by Ngaio Marsh
“Well — an acquaintance.”
“Yes. You mentioned that there were one or two points that were not brought out at the inquest.”
“Well?”
“Well, this chap’s talking about one of them. The handling of the darts.”
Alleyn hesitated. At last he said: “He must go to the local people.”
“I thought you might like to see him before we got rid of him.”
“Who is he?”
“The pub-keeper.”
“Has he come up from Devon to see us?”
“Yes, he has. He says the Super at Illington wouldn’t listen to him.”
“None of our game.”
“I thought you might like to see him,” Fox repeated.
“All right, blast you. Bring him up.”
“Very good, sir,” said Fox, and went out.
Alleyn put his papers together and shoved them into a drawer of his desk. He noticed with distaste that the papers felt gritty and that the handle of the drawer was sticky. He wished suddenly that something important might crop up somewhere in the country, somewhere, for preference, in the South of England; and his thoughts switched back to the death of Luke Watchman in Devon. He called to mind the report on the inquest. He had read it attentively.
Fox returned and stood with his hand on the door.
“In here, if you please, Mr. Pomeroy,” said Fox.
Alleyn thought his visitor would have made a very good model for the portrait of an innkeeper. Abel’s face was broad, ruddy and amiable. His mouth looked as if it had only just left off smiling and was ready to break into a smile again; for all that, at the moment, he was rather childishly solemn. He wore his best suit and it sat uneasily upon him. He walked halfway across the floor and made a little bow.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Abel.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pomeroy. I hear you’ve come all the way up from the West Country to see us.”
“I have so, sir. First time since Coronation and not such a pleasant errand. I bide home-along mostly.”
“Lucky man. Sit down, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“Much obliged, sir.”
Abel sat down and spread his hands on his knees.
“This gentleman,” he said, looking at Fox, “says it do be none of your business here, sir. That’s a bit of a facer. I got no satisfaction along to Illington, and I says to myself: ‘I’ll go up top. I’ll cut through all their pettifogging, small-minded ways, and lay my case boldly before the witty brains of those masterpieces at Scotland Yard.’ Seems like I’ve wasted time and money.”
“That’s bad luck,” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry, but Inspector Fox is right. The Yard only takes up an outside case at the request of the local Superintendent, you see. But if you’d care to tell me, unofficially, what the trouble is, I think I may invite you to do so.”
“Better than nothing, sir, and thank you very kindly.” Abel moistened his lips and rubbed his knees. “I’m sore troubled,” he said. “It’s got me under the weather. First time anything of a criminal nature has ever come my way. The Feathers has got a clean sheet, sir. Never any trouble about after-hours in my house. Us bides by the law and now it seems as how the law don’t bide by we.”
“A criminal nature?” said Alleyn.
“What else am I to think of it, sir? ’Twasnt’ accident! ’Twasn’t neglect on my part, for all they’re trying to put on me.”
“Suppose,” said Alleyn, “we begin at the beginning, Mr. Pomeroy. You’ve come to see us because you’ve information—”
Abel opened his mouth but Alleyn went on: “Information or an opinion about the death of Mr. Luke Watchman”
“Opinion!” said Abel. “That’s the word.”
“The finding at the inquest was death by cyanide-poisoning, with nothing to show exactly how it was taken.”
“And a proper fidgeting, suspicioning verdict it was,” said Abel warmly. “What’s the result? Result is George Nark, so full of silly blusteracious nonsense as an old turkey-cock, going round ’t Coombe with a story as how I killed Mr. Watchman along of criminal negligence with prussic acid. George Nark axing me of an evening if I’ve washed out glasses in my tap, because he’d prefer not to die in agony same as Mr. Watchman. George Nark talking his ignorant blusteracious twaddle to anyone as is stupid enough to listen to him.”
“Very irritating,” said Alleyn. “Who is Mr. Nark?”
