“Seb,” interrupted Cubitt quietly, “you would do better to answer these questions as they are put to you. Mr. Alleyn will meet Decima. He will find out for himself that, as far as this affair is concerned, she is a figure of no importance. You must see that he’s got to ask about these things.” He turned to Alleyn with his pleasant lop-sided grin. “I believe the word is ‘routine,’ ” said Cubitt. “You see, I know my detective fiction.”

“Routine it is,” said Alleyn. “And you’re perfectly correct. Routine is the very fibre of police investigation. Your novelist too has now passed the halcyon days when he could ignore routine. He reads books about Scotland Yard, he swots up police manuals. He knows that routine is deadly dull and hopelessly poor material for a thriller; so, like a wise potboiler, he compromises. He heads one chapter ‘Routine,’ dismisses six weeks of drudgery in as many phrases, cuts the cackle and gets to the ’osses. I wish to the Lord we could follow his lead.”

“I’ll be bound you do,” said Cubitt. “Well, if it’s any help, I didn’t notice much when Decima poured out the brandy, except that she was very quick about it. She stood with the rest of us round the settle; someone suggested brandy, she said something about his glass being empty, and went to the bar for the bottle. I got the impression that she simply slopped some brandy in the glass and brought it straight to Watchman. If I may, I should like to add that she was on the best of terms with Watchman and, as far as I know, had no occasion in the world to wish him dead.”

“Good God!” said Parish in a hurry, “of course not. Of course not.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “I see. Thank you so much. Now then: Mr. Parish, until the accident, stood by the table where Mr. Watchman had left his empty glass. I take it that Mr. Parish would have noticed, would have been bound to notice, if anyone came near enough to interfere with the glass. He tells me that the rest of the party were grouped behind Legge. Do you agree to that, Mr. Cubitt?”

“Yes. Except Will. Will was in the corner beyond the dart board. He couldn’t have got at the glass. Nobody—” Again Cubitt caught his breath.

“Yes?”

“In my opinion,” said Cubitt, “nobody touched the glass, could have touched it; either before or after Decima fetched the brandy bottle. Nobody.”

“Thank you very much,” said Alleyn. “That’s all for the moment.”

ii

“What’s the time, Fox?” asked Alleyn, looking up from his notes.

“Half-past nine, sir.”

“Has Legge come in yet?”

“Not yet, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox. He stooped slightly and closed the parlour door. Fox always closed doors like that, inspecting the handle gravely as if the turning of it were a delicate operation. He then straightened up and contemplated his superior.

“Legge,” said Fox, advancing slowly, “is only here on sufferance as you might put it. I’ve just had one in the public tap. They’re not opening the Private till tomorrow. So I had one in the Public.”

“Did you, you old devil!”

“Yes. This chap Nark’s in there and I must say he suits his name.”

“In the Australian sense? A fair nark?”

“That’s right, sir. I don’t wonder old Pomeroy hates the man. He wipes out his pint-pot with a red cotton handkerchief before they draw his beer. To be on the safe side, so he says. And talk!”

“What’s he talk about?”

“The law,” said Fox, with an air of the deepest disgust. “As soon as he knew who I was, he started on it, and a lot of very foolish remarks he made. You ought to have a chat with him, Mr. Alleyn, he’d give you the pip.”

“Thanks,” said Alleyn. “About Legge. Why’s he here on sufferance?”

Fox sat down.

“Because of old Pomeroy,” he said. “Old Pomeroy thinks Legge’s a murderer and wanted him to look for other lodgings, but young Pomeroy stuck to it and they let him stay on, and Will got his way. However, Legge’s given notice and has found rooms in Illington. He’s moving over on Monday. He seems to be very well liked among the chaps in the bar, but they’re a simple lot, taking them by and large. Young Oates the Ottercombe P.C.‘s in there. Very keen to see you.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll have to see him sooner or later. While we’re waiting for Legge, why not? Bring him in.”

Fox went out and returned in half a minute.

“P.C. Oates, sir,” said Fox.

P.C. Oates was brick-red with excitement and as stiff as a poker from a sense of discipline. He stood inside the door with his helmet under his arm and saluted.

“Good evening, Oates,” said Alleyn.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Mr. Harper tells me you were on duty the night Mr. Watchman died. Are you responsible for the chalk marks in the private tap-room?”

P.C. Oates looked apprehensive.

“Furr some of ’em, sir,” he said. “Furr the place where we found the dart, like, and the marks on the settle, like. I used the chalk off the scoring board, sir.”

“Is it your first case of this sort?”

“ ’Ess, sir.”

“You seem to have kept your head.”

Wild visions cavorted through the brain of P.C. Oates. He saw in a flash all the keen young P.C.’s of his favourite novels and each of them, with becoming modesty, pointed out a tiny detail that had escaped the notice of his superiors. To each of them did the Man from Higher Up exclaim: “By thunder, my lad, you’ve got it,” and upon each of them was rapid promotion visited, while Chief Constables, the Big Four, yes, the Man at the Top, himself, all told each other that young Oates was a man to be watched… for each of these P.C.’s was the dead spit and image of P.C. Oates himself.

“Thank you, sir,” said Oates.

“I’d like to hear about your appearance on the scene,” said Alleyn.

“In my own words, sir?”

“If you please, Oates,” said Alleyn.

Dick Oates took a deep breath, mustered his wits, and began.

“On the night of Friday, August 2nd,” he began, and paused in horror. His voice had gone into the top of his head and had turned soprano on the way. It was the voice of a squeaking stranger. He uttered a singular noise in his throat and began again.

“On the night of Friday, August 2nd, at approximately 9.16 p.m.,” said Oates, in a voice of thunder, “being on duty at the time, I was proceeding up South Ottercombe Steps with the intention of completing my beat. My attention was aroused by my hearing the sound of my own name, viz. Oates, being called repeatedly from a spot on my left, namely the front door of the Plume of Feathers, public house, Abel Pomeroy, proprietor. On proceeding to the said front door, I encountered William Pomeroy. He informed me that there had been an accident. Miss Decima Moore came into the entrance from inside the building. She said ‘There is no doubt about it, he is dead.’ I said, to the best of my knowledge and belief, ‘My Gawd, who is dead?’ Miss Moore then said ‘Watchman.’ I then proceeded into the private tap-room.”

Oates paused. Alleyn said: “Yes, Oates, that’s all right, but when I said your own words I meant your own words. This is not going to be taken down and used in evidence against you. I want to hear what sort of an impression you got of it all. You see, we have already seen your formal report in the file.”

“ ’Ess, sir,” said Oates, breathing rather hard through his nostrils.

“Very well, then. Did you get the idea that these men were tight, moderately tight, or stone-cold sober?”

“I received the impression, sir, that they had been intoxicated but were now sobered.”

“All of them?”

“Well, sir, when I left the tap at nine o’clock, sir, to proceed — to go round the beat, they was not to say drunk but bosky-eyed, like. Merry, like.”

“Including Mr. Legge?”

“By all means,” said Oates firmly. “Bob Legge, sir, was sozzled. Quiet-like, but muddled. Well, the man couldn’t find his way to his mouth with his pipe, not with any dash, as you might say.”