Who Pays the Piper?: An Ernest Lamb Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  “This matter of your not hearing the shot, Mr. Phipson—it seems to me somebody ought to have heard it. Mrs. Raby and the maids had the wireless on. Raby’s pantry is next door to the servants’ hall. He says there was a band programme and they were getting it pretty loud. There’s a baize door and a lot of hall and passage between this and the kitchen wing. And you were playing over gramophone records. When did you start?”

  Mr. Phipson removed his glasses, polished them, and replaced them on his nose. A rabbit in pince-nez.

  “Oh, well now, Inspector, I shall do my best to be accurate, but I wasn’t looking at the time. It was six o’clock when I went to my room—I do know that, because the grandfather clock in the hall was striking as I went upstairs. And then—let me see—I wrote two letters—let us say about ten minutes to each—and addressed the envelopes and stamped them—so that would bring us to between twenty and twenty-five past six. And then I got out a case of records and put on—now, let me see—it was the finale of the Ninth Symphony.”

  “A loud piece?”

  Abbott cocked a pale eyebrow.

  “A very loud piece, sir. Orchestra, chorus, four soloists—all going full split. Joie de vivre with the lid off—fully choral and fortissimo. In fact, very loud. It really might drown the sound of a shot.”

  “We’ll try it out,” said Inspector Lamb.

  “How many discs did you play?” said Frank Abbott.

  Mr. Phipson looked nervously helpful.

  “Well, I am not quite sure. There are three discs of the finale, and I put on the first one, and then my mind rather wandered to one of the letters I had written, so I let the record stop. In the end I re-wrote the letter, and I can’t really say whether I turned the disc over or put on the next one. I know this must sound very foolish and absent-minded, but I was thinking about my letter, and I am afraid I did not notice what I was doing. In fact, I was not really attending to the music—my mind was on something else.”

  “On Mr. Dale?” said the Inspector.

  “Oh, no, no—not at all.”

  “Would you care to tell us what you had on your mind?”

  Mr. Phipson dropped his glasses and picked them up again.

  “Well, really, Inspector, it was a private matter—a very private matter—but if you will regard it as confidential—”

  Inspector Lamb gazed at him with a kind of ponderous patience.

  “As to that I can’t give any undertaking, Mr. Phipson. But a private matter that hadn’t anything to do with Mr. Dale’s death—well, neither Abbott nor me would mention it.”

  Mr. Phipson drew an agitated breath.

  “It is naturally painful to me to have to take strangers into my confidence, but of course in a murder case I understand nothing is sacred. The letter I have alluded to was to a young lady, and my mind was a good deal disturbed over it. After re-writing it as I have told you I was still not satisfied, and in the end I decided to destroy it. You will now perhaps understand why I have no very accurate recollection of the order in which I played those records.”

  “Were you still playing them when Raby came to your room?” said Abbott.

  A gleam brightened Mr. Phipson’s eyes behind the pince-nez.

  “Yes—yes—I was playing the last side. I remember that distinctly.”

  “There are three discs, aren’t there?”

  “Yes, yes—six sides. Marvellous music!”

  “They would take a good twenty minutes to play even if you missed one side of the first disc. And you wrote a letter too.”

  “I may have missed more than one disc,” said Mr. Phipson in a dejected manner. “It is more than probable—in fact, I think I must have done so. With the interval I have already mentioned, I suppose I was playing from about five-and-twenty past—no, no, it would be a little later, wouldn’t it—I know the importance of being accurate—shall we say twenty-seven minutes past?” His nose twitched in a worried manner. “I am afraid I find it very difficult to fix the exact time, Inspector, because you see, I cannot be certain how long it took me to write those letters, but perhaps half past six—no, no, I think earlier than that—this is really very difficult—”

  Of all witnesses, the nervously conscientious witness is the least dear to the official heart. Interminable delays, small verbal quibblings, acute attacks of conscience over minor details have a very rasping effect upon the temper. Inspector Lamb said,

  “We’ll leave that for the moment, Mr. Phipson. How long have you been with Mr. Dale?”