“Old fool of a farmer, sir, with more long words than wits in his yed. I wouldn’t pay no attention, knowing his tongue’s apt to make a laughing-stock of the man, but other people listen and it’s bad for trade. I know,” said Abel steadily, “I know as certain-sure as I know anything in the life, that it was no fault of mine Mr. Watchman died of poison in my private tap. Because why? Because so soon as us had done with that stuff in my old stables, it was corked up proper. For all there wasn’t a drop of wetness on the bottle, I wiped it thorough and burned the rag. I carried it in with my own hands, sir, and put it in cupboard. Wearing gas mask and gloves, I was, and I chucked the gloves on the fire and washed my hands afterwards. And thurr that bottle stood, sir, for twenty-four hours; and if any drop of stuff came out of it, ’twas by malice and not by accident. I’ve axed my housekeeper and li’l maid who works for us, and neither on ’em’s been near cupboard. Too mortal scared they wurr. Nor has my boy, Will. And what’s more, sir, the glasses Mr. Watchman and company drank from that ghastly night was our best glasses, and I took ’em special, out of cupboard under bar. Now, sir, could this poison, however deadly, get itself out of stoppered bottle, through glass door, and into tumbler under my bar? Could it? I ax you!”
“It sounds rather like a conjuring trick,” agreed Alleyn with a smile.
“So it do.”
“What about the dart, Mr. Pomeroy?”
“Ah!” said Abel. “Thicky dart! When George Nark don’t be saying I did for the man in his cups, he be swearing his soul away I mussed up thicky dart with prussic acid. Mind this, sir, the darts wurrn’t arrived when us brought in poison on Thursday night, and they wurr only unpacked five minutes before the hijjus moment itself. Now!”
“Yes, they were new darts, weren’t they? I seem to remember—”
“ ’Ess fay, and never used till then. I opened ’em up myself, while company was having their last go Round-the-Clock. I opened ’em up on bar counter. Fresh in their London wrappings, they wurr. Mr. Parish and my boy, Will, they picked ’em up and looked at ’em, casual-like, and then Bob Legge, he scooped ’em up and took a trial throw with the lot. He said they carried beautiful. Then he had his shot at Mr. Watchman’s hand. They wurr clean new, they darts.”
“And yet,” said Alleyn, “the analyst found a trace of cyanide on the dart that pierced Mr. Watchman’s finger.”
Abel brought his palms down with a smack on his knees.
“ ’Od rabbit it,” he shouted, “don’t George Nark stuff that-thurr chunk of science down my gullet every time he opens his silly face? Lookee yurr, sir! ’Twas twenty-four hours, and more, since I put a bottle o’ poison in cupboard. I’d washed my hands half a dozen times since then. Bar had been swabbed down. Ax yourself, how could I infectorate they darts?”
Alleyn looked at the sweaty, earnest countenance before him, and whistled soundlessly.
“Yes,” he said at last, “it seems unlikely.”
“Unlikely! It’s slap-down impossible.”
“But—”
“If pison got on thicky dart,” said Abel, “ ’twasn’t by accident nor yet by carelessness. ’Twas by malice. ’Twas with murderacious intent. Thurr!”
“But how do you account…?”
“Account? Me?” asked old Abel, agitatedly. “I don’t. I leaves they intellectual capers to Superintendent Nicholas Harper, and a pretty poor fist he do be making of it. That’s why—”
“Yes, yes,” said Alleyn hurriedly. “But remember that Mr. Harper may be doing more than you think. Policemen have to keep their own counsel, you see. Don�
�t make up your mind that because he doesn’t say very much—”
“It’s not what he don’t say, it’s the silly standoffishness of what he do say. Nick Harper! Damme, I was to school with the man, and now he sits behind his desk and looks at me as if I be a fool. ‘Where’s your facts’ he says. ‘Don’t worry yourself,’ he says, ‘if there’s anything fishy, us’ll fish for it.’ Truth of the matter is, the man’s too small and ignorant for a murderous matter. Can’t raise himself above the level of motor licenses and after-hour trade, and more often than not he makes a muck of them. What’ll come to the Feathers if this talk goes on? Happen us’ll have to give up the trade, after a couple of centuries.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Alleyn. “We can’t afford to lose our old pubs, Mr. Pomeroy, and it’s going to take more than a week’s village gossip to shake the trade at the Plume of Feathers. It is just a week since the inquest, isn’t it? It’s fresh in Mr. George Nark’s memory. Give it time to die down.”
