Death At The Bar (ra-9) by Ngaio Marsh

Author:Ngaio Marsh [Marsh, Ngaio]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: det_classic

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.

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