Who Pays the Piper?

by Patricia Wentworth

  Her hands clenched upon one another, straining.

  “Bill—don’t!”

  He leaned forward and put his hand down hard over hers.

  “I’ve got to. Look here, my dear, we’ve got to talk this out and know where we are, and we’ve got this chance to do it—we may not get another. That’s why I brought you here. I picked a place where we shan’t be interrupted. We don’t want Cathy, or Aunt Milly, or the police, or Mrs. Mickleham getting themselves mixed up with this conversation—it’s between you and me. And the thing we start off with is this—are you quite sure in your own mind that I didn’t shoot Dale?”

  Their looks shocked together and held. A heavenly certainty sank deep into Susan’s mind. She said,

  “Quite sure.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s all right then, because I didn’t. But if you’d had any sort of doubt about it, everything was going to be a lot harder for both of us. The next thing is this—how much can you stand? Because it’s going to be fairly tough.”

  Susan said, “I don’t know—I don’t think I can stand much more.”

  She felt the hard strength of the hand that was over hers.

  “You’ve got to. Do you hear? You’ve got to! Cathy’s a crumpler, but you’re not. If she’d stood up to Dale and told him to go to blazes, we shouldn’t be in this mess. That’s what crumpling does. It doesn’t let you out, and it lets everyone else in. Now are you going to crumple?”

  The colour ran up into her cheeks like two bright burning flames. She shook her head.

  “You’re not that sort. Now, my girl, we’re up against it. It’ll be all right in the end, but before we get there you’re going to want every bit of toughness you can get together, because, short of finding the fellow who did shoot Dale, they’re bound to arrest me. They may just keep me on a string till the inquest—and I suppose that’ll be Thursday or Friday—but that’s the most we can expect. There isn’t any jury in the world that wouldn’t bring in a verdict against me, with the motive they’ll think I had and Mrs. Mickleham’s evidence to ram it home. You see, it’s exactly the sort of thing a jury understands—motive—threat—opportunity. He took my girl. I said I’d kill him. And I did. It’s as easy as pie, and they’ll simply eat it.”

  The little bright flames flickered away. They left the fine skin colourless. The dark blue eyes were steady.

  “If you look at it, it won’t frighten you so much. You’ve got to look at it, because as far as I can see it’s bound to happen. When you’ve got used to the idea it won’t frighten you. You see, I didn’t do it, and someone else did. All we want is time to find out who that someone was, and there’ll be plenty of time. Do you see?”

  Susan said “Yes” with a break in her voice. She pulled her hands away and sat back. “Bill, it’s crazy—you couldn’t have done it. You had only just time to reach the study. How could anyone believe he would have let you rush right in and get his revolver and then turn round and let you shoot him from behind? It’s nonsense. There simply wasn’t time before I heard the shot.”

  His mouth twisted.

  “My poor child, do you suppose they’re going to believe you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He said, “Wake up, Susan! If no one except you and me heard that shot, the bottom drops right out of all that about there not being time. If no one heard it except us, we could fix the time to suit ourselves, couldn’t we? And he wasn’t found until a quarter to seven. That’s what we’re up against.”

  A shiver ran lightly over her. She said very quietly,

  “I see.”

  Her voice stopped as if she could not keep that quiet tone. When she went on again it was dry and strained.

  “Someone else must have heard it.”

  “If they did they’re not telling. Besides, who was there to hear it? It’s too far for the village, and no one in the house seems to have heard anything, from what I gather.” He gave a sudden short laugh. “I expect it would surprise old Lamb if he knew what a lot the village knows. Isn’t it tomorrow you have Mrs. Green? You’ll get it all from her.”

  “I wish there was anything to get,” said Susan.

  He came nearer and slipped an arm round her, pulling her up against his shoulder.

  “There may be. It’s too soon to tell. Do you know—” his voice had a tinge of astonishment—“do you know, it hadn’t happened this time yesterday. It seems incredible, but this time twenty-four hours ago I’d just got your letter and was pinching Ted’s car.”

