Death at the Bar (7 page)

“In here, Doctor,” said Abel Pomeroy. “Will you come through?”

Oates and Will held up the counter-flap and Dr. Shaw went into the public bar. Parish, Mr. Nark and Abel had got to their feet.

Dr. Shaw was not the tallest man there but he dominated the scene. He was pale and baldish and wore glasses. His intelligence appeared in his eyes, which were extremely bright and a vivid blue. His lower lip protruded. He had an unexpectedly deep voice, a look of serio-comic solemnity, and a certain air of distinction. He looked directly and with an air of thoughtfulness at each of the men before him.

“His relations must be told,” he said.

Parish moved forward. “I’m his cousin,” he said, “and his nearest relation.”

“Oh yes,” said Dr. Shaw. “You’re Mr. Parish?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Sad business, this.”

“What was it?” asked Parish. “What happened? He was perfectly well. Why did he — I don’t understand.”

“Tell me this,” said Dr. Shaw. “Did your cousin become unwell as soon as he received this injury from the dart?”

“Yes. At least he seemed to turn rather faint. I didn’t think much of it because he’s always gone like that at the sight of his own blood.”

“Like what? Can you describe his appearance?”

“Well, he — Oh God, what did he do, Norman?”

Cubitt said: “He just said ‘Got me’ when the dart struck and then afterwards pulled it out and threw it down. He turned terribly pale. I think he sort of collapsed on that seat.”

“I’ve seen a man with tetanus,” said Legge suddenly. “He looked just the same. For God’s sake, Doctor, d’you think he could have taken tetanus from that dart?”

“I can’t tell you that off-hand, I’m afraid. What happened next?”

Dr. Shaw looked at Cubitt.

“Well, Abel here — Mr. Pomeroy — got a bandage and a bottle of iodine, and put some iodine on the finger. Then Miss Darragh, a lady who’s staying here, said she’d bandage the finger and while she was getting out the bandage Miss Moore gave him brandy.”

“Did he actually take the brandy?”

“I think he took a little but after she’d tipped the glass up he clenched his teeth and knocked it out of her hand.”

“Complain of pain?”

“No. He looked frightened.”

“And then? After that?”

“After that? Well, just at that moment, really, the lights went out, and when they went up again he seemed much worse. He was in a terrible state.”

“A fit,” said Mr. Nark, speaking for the first time. “The man had a fit. Ghastly!” He belched uproariously.

“There’s a very strong smell of brandy,” said Dr. Shaw.

“It spilt,” explained Mr. Nark hurriedly. “It’s all over the floor in there.”

“Where’s the dart, Oates?” asked Dr. Shaw.

“In there, sir. I’ve put it in a clean bottle and corked it up.”

“Good. I’d better have it. You’ll have to leave the room in there as it is, Mr. Pomeroy, until I’ve had a word with the Superintendent. The body may be removed in the morning.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I’m afraid, Mr. Parish, that under the circumstances I must report this case to the coroner.”

“Do you mean there’ll have to be an inquest?”

“If he thinks it necessary.”

“And — and a post-mortem?”

“If he orders it.”

“Oh God!” said Parish.

“May I have your cousin’s full name and his address?”

Parish gave them. Dr. Shaw looked solemn and said it would be a great loss to the legal profession. He then returned to the private bar. Oates produced his notebook and took the floor.

“I’ll have all your names and addresses, if you please, gentlemen,” he said.

“What’s the use of saying that?” demanded Mr. Nark, rallying a little. “You know ’em already. You took our statements. We’ve signed ’em, and whether we should in law, is a point I’m not sure of.”

“Never mind if I know ’em or don’t, George Nark,” rejoined Oates, “I know my business and that’s quite sufficient. What’s your name?”

He took all their names and addresses and suggested that they go to bed. They filed out through a door into the passage. Oates then joined Dr. Shaw in the private bar.

“Hullo, Oates,” said the doctor. “Where’s that dart?”

“Legge picked the dart off the floor,” Oates said.

He showed it to Dr. Shaw. He had put it into an empty bottle and sealed it.

“Good,” said Dr. Shaw, and put the bottle in his bag. “Now the remains of the brandy glass. They seem to have tramped it to smithereens. We’ll see if we can gather up some of the mess. There’s a forceps and an empty jar in my bag. Where did the iodine come from?”

“Abel keeps his first-aid outfit in that corner cupboard, sir. He’s a great one for iodine. Sloushed it all over Bob Legge’s face to-day when he cut himself with his razor.”

Dr. Shaw stooped and picked up a small bottle that had rolled under the settle.

