Death at the Bar (12 page)

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 theatre. 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.”

“Go on, please,” said Alleyn.

“Well, the lights waver. Sometimes it’s almost dark, then the figures all show up again. Or—” Parish looked at Cubitt.

“No,” said Cubitt, “that wasn’t the brandy, Seb. You’re quite right.”

“Well, I can’t go any further,” said Parish petulantly. “The rest’s still a filthy nightmare. Can you sort it out?”

“Please do, if you can, Mr. Cubitt,” said Alleyn. Cubitt was filling his pipe. His fingers, blunt-ended, were stained, as usual, with oil paint.

“It’s as everybody described it at the inquest,” he said. “I think Seb and I both had the same idea, that Watchman was simply upset at the sight of his own blood. It’s true about the lights. The room seemed to — to sort of pulse with shadows. I remember Luke’s right hand. It groped about his chest as if he felt for a handkerchief or something. Legge said something like: ‘My God! I’m sorry, is it bad?’ Something like that. And then Legge said something more. ‘Look at his face! My God, it’s not lockjaw, is it?’ And you, Seb, said ‘Not it,’ and trotted out the old story about Luke’s sensibilities.”

“How was I to know? You make it sound—”

“Of course you weren’t to know. I agreed with you, but Legge was very upset and, at the mention of lockjaw, Abel went to the cupboard and got out the iodine and a bandage. Miss Darragh came to life, and took the bandage from Abel. Abel dabbed iodine on the finger, and Luke sort of shuddered, like you do with the sting of the stuff. Miss Darragh said something about brandy. Decima Moore took the bottle off the bar and poured some into Luke’s glass. His glass was on the table.”

“The table by the dart board close to Mr. Parish?”

Cubitt looked up from his pipe.

“That’s it,” he said. “Decima gave Luke the brandy. He seemed to get worse, just about then. He had a sort of convulsion.” Cubitt paused. “It was beastly,” he said and his voice changed. “The glass went flying. Miss Darragh pressed forward with the bandage and then— then the lights went out.”

“That’s very clear,” said Alleyn. “I take it that, from the time Abel Pomeroy got the iodine and bandage until Mr. Watchman died, you were all gathered round the settle?”

“Yes. We didn’t really change positions, much; not Legge, or Will, or Seb here, or me. Abel and the two women came forward.”

“And when the lights went up again,” said Alleyn, “were the positions the same?”

“Pretty much. But—”

“Yes?”

Cubitt looked steadily at Alleyn. His pipe was gripped between his teeth. He felt in his pockets.

“There was a devil of a lot of movement while the lights were out.”

i

“What sort of movement?” asked Alleyn.

“I know what you mean,” said Parish, before Cubitt could answer. “It was Luke. He must have had a sort of attack after the lights went out. It was appalling.”

“I don’t mean that,” said Cubitt. “I know Luke made a noise. His feet beat a sort of tattoo on the settle. He flung his arms about and — he made other noises.”

“For God’s sake,” Parish broke out, “don’t talk about it like that! I don’t know how you can sit there and discuss it.”

“It looks as if we’ve got to,” said Cubitt.

“I’m afraid it does,” agreed Alleyn. “What other movements did you notice, beyond those made by Mr. Watchman?”

“Somebody was crawling about the floor,” Cubitt said.

Parish made a gesture of impatience. “My dear old Norman,” he said, “ ‘Crawling about the floor!’ You’re giving Mr. Alleyn a wrong impression. Completely wrong! I’ve no doubt one of us may have stooped down in the dark, knelt down, perhaps, to try and get hold of Luke.”

“I don’t mean that at all,” said Cubitt calmly. “Someone was literally crawling about the floor. Whoever it was banged his head against my knees.”

“Where were you standing?” asked Alleyn.

“By the foot of the settle. I had my back to the settle. The backs of my knees touched it.”

“How d’you know it was a head?” demanded Parish. “It might have been a foot.”

