“He might have been,” said Will.
ii
“And now, Fox,” said Alleyn, “we’ll have a word with Mr. Sebastian Parish, if he’s on the premises. I don’t somehow think he’ll have strayed very far. See if you can find him.”
Fox went away. Alleyn took a long pull at his beer and read through the notes Fox had made during the interview with Will Pomeroy. The light outside had faded and the village had settled down for the evening. Alleyn could hear the hollow sounds made by men working with boats; the tramp of heavy boots on stone, a tranquil murmur of voices, and, more distantly, the thud of breakers. Within the house, he heard sounds of sweeping and of quick footsteps. The Pomeroys had lost no time cleaning up the private bar. In the public bar, across the passage, a single voice seemed to drone on and on as if somebody made a speech to the assembled topers. Whoever it was came to an end. A burst of conversation followed and then a sudden silence. Alleyn recognized Fox’s voice. Someone answered, clearly and resonantly: “Yes, certainly.”
“That’s Parish,” thought Alleyn.
The door from the public tap-room into the passage was opened and shut. Sebastian Parish and Fox came into the parlour.
The evening was warm and Parish was clad in shorts and a thin blue shirt. He wore these garments with such an air that the makers might well have implored him to wear their shorts and shirts, free of cost, in and out of season, for the rest of his life. His legs were olive-brown and slightly glossy, the hair on his olive-brown chest was golden brown. He looked burnished and groomed to the last inch. The hair on his head, a darker golden brown, was ruffled, for all the world as if his dresser had darted after him into the wings, and run a practised hand through his locks. There was something almost embarrassing in so generous a display of masculine beauty. He combined in his appearance all the most admired aspects of a pukka sahib, a Greek god, and a wholesome young Englishman. Fox came after him like an anticlimax in good serviceable worsted.
“Oh, good evening, Inspector,” said Parish.
“Good evening,” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry to worry you.”
Parish’s glance said, a little too plainly: “Hullo, so you’re a gentleman.” He came forward, and, with an air of manly frankness, extended his hand.
“I’m very glad to do anything I can,” he said.
He sat on the arm of a chair and looked earnestly from Alleyn to Fox.
“We hoped for this,” he said. “I wish to God they’d called you in at once.”
“The local men,” Alleyn murmured, “have done very well.”
“Oh, they’ve done what they could, poor old souls,” said Parish. “No doubt they’re very sound at bottom, but it’s rather a long way before one strikes bottom. Considering my cousin’s position I think it was obvious that the Yard should be consulted.”
He looked directly at Alleyn, and said: “But I know you!”
“Do you?” said Alleyn politely. “I don’t think—”
“I know you!” Parish repeated dramatically. “Wait a moment. By George, yes, of course. You’re the — I’ve seen your picture in a book on famous trials.” He turned to Fox with the air of a Prince Regent.
“What is his name?” demanded Parish.
“This is Mr. Alleyn, sir,” said Fox, with a trace of a grin at his superior.
“Alleyn! By God, yes, of course! Alleyn!”
“Fox,” said Alleyn, austerely, “be good enough to shut the door.” He waited until this was done and then addressed himself to the task of removing the frills from the situation.
“Mr. Parish,” Alleyn said, “we have been sent down here to make enquiries about the death of your cousin. The local superintendent has given us a very full and explicit account of the circumstances surrounding his death, but we are obliged to go over the details for ourselves.”
Parish made an expressive gesture, showing them the palms of his hands. “But of course,” he said.
“Yes. Well, we thought that before we went any further, we should ask to see you.”
“Just a moment,” interrupted Parish. “There’s one thing I must know. Mr. Alleyn, was my cousin murdered?”
Alleyn looked at his hands, which were joined together on the table. After a moment’s thought, he raised his eyes.
“It is impossible to give you a direct answer,” he said, “but as far as we have gone, we can find no signs of accident.”
“That’s terrible,” said Parish, and for the first time his voice sounded sincere.
“Of course something that will point to accident may yet come out.”
“Good God, I hope so.”
“Yes. You will understand that we want to get a very clear picture of the events leading up to the moment of the accident.”
“Have you spoken to old Pomeroy?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose he’s talked about this fellow Legge?”
Alleyn disregarded the implication and said: “About the position of everybody when Mr. Legge threw the darts. Can you remember—”
“I’ve thrashed the thing out a hundred times a day. I don’t remember, particularly clearly.”
“Well,” said Alleyn, “let’s see how we get on.”
Parish’s account followed the Pomeroys’ pretty closely, but he had obviously compared notes with all the others.
“To tell the truth,” he said, “I’d had a pint of beer and two pretty stiff brandies. I don’t say I’ve got any very clear recollection of the scene. I haven’t. It seems more like a sort of nightmare than anything else.”
“Can you remember where you stood immediately before Mr. Legge threw the darts?”
Alleyn saw the quick involuntary movement of those fine hands, and he thought there was rather too long a pause before Parish answered.
“I’m not very certain, I’m afraid.”
“Were you, for instance, near the table that stands between the dart board and the settle?”
“I may have been. I was watching Legge.”
“Try to remember. Haven’t you a clear picture of Legge as he stood there ready to throw the darts?”
Parish had a very expressive face. Alleyn read in it the reflection of a memory. He went on quickly:
“Of course you have. As you say, you were watching him. Only, in the medley of confused recollections, that picture was, for a time, lost. But, as you say, you were watching him. Did he face you?”
“He — yes.”
Alleyn slid a paper across the table.
“Here, you see, is a sketch plan of the private bar.” Parish looked at it over his shoulder. “Now, there’s the dart board, fairly close to the bar counter. Legge must have stood there. There isn’t room for more than one person to stand in the corner by the bar counter, and Will Pomeroy was there. So, to face Legge, you must have been by the table.”
“All right,” said Parish restively. “I don’t say I wasn’t, you know. I only say I’m a bit hazy.”
“Yes, of course, we understand that perfectly. But what I’m getting at is this. Did you see Legge take the darts after the trial throw?”
“Yes. My cousin pulled them out of the board and gave them to Legge. I remember that.”
“Splendid,” said Alleyn. “It’s an important point and we’re anxious to clear it up. Thank you. Now, standing like that, as we’ve agreed you were standing, you would see the whole room. Can you remember the positions of the other onlookers?”
“I remember that they were grouped behind Legge. Except Abel, who was behind the bar counter. Oh, and Will. Will was in the corner, as you’ve said. Yes.”
“So that it would have been impossible, if any of the others came to the table, for their movement to escape your notice?”