by Ngaio Marsh
“Go on, please,” said Alleyn.
“Well, the lights waver. Sometimes it’s almost dark, then the figures all show up again. Or—” Parish looked at Cubitt.
“No,” said Cubitt, “that wasn’t the brandy, Seb. You’re quite right.”
“Well, I can’t go any further,” said Parish petulantly. “The rest’s still a filthy nightmare. Can you sort it out?”
“Please do, if you can, Mr. Cubitt,” said Alleyn. Cubitt was filling his pipe. His fingers, blunt-ended, were stained, as usual, with oil paint.
“It’s as everybody described it at the inquest,” he said. “I think Seb and I both had the same idea, that Watchman was simply upset at the sight of his own blood. It’s true about the lights. The room seemed to — to sort of pulse with shadows. I remember Luke’s right hand. It groped about his chest as if he felt for a handkerchief or something. Legge said something like: ‘My God! I’m sorry, is it bad?’ Something like that. And then Legge said something more. ‘Look at his face! My God, it’s not lockjaw, is it?’ And you, Seb, said ‘Not it,’ and trotted out the old story about Luke’s sensibilities.”
“How was I to know? You make it sound—”
“Of course you weren’t to know. I agreed with you, but Legge was very upset and, at the mention of lockjaw, Abel went to the cupboard and got out the iodine and a bandage. Miss Darragh came to life, and took the bandage from Abel. Abel dabbed iodine on the finger, and Luke sort of shuddered, like you do with the sting of the stuff. Miss Darragh said something about brandy. Decima Moore took the bottle off the bar and poured some into Luke’s glass. His glass was on the table.”
“The table by the dart board close to Mr. Parish?”
Cubitt looked up from his pipe.
“That’s it,” he said. “Decima gave Luke the brandy. He seemed to get worse, just about then. He had a sort of convulsion.” Cubitt paused. “It was beastly,” he said and his voice changed. “The glass went flying. Miss Darragh pressed forward with the bandage and then— then the lights went out.”
“That’s very clear,” said Alleyn. “I take it that, from the time Abel Pomeroy got the iodine and bandage until Mr. Watchman died, you were all gathered round the settle?”
“Yes. We didn’t really change positions, much; not Legge, or Will, or Seb here, or me. Abel and the two women came forward.”
“And when the lights went up again,” said Alleyn, “were the positions the same?”
“Pretty much. But—”
“Yes?”
Cubitt looked steadily at Alleyn. His pipe was gripped between his teeth. He felt in his pockets.
“There was a devil of a lot of movement while the lights were out.”
Chapter XI
Routine
i
“What sort of movement?” asked Alleyn.
“I know what you mean,” said Parish, before Cubitt could answer. “It was Luke. He must have had a sort of attack after the lights went out. It was appalling.”
“I don’t mean that,” said Cubitt. “I know Luke made a noise. His feet beat a sort of tattoo on the settle. He flung his arms about and — he made other noises.”
“For God’s sake,” Parish broke out, “don’t talk about it like that! I don’t know how you can sit there and discuss it.”
“It looks as if we’ve got to,” said Cubitt.
“I’m afraid it does,” agreed Alleyn. “What other movements did you notice, beyond those made by Mr. Watchman?”
“Somebody was crawling about the floor,” Cubitt said.
Parish made a gesture of impatience. “My dear old Norman,” he said, “ ‘Crawling about the floor!’ You’re giving Mr. Alleyn a wrong impression. Completely wrong! I’ve no doubt one of us may have stooped down in the dark, knelt down, perhaps, to try and get hold of Luke.”
“I don’t mean that at all,” said Cubitt calmly. “Someone was literally crawling about the floor. Whoever it was banged his head against my knees.”
“Where were you standing?” asked Alleyn.
“By the foot of the settle. I had my back to the settle. The backs of my knees touched it.”
“How d’you know it was a head?” demanded Parish. “It might have been a foot.”
“I can distinguish between a foot and a head,” said Cubitt, “even in the dark.”
“Somebody feeling round for the brandy glass,” said Parish.