“Here it is, I suppose.” He sniffed at it. “Yes, that’s it. Where’s the cork?”

He hunted about until he found it.

“Better take this, too. And the brandy bottle. Good Heavens, they seem to have done themselves remarkably proud. It’s nearly empty. Now where’s the first-aid kit?”

Dr. Shaw went to the cupboard and stared up at the glass door.

“What’s that bottle in there?” he said sharply.

Oates joined them.

“That sir? Oh yes, I know what that is. It’s some stuff Abel got to kill the rats in the old stables. He mentioned it earlier this evening.”

Oates rubbed his nose vigorously.

“Seems more like a week ago. There was the deceased gentleman standing drinks and chaffing Abel not much more than a couple of hours ago. And now look at him. Ripe for coroner as you might say.”

“Did Abel say what this rat-poison was?”

“Something in the nature of prussic acid, I fancy, sir.”

“Indeed?” said Dr. Shaw. “Get my gloves out of my overcoat pocket, will you, Oates?”

“Your gloves, sir?”

“Yes, I want to open the cupboard.”

But when Oates brought the gloves Dr. Shaw still stared at the cupboard door.

“Your gloves, sir.”

“I don’t think I’ll use ’em. I don’t think I’ll open the door, Oates. There may be fingerprints all over the shop. We’ll leave the cupboard doors, Oates, for the expert.”

i

The Illington coroner was James Mordant, Esq., M.D. He was sixty-seven years old and these years sat heavily upon him, for he suffered from dyspepsia. He seemed to regard his fellow men with brooding suspicion, he sighed a great deal, and had a trick of staring despondently at the merest acquaintances. He had at one time specialized in bacteriology and it was said of him that he saw human beings as mere playgrounds for brawling micrococci. It was also said that when Dr. Mordant presided over an inquest, the absence in court of the corpse was not felt. He sat huddled up behind his table and rested his head on his hand with such a lack-lustre air that one might have thought he scarcely listened to the evidence. This was not the case, however. He was a capable man.

On the morning of the inquest on Luke Watchman, the third day after his death, Dr. Mordant, with every appearance of the deepest distrust, heard his jury sworn and contemplated the witnesses. The inquest was held in the Town Hall, and because of the publicity given to Watchman’s death in the London paper, was heavily attended by the public. Watchman’s solicitor, who in the past had frequently briefed him, had come down from London. So had Watchman’s secretary and junior, and a London doctor who had attended him recently. There was a fair sprinkling of London pressmen. Dr. Mordant, staring hopelessly at an old man in the front row, charged the jury to determine how, when, where, and by what means, deceased came by his death; and whether he died from criminal, avoidable, or natural causes. He then raised his head and stared at the jury.

“Is it your wish to view the body?” he sighed.

The jury whispered and huddled, and its foreman, an auctioneer, said they thought perhaps under the circumstances they
should
view the body.

The coroner sighed again and gave an order to his officer. The jury filed out and returned in a few minutes looking unwholesome. The witnesses were then examined on oath by the coroner.

P. C. Oates gave formal evidence of the finding of the body. Then Sebastian Parish was called and identified the body. Everybody who had seen his performance of a bereaved brother, in the trial scene of a famous picture, was now vividly reminded of it. But Parish’s emotion, thought Cubitt, could not be purely histrionic unless, as he had once declared, he actually changed colour under the stress of a painful scene. Sebastian was now very pale indeed, and Cubitt wondered uneasily what he thought of this affair, and how deeply he regretted the loss of his cousin. He gave his evidence in a low voice but it carried to the end of the building, and when he faltered at the description of Watchman’s death, at least two of the elderly ladies in the public seats were moved to tears. Parish wore a grey suit, a soft white shirt and a black tie. He looked amazingly handsome, and on his arrival had been photographed several times.

Cubitt was called next and confirmed Parish’s evidence.

Then Miss Darragh appeared. The other witnesses exuded discomfort and formality but Miss Darragh was completely at her ease. She took the oath with an air of intelligent interest. The coroner asked her if she had remembered anything that she hadn’t mentioned in her first statement, or if there was any point that had been missed by the previous witness.

“There is not,” said Miss Darragh. “I told the doctor, Dr. Shaw ’twas all I had seen; and when the policeman, Constable Oates ’twas, came up on the morning after the accident, I told ’um all I knew all over again. If I may be allowed to say so, it is my opinion that the small wound Mr. Watchman had from the dart had nothing whatever to do with his death.”

