Tests with the records in Mr. Phipson’s room went to show that a shot fired in the study could not be heard during any of the louder passages, and that with the door and window shut and the curtains drawn it would be extremely likely to pass unnoticed at any time. In the servants’ hall it was quite inaudible, even without a band programme on the wireless.
Lamb led the way back to the study, sat down at the table, and said,
“Carry on, Abbott. What do you make of it?”
Frank Abbott sat on the corner of the table and swung an elegantly trousered leg.
“No one has a motive,” he said. “Everyone has lots of opportunity. Nobody has an alibi.”
Lamb grunted.
“Bell had it in for him all right.”
“I don’t fancy Bell, but let’s say he had half a motive. Opportunity and alibi as before.”
The Inspector grunted again, but this time produced no words. Frank Abbott carried on.
“Opportunity—Raby said he was in the pantry from just after twenty past six to a quarter to seven. We have only his own word for it that he left Dale alive. He could have shot him when he came to make up the fire, or he could have come back from the pantry and done it, or he could have taken in the cocktail and done it then. Opportunity for Raby practically unlimited. Motive, as already stated, none. Alibi practically non-existent—Mrs. Raby says she called out to him in the pantry somewhere round about half past six and he answered her.
“Now for the secretary. There’s no motive so far as we know, and he loses his job. There’s no alibi of any sort, kind or description. He says he was playing gramophone records and writing letters. Perhaps he was, perhaps he wasn’t. The discs were lying about in his room, and the last one was still on the gramophone—he was playing it when Raby came up. He did write letters. There was one for the post addressed to a firm of sanitary engineers in Ledlington, and there were torn-up pieces of something discreetly affectionate in his waste paper basket. He gets so tangled up when he’s trying to be accurate that it’s no good trying to trip him—he keeps on doing it himself. I don’t know whether you could make head or tail of his times, but I couldn’t, and I don’t believe he could either. I was left with the feeling that he might have disentangled himself from the Ninth Symphony and his correspondence, hared downstairs shot Dale, and got back in time to listen to the final panegyric of joy. Only why in heaven’s name should he shoot him?”
There was no answer.
At this moment the young constable on duty outside the door opened it and ushered in the Vicar, his cheerful rosy face composed as for a funeral, and Mrs. Mickleham who looked as if she had been crying for hours. She still most incredibly resembled a hen, but a hen with dejected and ruffled feathers. Her long neck poked, her hair was in wisps under a crooked hat, her eyelids were red and swollen, the ridge of her bony nose scarlet. She held a pocket handkerchief tightly clasped in a black gloved hand. As she sank into the chair recently vacated by Vincent Bell she pressed the linen to her lips and heaved a heart-broken sigh.
Frank Abbott, having provided the Vicar with a chair, sat down at the far side of the table and opened his notebook. The Vicar cleared his throat.
“My wife is very much distressed, but I have told her that her duty is clear. Perhaps you will allow me to explain. Does the name of Miss Susan Lenox convey anything to you?”
Inspector Lamb picked up a sheet of paper from the table.
“Niece of the late owner of King’s Bourne, now resident with her aunt, Mrs. O’Hara, at the Little House, Netherbourne.”
“Exactly, Inspector. Miss Lenox is a very charming girl whom I have known since she was quite a child. For the past two years she has been engaged to William Carrick, the son of our late doctor—a very great loss and much respected. William Carrick is an architect by profession, and I have looked forward very pleasantly to marrying these young people as soon as William’s circumstances became such as to enable him to support a wife. Imagine my surprise and consternation when I received a visit yesterday afternoon from Mr. Dale, in the course of which he informed me that he and Susan Lenox intended to be married on Thursday, and that he had just been making the necessary arrangements for a licence. His call was for the purpose of asking me to perform the ceremony. I could hardly believe my ears, and I felt that I must communicate as soon as possible with Miss Lenox. I really found it impossible to believe her capable of terminating a two years engagement for the purpose of entering so precipitately into marriage with a stranger. I was deeply concerned, not only as her parish priest but as an old friend.”
