Who Pays the Piper?: An Ernest Lamb Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  The tears stung in Susan’s eyes.

  “Oh, Mr. Dale, don’t!”

  “Because of Bill Carrick?”

  “You know we’re going to be married—you’ve always known.”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know it now. You’re going to marry me.”

  Susan flamed with anger.

  “How dare you say a thing like that to me? I’m engaged to Bill, and I’m going to marry him—sooner than you think perhaps.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It might mean next week.”

  Anger had ripped up her discretion. She wanted only to convince him and to convince herself. Because she was frightened—she was frightened. There was nothing to be frightened about. There were gardeners within call. What could he do? She couldn’t guess. He was smiling. His smile frightened her. He said easily,

  “Look here, Susan—have you ever thought what you are doing to Bill Carrick? If you were fond of him you wouldn’t want to do it. He may be as clever as paint and as good at his job as you think he is, but how is a young fellow going to get on if he’s got a wife tied round his neck just when he wants all his thoughts and energies for his work? It’s a hard scramble getting up the ladder, and the married men don’t make it. They’re carrying two, and the last little bit of push that means success peters out over trying to make both ends meet round the family bills.”

  Susan said, “Stop!” Her eyes were wide and frightened. This wasn’t Lucas Dale’s voice. It was a voice that talked with her when she was tired, when she was discouraged, when she couldn’t sleep.

  He said, “It’s true.”

  Susan tried for words. She couldn’t get the right ones. She tried again.

  “People have to make up their own minds about that sort of thing. No one else can say.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Lucas Dale. “And you’re putting it kindly. You might have told me to mind my own business, and if you had, I should have told you that it was my business because I love you, and because I know what I’m talking about. You see, when I was Carrick’s age I did just that very thing—I fell in love and I married with nothing in the cupboard and my way to make. That’s why I could say what I did just now—I’ve been there. It was just plain hell. You don’t know what it does to a man, trying to be in two places at once, live two lives, work double tides, never get anywhere, and come home at night to a girl who hasn’t known what to do with herself all day. There wasn’t much left of our fine romance after six months. We had to count every penny. Sometimes there weren’t any pennies to count. She was very pretty, and she’d been used to more money than I could give her—she was on the stage. We’d been married just a year when she walked out on me.”

  “Is she dead?” said Susan. Her soft heart was touched. She was sorry for him.

  He gave a short laugh.

  “No, she’s not dead. You know the first thing I did when I struck a bit of luck? I got my divorce, and I was every bit as glad to get it as I had been to get the licence to marry her. That makes you stop and think a bit, doesn’t it? She’d been bad luck to me all right, and when I got rid of her I got rid of my bad luck too. That’s when I went out to my first job in the States, and from then on everything went right. I couldn’t put a foot wrong if I tried. Well, I didn’t mean to go into all that. I only wanted to show you that I knew what I was talking about. And if you marry me, I’d know how to make you a good husband. I’d make you happy, Susan.”

  She looked at him without anger and shook her head. There was pity in her eyes, and something that wasn’t quite a smile.

  “You don’t think so now,” said Lucas Dale. “But I’ll make you happy, and I’ll make you love me.” His voice was suddenly rough with feeling.

  “I can’t listen,” said Susan. “Please, Mr. Dale—”

  He stood out of her way.

  “That’s all,” he said.

  Chapter Five

  Coming up the garden, Susan met Montague Phipson. He had an inky forefinger, and his usually sleek fair hair was slightly ruffled. His pince-nez dangled by the cord, and without it his pale blue eyes had a vague, short-sighted look. He was hurrying, but when he saw Susan he stopped.

  “Oh, Miss Lenox, have you seen Mr. Dale anywhere?”

  “He is in the rose garden—I’ve just left him there.”

  He looked worried.

  “Then perhaps I—or is he just coming, do you think?”

  Susan hoped not.

  She said, “I’m late—I must fly,” and hurried on. She was angry, resentful, and frightened, but in some odd way Dale had touched her. There had been tears in her eyes. She wanted to get away, to be alone, to think about Gilbert Garnish and fees—lots and lots of comfortable fat fees for Bill, so that they could have their house and make the two ends of their income not only meet but overlap. It was an insult for this other man to call her his wife. What was it Miranda said to Ferdinand in The Tempest? “I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I’ll die your maid.” She was Bill’s wife and she would marry him. There wasn’t anyone else—there would never be anyone else.

