Who Pays the Piper?

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Highly ingenious, but I don’t think. Too many ifs and ans. You can ask Susan Lenox.”

  “You think she’d tell the truth?”

  “I don’t think she could tell a lie without giving herself away. No practice, and would always be a very poor performer.”

  “It’s a queer set-out,” said Lamb.

  “As you said to start with. And how true. Here, to agree with Bill Carrick, is a first-class blackmailing swine on the verge of smashing up certainly two, probably three people’s lives. Someone removes him in the nick of time—a most praiseworthy act—and it is our unfortunate duty to hunt down this benefactor and get him hanged.”

  The rosy face of Inspector Lamb became stern. His eyes protruded slightly.

  “Now, Abbott, that’s enough of that. Fancy ways of talking about it don’t make crime into anything except just crime. Murder’s murder, and the law is the law. There’s a law against the blackmailer for his blackmailing, and there’s a law against the murderer for his murdering. It’s the law that’s got to punish people—not you, or me, or Mr. Carrick, just because we think a man’s a bad man. He’s got the right to have a judge and a jury on that, and be found guilty or not guilty as the case may be. So don’t let me hear any more of that fancy stuff. Too much tongue, my lad—that’s what’s the matter with you, and some day it’s going to get you into trouble.”

  “Absit omen,” murmured Frank Abbott—“I mean, yes, sir.”

  Lamb grunted.

  “Where’s the report on those finger-prints? I want to run through it.… Now, let’s see how this works in. Raby’s prints all over the place—faint. That’s what you’d expect.… Very good and fresh on the wood-box and the edge of the hearth. That bears out his statement all right.… Only Dale’s own finger-prints on that pulled-out drawer and on the pushed-back chair.… No finger-prints at all on the revolver. Whoever used it wiped it off or wore gloves.… Dale’s prints on the handle of the glass door and the latch of the open window.… A print of nearly the whole of Carrick’s hand on the window sill. That bears out his statement that he stood there and looked in.”

  “Then there isn’t any possibility that he could have shot Dale in the time.”

  “Looks that way. Now—let’s see—what about the glass door? His statement looked as if it wasn’t open when he went along to the window, but it was open when he came back. There are some old faint prints of the footman’s, the one person in the house who has an unbreakable alibi, and apart from them nothing but Dale’s. If that door was opened after Dale was shot, or pushed wide after being ajar as seems likely from Raby’s evidence—he said it was a little bit open—then the person who pushed it open must have carefully avoided leaving prints. That’s where I can’t fit young Carrick in. Apart from all this time business, I don’t see him being so careful about prints—not in the frame of mind he was in. He might have thought to wipe the revolver, but I don’t see him bothering with the door. Of course he might just have given it a shove with his shoulder, and off like that. But if he found it wide open, as it was found by Raby at a quarter to seven, well, then he’d have no call to touch it.”

  “I think he was telling the truth,” said Frank Abbott. “I don’t know what a jury would think.”

  Lamb frowned.

  “Well, there it is. Now, what about this footmark?” He picked up a piece of paper and stared at the drawing on it. “Fore part of a woman’s shoe—size five—no heel mark.… There’s a muddy puddle on the path up from the Little House just before you come to the lower terrace. I noticed Miss Lenox went wide of it without looking when we went down with them just now. It’s a soft bit of ground—probably always wet after rain. She stepped wide without having to give it a thought. The question is, did she forget about it last night? The shoe that made that mark had been in a puddle all right. If it hadn’t rained before we got here, we’d have been able to pick up the prints on the terrace and on the steps. The woman who wore that shoe stood just inside the glass door. That’s the only clear print, but there were traces of mud right across to where the body was found. I think she came as near him as that. Perhaps she was wearing gloves. Perhaps she handled the revolver. Perhaps she shot him. Now Miss Lenox says she didn’t come into the room—Mr. Carrick says so too.”

  “Susan Lenox couldn’t have shot Dale. She didn’t leave the kitchen of the Little House till the half hour, and she heard the shot——” Frank Abbott stopped abruptly.

