Death at the Bar. Ngaio Marsh
‘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.’
‘I assist you?’
‘Yes. If you’ll stretch your hand out flat on the board I’ll outline it with darts.’
‘Really? You ought to be in the sawdust ring. No I don’t think I trust you enough for that, you know. One would need a little more of Mr Pomeroy’s Treble Extra.’
He stretched out his hand and looked at it.
‘And yet, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see you do it. Some other time. You know, Mr Legge, as a good Conservative, I feel I should deplore your gesture. Against whom is your fighting fund directed?’
But before Legge could speak, Will answered quickly, ‘Against the capitalist, Mr Watchman, and all his side.’
‘Really? So Mr Legge is also an ardent proletarian fan?’
‘Secretary and treasurer for the Coombe Left Movement.’
‘Secretary and treasurer,’ repeated Watchman. ‘Responsible jobs, aren’t they?’
‘Aye,’ said Will, ‘and it’s a responsible chap that’s taken ’em on for us.’
Legge turned away and moved into the ingle-nook. Watchman looked after him. Cubitt noticed that Watchman’s good humour seemed to be restored. Any one would have thought that he had won the bet and that it had been for a much larger sum. And for no reason in the world Cubitt felt that there had been a passage of arms between Legge and Watchman, and that Watchman had scored a hit.
‘What about you, Abel?’ Watchman asked abruptly. ‘Are you going to paint the Feathers red?’
‘Me sir? No. I don’t hold with Will’s revolutionary ideas and he knows it, but us’ve agreed to differ. Does no harm, I reckon, for these young chaps to meet every Friday and make believe they’re hashing up the laws and serving ’em out topsy-turvy – game in servants’ hall and prunes and rice for gentry. Our Will was always a great hand for make-believe from the time he learned to talk. Used to strut about taproom giving orders to the furniture. “I be as good as Squire, now,” he’d say in his little lad’s voice and I reckon he’s saying it yet.’
‘You’re blind to reason, father,’ said Will. ‘Blind-stupid and hidebound. Either you can’t see or you won’t. Us chaps are working for the good of all, not for ourselves.’
‘Right enough, sonny. A fine noble ideal, I don’t doubt, and when you’ve got us all toeing the line with no handicaps and nothing to run for –’
‘The good of the State to run for. Each man equal –’
‘And all coming in first. Damn’ queer sort of race.’
‘The old argument,’ said Legge from the fireplace, ‘and based as usual on a false analogy.’
‘Is it a false analogy?’ asked Watchman. ‘You propose to kill private enterprise –’
‘A