Death At The Bar

Chapter V Failure of Mr. Legge

i

P.C. Oates had gone as far as the tunnel, had returned, and had descended the flight of stone steps that leads to the wharf from the right-hand side of the Feathers. He had walked along the passage called Fish Lane, flashing his lamp from time to time on steaming windows and doorways. Rain drummed on Oates’s mackintosh cape, on his helmet, on cobblestones, and on the sea, that only a few feet away in the darkness, lapped at the steaming waterfront. The sound of the rain was almost as loud as the sound of thunder and behind both of these was the roar of surf on Coombe Rock. A ray of lamplight from a chink in the window-blind shone obliquely on rods of rain and, by its suggestion of remote comfort, made the night more desolate.

Far above him, dim and forlorn, the post office clock told a quarter past nine.

Oates turned at the end of Fish Lane and shone his light on the second flight of Ottercombe Steps. Water was pouring down them in a series of miniature falls. He began to climb, holding tight to the handrail. If anyone could have seen abroad in the night, lonesome and dutiful, his plodding figure might have suggested a progression into the past, when the night-watchman walked through Ottercombe to call the hours to sleeping fishermen. Such a flight of fancy did not visit the thoughts of Mr. Oates. He merely told himself that he was damned if he’d go any farther, and when the red curtains of the Plume of Feathers shone through the rain, he mended his pace and made for them.

But before he had gone more than six steps he paused. Some noise that had not reached him before threaded the sound of the storm. Someone was calling out — shouting — yelling. He stopped and listened.

“O-O-Oates! Hullo! Dick! D-i-i-ick! O-O-Oates!”

“Hullo!” yelled Oates, and his voice sounded very desolate.

“Hullo! Come — back — here.”

Oates broke into a lope. The voice had come from the front of the pub. He crossed the yard, passed the side of the house and the door into the Public, and came in sight of the front door. A tall figure, shading its eyes, was silhouetted against the lighted entry. It was Will Pomeroy. Oates strode out of the night into the entry.

“Here!” he said, “what’s up?” And when he saw Will Pomeroy’s face: “What’s happened here?”

Without speaking Will jerked his thumb in the direction of the private top. His face was the colour of clay and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Well, what is it?” demanded Oates impatiently.

“In there. Been an accident.”

“Accident. What sort of a accident?”

But before Will could answer, Decima Moore came out of the tap-room, closing the door behind her.

“Here’s Dick,” said Will.

“Will,” said Decima, “there’s no doubt about it. He’s dead.”

“My Gawd, who’s dead?” shouted Oates.

“Watchman.”

ii

Oates looked down at the figure on the settle. He had remembered to remove his helmet but the water dripped off his cape in little streams. When he bent forward three drops fell on the blind face. Oates dabbed at them with his finger and glanced round apologetically.

He said, “What happened?”

Nobody answered. Old Pomeroy stood by the bar, his hands clasped in front of him. His face spoke only of complete bewilderment. He looked from one to another of the men as if somewhere there was some sort of explanation which had been withheld from him. Sebastian Parish and Norman Cubitt stood together in the inglenook. Parish’s face was stained with tears. He kept smoothing back his hair with a nervous and meaningless gesture of the right hand. Cubitt’s head was bent down. He seemed to be thinking deeply. Every now and then he glanced up sharply from under his brows. Mr. Nark sat on one of the bar stools clenching and unclenching his hands and struggling miserably with intermittent but profound hiccoughs. Legge, as white as paper, bit at his fingers and stared at Oates. Decima and Will stood together in the doorway. Miss Darragh sat just outside the inglenook on a low chair. Her moonlike face was colourless but she seemed composed.

Watchman lay on a settle near the dart board and opposite the bar. His eyes were wide open. They seemed to stare with glistening astonishment at the ceiling. The pupils were wide and black. His hands were clenched; the right arm lay across his body, the left dangled, and where the knuckles touched the floor they, like the back of the hand, were stained red.

“Well,” repeated Oates violently, “can’t any of you speak? What happened? Where’s your senses? Have you sent for a doctor?”

“The telephone’s dead,” said Will Pomeroy. “And he’s past doctoring, Dick.”

Oates picked up the left wrist.

“What’s this? Blood?”

“He got a prick from a dart.”

Oates looked at the clenched hand and felt the wrist. In the third finger there was a neat puncture on the outside, below the nail. It was stained brown. The nails were bluish.

“I did that,” said Legge suddenly. “It was my dart.”

Oates laid the hand down and bent over the figure. A drop of water fell from his coat on one of the staring eyes. He fumbled inside the shirt, looking over his shoulder at Will Pomeroy.

“We’ll have to fetch a doctor, however,” he said.

