by Ngaio Marsh
“Splendid. Where are we to stay?”
“That’s as you like, of course, Mr. Alleyn, but I’ve told that old blatherskite Pomeroy to hold himself in readiness. I thought you might prefer to be on the spot. I’ve warned him to say nothing about it and I think he’ll have the sense to hold his tongue. No need to put anybody on the alert, is there? This car’s at your service.”
“Yes, but look here—”
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Alleyn. I’ve a small two-seater we can use here.”
“That sounds perfectly splendid,” said Alleyn, and followed Harper into the police station.
They sat down in Harper’s office, while he got out his files. Alleyn looked at the photographs of past Superintendents, at the worn linoleum and varnished woodwork, and he wondered how many times he had sat in country police stations waiting for the opening gambit of a case that, for one reason or another, had been a little too much for the local staff. Alleyn was the youngest chief-inspector at the Central Branch of New Scotland Yard, but he was forty-three. “I’m getting on,” he thought without regret. “Old Fox must be fifty, he’s getting quite grey. We’ve done all this so many times together.” And he heard his own voice as if it was the voice of another man, uttering the familiar phrases.
“I hope we won’t be a nuisance to you, Nick. A case of this sort’s always a bit tiresome, isn’t it? Local feeling and so on.”
Harper clapped a file down on his desk, threw his head back and looked at Alleyn from under his spectacles.
“Local feeling?” he said. “Local stupidity! I don’t care. They work it out for themselves and get a new version every day. Old Pomeroy’s not the worst, not by a long chalk. The man’s got something to complain about, or thinks he has. It’s these other experts, George Nark & Co., that make all the trouble. Nark’s written three letters to the Illington Courier. The first was about fingerprinting. He called it ‘the Bertillion system,’ of course, ignorant old ass, and wanted to know if we’d printed everyone who was there, when Watchman died. So I got him round here and printed him. So he wrote another letter to the paper about the liberty of the subject and said the South Devon Constabulary were a lot of Hitlers. Then Oates, the Coombe P.C., found him crawling about outside Pomeroy’s garage with a magnifying glass, and kicked him out. So he wrote another letter, saying the police were corrupt. Then the editor, who ought to know better, wrote a damn-fool leader and then three more letters about me appeared. They were signed ‘Vigilant,’ ‘Drowsy,’ and ‘Moribund.’ Then all the pressmen who’d gone away, came back again. I don’t care. What of it? But the C.C. began ringing me up three times a day and I got fed up and suggested he ask you, and he jumped at it. There’s the file.”
Alleyn and Fox hastened to make sympathetic noises.
“Before we see the file” Alleyn said, “we’d very much like to hear your own views. We’ve looked up the report on the inquest so we’ve got the main outline or ought to have it.”
“My views?” repeated Mr. Harper moodily. “I haven’t got any. I don’t think it was an accident.”
“Don’t you, now?”
“I don’t see how it could have been. I suppose old Pomeroy bleated about his injuries when he went screeching up to the Yard. I think he’s right. ’Far as I can see, the old man did take reasonable precautions. Well, perhaps not that, the stuff ought never to have been left on the premises. But I don’t see how, twenty-four hours after he’d stowed the bottle away in the cupboard, he could have infected that dart accidentally. We’ve printed the cupboard. It’s got his prints on it and nobody’s else’s.”
“Oh,” said Alleyn, “then it isn’t a case of somebody else having tampered with the bottle and been too scared to own up.”
“No.”
“How many sets of Pomeroy’s prints are on the cupboard door?”
“Several. Four good ones on the knob. And he turned the key in the top cupboard when he put the cyanide away. His print’s on the key all right and you can’t do the pencil trick, for I’ve tried. It’s a fair teaser.”
“Any prints on the bottle?”
“None. But he explained he wore gloves and wiped the bottle.”
“The cupboard door’s interesting.”
“Is it? Well, when he opened the parcel of darts he broke the seals. I got hold of the wrapping and string. The string had only been tied once and the seals have got the shop’s mark on them.”
“Damn good, Nick,” said Alleyn. Mr. Harper looked a little less jaundiced.
