Читать книгу Death at the Bar - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 12

Miss Darragh’s entrance broke up the scene. Will Pomeroy turned, ducked under the flap of the private bar, and leant over the counter into the Public. Watchman stood up. The others turned to Miss Darragh with an air of relief, and Abel Pomeroy, with his innkeeper’s heartiness, intensified perhaps by a feeling of genuine relief, said loudly, ‘Come in then, Miss, company’s waiting for you and you’m in time for a drink, with the house.’

‘Not Treble Extra, Mr Pomeroy, if you don’t mind. Sherry for me, if you please.’

She waddled over to the bar, placed her hands on the counter, and with an agility that astonished Watchman, made a neat little vault on to one of the tall stools. There she sat beaming upon the company.

She was a woman of perhaps fifty, but it would have been difficult to guess at her age since time had added to her countenance and figure merely layer after layer of firm wholesome fat. She was roundabout and compact. Her face was babyish, and this impression was heightened by the tight grey curls that covered her head. In repose she seemed to pout, and it was not until she spoke that her good humour appeared in her eyes, and was magnified by her spectacles. All fat people wear a look of inscrutability, and Violet Darragh was not unlike a jolly sort of sphinx.

Abel served her and she took the glass delicately in her small white paws.

‘Well, now,’ she said, ‘is everybody having fun?’ and then caught sight of Watchman. ‘Is this your cousin, Mr Parish?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Parish hurriedly. ‘Mr Watchman, Miss Darragh.’

‘How d’ye do?’ said Miss Darragh.

Like many Irishwomen of her class she spoke with such a marked brogue that one wondered whether it was inspired by a kind of jocularity that had turned into a habit.

‘I’ve heard about you, of course, and read about you in the papers, for I dearly love a good murder and if I can’t have me murder I’m all for arson. That was a fine murder case you defended last year, now, Mr Watchman. Before you took silk, ’twas you did your best for the poor scoundrel.’

Watchman expanded.

‘I didn’t get him off, Miss Darragh.’

‘Ah well, and a good job you didn’t, for we’d none of us have been safe in our beds. And there’s Mr Cubitt come from his painting down by the jetty, in mortal terror, poor man, lest I plague him with me perspective.’

‘Not at all,’ said Cubitt, turning rather pink.

‘I’ll leave you alone now. I know very well I’m a trouble to you, but it’s good for your character, and you may look upon me as a kind of holiday penance.’

‘You’re a painter too, Miss Darragh?’ said Watchman.

‘I’m a raw amateur, Mr Watchman, but I’ve a kind of itch for ut. When I see a little peep I can’t rest till I’m at ut with me paints. There’s Mr Cubitt wincing as if he had a nagging tooth, when I talk of a pretty peep. You’ve a distinguished company in your house, Mr Pomeroy,’ continued Miss Darragh. ‘I thought I was coming to a quiet little village, and what do I find but a galaxy of the talents. Mr Parish who’s turned me heart over many a time with his acting; Mr Cubitt, down there painting within stone’s throw of meself, and now haven’t we the great counsel to add to our intellectual feast. I wonder now, Mr Watchman, if you remember me poor cousin Bryonie’s case?’

‘I – yes,’ said Watchman, greatly disconcerted. ‘I – I defended Lord Bryonie. Yes.’

‘And didn’t he only get the mere eighteen months due entirely to your eloquence? Ah, he’s dead now, poor fellow. Only a shadow of himself, he was when he came out. It was a terrible shock to ’um.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘’Twas indeed. He never had many brains, poor fellow, and it was an unlucky day for the family when he took it into his head to dabble in business. Where’s Miss Moor? I thought I heard you speak of a game of darts.’

‘She’s coming,’ said Cubitt.

‘And I hope you’ll all play again for I found it a great entertainment. Are you a dart player too, Mr Watchman?’

‘I try,’ said Watchman.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

‘Here is Decima,’ said Cubitt.