“What on earth’s that to say to it?” asked Cubitt.
“We’re talking about capital punishment in this country, aren’t we?” Decima asked.
Throughout the discussion, though she had launched several remarks at Watchman, she had not spoken directly to him. In each instance Watchman had answered exactly as if the conversation was between those two alone. He now cut in quickly.
“I thought so,” said Watchman. “My learned friend is a little confused.”
“I regard it,” Decima continued, always to Cubitt, “as a confession of weakness.”
“I think it’s merely barbarous and horrible,” said Parish.
“Terrible,” murmured Miss Darragh drowsily. “Barbarous indeed! If we can’t stop men from killing each other by any better means than killing in return, then they’ll persist in it till their dying day.”
Cubitt, with some difficulty, stifled a laugh.
“Quite right, Miss Darragh,” he said. “It’s a concession to the savage in all of us.”
“Nonsense,” said Watchman. “It’s an economic necessity.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Nark with the air of one clutching at a straw. “Ah, now you’re talking.”
Abel came back with a bottle in his hands.
“There you are, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s Mr. Watchman’s brand and no doubt about it. See for yourself, sir.”
Watchman looked at the bottle.
“By God, you’re right, Abel.”
“This is magnificent,” cried Parish. “Come on. We’ll open it. Have you any brandy glasses? Never mind, tumblers’ll do. It’s a bit cold, but we’ll humour it.”
Abel opened the bottle.
“This,” said Watchman, “is my affair. Shut up, Seb; I insist, Abel, you and Will must join us.”
“Well, thank you very much, sir, I’m sure,” said Abel.
“I’m afraid,” said Decima, “that I really dislike brandy. It’d be wasted on me.”
“What will you have, then?”
“I’m sorry to be so tiresome but I’d really rather not have a drink.”
“My poor girl,” said Watchman.
“Dessy’ll have a stone-ginger with me,” said Will Pomeroy suddenly.
“With me,” said Watchman. “Eight brandies, two stone-gingers, Abel, and kill the bottle.”
“Good Lord, Luke,” expostulated Cubitt, “you’ll have us rolling.”
“None for me, thank you, Mr. Watchman,” said Miss Darragh. “I’m afraid that I, too, am a Philistine.”
“You’ll have a drink, though?”
“I shall join you,” said Miss Darragh, “in the nonalcoholic spirit.”
“Seven brandies, Abel,” amended Watchman. “The first half now, and the second hereafter.”
Abel poured out the brandy. They watched him in silence.
The rain still poured down, but the thunder sounded more distantly.
Watchman took the first tot to Legge and put it on a table at his elbow.
“I hope you’ll join us, Mr. Legge,” he said.
Legge looked at the brandy and then directly at Watchman.
“It’s very kind of you,” he said. “As a matter of fact I’ve some work to do, and—”
“ ‘Let other hours be set apart for business,’ ” quoted Watchman. “To-day is our pleasure to be drunk. Do you like good brandy, Mr. Legge?”
“This,” said Legge, “is the vintage of my choice.”
He took the glass and nursed it between those callused hands.
“An exquisite bouquet,” said Mr. Legge.
“I knew you’d appreciate it.”
“Your health,” said Legge, and took a delicate sip.
The others, with the exception of Mr. Nark, murmured self-consciously and sipped. Mr. Nark raised his glass.
“Your very good health, sir. Long life and happiness,” said Mr. Nark loudly, and emptied his glass, at one gulp. He drew in his breath with a formidable whistle, his eyes started from his head and he grabbed at the air.
“You’m dashed at it too ferocious, George,” said Abel.
Mr. Nark shuddered violently and fetched his breath.
“It’s a murderous strong tipple,” he whispered. “If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Watchman, I’ll break it down inwardly with a drop of water.”
But presently Mr. Nark began to smile and then to giggle and as he giggled so did Cubitt, Parish, and Watchman. By the time the first tot of Courvoisier ’87 had been consumed there was much laughter in the private bar, and a good deal of rather loud aimless conversation. Watchman proposed that they have a Round-the-Clock competition on the dart board.
Parish reminded him of Legge’s trick with the darts.
“Come on, Luke,” cried Parish. “If you let him try it on you, damme if I won’t let him try it on me.”
Mr. Legge was understood to say he was willing.
Watchman pulled the darts out of the board.
“Come on now,” he said. “I’m equal to the lot of you. Even Mr. Legge. Round-the-Clock it is, and if he beats me this time, we’ll have the other half and he can do his circus trick with my hand. Is it a bargain, Mr. Legge?”
“If you’re not afraid,” said Legge indistinctly, “I’m not. But I’d like a new set of darts.”
“Afraid? With a brandy like this on board, I’d face the Devil himself.”
“Good old Luke,” cried Parish.
Abel fished under the shelves and brought up a small package which he clapped down on the bar counter.
“Brand new set o’ darts, my sonnies,” said Abel. “Best to be bought, and come this evening from London. I’ll fix the flights in ’em while you play Round-the-Clock with the old ’uns. Bob Legge can christen ’em with this masterpiece of an exhibition.”
He broke the string and opened the package.
“Come now, Mr. Legge,” said Watchman. “Is it a bargain?”
“Certainly,” said Legge. “A bargain it is.”
Chapter V
Failure of Mr. Legge
i
P.C. Oates had gone as far as the tunnel, had returned, and had descended the flight of stone steps that leads to the wharf from the right-hand side of the Feathers. He had walked along the passage called Fish Lane, flashing his lamp from time to time on steaming windows and doorways. Rain drummed on Oates’s mackintosh cape, on his helmet, on cobblestones, and on the sea, that only a few feet away in the darkness, lapped at the steaming waterfront. The sound of the rain was almost as loud as the sound of thunder and behind both of these was the roar of surf on Coombe Rock. A ray of lamplight from a chink in the window-blind shone obliquely on rods of rain and, by its suggestion of remote comfort, made the night more desolate.
Far above him, dim and forlorn, the post office clock told a quarter past nine.
Oates turned at the end of Fish Lane and shone his light on the second flight of Ottercombe Steps. Water was pouring down them in a series of miniature falls. He began to climb, holding tight to the handrail. If anyone could have seen abroad in the night, lonesome and dutiful, his plodding figure might have suggested a progression into the past, when the night-watchman walked through Ottercombe to call the hours to sleeping fishermen. Such a flight of fancy did not visit the thoughts of Mr. Oates. He merely told himself that he was damned if he’d go any farther, and when the red curtains of the Plume of Feathers shone through the rain, he mended his pace and made for them.
But before he had gone more than six steps he paused. Some noise that had not reached him before threaded the sound of the storm. Someone was calling out — shouting — yelling. He stopped and listened.
“O-O-Oates! Hullo! Dick! D-i-i-ick! O-O-Oates!”
“Hullo!” yelled Oates, and his voice sounded very desolate.
“Hullo! Come — back — here.”
Oates broke into a lope. The voice had come from the front of the pub. He crossed the yard, passed the side of the house and the door into the Public, and came in sight of the front door. A tall figure, shading its eyes, was silhouetted against the lighted entry. It was Will Pomeroy. Oates strode out of the night into the entry.