Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“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.”