Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“I know that, sir. I only thought of it to-day. I’d have told Mr. Harper next time I saw him.”

“It’s a little odd that you should not remember this until a fortnight after the event.”

“Is it, then?” demanded Will. “I don’t reckon it is. Us didn’t think anything at the time. Ask any of the others. Ask my father. They’ll remember, all right, when they think of it.”

“All right,” said Alleyn. “I suppose it’s natural enough you should forget.”

“I know what it means,” said Will quickly. “I know that, right enough. Mr. Watchman handled those darts, moving them round in his hands, like. How could Bob Legge know which was which, after that?”

“Not very easily one would suppose. What next?”

“Bob took the darts and stepped back. Then he began to blaze away with ’em. He never so much as glanced at ’em, I know that. He played ’em out quick.”

“Until the fourth one stuck into the finger?”

“Yes,” said Will doggedly, “till then.”

Alleyn was silent. Fox, note-book in hand, moved over to the window and stood looking over the roofs of Ottercombe at the sea.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Will suddenly.

“Yes?” asked Alleyn.

“I reckon the poison on those dart’s a blind.”

He made this announcement with an air of defiance, and seemed to expect it would bring some sort of protest from the other two. But Alleyn took it very blandly.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s possible, of course.”

“See what I mean?” said Will eagerly. “The murderer had worked it out he’d poison Mr. Watchman. He’d worked it out he’d put the stuff in his drink, first time he got a chance. Then, when Bob Legge pricks him by accident, the murderer says to himself: ‘There’s a rare chance.’ He’s got the stuff on him. He puts it in the brandy glass and afterwards, while we’re all fussing round Mr. Watchman, he smears it on the dart. The brandy glass gets smashed to pieces but they find poison on the dart. That’s how I work it out. I reckon whoever did this job tried, deliberate, to fix it on Bob Legge.”

Alleyn looked steadily at him.

“Can you give us anything to support this theory?”

Will hesitated. He looked from Alleyn to Fox, made as if to speak, and then seemed to change his mind.

“You understand, don’t you,” said Alleyn, “that I am not trying to force information. On the other hand, if you do know of anything that would give colour to the theory you have yourself advanced, it would be advisable to tell us about it.”

“I know Bob Legge didn’t interfere with the dart.”

“After it was all over, and the constable looked for the dart, wasn’t it Legge who found it?”

“Sure-ly! And that goes to show. Wouldn’t he have taken his chance to wipe the dart if he’d put poison in it?”

“That’s well reasoned,” said Alleyn. “I think he would. But your theory involves the glass. Who had an opportunity to put prussic acid in the glass?”

Will’s fair skin reddened up to the roots of his fox-coloured hair.

“I’ve no wish to accuse anybody,” he said. “I know who’s innocent and I speak up for him. There won’t be many who’ll do that. His politics are not the colour to make powerful friends for him when he’s in trouble. I know Bob Legge’s innocent, but I say nothing about the guilty.”

“Now, look here,” said Alleyn, amiably, “you’ve thought this thing out for yourself and you seem to have thought it out pretty thoroughly. You must see that we can’t put a full-stop after your pronouncement on the innocence of Mr. Legge. The best way of establishing Legge’s innocence is to find where the guilt lies.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir,” said Will. “Really.”

“I see. Well, can you tell us if Mr. Legge stood anywhere near the brandy glass, before he threw the darts?”

“He was nowhere near it. Not ever. It was on the table by the board. He never went near it.”

“Do you remember who stood near the table?”

Will was silent. He compressed his lips into a hard line.

“For instance,” Alleyn pursued, “was Mr. Sebastian Parish anywhere near the table?”

“He might have been,” said Will.

ii

“And now, Fox,” said Alleyn, “we’ll have a word with Mr. Sebastian Parish, if he’s on the premises. I don’t somehow think he’ll have strayed very far. See if you can find him.”

Fox went away. Alleyn took a long pull at his beer and read through the notes Fox had made during the interview with Will Pomeroy. The light outside had faded and the village had settled down for the evening. Alleyn could hear the hollow sounds made by men working with boats; the tramp of heavy boots on stone, a tranquil murmur of voices, and, more distantly, the thud of breakers. Within the house, he heard sounds of sweeping and of quick footsteps. The Pomeroys had lost no time cleaning up the private bar. In the public bar, across the passage, a single voice seemed to drone on and on as if somebody made a speech to the assembled topers. Whoever it was came to an end. A burst of conversation followed and then a sudden silence. Alleyn recognized Fox’s voice. Someone answered, clearly and resonantly: “Yes, certainly.”

“That’s Parish,” thought Alleyn.

The door from the public tap-room into the passage was opened and shut. Sebastian Parish and Fox came into the parlour.

The evening was warm and Parish was clad in shorts and a thin blue shirt. He wore these garments with such an air that the makers might well have implored him to wear their shorts and shirts, free of cost, in and out of season, for the rest of his life. His legs were olive-brown and slightly glossy, the hair on his olive-brown chest was golden brown. He looked burnished and groomed to the last inch. The hair on his head, a darker golden brown, was ruffled, for all the world as if his dresser had darted after him into the wings, and run a practised hand through his locks. There was something almost embarrassing in so generous a display of masculine beauty. He combined in his appearance all the most admired aspects of a pukka sahib, a Greek god, and a wholesome young Englishman. Fox came after him like an anticlimax in good serviceable worsted.

“Oh, good evening, Inspector,” said Parish.

“Good evening,” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry to worry you.”

Parish’s glance said, a little too plainly: “Hullo, so you’re a gentleman.” He came forward, and, with an air of manly frankness, extended his hand.

“I’m very glad to do anything I can,” he said.

He sat on the arm of a chair and looked earnestly from Alleyn to Fox.

“We hoped for this,” he said. “I wish to God they’d called you in at once.”

“The local men,” Alleyn murmured, “have done very well.”

“Oh, they’ve done what they could, poor old souls,” said Parish. “No doubt they’re very sound at bottom, but it’s rather a long way before one strikes bottom. Considering my cousin’s position I think it was obvious that the Yard should be consulted.”

He looked directly at Alleyn, and said: “But I know you!”

“Do you?” said Alleyn politely. “I don’t think—”

“I know you!” Parish repeated dramatically. “Wait a moment. By George, yes, of course. You’re the — I’ve seen your picture in a book on famous trials.” He turned to Fox with the air of a Prince Regent.

“What is his name?” demanded Parish.

“This is Mr. Alleyn, sir,” said Fox, with a trace of a grin at his superior.

“Alleyn! By God, yes, of course! Alleyn!”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, austerely, “be good enough to shut the door.” He waited until this was done and then addressed himself to the task of removing the frills from the situation.