Who Pays the Piper?

by Patricia Wentworth

  “You did very wrong, Mrs. O’Hara.”

  “Oh, no—I don’t think so. It would have been most unpleasant for two young girls to be brought into a murder case. I thought it would be much better for everybody if it was suicide, and I think so still.”

  The Inspector’s colour deepened alarmingly. Frank Abbott bent his head.

  “Suicide? Madam, how could it be suicide—with the revolver on the table and completely out of his reach?”

  An expression of surprise flitted across Mrs. O’Hara’s face.

  “Do you know, I never thought about that,” she said. “What a pity! Because I could so easily have put it on the floor beside him, or even in his hand.”

  Lamb’s very neck became suffused. He opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. The inadequacy of words held him dumb. He heard Mrs. O’Hara say with a sigh, “So I came away,” and at this he roused himself.

  “You went out through the glass door?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Did you shut it behind you?”

  “I don’t think I did—oh, no, I left it open.”

  “And how did you return to the Little House?”

  “I ran along the terrace and down the steps at the other end.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I thought I heard someone coming.”

  Bill Carrick said in a puzzled voice, “Would that be me? I don’t quite see——”

  “Not you,” said Frank Abbott, looking up. “You must have crossed the terrace while Mrs. O’Hara was behind the curtain or returning to the shelter of the curtain, because the glass door wasn’t open then. By the time you got to the side window and looked in Mrs. O’Hara had opened the door and was out on the terrace. What she heard must have been Miss Lenox crossing the terrace below her. She went the other way and missed her, and you came along from the window and found the glass door open. It all fits in.” He looked at his Inspector and got a frown, because, whether it fitted or not, it wasn’t his place to say so.

  Lamb rose to his feet clothed with authority.

  “The question now is,” he said—“where is Mr. Phipson?”

  It was as he spoke that a most curious sound of bumping and scuffling made itself heard. The door was bounced open, banging back against the wall and thence rebounding, and Mr. Montague Phipson shot into the room propelled by the toe of Vincent Bell’s right boot. The square American pattern lent itself admirably to this display of force. Mr. Phipson, clawing at the air, fetched up against the Inspector’s massive form. He clawed and clutched at the Inspector. Vincent Bell’s voice followed him.

  “The little skunk’s been trying to blackmail me, Captain. I’m giving him in charge.”

  Mr. Phipson straightened himself. He stood back a pace, recovered his dangling glasses, and opened his mouth to speak.

  But the Inspector spoke first. His hand fell upon a shrinking shoulder. His voice came loud upon shrinking ears.

  “Montague Phipson, I arrest you for the murder of Lucas Dale, and I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

  CHAPTER XLIII

  Two days later, in the middle of the afternoon, Frank Abbott walked up to the front door of the Little House and knocked upon it. He looked like any young man who has come to pay a social call. There was nothing about the set of his coat to suggest that it harboured notebook and fountain pen. His well cut shoes shone with polish. His hair was a reminder of the fact that his nickname of Fug had been gained by what his schoolfellows considered an excessive devotion to hair oil.

  Cathy opened to him and showed him a pale, scared face which brightened a little when he said, “Please don’t look like that—I’ve really only come to say goodbye.”

  Reassuring, but really quite unnecessary. A funny little spark of pride flicked up in Cathy’s mind. Policemen didn’t come and say good-bye. The inquest on Lucas Dale had been yesterday. The inquest on Cora de Lisle was to have been at two o’clock this afternoon in Ledlington, which meant that the London police had no more to do with King’s Bourne and its affairs, and that Mr. Abbott could very well have caught an afternoon train and gone back to town.

  She took him into the drawing-room, where Mrs. O’Hara appeared delighted to see him. Instead of being on the sofa she was sitting up in an arm-chair with her knitting in a billow of pale pink wool upon her knees. Susan and Bill Carrick were not there. Frank Abbott’s light eyes went round the room, found it empty of all he had hoped for, and came back to Mrs. O’Hara’s welcoming smile.