Inspector Lamb said, “Quite so.”
The Vicar put up a hand.
“Permit me to continue. I thought it inadvisable to use the telephone to discuss so confidential a matter. The amount of gossip in a village is deplorable—quite deplorable. I made it the subject of my Lenten sermons last year under such headings as Evil Speaking, Lying, Slandering, etcetera——But I must not digress. I was about to sally forth to the Little House, when I received a very urgent call to a dying parishioner at Ledcott. I therefore asked my wife to go and see Miss Lenox and ascertain the real facts from her. In a way, I felt perhaps that a woman’s intuition——”
A smothered sob from Mrs. Mickleham broke the thread of what had begun to sound ominously like a sermon.
Inspector Lamb turned to the afflicted lady.
“Perhaps you would tell us the rest yourself, Mrs. Mickleham.”
The hand with the crumpled handkerchief returned to her lap, where it was tightly clasped by its fellow. In the wretched voice of one who has got a most repugnant lesson by heart, she said,
“I went to the Little House and I walked in—we know them so very well that I usually just walk in. There was a light upstairs, but it was dark in the hall. The drawing-room door was ajar, and I knew there was no one there because the room was dark, so I opened the dining-room door and went through to go to the kitchen. Susan does all the cooking, so I thought she might be there——”
“One moment, Mrs. Mickleham—what time was this?”
Mrs. Mickleham sniffed miserably.
“I left the Vicarage at six o’clock, and it takes about twenty minutes.”
“And what time was Mr. Dale’s visit?”
“He was with me from half past three until ten minutes to four,” said the Vicar. “We were expecting a guest to tea, or I would have gone to see Miss Lenox immediately. By the time our guest had gone I had received the urgent summons I told you of. It was then, I think, about a quarter to six.”
Inspector Lamb returned to Mrs. Mickleham.
“So you reached the Little House at about twenty past six?”
Mrs. Mickleham caught her breath.
“Oh, I think so—but then I stopped for a moment to ask Mrs. Stock about her little boy with the whooping cough, so it must have been later than that.”
“Very well, will you go on? You went through the dining-room to go to the kitchen because you thought Miss Lenox might be there.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Mickleham. “There was a light under the door and I could hear them talking. I really did not know what to do—whether to go back—but then the Vicar had expressly charged me——”
“What did you do, Mrs. Mickleham?”
“I stood still and tried to make up my mind——”
“One moment—do you know who it was in the kitchen?”
“Oh, yes—it was Susan Lenox and Bill Carrick. And I could not help hearing what he said—he was speaking so loudly. And of course one couldn’t be surprised—after being engaged for two years, and the change so dreadfully sudden.”
The Inspector leaned forward.
“Do you mean that Mr. Carrick and Miss Lenox were quarrelling?”
“Oh, no, no—I don’t think so—it wasn’t like that at all. Poor Susan kept saying things like ‘I must’ and ‘I’ve promised’, and Bill was saying he wouldn’t let her, and things about going up to King’s Bourne and—and having
it out with Mr. Dale. And I thought how dreadful if he went up there in the state of mind he was in, so I opened the door and—and——” The tears began to well from Mrs. Mickleham’s eyes and her voice failed.
“Come, come, Lucy.” The Vicar laid an admonitory hand on her shoulder. “My dear, control yourself. You must tell the Inspector what you heard William say.”
“I can’t.”
“You can do your duty, my dear, and I am sure that you will.”
Mrs. Mickleham leaned back and closed her reddened eyelids upon the welling tears. She spoke in an exhausted voice.
“He said—oh dear, I heard him say—oh dear, I wish I hadn’t, but he said—he said—— ‘Do you want me to kill him, Susan?’ Oh dear! And then he said, ‘I think I’m going to.’ And I pushed open the door, and as soon as he saw me he pulled away from Susan and rushed out through the scullery.”
“Did you see where he went?”
