Death at the Bar by Ngaio Marsh Page A

anyone touch it.”
    “Quite so. Have you anything further to tell us? Anything that escaped the notice of the previous witnesses?”
    “Nothing,” said Decima.
    Her deposition was read to her, and, like Parish and Cubitt, she signed it.
    Will Pomeroy took the oath with an air of truculence and suspicion, but his statement differed in no way from the others, and he added nothing material to the evidence. Mr. Robert Legge was the next to give evidence on the immediate circumstances surrounding Watchman’s death.
    On his appearance there was a tightening of attention among the listeners. The light from a high window shone full on Legge. Cubitt looked at his white hair, the grooves and folds of his face, and the calluses on his hands. He wondered how old Legge was and why Watchman had baited him, and exactly what sort of background he had. It was impossible to place the fellow. His clothes were good; a bit antiquated as to cut perhaps, but good. He spoke like an educated man and moved like a labourer. As he faced the coroner he straightened up and held his arms at his side almost in the manner of a private soldier. His face was rather white and his fingers twitched, but he spoke with composure. He agreed that the account given by the previous witnesses was correct. The coroner clasped his hands on the table and gazed at them with an air of distaste.
    “About this n-n-n-experiment with the darts, Mr. Legge,” he said. “When was it first suggested?”
    “I believe on the night of Mr. Watchman’s arrival. I mentioned, I think, that I had done the trick and he said something to the effect that he wouldn’t care to try. I think he added that he might, after all, like to see me do it.” Legge moistened his lips. “Later on that evening, I did the trick in the public tap-room, and he said that if I beat him at Round-the-Clock he’d let me try it on him.”
    “What,” asked the coroner, drearily, “is Round-the-Clock?”
    “You play into each segment of the dart board, beginning at Number One. As soon as you miss a shot the next player has his turn. You have three darts, that is three chances to get a correct opening shot, but after that you carry on until you do miss. You have to finish with fifty.”
    “You all played this game?”
    Legge hesitated: “We were all in it except Miss Darragh. Miss Moore began. When she missed, Mr. Cubitt took the next turn; then I came.”
    “Yes?”
    “I didn’t miss.”
    “You mean you n-n-ran out in one turn?”
    “Yes.”
    “And then?”
    “Mr. Watchman said he believed he would trust me to do the hand trick.”
    “And did you do it?”
    “No. I was not anxious to do it and turned the conversation. Later, as I have said, I did it in the public room.”
    “But the following night, last Friday, you attempted it on the deceased?”
    “Yes.”
    “Will you tell us how this came about?”
    Legge clenched his fingers and stared at an enlargement of a past mayor of Illington.
    “In much the same circumstances. I mean, we were all in the private bar. Mr. Watchman proposed another game of Round-the-Clock and said definitely that, if I beat him, I should try the trick with the hand. I did win and he at once insisted on the experiment.”
    “Were you reluctant?”
    “I — No. I have done the trick at least fifty times and I have only failed once before. On that occasion no harm was done. The dart grazed the third finger, but it was really nothing. I told Mr. Watchman of this incident, but he said he’d stick to his bargain, and I consented.”
    “Go on, please, Mr. Legge.”
    “He put his hand against the dart board with the fingers spread out as I suggested. There were two segments of the board showing between the fingers in each instance.” Legge paused and then said: “So you see it’s really easier than Round-the-Clock. Twice as easy.”
    Legge stopped and the coroner waited.
    “Yes?” he said to his blotting paper.
    “I tried the darts, which were new ones, and