  Lamb wagged a finger at him.

  “She heard the shot, and Carrick heard the shot—and nobody else did. And it’s their times we’re taking to argue with. If they’re not telling the truth, what happens to your four and a half minutes and Carrick not having time to get here? If they’re not telling the truth about where they were when they heard the shot, they had the best part of a quarter of an hour to come and go upon, and either of them could have shot him, or they could both have been in it together—as far as the time was concerned——” Lamb paused, and added, “Miss Lenox takes a shoe that’s very much the size of this.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  The telephone bell rang. Frank Abbott listened, scribbled on a piece of paper, hung up, and pushed the paper over to Inspector Lamb.

  “The bank at Ledlington—about those notes. He drew the two hundred in four fifties. These are the numbers.”

  Lamb picked up a bunch of keys and unlocked the top drawer on the right-hand side of Lucas Dale’s writing-table. The contents of the dead man’s pockets came into view—a handkerchief, a stub of sealing-wax, a pocket-knife, a green and blue marble, a twist of twine, a pencil, a fountain pen, a snapshot of Susan Lenox in a small brown leather case, a cheque-book on a Ledlington bank, some loose change, and a sealskin wallet with his initials on it in gold.

  Lamb took up the cheque-book and flicked over the counterfoils.

  “Here we are—the last cheque he drew, dated yesterday—self two hundred pounds. And—” he took up the wallet and opened it—“here are three of the fifties. This one”—he put a splayed forefinger on the last of Abbott’s scribbled numbers—“this one’s gone. When I rang up this morning the manager was out. I said they could wait till he came in if it made them any happier, but the clerk I talked to remembered Dale coming in. He said it was after lunch round about a quarter to three. Now the Vicar says it was half past three when Dale came to see him. That means he drove straight from the bank to the Vicarage, and he must have driven fast. Well, he was back here at four o’clock according to Raby. That was when he informed the household of his proposed marriage. Then he had tea. By six o’clock or so he was quarrelling with Mr. Vincent Bell. When, where, and how did he get rid of that fifty-pound note?”

  “He might have given it to the Vicar—fee for marriage—donation on occasion of marriage or what not.”

  “Ring him up and ask him,” said Lamb.

  But Mr. Mickleham denied any knowledge of a fifty-pound note. The denial was on the verbose side, and the Inspector was frowning before Abbott at length said politely,

  “Thank you very much, sir—that was all we wanted to know,” and hung up.

  “Chatty—very chatty. A citizen’s first duty and all that sort of thing, but quite clear that he never saw hair hide or hoof of a banknote. His conversation with Dale was all high moral scruples and such. The sordid question of money never came into it at all.”

  “Where’s that fifty-pound note?” demanded Lamb.

  “He may have posted it to someone.”

  “Well then, he didn’t. There was only one letter for the post last night, and that was Mr. Phipson’s to the sanitary engineers. Just ring and get hold of Raby, will you?”

  Raby looked paler than ever as he came in. He had an unfortunate imagination, and during the time which had elapsed since his previous interrogation he had been engaged with vivid and horrifying pictures of his arrest, trial, and subsequent execution, together with a quite fantastic vision of stout, comfortable Mrs. Raby starving in a garret. It was all terribly
plain in his mind, and to say the least of it harrowing. He turned a pale duck’s-egg green when Lamb addressed him.

  “Come along in and shut the door. Just one or two things I’m not quite clear about. What’s the matter with you, man—are you ill?”

  Raby mopped a brow to which the cold sweat clung.

  “It’s the strain, sir. I’m sure anything I can do——”

  “Just a few questions. Mr. Dale came home at four o’clock yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And then he told you about his intended marriage, and after that you served tea in here. Who else was present?”

  “Mr. Phipson and Mr. Bell.”

  “When did you clear away?”

  “At a quarter past five.”

  “Were Mr. Bell and Mr. Phipson still here?”

  “Yes, sir. They went away whilst I was clearing.”

  Frank Abbott thought, “He wouldn’t have given either of them fifty pounds in the presence of the other. He wouldn’t have given it to Bell in the middle of a quarrel.” He met Lamb’s eyes and saw the same thought there.

