Death at the Bar

‘What’s up?’ asked Cubitt.

‘Here comes your girl.’

‘What the devil do you mean?’ demanded Cubitt angrily and looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh – I see.’

‘Violet,’ said Parish. ‘Who did you think it was?’

‘I thought you’d gone dotty. Damn the woman.’

‘Will she paint me too?’

‘Not if I know it.’

‘Unkind to your little Violet?’ asked Parish.

‘Don’t call her that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well damn it, she’s not very young and she’s – well, she may be a pest, but she’s by way of being a lady.’

‘Snob!’

‘Don’t be so dense, Seb. Can’t you see – oh Lord, she’s got all her gear. She is going to paint. Well, I’ve just about done for today.’

‘She’s waving.’

Cubitt looked across the headland to where Miss Darragh, a droll figure against the sky, fluttered a large handkerchief.

‘She’s put her stuff down,’ said Parish. ‘She’s going to sketch. What is there to paint, over there?’

‘A peep,’ said Cubitt. ‘Now, hold hard and don’t talk. There’s a shadow under the lower lip –’

He worked with concentration for five minutes, and then put down his palette.

‘That’ll do for today. We’ll pack up.’

But when he’d hitched his pack on his shoulders and stared out to sea for some seconds, he said suddenly:

‘All the same, Seb, I wish you hadn’t told me.’

II

It was understood among the three friends that each should go his own way during the weeks they spent at Ottercombe. Watchman had played with the notion of going out in the dawn with the fishing boats. He woke before it was light and heard the tramp of heavy boots on cobble-stones and the sound of voices down on Ottercombe Steps. He told himself comfortably that here was a link with the past. For hundreds of years the Coombe men had gone down to their boats before dawn. The children of Coombe had heard them stirring, their wives had fed them and seen them go, and for centuries their voices and the sound of their footsteps had roused the village for a moment in the coldest hour of the night. Watchman let the sounds die away, snuggled luxuriously down in bed, and fell asleep.

He woke again at half-past nine and found that Parish had already breakfasted and set out for Coombe Rock.

‘A mortal great mammoth of a picture Mr Cubitt be at,’ said Abel Pomeroy, as Watchman finished his breakfast. ‘Paint enough to cover a wall, sir, and laid on so thick as dough. At close quarters it looks like one of they rocks covered in shell-fish, but ’od rabbit it, my sonnies, when you fall away twenty feet or more, it’s Mr Parish so clear as glass. Looking out over the Rock he be, looking out to sea, and so natural you’d say the man was smelling the wind and thinking of his next meal. You might fancy a stroll out to the Rock, sir, and take a look at Mr Cubitt flinging his paint left and right.’

‘I feel lazy, Abel. Where’s Will?’

‘Went out along with the boats, sir.’ Abel rasped his chin, scratched his head, and re-arranged the objects on the bar.

‘He’s restless, is Will,’ he said suddenly. ‘My own boy, Mr Watchman, and so foreign to me as a changeling.’

‘Will is?’ asked Watchman, filling his pipe.

‘Ah, Will. What with his politics and his notions he’s a right down stranger to me, is Will. A very witty lad too, proper learned, and so full of arguments as a politician. He won’t argufy with me, naturally, seeing I’m not his equal in the way of brains, nor anything like it.’

‘You’re too modest, Abel,’ said Watchman lightly.

‘No, sir, no. I can’t stand up to that boy of mine when it comes to politics and he knows it and lets me down light. I’m for the old ways, a right down Tory, and for why? For no better reason than it suits me, same as it suited my forebears.’

‘A sound enough reason.’

‘No, sir, not according to my boy. According to Will it be a damn’ fool reason and a selfish one into the bargain.’

‘I shouldn’t let it worry you.’

‘More I do, Mr Watchman. It’s not our differences that worry me. It’s just my lad’s restless mumbudgetting ways. You saw how he was last night. Speaking to you that fashion. Proper ’shamed of him, I was.’

‘It was entirely my fault, Abel, I baited him.’

‘Right down generous of you to put it like that, but all the same he’s not himself these days. I’d like him to settle down. Tell you the truth, sir, it’s what’s to become of the Feathers that troubles me, and it troubles me sore. I’m nigh on seventy, Mr Watchman. Will’s my youngest. ’Tother two boys wurr took in war, and one girl’s married and in Canada, and ’tother in Australia. Will’ll get the Feathers.’

