“The law,” said Fox, with an air of the deepest disgust. “As soon as he knew who I was, he started on it, and a lot of very foolish remarks he made. You ought to have a chat with him, Mr. Alleyn, he’d give you the pip.”
“Thanks,” said Alleyn. “About Legge. Why’s he here on sufferance?”
Fox sat down.
“Because of old Pomeroy,” he said. “Old Pomeroy thinks Legge’s a murderer and wanted him to look for other lodgings, but young Pomeroy stuck to it and they let him stay on, and Will got his way. However, Legge’s given notice and has found rooms in Illington. He’s moving over on Monday. He seems to be very well liked among the chaps in the bar, but they’re a simple lot, taking them by and large. Young Oates the Ottercombe P.C.‘s in there. Very keen to see you.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll have to see him sooner or later. While we’re waiting for Legge, why not? Bring him in.”
Fox went out and returned in half a minute.
“P.C. Oates, sir,” said Fox.
P.C. Oates was brick-red with excitement and as stiff as a poker from a sense of discipline. He stood inside the door with his helmet under his arm and saluted.
“Good evening, Oates,” said Alleyn.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Mr. Harper tells me you were on duty the night Mr. Watchman died. Are you responsible for the chalk marks in the private tap-room?”
P.C. Oates looked apprehensive.
“Furr some of ’em, sir,” he said. “Furr the place where we found the dart, like, and the marks on the settle, like. I used the chalk off the scoring board, sir.”
“Is it your first case of this sort?”
“ ’Ess, sir.”
“You seem to have kept your head.”
Wild visions cavorted through the brain of P.C. Oates. He saw in a flash all the keen young P.C.’s of his favourite novels and each of them, with becoming modesty, pointed out a tiny detail that had escaped the notice of his superiors. To each of them did the Man from Higher Up exclaim: “By thunder, my lad, you’ve got it,” and upon each of them was rapid promotion visited, while Chief Constables, the Big Four, yes, the Man at the Top, himself, all told each other that young Oates was a man to be watched… for each of these P.C.’s was the dead spit and image of P.C. Oates himself.
“Thank you, sir,” said Oates.
“I’d like to hear about your appearance on the scene,” said Alleyn.
“In my own words, sir?”
“If you please, Oates,” said Alleyn.
Dick Oates took a deep breath, mustered his wits, and began.
“On the night of Friday, August 2nd,” he began, and paused in horror. His voice had gone into the top of his head and had turned soprano on the way. It was the voice of a squeaking stranger. He uttered a singular noise in his throat and began again.
“On the night of Friday, August 2nd, at approximately 9.16 p.m.,” said Oates, in a voice of thunder, “being on duty at the time, I was proceeding up South Ottercombe Steps with the intention of completing my beat. My attention was aroused by my hearing the sound of my own name, viz. Oates, being called repeatedly from a spot on my left, namely the front door of the Plume of Feathers, public house, Abel Pomeroy, proprietor. On proceeding to the said front door, I encountered William Pomeroy. He informed me that there had been an accident. Miss Decima Moore came into the entrance from inside the building. She said ‘There is no doubt about it, he is dead.’ I said, to the best of my knowledge and belief, ‘My Gawd, who is dead?’ Miss Moore then said ‘Watchman.’ I then proceeded into the private tap-room.”
Oates paused. Alleyn said: “Yes, Oates, that’s all right, but when I said your own words I meant your own words. This is not going to be taken down and used in evidence against you. I want to hear what sort of an impression you got of it all. You see, we have already seen your formal report in the file.”
“ ’Ess, sir,” said Oates, breathing rather hard through his nostrils.
“Very well, then. Did you get the idea that these men were tight, moderately tight, or stone-cold sober?”
“I received the impression, sir, that they had been intoxicated but were now sobered.”
“All of them?”
“Well, sir, when I left the tap at nine o’clock, sir, to proceed — to go round the beat, they was not to say drunk but bosky-eyed, like. Merry, like.”
“Including Mr. Legge?”
“By all means,” said Oates firmly. “Bob Legge, sir, was sozzled. Quiet-like, but muddled. Well, the man couldn’t find his way to his mouth with his pipe, not with any dash, as you might say.”
“He was still pretty handy with the darts, though,” observed Fox.
“So he was, then, sir. But I reckon, sir, that’s second nature to the man, drunk or sober. He smelt something wonderful of tipple. And after I left, sir, he had two brandies. He must have been drunk.”
“But sobered by shock?” suggested Alleyn.
“That’s what I reckoned, sir.”
“Did you notice anything in Legge’s manner or in the manner of any of the others that led you to think the thing wasn’t an accident?”
Oates fixed his knees, in the classic tradition, and eased his collar.
“Legge,” he said, “was rather put about. Well, sir, that’s natural, he having seemingly just killed a man and got over a booze, in one throw of a dart if you want to put it fanciful. Yes, he was proper put out, was Bob Legge. White as a bogey and trimbling. Kept saying the deceased gentleman had taken tetanus. Now that,” said Oates, “might of been a blind, but it looked genuine to me. That’s Legge. There wasn’t anything unusual in Abel Pomeroy. Worried, but there again, who isn’t with a fresh corpse on the premises? Young Will had his eye on Miss Dessy Moore. Natural again. She’s so pretty as a daisy and good as promised to Will. Staring at him, with eyes like saucers, and ready to swoon away. Kind of frightened. Bore up all right, till she’d told me how she give the deceased brandy, and then seemed, in a manner of speaking, to cave in to it, and went off with Will, scared-like and looking at him kind of bewildered. Will give me the clearest answers of the lot, sir. Kept his head, did Will.”
“And the two friends?”
“Two gentlemen, sir? Mr. Parish looked scared and squeamish. Very put out, he was, and crying too, something surprising. Answered by fits and starts. Not himself at all. Mr. Cubitt, the straight-out opposite. Very white and didn’t go near the body while I was there. Wouldn’t look at it, I noticed. But cool and collected, and answered very sensible. It was Mr. Cubitt fetched the doctor. I got the idea he wanted to get out into the open air, like. Seemed to me, sir, that Mr. Parish kind of let hisself go and Mr. Cubitt held hisself in. Seemed to me that, likely, Mr. Cubitt was the more upset.”
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “I see. Go on.”
“The rest, sir? I didn’t see the Honourable Darragh till the morning. The Honourable Darragh, sir, behaved very sensible. Not but what she wasn’t in a bit of a quiver, but being a stout lady, you noticed it more. Her cheeks jiggled something chronic when she talked about it, but she was very sensible. She’s a great one for talking, sir, and it’s my belief that when she got over the surprise she fair revelled in it.”
“Really? And now we’re left as usual with Mr. George Nark.”
“Nothing but vomit and hiccough, sir. Drunk as an owl.”
“I see. Well, Oates, you’ve given us a clear enough picture of the actors. Now for the dart. Where was the dart when you found it?”
“Legge found it, sir. I asked for it almost imediate, sir, but they was all that flustered they paid no heed to me. ’Cepting Legge who had been going on about ‘Was it the dart that did it?’ and ‘Had he killed the man?’ and ‘Wasn’t it lockjaw?’ and ‘He must have shifted his finger,’ and so forth; and so soon as I asked for the dart he stooped down and peered about and then he says ‘There it is!’ and I saw it and he picked it up from where it had fallen. It was stained and still looked damp, sir. Blood. And I suppose, sir, the poison.”