Who Pays the Piper?

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Are you the girl?”

  The smile vanished. Cathy’s head lifted.

  “I am one of Mr. Dale’s secretaries. I will find out if he is in.”

  But before she could rise from her chair the woman said,

  “What are you taking offence about? If you’re the girl, you can say so, can’t you? And if you’re not, well, I suppose you can give a civil answer to a civil question.”

  “I think you had better put your questions to Mr. Dale,” said Cathy. She crossed the room and rang the bell.

  She was watched as she went and came again. There was a frown for her return.

  “What’s that picture over there above the chimney-piece?”

  Cathy looked round, because although she knew it so well, she could always look at it again with a secret pleasure and emotion. The picture hung upon the jutting chimney-breast. It had hung there for as long as Cathy could remember. Two young girls in white dresses looked out from it at the room—at the unknown. One of them was dark and pale, with her hair in a mist about her face. The other was fair and golden, with deep dreaming eyes. Both had beauty. She said,

  “It is Lazlo’s portrait of my mother and her twin sister.”

  “Not much alike for twins.”

  “No—they were not at all alike.”

  “The dark one’s your mother, I suppose. You don’t favour her much.” She gave a short laugh.

  Cathy blushed and was glad to see the door open. The butler came in. She said with relief,

  “Oh, Raby, is Mr. Dale in the house, do you know? “This lady——She turned to the woman. “What name shall he say?”

  A card was produced, rather to Cathy’s surprise. She would not have expected that such a gipsy-looking woman would have a card, but if she had one, it would be like this, very large and square, with a wild flourish of ornamental lettering. She glanced at the name as she handed it to Raby—Miss Cora de Lisle. And under that in pencil, Theatre Royal, Ledlington.

  Before Raby had crossed to the door Miss de Lisle was back at the portrait.

  “If that’s your mother, why has Lucas got the picture?”

  “It’s valuable,” said Cathy simply. “Mr. Dale bought all the pictures with the house.”

  “He can buy anything he’s got a fancy for these days, or he thinks he can,” said Cora de Lisle. “What about the other girl—the fair one?”

  “She died a long time ago—in the war.”

  “Married?”

  “Oh, yes. Her husband was killed.”

  “Any family?”

  Cathy felt that she ought to be able to stop this inquisition. The woman gave her a helpless feeling. She said,

  “My cousin Susan Lenox is her daughter.”

  And then she wished she hadn’t answered. The haggard, sallow face waked up suddenly. It had a moment of fierce beauty as Cora de Lisle repeated the name Cathy had just spoken.

  “Susan Lenox—that’s the girl—that’s the one I’ve been hearing about! What’s she like?”

  Cathy hoped earnestly that Raby would not be long. There was no harm in Miss de Lisle’s questions, she supposed, but they made her feel dreadfully nervous. She said in a stumbling voice,

  “Oh, Susan is fair.”

  “Like that girl in the picture?” Cora de Lisle laughed angrily. “Lucas would fancy that all right! And he’d fancy having her picture stuck up there where he could look at it. Come on—give us an answer, can’t you! Is that what she’s like?”

  Cathy said “Yes” in a small, displeased voice. She felt offended, but too nervous and inadequate to check the woman’s impertinence. Susan would have been able to do it—Susan——

  Cora de Lisle said harshly, “If Lucas wants anything he gets it. If he wants that girl he’ll get her, and she’ll be as sorry for it as I was.”

  Cathy plucked up a little trembling courage.

  “Please——”

  “Well?”

  “You mustn’t say things like that.”

  “And who’s going to stop me? I’ve got the free use of my tongue, and I’ll say what I like with it to Lucas, and to you, and to Miss Susan Lenox!” She repeated the name with a sort of mocking music. “Miss Susan Lenox—and as pretty as a picture. He likes them pretty. I wasn’t so bad myself. And now it’s Miss Susan Lenox!” She laughed derisively. “I wonder how she’ll like my cast-off shoes. I wouldn’t fancy another woman’s leavings myself.”