‘I expect,’ said Watchman, ‘that Will’ll grow out of his red ideas and run the pub like any other Pomeroy.’

Old Abel didn’t answer and Watchman added: ‘When he marries and settles down.’

‘And when will that be, sir? Likely you noticed how ’tis between Will and Miss Dessy? Well now, that’s a funny state of affairs, and one I can’t get used to. Miss Dessy’s father, Jim Moore up yurr to Carey Edge Farm, is an old friend of mine. Good enough. But what happens when Dessy’s a lil’ maid no higher than my hand? ’Od rabbit it, if old Jim don’t come in for a windfall. Now his wife being a ghastly proud sort of a female and never tired of letting on she came down in society when she married, what do they do but send young Dessy to a ladies’ school where she gets some kind of free pass into a female establishment at Oxford.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘’Ess and comes home at the end of it a dinky lil’ chit, sure enough, and husband-high; but speaking finniky-like and the equal of all the gentlefolks in the West Country.’

‘Well?’ said Watchman.

‘Well, sir, that’s fair enough. If she fancies our Will above the young sparks she meets in her new walk of life, good enough. I’m proper fond of the maiden, always have been. Good as a daughter to me, and just the same always, no matter how ladylike she’m grown.’

Watchman stood up and stretched himself.

‘It all sounds idyllic, Abel. A charming romance.’

‘Wait a bit, sir, wait a bit. ’Baint so simple as all that. These yurr two young folks no sooner mets again than my Will sets his heart, burning strong and powerful, on Decima Moore. Eaten up with love from time he sets eyes on her, was Will, and hell-bent to win her. She come back with radical notions, same as his own, and that’s a bond a’tween ’em from the jump. Her folks don’t fancy my Will, however, leastways not her mother, and they don’t fancy her views neither, and worst of all they lays blame on Will. Old Jim Moore comes down yurr and has a tell with me, saying life’s not worth living up to farm with Missus at him all day and half night to put his foot down and stop it. That’s how ’twurr after you left last year, sir, and that’s how ’tis still. Will burning to get tokened and wed, and Dessy –’

‘Yes?’ asked Watchman as Abel paused and looked fixedly at the ceiling. ‘What about Decima?’

‘That’s the queerest touch of the lot, sir,’ said Abel.

Watchman, lighting his pipe, kept his eye on his host and saw that he now looked profoundly uncomfortable.

‘Well?’ Watchman repeated.

‘It be what she says about wedlock,’ Abel muttered.

‘What does she say?’ asked Watchman sharply.

‘Be shot if she haven’t got some new-fangled notion about wedlock being no better than a name for savagery. Talks wild trash about freedom. To my way of thinking the silly maiden don’t know what she says.’

‘What,’ asked Watchman, ‘does Will say to all this?’

‘Don’t like it. The chap wants to be tokened and hear banns read, like any other poor toad, for all his notions. He wants no free love for his wife or himself. He won’t talk to me, not a word, but Miss Dessy does, so open and natural as a daisy. Terrible nonsense it be, I tells her, and right down dangerous into bargain. Hearing her chatter, you might suppose she’s got some fancy-chap up her sleeve. Us knows better of course, but it’s an uncomfortable state of affairs and seemingly no way out. Tell you what, sir, I do blame this Legge for the way things are shaping. Will’d have settled down, he was settling down, afore Bob Legge come yurr. But now he’ve stirred up all their revolutionary notions again, Miss Dessy’s along with the rest. I don’t fancy Legge. Never have. Not for all he’m a masterpiece with darts. My way of thinking, he’m a cold calculating chap and powerful bent on having his way. Well, thurr ’tis, and talking won’t mend it.’

Watchman walked to the door and Abel followed him. They stood looking up the road to Coombe Tunnel.

‘Daily-buttons!’ exclaimed Abel, ‘talk of an angel and there she be. That’s Miss Dessy, the dinky little dear. Coming in to do her marketing.’

‘So it is,’ said Watchman. ‘Well, Abel, on second thoughts I believe I’ll go and have a look at that picture.’