“What makes you think that, Miss Darragh?” asked the coroner with an air of allowing Miss Darragh a certain amount of latitude.

“Wasn’t it a small paltry prick from a brand-new dart that couldn’t hurt a child. As Mr. Parish said at the time, he was but frightened at the sight of his own blood. That was my own impression. ’Twas later that he became so ill.”

“When did you notice the change in his condition?”

“Later.”

“Was it after he had taken the brandy?”

“It was. Then, or about then, or after.”

“He took the brandy after Mr. Pomeroy put iodine on his finger?”

“He did.”

“You agree for the rest with the previous statement?”

“I do.”

“Thank you, Miss Darragh.”

Decima Moore came next. Decima looked badly shaken but she gave her evidence very clearly and firmly. The coroner stopped her when she came to the incident of the brandy. He had a curious trick of prefacing many of his questions with a slight moan, rather in the manner of a stage parson.

“N-n-n you say, Miss Moore, that the deceased swallowed some of the brandy.”

“Yes,” said Decima.

“N-n-now you are positive on that point?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Thank you. What happened to the glass?”

“He knocked it out of my hand on to the floor.”

“Did you get the impression that he did this deliberately?”

“No. It seemed to be involuntary.”

“And was the glass broken?”

“Yes.” Decima paused. “At least—”

“N-n-n-yes?”

“It was broken, but I don’t remember whether that happened when it fell, or afterwards when the light went out. Everybody seemed to be treading on broken glass after the lights went out.”

The coroner consulted his notes.

“And for the rest, Miss Moore, do you agree with the account given by Mr. Parish, Mr. Cubitt and Miss Darragh?”

“Yes.”

“In every particular?”

Decima was now very white indeed. She said: “Everything they said is quite true, but there is one thing they didn’t notice.”

The coroner sighed.

“What is that, Miss Moore?” he asked.

“It was after I gave him the brandy. He gasped and I thought he spoke. I thought he said one word.”

“What was it?”

“ ‘Poisoned,’ ” said Decima.

A sort of rustling in the room seemed to turn the word into an echo.

The coroner added to his notes.

“You are sure of this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes. And then?”

“He clenched his teeth very hard. I don’t think he spoke again.”

“Are you positive that it was Mr. Watchman’s own glass that you gave him?”

“Yes. He put it on the table when he went to the dart board. It was the only glass there. I poured a little into it from the bottle. The bottle was on the bar.”

“Had anyone but Mr. Watchman touched the glass before you gave him the brandy?”

Decima said: “I didn’t notice anyone touch it.”

“Quite so. Have you anything further to tell us? Anything that escaped the notice of the previous witnesses?”

“Nothing,” said Decima.

Her deposition was read to her, and, like Parish and Cubitt, she signed it.

Will Pomeroy took the oath with an air of truculence and suspicion, but his statement differed in no way from the others, and he added nothing material to the evidence. Mr. Robert Legge was the next to give evidence on the immediate circumstances surrounding Watchman’s death.

On his appearance there was a tightening of attention among the listeners. The light from a high window shone full on Legge. Cubitt looked at his white hair, the grooves and folds of his face, and the calluses on his hands. He wondered how old Legge was and why Watchman had baited him, and exactly what sort of background he had. It was impossible to place the fellow. His clothes were good; a bit antiquated as to cut perhaps, but good. He spoke like an educated man and moved like a labourer. As he faced the coroner he straightened up and held his arms at his side almost in the manner of a private soldier. His face was rather white and his fingers twitched, but he spoke with composure. He agreed that the account given by the previous witnesses was correct. The coroner clasped his hands on the table and gazed at them with an air of distaste.

“About this n-n-n-experiment with the darts, Mr. Legge,” he said. “When was it first suggested?”

“I believe on the night of Mr. Watchman’s arrival. I mentioned, I think, that I had done the trick and he said something to the effect that he wouldn’t care to try. I think he added that he might, after all, like to see me do it.” Legge moistened his lips. “Later on that evening, I did the trick in the public tap-room, and he said that if I beat him at Round-the-Clock he’d let me try it on him.”

“What,” asked the coroner, drearily, “is Round-the-Clock?”

“You play into each segment of the dart board, beginning at Number One. As soon as you miss a shot the next player has his turn. You have three darts, that is three chances to get a correct opening shot, but after that you carry on until you do miss. You have to finish with fifty.”

“You all played this game?”

Legge hesitated: “We were all in it except Miss Darragh. Miss Moore began. When she missed, Mr. Cubitt took the next turn; then I came.”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t miss.”