  Half way across the terrace she came face to face with a spruce little man she had never seen before. He had rather upstanding black hair and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. His eyes snapped brightly here, there and everywhere. He reminded her of a squirrel looking for nuts. He took off his hat and addressed her politely.

  “Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Dale?” Voice and accent were American.

  To her annoyance Susan’s colour rose. It was the flush of anger, but he wasn’t to know that. He thought she was a mighty pretty girl, and he thought Dale was in luck.

  “Oh, no—I’m Miss Lenox. If you are looking for Mr. Dale you will find him in the rose garden just down there.”

  She pointed, but he stood there and showed a disposition to talk.

  “I’m a very old friend of Mr. Dale’s. And will he be pleased to see me!”

  Judging this to be a rhetorical question, Susan made no attempt to answer it. The little man threw back his head and laughed.

  “And that depends on how much store Mr. Dale sets by his old friends, doesn’t it? That was what you were going to say if I’d given you time. Did you ever hear him speak of Capper G. Bell? That’s my father. Or Vincent C. Bell? That’s me—and very pleased to meet you, Miss Lenox.”

  “Thank you,” said Susan. “I have only known Mr. Dale a very short time. If you go down that path at the end of the terrace you will find him.”

  She got away this time with a slight inclination of the head and the faintest of smiles. The audience was closed. Vincent Bell considered that he had been given the air. He felt a trifle aggrieved. He was anxious to see Lucas Dale, but business which had kept for a couple of years would have kept for another ten minutes or so. He had an eye for a pretty girl. He looked after her with some regret before taking the path to the rose garden.

  He encountered Mr. Montague Phipson coming back.

  “Oh, Mr. Bell, I’m sorry you didn’t wait in the drawing-room. Mr. Dale is just coming in.”

  Vincent Bell appeared to be amused.

  “He’s coming in, and I’m going out. What happens next? I’d say we’d meet—wouldn’t you? We’re very old friends, your Mr. Dale and me, and if you’ve been with him long you’ll know just how much ice that cuts.”

  He laughed and went on down the path, leaving Mr. Phipson rather at a loss. Perhaps he ought to have stopped him. Perhaps Mr. Dale would be angry. It was at all times most necessary to know just what would or would not anger Mr. Dale. There seemed to be no rule about it, but just now, when he had announced the arrival of an old friend, there had certainly been no enthusiasm—rather, a certain tension.

  Mr. Phipson didn’t really know what to do. Lucas Dale had said quickly, “Where is he—in the drawing-room? All right, keep him there. I’m coming.” And he had had no chance of keeping him there, because Mr. Bell had already followed him. It was
quite on the cards that Mr. Dale would be furious. It was equally on the cards that he would be indifferent or amused. It was very worrying indeed not to know where you were. It might be as well to find out.

  Mr. Phipson turned and went back along the path towards the rose garden, but before coming to it he struck across the grass and, arriving at the outer side of the fine yew hedge which kept the wind from the roses, proceeded to skirt it, head a little on one side and ears cocked, rather after the manner of the nervous terrier who smells a rat but is almost certain to turn tail and bolt if the rat comes out of his hole.

  He had not gone more than a dozen yards, when Lucas Dale’s voice made him start. It was raised above its normal tone, and there was no doubt that it was raised in anger.

  “And what do you think you’ll get by coming over here and pitching that sort of tale? You’ve come to the wrong shop, and the sooner you make up your mind to that the better! Not a penny—not a cent—not the smell of half a dime! Do you get that? You’d better!”

  Mr. Phipson found himself very much interested. The hedge made a perfect screen, but it afforded no obstacle to sound. He could hear every word. He heard Vincent Bell laugh, and he heard him say in a tone of what he supposed to be mock admiration,

  “If that isn’t interesting!”

  “I hope it interests you,” said Lucas Dale.

