‘At the moment, sir,’ said Alleyn, ‘I have no view of my own.’

‘Run him in on the minor charge,’ added Colonel Brammington, raising his voice to a penetrating shout as he disappeared into the street, ‘and the major charge will follow as the night the day.’

A door slammed and in a moment the violence of his engines was reawakened.

‘Well now,’ said Alleyn. ‘I wonder.’

CHAPTER 9
Alleyn at the Feathers

The sun had nearly set when Alleyn and Fox drove down Ottercombe Road towards the tunnel. As the car mounted a last rise they could see Coombe Head, a quarter of a mile away across open hills. So clear was the evening that they caught a glint of gold where the surf broke into jets of foam against the sunny rocks. Alleyn slowed down and they saw the road sign at the tunnel entrance.

‘Ottercombe. Dangerous corner. Change down.’

‘So I should think,’ muttered Alleyn, as the sheer drop appeared on the far side. He negotiated the corner and there, at the bottom of the steep descent, was the Plume of Feathers and Ottercombe.

‘By George,’ said Alleyn, ‘I don’t wonder Cubitt comes here to paint. It’s really charming, Fox, isn’t it? A concentric design with the pub as its axis. And there, I fancy, is our friend Pomeroy.’

‘On the lookout, seemingly,’ said Fox.

‘Yes. Look at the colour of the sea, you old devil. Smell that jetty-tar-and-iodine smell, blast your eyes. Fox, murder or no murder, I’m glad we came.’

‘As long as you’re pleased, sir,’ said Fox, dryly.

‘Don’t snub my ecstasies, Br’er Fox. Good evening, Mr Pomeroy.’

Abel hurried forward and opened the door.

‘Good evening, Mr Alleyn, sir. We’m glad to see you. Welcome to the Feathers, sir.’

He used the same gestures, almost the same words as those with which he had greeted Watchman fourteen days ago. And Alleyn, if he had realized it, answered as Watchman had answered.

‘We’re glad to get here,’ he said.

‘Will!’ shouted old Abel. ‘Will!’

And Will, tall, fox-coloured, his eyes screwed up in the sunlight, came out and opened the back of the car. He was followed by a man whom Alleyn recognized instantly. He was nearly as striking off the stage as on it. The walk was unmistakable; the left shoulder raised very slightly, the long graceful stride, imitated, with more ardour than discretion, by half the young actors in London.

The newcomer glanced at Alleyn and Fox and walked past the car.

‘Another marvellous evening, Mr Pomeroy,’ he said airily.

‘So ‘tis, then, Mr Parish,’ said Abel.

Alleyn and Fox followed Will Pomeroy into the Feathers. Abel brought up the rear.

‘Show the rooms, sonny. There are the gentlemen we’re expecting. They’re from London. From Scotland Yard,’ said Abel.

Will Pomeroy gave them a startled glance.