  Cathy was as white as a sheet. She thought Miss de Lisle had been drinking though it was so early in the day. She had always been terrified of anyone who drank. She got up and did her best to be brave.

  “Please stop talking about Susan. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s not true. She is engaged to someone else.”

  Cora de Lisle stared at her.

  “Oh lord—so was I!” she said. “What difference does that make?”

  “I don’t know who you are,” said Cathy, “but—oh, please go away!”

  “I was Mrs. Lucas Dale for five years—and damned miserable ones too,” said Cora de Lisle.

  Cathy said, “Oh!”

  And then she heard the sound she had been waiting for, the door opening and Raby coming in. He came right up to them and said in a low, respectful voice.

  “Mr. Dale has gone out in the Daimler. He left word that he would not be back till late.”

  CHAPTER VII

  Susan woke in the night and heard a cry. It must have been the cry that waked her, and just for a moment her heart beat strongly. Then she knew what it was—Cathy calling out in her sleep as she had often done in their nursery days when anything had happened to disturb or frighten her. She jumped out of bed, caught up her dressing-gown without stopping to put it on, and ran barefoot into Cathy’s room.

  There were just the three bedrooms in the Little House, and because they had no maid they could have one each. When Bill stayed he got the drawing-room sofa, and said it spoilt him for his hard London bed. Cathy’s room looked to the garden. The window stood wide to a cloudy sky and a soft, damp air.

  Susan shut the door behind her and felt her way to the bed. She had reached the foot, when she heard a smothered sob. She was on her knees in a moment, holding Cathy close and speaking her name.

  “Cathy—what is it? Are you ill?”

  The little figure trembled. A shaky voice said, “Oh, Susan!” and was choked by another sob.

  “My lamb, what is it? Tell Susan——”

  “It—it—was a dream—a horrible dream——”

  Susan had both arms round her, rocking her like a baby.

  “Silly little thing! A dream isn’t anything to be frightened about. It’s gone. You’ve waked up, and I’m here. Everything’s all right. Would you like the light?”

  “Not with you——” There was a long quivering breath. “Lovely to wake up. But oh, I wish I didn’t dream.”

  “You haven’t done it for a long time, have you? And it’s not true—it’s never true, darling.”

  “It’s just as bad while it lasts,” said Cathy. She sat up and clutched at Susan. “It was a most horrid dream about being in a cage. I was locked in, and I couldn’t get out, and they came and pointed at me through the bars. It was just as bad as if it was true, because as long as you don’t wake up it is true in the dream.”

  She shook so much that the whole bed shook too.

  Susan said “Nonsense!” in a brisk voice. She leaned sideways, found a box of matches, and lit the candle. It showed Cathy very much as the nursery candlelight had showed her when she was eight years old and afraid of the dark, like a little white ghost with her hair damp on her forehead and her hands clenched together under her chin.

  “There—that’s better,” said Susan. “You don’t wake right up in the dark. Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

  “No—don’t go——” There was another of those long breaths. “I’ll be all right again soon, but—stay a little. I don’t want it to come back.”

  Susan said, “It won�
�t.”

  She put on her blue dressing-gown and came and sat on the bed, her hair loose on her neck and golden in the candlelight. She had been lying on her side before she woke, and that cheek was warmly flushed. Her eyes were very kind, and soft with sleep. Cathy looked at her and said,

  “I don’t want you to be cold. It’s going away. Stay just a little.”

  “I’m not cold,” said Susan.

  “It’s really going. I think that woman frightened me. She wasn’t like anyone I’ve ever talked to before. There was something fierce about her. I expect that’s what made me have that dream.”

  Susan said, “Silly little thing——” in a warm, sleepy voice. The candlelight flickered in her eyes, the flame had a halo round it. She blinked, and heard Cathy say as if from a long way off,

  “Did you know he was married, Susan?”

  It was like cold water in her face. The drowsy feeling left her. She said,

  “Oh, yes—he told me. But they are divorced.”