  “Three years—no, let me see, that is not quite exact—it would have been three years next Thursday.”

  “But Mr. Dale had not been here for three years.”

  “Oh, no, Inspector. When I took up my duties he was in London. And then we travelled. He was very fond of travelling. I accompanied him to Egypt and to South Africa. Then about a year ago he bought King’s Bourne. Mr. Bourne the late owner had just died. Mr. Dale decided to have the whole place done up, and I was backwards and forwards a great deal seeing to things. Mr. Bourne’s widowed sister, Mrs. O’Hara, was living here with her daughter Miss Cathleen O’Hara and her niece Miss Susan Lenox. Mr. Dale wished her to have any furniture that she fancied, and I was to see about that, and about doing up the house she was moving into. It is called the Little House, and it is just at the foot of the garden here. Mr. Dale was most considerate about the whole thing—really most considerate.”

  “Is that the Miss O’Hara who has been employed as a secretary here?”

  A slight flush came into Mr. Phipson’s face.

  “Social secretary—yes. Not, of course, that I couldn’t have done all that was necessary in that way, but—well, to speak quite frankly—I suppose I had better speak frankly—”

  “Much better,” said Inspector Lamb with a sudden dry sound in his voice.

  Mr. Phipson looked at him over the top of his pince-nez.

  “Well then, I think Mr. Dale was glad to put the employment in her way. Mr. Bourne died in embarrassed circumstances, and there was very little left for the family. And then, of course, there was his feeling for Miss Lenox.”

  “And what sort of feeling was that?”

  Mr. Phipson looked arch.

  “Oh, the usual one, Inspector. Mr. Dale made no secret of it. It really was quite obvious from the first, but of course the news of the engagement did come as a surprise to us here in the house—I don’t think it can have got very much beyond the immediate household, because he only informed us yesterday.”

  “Mr. Dale was engaged to Miss Lenox?”

  “So he informed us yesterday—let me see—it was just before tea. And of course it was a surprise, because Miss Lenox was engaged to Mr. Carrick.”

  Lamb put up a monumental hand.

  “I’d like to know about this engagement to Mr. Carrick. Who is he?”

  Mr. Phipson explained with gusto. Mr. Carrick was the son of the late Dr. Carrick, deceased some two years ago. He had been engaged to Susan Lenox for about that length of time. He was an architect with his way to make. He had done some work on the alterations to King’s Bourne.

  Mr. Phipson took much longer over it than that, but the Inspector suffered him with patience.

  “And when was this engagement broken off?”

  Monty Phipson assumed the air of a man of the world.

  “As far as my information goes—well, it never was broken off—the lady just changed her mind. Very suddenly, Inspector. Mr. Carrick was certainly down staying at the Little House last Wednesday night, and of course they may have quarrelled then, or they may not. But from certain indications I believe—but perhaps I ought not to indulge in conjecture—”

  “I think you had better finish what you were going to say.”

  “If it will be of any help—I am most anxious to assist you in every possible way. I was going to say that Miss O’Hara was taken ill here on Saturday morning, and that Miss Susan Lenox was here for some time, after which Mr. Dale took them both home in the Dai
mler. From certain indications of emotional disturbance I am of the opinion that Mr. Dale had at that time proposed and been accepted.”

  The Inspector slewed round to the table and picked up one of the papers which lay there. He said “Yes—” in a meditative tone and faced round again upon the secretary.

  “What do you know about Mr. Vincent Bell?”

  Monty Phipson put up a deprecating hand.

  “Very little, I assure you—very little indeed.”

  “As what, Mr. Phipson?”

  “Let me see—he arrived here on Thursday morning quite unexpectedly—”

  “Mr. Dale didn’t expect him?”

  “As to that I cannot say, but if you would like me to express an opinion—”

  Frank Abbott drew a long breath and permitted himself to gaze at the ceiling.

  Lamb said imperturbably, “Let us have your opinion.”

  Monty Phipson edged a little forward in his chair.

  “Well, in my opinion Mr. Dale was taken completely by surprise, and it was not a very pleasant surprise either. Mr. Bell just said he was stopping—and he stopped.”

