He looked directly at Alleyn, and said: “But I know you!”

“Do you?” said Alleyn politely. “I don’t think—”

“I know you!” Parish repeated dramatically. “Wait a moment. By George, yes, of course. You’re the — I’ve seen your picture in a book on famous trials.” He turned to Fox with the air of a Prince Regent.

“What is his name?” demanded Parish.

“This is Mr. Alleyn, sir,” said Fox, with a trace of a grin at his superior.

“Alleyn! By God, yes, of course! Alleyn!”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, austerely, “be good enough to shut the door.” He waited until this was done and then addressed himself to the task of removing the frills from the situation.

“Mr. Parish,” Alleyn said, “we have been sent down here to make enquiries about the death of your cousin. The local superintendent has given us a very full and explicit account of the circumstances surrounding his death, but we are obliged to go over the details for ourselves.”

Parish made an expressive gesture, showing them the palms of his hands. “But of course,” he said.

“Yes. Well, we thought that before we went any further, we should ask to see you.”

“Just a moment,” interrupted Parish. “There’s one thing I must know. Mr. Alleyn, was my cousin murdered?”

Alleyn looked at his hands, which were joined together on the table. After a moment’s thought, he raised his eyes.

“It is impossible to give you a direct answer,” he said, “but as far as we have gone, we can find no signs of accident.”

“That’s terrible,” said Parish, and for the first time his voice sounded sincere.

“Of course something that will point to accident may yet come out.”

“Good God, I hope so.”

“Yes. You will understand that we want to get a very clear picture of the events leading up to the moment of the accident.”

“Have you spoken to old Pomeroy?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose he’s talked about this fellow Legge?”

Alleyn disregarded the implication and said: “About the position of everybody when Mr. Legge threw the darts. Can you remember—”

“I’ve thrashed the thing out a hundred times a day. I don’t remember, particularly clearly.”

“Well,” said Alleyn, “let’s see how we get on.”

Parish’s account followed the Pomeroys’ pretty closely, but he had obviously compared notes with all the others.

“To tell the truth,” he said, “I’d had a pint of beer and two pretty stiff brandies. I don’t say I’ve got any very clear recollection of the scene. I haven’t. It seems more like a sort of nightmare than anything else.”

“Can you remember where you stood immediately before Mr. Legge threw the darts?”

Alleyn saw the quick involuntary movement of those fine hands, and he thought there was rather too long a pause before Parish answered.

“I’m not very certain, I’m afraid.”

“Were you, for instance, near the table that stands between the dart board and the settle?”

“I may have been. I was watching Legge.”

“Try to remember. Haven’t you a clear picture of Legge as he stood there ready to throw the darts?”

Parish had a very expressive face. Alleyn read in it the reflection of a memory. He went on quickly:

“Of course you have. As you say, you were watching him. Only, in the medley of confused recollections, that picture was, for a time, lost. But, as you say, you were watching him. Did he face you?”

“He — yes.”

Alleyn slid a paper across the table.

“Here, you see, is a sketch plan of the private bar.” Parish looked at it over his shoulder. “Now, there’s the dart board, fairly close to the bar counter. Legge must have stood there. There isn’t room for more than one person to stand in the corner by the bar counter, and Will Pomeroy was there. So, to face Legge, you must have been by the table.”

“All right,” said Parish restively. “I don’t say I wasn’t, you know. I only say I’m a bit hazy.”

“Yes, of course, we understand that perfectly. But what I’m getting at is this. Did you see Legge take the darts after the trial throw?”

“Yes. My cousin pulled them out of the board and gave them to Legge. I remember that.”

“Splendid,” said Alleyn. “It’s an important point and we’re anxious to clear it up. Thank you. Now, standing like that, as we’ve agreed you were standing, you would see the whole room. Can you remember the positions of the other onlookers?”

“I remember that they were grouped behind Legge. Except Abel, who was behind the bar counter. Oh, and Will. Will was in the corner, as you’ve said. Yes.”

“So that it would have been impossible, if any of the others came to the table, for their movement to escape your notice?”

“I suppose so. Yes, of course it would. But I can’t see why it matters.”

“Don’t you remember,” said Alleyn gently, “that Mr. Watchman’s glass was on that table? The glass that was used afterwards when Miss Moore gave him the brandy?”

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. “All right. Go ahead, Seb. Sorry I cut in.”