  “Very much—very much indeed. I like to see a man change his mind and change his tune, and I’m looking forward to seeing you change yours.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Will you bet on it? I shouldn’t if I were you, Dale, because you’d lose. You see, I’ve got you in a cinch. And how? You can’t go into court, and I can.” He laughed with apparent enjoyment. “Why, I’d be tickled to death! Too bad, isn’t it? But that’s the way I’m playing. Very nice place you’ve got here too. It would be a pity to have anything happen so that you’d have to move on—wouldn’t it? You think it over, and when you’ve made up your mind you’ll play my way you can let me know.”

  There was a pause. Then Mr. Phipson heard his employer say in a slow, harsh voice,

  “Where are you staying?”

  Vincent Bell sounded more amused than ever. He said,

  “I’m stopping here.”

  Chapter Six

  Cathleen O’Hara looked up from the letter she was writing. She had caught the sound of a footstep on the flagged path outside. Her writing-table faced the windows of a deep recess which gave her what amounted to a room of her own to work in, though it was open to the study. Lucas Dale’s table, large, masculine, and in perfect order, stood on the far side of the large room. When he sat there he had only to lift his eyes to see across the terrace, and across the valley to the line of distant hills.

  Cathy’s windows were at the side of the house. The flagged walk ran below them. She looked over it to a small sunk garden which would be bright with spring bulbs later on. She wondered if it was Lucas Dale who was coming along the path, or his American friend who had dropped from the blue yesterday afternoon. She liked him very much. Or did she? She wasn’t really sure. She liked the way he spoke. It was different—amusing. She liked his being so new, so different, but she wasn’t sure whether she really liked him. When you have lived in a place all your life, you know everyone so very well. You know just what they will think and what they will say, and what they will do, and that may be dull, but it gives you a very safe feeling. When you don’t really know people you don’t feel quite so safe. Cathy liked to feel safe.

  But it was neither Lucas Dale nor Vincent Bell who was coming along the path. It was a woman. She came up to the casement window and leaned on the sill, looking in. Cathy had never seen her before. As she met the bold, challenging stare she began to wish that she hadn’t opened that window. The sun on the glass had tempted her.

  The woman leaned right in with her head and shoulders in the room and said,

  “Lucas at home?”

  Cathy was startled and showed it. She was a little bit of a thing, and the woman leaning in at the window was a haggard, strapping creature with big black eyes and bare sinewy hands. A lot of black hair in untidy loops and braids, and a bright handkerchief at her throat like a gipsy woman. If she hadn’t used Dale’s Christian name in the way she had, that is just what Cathy would have taken her for—one of those women who come swinging round to the back door, basket on hip, trying to sell rubbish to the maids and tell their fortunes. Maids don’t like to send them away.

  Cathy wouldn’t have liked to send this woman away. She had on an old black cloth coat with a collar of draggled fur, and a black hat with a scarlet feather. There was a red dress under the coat, and the silk handkerchief was as bright as a parrot’s wing. Long gold earrings bobbed and swung amongst the untidy braids. She laughed jeeringly at Cathy’s dismay, and said in a deep voice that was sometimes harsh and sometimes musical,

  “Come—I won’t eat you. Where’s Lucas? I want to see him.”

  Cathy collected herself. The woman had probably come to beg. Or had she? Her clothes were shabby, all except the coloured handkerchief, which was shiny and new. But she had said “Lucas”—

  Cathy drew her chair back a little.

  “I don’t know if Mr. Dale is in. And—and—he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. Is he expecting you?”

  “I don’t know,” said the woman. “He might be. He ought to have got my letter yesterday, but I don’t suppose he’d tell you about it. He can be pretty close when it suits his book.” She laughed a little. “He’ll see me all right—you don’t need to worry about that. Oh, yes, yes—he’ll see me.” She straightened up and took a look about her, left, right, over her shoulder, and back into the room again. “He’s got a nice place here—I’ll say that for it.”

  She had some kind of an accent which Cathy couldn’t place. It would be very strong, and then it would fade right out. It was very strong as she spoke now.

  “What’s anyone want with a place like this? It wouldn’t be my choice, I can tell you. What’s he want it for?”

  “You could ask him,” said Cathy.

  She got a sharp look. Her lips trembled unwillingly into a smile. The woman said quick and hard,

  “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 li
ke 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—”