Who Pays the Piper? (21 page)

“It has nothing to do with me. Please stop talking about it, Mr. Phipson.”

“Oh, but I am afraid I can't—I can't do that. You see, Miss Lenox, it is very important indeed that you should accept this bequest.” He leaned forward a little. “If you will allow me——”

Susan said, “No.”

She heard him make a small, vexed sound, and wondered at his pertinacity. It appeared that he was not at all prepared to let the subject drop.

“If you please, Miss Lenox, I would just like to clarify the position. There is this large fortune which is actually and legally yours. If you refuse it, what happens to it? There are no relatives—I have heard Mr. Dale say he had not a relation in the world. It will revert to the Crown.”

“I don't care what happens to it,” said Susan bluntly.

Mr. Phipson looked a good deal shocked.

“But it is your duty to care, Miss Lenox. Consider for a moment. Mr. Dale in leaving everything to you placed a very great responsibility upon your shoulders. There were bequests which he should have made—which he might have made if he had taken a little more time to consider. I happen to know that he intended to consider these bequests at leisure after his marriage.”

Susan said steadily, “It was all a mistake. I should never have married him. That is why I can't take the money.”

Inconceivable folly—really quite inconceivable. He made the same vexed sound again.

“I hope you will hear me out. You are, if I may say so, in the position of a trustee. If you refuse, those people who would have received bequests will lose their money. Your aunt, Mrs. O'Hara, is one of them. Cathy is another. He intended to provide for them, but had not decided on the exact amounts. If you refuse, you will deprive them of the benefits he intended.”

Susan flared.

“If he intended it, why didn't he do it? And how do you know what he intended?”

Mr. Phipson looked so smug that she could have slapped him.

“I was more in his confidence than you seem to think. You must understand that this will was in the nature of a gesture. He wished, I think, to impress you, to be able to come to you and say, ‘Look at this—I have left you everything.' He did tell you that didn't he?”

The anger died out of Susan, the cold stayed. Yes, Lucas Dale had done that. She remained silent.

Mr. Phipson said, “I see he did. It was a gesture. No one would really leave so large a fortune to a single person and make no provision for those who had served him. He intended to make a new will in the immediate future. Naturally, he could have had no idea that for him there was to be no future.”

Susan shuddered. The words called up a picture of Lucas Dale as she had last seen him—a dominant, vital figure, proud, handsome, sure of his power to take what he wanted from life. No, he hadn't expected to die almost before the ink on that will was dry.

Mr. Phipson went on speaking.

“You see now what I meant when I said that you were in the position of a trustee towards those people who would have received bequests under the will he intended to make.”

Susan felt as if the room had grown smaller, as if the walls were closing in. The crowding furniture stood about her and Montague Phipson and closed them in. She was too near him. It was like being in a trap. She had been in a trap from which Dale's death had released her. She saw the will now mainly as another trap, closing down. With a vehement revulsion she cried,

“Who are these people—besides Cathy and Aunt Milly? How do I know that he wanted to leave them anything? And how do you know? What has it got to do with you?”

She had a feeling that the room shook. And then that some violent clash had shaken her. And then that it was her own anger—because she wasn't used to being angry like this. It couldn't have anything to do with Fibs, because he was looking at her quite mildly through his thick lenses and saying,

“There was Mrs. O'Hara, and Cathy—I told you that. And a sum for Mr. Vincent Bell, though he had, I believe, not quite made up his mind about that. Some provision for a woman who had been his wife, a Miss de Lisle—I suppose you knew that he had been married. Money bequests to any servants who might have been with him for more than a year. And—well, I have no reason to conceal it—a substantial recognition of my own services.”

Something in Susan's mind gave a small mocking laugh and said, “Now we're getting there!” There was a glint of satire behind the deep blue of the eyes she turned upon him.

“I see.” She got up rather quickly. “I can't take the money. I don't think we'd better go on discussing it, because it's no use. I can't take it.”

Mr. Phipson got up too. He fumbled in a pocket and brought out a large square envelope which he held towards her without speaking. Susan took it, lifted the flap, which was not fastened down, and drew out something small in a wrapping of tissue paper. She looked at it doubtfully.

