Who Pays the Piper?: An Ernest Lamb Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  “How clever of you!” said Mrs. O’Hara. “You must really have a very interesting life. Please do go on. It is all most interesting, though of course very shocking too. I am really most disappointed in Mr. Phipson. Such a polite little man, though I must say he always did remind me of a ferret—and you can’t trust them, can you? I was once quite badly bitten by a jill ferret belonging to William Cole’s father. But pray do go on.”

  “Well, I can only tell you what I think. I think Phipson realized the danger he was in from Cora de Lisle and went off to silence her. Robert kept his motor-bicycle and a helmet and goggles in a shed in the yard. Phipson had only to slip on a Burberry and his best friend wouldn’t know him. Now I can stop thinking and give you facts. He rode Robert’s bicycle into Ledlington, hit Miss de Lisle over the head with the poker, and rode back. We’ve got an errand-boy who saw him turn out of Gladstone Villas. He noticed the number of the bike—boys do, you know. But what puts it fair and square on Phipson is just the lucky chance that Cora de Lisle had spilt the dregs of a bottle of brandy on the floor of her room. She was packing—running away, I expect—and the whole place was littered. Well, one of the things on the floor was a fag-end of lipstick, and the man who killed her had trodden it into the puddle of brandy. Most of it went into the carpet, but there was enough on his shoe to give us a cast-iron case.”

  Cathy said “Oh!” and shuddered again. Mrs. O’Hara sighed.

  “It only shows how careful you have to be—I mean if you are committing a crime—and of course none of us would. It does show, doesn’t it, that even with the greatest care it can never really be safe. I expect Mr. Phipson thought he had been much too clever to be found out, but being a criminal can never really be safe, and it must be a continual strain upon the nerves. And now perhaps we had better talk about something else. Cathy darling, you look very pale—she is sensitive, Mr. Abbott. And there was something I really did want to ask you. The moment I heard your name I wondered whether you could be related to an old friend of mine, Francis Abbott. We used to dance together in 1914, just before the war. He was reading law, but of course he joined up, and he was killed in 1915. Tall, fair, and very good-looking, but you remind me of him—”

  Bill Carrick, opening the door in time to overhear this compliment, surprised an unmistakable gleam of humour in Frank Abbott’s light blue eyes. He supplied a nod and a grin himself. Abbott said,

  “I had an Uncle Francis who was killed in the war, but I’m afraid I don’t remember him.”

  “So nice, and so very good-looking,” murmured Mrs. O’Hara—“but there is quite a likeness.” She turned to Bill. “Where is Susan, dear boy?”

  Bill made a face.

  “Entangled with Mrs. Mickleham. I fled.”

  After a little talk Frank Abbott made his farewells. Cathy’s cold hand just touched him and withdrew, Mrs. O’Hara smiled graciously, and Bill shook him warmly by the hand. The door closed upon him.

  He stood at the gate and looked up and down the village street. Away to the right Mr. Cox the butcher stood on his doorstep, a stout figure in a blue apron, conversing with Mrs. Green. Away to the left young Mrs. Gill was wheeling her twins down the hill in a double pram. If he had been a native of Netherbourne he would have known at a glance that she had been up at High Farm visiting her aunt Mrs. Paige, and that it was a hundred to nothing she had half a dozen new-laid eggs and a pot of honey tucked away under the pram cover. Over the way from behind a neat curtain of spotted muslin old Mrs. Bogg was watching him, as she watched everyone who came and went along the street. It was twelve years since she had set foot to the ground, and fifteen since she had been downstairs, but she knew everything that went on. She could have told Detective Sergeant Frank Abbott that Miss Susan and the Vicar’s wife had turned in at that very gate a matter of seven minutes ago—and Mrs. Mickleham beginning to cry right out in front where everyone could see her, and wouldn’t go into the house not for nothing Miss Susan could do, so they went round into the garden, and unless they’d gone up to King’s Bourne they’d be there yet. But since Frank Abbott did not even know of Mrs. Bogg’s existence he had to do without the information. She thought him a well-looking young man for a detective, and quite the gentleman. She went on watching him, and all at once she saw him turn about and go up round the house the way Miss Susan and Mrs. Mickleham had gone.

  It was the sound of a rending sniff that made Frank Abbott turn his back on the street and go round into the garden. He met Mrs. Mickleham hurrying like a hen, with her nose very red and her long neck poking. She sniffed again as she passed him, and dabbed at her face with a wet crumpled ball of a handkerchief. Frank went on round the corner, and came upon Susan disappearing into the scullery. She came face to face with him as she turned to shut the door.

  “Oh—Mr. Abbott—what is it?”

  He said with a trace of bitterness in his voice, “I’m not always on duty, Miss Lenox,” and saw her change colour.

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “You won’t be when you hear that I came to say good-bye.”

  She seemed a little taken aback. He thought, “She didn’t expect that. Why should she? None of them expected it. I don’t really know them—I’m just pushing in.”

  She said gravely, “That was very nice of you. Won’t you come in?”