“Well, it goes to show,” he admitted, “the dart was O.K. when old Pomeroy unpacked it. Then young Will and Parish handled the darts, and then Legge tried them out. Next thing — one of ’em sticks into deceased’s finger and in five minutes he’s a corpse.”
“The inference being…?”
“God knows! They found cyanide on the dart, but how the hell it got there’s a masterpiece. I suppose old Pomeroy’s talked Legge to you.”
“Yes.”
“Yes. Well, Legge had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up. Cubitt and young Pomeroy swear he took the darts with his left hand and held them point outward in a bunch while he tried them. They say he didn’t wait any time at all. Just threw them into the board, said they were all right and then waded in with his trick. You see, they were all watching Legge.”
“Yes.”
“What about the other five, Super?” asked Fox. “He used six for the trick, didn’t he?”
“Meaning one of them might have contrived to smear cyanide on one dart, while they looked at the lot?”
“It doesn’t make any sort of sense,” said Alleyn. “How was Cubitt or young Pomeroy to know Legge was going to pink Watchman?”
“That’s right,” agreed Harper, relapsing. “So it must be Legge but it couldn’t be Legge; so it must be accident but it couldn’t be accident. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Screamingly.”
“The iodine bottle’s all right and so’s the brandy bottle.”
“The brandy glass was broken?”
“Smashed to powder, except the bottom, and that was in about thirty pieces. They couldn’t find any cyanide.”
“Whereabouts on the dart was the trace of cyanide?”
“On the tip and halfway up the steel point. We’ve printed the dart, of course. It’s got Legge’s prints all over it. They’ve covered Abel’s or anybody else’s who touched it, except Oates, and he kept his head and only handled it by the flight. The analyst’s report is here. And all the exhibits.”
“Yes. Have you fished up a motive?”
“The money goes to Parish and Cubitt. Two thirds to Parish and one third to Cubitt. That’s excepting one or two small legacies. Parish is the next-of-kin. It’s a big estate. The lawyer was so close as an oyster, but I’ve found out it ought to wash up at something like fifty thousand. We don’t know much beyond what everybody knows. Reckon most folks have seen Sebastian Parish on the screen, and Mr. Cubitt seems to be a well-known artist. The C.C. expects the Yard to tackle that end of the stick.”
“Thoughtful of him! Anyone else?”
“They’ve found a bit already. They’ve found Parish’s affairs are in a muddle and he’s been to the Jews. Cubitt had money in that Chain Stores Unlimited thing, that bust the other day. There’s motive there, all right.”
“Anyone else? Pomeroy’s fancy? The mysterious Legge?”
“Him? Motive? You’ve heard Pomeroy, Mr. Alleyn. Says deceased behaved peculiar to Legge. Chaffed him, like. Well, what is there in that? It seems there was a bit of a collision between them, the day Mr. Watchman drove into the Coombe. Day before the fatality that was. Legge’s a bad driver, anyway. Likely enough, Mr. Watchman felt kind of irritated, and let Legge know all about it when they met again. Likely, Legge’s views irritated Mr. Watchman.”
“His views?”
“He’s an out-and-out communist is Legge. Secretary and Treasurer of the Coombe Left Movement and in with young Will and Miss Moore. Mr. Watchman
seems to have made a bit of a laughing-stock of the man, but you don’t do murder because you’ve been made to look silly.”
“Not very often, I should think. Do you know anything about Legge? He’s a newcomer, isn’t he?”
Harper unhooked his spectacles and laid them on his desk.
“Yes,” he said, “he’s foreign to these parts. We’ve followed up the usual routine, Mr. Alleyn, but we haven’t found much. He says he came here for his health. He’s opened a small banking account at Illington, three hundred and fifty pounds. He came to the Feathers ten months ago. He gets a big lot of letters, and writes a lot to all parts of the West Country, and sends away a number of small packages. Seems he’s agent for some stamp collecting affair. I got the name, ‘Phillips Philatelic Society,’ and got one of our chaps to look up the headquarters in London. Sure enough, this chap Legge’s the forwarding agent for the west of England. Well, he chummed up with young Will, and about three months ago they gave him this job with the Coombe Left business. I don’t mind saying I don’t like the looks of the man. He’s a funny chap. Unhealthy, I’d say. Something the matter with his ears. We’ve searched all their rooms and I found a chemist’s bottle and a bit of a squirt in his. Had it tested, you bet, but it’s only some muck he squirts into his beastly lug. So I returned it. Cubitt’s room was full of painting gear. We found oil, and turpentine and varnish. Went through the lot. Of course we didn’t expect to find anything. Parish,” said Harper in disgust, “uses scent. Well, not to say scent, but some sort of toilet water. No, I don’t mind saying I don’t like the looks of Legge, but there again, Miss Moore says Mr. Watchman told her he’d never set eyes on the man before.”
