Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“You’ll be better out of here.”

She looked at him confusedly, seemed to hesitate, and then turned to Miss Darragh.

“Will you come, too?” asked Decima.

Miss Darragh looked fixedly at her and then seemed to make up her mind.

“Yes, my dear, certainly. We’re better out of the way now, you know.”

Miss Darragh gathered up her writing block and plodded to the door. Decima drew nearer to Will and, obeying the pressure of his hand, went out with him.

Legge walked across and looked down at the shrouded figure.

“My God,” he said, “do you think it was the dart that did it? My God, I’ve never missed before. He moved his finger. I swear he moved his finger. My God, I shouldn’t have taken that brandy!”

“Where is the dart?” asked Oates, still writing.

Legge began hunting about the floor. The broken glass crackled under his boots.

“If it’s all the same to you, Abel,” said Oates suddenly, “I reckon we’d better leave this end of the room till doctor’s come. If it’s all the same to you I reckon we’ll shift into the Public.”

“Let’s do that, for God’s sake,” said Parishi

Mr. Nark was suddenly and violently ill. “That settles it,” said old Abel. “Us’ll move.”

iii

“Steady,” said the doctor. “There’s no particular hurry, you know. It’s no joke negotiating Coombe Tunnel on a night like this. We must be nearly there.”

“Sorry,” said Cubitt. “I can’t get it out of my head you might — might be able to do something.”

“I’m afraid not, from your account. Here’s the tunnel now. I should change down to first, really I should.”

Cubitt changed down.

“I expect you wish you’d driven yourself,” he said grimly.

“If it hadn’t been for that slow puncture — there’s the turning. Can you do it in one in this car? Splendid. I must confess I don’t enjoy driving into the Coombe, even on clear nights. Now the road down. Pretty steep, really, and it’s streaming with surface water. Shameful state of repair. Here we are.”

Cubitt put on his brakes and drew up with a sidelong skid at the front door of the Feathers. The doctor got out, reached inside for his bag, and ducked through the rain into the entry. Cubitt followed him.

“In the private bar, you said?” asked Dr. Shaw.

He pushed open the door and they walked in.

The private bar was deserted but the lights were up in the Public beyond and they heard a murmur of voices.

“Hullo!” called Dr. Shaw.

There was a scuffling of feet and Will Pomeroy appeared on the far side of the bar.

“Here’s doctor,” said Will over his shoulder.

“Just a minute, Will,” said the voice of Mr. Oates. “I’ll trouble you stay where you are, if you please, gentlemen.”

He loomed up, massively, put Will aside, and reached Dr. Shaw by way of the tap-proper, ducking under both counters.

“Well, Oates,” said Dr. Shaw, “what’s the trouble?”

Cubitt, stranded inside the door, stayed where he was. Oates pointed to the settle. Dr. Shaw took off his hat and coat, laid them with his bag on a table, and then moved to the shrouded figure. He drew back the sheet and after a moment’s pause, stooped over Watchman.

Cubitt turned away. There was a long silence.

At last Dr. Shaw straightened up and replaced the sheet.

“Well,” he said, “let’s have the whole story again. I’ve had it once from Mr. Cubitt but he says he was a bit confused. Where are the others?”

“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.