle.”

They opened the bottle and took a glass each.

“To the shade of Edgar Allan Poe,” murmured Alleyn, and raised his glass.

“The rest is yours, gentlemen,” said Abel. “ ’Twill be set aside special. Thurr’s a decanter in the Private. If so be you ain’t afeared, same as George Nark, that all my bottles is full of pison, to-morrow I’ll decant this yurr tipple in your honour.”

Alleyn and Fox murmured politely.

“Be thurr anything else I can do, gentlemen?” asked Abel.

“We’ll have a look at the private bar, Mr. Pomeroy, if we may.”

“Certainly, sir, certainly, and terrible pleased us’ll be to have her opened up again. ’Tis like having the corpse itself on the premises, with Private shuttered up and us chaps all hugger-mugger of an evening in Public. Has His Royal Highness the Duke of Muck condescended to hand over the keys, sir?”

“What? Oh — yes, I have the keys.”

“Nick Harper!” said Abel, “with his fanciful blown-up fidgeting ways. Reckon the man laces his boots with red tape. This way, if you please, gentlemen, and watch yourselves for the step. ‘Dally-buttons, Nick,’ I said to him, ‘you’ve aimed your camera, and blowed thicky childish li’l squirter over every inch of my private tap, you’ve lain on your belly and scraped the muck off the floor. What do ’ee want?’ I said. ‘Do ’ee fancy the corpse will hant the place and write murderer’s name in the dust?’ I axed him. This is the door, sir.”

Alleyn produced his bunch of keys and opened the door.

The private tap had been locked up, by Oates, a fortnight ago, and reopened by Harper and his assistants only for purposes of investigation. The shutter over the bar-counter had been drawn down and locked. The window shutters also were fastened. The place was in complete darkness.

Abel switched on the light.

It was a travesty of the private tap that Alleyn saw. The comfort and orderliness of its habitual aspect were quite gone. It had suffered such a change as might overtake a wholesome wench, turned drab in a fortnight. Dust covered the tables, settles, and stools. The butt ends of cigarettes strewed the floor, tobacco ash lay everywhere in small patches and trails. The open hearth was littered with ashes of the fire that had warmed Watchman on the night he died. Five empty tumblers were stained with the dregs of Courvoisier ’87, two with the dregs of the ginger-beer. Of the eighth glass, such powdered fragments as had escaped Harper’s brush crunched jarringly underfoot. The room smelt indescribably stale and second-rate.

“It do gall me uncommon,” said Abel, “for my private tap-room to display itself in thicky shocking state.”

“Never mind, Mr. Pomeroy,” said Alleyn, “we’re used to it, you know.”

He stood just inside the door, with Fox at his shoulder. Abel watched them anxiously, but it is doubtful if he remarked the difference in their attitudes. Fox’s eyes, light grey in colour, brightened and sharpened as he looked about the room. But Alleyn might have been a guest in the house, and with no more interest than politeness might allow his gaze shifted casually from one dust-covered surface to another.

After a few minutes, however, he could have given a neat drawing, and nice attention to detail, of the private tap-room. He noticed the relative positions of the dart board, the bar, and the settle. He paid attention to the position of the lights, and remarked that the spot, chalked on the floor by Oates, where Legge had stood when he threw the darts, was immediately under a strong lamp. He saw that there was a light switch inside the door and another by the mantelpiece. He walked over to the corner cupboard.

“Nick Harper,” said Abel, “took away that-theer cursed pison bottle. He took away bits of broken glass and brandy bottle and iodine bottle. He took away the new darts, all six on ’em. All Nick Harper left behind is dirt and smell. Help yourself to either of ’em.”

“Don’t go just yet,” said Alleyn. “We want your help, Mr. Pomeroy, if you’ll give it to us.”