Death at the Bar. Ngaio Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ turned aside and cupped his hands round the match, dipping his head with extravagant care as if a wind threatened the flame.

      ‘I suppose you’re going to Ottercombe?’ said Watchman.

      He saw a flash of teeth.

      ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it? I’m sorry I can’t let you through till then.’

      ‘I shan’t be on your heels at the pace you travel,’ grinned Watchman.

      ‘No,’ agreed the man, and his voice sounded remote as he moved away. ‘I’ll keep out of your way. Good-night.’

      ‘Good-night.’

      That ridiculous little car was as good as its driver’s word. It shot away down the lane and vanished over the brow of a steep drop. Watchman followed more cautiously and by the time he rounded the hill the other car had turned a farther corner. He caught the distant toot of a horn. It sounded derisive.

      II

      The lane ran out towards the coast and straight for Coombe Rock, a headland that rose sharply from the downs to thrust its nose into the channel. A patch on the hillside seemed to mark an inconsequent end to the route. It was only when he drew closer to this patch that a stranger might recognize it as an entrance to a tunnel, the only gate into Ottercombe. Watchman saw it grow magically until it filled his range of vision. He passed a roadsign ‘Ottercombe. Dangerous Corner. Change down,’ and entered the mouth of the tunnel. He slowed down and switched on his lights. Dank walls closed about him, the sound of his progress echoed loudly and he smelt wet stones and seaweed. Before him, coldly and inkily blue, framed in black, was the sea. From within, the tunnel seemed to end in a shelf; actually it turned sharply to the left. Watchman had to stop and back his car before he could get round. There, down on his left and facing the sea, was Ottercombe.

      Probably the alarming entrance into this village has saved it from becoming another Clovelly or Polperro. Ladies with Ye Olde Shoppe ambitions would hesitate to drive through Coombe Tunnel and very large cars are unable to do so. Moreover the village is not too picturesque. It is merely a group of houses whose whitewash is tarnished by the sea. There are no secret stairs in any of them, no ghosts walk Ottercombe Steps, no smugglers’ cave looks out from Coombe Rock. For all that, the place has its history of grog-running and wrecking. There is a story of a fight in the tunnel between excisemen and the men of Coombe, and there are traces of the gate that once closed the tunnel every night at sunset. The whole of Ottercombe is the property of an irascible eccentric who keeps the houses in good repair, won’t let one of them to a strange shopkeeper and breathes venom on the word ‘publicity.’ If a stranger cares to stay in Ottercombe he must put up at the Plume of Feathers, where Abel Pomeroy has four guest rooms, and Mrs Ives does the house-keeping and cooking. If the Coombe men like him, they will take him out in their boats and play darts with him in the evening. He may walk round the cliffs, fish off the rocks, or drive seven miles to Illington where there is a golf-course and a three-star hotel. These are the amenities of Ottercombe.

      The Plume of Feathers faces the cobbled road of entrance. It is a square building, scrupulously whitewashed. It has no great height but its position gives it an air of dominance over the cottages that surround it. On the corner of the Feathers the road of approach splits and becomes a sort of inn yard off which Ottercombe Steps lead through the village and down to the wharf. Thus the windows of the inn on two sides, watch for the arrival of strangers. By the corner entrance is a bench, occupied on warm evenings by Abel Pomeroy and his cronies. At intervals Abel walks into the middle of the road and looks up towards Coombe Tunnel as his father and grandfather did before him.

      As Watchman drove down, he could see old Pomeroy standing there in his shirt sleeves. Watchman flicked his headlights and Pomeroy raised his hand. Watchman sounded his horn and a taller figure, dressed in the slacks and sweater of some superb advertisement, came through the lighted doorway. It was Watchman’s cousin, Sebastian Parish. Then the others had arrived.

      He drew up and opened the door.

      ‘Well, Pomeroy.’

      ‘Well, Mr Watchman, we’m right down glad to see you again. Welcome to you.’

      ‘I’m glad to get here,’ said Watchman, shaking hands. ‘Hallo, Seb. When did you arrive?’

      ‘This morning, old boy,’ answered his cousin. ‘We stopped last night at Exeter with Norman’s sister.’

      ‘I was at Yeovil,’ said Watchman. ‘Where is Norman?’

      ‘Painting down by the jetty. The light’s gone. He’ll be in soon. He’s started a portrait of me on Coombe Rock. It’s going to be rather wonderful. I’m wearing a red sweater and the sea’s behind me. Very virile!’

      ‘Good Lord!’ said Watchman cheerfully.

      ‘We’ll get your things out for you, sir,’ said old Pomeroy. ‘Will!’

      A tall fox-coloured man came through the doorway. He screwed up his eyes, peered at Watchman, and acknowledged his greeting without much show of enthusiasm.

      ‘Well, Will.’

      ‘Evening, Mr Watchman.’

      ‘Bear a hand, my sonny,’ said old Pomeroy.

      His son opened the luggage carrier and began to haul out Watchman’s suitcases.

      ‘How’s the Movement, Will?’ asked Watchman. ‘Still well on the left?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Will shortly. ‘It’s going ahead. Will these be all?’

      ‘Yes, thanks. I’ll take the car round, Seb, and join you in the bar. Is there a sandwich or so anywhere about, Abel?’

      ‘We can do a bit better than that, sir. There’s a fine lobster Mrs Ives has put aside, special.’

      ‘By George, you’re a host in a million. God bless Mrs Ives.’

      Watchman drove round to the garage. It was a converted stable, a dark building that housed the memory of sweating horses rubbed down by stable lads with wisps of straw. When he stopped his engine Watchman heard a rat plop across the rafters. In addition to his own the garage held four cars. There was Norman Cubitt’s Austin, a smaller Austin, a Morris and there, demure in the corner, a battered two-seater.

      ‘You again!’ said Watchman, staring at it. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’

      He returned to the pub, delighted to hear the familiar ring of his own steps, to smell the tang of the sea and of burning driftwood. As he ran upstairs he heard voices and the unmistakable tuck of a dart in a cork board.

      ‘Double twenty,’ said Will Pomeroy, and above the general outcry came a woman’s voice.

      ‘Splendid, my dear. We win!’

      ‘So, she is here,’ thought Watchman as he washed his hands. ‘And why, “my dear”? And who wins?’

      III

      Watchman, with his cousin for company, ate his lobster in the private taproom. There is a parlour at the Feathers but nobody СКАЧАТЬ