“I can distinguish between a foot and a head,” said Cubitt, “even in the dark.”

“Somebody feeling round for the brandy glass,” said Parish.

“It was after the brandy glass was broken.” Cubitt looked at Alleyn. “Somebody trod on the glass soon after the lights went out. There’s probably nothing in it, anyway. I’ve no idea at all whose head it was.”

“Was it Legge’s head?” demanded Parish, suddenly.

“I tell you, Seb,” said Cubitt, quite mildly, “I don’t know whose head it was. I merely know it was there. It simply butted against my knees and drew away quickly.”

“Well, of course!” said Parish. “It was Abel.”

“Why Abel?”

Parish turned to Alleyn.

“Abel dropped the bottle of iodine just before the lights went out. I remember that. He must have stooped down to try and find it.”

“If it was Abel, he didn’t succeed,” said Alleyn. “The bottle was found under the settle, you know.”

“Well, it was dark.”

“So it was,” agreed Alleyn. “Why did you think it might be Mr. Legge’s head?”

Parish at once became very solemn. He moved to the hearthrug. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his shorts, pulled in his belly, and stuck out his jaw.

“God knows,” he began, “I don’t want to condemn any man, but Norman and I have talked this thing over.”

“Come off it, Seb,” said Cubitt. “We haven’t a blessed thing against the fellow, you know. Nothing that would be of any interest to Mr. Alleyn. I’m very well aware that my own ideas are largely self-protective. I suppose you know, Mr. Alleyn, that Watchman left me some of his money.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn.

“Yes. It’s as good a motive as any other. Better than most. I don’t fancy I’m in a position to make suggestions about other people.”

He said this with a sort of defiance, looking out of the window and half-smiling.

“This sort of thing,” added Cubitt, “finds out the thin patches in one’s honesty.”

“If you can admit as much,” said Alleyn, quickly, “perhaps they are not so very thin.”

“Thanks,” said Cubitt, drily.

“Well,” began Parish, with the air of running after the conversation, “I don’t altogether agree with you, Norman. I make no secret about dear old Luke leaving the rest of his money to me. In a way, it was the natural thing for him to do. I’m his next-of-kin.”

“But I,” said Cubitt, “am no relation at all.”

“Oh, my dear old boy!” cried Parish in a hurry. “You were his best friend. Luke said so when he—” Parish stopped short.

“To revert,” said Alleyn, “to Mr. Legge. You were going to talk about Mr. Legge, weren’t you?”

“I was,” said Parish. “I can’t help what you think, Norman old boy. It seems to me that Legge’s hand in this ghastly business is pretty obvious. Nobody but Legge could have known the poisoned dart would take effect. I must say I don’t see that there’s much mystery about it.”

“And the motive?” asked Cubitt.

Alleyn said: “I understand your cousin told you that he and Mr. Legge were strangers to each other.”

“I know he did,” said Parish, “but I don’t believe it was true. I believe Luke recognized Legge. Not at first, perhaps, but later. During that first evening in the bar. I suppose you know that Legge smashed into my cousin’s car before ever he got here? That’s a bit funny, too, when you come to think of it.”

“What,” asked Cubitt, “is the dark inference, Seb? Why was it funny? Do you suppose that Legge lurked round Diddlestock Corner in a two-seater, and that every time he heard a powerful car coming down Ottercombe Road, he hurled his baby out of cover in the hopes of ramming Luke?”

“Oh, don’t be an ass. I simply mean it was a coincidence.”

“About the first evening in the bar?” suggested Alleyn, who had decided that there was a certain amount to be said for allowing Parish and Cubitt plenty of rein.

“Yes. Well, I was going to tell you,” said Parish. “I talked to Luke while he had his supper in the bar. He told me about this business with the cars and rather let off steam on the subject of the other driver. Well, it turned out that Legge was sitting in the settle — the— actually it was the settle where Luke — where it happened. When Luke realized Legge must have heard he went across and sort of made the
amende-honorable
, if you know what I mean. He didn’t make much headway. Legge was rather stuffy and up-stage.”