“Well,” said Alleyn, “let’s go through the list while we’re at it. What about young Pomeroy?”
“Will? Yes. Yes, there’s young Will.” Harper opened the file and stared at the first page, but it seemed to Alleyn that he was not reading it. “Will Pomeroy,” said Harper, “says he didn’t like Mr, Watchman. He makes no bones about it. Mr. Parish says they quarrelled on account of this chap, Legge. Will didn’t like the way Mr. Watchman got at Legge, you see, and being a hotheaded loyalish kind of fellow, he tackled Mr. Watchman. It wasn’t much of an argument, but it was obvious Will Pomeroy had taken a scunner on Mr. Watchman.”
“And — what is the lady’s name? — Miss Decima Moore? What about her?”
“Nothing. Keeps company with Will. She’s a farmer’s daughter. Old Jim Moore, up to Cary Edge. Her mother’s a bit on the classy side. Foreigner to these parts and can’t forget she came down in society when she married Farmer Moore. Miss Decima was educated at Oxford and came home a red Leftist. She and deceased used to argufy a bit about politics, but that’s all.”
Alleyn counted on his long, thin fingers.
“That’s five,” he said, “six, counting old Pomeroy. We’re left with the Honourable Violet Darragh and Mr. George Nark.”
“You can forget ’em,” rejoined Harper. “The Honourable Violet’s a rum old girl from Ireland, who takes views in paints. She was there writing letters when it happened. I’ve checked up on her and she’s the genuine article. She’ll talk the hind leg off a donkey. So’ll George Nark. He’s no murderer. He’s too damned silly to kill a wood-louse except he treads on it accidental.”
“How many of these people are still in Ottercombe?”
“All of ’em.”
“Good Lord!” Alleyn exclaimed. “Didn’t they want to get away when it was all over? I’d have thought—”
“So would anybody,” agreed Harper. “But it seems Mr. Cubitt had started off on several pictures down there, and wants to finish them. One’s a likeness of Mr. Parish, so he’s stayed down-along too. They waited for the funeral, which was here. Deceased had no relatives nearer than Mr. Parish, and Mr. Parish said he thought his cousin would have liked to be put away in the country. Several legal gentlemen came down from London, and the flowers were a masterpiece. Well, they just stopped on, Mr. Cubitt painting as quiet as you please. He’s a cool customer, is Mr. Cubitt.”
“How much longer will they be here?”
“Reckon another week. They came for three. Did the same thing last year. It’s a fortnight to-night since this case cropped up. We’ve kept the private bar shut up. Everything was photographed and printed. There was nothing of interest in deceased’s pockets. He smoked some outlandish kind of cigarettes. Daha— something, but that’s no use. We’ve got his movements taped out. Arrived on Thursday night and didn’t go out. Friday morning, went for a walk but don’t know exactly where, except it was through the tunnel. Friday afternoon, went upstairs after lunch and was in his room writing letters. Seen in his room by Mrs. Ives, the housekeeper, who went up at 3.30 to shut windows and found him asleep on his bed. Also seen at 4 o’clock by Mr. Cubitt, who looked in on his way back from painting down on the wharf. Came downstairs at 5.15, or thereabouts, and was in the private bar from then onwards till he died. I don’t think I missed anything.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“You know,” said Harper, warming a little, “it’s a proper mystery, this case. Know-what-I-mean, most cases depend on routine. Boil ’em down and it’s routine that does the trick as a general rule. May do it here but all the same this is a teaser. I’m satisfied it wasn’t accident but I can’t prove it. When I’m told on good authority that there was cyanide on that dart, and that Mr. Watchman died of cyanide in his blood, I say: ‘Well, there’s your weapon,’ but alongside of this there’s six people, let alone my own investigation, that prove to my satisfaction nobody could have tampered with the dart. But the dart was poisoned. Now, the stuff in the rat-hole was in a little china jar. I’ve left it there for you to see. I got another jar of the same brand. They sell some sort of zinc ointment in them, and Abel had several; he’s mad on that sort of thing. Now, the amount that’s gone from the bottle, which Noggins says was full, is a quarter of an ounce more than the amount the jar holds and Abel swears he filled the jar. The jar was full when we saw it.”