  But in the kitchen he stopped. It was, after all, the most suitable place for her to entertain a policeman. He said,

  “I’ve been in already—I’ve said good-bye to the others. I just wanted to see you.”

  Susan looked at him. The strained patience had gone from her eyes. The deep blue was serene again, but he saw a faint distress just touch the surface. That was all he could ever hope for—just to touch the surface of her thought. The deeps were not for him. And then, before she could say anything, he was talking as if they were intimates.

  “It’s going to be all right now—for you and Carrick. You’ll be getting married.”

  She said, “Yes.”

  “You’ll be happy—”

  “Yes.” Just the one word, gravely and sweetly.

  “King’s Bourne will be yours now. Shall you live there?”

  “Oh, no—I’m not taking it.”

  “But it’s yours—Dale left you everything.”

  She shook her head.

  “We couldn’t take it. Bill would hate it, and so should I.”

  He looked at her with a curious feeling of pride. If you put someone on a pedestal, you want to see her stay there. He said, out of his thought of a moment ago,

  “I’m pushing in—asking things I’ve no business to ask—”

  “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Because I’m a policeman and it’s my job to push into people’s private affairs.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Abbott.” She paused and added gently, “You have been kind. You didn’t really think that Bill had shot Mr. Dale, did you?”

  “No—I didn’t.”

  “I could feel you not thinking it—and it was such a help. I could feel you being friendly. I’ve wanted to thank you.”

  He was silent.

  She said, “We are going to have a little flat until we can build. Not London—somewhere outside. It will be very small, but we want to see our friends. Will you come?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  Susan put out her hand. She smiled. The distress was gone. Bill’s job—the little flat—friends coming and going—blue skies and happy times—

  “I’ll send you the address,” she said.

  Frank Abbott took the hand, held it for a moment, and then, most astonishingly, bent his head and kissed it. He stood up, not flushed but pale, and went without a word.

  Susan was still looking at her hand when Bill came in.

  “I couldn’t think where you’d got to.”

  “Nor could I,” said Susan.

  “That fellow Abbott was here—came to say good-bye. Nice chap. I’ve an idea he stood up for us to old Lamb. Pity you missed him.�
��

  “I didn’t,” said Susan. She could feel the kiss on her hand.

  “Oh, then he told you all about the inquest.”

  “He never mentioned it, darling.”

  Bill stared.

  “Then what did you talk about?”

  There was the faintest spark in the dark blue eyes.

  “He asked me a lot of questions.”

  “Oh, he did? What sort of questions?”

  “About when we were going to be married, and whether I was happy now—he seemed to want me to be happy—and whether I was going to take King’s Bourne and the money—”

  “He had a nerve!”

  She shook her head.

  “It wasn’t like that. He wanted us to be happy, and he’d have hated us to take the money. He’s coming to see us when we get our flat.”

  “Oh, he is, is he?” Bill put his arms round her. “Woman—have you been flirting with this young man?”

  The spark became slightly more pronounced.

  “Darling, I don’t!”

  “You do something,” said Bill gloomily. “Whatever it is, it does them in.”

  “I don’t mean to. And, Bill, he’s nice. He’ll be friends—he really will.”

  “We’ve got to get married first. How soon will you marry me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. Next week—Wednesday or Thursday. It depends how long it takes to get a licence. We’ll go up to town first thing on Monday morning and find out.”

  Susan looked away.

  “Bill, it’s too soon—”

  “Do you want to stay on here—to have everyone talking to you and about you, and wanting to know about King’s Bourne and that damned money of Dale’s—and old Mother Mickleham going on like a sick hen every time she meets you, and saying the Vicar thought it was her duty to try and get me hanged? I tell you I won’t have it! The sooner you’re gone, the sooner they’ll stop talking.” He dropped his head upon her shoulder. His voice came to her muffled and broken. “Don’t you want to marry me? Susan!”

  All the pain came back like a sudden breaking wave. They remembered how nearly, how very nearly, it had drowned them. They held each other desperately and hard. Susan felt the tears run hot and blinding. She said,

  “Yes—yes—let’s go away. Oh, Bill! Let’s get married and go right away and never come back!”

  THE END

  About The Author

  PATRICIA WENTWORTH was born Dora Amy Elles in India in 1877 (not 1878 as has sometimes been stated). She was first educated privately in India, and later at Blackheath School for Girls. Her first husband was George Dillon, with whom she had her only child, a daughter. She also had two stepsons from her first marriage, one of whom died in the Somme during World War I.

  Her first novel was published in 1910, but it wasn’t until the 1920’s that she embarked on her long career as a writer of mysteries. Her most famous creation was Miss Maud Silver, who appeared in 32 novels, though there were a further 33 full-length mysteries not featuring Miss Silver—the entire run of these is now reissued by Dean Street Press.

  Patricia Wentworth died in 1961. She is recognized today as one of the pre-eminent exponents of the classic British golden age mystery novel.

  By Patricia Wentworth

  and available from Dean Street Press

  The Benbow Smith Mysteries

  Fool Errant

  Danger Calling

  Walk with Care

  Down Under

  The Frank Garrett Mysteries

  Dead or Alive

  Rolling Stone

  The Ernest Lamb Mysteries

  The Blind Side

  Who Pays the Piper?