  “Won’t he want it?”

  “If he does he’ll just have to. As a matter of fact he only uses it at week-ends, and——” He stopped abruptly. A horrid picture of prison walls was black in front of him. The inquest would be before the week-end. Ted Walters would get his car back in plenty of time.

  CHAPTER XXV

  About the middle of that Tuesday afternoon Inspector Lamb walked down through the garden and round to the front door of the Little House, where he first rang the bell and about a minute later rapped sharply with the heavy, old-fashioned knocker. When the sound had died away he heard a light, hesitating footstep and the door was opened. A young girl stood there looking up at him in a shy, questioning manner. She was very light and small—rather a plain little thing in a brown jumper and skirt, and hair that put him in mind of brown thistledown. She was paler than he liked to see any young thing, and she had dark saucers under her eyes which had no business to be there. He asked for Miss Susan Lenox, and she said, “Oh, she’s out,” which was no news at all to Inspector Lamb. He smiled benevolently and inquired if he was speaking to Miss O’Hara, because if so, “I would be very glad if I might have a few words with you. I dare say you can guess who I am—Detective Inspector Lamb.”

  “I’ve been ill——” said Cathy in a faint, doubtful voice.

  He nodded.

  “I know that. I won’t bother you more than I can help.”

  “Susan is out, and my mother is resting. We could come into the drawing-room——”

  Her eyes searched his face and found something kindly and dependable there. She led the way into the crowded room, installed him in a big arm-chair on one side of the fire, and sat looking very small and frail on the edge of another chair on the opposite side of the hearth.

  “It’s all so dreadful, isn’t it?” she said, and it came to him with a shock of surprise that of all the people he had interviewed in connection with the death of Lucas Dale she was the least nervous. In point of fact she was not nervous at all. She was looking at him, and speaking to him with quite visible relief.

  He gave that nod of his again.

  “Yes, it’s dreadful—bad enough anyhow, but worse until it’s cleared up. When a thing like this happens the people who haven’t had a hand in it have got to get together and help to clear it up. It’s everybody’s duty to do that. You won’t be frightened or upset if I ask you some questions?”

  Cathy shook her head.

  “Oh, no—you’re very kind.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Well, I don’t want to make you ill again. First of all I want to ask you about a visitor you had up at King’s Bourne on Thursday morning. A woman came and wanted to see Mr. Dale, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes—Miss de Lisle. She frightened me.”

  “Now why did she do that?”

  Cathy gave him her shy little smile.

  “I expect because I’m stupid. I am stupid about people, you know.”

  “Well, I suppose there was something that frightened you. Suppose you tell me what it was.”

  He saw her shrink.

  “I thought—perhaps—she had been drinking——”

  “Anything else?”

  “She was odd and—and rough. She asked questions about Susan, and—and she seemed angry with Mr. Dale. She was leaning in through the window, and I didn’t like that very much.”

  He beamed encouragingly.

  “You’re doing fine. Now do you think
you could tell me the whole thing just as it happened from start to finish—what she looked like—what she said?”

  A little colour came into Cathy’s face. She said, “I’ll try,” and gave him a meticulously accurate account of all that had passed on the Thursday morning which seemed so much more than five days ago. When she had finished he asked her if she remembered how Miss de Lisle was dressed.

  “Oh, yes, of course I do. I was sorry for her because she looked so shabby. She had on an old black coat with some fur, and a scarlet and orange handkerchief up at her neck, and a black hat with a scarlet feather.”

  “And you are sure she said she had been Mr. Dale’s wife?”

  “Oh, yes. And she was. He told Susan about her.”

  “I see. Well now, Miss O’Hara, I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you what happened on Saturday. That was when you were taken ill, wasn’t it?”

  She met his eyes with a confiding, troubled look.

  “Yes—it was dreadful.”

