Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

He said, “What happened?”

Nobody answered. Old Pomeroy stood by the bar, his hands clasped in front of him. His face spoke only of complete bewilderment. He looked from one to another of the men as if somewhere there was some sort of explanation which had been withheld from him. Sebastian Parish and Norman Cubitt stood together in the inglenook. Parish’s face was stained with tears. He kept smoothing back his hair with a nervous and meaningless gesture of the right hand. Cubitt’s head was bent down. He seemed to be thinking deeply. Every now and then he glanced up sharply from under his brows. Mr. Nark sat on one of the bar stools clenching and unclenching his hands and struggling miserably with intermittent but profound hiccoughs. Legge, as white as paper, bit at his fingers and stared at Oates. Decima and Will stood together in the doorway. Miss Darragh sat just outside the inglenook on a low chair. Her moonlike face was colourless but she seemed composed.

Watchman lay on a settle near the dart board and opposite the bar. His eyes were wide open. They seemed to stare with glistening astonishment at the ceiling. The pupils were wide and black. His hands were clenched; the right arm lay across his body, the left dangled, and where the knuckles touched the floor they, like the back of the hand, were stained red.

“Well,” repeated Oates violently, “can’t any of you speak? What happened? Where’s your senses? Have you sent for a doctor?”

“The telephone’s dead,” said Will Pomeroy. “And he’s past doctoring, Dick.”

Oates picked up the left wrist.

“What’s this? Blood?”

“He got a prick from a dart.”

Oates looked at the clenched hand and felt the wrist. In the third finger there was a neat puncture on the outside, below the nail. It was stained brown. The nails were bluish.

“I did that,” said Legge suddenly. “It was my dart.”

Oates laid the hand down and bent over the figure. A drop of water fell from his coat on one of the staring eyes. He fumbled inside the shirt, looking over his shoulder at Will Pomeroy.

“We’ll have to fetch a doctor, however,” he said.

“I’ll go,” said Cubitt. “Is it Illington?”

“Dr. Shaw, sir. Main road in and the last corner. It’s on the left after you pass the police-station. He’s police surgeon. I’d be obliged if you’d stop at the station and report.”

“Right.” Cubitt went out.

Oates straightened up and unbuttoned his cape.

“I’ll have to get some notes down,” he said and felt in the pocket of his tunic. He stepped back and his boots crunched excruciatingly.

“There’s glass all over the floor,” said Will.

Decima Moore said: “Can’t we — cover him up?”

“It would be better, don’t you think?” said Miss Darragh, speaking for the first time. “Can I—?”

Will said: “I’ll get something,” and went out. Oates looked round the group and at last addressed himself to Sebastian Parish.

“How long ago was this, sir?” he asked.

“Only a few minutes. It happened just before you came in.”

Oates glanced at his watch.

“Half-past nine,” he said, and noted it down.

“Let’s hear what happened,” he said.

“But it’s not a case for the police,” said Parish. “I mean because he died suddenly—”

“You called me in, sir,” said Oates. “It’s no doubt a case for the doctor. Leave it, if you wish, sir, till he comes.”

“No, no,” said Parish, “I don’t mean that I object. It’s only that your notebook and everything — it’s so awful, somehow.” He turned to Abel Pomeroy. “You tell him.”

“It was like this, Dick,” said old Abel. “Mr. Legge, here, had told us how he could throw the darts like a circus chap between the fingers of a man’s hand stretched out on board. You heard him, Mr. Watchman, in his bold way, said he’d hold his hand out and Mr. Legge was welcome to have a shot at it. ’Twouldn’t do no great damage, Mr. Watchman said, if he did stick him. Us all said it was a silly rash kind of trick. But Mr. Watchman was hellbent on it.”

“He insisted,” said Will.

“So he did, then. And up goes his hand. Mr. Legge throws the first three as pretty as you please, outside little finger, atween little and third, atween third and middle. Then he throws the fourth, and ’stead of going atween middle and first finger it catches little finger. ‘Got me’, says Mr. Watchman, and then — then what?” asked Abel.

“It was curious,” said Miss Darragh slowly. “He didn’t move his hand at once. He kept it there against the board. The blood trickled down his finger and spread like veins in a leaf over the back of his hand. One had time to wonder if the dart had gone right through and he was in a way, crucified.”

“He turned mortal ghastly white,” said Abel.

“And then pulled the dart out,” said Parish, “and threw it down on the floor. He shuddered, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Abel. “He shuddered violent.”

“He always turned queer at the sight of his own blood, you know,” said Parish.

“Well, what next?” asked Oates.

“I think he took a step towards the settle,” said Parish.

“He sat on the settle,” said Decima. “Miss Darragh said, ‘He’s feeling faint, give him a sip of brandy.’ Mr. Legge said he looked ill and could he have lockjaw? Someone else, Mr. Pomeroy I think, said he ought to have iodine on his finger. Anyway, Mr. Pomeroy got the first-aid box out of the bottom cupboard. I looked for a glass with brandy in it but they were all empty. I got the bottle. While I was doing that — pouring out the brandy, I mean — Mr. Pomeroy dabbed iodine on the finger. Mr. Watchman clenched his teeth and cried out. He jerked up his arms.”

She stopped and closed her eyes.

Will Pomeroy had come back with a sheet. He spread it over Watchman and then turned to Decima.

“I’ll take you out of this,” he said. “Come upstairs to Mrs. Ives, Dessy.”

“No, I’ll finish.”

“No need.”

Will put his arm across Decima’s shoulder and turned to Oates.

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Parish, here, said Mr. Watchman couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Father said something about iodine like Dessy told you and he got the first-aid box out of the cupboard. He took out the bottle and it was nearly empty. Father tipped it up and poured some on Mr. Watchman’s finger and then got out a bandage. Then Dessy gave him his brandy. He knocked the glass out of her hand.”

“Miss Darragh was just going to tie his finger up,” said Abel, “when lights went out.”

“Went out?”

“ ’Ess. They’d been upping and downing ever since thunder set in and this time they went out proper for about a minute.”

“It was frightful,” said Parish rapidly. “We could hear him breathing. We were all knocking against each other with broken glasses everywhere and — those awful noises. Nobody thought of the oil lamps, but Legge said he’d throw some wood on the fire to make a blaze. He did, and just then the lights went up.”

“Hold hard, if you please, sir,” said Oates. “I’ll get this down in writing.”

“But, look here—”

Parish broke off and Will began again —

“When the lights went on again we all looked at Mr. Watchman. He was in a kind of fit, seemingly. He thrashed about with his arms and legs and then fell backwards on settle where he is now. His breathing came queer for a bit and then — didn’t come at all. I tried to get the doctor but the wires must be down. Then I came out and called you.”

Will turned Decima towards the door.

“If you want me, Father,” he said, “I’ll be up-along. Coming, Dessy?”

“I’m all right,” said Decima.