“It was after the brandy glass was broken.” Cubitt looked at Alleyn. “Somebody trod on the glass soon after the lights went out. There’s probably nothing in it, anyway. I’ve no idea at all whose head it was.”
“Was it Legge’s head?” demanded Parish, suddenly.
“I tell you, Seb,” said Cubitt, quite mildly, “I don’t know whose head it was. I merely know it was there. It simply butted against my knees and drew away quickly.”
“Well, of course!” said Parish. “It was Abel.”
“Why Abel?”
Parish turned to Alleyn.
“Abel dropped the bottle of iodine just before the lights went out. I remember that. He must have stooped down to try and find it.”
“If it was Abel, he didn’t succeed,” said Alleyn. “The bottle was found under the settle, you know.”
“Well, it was dark.”
“So it was,” agreed Alleyn. “Why did you think it might be Mr. Legge’s head?”
Parish at once became very solemn. He moved to the hearthrug. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his shorts, pulled in his belly, and stuck out his jaw.
“God knows,” he began, “I don’t want to condemn any man, but Norman and I have talked this thing over.”
“Come off it, Seb,” said Cubitt. “We haven’t a blessed thing against the fellow, you know. Nothing that would be of any interest to Mr. Alleyn. I’m very well aware that my own ideas are largely self-protective. I suppose you know, Mr. Alleyn, that Watchman left me some of his money.”
“Yes,” said Alleyn.
“Yes. It’s as good a motive as any other. Better than most. I don’t fancy I’m in a position to make suggestions about other people.”
He said this with a sort of defiance, looking out of the window and half-smiling.
“This sort of thing,” added Cubitt, “finds out the thin patches in one’s honesty.”
“If you can admit as much,” said Alleyn, quickly, “perhaps they are not so very thin.”
“Thanks,” said Cubitt, drily.
“Well,” began Parish, with the air of running after the conversation, “I don’t altogether agree with you, Norman. I make no secret about dear old Luke leaving the rest of his money to me. In a way, it was the natural thing for him to do. I’m his next-of-kin.”
“But I,” said Cubitt, “am no relation at all.”
“Oh, my dear old boy!” cried Parish in a hurry. “You were his best friend. Luke said so when he—” Parish stopped short.
“To revert,” said Alleyn, “to Mr. Legge. You were going to talk about Mr. Legge, weren’t you?”
“I was,” said Parish. “I can’t help what you think, Norman old boy. It seems to me that Legge’s hand in this ghastly business is pretty obvious. Nobody but Legge could have known the poisoned dart would take effect. I must say I don’t see that there’s much mystery about it.”
“And the motive?” asked Cubitt.
Alleyn said: “I understand your cousin told you that he and Mr. Legge were strangers to each other.”
“I know he did,” said Parish, “but I don’t believe it was true. I believe Luke recognized Legge. Not at first, perhaps, but later. During that first evening in the bar. I suppose you know that Legge smashed into my cousin’s car before ever he got here? That’s a bit funny, too, when you come to think of it.”
“What,” asked Cubitt, “is the dark inference, Seb? Why was it funny? Do you suppose that Legge lurked round Diddlestock Corner in a two-seater, and that every time he heard a powerful car coming down Ottercombe Road, he hurled his baby ou
t of cover in the hopes of ramming Luke?”
“Oh, don’t be an ass. I simply mean it was a coincidence.”
“About the first evening in the bar?” suggested Alleyn, who had decided that there was a certain amount to be said for allowing Parish and Cubitt plenty of rein.
“Yes. Well, I was going to tell you,” said Parish. “I talked to Luke while he had his supper in the bar. He told me about this business with the cars and rather let off steam on the subject of the other driver. Well, it turned out that Legge was sitting in the settle — the— actually it was the settle where Luke — where it happened. When Luke realized Legge must have heard he went across and sort of made the amende-honorable, if you know what I mean. He didn’t make much headway. Legge was rather stuffy and up-stage.”
“Was all this while the poison-party was going on in the stable?”
“What? Yes. Yes, it was.”
“So that Mr. Legge did not attend the party in the stables?”