  “Well, you mustn’t let it make you ill again, because it’s all over. You have been Mr. Dale’s secretary for about four months, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he like to work for?”

  Cathy’s eyes filled with tears.

  “He was very kind—until—until Saturday——”

  “And what happened then?”

  Cathy rubbed her hand across her eyes like a child.

  “He thought I’d done something dreadful. I hadn’t really.”

  “What did he think you’d done?”

  “Taken some of his pearls——” The words hardly reached him.

  He made a clicking sound with his tongue.

  “That was bad.”

  Two little tears ran down her cheeks. She nodded miserably.

  “He sent for Susan and made her look in my bag, and the pearls were there.”

  He clicked again.

  “That was very bad. How did they get there?”

  Cathy caught her breath.

  “Is it very wicked to think that perhaps he put them there?”

  Inspector Lamb said, “I don’t know about wicked. Is that what you think?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Lamb grunted.

  “What happened after that?”

  “I fainted. After a bit they were talking. I could hear them, but I couldn’t move. It was dreadful. He said if Susan didn’t promise to marry him he would ring up the police and say I had stolen the pearls. I fainted again.”

  Lamb gave her a long considering look.

  “Where were you yesterday evening between five and seven, Miss O’Hara?”

  She answered him at once.

  “I was in bed. I’ve only just got up. I was ill.”

  “Which way does your bedroom window look—back or front?”

  She said, “Back.”

  “And your mother’s window?”

  “Her room is over the drawing-room. It looks out both ways.”

  “You and she were alone in the house?”

  “Yes—if Susan and Bill were out.”

  “You know Mr. Dale was shot. Do you know if your mother heard anything?”

  “I’m sure she didn’t. She would have said.”

  “She was in her bedroom between five and seven?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s an invalid, you know. She has to rest a great deal. Her window would be shut. I’m sure she didn’t hear anything, but I can ask her.”

  Lamb said, “Presently. What about you? If your window looks towards King’s Bourne, you might have heard the shot. Did you?”

  She said, “I don’t know——” Her voice was puzzled and distressed.

  “How do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I heard—a shot. I don’t know—if it was that shot——”

  Lamb spoke quickly.

  “What time was it?”

  “I don’t know. I was asleep—and I woke up. There was a shot. It was very faint. I don’t know what time it was—it was quite dark.”

  “Did you hear anyone else moving in the house? Your cousin? Mr. Carrick? Mrs. Mickleham—she was in the house round about half past six—did you hear her come or go? That would help to fix the time.”

  “I didn’t hear anyone,” said Cathy. “I went to sleep again.”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Mrs. O’Hara did not come down until Inspector Lamb had gone back up the garden to King’s Bourne. When she had settled herself cosily on the sofa with a Shetland shawl about her shoulders and her own especial rug to cover her feet, she showed quite an interest in his visit. It appeared that she had seen him go.

  “And of course, Cathy darling, you ought to have let me know he was here, because I would have made the effort and come down.”

  Cathy was on her knees attending to the fire. She put a small piece of coal where it would encourage the somewhat weakly flame and said without turning round,

  “How did you know it was the Inspector, Mummy?”

  “Darling, you’ve just told me.”

  “But the way you said it—it sounded as if you knew who it was when you saw him out of the window.”

  “And so I did. There is something about a policeman’s back—I think I should know one anywhere, even in quite plain clothes. And, as I said, darling, I would have made the effort and come down, because I don’t think you’re really up to these official interviews—and I do hope he didn’t upset you in any way.”

  Cathy put on another piece of coal, balancing it carefully and sitting back on her heels to observe the effect.

  “He was rather a pet, Mummy. I’m so glad it was him and not the young one.”

  “Abbott,” said Mrs. O’Hara—“that’s the name. Mrs. Green has been telling me about him—she ran in before lunch. She says he is a perfect gentleman and Lily admires him very much. She’d just been up to see Lily. And do you know, darling, I can’t help wondering whether he is the son of Francis Abbott who used to be one of my dancing partners the year I came out, because Lily Green told her mother his name was Frank——”

  “Mummy, there must be thousands of Abbotts.”

