Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

The coroner summed up at considerable length and with commendable simplicity. His manner suggested that the jury as a whole was certifiable as mentally unsound, but that he knew his duty and would perform it in the teeth of stupidity. He surveyed the circumstances surrounding Watchman’s death. He pointed out that the only word spoken by the deceased, the word “poisoned,” overheard by one witness alone, should not weigh too heavily in the minds of the jury. In the first place the evidence might be regarded as hearsay, and therefore inadmissible at any other court. In the second, there was nothing to show why the deceased had uttered this word or whether his impression had been based on any actual knowledge. They might attach considerable importance to the point that the post-mortem analysis gave positive signs of the presence of some kind of cyanide in the blood. They might, while remembering the presence of a strong solution of hydrocyanic acid in the room, also note the assurance given by several of the witnesses that all reasonable precaution had been taken in the use and disposal of the bottle. They would very possibly consider that the use, for domestic purposes, of so dangerous a poison, was extremely ill-advised. He reminded them of Watchman’s idiosyncrasy for the acid. He delivered a short address on the forms in which this, the most deadly of the cerebral depressants, was usually found. He said that, since hydrogen cyanide is excessively volatile, the fact that none was found in the stomach did not preclude the possibility that the deceased had taken it by the mouth. He reminded them again of the expert evidence. No cyanide had been found in the brandy bottle or the iodine bottle. The fragments of the broken brandy glass had also given a negative result in the test for cyanide, but they might remember that as these fragments were extremely minute, the test, in this instance, could not be considered conclusive. They would of course note that the point of the dart had yielded a positive result in the second test made by the analyst. This dart was new, but had been handled by three persons before Mr. Legge used it. He wound up by saying that if the jury came to the conclusion that the deceased died of cyanide poisoning but that there was not enough evidence to say, positively, how he took the poison, they might return a verdict to this effect.

Upon this hint the jury retired for ten minutes and came back to deliver themselves, as well as they could remember them, in Dr. Mordant’s own words. They added a shocked and indignant remark on the subject of prussic acid in the home.

The inquest on Luke Watchman was ended and his cousin was free to bury his body.

i

“Summer,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn moodily, “is acoming in and my temper is agoing out. Lhude sing cuccu. I find that the length of my patience, Fox, fluctuates in an inverse ratio with the length of the days.”

“Don’t you like the warm weather?” asked Detective-Inspector Fox.

“Yes, Fox, but not in London. Not in the Yard. Not in the streets, where one feels dirty half an hour after one has bathed. Not when one is obliged to breathe the fumes of petrol and the body-odour of those who come to make statements and remain to smell. That creature who has just left us stank abominably. However, the case is closed, which is a slight alleviation. But I don’t like summer in London.”

“Ah well,” said Fox, shifting his thirteen stone from one leg to the other, “ chacun à son goût .”

“Your French improves.”

“It ought to, Mr. Alleyn. I’ve been sweating at it for two years now, but I can’t say I feel what you might call at home with it. Give me time and I can see my way with the stuff but that’s not good enough. Not nearly good enough.”

“Courage, Fox. Dogged as does it. What brought you up here?”

“There’s a chap came into the waiting-room an hour ago with rather a rum story, sir. They sent him along to me. I don’t know that there’s much in it but I thought you might be interested.”

“Why?” asked Alleyn apprehensively.

“I nearly sent him off,” continued Fox, who had his own way of imparting information. “I did tell him it was nothing to do with us and that he’d better go to the local Super which is, of course, what he’ll have to do anyway if there’s anything in it.”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “am I a Tantalus that you should hold this beaker, however unpalatable, beyond my reach? What was this fellow’s story? What prevented you from following the admirable course you have outlined? And why have you come in here?”

“It’s about the Watchman business.”

“Oh?” Alleyn swung round in his chair. “What about it?”

“I remembered you’d taken an interest in it, Mr. Alleyn, and that deceased was a personal friend of yours.”

“Well — an acquaintance.”

“Yes. You mentioned that there were one or two points that were not brought out at the inquest.”

“Well?”

“Well, this chap’s talking about one of them. The handling of the darts.”

Alleyn hesitated. At last he said: “He must go to the local people.”

“I thought you might like to see him before we got rid of him.”

“Who is he?”

“The pub-keeper.”

“Has he come up from Devon to see us?”

“Yes, he has. He says the Super at Illington wouldn’t listen to him.”

“None of our game.”

“I thought you might like to see him,” Fox repeated.

“All right, blast you. Bring him up.”

“Very good, sir,” said Fox, and went out.

Alleyn put his papers together and shoved them into a drawer of his desk. He noticed with distaste that the papers felt gritty and that the handle of the drawer was sticky. He wished suddenly that something important might crop up somewhere in the country, somewhere, for preference, in the South of England; and his thoughts switched back to the death of Luke Watchman in Devon. He called to mind the report on the inquest. He had read it attentively.

Fox returned and stood with his hand on the door.

“In here, if you please, Mr. Pomeroy,” said Fox.

Alleyn thought his visitor would have made a very good model for the portrait of an innkeeper. Abel’s face was broad, ruddy and amiable. His mouth looked as if it had only just left off smiling and was ready to break into a smile again; for all that, at the moment, he was rather childishly solemn. He wore his best suit and it sat uneasily upon him. He walked halfway across the floor and made a little bow.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Abel.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pomeroy. I hear you’ve come all the way up from the West Country to see us.”

“I have so, sir. First time since Coronation and not such a pleasant errand. I bide home-along mostly.”

“Lucky man. Sit down, Mr. Pomeroy.”

“Much obliged, sir.”

Abel sat down and spread his hands on his knees.

“This gentleman,” he said, looking at Fox, “says it do be none of your business here, sir. That’s a bit of a facer. I got no satisfaction along to Illington, and I says to myself: ‘I’ll go up top. I’ll cut through all their pettifogging, small-minded ways, and lay my case boldly before the witty brains of those masterpieces at Scotland Yard.’ Seems like I’ve wasted time and money.”

“That’s bad luck,” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry, but Inspector Fox is right. The Yard only takes up an outside case at the request of the local Superintendent, you see. But if you’d care to tell me, unofficially, what the trouble is, I think I may invite you to do so.”

“Better than nothing, sir, and thank you very kindly.” Abel moistened his lips and rubbed his knees. “I’m sore troubled,” he said. “It’s got me under the weather. First time anything of a criminal nature has ever come my way. The Feathers has got a clean sheet, sir. Never any trouble about after-hours in my house. Us bides by the law and now it seems as how the law don’t bide by we.”