“I’ll go,” said Cubitt. “Is it Illington?”

“Dr. Shaw, sir. Main road in and the last corner. It’s on the left after you pass the police-station. He’s police surgeon. I’d be obliged if you’d stop at the station and report.”

“Right.” Cubitt went out.

Oates straightened up and unbuttoned his cape.

“I’ll have to get some notes down,” he said and felt in the pocket of his tunic. He stepped back and his boots crunched excruciatingly.

“There’s glass all over the floor,” said Will.

Decima Moore said: “Can’t we — cover him up?”

“It would be better, don’t you think?” said Miss Darragh, speaking for the first time. “Can I—?”

Will said: “I’ll get something,” and went out. Oates looked round the group and at last addressed himself to Sebastian Parish.

“How long ago was this, sir?” he asked.

“Only a few minutes. It happened just before you came in.”

Oates glanced at his watch.

“Half-past nine,” he said, and noted it down.

“Let’s hear what happened,” he said.

“But it’s not a case for the police,” said Parish. “I mean because he died suddenly—”

“You called me in, sir,” said Oates. “It’s no doubt a case for the doctor. Leave it, if you wish, sir, till he comes.”

“No, no,” said Parish, “I don’t mean that I object. It’s only that your notebook and everything — it’s so awful, somehow.” He turned to Abel Pomeroy. “You tell him.”

“It was like this, Dick,” said old Abel. “Mr. Legge, here, had told us how he could throw the darts like a circus chap between the fingers of a man’s hand stretched out on board. You heard him, Mr. Watchman, in his bold way, said he’d hold his hand out and Mr. Legge was welcome to have a shot at it. ’Twouldn’t do no great damage, Mr. Watchman said, if he did stick him. Us all said it was a silly rash kind of trick. But Mr. Watchman was hellbent on it.”

“He insisted,” said Will.

“So he did, then. And up goes his hand. Mr. Legge throws the first three as pretty as you please, outside little finger, atween little and third, atween third and middle. Then he throws the fourth, and ’stead of going atween middle and first finger it catches little finger. ‘Got me’, says Mr. Watchman, and then — then what?” asked Abel.

“It was curious,” said Miss Darragh slowly. “He didn’t move his hand at once. He kept it there against the board. The blood trickled down his finger and spread like veins in a leaf over the back of his hand. One had time to wonder if the dart had gone right through and he was in a way, crucified.”

“He turned mortal ghastly white,” said Abel.

“And then pulled the dart out,” said Parish, “and threw it down on the floor. He shuddered, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Abel. “He shuddered violent.”

“He always turned queer at the sight of his own blood, you know,” said Parish.

“Well, what next?” asked Oates.

“I think he took a step towards the settle,” said Parish.

“He sat on the settle,” said Decima. “Miss Darragh said, ‘He’s feeling faint, give him a sip of brandy.’ Mr. Legge said he looked ill and could he have lockjaw? Someone else, Mr. Pomeroy I think, said he ought to have iodine on his finger. Anyway, Mr. Pomeroy got the first-aid box out of the bottom cupboard. I looked for a glass with brandy in it but they were all empty. I got the bottle. While I was doing that — pouring out the brandy, I mean — Mr. Pomeroy dabbed iodine on the finger. Mr. Watchman clenched his teeth and cried out. He jerked up his arms.”

She stopped and closed her eyes.

Will Pomeroy had come back with a sheet. He spread it over Watchman and then turned to Decima.

“I’ll take you out of this,” he said. “Come upstairs to Mrs. Ives, Dessy.”

“No, I’ll finish.”

“No need.”

Will put his arm across Decima’s shoulder and turned to Oates.

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Parish, here, said Mr. Watchman couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Father said something about iodine like Dessy told you and he got the first-aid box out of the cupboard. He took out the bottle and it was nearly empty. Father tipped it up and poured some on Mr. Watchman’s finger and then got out a bandage. Then Dessy gave him his brandy. He knocked the glass out of her hand.”

“Miss Darragh was just going to tie his finger up,” said Abel, “when lights went out.”

“Went out?”

“ ’Ess. They’d been upping and downing ever since thunder set in and this time they went out proper for about a minute.”

“It was frightful,” said Parish rapidly. “We could hear him breathing. We were all knocking against each other with broken glasses everywhere and — those awful noises. Nobody thought of the oil lamps, but Legge said he’d throw some wood on the fire to make a blaze. He did, and just then the lights went up.”

“Hold hard, if you please, sir,” said Oates. “I’ll get this down in writing.”

“But, look here—”

Parish broke off and Will began again —

“When the lights went on again we all looked at Mr. Watchman. He was in a kind of fit, seemingly. He thrashed about with his arms and legs and then fell backwards on settle where he is now. His breathing came queer for a bit and then — didn’t come at all. I tried to get the doctor but the wires must be down. Then I came out and called you.”

