Death at the Bar

‘Hell!’ said Parish delightedly.

‘D’you think he heard?’

‘Of course he heard.’

‘Blast the creature! Serves him right.’

‘Shut up.’

The door into the private bar opened. Old Abel came in followed by Norman Cubitt. Cubitt took three darts from a collection in a pewter pot on the bar and moved in front of the dart board.

‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ said a woman’s voice from the passage. ‘Don’t start without me.’

Abel walked into the ingle-nook and put a bottle on the mantelpiece.

‘Well, souls,’ he said, ‘reckon we’m settled the hash of they vermin. If thurr’s not a corpse on the premises afore long, I’ll be greatly astonished.’

CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_c33f670e-3f2c-5030-90a4-7f5d86905035)

Advance by Watchman (#ulink_c33f670e-3f2c-5030-90a4-7f5d86905035)

The bottle was a small one and as Sebastian Parish had remarked it was conspicuously labelled. The word ‘POISON’ in scarlet on a white ground ran diagonally across on an attached label. It struck a note of interjection and alarm and focused the attention of the five men. Few who read that warning escape a sudden jolt of the imagination.

Parish said, ‘Mr Watchman thinks you are a public danger, Abel. He’s afraid we’ll all be poisoned.’

‘I’m afraid he’ll poison himself,’ said Watchman.

‘Who, sir? Me?’ asked Abel. ‘Not a bit of it. I be mortal cautious sort of chap when it comes to this manner of murderous tipple, Mr Watchman.’

‘I hope you are,’ said Cubitt from the dart board.

‘You’re not going to leave it on the mantelshelf, father?’ asked Will.

‘No fear of that, sonny. I’ll stow it away careful.’

‘You’d much better get rid of it altogether,’ said Watchman. ‘Don’t put it away somewhere. You’ll forget all about it and some day someone will take a sniff at it to find out what it is. Let me take it back to the chemist at Illington. I’d very much like to have a word with that gentleman.’

‘Lord love you,’ said Abel, opening his eyes very wide, ‘us’ve not finished with they bowldacious varmints yet, my sonnies. If so be they’ve got a squeak left in ’em us’ll give ’em another powerful whiff and finish ‘em off.’

‘At least,’ said Cubitt, throwing a dart into double-twenty, ‘at least you might put it out of reach.’

‘Mr Cubitt has a poison-phobia,’ said Watchman.

‘A what, sir?’

‘Never mind about that,’ said Cubitt. ‘I should have thought anybody might boggle at prussic acid.’

‘Don’t fret yourselves, gentlemen,’ said Abel. ‘Thurr’ll be none of this brew served out at the Feathers Tap.’

He mounted the settle and taking the bottle from the mantelpiece pushed it into the top shelf of a double cupboard in the corner of the ingle-nook. He then pulled off the old gloves he wore, threw them on the fire, and turned the key.

‘Nobody can call me a careless man,’ he said. ‘I’m all for looking after myself. Thurr’s my first-aid box in thurr, ready to hand, and if any of the chaps cuts themselves with a mucky fish-knife or any other infectious trifle of that sort, they gets a swill of iodine in scratch. Makes ’em squirm a bit and none the worse for that. I learnt that in the war, my sonnies. I was a surgeon’s orderly and I know the mighty powers thurr be in drugs.’

He stared at the glass door. The label ‘POISON’ still showed, slightly distorted, in the darkness of the little cupboard.

‘Safe enough thurr,’ said Abel and went over to the bar.

With the arrival of the Pomeroys the private bar took on its customary aspect for a summer’s evening. They both went behind the counters. Abel sat facing the Private and on Cubitt’s order drew pints of draught beer for the company. A game of darts was started in the Public.

The man in the settle had not moved, but now Watchman saw his hand reach out for his pint. He saw the callouses, the chipped nails, the coarsened joints of the fingers. Watchman got up, stretched himself, grimaced at Parish, and crossed the room to the settle.

The light shone full in the face of the stranger. The skin of his face was brown, but Watchman thought it had only recently acquired this colour. His hair stood up in white bristles, his forehead was garnished with bumps that shone in the lamplight. The eyes under the bleached lashes seemed almost without colour. From the nostrils to the corners of the mouth ran grooves that lent emphasis to the fall of the lips. Without raising his head the man looked up at Watchman, and the shadow of a smile seemed to visit his face. He got up and made as if to go to the door, but Watchman stopped him.

‘May I introduce myself?’ asked Watchman.

The man smiled more broadly. ‘They are false teeth,’ thought Watchman, and he added: ‘We have met already this evening, but we didn’t exchange names. Mine is Luke Watchman.’

‘I gathered as much from your conversation,’ said the man. He paused for a moment and then said: ‘Mine is Legge.’

‘I’m afraid I sounded uncivil,’ said Watchman. ‘I hope you’ll allow me a little motorists’ licence. One always abuses the other man, doesn’t one?’

‘You’d every excuse,’ mumbled Legge, ‘every excuse.’ He scarcely moved his lips. His teeth seemed too large for his mouth. He looked sideways at Watchman, picked up a magazine from the settle, and flipped it open, holding it before his face.

Watchman felt vaguely irritated. He had struck no sort of response from the man and he was not accustomed to falling flat. Obviously, Legge merely wished to be rid of him and this state of affairs piqued Watchman’s vanity. He sat on the edge of the table, and for the second time that evening offered his cigarette-case to Legge.

‘No thanks – pipe.’

‘I’d no idea I should find you here,’ said Watchman, and noticed uncomfortably that his own voice sounded disproportionately cordial, ‘although you did tell me you were bound for Ottercombe. It’s a good pub, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Legge hurriedly. ‘Very good.’

‘Are you making a long visit?’

‘I live here,’ said Legge.

He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it. His fingers moved clumsily and he had an air of rather ridiculous concentration. Watchman felt marooned on the edge of the table. He saw that Parish was listening with a maddening grin, and he fancied that Cubitt’s ears were cocked. ‘Damn it,’ he thought, ‘I will not be put out of countenance by the brute. He shall like me.’ But he could think of nothing to say and Mr Legge had begun to read his magazine.

From beyond the bar came the sound of raucous applause. Someone yelled: ‘Double seventeen and we’m beat the Bakery.’

Norman Cubitt pulled out his darts and paused for a moment. He looked from Watchman to Parish. It struck him that there was a strong family resemblance between these cousins, a resemblance of character rather than physique. Each in his way, thought Cubitt, was a vain man. In Parish one recognized the ingenuous vanity of the actor. Off the stage he wooed applause with only less assiduity than he commanded it when he faced an audience. Watchman was more subtle. Watchman must have the attention and respect of every new acquaintance, but he played for it without seeming to do so. He would take endless trouble with a complete stranger when he seemed to take none. ‘But he’s getting no change out of Legge,’ thought Cubitt maliciously. And with a faint smile he turned back to the dart board.

Watchman saw the smile. He took a pull at his tankard and tried again.

‘Are you one of the dart experts?’ he asked. Legge looked up vaguely and Watchman had to repeat his question.

‘I play a little,’ said Legge.

Cubitt hurled his last dart at the board and joined the others.