  Mrs. O’Hara shook her head.

  “Oh, no, darling, not as many as that—and I just wondered—that’s all. Of course, before the war a policeman wouldn’t have been the son of anyone you danced with, but nowadays people do these things, so there’s really nothing at all impossible about it. And I should have thought you would rather have talked to someone like that——”

  “Well, I wouldn’t. He’s got eyes like bits of ice, and the sort of pale manner that makes you feel pale too.”

  Mrs. O’Hara produced her knitting from the bag which housed it and began to knit in a fitful manner.

  “Of course, darling, I can’t really see why the Inspector should have wanted to see you at all. If you were ill in bed, how could you possibly know anything about poor Mr. Dale’s suicide?”

  Cathy got up from her knees and turned round, dusting her hands.

  “Mummy, I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Wish I wouldn’t what, darling?” Mrs. O’Hara’s tone was an absent one. She counted under her breath. “Three, four, five, six—knit one, slip one—knit two together—oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve got this wrong——”

  “Mummy!”

  “What is it, darling?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t go on saying he committed suicide, because he didn’t, and you’ll really only make people talk. It’s quite bad enough without making it any worse.”

  Mrs. O’Hara looked a mild reproach.

  “Cathy—darling—I don’t think you ought to say a thing like that! I should have thought anyone could see how much better it was for it to be suicide. But we won’t argue about it. You know, Dr. Carrick always used to say it was no good arguing with me—I remember being quite flattered by the way he said it. ‘It’s no good arguing with you’, he said, and he had quite a twinkle in his eye—‘no good at all, for I have to keep my feet on the ground, and y
ou’re off on a pair of wings somewhere up in Cloud-cuckoo land’. Such a charming expression, I thought, but then he was such a very charming man—darling, I think I’ve dropped a stitch—if you would just pick it up for me——”

  Cathy retrieved the stitch in silence. As she handed the knitting back she directed a soft imploring look at her mother. Mrs. O’Hara patted her hand.

  “Darling little Cathy,” she said—“I’m glad the Inspector was nice to you. And now we won’t talk about it any more, shall we?”

  Cathy ran out of the room. Her eyes were full of tears, and she was afraid that if they once began to fall, she would not be able to stop them, and she was afraid of what she might say. Her heart was full to bursting with love, and fear, and anxiety. As she went through the hall, the knocker beat a little fierce rat-tat. She peeped through one of the long glass slits that looked into the porch, saw Lydia Hammond standing there tapping an impatient foot, and let her in.

  When the door was shut Lydia took hold of her.

  “Cathy—you poor little thing! You know I’ve been in town for the week-end with the Walters. I stayed an extra day—only just got back for lunch. My dear, what’s been happening—and where’s Susan?”

  “She’s out with Bill.” The tears had begun to run down Cathy’s face.

  Lydia marched her into the dining-room.

  “First I’ll tell you what I’ve heard, and then you can tell me how much of it’s lies. Look here, Cathy, I give you fair warning, if you faint I shall pinch you. I’ve got to know what’s happened. Here, sit down. Now I’ll begin. I hadn’t heard a word till I got home for lunch—I never read in a train. Well—then there were the parents, too shocked, too restrained—a most painful tragedy, and the less said about it the better. Maddening. Of course I got the real dope from old Lizzie. She’s got six cousins and a sister-in-law in the village, so she could tell me what they are saying there. But, Cathy, it can’t be true. Do you know, they’re saying that Susan had thrown Bill over for Lucas Dale, and that Bill shot him with his own revolver. I told Lizzie it was wicked nonsense, but when I was coming along I met Mrs. Mickleham, and she burst into tears right in the middle of the road and said she felt like a murderess because she heard Bill say he was going to kill Lucas Dale and her husband made her go and tell the police.”