Death at the Bar by Ngaio Marsh

gave his evidence in a low voice but it carried to the end of the building, and when he faltered at the description of Watchman’s death, at least two of the elderly ladies in the public seats were moved to tears. Parish wore a grey suit, a soft white shirt and a black tie. He looked amazingly handsome, and on his arrival had been photographed several times.
    Cubitt was called next and confirmed Parish’s evidence.
    Then Miss Darragh appeared. The other witnesses exuded discomfort and formality but Miss Darragh was completely at her ease. She took the oath with an air of intelligent interest. The coroner asked her if she had remembered anything that she hadn’t mentioned in her first statement, or if there was any point that had been missed by the previous witness.
    “There is not,” said Miss Darragh. “I told the doctor, Dr. Shaw ’twas all I had seen; and when the policeman, Constable Oates ’twas, came up on the morning after the accident, I told ’um all I knew all over again. If I may be allowed to say so, it is my opinion that the small wound Mr. Watchman had from the dart had nothing whatever to do with his death.”
    “What makes you think that, Miss Darragh?” asked the coroner with an air of allowing Miss Darragh a certain amount of latitude.
    “Wasn’t it a small paltry prick from a brand-new dart that couldn’t hurt a child. As Mr. Parish said at the time, he was but frightened at the sight of his own blood. That was my own impression. ’Twas later that he became so ill.”
    “When did you notice the change in his condition?”
    “Later.”
    “Was it after he had taken the brandy?”
    “It was. Then, or about then, or after.”
    “He took the brandy after Mr. Pomeroy put iodine on his finger?”
    “He did.”
    “You agree for the rest with the previous statement?”
    “I do.”
    “Thank you, Miss Darragh.”
    Decima Moore came next. Decima looked badly shaken but she gave her evidence very clearly and firmly. The coroner stopped her when she came to the incident of the brandy. He had a curious trick of prefacing many of his questions with a slight moan, rather in the manner of a stage parson.
    “N-n-n you say, Miss Moore, that the deceased swallowed some of the brandy.”
    “Yes,” said Decima.
    “N-n-now you are positive on that point?”
    “Yes.”
    “Yes. Thank you. What happened to the glass?”
    “He knocked it out of my hand on to the floor.”
    “Did you get the impression that he did this deliberately?”
    “No. It seemed to be involuntary.”
    “And was the glass broken?”
    “Yes.” Decima paused. “At least—”
    “N-n-n-yes?”
    “It was broken, but I don’t remember whether that happened when it fell, or afterwards when the light went out. Everybody seemed to be treading on broken glass after the lights went out.”
    The coroner consulted his notes.
    “And for the rest, Miss Moore, do you agree with the account given by Mr. Parish, Mr. Cubitt and Miss Darragh?”
    “Yes.”
    “In every particular?”
    Decima was now very white indeed. She said: “Everything they said is quite true, but there is one thing they didn’t notice.”
    The coroner sighed.
    “What is that, Miss Moore?” he asked.
    “It was after I gave him the brandy. He gasped and I thought he spoke. I thought he said one word.”
    “What was it?”
    “ ‘Poisoned,’ ” said Decima.
    A sort of rustling in the room seemed to turn the word into an echo.
    The coroner added to his notes.
    “You are sure of this?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Yes. And then?”
    “He clenched his teeth very hard. I don’t think he spoke again.”
    “Are you positive that it was Mr. Watchman’s own glass that you gave him?”
    “Yes. He put it on the table when he went to the dart board. It was the only glass there. I poured a little into it from the bottle. The bottle was on the bar.”
    “Had anyone but Mr. Watchman touched the glass before you gave him the brandy?”
    Decima said: “I didn’t notice