Will turned Decima towards the door.

“If you want me, Father,” he said, “I’ll be up-along. Coming, Dessy?”

“I’m all right,” said Decima.

“You’ll be better out of here.”

She looked at him confusedly, seemed to hesitate, and then turned to Miss Darragh.

“Will you come, too?” asked Decima.

Miss Darragh looked fixedly at her and then seemed to make up her mind.

“Yes, my dear, certainly. We’re better out of the way now, you know.”

Miss Darragh gathered up her writing block and plodded to the door. Decima drew nearer to Will and, obeying the pressure of his hand, went out with him.

Legge walked across and looked down at the shrouded figure.

“My God,” he said, “do you think it was the dart that did it? My God, I’ve never missed before. He moved his finger. I swear he moved his finger. My God, I shouldn’t have taken that brandy!”

“Where is the dart?” asked Oates, still writing.

Legge began hunting about the floor. The broken glass crackled under his boots.

“If it’s all the same to you, Abel,” said Oates suddenly, “I reckon we’d better leave this end of the room till doctor’s come. If it’s all the same to you I reckon we’ll shift into the Public.”

“Let’s do that, for God’s sake,” said Parishi

Mr. Nark was suddenly and violently ill. “That settles it,” said old Abel. “Us’ll move.”

iii

“Steady,” said the doctor. “There’s no particular hurry, you know. It’s no joke negotiating Coombe Tunnel on a night like this. We must be nearly there.”

“Sorry,” said Cubitt. “I can’t get it out of my head you might — might be able to do something.”

“I’m afraid not, from your account. Here’s the tunnel now. I should change down to first, really I should.”

Cubitt changed down.

“I expect you wish you’d driven yourself,” he said grimly.

“If it hadn’t been for that slow puncture — there’s the turning. Can you do it in one in this car? Splendid. I must confess I don’t enjoy driving into the Coombe, even on clear nights. Now the road down. Pretty steep, really, and it’s streaming with surface water. Shameful state of repair. Here we are.”

Cubitt put on his brakes and drew up with a sidelong skid at the front door of the Feathers. The doctor got out, reached inside for his bag, and ducked through the rain into the entry. Cubitt followed him.

“In the private bar, you said?” asked Dr. Shaw.

He pushed open the door and they walked in.

The private bar was deserted but the lights were up in the Public beyond and they heard a murmur of voices.

“Hullo!” called Dr. Shaw.

There was a scuffling of feet and Will Pomeroy appeared on the far side of the bar.

“Here’s doctor,” said Will over his shoulder.

“Just a minute, Will,” said the voice of Mr. Oates. “I’ll trouble you stay where you are, if you please, gentlemen.”

He loomed up, massively, put Will aside, and reached Dr. Shaw by way of the tap-proper, ducking under both counters.

“Well, Oates,” said Dr. Shaw, “what’s the trouble?”

Cubitt, stranded inside the door, stayed where he was. Oates pointed to the settle. Dr. Shaw took off his hat and coat, laid them with his bag on a table, and then moved to the shrouded figure. He drew back the sheet and after a moment’s pause, stooped over Watchman.

Cubitt turned away. There was a long silence.

At last Dr. Shaw straightened up and replaced the sheet.

“Well,” he said, “let’s have the whole story again. I’ve had it once from Mr. Cubitt but he says he was a bit confused. Where are the others?”

“In here, Doctor,” said Abel Pomeroy. “Will you come through?”

Oates and Will held up the counter-flap and Dr. Shaw went into the public bar. Parish, Mr. Nark and Abel had got to their feet.

Dr. Shaw was not the tallest man there but he dominated the scene. He was pale and baldish and wore glasses. His intelligence appeared in his eyes, which were extremely bright and a vivid blue. His lower lip protruded. He had an unexpectedly deep voice, a look of serio-comic solemnity, and a certain air of distinction. He looked directly and with an air of thoughtfulness at each of the men before him.

“His relations must be told,” he said.

Parish moved forward. “I’m his cousin,” he said, “and his nearest relation.”

“Oh yes,” said Dr. Shaw. “You’re Mr. Parish?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Sad business, this.”

“What was it?” asked Parish. “What happened? He was perfectly well. Why did he — I don’t understand.”

“Tell me this,” said Dr. Shaw. “Did your cousin become unwell as soon as he received this injury from the dart?”

“Yes. At least he seemed to turn rather faint. I didn’t think much of it because he’s always gone like that at the sight of his own blood.”

“Like what? Can you describe his appearance?”

“Well, he — Oh God, what did he do, Norman?”