“I suppose not. But he knew all about it. When Abel came in he warned everybody in the place about what he’d done.”
Parish hesitated. “It’s hard to describe,” he said. “But if you’d known my cousin you’d understand. He seemed to be getting at Legge. Even you’ll agree to that, Norman.”
“Yes,” said Cubitt. “I put it down to Luke’s vanity.”
“His vanity?” asked Alleyn.
“Parish doesn’t agree with me,” said Cubitt with a faint smile, “on the subject of Watchman’s vanity. I’ve always considered he attached importance to being on good terms with people. It seemed to me that when Legge snubbed his advances Watchman was at first disconcerted and put out of countenance, and then definitely annoyed. They had a bet on that first night about Legge’s dart-throwing and Legge won. That didn’t help. Then Watchman chipped Legge about his politics and his job. Not very prettily, I thought. It was then, or about then, that the trick with the darts was first mentioned.”
“By Legge,” Parish pointed out.
“I know, but Luke insisted on the experiment.”
“Mr. Cubitt,” said Alleyn, “did you not get the impression that these two men had met before?”
Norman Cubitt rumpled his hair and scowled.
“I don’t say that,” he said. “I wondered. But I don’t think one should attach too much importance to what Watchman said.” And like Parish, he added: “If you’d ever met him you’d understand.”
Alleyn did not think it necessary to say that he had met Watchman. He said: “Can you remember anything definite that seemed to point to recognition?”
“It was more the way Luke spoke than what he actually said,” explained Parish. “He kept talking about Legge’s job and sort of suggesting he’d done pretty well for himself. Didn’t he, Norman?”
“I seem to remember a phrase about leading the people by the nose,” said Cubitt, “which sounded rather offensive. And the way Luke invited Legge to play Round-the-Clock was not exactly the glass of fashion or the mould of form. He asked Legge if he’d ever done time.”
“Oh,” said Alleyn.
“But it all sounds far too solemn and significant when you haul it out and display it like this.”
“Anyone would think,” said Parish, “that you were trying to protect Legge. I thought it was all damned odd.”
“I’m not trying to protect Legge, but I’ve no particular wish to make him sound like a man of mystery. ‘Who is Mr. X?’ As far as we know, Mr. X is a rather dreary little Soviet-fan who combines philately with communism, and is pretty nippy with the darts. And what’s more, I don’t see how he could have infected the dart. In fact, I’m prepared to swear he didn’t. I was watching his hands. They’re ugly hands and he’s a clumsy mover. Have you noticed he always fumbles and drops his money when he pays for his drinks? He’s certainly quite incapable of doing any sleight-of-hand stuff with prussic acid.”
Alleyn looked at Fox. “That answers your question,” he said.
“What question?” asked Cubitt. “Or aren’t we supposed to know?”
“Fox wondered if Mr. Legge could be an expert at legerdemain,” said Alleyn.
“Well, you never know. That’s not impossible,” said Parish. “He might be.”
“I’ll stake my oath he’s not,” said Cubitt. “He’s no more likely to have done it than you are—”
Cubitt caught his breath and, for the first time, looked profoundly uncomfortable.
“Which is absurd,” he added.
Parish turned on Cubitt. His poise had gone and for a moment he looked as though he both hated Cubitt and was afraid of him.
“You seem very sure of yourself, Norman,” he said. “Apparently my opinion is of no value. I won’t waste any more of Mr. Alleyn’s time.”
“My dear old Seb—” Cubitt began.
Alleyn said: “Please, Mr. Parish! I’m sure all this business of questions that seem to have neither rhyme nor reason is tedious and exasperating to a degree. But you may be sure that we shall go as carefully as we go slowly. If there is any link between this man and your cousin I think I may promise you that we shall discover it.”
“I suppose so,” said Parish, not very readily. “I’m sorry if I’m unreasonable, but this thing has hit me pretty hard.”
“Oh dear,” thought Alleyn; “he will speak by the book!” And aloud he said: “Of course it has. I’ve nearly done for the moment. There are one or two more points. I think you looked at the new darts before they were handed to Mr. Legge.”
