Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“The bathroom’s at the end of the passage,” said Will, from Alleyn’s doorway. “Will that be all?”

“We shall be very comfortable,” said Alleyn, and as Will moved away, he added: “You’re Mr. Pomeroy’s son?”

“Yes,” said Will, stolidly.

“I expect Mr. Harper has explained why we are here.”

Will nodded and said nothing.

“I’d be very glad,” added Alleyn, “if you could spare me a minute or two, later on.”

Will said: “I’ll be serving in the bar all the evening.”

“I’ll see you there, then. Thank you.”

But Will didn’t move. He stared at the window and said: “This affair’s upset my father. He takes it to heart, like; the talk that goes on.”

“I know.”

“I reckon he’s right about it being no accident.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Nobody touched the bottle by mistake— ’tisn’t likely.”

“Look here,” said Alleyn, “can you spare a moment, now, to show me the rat-hole in the garage?”

Will’s eyelashes flickered.

“Yes,” he said, “reckon I can do that” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and added with a kind of truculence: “Reckon when the police come in, there’s not much use in refusing. Not unless you’ve got a pull somewhere.”

“Oh, come,” Alleyn said mildly, “we’re not as corrupt as all that, you know.”

Will’s face turned scarlet but he said doggedly: “It’s not the men, it’s the system. It’s the way everything is in this country.”

“One law,” suggested Alleyn, amiably, “for the rich, and so on?”

“It’s true enough.”

“Well, yes. In many ways, I suppose it is. However, I’m not open to any bribery at the moment. We always try to be honest for the first few days; it engenders confidence. Shall we go down to the garage?”

“It’s easy enough,” Will said, “to make the truth look silly. A man never seems more foolish-like than he does when he’s speaking his whole mind and heart. I know that.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn, “that’s quite true. I dare say the apostles were as embarrassing in their day, as the street-orator, with no audience, is in ours.”

“I don’t know anything about that. They were only setting up a superstition. I’m dealing with the sober truth.”

“That’s what I hope to do myself,” said Alleyn. “Shall we join the rats?”

Will led Alleyn across the yard to the old stables. A small evening breeze came in from the sea, lifting Alleyn’s hair and striking chill through his tweed coat. Gulls circled overhead. The sound of men’s voices drifted up from the waterfront.

“It’ll be dark in-along,” said Will.

“I’ve got a torch.”

“The rat-hole’s not in the proper garage, like. It’s in one of the loose-boxes. It’s locked and we haven’t got the key. Harper’s men did that.”

“Mr. Harper gave me the key,” said Alleyn.

The old loose-box had been padlocked, and sealed with police tape. Alleyn broke the tape and unlocked it.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you’d mind asking Mr. Fox to join me. He’s got a second torch. Ask him to bring my case.”

“Yes,” said Will, and after a fractional pause, “sir.”

Alleyn went into the stable. It had been used as an extra garage but there was no car in it now. Above the faint reek of petrol oozed another more disagreeable smell, sweetish and nauseating. The cyanide, thought Alleyn, had evidently despatched at least one rat. The place was separated from the garage-proper, an old coach-house, by a semi-partition; but the space between the top of the partition and the roof had recently been boarded up, and Alleyn awarded Harper a good mark for attention to detail. Harper, he knew, had also taken photographs of the rat-hole and tested the surrounding walls and floor for prints. He had found dozens of these.

Alleyn flashed his torch round the bottom of the walls and discovered the rat-hole. He stooped down. Harper had removed the rag and jar, tested them for prints, and found Abel’s. He had then drained off the contents of the jar and replaced it. There was the original rag, stuffed tight in the hole. Alleyn pulled it and the smell of dead rat became very strong indeed. The ray of light glinted on a small jar. It was less than an inch in diameter and about half an inch deep.

Fox loomed up in the doorway. He said:

“Thank you, Mr. Pomeroy, I’ll find my way in.”

Will Pomeroy’s boots retreated across the cobblestones.

“Look here, Br’er Fox,” said Alleyn.

A second circle of light flickered on the little vessel. Fox peered over Alleyn’s shoulder.

“And it was full,” said Fox.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “That settles it, I fancy.”

“How d’you mean, sir?”

“It’s a case of murder.”

ii

The parlour of the Feathers is the only room in the house that is generally uninhabited. For the usual patrons, the private tap is the common room. The parlour is across the side passage and opposite the public tap-room. It overlooks Ottercombe Steps, and beneath its windows are the roofs of the Fish Lane houses. It has a secret and deserted life of its own. Victoria’s Jubilee and Edward the Seventh’s Wedding face each other across a small desert of linoleum and plush. Above the mantelpiece hangs a picture of two cylindrical and slug-like kittens. Upon the mantelpiece are three large shells. A rag-rug, lying in front of the fire-place, suggests that in a more romantic age Harlequin visited the Feathers and slouched his skin before taking a leap up the chimney.

For Alleyn’s arrival, the parlour came to life. Someone had opened the window and placed a bowl of flowers on the plush-covered table. Abel Pomeroy hurriedly added a writing pad, a pencil, a terrible old pen and a bottle of ink. He surveyed these arrangements with an anxious smile, disappeared for a minute, and returned to ask Alleyn if there was anything else he needed.

“Two pints of beer, Mr. Pomeroy,” said Alleyn, “will set us up for the rest of the evening.”

Abel performed a sort of slow-motion trick with his right hand, drawing away his apron to reveal a thickly cobwebbed bottle.

“I wondered, sir,” he said, “if you’d pleasure me by trying a drop of this yurr tipple. ’Twurr laid down by my old Dad, many a year back. Sherry ’tis. ‘Montillady. I did used to call ’er Amadillo, afore I knew better.”

“But, my dear Mr. Pomeroy,” said Alleyn, “this is something very extra indeed. It’s wine for the gods.”

“Just what the old Colonel said, sir, when I told him us had it. It would pleasure the Feathers, sir, if you would honour us.”

“It’s extraordinarily nice of you.”

“You wurr ’straordinary nice to me, sir, when I come up to London. If you’ll axcuse me, I’ll get the glasses.”

“It should be decanted, Mr. Pomeroy.”

“So it should, then. I’ll look out a decanter tomorrow, sir, and in the meanwhile, us’ll open the bottle.”

They opened the bottle and took a glass each.

“To the shade of Edgar Allan Poe,” murmured Alleyn, and raised his glass.

“The rest is yours, gentlemen,” said Abel. “ ’Twill be set aside special. Thurr’s a decanter in the Private. If so be you ain’t afeared, same as George Nark, that all my bottles is full of pison, to-morrow I’ll decant this yurr tipple in your honour.”

Alleyn and Fox murmured politely.

“Be thurr anything else I can do, gentlemen?” asked Abel.

“We’ll have a look at the private bar, Mr. Pomeroy, if we may.”

“Certainly, sir, certainly, and terrible pleased us’ll be to have her opened up again. ’Tis like having the corpse itself on the premises, with Private shuttered up and us chaps all hugger-mugger of an evening in Public. Has His Royal Highness the Duke of Muck condescended to hand over the keys, sir?”