Death at the Bar by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online

they’ll accept and, if possible, remember. You’ve got to look prosperous in this game, and you’ve got to entertain. My agent’s fees are hellish. My clubs cost the earth. And like a blasted fool I backed a show that flopped for thousands last May.”
    “What did you do that for?”
    “The management are friends of mine. It looked all right.”
    “You give money away, Seb, don’t you? I mean literally. To out-of-luck actors? Old-timers and so on?”
    “I may. Always think ‘There but for the grace of God…!’ It’s such a damn chancy business.”
    “Yes. No more chancy than painting, my lad.”
    “You don’t have to show so well if you’re an artist. People expect you to live in a peculiar way.”
    Cubitt looked at him, but said nothing.
    Parish went on defensively: “I’m sorry, but you know what I mean. People expect painters to be Bohemians and all that.”
    “There was a time,” said Cubitt, “when actors were content to be ‘Bohemians,’ whatever that may mean. I never know. As far as I am concerned, it means going without things you want.”
    “But your pictures sell.”
    “On an average I sell six pictures a year. Their prices range from twenty pounds to two hundred. It usually works out at about four hundred. You earn that in as many weeks, don’t you?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Oh, I’m not grumbling. I’ve got a bit of my own and I could make more, I daresay, if I took pupils or had a shot at commercial art. I’ve suited myself and it’s worked out well enough until—”
    “Until what?” asked Parish.
    “Nothing. Let’s get on with the work, shall we? The light’s no good after about eleven.”
    Parish walked back to the rock, and took up his pose. The light wind whipped his black hair away from his forehead. He raised his chin and stared out over the sea. He assumed an expression of brooding dominance.
    “That right?” he asked.
    “Pretty well. You only want a pair of tarnished epaulettes and we could call it ‘Elba.’ ”
    “I’ve always thought I’d like to play Napoleon.”
    “A fat lot you know about Napoleon.”
    Parish grinned tranquilly.
    “Anyway,” he said, “I’d read him up a bit if I had to. As a matter of fact, Luke looks rather like him.”
    “The shoulders should come round,” said Cubitt. “That’s more like it. Yes, Luke is rather the type.”
    He painted for a minute or two in silence and then Parish suddenly laughed.
    “What’s up?” asked Cubitt.
    “Here comes your girl.”
    “What the devil do you mean?” demanded Cubitt angrily and looked over his shoulder. “Oh — I see.”
    “Violet,” said Parish. “Who did you think it was?”
    “I thought you’d gone dotty. Damn the woman!”
    “Will
she
paint me, too?”
    “Not if I know it.”
    “Unkind to your little Violet?” asked Parish.
    “Don’t call her that.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, damn it, she’s not very young and she’s— well, she may be a pest but she’s by way of being a lady.”
    “Snob!”
    “Don’t be so dense, Seb. Can’t you see — oh Lord, she’s got all her gear. She
is
going to paint. Well, I’ve just about done for to-day.”
    “She’s waving.”
    Cubitt looked across the headland to where Miss Darragh, a droll figure against the sky, fluttered a large handkerchief.
    “She’s put her stuff down,” said Parish. “She’s going to sketch. What is there to paint over there?”
    “A peep,” said Cubitt. “Now, hold hard and don’t talk. There’s a shadow under the lower lip—”
    He worked with concentration for five minutes and then put down his palette.
    “That’ll do for to-day. We’ll pack up.”
    But when he’d hitched his pack on his shoulders and stared out to sea for some seconds, he said suddenly —
    “All the same, Seb, I wish you hadn’t told me.”
     
    ii
    It was understood among the three friends that each should go his own way during the weeks they spent at Ottercombe. Watchman had played with the notion of going