  The Inspector said, “And after that, as far as you know, Mr. Dale was alone until his quarrel with Mr. Bell. No one called to see him?”

  “No one except the lady, sir.”

  Lamb’s hand came down with a thud upon his own solid knee. He said, “The lady!” and Frank Abbott said, “The lady!”

  Raby, on the verge of a nervous collapse, echoed them.

  “The lady, sir.”

  “What lady?”

  “A Miss Cora de Lisle, sir.”

  The Inspector flung himself back in his chair.

  “Go on, go on, go on!”

  “A Miss Cora de Lisle, sir.”

  Lamb’s face became quite astonishingly crimson. Frank Abbott said in his quiet, cultured voice,

  “Miss Cora de Lisle—can you tell us anything about her?”

  Raby shook his head.

  “Not a friend of the family?”

  He shook it again.

  “Never seen her before?”

  Raby looked as if he was going to faint.

  “Only Thursday,” he gasped.

  Frank Abbott got up and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hold up—we’re not going to eat you. You see, any visitor Mr. Dale had yesterday evening may be important. Brace up and tell us all about Miss Cora de Lisle. By the way, how do you come to know her Christian name? She didn’t say ‘Call me Cora’ when you answered the door, I take it?”

  Raby revived a little.

  “Oh, no, sir—it was on her card. Thursday morning Miss O’Hara rang the bell in here, and when I answered it she was up in the window at her table, and this Miss de Lisle, she was outside leaning in over the window-sill. A very odd-looking person, if I may say so.”

  “In what way?”

  “Wild, sir, and in my opinion a bit under the influence.”

  “Drunk?” said Lamb.

  “Oh, no, sir, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that—but she smelled of spirits and had a wild kind of look. Miss O’Hara seemed right down afraid of her, and no wonder. She took out a card and gave it to Miss Cathy, and Miss Cathy gave it to me and asked me to see if Mr. Dale was in.”

  “And was he?”

  “Not to her,” said Raby with returning animation. “He took the card and he looked at it very ugly indeed, and he tore it up and said, ‘Say I’ve gone out and you don’t know when I’ll be back.’ Not half vexed she was either.”

  “And she came back last night?” said Lamb.

  “A little before half past five. And the minute I opened the door she walked past me into the hall, and she said, ‘It’s no good your saying Mr. Dale’s not at home, because I know he is. I’ve come here to see him and I’m going to see him, so it’ll save me a whole lot of trouble if you just take me along, because if you don’t, I’m going into every room, and if you try and put me out I’ll scream the house down—and Lucas won’t like that’. She called him by his name to me just like that, as bold as you please.”

  “And was she still under the influence?”

  “Rather more so, I should say. So I went along to the study, and I’d hardly said her name before she came pushing past me and as good as shut the door in my face. I waited about in the hall in case I was wanted, and I could hear them going at it hammer and tongs. And then presently they quieted down a bit, and Mr. Dale rang the bell for me to show her out. She looked a deal better pleased than when she came in, which was something. I showed her out of the front door and locked up after her, and Mr. Dale came out to me in the hall and said, ‘If that lady ever comes here again, I’m not at home, and you won’t be either if you let her in ’—meaning, as I took it, that I’d get the sack if she ever got past me again.”

  “And why didn’t you mention this before?”

  Raby paled again.

  “Mr. Dale told me not to. He said, ‘You keep your mouth shut about all this’. And I didn’t think it could have anything to do with the murder, seeing I locked up after her well before six o’clock.”

  “She gave you her card,” said Frank Abbott. “Was there any address on it?”

  “Theatre Royal, Ledlington,” said Raby with relief at being asked anything so easy.

  CHAPTER XXII

  “That’s Cathy’s tray,” said Susan. “I’m taking it up. Aunt Milly’s coming down. Just keep an eye on that saucepan and don’t let it boil over.”

  Bill put his arms round her, pulled her up close, and kissed her hard.

  “You’re fagged to death. Someone ought to be carrying trays up for you.”