  “What sort of terms were they on?”

  “Well, I hardly like to say. I naturally feel the responsibility of giving evidence like this, and I am most anxious to be fair. I think I might say that there was a good deal of tension. Mr. Bell’s manner was not very tactful. I think he and Mr. Dale had had some business association in the United States. I believe Mr. Dale was engaged in—well, Inspector, in rum running during the prohibition period. If I had not had some idea of this before, I should have guessed as much from Mr. Bell’s allusions and hints. Mr. Dale resented them a good deal, and several times I thought there was going to be a quarrel, but Mr. Bell would always laugh it off.”

  “I see. Well now, Mr. Phipson, how did you and Mr. Dale get along?”

  The question, in this homely shape, did not seem to worry Mr. Phipson. He looked conscientious and said,

  “Oh, I hope he had no cause to be dissatisfied.”

  “That’s no answer, Mr. Phipson. I don’t want to know what you hope. The question is, was he satisfied?”

  An air of offence became evident.

  “Really, Inspector, I am being most careful about my answers. Mr. Dale had no reason to be dissatisfied—no reason at all. If you want to know whether he was satisfied, I can only say that he gave me no reason to think otherwise.”

  The Inspector opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. His right shoulder jerked slightly.

  Frank Abbott took up the tale.

  “What was Dale like to work for? Easy—considerate—difficult?”

  Monty Phipson looked at him coldly.

  “My position was an extremely confidential one. Such a position is never without occasional difficulties. I think I may say that Mr. Dale appreciated that.”

  Abbott’s left eyebrow twitched.

  “Hang it all, man, you’re talking like a book! Did you like Dale? That’s what we want to know—did you like him?”

  A pale, ugly flush suffused Mr. Phipson’s features, particularly the nose which reminded young Abbott so strongly of a rabbit’s. He said in a huffy, stuffy voice,

  “I was with Mr. Dale for three years. The relations between us were of a perfectly satisfactory nature.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Vincent Bell came into the room with a brisk and jaunty air. His eyes went to and fro, his black hair stood up aggressively. He sat down with an air of assurance and addressed himself to Inspector Lamb.

  “Well, Captain, what can I do for you?”

  “You can answer some questions, Mr. Bell.”

  “That’s all right by me.”

  Inspector Lamb was being careful. He said,

  “You understand that you are not obliged to answer? I’d like to make that clear.”

  “I’m not obliged to talk, but I can if I like?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Bell.”

  “All right, Captain, shoot!”

  “Well then, Mr. Bell, perhaps you’ll give us an idea of what your business was with Mr. Dale.”

  “Well, I don’t know that it was exactly business.”

  “But you had had business relations with him.”

  Vincent Bell’s eyes snapped.

  “Dale’s secretary been talking? Well, I won’t deny it.”

  “Rum running or something of that sort?”

  Vincent Bell laughed.

  “Something of that sort,” he agreed.

  “Well, that’s nothing to do with us over here, but if you and Mr. Dale came to loggerheads about it—”

  Lamb made a suggestive pause.

  “Well, I won’t say we didn’t. But that’s not to say I’d take the trouble to come over here and shoot him, because if I’d wanted to put him on the spot I could have done it three years ago without travelling three thousand miles.”

  Frank Abbott looked up from his shorthand notes.

  “But you did come three thousand miles. Why?”

  Vincent Bell grinned.

  “I’d a notion it might be worth my while. Look here, boys, I’m not holding up on you. The truth is Dale got away with a helluva lot of money that was half of it mine. I was sick, and he collected and walked out on me—thought I was going to die and there would be no questions asked. Well, I didn’t die, but what with one thing and another I wasn’t in a position to follow him up for a year or two, and then it took a bit of time before I hit his trail.”

  Inspector Lamb put up a hand.

  “You came over here to try and recover a sum of money from Mr. Dale?”

  “You can put it like that.”

  “Did you come over here to threaten him?”

  Vincent laughed.

  “I came to get my money.”

  “How did you expect to get it?”