“You mean you n-n-ran out in one turn?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Mr. Watchman said he believed he would trust me to do the hand trick.”

“And did you do it?”

“No. I was not anxious to do it and turned the conversation. Later, as I have said, I did it in the public room.”

“But the following night, last Friday, you attempted it on the deceased?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell us how this came about?”

Legge clenched his fingers and stared at an enlargement of a past mayor of Illington.

“In much the same circumstances. I mean, we were all in the private bar. Mr. Watchman proposed another game of Round-the-Clock and said definitely that, if I beat him, I should try the trick with the hand. I did win and he at once insisted on the experiment.”

“Were you reluctant?”

“I — No. I have done the trick at least fifty times and I have only failed once before. On that occasion no harm was done. The dart grazed the third finger, but it was really nothing. I told Mr. Watchman of this incident, but he said he’d stick to his bargain, and I consented.”

“Go on, please, Mr. Legge.”

“He put his hand against the dart board with the fingers spread out as I suggested. There were two segments of the board showing between the fingers in each instance.” Legge paused and then said: “So you see it’s really easier than Round-the-Clock. Twice as easy.”

Legge stopped and the coroner waited.

“Yes?” he said to his blotting paper.

“I tried the darts, which were new ones, and then began. I put the first dart on the outside of the little finger and the next between the little and third fingers and the next between the third and middle.”

“It was the fourth dart, then, that miscarried?”

“Yes.”

“How do you account for that?”

“At first I thought he had moved his finger. I am still inclined to think so.”

The coroner stirred uneasily.

“Would you not be positive on this point if it was so? You must have looked fixedly at the fingers.‘’

“At the space between,” corrected Legge.

“I see.” Dr. Mordant looked at his notes.

“The previous statements,” he said, “mention that you had all taken a certain amount of a vintage brandy. Exactly how much brandy, Mr. Legge, did you take?”

“Two nips.”

“How large a quantity? Mr. William Pomeroy states that a bottle of Courvoisier ’87 was opened at Mr, Watchman’s request, and that the contents were served out to everyone but himself, Miss Darragh, and Miss Moore. That would mean a sixth of a bottle to each of the persons who took it?”

“Er — yes. Yes.”

“Had you finished your brandy when you threw the dart?”

“Yes.”

“Had you taken anything else previously?”

“A pint of beer,” said Legge unhappily.

“N-n-n-yes. Thank you. Now, where did you put the darts you used for this experiment?”

“They were new darts. Mr. Pomeroy opened the package and suggested—” Legge broke off and wetted his lips. “He suggested that I should christen the new darts,” he said.

“Did you take them from Mr. Pomeroy?”

“Yes. He fitted the flights while we played Round-the-Clock and then gave them to me for the experiment.”

“No one else handled them?”

“Mr. Will Pomeroy and Mr. Parish picked them up and looked at them.”

“I see. Now, for the sequel, Mr. Legge.”

But again Legge’s story followed the others. His deposition was read to him and he signed it, making rather a slow business of writing his name. The coroner called Abel Pomeroy.

ii

Abel seemed bewildered and nervous. His habitual cheerfulness had gone and he gazed at the coroner as at a recording angel of peculiar strictness. When they reached the incident of the brandy, Dr. Mordant asked Abel if he had opened the bottle. Abel said he had.

“And you served it, Mr. Pomeroy?”

“ ’Ess, sir.”

“Will you tell us from where you got the glasses and how much went into each glass?”

“ ’Ess, sir. I got glasses from cupboard under bar. They was the best glasses. Mr. Watchman said we would kill the bottle in two halves, sir. So I served half-bottle round. ’Twas about two fingers each. Us polished that off and then they played Round-the-Clock, sir, and then us polished off t’other half. ’Least, sir, I didn’t take my second tot. Tell the truth, sir, I hadn’t taken no more than a drop of my first round and that was enough for me. I’m not a great drinker,” said old Abel innocently, “and I mostly bides by beer. But I just took a drain to pleasure Mr. Watchman. I served out for the rest of the company ’cepting my Will and Miss Darragh and Miss Dessy — Miss Moore, sir. But I left fair drain in bottle.”

“Why did you do that?”

Abel rubbed his chin and glanced uncomfortably at the other witnesses.

“Seemed like they’d had enough, sir.”

“This was before the experiment with the deceased’s hand, of course,” said the ooroner to the jury. “Yes, Mr. Pomeroy? How much was in the glasses on the second round?”

“ ’Bout a finger and half, sir, I reckon.”

“Did you hand the drinks round yourself?”