“Oh, no—it was quite dark. But I could hear him running up the garden.”
“Would that be the way to King’s Bourne?”
“It would be the nearest way,” said the Vicar.
“Oh dear!” said Mrs. Mickleham.
“What happened after that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Poor Susan looked as if she was going to faint. I tried to explain to her why I had come, but I don’t think she was listening to me—she seemed too much distressed. And all at once she ran out through the scullery after Bill, and there didn’t seem to be anything to stay for then, so I came away.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mickleham. I suppose you didn’t notice the time whilst you were in the kitchen? I should like it a little more exact than we’ve got it yet.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Mickleham. “And I always notice a clock. One does if one leads a very busy life. I’m sure I don’t know where I should be if I let myself get behind. And the clock is on the dresser—just opposite the door.”
“Then you noticed the time as you came in?”
“Oh, yes—it was three minutes to the half hour.”
“Good,” said the Inspector. “Then Mr. Carrick started up the hill to King’s Bourne at twenty-seven minutes past six. And how long would it take him to get there? What’s the distance?”
“Four hundred yards to the front door,” said Mr. Mickleham with a faint air of superiority. “I carry a pedometer—a hobby of mine. I believe I could tell you the exact distance between any two points in my parish.”
Lamb’s gaze dwelt upon him for a moment and then withdrew.
“Four hundred yards—mostly up hill—he was in a hurry.… Say three and a half minutes. Now how long were you talking to Miss Lenox before she followed Mr. Carrick?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Oh, yes, I do, because I looked at the clock when she had gone, and I thought I had better not wait.”
“And what time was it?”
“Just the half hour—oh, yes.” She began to dab her eyes and straighten her hat.
“He’d three minutes start of her, and he’d go quicker. Three minutes start.… Thank you, Mrs. Mickleham.”
When they had gone he looked up the number of the Little House and asked for it.
“Can I speak to Miss Susan Lenox?”
“I am Susan Lenox.”
“Detective Inspector Lamb speaking from King’s Bourne. I should be glad if you would come up here as soon as possible. I think you may be able to give us information which we shall be glad to have. Can you tell me where Mr. Carrick is?”
“He is here.”
“I shall be glad to see him too. Can you come up now?”
Susan Lenox said, “Yes.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Going to see them together?” said Frank Abbott.
Lamb nodded.
“Queer set-out. Looks like the girl’s been playing tricks, throwing a poor man over for a rich one, and the fat in the fire. Yes, we’ll see them together. It’s how they are together will tell us what we want to know. Here, Abbott, you stand ready by that glass door and let them in that way. I’ve got a notion that may show us something too.”
As they crossed the lower terrace, Susan said,
“I’m going to tell the truth, Bill.”
“How much of it?” His tone was grim.
“Not Cathy, or the pearls—I can’t.”
“All right. They’ll want to know why you were going to marry him.”
“Bill!”
“He’d been to old Mickleham. It’s bound to come out. Of course you could say you didn’t know anything about it.”
“They wouldn’t believe that.”
“They might.”
“Mrs. Mickleham heard us talking. Oh, Bill—she heard what you said!”
“Do you think she’ll tell?”
“Cyril will make her,” said Susan with wretched conviction.
“All right, we’ll tell the truth. Let’s hope we shame the devil.”
As they came up the terrace steps they saw Frank Abbott at the open glass door, and he saw them. His light eyes looked them over as he beckoned them in. Not the sort of girl you’d expect. Nice chap. I suppose he did it, poor devil. He shut the door behind them and saw them to their chairs. They were both pale. Bill Carrick steady and composed. Susan fine-drawn, the contours of brow and chin emphasized, lips parted, nostrils taut. Frank Abbott thought, “She’d be lovely with a colour”; and then, “She’s lovely now.”
Inspector Lamb’s ox-like gaze dwelt first on Bill and then on Susan. He had three daughters of his own, and was sometimes put to it to conceal a most obstinate softness of heart where girls were concerned. Miss Susan Lenox appeared to be of the same age as his Margy. He felt it a handicap, frowned portentously, and addressed himself to Bill.