III

But Watchman did not go directly to Coombe Rock. He lingered for a moment until he had seen Decima Moore go in at the post-office door, and then he made for the tunnel. Soon the darkness swallowed him, his footsteps rang hollow on the wet stone floor, and above him, a luminous disc, shone the top entry. Watchman emerged, blinking, into the dust and glare of the high road. To his left, the country rolled gently away to Illington, to his right, a path led round the cliffs to Coombe Rock, and then wound inland to Cary Edge Farm where the Moores lived.

He arched his hand over his eyes and on Coombe Head could make out the shape of canvas and easel with Cubitt’s figure moving to and fro, and beyond a tiny dot which must be Sebastian Parish’s head. Watchman left the road, climbed the clay bank, circled a clump of furze and beneath a hillock from where he could see the entrance to the tunnel, he lay full length on the short turf. With the cessation of his own movement the quiet of the countryside engulfed him. At first the silence seemed complete, but after a moment or two the small noises of earth, and sky welled up into his consciousness. A lark sang above his head with a note so high that it impinged upon the outer borders of hearing and at times soared into nothingness. When he turned and laid his ear to the earth it throbbed with the far-away thud of surf against Coombe Rock, and when his fingers moved in the grass it was with a crisp stirring sound. He began to listen intently, lying so still that no movement of his body could come between his senses and more distant sound. He closed his eyes and to an observer he would have seemed to sleep. Indeed his face bore that look of inscrutability which links sleep in our minds with death. But he was not asleep. He was listening: and presently his ears caught a new rhythm, a faint hollow beat. Someone was coming up through the tunnel.

Watchman looked through his eyelashes and saw Decima Moore step into the sunlight. He remained still, while she mounted the bank to the cliff path. She rounded the furze-bush and was almost upon him before she saw him. She stood motionless.

‘Well, Decima,’ said Watchman and opened his eyes.

‘You startled me,’ she said.

‘I should leap to my feet, shouldn’t I? And apologize?’

‘You needn’t trouble. I’m sorry I disturbed you. Goodbye.’

She moved forward.

Watchman said: ‘Wait a moment, Decima.’

She hesitated. Watchman reached out a hand and seized her ankle.

‘Don’t do that,’ said Decima. ‘It makes us both look silly. I’m in no mood for dalliance.’

‘Please say you’ll wait a moment and I’ll behave like a perfect little gent. I’ve something serious to say to you.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I promise you. Of the first importance. Please.’

‘Very well,’ said Decima.

He released her and scrambled to his feet.

‘Well, what is it?’ asked Decima.

‘It’ll take a moment or two. Do sit down and smoke a cigarette. Or shall I walk some of the way with you?’

She shot a glance at the distant figures on Coombe Head and then looked at him. She seemed ill at ease, half-defiant, half-curious.

‘We may as well get it over,’ she said.

‘Splendid. Sit down now, do. If we stand here, we’re in full view of anybody entering or leaving Ottercombe, and I don’t want to be interrupted. No, I’ve no discreditable motive. Come now.’

He sat down on the hillock under the furze-bush and after a moment’s hesitation she joined him.

‘Will you smoke? Here you are.’

He lit her cigarette, dug the match into the turf, and then turned to her.

‘The matter I wanted to discuss with you,’ he said, ‘concerns this Left Movement of yours.’

Decima’s eyes opened wide.

‘That surprises you?’ observed Watchman.

‘It does rather,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine why you should suddenly be interested in the CLM’

‘I’ve no business to be interested,’ said Watchman, ‘and in the ordinary sense, my dear Decima, I am not interested. It’s solely on your account – no, do let me make myself clear. It’s on your account that I want to put two questions to you. Of course if you choose you may refuse to answer them.’

Watchman cleared his throat, and pointed a finger at Decima.

‘Now in reference to this society –’

‘Dear me,’ interrupted Decima with a faint smile. ‘This green plot shall be our court, this furze-bush our witness-box; and we will do in action as we will do it before the judge.’

‘A vile paraphrase, and if we are to talk of midsummernight’s dreams, Decima –’

‘We certainly won’t do that,’ she said, turning very pink. ‘Pray continue your cross-examination, Mr Watchman.’

‘Thank you, my lord. First question: is this body – society, club, movement, or whatever it is – an incorporated company?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means among other things that the books would have to be audited by a chartered accountant.’