  Pursuit of a Parcel

  Standalones

  The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith

  The Red Lacquer Case

  The Annam Jewel

  The Black Cabinet

  The Dower House Mystery

  The Amazing Chance

  Hue and Cry

  Anne Belinda

  Will-o’-the-Wisp

  Beggar’s Choice

  The Coldstone

  Kingdom Lost

  Nothing Venture

  Red Shadow

  Outrageous Fortune

  Touch and Go

  Fear by Night

  Red Stefan

  Blindfold

  Hole and Corner

  Mr. Zero

  Run!

  Weekend with Death

  Silence in Court

  Patricia Wentworth

  Pursuit of a Parcel

  The parcel was addressed in sprawling capitals to “Antony Rossiter, Esq. By hand.” There was no more address than that.

  A SEA-FARING MAN brings an unassuming brown paper parcel to the offices of a distinguished law-firm. It soon plunges intelligence operative Antony Rossiter into the lethal underground of international espionage, military intelligence and murder.

  An inexplicable prowler is disturbed in a modest London villa during a lull in the great raids; young Delia Merridew meets a young man in her moonlit garden; an unobserved parachutist drops to the earth of occupied Holland. Now Scotland Yard’s Inspector Ernest Lamb and Detective Frank Abbott must unearth the truth before an implacable enemy claims more than one life in this wartime mystery.

  Pursuit of a Parcel was originally published in 1942. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  “When I pick up a book by Patricia Wentworth I think, now to enjoy myself—and I always do.” Mary Dell, Daily Mirror

  Pursuit of a Parcel—Chapter One

  In October 1940 two interviews took place, one in Berlin and one in London. As a result, some lives were risked and some were lost. Inconsiderable against the mass wastage of war, but of interest to the persons concerned. There were also large issues.

  The first interview took place in Berlin.

  Cornelius Rossiter, sometimes called Cornelis Roos, walked into the inner office and swung up his hand in the universal salute. “Heil Hitler!”

  The door closed at his back.

  “Heil Hitler!” said the man behind the desk—a small man hunched in his chair, thin and sallow of cheek, with deep eye-sockets under brows as symmetrically arched as a woman’s. The hands were like those of a woman too—a woman or an artist—long, and white, and finely kept. The eyes beneath the arched brows were of a dark intensity beyond belief. They were as powerful and impersonal as an arc-light, and a good deal more intelligent. They rested for a moment upon Cornelius, whilst the right hand moved amongst a pile of papers. Then a smooth voice said,

  “Ah—Cornelis Roos—”

  “At your orders, sir.”

  He watched the moving hand. It picked up one paper and rejected another. It was as if the fingertips could see. The eyes had not left his face. The voice said, honey-smooth, “I wonder—”

  Cornelius said nothing. He stood a yard inside the door. A big man, heavily built, with a large pale face, light eyes, and colourless hair. There was no grey in it yet, though his forty years had provided him with plenty of excuses for going grey. His expression of simple stolidity had served him well in the past. It served him now. He took refuge behind it, and waited for the other man to break the silence left by that “I wonder—”

  The silence was a long one. Some men crack under a silence like that. The eyes which looked at Cornelius had seen many men break.

  Cornelius stood there, respectful and stolid. The trouble was that if he had really been as stolid as he looked, the man behind the desk would have had no use for him, and he would not have been here to report—or to be reported on.

  The voice said at last, low and quietly, entering the silence rather than breaking it, “I wonder whether you are at my orders—or at those of someone else.” On the last words there was hardly any sound at all.

  Cornelius said, “I am at your orders.”

  At once a liveliness leapt into the voice, the features, the hands.
There was flashing gesticulation, a jerk of anger. “Two masters, and I’m one of them—is that what you are going to say? Something for each of us, and pay from both? It’s done, you know, and it’s been done with me—but not for long.” The hand with the paper was thrust forward as if it held a weapon. “Do you think I use people and don’t check up on them? This information has been tested, and it is false. Do you think you can get away with it?”

  Cornelius moved for the first time. He came forward in a lounging manner and stretched out his hand for the paper. After a glance he laid it down.

  “To the best of my knowledge and belief it was accurate—at the time.”

  “What was your source of information?”

  “Confidential of course. If I give it away I shall have killed the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

  The white womanish hand came out and took the paper again.

  “You’ve played a game with me. Nobody gets away with that. You’re done.”

  The paper was dropped, as if to illustrate the point. The hand went out towards an electric bell.

  Cornelius went back and stood against the door.

  “Stop!” he said.

  The hand remained poised, the eyes watchful. The voice said, “Why?”

  “Because you’d better,” said Cornelius grimly. “No, I’m not armed. I’m not a fool, to come in here with arms on me. But I’ve got something to say, and it’s going to be worth your while to listen. I know as well as you that I can’t get out of here alive unless you say so. But it’s going to be worth your while to say so—I only want you to listen. I’ll put my hands up and keep them up if you like.”