Death at the Bar Read Online Free PDF Page B

there’s Mr. Cubitt come from his painting down by the jetty, in mortal terror, poor man, lest I plague him with me perspective.”
    “Not at all,” said Cubitt, turning rather pink.
    “I’ll leave you alone, now. I know very well I’m a trouble to you but it’s good for your character, and you may look upon me as a kind of holiday penance.”
    “You’re a painter, too, Miss Darragh?” said Watchman.
    “I’m a raw amateur, Mr. Watchman, but I’ve a kind of itch for ut. When I see a little peep I can’t rest till I’m at it with me paints. There’s Mr. Cubitt wincing as if he had a nagging tooth, when I talk of a pretty peep. You’ve a distinguished company in your house, Mr. Pomeroy,” continued Miss Darragh. “I thought I was coming to a quiet little village and what do I find but a galaxy of the talents. Mr. Parish who’s turned me heart over many a time with his acting; Mr. Cubitt, down there painting within stone’s-throw of meself; and now haven’t we the great counsel to add to your intellectual feast. I wonder now, Mr. Watchman, if you remember me poor cousin Bryonie’s case?”
    “I — Yes,” said Watchman, greatly disconcerted. “I–I defended Lord Bryonie. Yes.”
    “And didn’t he only get the mere eighteen months due entirely to your eloquence? Ah, he’s dead now, poor fellow. Only a shadow of himself, he was, when he came out. It was a terrible shock to um.”
    “Undoubtedly.”
    “ ’Twas indeed. He never had any brains, poor fellow, and it was an unlucky day for the family when he took it into his head to dabble in business. Where’s Miss Moore? I thought I heard you speak of a game of darts.”
    “She’s coming,” said Cubitt.
    “And I hope you’ll all play again for I found it a great entertainment. Are you a dart player, too, Mr. Watchman?”
    “I try,” said Watchman.
    Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
    “Here is Decima,” said Cubitt.
     
    iv
    A tall young woman came into the room and stood, very much at her ease, screwing her eyes up a little in the glare of the lights.
    “I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” said Decima Moore. “Good evening, everyone.”
    They all greeted her. There was a second’s pause and then Watchman moved into the centre of the room.
    “Good evening,” said Watchman.
    She faced him and met his gaze.
    “So you have arrived,” she said. “Good evening.”
    She touched his outstretched hand, walked over to the bar, and settled herself on one of the tall stools. She wore a fisherman’s jersey and dark blue slacks. Her hair was cut like a poet’s of the romantic period and was moulded in short locks about her head and face. She was good-looking with a classic regularity of beauty that was given an individual quirk by the blackness of her brows and the singular intensity of her eyes. She moved with the kind of grace that only just escapes angularity. She was twenty-four years of age.
    If an observant stranger had been at the Feathers that evening he might have noticed that on Decima’s entrance the demeanour of most of the men changed.
    For Decima owned the quality which Hollywood had loudly defined for the world. She owned a measure of attraction over which she herself had little governance. Though she must have been aware of this she seemed unaware; and neither in her manner nor in her speech did she appear to exercise conscious charm. Yet from the moment of her entrance the men, when they spoke to each other, looked at her, and in each of them was the disturbance of Decima’s attraction reflected. Watchman’s eyes brightened, he became more alert, and he spoke a little louder. Parish expanded as if in a spotlight and he exuded gallantry. Cubitt’s air of vague amiability contracted to a sharp awareness. Abel Pomeroy beamed upon Decima. Will, still flushed from his passage with Watchman, turned a deeper red. He answered her greeting awkwardly and was very much the solemn and self-conscious rustic.
    Decima took a