“Mr. Carrick, we have certain information which I will ask you to confirm. Until recently you and Miss Lenox were engaged to be married?”
Bill looked him in the eye.
“Miss Lenox and I have been engaged for two years. We are still engaged.”
“Yesterday afternoon Mr. Lucas Dale called upon the Vicar of this parish and asked him to officiate at his marriage to Miss Lenox on Thursday next—”
Susan said quickly and breathlessly,
“It was a dreadful mistake.”
“You mean that Mr. Dale was mistaken in thinking that you would marry him?”
Susan became even paler, and said, “No.”
“Had you quarrelled with Mr. Carrick, and engaged yourself to Mr. Dale on the rebound, as it were?”
Frank Abbott’s hand covered his mouth for a moment. Old Lamb and his “rebound”! Something queer behind all this—something very queer.
Susan said, “No.”
“Now, Miss Lenox, you know you needn’t answer any of these questions. We’re not in court, and there’s no charge—” He paused and added “yet. But I’ll tell you one thing—if you or Mr. Carrick have got your reasons for being afraid of the law, then you’ll do best to say no more than you need. But if you’ve no reason to be afraid of the truth coming out, then the more you help us the more we can help you. We’re not out to hound people down, we’re out to get at the truth. In trying to get at it we’ve got to ask all sorts of questions about people’s private affairs. It isn’t pleasant for you and it isn’t pleasant for us, but it’s got to be done. Anything you tell us that hasn’t got to be used as evidence—well, it’ll be as private as if you only knew it yourself. If you don’t tell us what we want to know, we’re bound to try and find it out, and that means raking round and stirring up the mud. Now are you going to be frank and tell us why you broke off your engagement to Mr. Carrick and when—particularly when?”
Susan had lifted startled eyes to his face. She looked now at Bill. He nodded. She drew a long, difficult breath.
“I’ll tell you as much as I can. There wasn’t any quarrel. Bill and I—” Her voice faltered, but she went on gallantly. “It’s always been Bill and I. Then Mr. Dale came here. He wanted to marry me. I s
aid no. He knew I was engaged to Bill.” For a moment her colour flamed. “He said he always got what he wanted. He found a way to threaten someone—I—cared for. Not Bill—it was nothing to do with Bill.”
“You say he was blackmailing you?”
Susan drew another long breath.
“I suppose so. I said—I would—do it.”
“You agreed to marry him?”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
“Saturday.”
“And you wrote to Mr. Carrick. He got the letter on Monday morning and came down to forbid the banns. Is that right?”
Bill said, “Yes.”
“When did you get here, Mr. Carrick?”
“Soon after six. I didn’t get the letter until late—I’d been out all day.”
“Well, you got down here, and you had a scene with Miss Lenox in the kitchen at the Little House. Mrs. Mickleham walked in on the end of it.”
“Yes—I left.”
“She says you were declaring your intention of going up to King’s Bourne and having it out with Mr. Dale, and Miss Lenox was begging you not to go and saying she had promised. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“She states that she heard you say, ‘Do you want me to kill him, Susan? I think I’m going to.’ Is this also correct?”
“It was what I was feeling like,” said Bill. “I suppose I said it. But I didn’t kill him, Inspector. He was dead when I got here.”
There was a momentary pause. Lamb looked at him and said,
“You did come here then?”
“Oh, yes, I came. I’ll tell you if I may.” He glanced at Abbott. “He can take it down. I’ve nothing to hide—I’d rather say just what happened. I ran out of the house and up the hill as hard as I could go till I got to the second terrace. Then I stopped because I realized that I’d got to pull myself together. Whilst I was standing there I heard the shot. I wasn’t sure where the sound came from at first. Then I went on up to the house. I came up the steps at the end of the terrace by the corner of the study. One of those windows in the recess over there was open and the curtain drawn back. I could see the light. I went and looked in—”
Who Pays the Piper?: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 10