  “Mr. Abbott—how nice of you! Draw up that chair and sit down.… And now you can tell us what happened at the inquest. I can’t help feeling interested, you know, though I would not have gone to it for the world, and nor would Susan or Cathy. I know people do all sorts of extraordinary things nowadays, but an inquest always seems to me to be most unsuitable for a woman. Of course we were obliged to go to the one on Mr. Dale because of having to give evidence—and I’m sure Dr. Matthews made it as easy for all of us as he possibly could—the Coroner, you know—such a very old friend, and his brother my own doctor, always so kind. He succeeded Dr. Carrick in the practice—Bill’s father—but of course we knew him long before that, because their great-uncle, old Sir Henry Matthews at Bransley Park, used to have them to stay in the holidays, and very nice well-behaved boys they were. Only there was no money, and the Park had to be sold.…” Mrs. O’Hara flowed on.

  Frank Abbott said yes, he thought the Coroner had been very kind to her, and didn’t say that she might thank her stars she wasn’t in serious trouble for withholding important evidence.

  Cathy, standing by the fire, wanting him to go, struck in.

  “What happened in Ledlington? That’s what you came to tell us, isn’t it?”

  Frank Abbott half turned, let his cool glance slide over her in the way she so much disliked, and said,

  “It didn’t take long. They brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Phipson.”

  Cathy shuddered.

  “Did he—do it?”

  “Oh, yes—there wasn’t any doubt about that after Mrs. O’Hara had told her story. He must have come to the far door in the study whilst the Inspector was reading Lily Green’s statement over to her before getting her to sign it. When he heard that she had actually seen Cora de Lisle by the open window just after the shot was fired he must have realized his danger. She might have seen him.”

  “Lily saw Miss de Lisle run past the window coming from the terrace after the shot,” said Cathy. “Do you think she did see him?”

  “I don’t know. I think it happened this way. Dale had given her a fifty-pound note, but he had three others in his note-case, and she had probably seen them. Then she had a drink at the Magpie, and thought what a fool she’d been to let him down so light, and I think she went back to see what more she could get. We shall never know exactly what happened. She probably saw Phipson talking to Dale—she’d never have passed that open window without looking in. She may have seen the murder, rushed on towards the terrace, and then turned back in a panic because she heard Carrick coming up the garden. But I think it’s much more likely that she heard the shot as she was coming round to the glass door, and that she then ran back along the way that she had come. She may have looked in at the window as she passed and seen what Carrick saw a moment later—Dale’s hand and arm stretched out along the floor from behind the writing-table. When I went to see her I was sure she knew that Dale was dead.”

  “How clever of you!” said Mrs. O’Hara. “You must really have a very interesting life. Please do go on. It is all most interesting, though of course very shocking too. I am really most disappointed in Mr. Phipson. Such a polite little man, though I must say he always did remind me of a ferret—and you can’t trust them, can you? I was once quite badly bitten by a jill ferret belonging to William Cole’s father. But pray do go on.”

  “Well, I can only tell you what I think. I think Phipson realized the danger he was in
from Cora de Lisle and went off to silence her. Robert kept his motor-bicycle and a helmet and goggles in a shed in the yard. Phipson had only to slip on a Burberry and his best friend wouldn’t know him. Now I can stop thinking and give you facts. He rode Robert’s bicycle into Ledlington, hit Miss de Lisle over the head with the poker, and rode back. We’ve got an errand-boy who saw him turn out of Gladstone Villas. He noticed the number of the bike—boys do, you know. But what puts it fair and square on Phipson is just the lucky chance that Cora de Lisle had spilt the dregs of a bottle of brandy on the floor of her room. She was packing—running away, I expect—and the whole place was littered. Well, one of the things on the floor was a fag-end of lipstick, and the man who killed her had trodden it into the puddle of brandy. Most of it went into the carpet, but there was enough on his shoe to give us a cast-iron case.”

  Cathy said “Oh!” and shuddered again. Mrs. O’Hara sighed.

