“I see you’ve no paper,” said Miss Darragh. “Would you like to have a look at the Illington Courier?”
“Thank you so much,” said Alleyn, and crossed over to the table.
“You’re Mr. Roderick Alleyn, are ye not?”
Alleyn bowed.
“Ah, I knew you from your likeness to your brother George,” said Miss Darragh.
“I am delighted that you knew me,” said Alleyn, “but I’ve never thought that my brother George and I were much alike.”
“Ah, there’s a kind of a family resemblance. And then, of course I knew you were here, for the landlord told me. You’re a good deal better-looking than your brother George. He used to stay with me cousins, the Sean O’Darraghs, for Punchestown. I met ’um there. I’m Violet Darragh, so now you know who ’tis that’s so bold with you.”
“Miss Darragh,” said Alleyn, “would you spare us a moment when you have finished your breakfast?”
“I would. Is it about this terrible affair?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be delighted. I’m a great lover of mysteries, myself, or I was before this happened. They’re not such grand fun when you’re in the middle of ’um. I’ll be in the private tap-room when you want me. Don’t hurry, now.”
“Thank you,” said Alleyn. Miss Darragh rose and squeezed past the table. Alleyn opened the door. She nodded cheerfully and went out.
“Cool,” said Fox, when Alleyn joined him. “You’d never think she had anything up her sleeve, sir, now would you?”
“No, Fox, you wouldn’t. I wonder what line I’d better take with her. She’s as sharp as a needle.”
“I’d say so,” agreed Fox.
“I think, Fox, you had better ask her, in your best company manners, to walk into our parlour. It looks more official. I must avoid that friend-of-the-family touch—” Alleyn stopped short and rubbed his nose. “Unless, indeed, I make use of it,” he said. “Dear me, now, I wonder.”
“What’s the friend-of-the-family touch, sir?”
“Didn’t you hear? She has met my brother George who is physically as unlike me as may be. Mentally, too, I can’t help hoping. But perhaps that’s vanity. What do you think?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Sir George, Mr. Alleyn.”
“He’s rather an old ass, I’m afraid. Have you finished?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
“Then I shall remove to the parlour. My compliments to Miss Darragh, Foxkin, and I shall be grateful if she will walk into my parlour. Lord, Lord, I hope I don’t make a botch of this.”
Alleyn went to the parlour. In a minute or two, Fox came in with Miss Darragh.
Ever since he entered the detective service, Alleyn has had to set a guard against a habit of instinctive reactions to new acquaintances. Many times has he repeated to himself the elementary warning that roguery is not incompatible with charm. But he has never quite overcome certain impulses towards friendliness, and his austerity of manner is really a safeguard against this weakness; a kind of protective colouring, a uniform for behaviour.
When he met Violet Darragh he knew that she would amuse and interest him, that it would be easy to listen to her and pleasant to strike up a sort of friendship. He knew that he would find it difficult to believe her capable of double-dealing. He summoned the discipline of a system that trains its servants to a high pitch of objective watchfulness. He became extremely polite.
“I hope you will forgive me,” he said, “for suggesting that you should come in here. Mr. Pomeroy has given us this room as a sort of office, and as all our papers—”
“Ah, don’t worry yourself,” said Miss Darragh. She took the armchair that Fox wheeled forward, wriggled into the deep seat, and tucked her feet up.
“It’s more comfortable here,” she said, “and I’m a bit tired. I was out at the crack of dawn at me sketching. Down on the front, ’twas, and those steps are enough to break your heart.”
“There must be some very pleasant subjects down there,” murmured Alleyn. “At the end of the jetty, for instance.”
“You’ve a good eye for a picture,” said Miss Darragh. “That’s where I was. Or perhaps you saw me there?”
“I think,” said Alleyn, “that you passed me on your way out. I was in the garage yard.”
“You were. But the garage yard does not overlook the jetty.”
“Oh, no,” said Alleyn vaguely. “Now, Miss Darragh, may we get down to what I’m afraid will be, for you, a very boring business. It’s about the night of this affair. I’ve seen your statement to the police, and I’ve read the report of the inquest.”
“Then,” said Miss Darragh, “I’m afraid you’ll know all I have to tell you and that’s not much.”
“There are one or two points we’d like to go over with you if we may. You told the coroner that you thought the wound from the dart had nothing to do with Mr. Watchman’s death.”
“I did. And I’m positive it hadn’t. A little bit of a puncture no bigger than you’d take from a darning needle.”
“A little bigger than that surely?”
“Not to make any matter.”
“But the analyst found cyanide on the dart.”
“I’ve very little faith in ’um,” said Miss Darragh.
“In the analyst? It went up to London, you know. It was the very best analyst,” said Alleyn with a smile.
“I know ’twas, but the cleverest of ’um can make mistakes. Haven’t I read for myself how delicut these experiments are, with their fractions of a grain of this and that, and their acid tests, and their heat tests, and all the rest of it? I’ve always thought it’s blown up with their theories and speculations these fine chemists must be. When they’re told to look for prussic acid, they’ll be determined to find it. Ah, well, maybe they did find poison on the dart, but that makes no difference at all to me theory, Mr. Alleyn. If there was prussic acid or cyanide, or Somebody’s acid on the dart (and why for pity’s sake can’t they find one name for ut and be done with ut?), then ’twas put on in the factory or the shop, or got on afterwards, for ’twas never there at the time.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Alleyn apologetically. “I don’t quite—”
“What I mean is this, Mr. Alleyn. Not a soul there had a chance to play the fool with the darts, and why should they when nobody could foretell the future?”
“The future? You mean nobody could tell that the dart would puncture the finger?”
“I do.”
“Mr. Legge,” said Alleyn, “might have known, mightn’t he?”
“He might,” said Miss Darragh coolly, “but he didn’t. Mr. Alleyn, I never took my eyes off that ’un, from the time he took the darts till the time he wounded the poor fellow, and that was no time at all, for it passed in a flash. If it’s any help I’m ready to make a sworn statement — an affidavit isn’t it? — that Legge put nothing on the dart.”
“I see,” said Alleyn.
“Even Mr. Pomeroy, who is set against Mr. Legge, and Mr. Parish, too, will tell you he had no chance to infect the dart.”
Miss Darragh made a quick nervous movement with her hands, clasping them together and raising them to her chin.
“I know very well,” she said, “that there are people here will make things look black for Mr. Legge. You’ll do well to let ’um alone. He’s a delicut man and this affair’s racking his nerves to pieces. Let ’um alone, Mr. Alleyn, and look elsewhere for your murderer, if there’s murder in ut.”
“What’s your opinion of Legge?” asked Alleyn abruptly.
“Ah, he’s a common well-meaning little man with a hard life behind ’um.”
“You know something of him? That’s perfectly splendid. I’ve been trying to fit a background to him and I can’t.”
For the first time Miss Darragh hesitated, but only for a second. She said: “I’ve been here nearly three weeks and I’ve had time to draw my own conclusions about the man.”