Death at the Bar

by Ngaio Marsh

  ‘Legge,’ said Fox, advancing slowly, ‘is only here on sufferance as you might put it. I’ve just had one in the public tap. They’re not opening the Private till tomorrow. So I had one in the Public.’

  ‘Did you, you old devil!’

  ‘Yes. This chap Nark’s in there and I must say he suits his name.’

  ‘In the Australian sense? A fair nark?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. I don’t wonder old Pomeroy hates the man. He wipes out his pint-pot with a red cotton handkerchief before they draw his beer. To be on the safe side, so he says. And talk!’

  ‘What’s he talk about?’

  ‘The law,’ said Fox with an air of the deepest disgust. ‘As soon as he knew who I was he started on it, and a lot of very foolish remarks he made. You ought to have a chat with him, Mr Alleyn, he’d give you the pip.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Alleyn. ‘About Legge. Why’s he here on sufferance?’

  Fox sat down.

  ‘Because of old Pomeroy,’ he said. ‘Old Pomeroy thinks Legge’s a murderer and wanted him to look for other lodgings, but young Pomeroy stuck to it and they let him stay on, and got his way. However, Legge’s given notice and has found rooms in Illington. He’s moving over on Monday. He seems to be very well liked among the chaps in the bar, but they’re a simple lot, taking them by and large. Young Oates, the Ottercombe PC’s in there. Very keen to see you.’

  ‘Oh! Well, I’ll have to see him sooner or later. While we’re waiting for Legge, why not? Bring him in.’

  Fox went out and returned in half a minute.

  ‘PC Oates, sir,’ said Fox.

  PC Oates was brick-red with excitement and as stiff as a poker from a sense of discipline. He stood inside the door with his helmet under his arm and saluted.

  ‘Good evening, Oates,’ said Alleyn.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Mr Harper tells me you were on duty the night Mr Watchman died. Are you responsible for the chalk marks in the private taproom?’

  PC Oates looked apprehensive.

  ‘Furr some of ‘em, sir,’ he said. ‘Furr the place where we found the dart, like, and the marks on the settle, like. I used the chalk off the scoring-board, sir.’

  ‘Is it your first case of this sort?’

  ‘‘Ess, sir.’

  ‘You seem to have kept your head.’

  Wild visions cavorted through the brain of PC Oates. He saw in a flash all the keen young PCs of his favourite novels and each of them, with becoming modesty, pointed out a tiny detail that had escaped the notice of his superiors. To each of them did the Man from Higher Up exclaim, ‘By thunder, my lad, you’ve got it,’ and upon each of them was rapid promotion visited, while chief constables, the Big Four, yes, the Man at the Top himself, all told each other that young Oates was a man to be watched. For each of these PCs was the dead spit and image of PC Oates himself.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Oates.

  ‘I’d like to hear about your appearance on the scene,’ said Alleyn.

  ‘In my own words, sir?’

  ‘If you please, Oates,’ said Alleyn.

  Dick Oates took a deep breath, mustered his wits, and began.

  ‘On the night of Friday, August 2nd,’ he began, and paused in horror. His voice had gone into the top of his head and had turned soprano on the way. It was the voice of a squeaking stranger. He uttered a singular noise in his throat and began again.

  ‘On the night of Friday, August 2nd, at approximately 9.16 p.m.,’ said Oates in a voice of thunder, ‘being on duty at the time, I was proceeding up South Ottercombe Steps with the intention of completing my beat. My attention was aroused by my hearing the sound of my own name, viz, Oates, being called repeatedly from a spot on my left, namely the front door of the Plume of Feathers, public-house, Abel Pomeroy, proprietor. On proceeding to the said front door, I encountered William Pomeroy. He informed me that there had been an accident. Miss Decima Moore came into the entrance from inside the building. She said, “There is no doubt about it, he is dead.” I said, to the best of my knowledge and belief, “My Gawd, who is dead?” Miss Moore then said, “Watchman.” I then proceeded into the private taproom.’

  Oates paused. Alleyn said, ‘Yes, Oates, that’s all right, but when I said your own words I meant your own words. This is not going to be taken down and used in evidence against you. I want to hear what sort of an impression you got of it all. You see, we have already seen your formal report in the file.’

