Death at the Bar

‘He plays like the devil himself,’ he said. ‘Last night I took him on, 101 down. I never even started. He threw fifty, one, and the fifty again.’

‘I was fortunate that time,’ said Mr Legge with rather more animation.

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Cubitt. ‘You’re merely odiously accurate.’

‘Well,’ said Watchman, ‘I’ll lay you ten bob you can’t do it again, Mr Legge.’

‘You’ve lost,’ said Cubitt.

‘Aye, he’s a proper masterpiece is Mr Legge,’ said old Abel.

Sebastian Parish came across from the ingle-nook. He looked down good-humouredly at Legge. ‘Nobody,’ thought Cubitt, ‘has any right to be as good-looking as Seb.’

‘What’s all this?’ asked Parish.

‘I’ve offered to bet Mr Legge ten bob he can’t throw fifty, one, and fifty.’

‘You’ve lost,’ said Parish.

‘This is monstrous,’ cried Watchman. ‘Do you take me, Mr Legge?’

Legge shot a glance at him. The voices of the players beyond the partition had quietened for the moment. Will Pomeroy had joined his father at the private bar. Cubitt and Parish and the two Pomeroys waited in silence for Legge’s reply. He made a curious grimace, pursing his lips and screwing up his eyes. As if in reply, Watchman used that KC’s trick of his and took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Cubitt, who watched them curiously, was visited by the fantastic notion that some sort of signal had passed between them.

Legge rose slowly to his feet.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Certainly, Mr Watchman. I take you on.’

II

Legge moved, with a slovenly dragging of his boots, into a position in front of the board. He pulled out the three darts and looked at them.

‘Getting a bit worn, Mr Pomeroy,’ said Legge. ‘The rings are loose.’

‘I’ve sent for a new set,’ said Abel. ‘They’ll be here tomorrow. Old lot can go into Public.’

Will Pomeroy left the public bar and joined his father. ‘Showing ’em how to do it, Bob?’ he asked.

‘There’s a bet on, sonny,’ said old Pomeroy.

‘Don’t make me nervous, Will,’ said Legge, with a grin.

He looked at the board, poised his first dart and, with a crisp movement of his hand flung it into the bullseye.

‘Fifty,’ said Will. ‘There you are, gentlemen! Fifty!’

‘Three-and-fourpence in pawn,’ said Watchman.

‘We’ll put it into the CLM. if it comes off, Will,’ said Legge.

‘What’s the CLM?’ demanded Watchman.

Will stared straight in front of him and said, ‘The Coombe Left Movement, Mr Watchman. We’re a branch of the South Devon Left, now.’

‘Oh Lord!’ said Watchman.

Legge threw his second dart. It seemed almost to drop from his hand, but he must have used a certain amount of force since it went home solidly into the top right-hand division.

‘And the one. Six-and-eight pence looking a bit off colour, Mr Watchman,’ said Abel Pomeroy.

‘He’s stymied himself for the other double twenty-five, though,’ said Watchman. ‘The first dart’s lying right across it.’

Legge raised his hand and, this time, took more deliberate aim. He threw from a greater height. For a fraction of a second the dart seemed to hang in his fingers before it sped downwards, athwart the first, into the narrow strip round the centre.

‘And fifty it is!’ said Will. ‘There you are. Fifty. Good for you, comrade.’

A little chorus went up from Parish, Cubitt and old Abel.

‘That man’s a wizard.’

‘Shouldn’t be allowed!’

‘You’m a proper masterpiece.’

‘Well done, Bob,’ added Will, as if determined to give the last word of praise.

Watchman laid a ten-shilling note on the table.

‘I congratulate you,’ he said.

Legge looked at the note.

‘Thank you, Mr Watchman,’ he said. ‘Another ten bob for the fighting fund, Will.’

‘Good enough, but it’s straightout generous to give it.’

Watchman sat down again on the table-edge.

‘All very nice,’ he said. ‘Does you credit, Mr Legge. I rather think another drink’s indicated. With me, if you please. Loser’s privilege.’

Will Pomeroy glanced uncomfortably at Legge. By Feathers etiquette, the winner of a bet at darts pays for the next round. There was a short silence broken by old Pomeroy who insisted that the next round should be on the house, and served the company with a potent dark ale, known to the Coombe as Treble Extra.

‘We’ll all play like Mr Legge with this inside us,’ said Parish.

‘Yes,’ agreed Watchman, looking into his tankard, ‘it’s a fighting fund in itself. A very pretty tipple indeed.’ He looked up at Legge.

‘Do you know any other tricks like that one, Mr Legge?’

‘I know a prettier one than that,’ said Legge quietly, ‘if you’ll assist me.’