Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“Well,” said Alleyn, “let’s go through the list while we’re at it. What about young Pomeroy?”

“Will? Yes. Yes, there’s young Will.” Harper opened the file and stared at the first page, but it seemed to Alleyn that he was not reading it. “Will Pomeroy,” said Harper, “says he didn’t like Mr, Watchman. He makes no bones about it. Mr. Parish says they quarrelled on account of this chap, Legge. Will didn’t like the way Mr. Watchman got at Legge, you see, and being a hotheaded loyalish kind of fellow, he tackled Mr. Watchman. It wasn’t much of an argument, but it was obvious Will Pomeroy had taken a scunner on Mr. Watchman.”

“And — what is the lady’s name? — Miss Decima Moore? What about her?”

“Nothing. Keeps company with Will. She’s a farmer’s daughter. Old Jim Moore, up to Cary Edge. Her mother’s a bit on the classy side. Foreigner to these parts and can’t forget she came down in society when she married Farmer Moore. Miss Decima was educated at Oxford and came home a red Leftist. She and deceased used to argufy a bit about politics, but that’s all.”

Alleyn counted on his long, thin fingers.

“That’s five,” he said, “six, counting old Pomeroy. We’re left with the Honourable Violet Darragh and Mr. George Nark.”

“You can forget ’em,” rejoined Harper. “The Honourable Violet’s a rum old girl from Ireland, who takes views in paints. She was there writing letters when it happened. I’ve checked up on her and she’s the genuine article. She’ll talk the hind leg off a donkey. So’ll George Nark. He’s no murderer. He’s too damned silly to kill a wood-louse except he treads on it accidental.”

“How many of these people are still in Ottercombe?”

“All of ’em.”

“Good Lord!” Alleyn exclaimed. “Didn’t they want to get away when it was all over? I’d have thought—”

“So would anybody,” agreed Harper. “But it seems Mr. Cubitt had started off on several pictures down there, and wants to finish them. One’s a likeness of Mr. Parish, so he’s stayed down-along too. They waited for the funeral, which was here. Deceased had no relatives nearer than Mr. Parish, and Mr. Parish said he thought his cousin would have liked to be put away in the country. Several legal gentlemen came down from London, and the flowers were a masterpiece. Well, they just stopped on, Mr. Cubitt painting as quiet as you please. He’s a cool customer, is Mr. Cubitt.”

“How much longer will they be here?”

“Reckon another week. They came for three. Did the same thing last year. It’s a fortnight to-night since this case cropped up. We’ve kept the private bar shut up. Everything was photographed and printed. There was nothing of interest in deceased’s pockets. He smoked some outlandish kind of cigarettes. Daha— something, but that’s no use. We’ve got his movements taped out. Arrived on Thursday night and didn’t go out. Friday morning, went for a walk but don’t know exactly where, except it was through the tunnel. Friday afternoon, went upstairs after lunch and was in his room writing letters. Seen in his room by Mrs. Ives, the housekeeper, who went up at 3.30 to shut windows and found him asleep on his bed. Also seen at 4 o’clock by Mr. Cubitt, who looked in on his way back from painting down on the wharf. Came downstairs at 5.15, or thereabouts, and was in the private bar from then onwards till he died. I don’t think I missed anything.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“You know,” said Harper, warming a little, “it’s a proper mystery, this case. Know-what-I-mean, most cases depend on routine. Boil ’em down and it’s routine that does the trick as a general rule. May do it here but all the same this is a teaser. I’m satisfied it wasn’t accident but I can’t prove it. When I’m told on good authority that there was cyanide on that dart, and that Mr. Watchman died of cyanide in his blood, I say: ‘Well, there’s your weapon,’ but alongside of this there’s six people, let alone my own investigation, that prove to my satisfaction nobody could have tampered with the dart. But the dart was poisoned. Now, the stuff in the rat-hole was in a little china jar. I’ve left it there for you to see. I got another jar of the same brand. They sell some sort of zinc ointment in them, and Abel had several; he’s mad on that sort of thing. Now, the amount that’s gone from the bottle, which Noggins says was full, is a quarter of an ounce more than the amount the jar holds and Abel swears he filled the jar. The jar was full when we saw it.”

“Full?” said Alleyn sharply. “When did you see it?”

“The next morning.”

“Was the stuff in the jar analyzed?”

Harper turned brick-red.

“No,” he said, “Abel swore he’d filled it and the jar’s only got his prints on it. And, I tell you, it was full.”

“Have you got the stuff?”

“Yes. I poured it off and kept it. Seeing there’s a shortage, the stuff on the dart must have come from the bottle.”

“For how long was the bottle uncorked?”

“What? Oh, he said that when he used it he uncorked the bottle and put it on the shelf above the hole, with the cork beside it. He was very anxious we should know he’d been careful, and he said he didn’t want to handle the cork more than was necessary. He said he was just going to pour the stuff in the jar, when he thought he’d put the jar in position first. He did that and then filled it, holding the torch in his other hand. He swears he didn’t spill any, and he swears nobody touched the bottle. The others were standing in the doorway.”

“So the bottle may have been uncorked for a minute or two?”

“I suppose so. He plugged up the hole with rag, before he did anything else. He had the bottle on the floor beside him.”

“And then?”

“Well, then he took up the bottle and corked it. I suppose,” said Harper, “I should have had the stuff analyzed, but we’ve no call to suspect Abel Pomeroy. There was none missing from the jar and there are only his prints on it, and there’s the extra quarter-ounce missing from the bottle. No, it’s gone from the bottle. Must have. And, see here, Mr. Alleyn, the stuff was found on the dart and nowhere else. What’s more, if it was the dart that did the trick, and it’s murder, then Legge’s our bird, because only Legge controlled the flight of the dart.”

“Silly sort of way to kill a man,” said Fox, suddenly. “It’d be asking for a conviction, Super, now wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe he reckoned he’d get a chance to wipe the dart,” said Harper.

“He had his chance,” said Alleyn, quickly. “Wasn’t it brought out that Legge helped the constable— Oates, isn’t it? — to find the dart? He had his chance, then, to wipe it.”

“And if he was guilty, why didn’t he?” ended Fox.

“You’re asking me ,” said Superintendent Harper. “Here’s the Colonel.”

iii

The Chief Constable was an old acquaintance of Alleyn’s. Alleyn liked Colonel Brammington. He was a character, an oddity, full of mannerisms that amused rather than irritated Alleyn. He was so unlike the usual county-minded chief constable, that it was a matter for conjecture how he ever got the appointment for he spent half his life in giving offence and was amazingly indiscreet. He arrived at Illington Police Station in a powerful racing-car that was as scarred as a veteran. It could be heard from the moment it entered the street and Harper exclaimed agitatedly:

“Here he comes! He knows that engine’s an offence within the meaning of the Act and he doesn’t care. He’ll get us all into trouble one of these days. There are complaints on all sides. On all sides!”