  ‘‘Ess, sir,’ said Oates, breathing rather hard through his nostrils.

  ‘Very well, then. Did you get the idea that these men were tight, moderately tight, or stone-cold sober?’

  ‘I received the impression, sir, that they had been intoxicated but were now sobered.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Well, sir, when I left the tap at nine o’clock, sir, to proceed—to go round the beat, they was not to say drunk but bosky-eyed like. Merry like.’

  ‘Including Mr Legge?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Oates firmly. ‘Bob Legge, sir, was sozzled. Quiet like, but muddled. Well, the man couldn’t find his way to his mouth with his pipe, not with any dash as you might say.’

  ‘He was still pretty handy with the darts, though,’ observed Fox.

  ‘So he was then, sir. But I reckon, sir, that’s second nature to the man, drunk or sober. He smelt something wonderful of tipple. And after I left, sir, he had two brandies. He must have been drunk.’

  ‘But sobered by shock?’ suggested Alleyn.

  ‘That’s what I reckoned, sir.’

  ‘Did you notice anything in Legge’s manner or in the manner of any of the others that led you to think the thing wasn’t an accident?’

  Oates flexed his knees in the classic tradition and eased his collar.

  ‘Legge,’ he said, ‘was rather put about. Well, sir, that’s natural, he having seemingly just killed a man and got over a booze in one throw of a dart if you want to put it fanciful. Yes, he was proper put out, was Bob Legge. White as a bogey and trembling. Kept saying the deceased gentleman had taken tetanus. Now that,’ said Oates, ‘might of been a blind, but it looked genuine to me. That’s Legge. There wasn’t anything unusual in Abel Pomeroy. Worried, but there again, who isn’t with a fresh corpse on the premises? Young Will had his eye on Miss Dessy Moore. Natural again. She’s so pretty as a daisy and good as promised to Will. Staring at him, with eyes like saucers, and ready to swoon away. Kind of frightened. Bore up all right, till she’d told me how she give the deceased brandy, and then seemed, in a manner of speaking, to cave in to it, and went off with Will, scared-like and looking at him kind of bewildered. Will give me the clearest answers of the lot, sir. Kept his head, did Will.’

  ‘And the two friends?’

  ‘Two gentlemen, sir? Mr Parish looked scared and squeamish. Very put out, he was, and crying too, something surprising. Answered by fits and starts. Not himself at all. Mr Cubitt the straight out opposite. Very white and didn’t go near the body while I was there. Wouldn’t look at it, I noticed. But cool and collected, and answered very sensible. It was Mr Cubitt fetched the doctor. I got the idea he wanted to get out into the open air, like. Seemed to me, sir, that Mr Parish kind of let himself go and Mr Cubitt held himself in. Seemed to me that likely Mr Cubitt was the more upset.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘The rest, sir? I didn’t see The Honourable Darragh till the morning. The Honourable Darragh, sir, behaved very sensible. Not but what she wasn’t in a bit of a quiver, but being a stout lady, you noticed it more. Her cheeks jiggled something chronic when she talked about it, but she was very sensible. She’s a great one for talking, sir, and it’s my belief that when she got over the surprise she fair revelled in it.’

  ‘Really? And now we’re left as usual with Mr George Nark.’

  ‘Nothing but vomit and hiccough, sir. Drunk as an owl.’

  ‘I see. Well, Oates, you’ve given us a clear enough pic
ture of the actors. Now for the dart. Where was the dart when you found it?’

  ‘Legge found it, sir. I asked for it almost immediate, sir, but they was all that flustered they paid no heed to me. ‘Cepting Legge who had been going on about, “was it the dart that did it?” and, “had he killed the man?” and, “wasn’t it lockjaw?” and, “he must have shifted his finger,” and so forth; and so soon as I asked for the dart he stooped down and peered about and then he says, “there it is!” and I saw it and he picked it up from where it had fallen. It was stained and still looked damp, sir. Blood. And I suppose, sir, the poison.’

  Oates paused and then said, ‘If I may take the liberty, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Oates?’