  Cathy said, “Oh!” The frightened feeling touched her again. She said in a whisper,

  “When did he tell you that?”

  “Day before yesterday, when I came up about the lily pond.”

  “Why did he tell you?” said Cathy, still in that whisper.

  There was no sleep in Susan now. She said in a clear, reserved voice,

  “I suppose he wanted me to know.”

  “She wrote to him,” said Cathy. “She said so. She wrote and said she was coming. He must have had the letter that morning before he asked you to come up and talk about the pool. If he told you then——Susan, why did he tell you then? I don’t like it—it frightens me.”

  It didn’t frighten Susan, it displeased her. She said,

  “It doesn’t matter, Cathy. If he knew she was coming he might have thought he would rather tell us himself that he had been married.”

  “He didn’t tell us, he told you. Why did he do that?”

  Susan made no answer.

  All at once Cathy leaned forward and caught her wrist.

  “He’s in love with you—that’s why he told you. It frightens me.”

  “I think you’re being silly,” said Susan. Her voice changed suddenly. “Cathy! You mustn’t say things like that!”

  “It’s true.”

  Susan stood up.

  “That’s all the more reason for not talking about it,” she said.

  CHAPTER VIII

  That was Friday night, the night between Friday and the Saturday morning which Susan was never to forget—a soft, cloudy night, with Cathy’s dream of being in a cage set in it like a frightening picture.

  The morning came up in a mist. Cathy came down to breakfast rather paler than usual and with dark smudges under her eyes, but she said no more about her dream or about being frightened, and went off up to King’s Bourne at her usual time.

  Susan took up Mrs. O’Hara’s tray, washed up the breakfast things, made her own bed and Cathy’s, and ran down to the gate to meet the postman. He was a very nice old man called Jeremiah Hill, and he was almost as pleased as Susan when he could bring out her letter with a flourish and say, “Morning, Miss Susan—here ’tis.”

  There was a letter this morning, but not a fat one. She took it into the kitchen and read it with sparkling eyes. There was the loveliest colour in her cheeks. There wasn’t much in the letter, but there was enough good news for twenty letters. And it was short, because Bill had had only five minutes to catch the post.

  “Garnish has just rung up, and I’m to come and see him in his London office first thing on Monday morning. He said he’d made up his mind to let me have a go at it. Said he thought a man did his best work when he’d got his way to make, and was bound to go all out if he wants to get anywhere at all. Said that’s how it had been with him, and he expected it to be that way with me. Oh, Susan——”

  She had got as far as that, when the telephone bell rang. The fixture was in the dining-room. She had only to push the communicating door and she could lift the receiver without really leaving the kitchen at all, which was very convenient, because you can’t always take your eye off the stove. Just now there was nothing to watch. She picked up the receiver, put it to her ear, and heard Lucas Dale say,

  “Susan, is that you?” His voice hurried on the words.

  She said, “Yes—what is it?”

  “Something’s happened. Can you come up here at once?”

  “What is it? Cathy——”

  “She’s not well. Will you come?”

  “What is it? Please tell me, Mr. Dale.”

  “She is—upset. I can’t tell you on the telephone. Will you come at once?”

  She said “Yes”, and hung up the receiver. She felt cold and sick. Cathy.… No, it was stupid to feel like this. Cathy had had a bad night. Perhaps she had turned faint. Men always got frightened. It was nothing.

  She ran upstairs and told Mrs. O’Hara that she was going out. The breakfast tray was done with, and she took it away. After which she had to fetch a book from the drawing-room—“and oh dear, my knitting!”—before she could snatch down an old tweed coat and make her way up the hill.

  As she came up on to the terrace outside the house she saw Lucas Dale at the glass door which led to the study. He had it in his hand, half open, and beckoned her in. She thought she had mastered her foolish fears, but the urgency with which he beckoned her and the sight of his grave, dark face set them all free again.

  He brought her in and shut the door. There was a big leather-covered chair on either side of the hearth. In the farther one Cathy crouched, her face hidden in her hands. Her body had a stiff and twisted look. She did not move or turn when Susan said her name and came to her.