“Was all this while the poison-party was going on in the stable?”

“What? Yes. Yes, it was.”

“So that Mr. Legge did not attend the party in the stables?”

“I suppose not. But he knew all about it. When Abel came in he warned everybody in the place about what he’d done.”

Parish hesitated. “It’s hard to describe,” he said. “But if you’d known my cousin you’d understand. He seemed to be getting at Legge. Even you’ll agree to that, Norman.”

“Yes,” said Cubitt. “I put it down to Luke’s vanity.”

“His vanity?” asked Alleyn.

“Parish doesn’t agree with me,” said Cubitt with a faint smile, “on the subject of Watchman’s vanity. I’ve always considered he attached importance to being on good terms with people. It seemed to me that when Legge snubbed his advances Watchman was at first disconcerted and put out of countenance, and then definitely annoyed. They had a bet on that first night about Legge’s dart-throwing and Legge won. That didn’t help. Then Watchman chipped Legge about his politics and his job. Not very prettily, I thought. It was then, or about then, that the trick with the darts was first mentioned.”

“By Legge,” Parish pointed out.

“I know, but Luke insisted on the experiment.”

“Mr. Cubitt,” said Alleyn, “did you not get the impression that these two men had met before?”

Norman Cubitt rumpled his hair and scowled.

“I don’t say that,” he said. “I wondered. But I don’t think one should attach too much importance to what Watchman said.” And like Parish, he added: “If you’d ever met him you’d understand.”

Alleyn did not think it necessary to say that he had met Watchman. He said: “Can you remember anything definite that seemed to point to recognition?”

“It was more the way Luke spoke than what he actually said,” explained Parish. “He kept talking about Legge’s job and sort of suggesting he’d done pretty well for himself. Didn’t he, Norman?”

“I seem to remember a phrase about leading the people by the nose,” said Cubitt, “which sounded rather offensive. And the way Luke invited Legge to play Round-the-Clock was not exactly the glass of fashion
or
the mould of form. He asked Legge if he’d ever done time.”

“Oh,” said Alleyn.

“But it all sounds far too solemn and significant when you haul it out and display it like this.”

“Anyone would think,” said Parish, “that you were trying to protect Legge. I thought it was all damned odd.”

“I’m not trying to protect Legge, but I’ve no particular wish to make him sound like a man of mystery. ‘Who is Mr. X?’ As far as we know, Mr. X is a rather dreary little Soviet-fan who combines philately with communism, and is pretty nippy with the darts. And what’s more, I don’t see how he could have infected the dart. In fact, I’m prepared to swear he didn’t. I was watching his hands. They’re ugly hands and he’s a clumsy mover. Have you noticed he always fumbles and drops his money when he pays for his drinks? He’s certainly quite incapable of doing any sleight-of-hand stuff with prussic acid.”

Alleyn looked at Fox. “That answers your question,” he said.

“What question?” asked Cubitt. “Or aren’t we supposed to know?”

“Fox wondered if Mr. Legge could be an expert at legerdemain,” said Alleyn.

“Well, you never know. That’s not impossible,” said Parish. “He might be.”

“I’ll stake my oath he’s not,” said Cubitt. “He’s no more likely to have done it than you are—”

Cubitt caught his breath and, for the first time, looked profoundly uncomfortable.

“Which is absurd,” he added.

Parish turned on Cubitt. His poise had gone and for a moment he looked as though he both hated Cubitt and was afraid of him.

“You seem very sure of yourself, Norman,” he said. “Apparently my opinion is of no value. I won’t waste any more of Mr. Alleyn’s time.”

“My dear old Seb—” Cubitt began.

Alleyn said: “Please, Mr. Parish! I’m sure all this business of questions that seem to have neither rhyme nor reason is tedious and exasperating to a degree. But you may be sure that we shall go as carefully as we go slowly. If there is any link between this man and your cousin I think I may promise you that we shall discover it.”