  “It only shows how careful you have to be—I mean if you are committing a crime—and of course none of us would. It does show, doesn’t it, that even with the greatest care it can never really be safe. I expect Mr. Phipson thought he had been much too clever to be found out, but being a criminal can never really be safe, and it must be a continual strain upon the nerves. And now perhaps we had better talk about something else. Cathy darling, you look very pale—she is sensitive, Mr. Abbott. And there was something I really did want to ask you. The moment I heard your name I wondered whether you could be related to an old friend of mine, Francis Abbott. We used to dance together in 1914, just before the war. He was reading law, but of course he joined up, and he was killed in 1915. Tall, fair, and very good-looking, but you remind me of him——”

  Bill Carrick, opening the door in time to overhear this compliment, surprised an unmistakable gleam of humour in Frank Abbott’s light blue eyes. He supplied a nod and a grin himself. Abbott said,

  “I had an Uncle Francis who was killed in the war, but I’m afraid I don’t remember him.”

  “So nice, and so very good-looking,” murmured Mrs. O’Hara—“but there is quite a likeness.” She turned to Bill. “Where is Susan, dear boy?”

  Bill made a face.

  “Entangled with Mrs. Mickleham. I fled.”

  After a little talk Frank Abbott made his farewells. Cathy’s cold hand just touched him and withdrew, Mrs. O’Hara smiled graciously, and Bill shook him warmly by the hand. The door closed upon him.

  He stood at the gate and looked up and down the village street. Away to the right Mr. Cox the butcher stood on his doorstep, a stout figure in a blue apron, conversing with Mrs. Green. Away to the left young Mrs. Gill was wheeling her twins down the hill in a double pram. If he had been a native of Netherbourne he would have known at a glance that she had been up at High Farm visiting her aunt Mrs. Paige, and that it was a hundred to nothing she had half a dozen new-laid eggs and a pot of honey tucked away under the pram cover. Over the way from behind a neat curtain of spotted muslin old Mrs. Bogg was watching him, as she watched everyone who came and went along the street. It was twelve years since she had set foot to the ground, and fifteen since she had been downstairs, but she knew everything that went on. She could have told Detective Sergeant Frank Abbott that Miss Susan and the Vicar’s wife had turned in at that very gate a matter of seven minutes ago—and Mrs. Mickleham beginning to cry right out in front where everyone could see her, and wouldn’t go into the house not for nothing Miss Susan could do, so they went round into the garden, and unless they’d gone up to King’s Bourne they’d be there yet. But since Frank Abbott did not even know of Mrs. Bogg’s existence he had to do without the information. She thought him a well-looking young man for a detective, and quite the gentleman. She went on watching him, and all at once she saw him turn about and go up round the house the way Miss Susan and Mrs. Mickleham had gone.

  It was the sound of a rending sniff that made Frank Abbott turn his back on the street and go round into the garden. He met Mrs. Mickleham hurrying like a hen, with her nose very red and her long neck poking. She sniffed again as she passed him, and dabbed at her face with a wet crumpled ball of a handkerchief. Frank went on round the corner, and came upon Susan disappearing into the scullery. She came face to face with him as she turned to shut the door.

  “Oh—Mr. Abbott—what is it?”

  He said with a trace of bitterness in his voice, “I’m not always on duty, Miss Lenox,” and saw her change colour.

  “I’m so sorry——”

  “You won’t be when you hear that I came to say good-bye.”

  She seemed a little taken aback. He thought, “She didn’t expect that. Why should she? None of them expected it. I don’t really know them—I’m just pushing in.”

  She said gravely, “That was very nice of you. Won’t you come in?”

  But in the kitchen he stopped. It was, after all, the most suitable place for her to entertain a policeman. He said,

  “I’ve been in already—I’ve said good-bye to the others. I just wanted to see you.”

  Susan looked at him. The strained patience had gone from her eyes. The deep blue was serene again, but he saw a faint distress just touch the surface. That was all he could ever hope for—just to touch the surface of her thought. The deeps were not for him. And then, before she could say anything, he was talking as if they were intimates.

