Death at the Bar by Ngaio Marsh Page B

then began. I put the first dart on the outside of the little finger and the next between the little and third fingers and the next between the third and middle.”
    “It was the fourth dart, then, that miscarried?”
    “Yes.”
    “How do you account for that?”
    “At first I thought he had moved his finger. I am still inclined to think so.”
    The coroner stirred uneasily.
    “Would you not be positive on this point if it was so? You must have looked fixedly at the fingers.‘’
    “At the space between,” corrected Legge.
    “I see.” Dr. Mordant looked at his notes.
    “The previous statements,” he said, “mention that you had all taken a certain amount of a vintage brandy. Exactly how much brandy, Mr. Legge, did you take?”
    “Two nips.”
    “How large a quantity? Mr. William Pomeroy states that a bottle of Courvoisier ’87 was opened at Mr, Watchman’s request, and that the contents were served out to everyone but himself, Miss Darragh, and Miss Moore. That would mean a sixth of a bottle to each of the persons who took it?”
    “Er — yes. Yes.”
    “Had you finished your brandy when you threw the dart?”
    “Yes.”
    “Had you taken anything else previously?”
    “A pint of beer,” said Legge unhappily.
    “N-n-n-yes. Thank you. Now, where did you put the darts you used for this experiment?”
    “They were new darts. Mr. Pomeroy opened the package and suggested—” Legge broke off and wetted his lips. “He suggested that I should christen the new darts,” he said.
    “Did you take them from Mr. Pomeroy?”
    “Yes. He fitted the flights while we played Round-the-Clock and then gave them to me for the experiment.”
    “No one else handled them?”
    “Mr. Will Pomeroy and Mr. Parish picked them up and looked at them.”
    “I see. Now, for the sequel, Mr. Legge.”
    But again Legge’s story followed the others. His deposition was read to him and he signed it, making rather a slow business of writing his name. The coroner called Abel Pomeroy.
     
    ii
    Abel seemed bewildered and nervous. His habitual cheerfulness had gone and he gazed at the coroner as at a recording angel of peculiar strictness. When they reached the incident of the brandy, Dr. Mordant asked Abel if he had opened the bottle. Abel said he had.
    “And you served it, Mr. Pomeroy?”
    “ ’Ess, sir.”
    “Will you tell us from where you got the glasses and how much went into each glass?”
    “ ’Ess, sir. I got glasses from cupboard under bar. They was the best glasses. Mr. Watchman said we would kill the bottle in two halves, sir. So I served half-bottle round. ’Twas about two fingers each. Us polished that off and then they played Round-the-Clock, sir, and then us polished off t’other half. ’Least, sir, I didn’t take my second tot. Tell the truth, sir, I hadn’t taken no more than a drop of my first round and that was enough for me. I’m not a great drinker,” said old Abel innocently, “and I mostly bides by beer. But I just took a drain to pleasure Mr. Watchman. I served out for the rest of the company ’cepting my Will and Miss Darragh and Miss Dessy — Miss Moore, sir. But I left fair drain in bottle.”
    “Why did you do that?”
    Abel rubbed his chin and glanced uncomfortably at the other witnesses.
    “Seemed like they’d had enough, sir.”
    “This was before the experiment with the deceased’s hand, of course,” said the ooroner to the jury. “Yes, Mr. Pomeroy? How much was in the glasses on the second round?”
    “ ’Bout a finger and half, sir, I reckon.”
    “Did you hand the drinks round yourself?”
    Abel said: “I don’t rightly remember. Wait a bit, though. I reckon Mr. Watchman handed first round to everyone.” Abel looked anxiously at Will, who nodded. “ ’Ess, sir. That’s how ’twas.”
    “You must not communicate with other persons, Mr. Pomeroy, before giving your answers,” said Dr. Mordant darkly. “And the second round?”
    “Ah. I poured it out and left