  “Oh, Bill!” Susan actually laughed.

  “It’s nothing to laugh about. I’m worried sick about you, and if you go about looking like that, old what’s-his-name Lamb will feel quite sure you’re consumed with inward guilt.”

  “I’ll put on some colour. Do you think that will really convince him that I’m innocent?”

  “I should think it would make him quite sure you’re not. What you’ve got to do is go and lie down directly after lunch and get a spot of sleep.”

  The sleepless hours of three dreadful nights rose up before Susan’s eyes. He felt her shudder.

  “I couldn’t. Take me out in Ted’s car. I suppose they’ll let us go.”

  “The last ride together.”

  “Don’t! It might be. I can’t laugh about it. I want to have it.”

  “All right, you shall.”

  She stepped back and went to take up the tray.

  “It’s lovely Cathy being so much better, isn’t it? She’s eating a proper meal, and she’s going to get up to tea.” She came back to him and dropped her voice. “Bill—when I told her—she said, ‘Then I shall get well’. That was strange—wasn’t it? And I was so afraid of telling her.”

  Bill frowned.

  “I don’t think it was strange at all. He threatened her—he blackmailed you—she collapsed. Wouldn’t you expect her to be relieved at hearing he was out of the way for good?”

  Susan shook her head.

  “No, I wouldn’t—not Cathy.”

  She went up with the tray.

  Mrs. O’Hara came down to lunch and talked with a kind of plaintive brightness about how nice it was to see the sun, and if it went on being so mild she might begin to think about going out, only of course spring weather was very, very treacherous, and perhaps it would be wiser not to run any risks. “You see, if I were to be ill, it would throw altogether too much upon Susan, my dear Bill. I sometimes think she has too much to do as it is——Really, my dear, you are very pale to-day, and you are eating nothing, positively nothing. It is just what I have been saying—this unfortunate turn of Cathy’s—the minute anyone cannot come down to meals it means trays—and every tray means twice up and down these very awkward stairs—really quite incessant. So we can’t be too thankful that Cathy is so much better. She says she is getting up as soon as she has had her lunch, but I told her she had much bet
ter rest quietly until tea-time, as I intend to do. And I think you should do so too, Susan. There is nothing like a little rest in the afternoon for helping to pass the day.”

  Susan got up and began to change the plates.

  “Bill and I are going out,” she said.

  As she went through into the kitchen, Mrs. O’Hara’s voice followed her.

  “Oh, my dear—do you think you should? Villages do notice everything so much.”

  Susan came back with the pudding.

  “What is there to notice, Aunt Milly?”

  “Bill and you, my dear.”

  Susan’s colour burned, and faded. Bill said,

  “The village ought to be accustomed to us by now.”

  Mrs. O’Hara looked from one to the other in a deprecating manner.

  “Well, it all depends whether they think you are still engaged, or whether they think that Susan was engaged to Mr. Dale, because if they do they wouldn’t expect to see you going about together before the funeral.”

  Bill set his jaw.

  “Look here, Aunt Milly, Susan and I have been engaged for two years. If there’s any stupid nonsense going round about her being engaged to Dale it’s got to be contradicted, and the best way of contradicting it will be for us to go about together just as we’ve always done.”

  Mrs. O’Hara ate her pudding thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know if you are right—but the village will be sure to talk whatever you do, so perhaps it doesn’t matter. Old Nurse used to say—the one Laura and I had when we were children—she used to say, ‘Don’t you worry about what folks say. It’s all emptiness anyway, and when they’re talking about you they’re giving another poor soul a rest’. A little more pudding, dear. You make this very well. Now I do hope the police haven’t got hold of any idea that you were engaged to Mr. Dale, because of course if they have they must think it most strange that he should have committed suicide.”

  Susan pushed her chair back, and Bill said “Suicide!” in a loud, surprised voice.

  Mrs. O’Hara removed an orange pip from her mouth in a perfectly ladylike manner.

  “Is there a hole in your strainer, my dear? The flavour is excellent, but there ought not to be pips—I might have swallowed one.”