Death at the Bar. Ngaio Marsh

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      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?’

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