  “It’s going to be all right now—for you and Carrick. You’ll be getting married.”

  She said, “Yes.”

  “You’ll be happy——”

  “Yes.” Just the one word, gravely and sweetly.

  “King’s Bourne will be yours now. Shall you live there?”

  “Oh, no—I’m not taking it.”

  “But it’s yours—Dale left you everything.”

  She shook her head.

  “We couldn’t take it. Bill would hate it, and so should I.”

  He looked at her with a curious feeling of pride. If you put someone on a pedestal, you want to see her stay there. He said, out of his thought of a moment ago,

  “I’m pushing in—asking things I’ve no business to ask——”

  “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Because I’m a policeman and it’s my job to push into people’s private affairs.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Abbott.” She paused and added gently, “You have been kind. You didn’t really think that Bill had shot Mr. Dale, did you?”

  “No—I didn’t.”

  “I could feel you not thinking it—and it was such a help. I could feel you being friendly. I’ve wanted to thank you.”

  He was silent.

  She said, “We are going to have a little flat until we can build. Not London—somewhere outside. It will be very small, but we want to see our friends. Will you come?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  Susan put out her hand. She smiled. The distress was gone. Bill’s job—the little flat—friends coming and going—blue skies and happy times——

  “I’ll send you the address,” she said.

  Frank Abbott took the hand, held it for a moment, and then, most astonishingly, bent his head and kissed it. He stood up, not flushed but pale, and went without a word.

  Susan was still looking at her hand when Bill came in.

  “I couldn’t think where you’d got to.”

  “Nor could I,” said Susan.

  “That fellow Abbott was here—came to say goodbye. Nice chap. I’ve an idea he stood up for us to old Lamb. Pity you missed him.”

  “I didn’t,” said Susan. She could feel the kiss on her hand.

  “Oh, then he told you all about the inquest.”

  “He never mentioned it, darling.”

  Bill stared.

  “Then what did you talk about?”

  There was the faintest spark in the dark blue eyes.

  “He asked me a lot of questions.”

  “Oh, he did? What sort of questions?”

  “About when we were going to be married, and whe
ther I was happy now—he seemed to want me to be happy—and whether I was going to take King’s Bourne and the money——”

  “He had a nerve!”

  She shook her head.

  “It wasn’t like that. He wanted us to be happy, and he’d have hated us to take the money. He’s coming to see us when we get our flat.”

  “Oh, he is, is he?” Bill put his arms round her. “Woman—have you been flirting with this young man?”

  The spark became slightly more pronounced.

  “Darling, I don’t!”

  “You do something,” said Bill gloomily. “Whatever it is, it does them in.”

  “I don’t mean to. And, Bill, he’s nice. He’ll be friends—he really will.”

  “We’ve got to get married first. How soon will you marry me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. Next week—Wednesday or Thursday. It depends how long it takes to get a licence. We’ll go up to town first thing on Monday morning and find out.”

  Susan looked away.

  “Bill, it’s too soon——”

  “Do you want to stay on here—to have everyone talking to you and about you, and wanting to know about King’s Bourne and that damned money of Dale’s—and old Mother Mickleham going on like a sick hen every time she meets you, and saying the Vicar thought it was her duty to try and get me hanged? I tell you I won’t have it! The sooner you’re gone, the sooner they’ll stop talking.” He dropped his head upon her shoulder. His voice came to her muffled and broken. “Don’t you want to marry me? Susan!”

  All the pain came back like a sudden breaking wave. They remembered how nearly, how very nearly, it had drowned them. They held each other desperately and hard. Susan felt the tears run hot and blinding. She said,

  “Yes—yes—let’s go away. Oh, Bill! Let’s get married and go right away and never come back!”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Ernest Lamb Mysteries

  I

  In October 1940 two interviews took place, one in Berlin and one in London. As a result, some lives were risked and some were lost. Inconsiderable against the mass wastage of war, but of interest to the persons concerned. There were also large issues.