‘Good Heavens, no. It’s simply grown up, largely owing to the efforts of Will Pomeroy and myself.’

‘So I supposed. You’ve a list of subscribing members.’

‘Three hundred and forty-five,’ said Decima proudly.

‘And the subscription?’

‘Ten bob. Are you thinking of joining us?’

‘Who collects the ten bobs?’

‘The treasurer.’

‘And secretary. Mr Legge?’

‘Yes. What are you driving at? What were you at last night, baiting Bob Legge?’

‘Wait a moment. Do any other sums of money pass through his hands?’

‘I don’t see why I should tell you these things,’ said Decima.

‘There’s no reason, but you have my assurance that I mean well.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘And you may be sure I shall regard this conversation as strictly confidential.’

‘All right,’ she said uneasily. ‘We’ve raised sums for different objects. We want to start a Left Book Club in Illington and there are one or two funds – Spanish, Czech and Austrian refugees and the fighting fund and so on.’

‘Yes. At the rate of how much a year. Three hundred for instance?’

‘About that. Quite that, I should think. We’ve some very generous supporters.’

‘Now look here, Decima. Did you inquire very carefully into this man Legge’s credentials?’

‘I – no. I mean, he’s perfectly sound. He’s secretary for several other things. Some philatelic society and a correspondence course, and he’s agent for one or two things.’

‘He’s been here ten months, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes. He’s not strong, touch of TB, I think, and some trouble with his ears. His doctor told him to come down here. He’s been very generous and subscribed to the movement himself.’

‘May I give you a word of advice? Have your books audited.’

‘Do you know Bob Legge? You can’t make veiled accusations –’

‘I have made no accusations.’

‘You’ve suggested that –’

‘That you should be business-like,’ said Watchman. ‘That’s all.’

‘Do you know this man? You must tell me.’

There was a very long silence and then Watchman said:

‘I’ve never known anybody of that name.’

‘Then I don’t understand,’ said Decima.

‘Let us say I’ve taken an unreasonable dislike to him.’

‘I’d already come to that conclusion. It was obvious last night.’

‘Well, think it over.’ He looked fixedly at her and then said suddenly:

‘Why won’t you marry Will Pomeroy?’

Decima turned very white and said: ‘That, at least is entirely my own business.’

‘Will you meet me here tonight?’

‘No.’

‘Do I no longer attract you, Decima?’

‘I’m afraid you don’t.’

‘Little liar, aren’t you?’

‘The impertinent lady-killer stuff,’ said Decima, ‘doesn’t wear very well. It has a way of looking merely cheap.’

‘You can’t insult me,’ said Watchman. ‘Tell me this. Am I your only experiment?’

‘I don’t want to start any discussion of this sort. The thing’s at an end. It’s been dead a year.’

‘No. Not on my part. It could be revived; and very pleasantly. Why are you angry? Because I didn’t write?’

‘Good Lord, no!’ ejaculated Decima.

‘Then why –’

He laid his hand over hers. As if unaware of his touch, her fingers plucked at the blades of grass beneath them.

‘Meet me here tonight,’ he repeated.

‘I’m meeting Will tonight at the Feathers.’

‘I’ll take you home.’

Decima turned on him.

‘Look here,’ she said, ‘we’d better get this straightened out. You’re not in the least in love with me, are you?’

‘I adore you.’

‘I dare say, but you don’t love me. Nor do I love you. A year ago I fell for you rather heavily and we know what happened. I can admit now that I was – well, infatuated. I can even admit that what I said just then wasn’t true. For about two months I did mind your not writing. I minded damnably. Then I recovered in one bounce. I don’t want any recrudescence.’

‘How solemn,’ muttered Watchman. ‘How learned, and how young.’

‘It may seem solemn and young to you. Don’t flatter yourself I’m the victim of remorse. I’m not. One has to go through with these things, I’ve decided. But don’t let’s blow on the ashes.’

‘We wouldn’t have to blow very hard.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘You admit that, do you?’

‘Yes. But I don’t want to do it.’

‘Why? Because of Pomeroy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you going to marry him, after all?’

‘I don’t know. He’s ridiculously class-conscious about sex. He’s completely uneducated in some ways, but – I don’t know. If he knew about last year he’d take it very badly, and I can’t marry him without telling him.’

