Who Pays the Piper?

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Who Pays the Piper?

An Ernest Lamb Mystery

Patricia Wentworth

CHAPTER I

“I always get what I want,” said Lucas Dale. He stood with his back to the fire, a tall, well setup man in his easy forties, and smiled at his guests.

In the chair beside the fire Mrs. Mickleham, the Vicar's wife, was balancing rather unhandily the glass of sherry which she had not liked to refuse but did not really want to drink. She had the air of a hen confronted by a worm of some unknown species. She was not exactly a teetotaller, but she did not drink wine. Her expression became that of a hen with grave moral scruples.

Next to her, but farther from the fire, a square, dumpy woman with boot-button eyes and short grizzled hair. She wore the roughest of rough tweeds, shoes with square heels and soles half an inch thick, and ribbed hand-knitted stockings, all in a fierce shade of ginger. She was the wife of the thickset man with a thatch of white hair who was on the far side of the fire talking to the cheerful, rosy-faced Vicar. They were Sir John and Lady Vere, and they owned between them as much of the neighbourhood as did not belong by recent purchase to Lucas Dale.

Their daughter, Lydia Hammond, was sitting a little way off talking to Susan Lenox. They made a pretty contrast—Lydia small, dark, vivaciously pretty, with birdlike movements and rich carnation flush; and Susan with her fair, pearly skin where the colour came and went so readily, her dark blue eyes, and the hair like corn which is so ripe that it has begun to turn brown. There was gold in it still when she moved and the light caught the wave.

Lucas Dale was watching the gold. This was where Susan should be—here in the home where she had grown up, and not in the little house down the hill where she waited for a lover without a penny and nursed a fretful ailing aunt. This was Susan's place, in her drawing-room at King's Bourne, entertaining her guests, hostess to his host. But he would put better clothes on her than those shabby old blue tweeds, and give her a better ring, by heck, than the trumpery sapphire she had from Bill Carrick.

Lucas Dale did not have to formulate these thoughts. They were always present in his mind. When he looked at Susan as he was looking now, they merely became more insistent, and his desire for her more clamorous.

He looked away.

Cathleen O'Hara was coming from the door which led by a short length of passage to the library, a little, plain-faced thing with a shy charm for those who loved her. She was Lucas Dale's social secretary, and first cousin to Susan Lenox. Like Susan she had grown up in this house. She worked in it now, but she lived with her mother and Susan in the Little House down the hill. She came up the room now with a key-ring dangling from the little finger of her right hand, and between her two hands a shallow drawer or tray of some dark wood. The tray was lined with black velvet, and, disposed upon that flattering background, there were pearls, and pearls, and pearls.

Cathy walked very carefully indeed. People always made her feel rather nervous, and it would be quite dreadful if she were to knock against anyone or drop the tray. It was a great responsibility to have the handling of such valuable things. It frightened her to think how much they must be worth. She hadn't really liked having to take Mr. Dale's keys and get the pearls out of his safe, but she hadn't liked to say so. As she came into the room she heard him say in that very strong voice of his, “I always get what I want.” Well, he had wanted money, and he had wanted King's Bourne, and he had wanted these pearls. If he wanted anything he would get it.… Something looked out of her thoughts and frightened her so much that she did very nearly drop the tray. But not quite. She brought it carefully to Lucas Dale, and gave a small breath of relief as he lifted it from her hands.

“And the keys, Mr. Dale——” She held them out.

Lucas Dale smiled. He was a big, dark man, very well shaved, very well groomed. He wore a loose brown shooting-coat, not too new. He had well kept hands, but the nails were square and ugly, and the three middle fingers all of the same length. When he smiled he showed strong white teeth. He said in the kind voice which didn't frighten her,

“Keep them, Cathy. I shall want you to put the tray away when we've finished.”

He set it down on a small walnut table. Lady Vere and Mrs. Mickleham both leaned forward, the one intent, the other fluttering. It was Mrs. Mickleham who said,

“Oh, Mr. Dale, what lovely pearls!”

Lucas Dale was looking at Susan. She hadn't moved, or turned her head, or stopped her talk. A rough, pleasurable anger possessed him. It was that way, was it? “All right then, we'll see.” He lifted his voice and called across the room.

“Mrs. Hammond—don't you like pearls? Come along and look at mine.”

He felt a dark amusement at the alacrity with which Lydia responded. She jumped up, pulling Susan with her.

“Don't give them all away till I come!” she cried and came running.