  “Not by shooting him. That wouldn’t make sense, would it? How much money can you get from a guy with a bullet in his brain? I wanted my money, and the way things are I don’t get a cent. I guess that lets me out.”

  Inspector Lamb leaned forward. He said in a weighty voice,

  “You were heard quarrelling with Mr. Dale at a quarter past six. He was shot some time between then and a quarter to seven when the butler found him dead. What have you got to say about that?”

  For the moment Mr. Bell hadn’t anything to say. There was a noticeable alteration in his colour. He looked here and there, and in the end flung out a hand.

  “That puts me in a spot. But I didn’t shoot him. You don’t shoot a guy because you have a quarrel with him. I wasn’t watching the time, but if someone heard us talking at a quarter past six, it wasn’t much after that when I quit and went upstairs, and Dale was alive then. I left him right here in this room. He’d his back to me and he was going over to that glass door. We’d both got a bit heated, and I guess he meant to open it. It was found open.”

  “It was open when he was found,” said Lamb, varying the order of the words. “Well, Mr. Bell, what did you do next?”

  “I went upstairs to my room, and then I took a bath.”

  “Can you fix the time you were in the bath?”

  Vincent shrugged his shoulders.

  “If I’d known Dale was going to be murdered I’d have kept right on looking at my watch and I wouldn’t have taken a bath. I’d have gone and sat with that secretary guy so I’d have a nice water-tight alibi. That’s the worst of not being the murderer. It’s just too bad. All I can tell you is I was out of my bath and part way dressed when Raby gave the alarm, and that was round about a quarter to seven.”

  “And you didn’t hear the shot?”

  “I wouldn’t have heard twenty shots,” said Vincent Bell. “I guess the plumbing in this house is pretty old. When you’ve got a tap turned on it’s bad enough, but when you turn it off—well, it’s like the Fourth of July.”

  “Noises in the pipes?”

  “I’ll say so.”

  Inspector Lamb’s round brown
eyes dwelt upon Vincent Bell. Mr. Bell sustained the look. He even grinned, and said,

  “Try them for yourself, Captain.”

  The Inspector frowned.

  “Everyone in this house has got a reason for not having heard that shot. I can believe one or two of them, but I can’t believe them all.”

  Vincent Bell laughed cheerfully.

  “Mine’s O.K. whatever the others are,” he declared.

  He went out as briskly as he had come in, and at that moment the telephone bell rang.

  Inspector Lamb lifted the receiver and heard an indisputably clerical voice say,

  “Is that King’s Bourne? Is that Raby?”

  “Detective Inspector Lamb speaking.”

  There was a clerical cough.

  “Oh, yes. Good-morning, Inspector. My name is Mickleham—the Reverend Cyril Mickleham—and I am the Vicar of this parish.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  There was another cough.

  “Well, Inspector—er—the fact is my wife, Mrs. Mickleham, has some information which I feel it is her duty to—er—place at your disposal. It is very painful to us both, but private feelings must not be allowed to interfere with public duties.”

  “Well, sir, if Mrs. Mickleham has any information to give us, I shall be glad if she could make it convenient to call here as soon as possible.”

  “Exactly—there is no time like the present. We can be with you in twenty minutes, if that will be all right.”

  Lamb hung up and hunched a shoulder.

  “Vicar’s wife, with evidence—coming along now. We can be trying out Mr. Bell’s water-pipes and Mr. Phipson’s records.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The pipes amply substantiated Vincent Bell’s account of their activities. As soon as any water had been run off there was such a gurgling, banging and groaning as would have camouflaged a royal salute.

  Raby deposed to having heard the sounds from his pantry.

  “A shocking noise they do make, and no mistake about it, sir. The pipes come down beside my sink, and there are times when they bang so loud you’d think they’d burst. They weren’t as bad as that last night, but round about half past six they were at it for a matter of ten minutes or so. There isn’t anyone can have a bath in this house without its being known. Very put out about it, Mr. Dale was, and meaning to have the old pipes out and a new lot put in. He only spoke of it yesterday, sir, and said if he went abroad on his honeymoon, it could be done very convenient whilst he was away.”