‘Not yet, Mr Alleyn,’ said Fox. He stooped slightly and closed the parlour door. Fox always closed doors like that, inspecting the handle gravely as if the turning of it was a delicate operation. He then straightened up and contemplated his superior.

‘Legge,’ said Fox, advancing slowly, ‘is only here on sufferance as you might put it. I’ve just had one in the public tap. They’re not opening the Private till tomorrow. So I had one in the Public.’

‘Did you, you old devil!’

‘Yes. This chap Nark’s in there and I must say he suits his name.’

‘In the Australian sense? A fair nark?’

‘That’s right, sir. I don’t wonder old Pomeroy hates the man. He wipes out his pint-pot with a red cotton handkerchief before they draw his beer. To be on the safe side, so he says. And talk!’

‘What’s he talk about?’

‘The law,’ said Fox with an air of the deepest disgust. ‘As soon as he knew who I was he started on it, and a lot of very foolish remarks he made. You ought to have a chat with him, Mr Alleyn, he’d give you the pip.’

‘Thanks,’ said Alleyn. ‘About Legge. Why’s he here on sufferance?’

Fox sat down.

‘Because of old Pomeroy,’ he said. ‘Old Pomeroy thinks Legge’s a murderer and wanted him to look for other lodgings, but young Pomeroy stuck to it and they let him stay on, and got his way. However, Legge’s given notice and has found rooms in Illington. He’s moving over on Monday. He seems to be very well liked among the chaps in the bar, but they’re a simple lot, taking them by and large. Young Oates, the Ottercombe PC’s in there. Very keen to see you.’

‘Oh! Well, I’ll have to see him sooner or later. While we’re waiting for Legge, why not? Bring him in.’

Fox went out and returned in half a minute.

‘PC Oates, sir,’ said Fox.

PC Oates was brick-red with excitement and as stiff as a poker from a sense of discipline. He stood inside the door with his helmet under his arm and saluted.

‘Good evening, Oates,’ said Alleyn.

‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Mr Harper tells me you were on duty the night Mr Watchman died. Are you responsible for the chalk marks in the private taproom?’

PC Oates looked apprehensive.

‘Furr some of ‘em, sir,’ he said. ‘Furr the place where we found the dart, like, and the marks on the settle, like. I used the chalk off the scoring-board, sir.’

‘Is it your first case of this sort?’

‘‘Ess, sir.’

‘You seem to have kept your head.’