Susan Lenox followed slowly.

Dale was holding up a lovely milky string of perfectly matched pearls, and the Vicar was saying,

“Really, you know, they must be very valuable. I suppose you are well covered by insurance? I shouldn't care to have such valuable things in the house myself.”

Lucas Dale laughed.

“I keep a loaded revolver, and take care that everyone knows it. Anyway what's the good of having a thing if you're going to keep it shut up in a bank? It might just as well be stolen and have done with it. As a matter of fact it would be stolen. I should be letting my own fear of a possible burglary rob me of my everyday enjoyment. Not that I look at these pretty things every day by any means. In fact I don't know when I had them out last, or when I shall have them out again. Perhaps not for months. But I like to feel I've got them under my hand.”

“Pearls ought to be worn,” said Lydia Hammond. She put out her hands with a quick, darting movement, took them, and looped them about her neck. They hung down over her honey-coloured jumper in two rows. Her colour glowed and her dark eyes sparkled. “Oh, I must see how I look!” she cried, and ran down the room to the tall Venice glass between the two end windows.

Sir John watched her go indulgently, but Lady Vere stiffened a little. “Lydia is so impulsive, and I'm sure neither her father nor I——” The thought just stirred, and was gone again.

Lydia gazed ecstatically at her own reflection. This room and the pearls suited each other. She could see the whole of it in the glass. The old ivory panelling, with electric candles in gilt sconces lighting it. The Adam mantelpiece. The dark polished floor with its beautiful Persian rugs. The long windows, curtained in a deep lovely shade of blue. The little group about the fire. “Mummy's getting stouter—she ought to slim.… Cathy is exactly like a mouse. I can't think how she ever plucked up enough spirit to take a secretarial course, but
what
a good thing she did.… Susan and Lucas Dale——Well, Bill Carrick or no Bill Carrick, they make a very good-looking couple. And this is Susan's room. If he had furnished it for her—perhaps he did.… And she ought to be wearing the pearls—perhaps she will. She'd be quite breath-taking. Oh, bother Bill Carrick!”

Lydia's reflection stopped pleasing her. She came running back and pulled off the pearls as she came.

“Too much temptation, Mr. Dale. You'd better take them. But it does seem a shame that they shouldn't be worn.”

“Oh, I hope my wife will wear them some day,” said Lucas Dale.

Lydia had a way of saying the first thing that came into her head. She did it now.

“Oh,
what
a pity I'm married!”

Lady Vere said, “Lydia!” and Mrs. Mickleham said, “Lydia—
dear!”
Sir John Vere chuckled, and Lucas Dale threw back his head and laughed.

Lydia laughed too.

“It isn't fair to come dangling pearls like that at a poor sailor's wife. Freddy's an angel, and he'd give me the world if he'd got it, but he hasn't and he never will have, so it's Woolworths for me and for ever and ever, amen.”

Mrs. Mickleham broke in eagerly.

“And they're really wonderful, are they not?” (Dear Lydia, how heedless—how very heedless! I don't wonder Lady Vere looks vexed. And what Mr. Dale can be
thinking
!) She felt extremely fluttered, but she pressed on. “Do you know, with all these wonderful imitations, I am not sure, Mr. Dale, that I would not rather be spared the anxiety of owning valuable pearls.”

Sir John burst out laughing.

“I don't believe it, Mrs. Mickleham. The woman isn't born who can resist pearls—and did you ever hear of Jenny Baxter who refused the man before he axed her?”

Mrs. Mickleham looked down the long nose which so strongly resembled a hen's beak. Sir John might come of a very old family, but there were times when she considered that he forgot himself. That remark was in decidedly bad taste—like Lydia's. But Lydia was only heedless. Everyone knew that she was devoted to Freddy Hammond, but it was a pity to say things like that, especially when he had to be away so much at sea.

Sir John stopped laughing and addressed his host.

“Seriously, Dale, I wonder you're not afraid of having those things in the house. They're a temptation, that's what they are—and that's the Vicar's department. Hi, Vicar, you'll have to preach him a sermon about it next Sunday.” He only half dropped his voice before adding—“make a nice change.”

All this time Cathleen O'Hara had stood silently by the table which held the tray. Lydia pounced on her now.

“Come along, Cathy, let's be tempted together. What's your fancy? Me for the black pearls. Oh, Mr. Dale—how divine!”

“I shall count them before you go, Mrs. Hammond, so take care.”