Free Death at the Bar by Ngaio Marsh Page A

patrons of the public taproom leaning on the bar counter and trying to see into the other room. He told stories of famous murder trials, of odd witnesses, and finally of his biggest case before he took silk. He did not give the names of the defendants, only describing them as the embezzling experts of the century. He had led for the defence of one of them and had succeeded in shifting most of the blame to the other who got, he said, a swinging big sentence. He became quite exalted over it all.
    Sebastian always said that his cousin would have made an actor. He was certainly an excellent mimic. He gave a character sketch of the judge and made a living creature of the man. He described how, after the verdict, when the defendant’s house was sold up, he had bought three dozen of brandy from the cellar.
    “Courvoisier ’87,” said Watchman. “A superb year.”
    “Me cousin Bryonie,” said Miss Darragh, looking round the corner of her settle, “had the finest cellar in County Clare, I believe. Before the disaster, of course.”
    Watchman started, and stared at Miss Darragh in confusion.
    “Dear me, Mr. Watchman,” she said composedly, “what is the matter with you? Had you forgotten I was here?”
    “I — it sounds very ungallant but I believe I had.”
    “What brandy did you say, sir?” asked Abel, and when Watchman repeated mechanically, “Courvoisier ’87,” Abel said placidly that he believed he had three bottles in his own cellar.
    “I picked ’em up when old Lawyer Payne over to Diddlestock died and was sold up,” said Abel. “Half-dozen thurr was, and squire split ’em with me. I think that’s the name. It’s twelve month or more since I looked at ’em.”
    Watchman had already taken three glasses of Treble Extra and, although sober, was willing to be less so. Parish, suddenly flamboyant, offered to bet Abel a guinea that the brandy was not Courvoisier ’87, and on Abel shaking his head, said that if it was Courvoisier ’87, damn it, they’d kill a bottle of it there and then. Abel took a candle and went off to the cellar. The three men in the public tap-room went away. Will Pomeroy left the public bar and came to the private one. He had shown little interest in Watchman’s stories. Legge had gone into the inglenook where he remained reading a book on the Red Army in Northern China. Watchman embarked on a discussion with Cubitt on the subject of capital punishment. Soon it became a general argument with Decima, Cubitt, and Parish on one side; and Watchman, dubiously supported by Mr. Nark, on the other.
    “It’s a scientific necessity,” said Mr. Nark. “The country has to be purged. Cast out your waste material is what I say, and so does Stalin.”
    “So does Hitler if it comes to that,” said Cubitt. “You’re talking of massed slaughter, aren’t you?”
    “You can slaughter in a righteous manner,” said Mr. Nark, “and you can slaughter in an unrighteous manner. It’s all a matter of evvylution. Survival of the fittest.”
    “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