  ‘They all says, sir, that Mr Watchman threw that there dart down, sir. They say he threw it down ‘tother side of the table.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, now, sir, it was laying on the floor.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Fox.

  ‘It was,’ repeated Oates, ‘a-laying on the floor. I saw it. Ax Legge, he’ll bear me out.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’ asked Alleyn sharply.

  ‘Behind the table, sir, like they said, and well away from where they had been standing. The table was betwixt the settle and the board.’

  ‘I see,’ said Alleyn. And then the wildest hopes of Dick Oates was realized. The words with which he had soothed himself to sleep, the words that he heard most often in his dearest dreams, were spoken unmistakably by the Man from Higher Up.

  ‘By George,’ said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, ‘I believe you’ve got it!’

  CHAPTER 12

  Curious Behaviour of Mr Legge

  On that first night in Ottercombe, from the time Oates left them until half-past eleven, Alleyn and Fox thrashed out the case and debated a plan of action. Alleyn was now quite certain that Watchman had been murdered.

  ‘Unless there’s a catch, Br’er Fox, and I can’t spot it if there is. The rat hole, the dart, the newspaper, and the general evidence ought to give us “who”, but we’re still in the dark about “how”. There are those bits of melted glass, now.’

  ‘I asked old Pomeroy. He says the fireplace was cleared out the day before.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to see if the experts can tell us if it’s the same kind as the brandy glass. Rather, let us hope they can say definitely that it’s not the same. Oh Lord!’

  He got up, stretched himself, and leant over the window-sill. The moon was out, and the sleeping roofs of Ottercombe made such patterns of white and inky black as woodcut draughtsmen love. It was a gull’s-eye view Alleyn had from the parlour window, a setting for a child’s tale of midnight wonders. A cat was sitting on one of the crooked eaves. It stared at the moon and might have been waiting for an appointment with some small night-gowned figure that would presently lean, dreaming, from the attic window. Alleyn had a liking for old fairy tales and found himself thinking of George Macdonald and the Back of the North Wind. The Coombe was very silent in the moonlight.

  ‘All asleep,’ said Alleyn, ‘except us, and Mr Robert Legge. I wish he’d come home to bed.’

  ‘There’s a car now,’ said Fox, ‘up by the tunnel.’

  It was evidently a small car and an old one. With a ramshackle clatter it drew nearer the pub, and then the driver must have turned his engine off and coasted down to the garage. There followed the squeak of brakes. A door slammed tinnily. Someone dragged open the garage door.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Fox.

  ‘Good,’ said Alleyn. ‘Pop into the passage, Fox, and hail him in.’

  Fox went out, leaving the door open. Alleyn heard slow steps plod across the yard to the side entrance. Fox said, ‘Good evening, sir. Is it Mr Legge?’

  A low mumble.

  ‘Could you spare us a moment, sir? We’re police officers. Chief Inspector Alleyn would be glad to have a word with you.’

  A pause, another mumble, and then approaching steps.

  ‘This way, sir,’ said Fox, and ushered in Mr Robert Legge.

  Alleyn saw a medium-sized man who stooped a little. He saw a large head, white hair, a heavily-lined face and a pair of callused hands. Legge, blinking in the lamplight, looked a defenceless, a rather pathetic figure.

  ‘Mr Legge?’ said Alleyn. ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late in the evening. Won’t you sit down?’

  Fox moved forward a chair and, without uttering a word, Legge sat in it. He was under the lamp. Alleyn saw that his clothes, which had once been good, were darned and faded. Everything about the man seemed bleached and characterless. He looked nervously from Alleyn to Fox. His lips were not quite closed and showed his palpably false teeth.

  ‘I expect,’ said Alleyn, ‘that you have guessed why we are here.’

  Legge said nothing.

  ‘We’re making inquiries about the death of Mr Luke Watchman.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Legge breathlessly.

  ‘There are one or two points we would like to clear up and we hope you will be able to help us.’

  The extraordinarily pale eyes flickered.

  ‘Only too pleased,’ murmured Legge and looked only too wretched.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Alleyn, ‘have you formed any theory about this affair?’