“Full?” said Alleyn sharply. “When did you see it?”
“The next morning.”
“Was the stuff in the jar analyzed?”
Harper turned brick-red.
“No,” he said, “Abel swore he’d filled it and the jar’s only got his prints on it. And, I tell you, it was full.”
“Have you got the stuff?”
“Yes. I poured it off and kept it. Seeing there’s a shortage, the stuff on the dart must have come from the bottle.”
“For how long was the bottle uncorked?”
“What? Oh, he said that when he used it he uncorked the bottle and put it on the shelf above the hole, with the cork beside it. He was very anxious we should know he’d been careful, and he said he didn’t want to handle the cork more than was necessary. He said he was just going to pour the stuff in the jar, when he thought he’d put the jar in position first. He did that and then filled it, holding the torch in his other hand. He swears he didn’t spill any, and he swears nobody touched the bottle. The others were standing in the doorway.”
“So the bottle may have been uncorked for a minute or two?”
“I suppose so. He plugged up the hole with rag, before he did anything else. He had the bottle on the floor beside him.”
“And then?”
“Well, then he took up the bottle and corked it. I suppose,” said Harper, “I should have had the stuff analyzed, but we’ve no call to suspect Abel Pomeroy. There was none missing from the jar and there are only his prints on it, and there’s the extra quarter-ounce missing from the bottle. No, it’s gone from the bottle. Must have. And, see here, Mr. Alleyn, the stuff was found on the dart and nowhere else. What’s more, if it was the dart that did the trick, and it’s murder, then Legge’s our bird, because only Legge controlled the flight of the dart.”
“Silly sort of way to kill a man,” said Fox, suddenly. “It’d be asking for a conviction, Super, now wouldn’t it?”
/> “Maybe he reckoned he’d get a chance to wipe the dart,” said Harper.
“He had his chance,” said Alleyn, quickly. “Wasn’t it brought out that Legge helped the constable— Oates, isn’t it? — to find the dart? He had his chance, then, to wipe it.”
“And if he was guilty, why didn’t he?” ended Fox.
“You’re asking me,” said Superintendent Harper. “Here’s the Colonel.”
iii
The Chief Constable was an old acquaintance of Alleyn’s. Alleyn liked Colonel Brammington. He was a character, an oddity, full of mannerisms that amused rather than irritated Alleyn. He was so unlike the usual county-minded chief constable, that it was a matter for conjecture how he ever got the appointment for he spent half his life in giving offence and was amazingly indiscreet. He arrived at Illington Police Station in a powerful racing-car that was as scarred as a veteran. It could be heard from the moment it entered the street and Harper exclaimed agitatedly:
“Here he comes! He knows that engine’s an offence within the meaning of the Act and he doesn’t care. He’ll get us all into trouble one of these days. There are complaints on all sides. On all sides!”
The screech of heavy tyres and violent braking announced Colonel Brammington’s arrival and in a moment he came in. He was a vast red man with untidy hair, prominent eyes, and a loud voice. The state of his clothes suggested that he’d been dragged by the heels through some major disaster.
He shouted an apology at Harper, touched Alleyn’s hand as if it was a bomb, stared at Fox, and then hurled himself into a seagrass chair with such abandon that he was like to break it.
“I should have been here half an hour ago,” shouted Colonel Brammington, “but for my car, my detestable, my abominable car.”
“What was the matter, sir?” asked Harper.
“My good Harper, I have no notion. Fortunately I was becalmed near a garage. The fellow thrust his head among her smoking entrails, uttered some mumbojumbo, performed suitable rites with oil and water, and I was enabled to continue.”