Death at the Bar

‘It does.’ Watchman yawned and stretched himself full length on the settle.

‘I’m sleepy,’ he said. ‘It’s the sea air. A very pleasant state of being. Just tired enough, with the impressions of a long drive still floating about behind one’s consciousness. Flying hedges, stretches of road that stream out before one’s eyes. The relaxation of arrival setting in. Very pleasant!’

He closed his eyes for a moment and then turned his head to look at his cousin.

‘So Decima Moore is still here,’ he said.

Parish smiled. ‘Very much so. But you’ll have to watch your step, Luke.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s an engagement in the offing.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Decima and Will Pomeroy.’

Watchman sat up.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said sharply.

‘Well – why not?’

‘Good Lord! A politically minded pot-boy.’

‘Actually they’re the same class,’ Parish murmured.

‘Perhaps; but she’s not of it.’

‘All the same –’

Watchman grimaced.

‘She’s a little fool,’ he said, ‘but you may be right,’ and lay back again. ‘Oh well!’ he added comfortably.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘There’s another female here,’ said Parish, and grinned.

‘Another? Who?’

‘Norman’s girl-friend of course. My oath!’

‘Why? What’s she like? Why are you grinning away like a Cheshire cat, Seb?’

‘My dear soul,’ said Parish, ‘if I could get that woman to walk on the boards every evening and do her stuff exactly as she does it here – well, of course! I’d go into management and die a millionaire.’

‘Who is she?’

‘She’s the Honourable Violet Darragh. She waters.’

‘She what?’

‘She does water-colours. Wait till you hear Norman on Violet.’

‘Is she a nuisance?’ asked Watchman apprehensively.

‘Not exactly. Well, in a way. Pure joy to me. Wait till you meet her.’

Parish would say no more about Miss Darragh, and Watchman, only mildly interested, relapsed into a pleasant doze.

‘By the way,’ he said presently, ‘some driving expert nearly dashed himself to extinction against my bonnet.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. At Diddlestock Corner. Came bucketing out of the blind turning on my right, beat me by a split second, and hung his silly little stern on my front bumpers. Ass!’

‘Any damage?’

‘No, no. He heaved his pygmy up by the bottom and I backed away. Funny sort of fellow he is.’

‘You knew him?’ asked Parish in surprise.

‘No.’ Watchman took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. It was a gesture he used in cross-examination. ‘No, I don’t know him, and yet – there was something – I got the impression that he didn’t want to know me. Quite an educated voice. Labourer’s hands. False teeth, I rather fancy.’

‘You’re very observant,’ said Parish, lightly.

‘No more than the next man, but there was something about the fellow. I was going to ask if you knew him. His car’s in the garage.’

‘Surely it’s not – hallo, here are others.’

Boots and voices sounded in the public bar. Will Pomeroy came through and leant over the counter. He looked, not toward Watchman or Parish, but into a settle on the far side of the Private, a settle whose high back was towards them.

‘’Evening, Bob,’ said Will cordially. ‘Kept you waiting?’

‘That’s all right, Will,’ said a voice from beyond the settle. ‘I’ll have a pint of bitter when you’re ready.’

Luke Watchman uttered a stifled exclamation.

‘What’s up? asked his cousin.

‘Come here.’

Parish strolled nearer to him and, in obedience to a movement of Watchman’s head, stooped towards him.

‘What’s up?’ he repeated.

‘That’s the same fellow,’ muttered Watchman, ‘he must have been here all the time. That’s his voice.’