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 Twenty-Six
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 f
rom 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 you’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.”
Cathy was turning paler and paler. She got to her feet with difficulty and stood holding on to the edge of the dining-table.
“I can’t tell you anything, Lydia,” she said. “And I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and lie down, because I haven’t been very well. Mummy’s in the drawing-room.”
It was no use. Lydia knew when she was beat. If you pressed Cathy too hard, she would faint on you. She said crossly,
“I’ve a good mind to pinch you. Can you get upstairs?”
“I think so.”
It ended in Lydia helping her up and depositing her on her bed. She made a little face at her from the door and tripped downstairs again.
Mrs. O’Hara was delighted to see her. They were old cronies. With a pouffe pulled up beside the sofa, Lydia settled herself and said,
“How dreadful!”
“Yes, indeed. But of course it might have been worse. We must all try and look on the bright side, my dear. I’m sure I don’t know where I should be if I hadn’t learned to do that.”
“But, Mrs. O’Hara, they’re saying that Susan was engaged to him.”
The knitting-needles clicked gently.
“Well, my dear, it would have been worse if they had been married. I was a widow at nineteen myself, and I could not bear to think of dear Susan having such a tragic experience.”
“But Mrs. O’Hara, she wasn’t engaged to him—was she?”
The knitting revolved. Mrs. O’Hara began another row.
“Well, my dear, I really can’t tell you. It was quite natural of course that he should have fallen in love with her, because Susan is a most charming girl and very like her mother, my dear sister Laura, who was considered by everyone to be the most charming girl of the season. We were presented together of course, and everyone admired her so much.”
“And you too,” said Lydia. “What’s the good of being modest? You were the lovely Bourne twins, and you made a sensation at Court—you know you did.”
Mrs. O’Hara bridled.
“It’s a long time ago. And Cathy hasn’t my looks, though she’s a dear child, but I think Susan is just as beautiful as Laura was, and I’d like her to have a happier life. I don’t think she would really have been happy with Mr. Dale.”
Lydia was of those who rush in where others fear to tread. Her eyes sparkled, and she said in a tone of warm interest,
“Do you know, sometimes I think you’re fonder of Susan than you are of Cathy.”
Milly O’Hara flushed suddenly into the likeness of her own youth. She said,
“Lydia!” And then, “Not fonder—you mustn’t say that—because Cathy is my own child. But Susan is Laura’s—”
“And you loved Laura better than yourself, so you love Susan better than Cathy, and I was right.” Lydia’s voice was soft and teasing.
She got a smile and a shake of the head.
“You mustn’t say that to Cathy—and it wouldn’t be true either. My dear, will you give me my drops? I forgot to take them when I came down. The little bottle behind the clock, and you know where to get a glass. Two tablespoons of water—and let the tap run, because it is really very nasty if it is lukewarm.”
Lydia came back with the glass, and watched Mrs. O’Hara while she sipped.
“Aren’t you going to tell me anything? Cathy wouldn’t, but I thought you would, because we’ve always been friends, and I simply rushed down here the moment I heard.”
Mrs. O’Hara sipped.
“There is really nothing to tell.”
Lydia shook her head mournfully.
“You’re shutting me right out. You can’t—you really can’t! Do you know that people are saying Bill did it?”
“People will say anything,” said Mrs. O’Hara, setting down the empty glass.
“They don’t really disapprove, you know. In a way, Lizzie says, they rather admire him for it because Mr. Dale had taken his girl. Mrs. O’Hara, I’ll die if you don’t tell me. Was Susan engaged to him—was she? Because the very last time I saw her we were talking about it, and I told her she’d be a perfect fool to let such a chance go by—King’s Bourne and all that money, and anyone could see he was simply frightfully in love with her. And I said she might go on waiting years and years for Bill, and then find out he didn’t want to marry her after all. A cousin of Freddy’s was engaged like that for nine years, and when he got his promotion, and she’d got her trousseau, he told her he didn’t think he could go on with it, and he went off and married a frightful widow who’d come home on the same boat. So it just shows!”
Mrs. O’Hara’s needles clicked.
“I don’t think Bill woul
d do that. Of course he is not really what one would have called a match for her in the old days—no money, and no particular family, though of course Dr. Carrick was very much respected and those things don’t count in the way they used to—”
Lydia leaned forward.
“Did Bill shoot him?”
“My dear Lydia!” Mrs. O’Hara looked very much shocked.
“Oh,” said Lydia, “he might have. And that’s what people are saying. They remember about his throwing the tramp into the pond, and the time he threw a croquet ball at Roger. Lizzie was talking about that. It got him on the temple, and he didn’t come round for half an hour. We all thought he was dead. Cathy went and hid in the stable loft, and Susan and I cried ourselves sick, but Bill just stood there as white as a sheet and never said a word.”
“My dear, he was only eight years old.”
“But it shows,” said Lydia. “He never did know what he was doing when he got into a temper. He might have shot Mr. Dale.”
Mrs. O’Hara shook her head.
“All these speculations are very foolish. In my opinion Mr. Dale committed suicide. I am very much annoyed with Mrs. Mickleham for starting all these stories—a clergyman’s wife should be more careful. You will oblige me by contradicting everything you hear. Susan and Bill have been engaged for two years, they are still engaged, and there is no quarrel between them. Bill is to design a house for a Mr. Gilbert Garnish who sells pickles, and he and Susan are planning to get married immediately. As I said, there was a time when I should not have considered him a suitable match for her, but they love each other very much, and they will be happy. I want Susan to be happy. And now, my dear, we will change the subject. What news have you of your husband and of Roger?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mrs. Green “obliged” Mrs. O’Hara on Wednesdays. She came at nine and scrubbed, cleaned, and polished vigorously until half past twelve. Whilst her hands moved her tongue was not idle. If there was anyone in the room, she talked. If she was alone, she lifted a strong unbridled soprano and sang. On this particular Wednesday she was naturally a good deal uplifted by the fact that her daughter Lily was almost certain to be called as a witness at the forthcoming inquest.
Who Pays the Piper?: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 14
