Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“Not Treble Extra, Mr. Pomeroy, if you don’t mind. Sherry for me, if you please.”

She waddled over to the bar, placed her hands on the counter and with agility that astonished Watchman, made a neat little vault on to one of the tall stools. There she sat beaming upon the company.

She was a woman of perhaps fifty, but it would have been difficult to guess at her age since time had added to her countenance and figure merely layer after layer of firm wholesome fat. She was roundabout and compact. Her face was babyish and this impression was heightened by the tight grey curls that covered her head. In repose she seemed to pout and it was not until she spoke that her good humour appeared in her eyes, and was magnified by her spectacles. All fat people wear a look of inscrutability and Violet Darragh was not unlike a jolly sort of sphinx.

Abel served her and she took the glass delicately in her small white paws.

“Well now,” she said, “is everybody having fun?” and then caught sight of Watchman. “Is this your cousin, Mr. Parish?”

“I’m sorry,” said Parish hurriedly. “Mr. Watchman, Miss Darragh.”

“How d’ye do” said Miss Darragh.

Like many Irishwomen of her class she spoke with such a marked brogue that one wondered whether it was inspired by a kind of jocularity that had turned into a habit.

“I’ve heard about you, of course, and read about you in the papers, for I dearly love a good murder and if I can’t have me murder I’m all for arson. That was a fine murder case you defended last year, now, Mr. Watchman. Before you took silk, ’twas. You did your best for the poor scoundrel.”

Watchman expanded.

“I didn’t get him off, Miss Darragh.”

“Ah well, and a good job you didn’t, for we’d none of us been safe in our beds. And there’s Mr. Cubitt come from his painting down by the jetty, in mortal terror, poor man, lest I plague him with me perspective.”

“Not at all,” said Cubitt, turning rather pink.

“I’ll leave you alone, now. I know very well I’m a trouble to you but it’s good for your character, and you may look upon me as a kind of holiday penance.”

“You’re a painter, too, Miss Darragh?” said Watchman.

“I’m a raw amateur, Mr. Watchman, but I’ve a kind of itch for ut. When I see a little peep I can’t rest till I’m at it with me paints. There’s Mr. Cubitt wincing as if he had a nagging tooth, when I talk of a pretty peep. You’ve a distinguished company in your house, Mr. Pomeroy,” continued Miss Darragh. “I thought I was coming to a quiet little village and what do I find but a galaxy of the talents. Mr. Parish who’s turned me heart over many a time with his acting; Mr. Cubitt, down there painting within stone’s-throw of meself; and now haven’t we the great counsel to add to your intellectual feast. I wonder now, Mr. Watchman, if you remember me poor cousin Bryonie’s case?”

“I — Yes,” said Watchman, greatly disconcerted. “I–I defended Lord Bryonie. Yes.”

“And didn’t he only get the mere eighteen months due entirely to your eloquence? Ah, he’s dead now, poor fellow. Only a shadow of himself, he was, when he came out. It was a terrible shock to um.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“ ’Twas indeed. He never had any brains, poor fellow, and it was an unlucky day for the family when he took it into his head to dabble in business. Where’s Miss Moore? I thought I heard you speak of a game of darts.”

“She’s coming,” said Cubitt.

“And I hope you’ll all play again for I found it a great entertainment. Are you a dart player, too, Mr. Watchman?”

“I try,” said Watchman.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Here is Decima,” said Cubitt.

iv

A tall young woman came into the room and stood, very much at her ease, screwing her eyes up a little in the glare of the lights.

“I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” said Decima Moore. “Good evening, everyone.”

They all greeted her. There was a second’s pause and then Watchman moved into the centre of the room.

“Good evening,” said Watchman.

She faced him and met his gaze.

“So you have arrived,” she said. “Good evening.”

She touched his outstretched hand, walked over to the bar, and settled herself on one of the tall stools. She wore a fisherman’s jersey and dark blue slacks. Her hair was cut like a poet’s of the romantic period and was moulded in short locks about her head and face. She was good-looking with a classic regularity of beauty that was given an individual quirk by the blackness of her brows and the singular intensity of her eyes. She moved with the kind of grace that only just escapes angularity. She was twenty-four years of age.

If an observant stranger had been at the Feathers that evening he might have noticed that on Decima’s entrance the demeanour of most of the men changed.

For Decima owned the quality which Hollywood had loudly defined for the world. She owned a measure of attraction over which she herself had little governance. Though she must have been aware of this she seemed unaware; and neither in her manner nor in her speech did she appear to exercise conscious charm. Yet from the moment of her entrance the men, when they spoke to each other, looked at her, and in each of them was the disturbance of Decima’s attraction reflected. Watchman’s eyes brightened, he became more alert, and he spoke a little louder. Parish expanded as if in a spotlight and he exuded gallantry. Cubitt’s air of vague amiability contracted to a sharp awareness. Abel Pomeroy beamed upon Decima. Will, still flushed from his passage with Watchman, turned a deeper red. He answered her greeting awkwardly and was very much the solemn and self-conscious rustic.

Decima took a cigarette from Parish and looked round the tap-room.

“Has the dart game begun?” she asked.

“We’re waiting for you, my angel,” said Parish. “What have you been doing with yourself all this time?”

“Washing. I’ve attended a poison-party. I hope you didn’t spill prussic acid about the garage, you two Pomeroys.”

“You’re not ’feared, too, are you, Miss Dessy?” asked Abel. “A fine, bold, learned female like you.”

Decima laughed.

“A revolting picture,” she said. “What do you think, Will?”

She leant across the bar and looked beyond Abel into the Public. Will’s back was towards her. He turned and faced Decima. His eyes devoured her, but he said nothing. Decima raised her tankard and drank to him. He returned the gesture clumsily, and Cubitt saw Watchman’s eyebrows go up.

“Will,” said Decima suddenly, “what have you all been talking about? You’re very silent now, I must say.”

Before any of the others could reply Watchman said, “We’ve been arguing, my dear.”

“Arguing?” She still looked at Will. Watchman drained his tankard, moved up to the bar, and sat on the stool next hers.

“Yes,” he said. “Until Miss Darragh came in, we did nothing else.”

“And why should I stop you?” asked Miss Darragh. She slipped neatly off her high stool and toddled into the inglenook. “I’ve a passion for argument. What was it about, now? Art? Politics? Love?”

“It was about politics,” said Watchman, still looking at Decima. “The State, the People, and — private enterprise.”

“You,” Decima said. “But you’re hopeless. When our way of things comes round, you’ll be one of our major problems.”

“Really? Won’t you need any barristers?”

“I wish I could say ‘no,’ ” said Decima.

Watchman laughed.

“At least,” he said, “I may hold a watching brief for you.” She didn’t answer and he insisted: “Mayn’t I?”