‘Well,’ said Watchman suddenly, ‘don’t expect me to be chivalrous and decent. I imagine chivalry and decency don’t go with sex-education and freedom anyway. Don’t be a fool, Decima. You know you think it would be rather fun.’

He pulled her towards him. Decima muttered, ‘No, you don’t,’ and suddenly they were struggling fiercely. Watchman thrust her back till her shoulders were against the bank. As he stooped his head to kiss her, she wrenched one hand free and struck him clumsily but with violence, across the mouth.

‘You –’ said Watchman.

She scrambled to her feet and stood looking down at him.

‘I wish to God,’ she said savagely, ‘that you’d never come back.’

There was a moment’s silence.

Watchman, too, had got to his feet. They looked into each other’s eyes; and then, with a gesture that, for all its violence and swiftness suggested the movement of an automaton, he took her by the shoulders and kissed her. When he had released her they moved apart stiffly with no eloquence in either of their faces or figures.

Decima said, ‘You’d better get out of here. If you stay here it’ll be the worse for you. I could kill you. Get out.’

They heard the thud of footsteps on turf, and Cubitt and Sebastian Parish came over the brow of the hillock.

CHAPTER 4

The Evening in Question

Watchman, Cubitt and Parish lunched together in the taproom. Miss Darragh did not appear. Cubitt and Parish had last seen her sucking her brush and gazing with complacence at an abominable sketch. She was still at work when they came up with Watchman and Decima. At lunch, Watchman was at some pains to tell the others how he and Decima Moore met by accident, and how they had fallen to quarrelling about the Coombe Left Movement.

They accepted his recital with, on Parish’s part, rather too eager alacrity. Lunch on the whole, was an uncomfortable affair. Something had gone wrong with the relationship of the three men. Norman Cubitt, who was acutely perceptive in such matters, felt that the party had divided into two, with Parish and himself on one side of an intangible barrier, and Watchman on the other. Cubitt had no wish to side, however, vaguely, with Parish against Watchman. He began to make overtures, but they sounded unlikely and only served to emphasize his own discomfort. Watchman answered with the courtesy of an acquaintance. By the time they had reached the cheese, complete silence had overcome them.

They did not linger for their usual post-prandial smoke. Cubitt said he wanted to get down to the jetty for his afternoon sketch, Parish said he was going to sleep, Watchman, murmuring something about writing a letter, disappeared upstairs.

They did not see each other again until the evening when they met in the private taproom for their usual cocktail. The fishing boats had come in, and at first the bar was fairly full. The three friends joined in local conversation and were not thrown upon their own resources until the evening meal which they took together in the ingle-nook. The last drinker went out saying that there was a storm hanging about, and that the air was unnaturally heavy. On his departure complete silence fell upon the three men. Parish made one or two halfhearted attempts to break it but it was no good, they had nothing to say to each other. They finished their meal and Watchman began to fill his pipe.

‘What’s that?’ said Parish suddenly. ‘Listen!’

‘High tide,’ said Watchman. ‘It’s the surf breaking on Coombe Rock.’

‘No, it’s not. Listen.’

And into the silence came a vague gigantic rumble.

‘Isn’t it thunder?’ asked Parish.

The others listened for a moment but made no answer.

‘What a climate!’ added Parish.

The village outside the inn seemed very quiet. The evening air was sultry. No breath of wind stirred the curtains at the open windows. When, in a minute or two, somebody walked round the building, the footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. Another and more imperative muttering broke the quiet.

Cubitt said nervously:

‘It’s as if a giant, miles away on Dartmoor, was shaking an iron tray.’

‘That’s exactly how they work thunder in the business,’ volunteered Parish.

‘The business,’ Watchman said with violent irritation. ‘What business? Is there only one business?’

‘What the hell’s gone wrong with you?’ asked Parish.

‘Nothing. The atmosphere,’ said Watchman.

‘I hate thunder-storms,’ said Cubitt quickly. ‘They make me feel as if all my nerves were on the surface. A loathsome feeling.’

‘I rather like them,’ said Watchman.

‘And that’s the end of that conversation,’ said Parish with a glance at Cubitt.

Watchman got up and moved into the window. Mrs Ives came in with a tray.

‘Storm coming up?’ Parish suggested.

‘’Ess, sir. Very black outside,’ said Mrs Ives.