Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“Somebody else may have mucked about with the bottle and won’t own up,” Fox speculated.

“Possible. But who’d muck about with hydrocyanic acid for the sheer fun of the thing?”

“The alternative,” said Fox, “is murder.”

“Is it? Well, you bumble off and brood on it. You must be one of those zealous officers who rise to the top of the profession.”

“Well, sir,” said Fox, “it’s funny. On the face of it, it’s funny.”

“Run away and laugh at it, then. I’m going home, Br’er Fox.”

But when Fox had gone, Alleyn sat and stared at the top of his desk. At last he drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write.

Dear Nick,

It’s some time since we met, and you’ll wonder why the devil I’m writing. A friend of yours has just called on us: Abel Pomeroy of the Plume of Feathers, Ottercombe. He’s in a state of injury and fury, and is determined to get to the bottom of the Luke Watchman business. I tried to fob him off with fair words, but it wasn’t a howling success and he’s gone away with every intention of making things hum, until you lug a murderer home to justice. I thought I’d just warn you but you’ll probably hear from him before this reaches you. Don’t, for the love of Mike, think we want to butt in. How are you? I envy you your job, infuriated innkeepers and all. In this weather we suffocate at C.I.

Yours ever,

Roderick Alleyn.

Alleyn sealed and stamped this letter. He took his hat and stick from the wall, put on one glove, pulled it off again, cursed, and went to consult the newspaper files for the reports on the death of Luke Watchman.

An hour passed. It is significant that when he finally left the Yard and walked rapidly down the Embankment, his lips were pursed in a soundless whistle.

i

Superintendent Nicholas Harper to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn —

Illington Police Station,

South Devon.

August 8th .

Dear Mr. Alleyn,

Yours of the 6th inst. to hand for which I thank you. As regards Mr. Abel Pomeroy I am very grateful for information received as per your letter as it enabled me to deal with Pomeroy more effectively, knowing the action he had taken as regards visiting C.I. For your private information we are working on the case which presents one or two features which seem to preclude possibility of accident. Well, Mr. Alleyn — Rory, if you will pardon the liberty — it was nice to hear from you. I have not forgotten that arson case in ’37 nor the old days in L. Division. A country Super gets a bit out of things. With kind regards and many thanks,

Yours faithfully,

N. W. Harper (Superintendent).

Part of a letter from Colonel the Honourable Maxwell Brammington, Chief Constable of South Devon, to the Superintendent of the Central Branch of New Scotland Yard —

… And on the score of the deceased’s interests and activities being centred in London, I have suggested to Superintendent Harper that he consult you. In my opinion the case is somewhat beyond the resources and experience of our local force. Without wishing for a moment to exceed my prerogative in this matter, I venture to suggest that as we are already acquainted with Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn of C.I., we should be delighted if he was appointed to this case. That, however, is of course entirely for you to decide,

I am,

Yours faithfully,

Maxwell Brammington, C. C.

“Well, Mr. Alleyn,” said the Superintendent of C.I., staring at the horsehoe and crossed swords that garnished the walls of his room, “you seem to be popular in South Devon.”

“It must be a case, sir,” said Alleyn, “of sticking to the ills they know.”

“Think so? Well, I’ll have a word with the A.C. You’d better pack your bag and tell your wife.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“You knew Watchman, didn’t you?”

“Slightly, sir. I’ve had all the fun of being turned inside out by him in the witness-box.”

“In the Davidson case?”

“And several others.”

“I seem to remember you were equal to him. But didn’t you know him personally?”

“Slightly.”

“He was a brilliant counsel.”

“He was, indeed.”

“Well, watch your step and do us proud.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Taking Fox?”

“If I may.”

“That’s all right. We’ll hear from you.”

Alleyn returned to his room, collected his emergency suitcase and kit, and sent for Fox.

“Br’er Fox,” he said, “this is a wish-fulfillment. Get your fancy pyjamas and your tooth-brush. We catch the midday train for South Devon.”

ii

The branch-line from Exeter to Illington meanders amiably towards the coast. From the train windows, Alleyn and Fox looked down on sunken lanes, on thatched roofs, and on glossy hedgerows that presented millions of tiny mirrors to the afternoon sun. Alleyn let down the window, and the scent of hot grass and leaves drifted into the stuffy carriage.

“Nearly there, Br’er Fox. That’s Illington church-spire over the hill, and there’s the glint of sea beyond.”

“Very pleasant,” said Fox, dabbing at his enormous face with his handkerchief. “Warm, though.”

“High summer, out there.”

“You never seem to show the heat, Mr. Alleyn. Now I’m a warm man. I perspire very freely. Always have. It’s not an agreeable habit, though they tell me it’s healthy.”

“Yes, Fox.”

“I’ll get the things down, sir.”

The train changed its pace from slow to extremely slow. Beyond the window, a main road turned into a short-lived main street, with a brief network of surrounding shops. The word “Illington” appeared in white stones on a grassy bank, and they drew into the station.

“There’s the Super,” said Fox. “Very civil.”

Superintendent Harper shook hands at some length. Alleyn, once as touchy as a cat, had long ago accustomed himself to official hand-clasps. And he liked Harper who was bald, scarlet-faced, blue-eyed, and sardonic.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Alleyn,” said Harper. “Good afternoon. Good afternoon, Mr. Fox. I’ve got a car outside.”

He drove them in a police Ford down the main street. They passed a Woolworth store, a departmental store, a large hotel, and a row of small shops amongst which Alleyn noticed one labelled “Bernard Noggins, Chemist.”

“Is that where Parish bought the cyanide?”

“You haven’t lost any time, Mr. Alleyn,” said Harper, who seemed to hover on the edge of Alleyn’s Christian name and to funk it at the last second. “Yes, that’s it. He’s a very stupid sort of man, is Bernie Noggins. There’s the station. The colonel will be along presently. He’s in a shocking mood over this affair, but you may be able to cope with him. I thought that before we moved on to Ottercombe, you might like to see the files and have a tell,” said Harper, whose speech still held a tang of West Country.

“Splendid. Where are we to stay?”

“That’s as you like, of course, Mr. Alleyn, but I’ve told that old blatherskite Pomeroy to hold himself in readiness. I thought you might prefer to be on the spot. I’ve warned him to say nothing about it and I think he’ll have the sense to hold his tongue. No need to put anybody on the alert, is there? This car’s at your service.”

“Yes, but look here—”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Alleyn. I’ve a small two-seater we can use here.”

“That sounds perfectly splendid,” said Alleyn, and followed Harper into the police station.

They sat down in Harper’s office, while he got out his files. Alleyn looked at the photographs of past Superintendents, at the worn linoleum and varnished woodwork, and he wondered how many times he had sat in country police stations waiting for the opening gambit of a case that, for one reason or another, had been a little too much for the local staff. Alleyn was the youngest chief-inspector at the Central Branch of New Scotland Yard, but he was forty-three. “I’m getting on,” he thought without regret. “Old Fox must be fifty, he’s getting quite grey. We’ve done all this so many times together.” And he heard his own voice as if it was the voice of another man, uttering the familiar phrases.