Parish froze at that. He stood there on the dappled hearthrug and stared at Alleyn. He looked like a frightened schoolboy.
“I only picked them up and looked at them,” he said. “Anyone will tell you that.” And then with a sudden spurt of temper: “Damnation, you’ll be saying I killed my cousin, next!”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Alleyn peacefully. “I was going to ask you to tell me who handled the darts before and after you did.”
Parish opened his mouth and shut it again. When he did speak it was with a kind of impotent fury.
“If you’d said at first — you’ve got me all flustered.”
Cubitt said: “I think I can tell you that, Alleyn. Abel unpacked the darts and laid them on the counter. Parish simply picked two or perhaps three of them up and poised them. That’s right, isn’t it, Seb?”
“I don’t know,” said Parish sullenly. “Have it your own way. I don’t know. Why should I remember?”
“No reason in the world,” said Alleyn cheerfully.
“Well,” said Cubitt, “Sebastian put them down and Will Pomeroy took them up. I remember that Will turned away and held them nearer the light. He said something about the way they were made, with the weight in the brass point and not in a lead band. He said that the card flights were better than feathers. Abel fitted the darts with card flights.” Cubitt hesitated and then added: “I don’t suppose it’s relevant but I’m prepared to say, definitely, that Parish did nothing more than pick them up and put them down.”
“Thank you, Norman,” said Parish. “Is that all, Mr. Alleyn?”
“My last question for the moment — did you see Miss Moore pour out the brandy for Mr. Watchman?”
Dead silence. And then Parish, wrinkling his forehead, looking half-peevish, half-frightened, said: “I didn’t watch her, but you needn’t go on probing into all that. Decima Moore had nothing to do with—”
“Seb,” interrupted Cubitt quietly, “you would do better to answer these questions as they are put to you. Mr. Alleyn will meet Decima. He will find out for himself that, as far as this affair is concerned, she is a figure of no importance. You must see that he’s got to ask about these things.” He turned to Alleyn with his pleasant lop-sided grin. “I believe the word is ‘routine,’ ” said Cubitt. “You see, I know my detective fiction.”
“Routine it is,” said Alleyn. “And you’re perfectly correct. Routine is the very fibre of police investigation. Your novelist too has now passe
d the halcyon days when he could ignore routine. He reads books about Scotland Yard, he swots up police manuals. He knows that routine is deadly dull and hopelessly poor material for a thriller; so, like a wise potboiler, he compromises. He heads one chapter ‘Routine,’ dismisses six weeks of drudgery in as many phrases, cuts the cackle and gets to the ’osses. I wish to the Lord we could follow his lead.”
“I’ll be bound you do,” said Cubitt. “Well, if it’s any help, I didn’t notice much when Decima poured out the brandy, except that she was very quick about it. She stood with the rest of us round the settle; someone suggested brandy, she said something about his glass being empty, and went to the bar for the bottle. I got the impression that she simply slopped some brandy in the glass and brought it straight to Watchman. If I may, I should like to add that she was on the best of terms with Watchman and, as far as I know, had no occasion in the world to wish him dead.”
“Good God!” said Parish in a hurry, “of course not. Of course not.”
“Yes,” said Alleyn, “I see. Thank you so much. Now then: Mr. Parish, until the accident, stood by the table where Mr. Watchman had left his empty glass. I take it that Mr. Parish would have noticed, would have been bound to notice, if anyone came near enough to interfere with the glass. He tells me that the rest of the party were grouped behind Legge. Do you agree to that, Mr. Cubitt?”
“Yes. Except Will. Will was in the corner beyond the dart board. He couldn’t have got at the glass. Nobody—” Again Cubitt caught his breath.
“Yes?”
“In my opinion,” said Cubitt, “nobody touched the glass, could have touched it; either before or after Decima fetched the brandy bottle. Nobody.”
“Thank you very much,” said Alleyn. “That’s all for the moment.”
ii
“What’s the time, Fox?” asked Alleyn, looking up from his notes.
“Half-past nine, sir.”
“Has Legge come in yet?”