“I suppose so,” said Parish, not very readily. “I’m sorry if I’m unreasonable, but this thing has hit me pretty hard.”

“Oh dear,” thought Alleyn; “he
will
speak by the book!” And aloud he said: “Of course it has. I’ve nearly done for the moment. There are one or two more points. I think you looked at the new darts before they were handed to Mr. Legge.”

Parish froze at that. He stood there on the dappled hearthrug and stared at Alleyn. He looked like a frightened schoolboy.

“I only picked them up and looked at them,” he said. “Anyone will tell you that.” And then with a sudden spurt of temper: “Damnation, you’ll be saying I killed my cousin, next!”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Alleyn peacefully. “I was going to ask you to tell me who handled the darts before and after you did.”

Parish opened his mouth and shut it again. When he did speak it was with a kind of impotent fury.

“If you’d said at first — you’ve got me all flustered.”

Cubitt said: “I think I can tell you that, Alleyn. Abel unpacked the darts and laid them on the counter. Parish simply picked two or perhaps three of them up and poised them. That’s right, isn’t it, Seb?”

“I don’t know,” said Parish sullenly. “Have it your own way.
I
don’t know. Why should I remember?”

“No reason in the world,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

“Well,” said Cubitt, “Sebastian put them down and Will Pomeroy took them up. I remember that Will turned away and held them nearer the light. He said something about the way they were made, with the weight in the brass point and not in a lead band. He said that the card flights were better than feathers. Abel fitted the darts with card flights.” Cubitt hesitated and then added: “I don’t suppose it’s relevant but I’m prepared to say, definitely, that Parish did nothing more than pick them up and put them down.”

“Thank you, Norman,” said Parish. “Is that all, Mr. Alleyn?”

“My last question for the moment — did you see Miss Moore pour out the brandy for Mr. Watchman?”

Dead silence. And then Parish, wrinkling his forehead, looking half-peevish, half-frightened, said: “I didn’t watch her, but you needn’t go on probing into all that. Decima Moore had nothing to do with—”

“Seb,” interrupted Cubitt quietly, “you would do better to answer these questions as they are put to you. Mr. Alleyn will meet Decima. He will find out for himself that, as far as this affair is concerned, she is a figure of no importance. You must see that he’s got to ask about these things.” He turned to Alleyn with his pleasant lop-sided grin. “I believe the word is ‘routine,’ ” said Cubitt. “You see, I know my detective fiction.”

“Routine it is,” said Alleyn. “And you’re perfectly correct. Routine is the very fibre of police investigation. Your novelist too has now passed the halcyon days when he could ignore routine. He reads books about Scotland Yard, he swots up police manuals. He knows that routine is deadly dull and hopelessly poor material for a thriller; so, like a wise potboiler, he compromises. He heads one chapter ‘Routine,’ dismisses six weeks of drudgery in as many phrases, cuts the cackle and gets to the ’osses. I wish to the Lord we could follow his lead.”

“I’ll be bound you do,” said Cubitt. “Well, if it’s any help, I didn’t notice much when Decima poured out the brandy, except that she was very quick about it. She stood with the rest of us round the settle; someone suggested brandy, she said something about his glass being empty, and went to the bar for the bottle. I got the impression that she simply slopped some brandy in the glass and brought it straight to Watchman. If I may, I should like to add that she was on the best of terms with Watchman and, as far as I know, had no occasion in the world to wish him dead.”

“Good God!” said Parish in a hurry, “of course not. Of course not.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “I see. Thank you so much. Now then: Mr. Parish, until the accident, stood by the table where Mr. Watchman had left his empty glass. I take it that Mr. Parish would have noticed, would have been bound to notice, if anyone came near enough to interfere with the glass. He tells me that the rest of the party were grouped behind Legge. Do you agree to that, Mr. Cubitt?”