Cubitt said: “He just said ‘Got me’ when the dart struck and then afterwards pulled it out and threw it down. He turned terribly pale. I think he sort of collapsed on that seat.”

“I’ve seen a man with tetanus,” said Legge suddenly. “He looked just the same. For God’s sake, Doctor, d’you think he could have taken tetanus from that dart?”

“I can’t tell you that off-hand, I’m afraid. What happened next?”

Dr. Shaw looked at Cubitt.

“Well, Abel here — Mr. Pomeroy — got a bandage and a bottle of iodine, and put some iodine on the finger. Then Miss Darragh, a lady who’s staying here, said she’d bandage the finger and while she was getting out the bandage Miss Moore gave him brandy.”

“Did he actually take the brandy?”

“I think he took a little but after she’d tipped the glass up he clenched his teeth and knocked it out of her hand.”

“Complain of pain?”

“No. He looked frightened.”

“And then? After that?”

“After that? Well, just at that moment, really, the lights went out, and when they went up again he seemed much worse. He was in a terrible state.”

“A fit,” said Mr. Nark, speaking for the first time. “The man had a fit. Ghastly!” He belched uproariously.

“There’s a very strong smell of brandy,” said Dr. Shaw.

“It spilt,” explained Mr. Nark hurriedly. “It’s all over the floor in there.”

“Where’s the dart, Oates?” asked Dr. Shaw.

“In there, sir. I’ve put it in a clean bottle and corked it up.”

“Good. I’d better have it. You’ll have to leave the room in there as it is, Mr. Pomeroy, until I’ve had a word with the Superintendent. The body may be removed in the morning.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I’m afraid, Mr. Parish, that under the circumstances I must report this case to the coroner.”

“Do you mean there’ll have to be an inquest?”

“If he thinks it necessary.”

“And — and a post-mortem?”

“If he orders it.”

“Oh God!” said Parish.

“May I have your cousin’s full name and his address?”

Parish gave them. Dr. Shaw looked solemn and said it would be a great loss to the legal profession. He then returned to the private bar. Oates produced his notebook and took the floor.

“I’ll have all your names and addresses, if you please, gentlemen,” he said.

“What’s the use of saying that?” demanded Mr. Nark, rallying a little. “You know ’em already. You took our statements. We’ve signed ’em, and whether we should in law, is a point I’m not sure of.”

“Never mind if I know ’em or don’t, George Nark,” rejoined Oates, “I know my business and that’s quite sufficient. What’s your name?”

He took all their names and addresses and suggested that they go to bed. They filed out through a door into the passage. Oates then joined Dr. Shaw in the private bar.

“Hullo, Oates,” said the doctor. “Where’s that dart?”

“Legge picked the dart off the floor,” Oates said.

He showed it to Dr. Shaw. He had put it into an empty bottle and sealed it.

“Good,” said Dr. Shaw, and put the bottle in his bag. “Now the remains of the brandy glass. They seem to have tramped it to smithereens. We’ll see if we can gather up some of the mess. There’s a forceps and an empty jar in my bag. Where did the iodine come from?”

“Abel keeps his first-aid outfit in that corner cupboard, sir. He’s a great one for iodine. Sloushed it all over Bob Legge’s face to-day when he cut himself with his razor.”

Dr. Shaw stooped and picked up a small bottle that had rolled under the settle.

“Here it is, I suppose.” He sniffed at it. “Yes, that’s it. Where’s the cork?”

He hunted about until he found it.

“Better take this, too. And the brandy bottle. Good Heavens, they seem to have done themselves remarkably proud. It’s nearly empty. Now where’s the first-aid kit?”

Dr. Shaw went to the cupboard and stared up at the glass door.

“What’s that bottle in there?” he said sharply.

Oates joined them.

“That sir? Oh yes, I know what that is. It’s some stuff Abel got to kill the rats in the old stables. He mentioned it earlier this evening.”

Oates rubbed his nose vigorously.

“Seems more like a week ago. There was the deceased gentleman standing drinks and chaffing Abel not much more than a couple of hours ago. And now look at him. Ripe for coroner as you might say.”

“Did Abel say what this rat-poison was?”

“Something in the nature of prussic acid, I fancy, sir.”

“Indeed?” said Dr. Shaw. “Get my gloves out of my overcoat pocket, will you, Oates?”

“Your gloves, sir?”

“Yes, I want to open the cupboard.”

But when Oates brought the gloves Dr. Shaw still stared at the cupboard door.

“Your gloves, sir.”

“I don’t think I’ll use ’em. I don’t think I’ll open the door, Oates. There may be fingerprints all over the shop. We’ll leave the cupboard doors, Oates, for the expert.”