Death at the Bar by Ngaio Marsh Page A

court, this furze-bush our witness-box; and we will do in action as we will do it before the judge.”
    “A vile paraphrase. And if we are to talk of midsummer-night’s dreams, Decima—”
    “We certainly won’t do that,” she said, turning very pink. “Pray continue your cross-examination, Mr. Watchman.”
    “Thank you, my lord. First question: is this body— society, club, movement or whatever it is — an incorporated company?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means among other things, that the books would have to be audited by a chartered accountant.”
    “Good Heavens, no. It’s simply grown up, largely owing to the efforts of Will Pomeroy and myself.”
    “So I supposed. You’ve a list of subscribing members?”
    “Three hundred and forty-five,” said Decima proudly.
    “And the subscription?”
    “Ten bob. Are you thinking of joining us?”
    “Who collects the ten bobs?”
    “The Treasurer.”
    “And Secretary…Mr. Legge?”
    “Yes. What are you driving at? What were you at, last night, baiting Bob Legge?”
    “Wait a moment. Do any other sums of money pass through his hands?”
    “I don’t see why I should tell you these things,” said Decima.
    “There’s no reason, but you have my assurance that I mean well.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “And you may be sure I shall regard this conversation as strictly confidential.”
    “All right,” she said uneasily. “We’ve raised sums for different objects. We want to start a Left Book Club in Illington and there are one or two funds: Spanish, Czech, and Austrian refugees, and the fighting fund, and so on.”
    “Yes. At the rate of how much a year? Three hundred, for instance?”
    “About that. Quite that I should think. We’ve some very generous supporters.”
    “Now look here, Decima. Did you inquire very carefully into this man Legge’s credentials?”
    “I — no. I mean, he’s perfectly sound. He’s secretary for several other things: some philatelic society and a correspondence course, and he’s agent for one or two things.”
    “He’s been there ten months, hasn’t he?”
    “Yes. He’s not strong; touch of T.B., I think, and some trouble with his ears. His doctor told him to come down here. He’s been very generous and subscribed to the movement himself.”
    “May I give you a word of advice? Have your books audited.”
    “Do you know Bob Legge? You can’t make veiled accusations—”
    “I have made no accusations.”
    “You’ve suggested that—”
    “That you should be businesslike,” said Watchman. “That’s all.”
    “Do you know this man? You must tell me.”
    There was a very long silence and then Watchman said:
    “I’ve never known anybody of that name.”
    “Then I don’t understand,” said Decima.
    “Let us say I’ve taken an unreasonable dislike to him.”
    “I’ve already come to that conclusion. It was obvious last night.”
    “Well, think it over.” He looked fixedly at her and then said suddenly: “Why won’t you marry Will Pomeroy?”
    Decima turned white and said: “That, at least, is entirely my own business.”
    “Will you meet me here to-night?”
    “No.”
    “Do I no longer attract you, Decima?”
    “I’m afraid you don’t.”
    “Little liar, aren’t you?”
    “The impertinent lady-killer stuff,” said Decima, “doesn’t wear very well. It has a way of looking merely cheap.”
    “You can’t insult me,” said Watchman. “Tell me this. Am I your only experiment?”
    “I don’t want to start any discussion of this sort. The thing’s at an end. It’s been dead a year.”
    “No. Not on my part. It could be revived, and very pleasantly. Why are you angry? Because I didn’t write?”
    “Good Lord, no!” ejaculated Decima.
    “Then why—?”
    He laid his hand over hers. As if unaware of his touch, her fingers plucked the blades of grass beneath them.
    “Meet me here to-night,” he repeated.
    “I’m meeting Will to-night at the