“If this affair dies down, sir, there’ll be a murder unhung in the Coombe.”
Alleyn raised his brows.
“You feel like that about it?”
“ ’Ess, I do. What’s more, sir, I’ll put a name to the man.”
Alleyn lifted a hand but old Abel went on doggedly:
“I don’t care who hears me, I’ll put a name to him, and that-there name’s Robert Legge. Now!”
“A very positive old article,” said Alleyn, when Fox returned from seeing Abel Pomeroy down the corridor.
“I don’t see why he’s made up his mind this chap Legge is a murderer,” said Fox. “He’d only known deceased twenty-four hours. It sounds silly.”
“He says Watchman gibed at Legge,” said Alleyn. “I wonder if he did. And why.”
“I’ve heard him in court, often enough,” said Fox. “He was a prime heckler. Perhaps it was a habit.”
“I don’t think so. He was a bit malicious, though. He was a striking sort of fellow. Plenty of charm and a good deal of vanity. He always seemed to me to take unnecessary trouble to be liked. But I didn’t know him well. The cousin’s a damn’ good actor. Rather like Watchman, in a way. Oh well, it’s not our pidgin, thank the Lord. I’m afraid the old boy’s faith in us wonderful police has been shaken.”
“D’you know the Super at Illington, Mr. Alleyn?”
“Harper. Yes, I do. He was in on that arson case in South Devon in ’37. Served his apprenticeship in L. Division, You must remember him.”
“Nick Harper?”
“That’s the fellow. Devon, born and bred. I think perhaps I’d better write and warn him about Mr. Pomeroy’s pilgrimage.”
“I wonder if old Pomeroy’s statement’s correct. I wonder if he did make a bloomer with the rat-poison and is simply trying to save his face.”
“His indignation seemed to me to be supremely righteous. I fancy he thinks he’s innocent.”
“Somebody else may have mucked about with the bottle and won’t own up,” Fox speculated.
“Possible. But who’d muck about with hydrocyanic acid for the sheer fun of the thing?”
“The alternative,” said Fox, “is murder.”
“Is it? Well, you bumble off and brood on it. You must be one of those zealous officers who rise to the top of the profession.”
“Well, sir,” said Fox, “it’s funny. On the face of it, it’s funny.”
“Run away and laugh at it, then. I’m going home, Br’er Fox.”
But when Fox had gone, Alleyn sat and stared at the top of his desk. At last he drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write.
Dear Nick,
It’s some time since we met, and you’ll wonder why the devil I’m writing. A friend of yours has just called on us: Abel Pomeroy of the Plume of Feathers, Ottercombe. He’s in a state of injury and fury, and is determined to get to the bottom of the Luke Watchman business. I tried to fob him off with fair words, but it wasn’t a howling success and he’s gone away with every intention of making things hum, until you lug a murderer home to justice. I thought I’d just warn you but you’ll probably hear from him before this reaches you. Don’t, for the love of Mike, think we want to butt in. How are you? I envy you your job, infuriated innkeepers and all. In this weather we suffocate at C.I.
Yours ever,
Roderick Alleyn.
Alleyn sealed and stamped this letter. He took his hat and stick from the wall, put on one glove, pulled it off again, cursed, and went to consult the newspaper files for the reports on the death of Luke Watchman.
An hour passed. It is significant that when he finally left the Yard and walked rapidly down the Embankment, his lips were pursed in a soundless whistle.
Chapter VIII
Alleyn at Illington
i
Superintendent Nicholas Harper to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn —
Illington Police Station,
South Devon.
August 8th.
