Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“You’re talking nonsense,” said Decima.

“Well,” said Parish suddenly, “how about a Round-the-Clock contest to enliven the proceedings?”

“Why not, indeed?” murmured Cubitt.

“Will you play?” Watchman asked Decima.

“Of course. Let’s all play. Coming, Will?”

But Will Pomeroy jerked his head towards the public taproom where two or three newcomers noisily demanded drinks.

“Will you play, Miss Darragh?” asked Decima.

“I will not, thank you, my dear. I’ve no eye at all for sport. When I was a child didn’t I half-blind me brother Terence with an apple intended to strike me brother Brian? I’d do some mischief were I to try. Moreover, I’m too fat. I’ll sit and watch the fun.”

Cubitt, Parish, and Decima Moore stood in front of the dart board. Watchman walked into the inglenook. From the moment when Will Pomeroy had taken up cudgels for him against Watchman, Legge had faded out. He had taken his drink, his pipe, and his thoughts, whatever they might be, into the public bar.

Presently a burst of applause broke out and Will Pomeroy shouted that Legge was a wizard and invited Decima and Cubitt to look at what he had done. The others followed, peering into the public bar. A colossal red-faced man stood with his hand against the public dart board. His fingers were spread out, and in the gaps between, darts were embedded, with others outside the thumb and the little finger.

“Look at that!” cried Will. “Look at it!”

“Ah,” said Watchman. “So Mr. Legge has found another victim. A great many people seem to have faith in Mr. Legge.”

There was a sudden silence. Watchman leant over the private bar and raised his voice.

“We are going to have a match,” he said. “Three-a-side. Mr. Legge, will you join us?”

Legge took his pipe out of his mouth and said: “What’s the game?”

“Darts. Round-the-clock.”

“Darts. Round-the-clock?”

“Yes. Haven’t you played that version?”

“A long time ago. I’ve forgotten—”

“You have to get one dart in each segment in numerical sequence, ending on a double,” explained Cubitt.

“In fact,” said Watchman very pleasantly, “you might call it. ‘Doing Time.’ Haven’t you ever done time, Mr. Legge?”

“No,” said Legge, “but I’ll take you on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Right. And if you beat me at this I’m damned if tomorrow night I don’t let you take a pot at my hand.”

“Thank you,” said Legge. “I’ll remember.”

i

“The chief fault in Luke,” said Sebastian Parish, “is that he is quite incapable of letting well alone.”

Norman Cubitt tilted his hat over his eyes, peered from Parish to his canvas and began to scuffle among his tubes of paint. He uttered a short grunt.

“More than that,” added Parish, “he glories in making bad a good deal worse. Do you mind my talking, old boy?”

“No. Turn the head a little to the right. Too much. That’s right. I won’t keep you much longer. Just while the sun’s on the left side of the face. The shoulders are coming too far round again.”

“You talk like a doctor about my members— the head, the face, the shoulders.”

“You’re a vain fellow, Seb. Now, hold it like that, do. Yes, there’s something persistently impish in Luke. He jabs at people. What was he up to last night with Will Pomeroy and Legge?”

“Damned if I know. Funny business, wasn’t it? Do you think he’s jealous of Will?”

“Jealous?” repeated Cubitt. With his palette knife he laid an unctuous stroke of blue beside the margin of the painted head. “Why jealous?”

“Well, because of Decima.”

“Oh, nonsense! And yet I don’t know. He’s not your cousin for nothing, Seb. Luke’s got his share of the family vanity.”

“I don’t know why you say I’m vain, damn you. I don’t think I’m vain at all. Do you know, I get an average of twelve drivelling letters a day from females in front? And do they mean a thing to me?”

“You’d be bitterly disappointed if there was a falling off. Don’t move your shoulders. But you may be right about Luke.”

“I’d like to know,” said Parish, “just how much last year’s little flirtation with Decima added up to.”

“Would you? I don’t think it’s relevant.”

“Well,” said Parish, “she’s an attractive wench. More ‘It’ to the square inch than most of them. It’s hard to say why. She’s got looks, of course, but not the looks that usually get over that way. Not the voluptuous type. Her—”

“Shut up,” said Cubitt violently, and added: “I’m going to paint your mouth.”

His own was set in an unusually tight line. He worked for a time in silence, stood back, and said abruptly:

“I don’t really think Will Pomeroy was his objective. He was getting at Legge, and why the devil he should pick on a man he’d never seen in his life until last night is more than I can tell.”

“I thought he seemed to be sort of probing. Trying to corner Legge in some way.”

Cubitt paused with his knife over the canvas.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “That’s perfectly true. I thought so, too. Trick of the trade, perhaps, Counsel’s curiosity. Almost, one expected him to put his foot on the seat of a chair and rest his elbow on his knee. Now I come to think of it, I believe he did hitch his coat up by the lapels.”

“Characteristic,” pronounced Parish seriously. He himself had used these touches several times in trial scenes.

Cubitt smiled. “But he sounded definitely malicious,” he added.

“He’s not malicious,” said Parish uncomfortably.

“Oh yes, he is,” said Cubitt coolly. “It’s one of his more interesting qualities. He can be very malicious.”

“He can be very generous, too.”

“I’m sure he can. I like Luke, you know. He interests me enormously.”

“Apparently he likes you,” said Parish. “Apparently.”

“Hullo!” Cubitt walked back from his canvas and stood squinting at it. “You said that with a wealth of meaning, Seb. What’s in the air? You can rest a minute, if you like.”

Parish moved off the boulder where he had been sitting, stretched himself elaborately, and joined Cubitt. He gazed solemnly at his own portrait. It was a large canvas. The figure in the dull red sweater was three-quarter life-size. It was presented as a dark form against the lighter background which was the sea and the sky. The sky appeared as a series of paling arches, the sea as a simple plane, broken by formalized waves. A glint of sunlight had found the cheek and jaw-bone on the right side of the face.

“Marvellous, old boy,” said Parish. “Marvellous!”

Cubitt, who disliked being called “old boy,” grunted.

“Did you say you’d show it in this year’s Academy?” asked Parish.

“I didn’t, Seb, but I will. I’ll stifle my aesthetic conscience, prostitute my undoubted genius, and send your portrait to join the annual assembly of cadavers. Do you prefer ‘Portrait of an Actor,’ ‘Sebastian Parish, Esq.,’ or simply ‘Sebastian Parish’?”

“I think I would like my name,” said Parish seriously. “Not, I mean, that everybody wouldn’t know—”

“Thank you. But I see your point. Your press agent would agree. What were you going to say about Luke? His generosity, you know, and his apparently liking me so much?”

“I don’t think I ought to tell you, really.”

“But of course you are going to tell me.”

“He didn’t actually say it was in confidence,” said Parish. Cubitt waited with a slight smile.