  Susan’s arms were round her.

  “Cathy—what is it?” she said, as she had said it in the night. “What is it, darling—what is the matter?”

  She felt Cathy stiffen.

  Lucas Dale spoke.

  “Something very unpleasant has happened, Susan. Perhaps I had better tell you about it.”

  She looked round, startled. He was over by the writing-table, looking down at it, moving some papers, not looking at her. That frightened her too. She got up and went over to him.

  “What has happened, Mr. Dale?”

  He did look at her then.

  “I hate telling you, but there’s no way out of it—you’ve got to know. It’s those pearls, the ones I had out to show you all on Wednesday. You remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cathy fetched them, and Cathy put them away again. I went to look at them last night, and some of them are missing.”

  The change from what she had been afraid of was so sudden, so direct, that it left her mind empty. She stared at Lucas Dale and said,

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to, Susan, but there’s no other way. I haven’t done anything about sending for the police—I wanted to see you first. I’m afraid it’s a perfectly clear case. Unfortunately there was a lot of talk about how seldom I looked at the pearls. And that’s true. I hadn’t had them out for six months before last Wednesday, and I mightn’t have had them out for six months again, only last night I had a fancy to look at them because—because—oh, well, I’m a fool, Susan—I was thinking about you, and I got out the pearls because I wanted to make a picture to myself of what they’d look like on your neck. Then when I came to take them out I saw at once that some of the loose ones were gone. Do you remember, Mrs. Hammond asked me to count them? She was joking, but I did count them—I always do. And they were all right when Cathy took them away. You remember she had my keys. I never dreamed of not trusting her as if she had been myself, but—there are twenty of the loose pearls missing, and twenty-five very well matched ones which I got last year in case I wanted to have the big necklace lengthened. They were very good pearls, just loosely strung, and the ends knotted to keep them safe.”

  Whilst he talked, understanding came to Susan,
and a blinding anger. Everything in her flamed. She said,

  “Stop! How dare you say a thing like that about Cathy!”

  He looked at her, and looked away.

  “Do you think I want to say it?”

  “Mr. Dale, you can’t mean that you think Cathy took your pearls—Cathy!”

  “What can I think? The pearls were all there on Wednesday evening—I can swear to that. Everyone in the room heard Mrs. Hammond tell me to count them. No one touched them after that except Cathy. She put them away and brought me back my keys. When I got them out last night there were forty-five pearls missing.”

  Susan turned. Cathy had lifted her head. Her face was white and wet, her eyes wide with fright. Susan said,

  “Cathy—you hear what he says. What did you do when you put the tray away? Try and think.”

  Cathy opened her lips to speak. She had to try twice before any sound came. She said at last,

  “I put—it away——”

  “Think, Cathy—think! Did you put it down anywhere, or go out of the room? Did you put the keys down?”

  Cathy shook her head. Words came a little more easily.

  “No—I put it away.”

  “At once?”

  “Yes.”

  Susan turned to Dale. He said,

  “She didn’t give me back the keys till everyone had gone. There was time enough and to spare.”

  There was a gasp from Cathy. Her face went back into her hands again. Lucas Dale said,

  “There it is.”

  “What are you going to do?” said Susan in an icy voice.

  She saw him frown.

  “I’ve been thinking it out since last night. If she took those pearls—and I can’t see how anyone else can have taken them—well, they won’t have gone very far. She hasn’t been out of the place since Wednesday, and she wouldn’t risk posting them in the village—if she did, they’ll be easily traced. But this afternoon she was going into Ledlington by the two o’clock bus—she might have reckoned on getting them away then. Now look here, Cathy, I’ve got a name for being a hard man, but I don’t want to be hard on you. I don’t know what you wanted money for, but I’d have given you anything in reason if you’d come and asked me to help you. You took my pearls instead. Well, I want them back. Make a clean breast of it and give them up, and I won’t prosecute.”