“I suppose so. Yes, of course it would. But I can’t see why it matters.”
“Don’t you remember,” said Alleyn gently, “that Mr. Watchman’s glass was on that table? The glass that was used afterwards when Miss Moore gave him the brandy?”
iii
Parish was not a rubicund man but the swift ebbing of what colour he had was sufficiently startling. Alleyn saw the pupils of his eyes dilate; his face was suddenly rather pinched.
“It was the dart that was poisoned,” said Parish. “They found that out. It was the dart.”
“Yes. I take it nobody went to the table?”
“I — don’t think anybody — Yes, I suppose that’s right.”
“And after the accident?”
“How d’you mean?”
“What were your positions?”
“Luke — my cousin — collapsed on the settle. I moved up to him. I mean I stooped down to look at him. I remember I said — oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“We should like to hear, if we may.”
“I told him to pull himself together. You see, I didn’t think anything of it. He’s always gone peculiar at the sight of his own blood. When we were kids, he used to faint if he scratched himself.”
“Did anybody but yourself know of this peculiarity?”
“I don’t know. I should think Norman knew. Norman Cubitt. He may not have known, but I rather think we’ve talked about it recently. I seem to remember we did.”
“Mr. Parish,” said Alleyn, “will you focus your memory on those few minutes after your cousin collapsed on the settle? Will you tell us everything you can remember?”
Parish got to his feet and moved restlessly about the room. Alleyn had dealt with people of the theatre before. He had learnt that their movements were habitually a little larger than life, and he knew that in many cases this staginess was the result of training and instinct, and that it was a mistake to put it down to deliberate artifice. He knew that, in forming an opinion of the emotional integrity of actors, it was almost impossible to decide whether their outward-seeming was conscious or instinctive; whether it expressed their sensibility or merely their sense of theatre. Parish moved restlessly, as though some dramatist had instructed him to do so. But he may not, thought Alleyn, know at this moment how beautifully he moves.
“I begin to see it,” said Parish, suddenly. “Really it’s rather as if I tried to recall a dream, and a very bad dream at that. You see, the lights kept fading and wobbling, and then one had drunk rather a lot, and then, afterwards, all that happened makes it even more confused. I am trying to think about it as a scene on the stage; a scene, I mean, of which I’ve had to memorize the positions.”
“That’s a very good idea,” said Alleyn.
The door opened and a tall man with an untidy head looked in.
“I beg your pardon. Sorry!” murmured this man.
“Mr. Cubitt?” asked Alleyn. Parish had turned quickly. “Do come in, please.”
Cubitt came in and put down a small canvas with its face to the wall. Parish introduced him.
“I’d be glad if you’d stay,” said Alleyn. “Mr. Parish is going to try and recall for us the scene that followed the injury to Mr. Watchman’s hand.”
“Oh,” said Cubitt, and gave a lop-sided grin. “All right. Go ahead, Seb. Sorry I cut in.”
He sat on a low chair near the fireplace and wound one thin leg mysteriously round the other. “Go ahead,” he repeated.
Parish, at first, seemed a little disconcerted, but he soon became fortified by his own words.
“Luke,” he said, “is lying on the settle. The settle against the left-hand wall.”
“Actors’ left or audience’s left?” asked Cubitt.
“Audience’s left. I’m deliberately seeing it as a stage setting, Norman.”
“So I understand.”
“And Inspector Alleyn knows the room. At first nobody touches Luke. His face is very white and he looks as if he’ll faint. I’m standing near his head. Legge’s still out in front of the dart board. He’s saying something about being sorry. I’ve got it now. It’s strange, but thinking of it like this brings it back to me. You, Norman, and Decima, are by the bar. She’s sitting on the bar in the far corner. Will has taken a step out into the room and Abel’s leaning over the bar. Wait a moment. Miss Darragh is further away near the inglenook, and is sitting down. Old George Nark, blind tight, is teetering about near Miss Darragh. That’s the picture.”
“Go on, please,” said Alleyn.
“Well, the lights waver. Sometimes it’s almost dark, then the figures all show up again. Or—” Parish looked at Cubitt.
“No,” said Cubitt, “that wasn’t the brandy, Seb. You’re quite right.”
“Well, I can’t go any further,” said Parish petulantly. “The rest’s still a filthy nightmare. Can you sort it out?”
“Please do, if you can, Mr. Cubitt,” said Alleyn. Cubitt was filling his pipe. His fingers, blunt-ended, were stained, as usual, with oil paint.
“It’s as everybody described it at the inquest,” he said. “I think Seb and I both had the same idea, that Watchman was simply upset at the sight of his own blood. It’s true about the lights. The room seemed to — to sort of pulse with shadows. I remember Luke’s right hand. It groped about his chest as if he felt for a handkerchief or something. Legge said something like: ‘My God! I’m sorry, is it bad?’ Something like that. And then Legge said something more. ‘Look at his face! My God, it’s not lockjaw, is it?’ And you, Seb, said ‘Not it,’ and trotted out the old story about Luke’s sensibilities.”
“How was I to know? You make it sound—”
“Of course you weren’t to know. I agreed with you, but Legge was very upset and, at the mention of lockjaw, Abel went to the cupboard and got out the iodine and a bandage. Miss Darragh came to life, and took the bandage from Abel. Abel dabbed iodine on the finger, and Luke sort of shuddered, like you do with the sting of the stuff. Miss Darragh said something about brandy. Decima Moore took the bottle off the bar and poured some into Luke’s glass. His glass was on the table.”
“The table by the dart board close to Mr. Parish?”
Cubitt looked up from his pipe.
“That’s it,” he said. “Decima gave Luke the brandy. He seemed to get worse, just about then. He had a sort of convulsion.” Cubitt paused. “It was beastly,” he said and his voice changed. “The glass went flying. Miss Darragh pressed forward with the bandage and then— then the lights went out.”
“That’s very clear,” said Alleyn. “I take it that, from the time Abel Pomeroy got the iodine and bandage until Mr. Watchman died, you were all gathered round the settle?”
“Yes. We didn’t really change positions, much; not Legge, or Will, or Seb here, or me. Abel and the two women came forward.”
“And when the lights went up again,” said Alleyn, “were the positions the same?”
“Pretty much. But—”
“Yes?”
Cubitt looked steadily at Alleyn. His pipe was gripped between his teeth. He felt in his pockets.
“There was a devil of a lot of movement while the lights were out.”
Chapter XI
Routine
i
“What sort of movement?” asked Alleyn.
“I know what you mean,” said Parish, before Cubitt could answer. “It was Luke. He must have had a sort of attack after the lights went out. It was appalling.”
“I don’t mean that,” said Cubitt. “I know Luke made a noise. His feet beat a sort of tattoo on the settle. He flung his arms about and — he made other noises.”
“For God’s sake,” Parish broke out, “don’t talk about it like that! I don’t know how you can sit there and discuss it.”