Dear Mr. Alleyn,
Yours of the 6th inst. to hand for which I thank you. As regards Mr. Abel Pomeroy I am very grateful for information received as per your letter as it enabled me to deal with Pomeroy more effectively, knowing the action he had taken as regards visiting C.I. For your private information we are working on the case which presents one or two features which seem to preclude possibility of accident. Well, Mr. Alleyn — Rory, if you will pardon the liberty — it was nice to hear from you. I have not forgotten that arson case in ’37 nor the old days in L. Division. A country Super gets a bit out of things. With kind regards and many thanks,
Yours faithfully,
N. W. Harper (Superintendent).
Part of a letter from Colonel the Honourable Maxwell Brammington, Chief Constable of South Devon, to the Superintendent of the Central Branch of New Scotland Yard —
… And on the score of the deceased’s interests and activities being centred in London, I have suggested to Superintendent Harper that he consult you. In my opinion the case is somewhat beyond the resources and experience of our local force. Without wishing for a moment to exceed my prerogative in this matter, I venture to suggest that as we are already acquainted with Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn of C.I., we should be delighted if he was appointed to this case. That, however, is of course entirely for you to decide,
I am,
Yours faithfully,
Maxwell Brammington, C. C.
“Well, Mr. Alleyn,” said the Superintendent of C.I., staring at the horsehoe and crossed swords that garnished the walls of his room, “you seem to be popular in South Devon.”
“It must be a case, sir,” said Alleyn, “of sticking to the ills they know.”
“Think so? Well, I’ll have a word with the A.C. You’d better pack your bag and tell your wife.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You knew Watchman, didn’t you?”
“Slightly, sir. I’ve had all the fun of being turned inside out by him in the witness-box.”
“In the Davidson case?”
“And several others.”
“I seem to remember you were equal to him. But didn’t you know him personally?”
“Slightly.”
“He was a brilliant counsel.”
“He was, indeed.”
“Well, watch your step and do us proud.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Taking Fox?”
“If I may.”
“That’s all right. We’ll hear from you.”
Alleyn returned to his room, collected his emergency suitcase and kit, and sent for Fox.
“Br’er Fox,” he said, “this is a wish-fulfillment. Get your fancy pyjamas and your tooth-brush. We catch the midday train for South Devon.”
ii
The branch-line from Exeter to Illington meanders amiably towards the coast. From the train windows, Alleyn and Fox looked down on sunken lanes, on thatched roofs, and on glossy hedgerows that presented millions of tiny mirrors to the afternoon sun. Alleyn
let down the window, and the scent of hot grass and leaves drifted into the stuffy carriage.
“Nearly there, Br’er Fox. That’s Illington church-spire over the hill, and there’s the glint of sea beyond.”
“Very pleasant,” said Fox, dabbing at his enormous face with his handkerchief. “Warm, though.”
“High summer, out there.”
“You never seem to show the heat, Mr. Alleyn. Now I’m a warm man. I perspire very freely. Always have. It’s not an agreeable habit, though they tell me it’s healthy.”
“Yes, Fox.”
“I’ll get the things down, sir.”
The train changed its pace from slow to extremely slow. Beyond the window, a main road turned into a short-lived main street, with a brief network of surrounding shops. The word “Illington” appeared in white stones on a grassy bank, and they drew into the station.
“There’s the Super,” said Fox. “Very civil.”
Superintendent Harper shook hands at some length. Alleyn, once as touchy as a cat, had long ago accustomed himself to official hand-clasps. And he liked Harper who was bald, scarlet-faced, blue-eyed, and sardonic.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Alleyn,” said Harper. “Good afternoon. Good afternoon, Mr. Fox. I’ve got a car outside.”
He drove them in a police Ford down the main street. They passed a Woolworth store, a departmental store, a large hotel, and a row of small shops amongst which Alleyn noticed one labelled “Bernard Noggins, Chemist.”
“Is that where Parish bought the cyanide?”
“You haven’t lost any time, Mr. Alleyn,” said Harper, who seemed to hover on the edge of Alleyn’s Christian name and to funk it at the last second. “Yes, that’s it. He’s a very stupid sort of man, is Bernie Noggins. There’s the station. The colonel will be along presently. He’s in a shocking mood over this affair, but you may be able to cope with him. I thought that before we moved on to Ottercombe, you might like to see the files and have a tell,” said Harper, whose speech still held a tang of West Country.