  ‘Accident.’

  ‘You think that’s possible?’

  Legge looked at Alleyn as if he had said something profoundly shocking.

  ‘Possible? But of course it’s possible. Dreadfully possible. Such a way to do things! They should have bought traps. The chemist should be struck off the rolls. It’s a disgrace.’

  He lowered his voice and became conspiratorial.

  ‘It was a terrible, virulent poison,’ he whispered mysteriously. ‘A shocking thing that they should have it here. The coroner said so.’

  He spoke with a very slight lisp, a mere thickening of sibilants caused, perhaps, by his false teeth.

  ‘How do you think it got on the dart you threw into Mr Watchman’s finger?’

  Legge made a gesture that disconcerted and astonished Alleyn. He raised his hand and shook a finger at Alleyn as if he gently admonished him. If his face had not spoken of terror he would have looked faintly waggish.

  ‘You suspect me,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t.’

  Alleyn was so taken aback by this old-maidish performance that for a moment he could think of nothing to say.

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ repeated Legge. ‘Because I didn’t.’

  ‘The case is as wide open as the grave.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ whispered Legge, ‘and buried. I didn’t do it. I was the instrument. It’s not a very pleasant thing to be the instrument of death.’

  ‘No. You should welcome any attempt to get to the bottom of the affair.’

  ‘So I would,’ muttered Legge eagerly, ‘if I thought they would get to the truth. But I’m not popular here. Not in some quarters. And that makes me nervous, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘It needn’t,’ said Alleyn. ‘But we’re being very unorthodox, Mr Legge. May we have your full name and address?’

  Fox opened his notebook. Legge suddenly stood up and, in an uncertain sort of fashion, came to attention.

  ‘Robert Legge,’ he said rapidly, ‘care of the Plume of Feathers, Ottercombe, South Devon. Business address: Secretary and Treasurer, The Combe Left Movement, GPO Box 119, Illington.’

  He sat down again.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Fox.

  ‘How long have you been here, Mr Legge?’ asked Alleyn.

  ‘Ten months. My chest is not very good. Nothing serious, you know. I needn’t be nervous on that account. But I was in very low health altogether. Boils. Even in my ears. Very unpleasant and painful. My doctor said it would be as well to move.’

  ‘Ah, yes. From where?’

  ‘From Liverpool. I was in Liverpool. In Flattery Street, South, Number 17. Not a very healthy part.’

  ‘That was your permanent address?’

  ‘Yes. I had been there
for some little time. I had one or two secretaryships. For a time I was in vacuums.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘In vacuum cleaners. But that did not altogether agree with my chest. I got very tired and you wouldn’t believe how rude some women can be. Positively odious! So I gave it up for stamps.’

  His voice, muffled and insecure though it was, seemed the voice of an educated man. Alleyn wondered if he had been born to vacuum cleaners and philately.

  ‘How long were you in Liverpool, Mr Legge?’

  ‘Nearly two years.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I was in London. In the City. I was born in London. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Routine, Mr Legge,’ said Alleyn and thought of Cubitt. ‘What I was going to ask you was this. Had you ever met Mr Watchman before he arrived at Ottercombe?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Alleyn looked up.

  ‘Do you mind telling us where you met him? You need not answer any of these questions, of course, if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I don’t in the least object, Chief Inspector. I met him in a slight collision at Diddlestock corner. He was very nice about it.’

  Alleyn stared at him and he blinked nervously. Fox, Alleyn noticed, was stifling a grin.

  ‘Was that the first time you saw him?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’d seen him before. In court.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I used to go a great deal to the courts when I was in London. I always found it very absorbing. Of course, Mr Watchman didn’t know me.’

  ‘I see.’

  Alleyn moved Abel’s best inkpot from one side of the table to the other and stared thoughtfully at it.

  ‘Mr Legge,’ he said at last, ‘how much did you have to drink on that Friday night?’

  ‘Too much,’ said Legge quickly. ‘I realize it now. Not so much as the others, but too much. I have a good head as a rule, a very good head. But unless he moved his finger, which I still think possible, I must have taken too much.’ He gave Alleyn a sidelong glance.