“What is this?”

Mr. Phipson took it from her, opened it, and displayed in the middle of a tissue paper square a small, fine linen handkerchief. An initial S was visible upon one of the up-turned corners.

He said, “I think this is yours,” and watched her colour fade.

“I don't know——”

“I am sure you do. Even I know that it is one of a set Cathy gave you at Christmas. I have watched her embroidering the initials.”

She put out her hand to take it, and he went back a step.

“You don't ask me where I found it.”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters very much. Or shall I say that it would matter very much if Inspector Lamb were to know where I found it? There is no need for him to know.”

Susan looked at him. One of those jointed insects that you turn up under a big stone—pale, brittle, and faintly repulsive, but quite, quite harmless. Fibs—just how harmless was Fibs? They had always laughed at him——

She said firmly, “Where did you find it?”

Mr. Phipson said, “Ah!”

“Where did you find it?”

“You don't know?”

“I shouldn't ask you if I did.”

“You didn't miss it?”

“Why should I?”

Mr. Phipson said, “True—you would not necessarily know where you had dropped it.”

“Where did I drop it?” said Susan, and wondered why her lips should feel so stiff.

He looked at her—pale—brittle—faintly unpleasant.

“You dropped it when Mr. Dale was shot. It was found beside his body.”

Susan looked back at him. He was still there, but she could not see him, because the air had thickened between them—thickened and grown dark. She moved away from him, a step at a time, very carefully, until she touched the sofa. She sat down, leaned back into the corner, and heard him say,

“I am afraid that was a shock. Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water?”

She heard herself say “No.”

“Are you sure? I will wait until you are quite yourself again.”

Susan shut her eyes and called up all the strength and courage she possessed. The darkness passed from her eyes and from her mind. She said in quite a clear, steady voice,

“It was horrible to hear you say that. But I don't know what you mean. I never went into the room. My handkerchief couldn't have been there.”

Mr. Phipson cleared his throat.

“Miss Lenox, this is waste of time. Consider whether it would not be better to be frank with me. You are doubtless aware that Raby found Mr. Dale at a quarter to seven. He did not wait to make any examination, but rushed upstairs to fetch me in a state of horror and distress. We entered the room together, and as I bent over the body I saw this handkerchief lying crumpled up near the feet. I do not know whether Raby noticed it or not—I do not think that he did. He was groaning aloud and averting his head. I recognized the handkerchief at once and put it in my pocket. If I were not your friend, would I have run this considerable risk? Had you not better be frank with me and let me help you?”

Susan said, “I couldn't have dropped it. I wasn't there.”

“Somebody dropped it,” said Mr. Phipson. “Cathy gave you the handkerchiefs. Perhaps she picked it up—perhaps she dropped it.”

Susan said, “She was ill—Cathy was ill.”

“Somebody dropped that handkerchief,” said Mr. Phipson.

There was a long silence. Susan looked down into her lap and saw the knuckles whiten where one hand clasped the other. She thought quick and clear, “I didn't drop it. Somebody dropped it. Somebody wore my shoes. Cathy? Aunt Milly?
Impossible.”
Was it impossible? She had come to the place where possible and impossible met, mixed, parted, and came together again like the reflections in broken water. She could not tell real from unreal, unreal from real. Two things emerged with clarity—the handkerchief, and Fibs who had brought it to her. Now just why had he brought it? And why had he spoken about the will first—the will and Lucas Dale's intention of recognizing his secretary's valuable services? She thought Mr. Montague Phipson looked upon her as the heir to that intention. She thought he was there to drive a bargain. She thought she was to make Lucas Dale's intention good. She wondered if it had ever existed, and what she was going to do about it. Suppose she snatched the handkerchief out of his hand and went straight up the hill to Inspector Lamb. Cathy—Aunt Milly—she couldn't do that. She didn't know what she could do.

She lifted her head and said, “Why?”

“Why, Miss Lenox?”

Susan spread out her hands.

“All this—the will—the handkerchief. What is it all about—what does it mean—what do you want?”

He smiled a polite and formal smile.

“I want to help you, Miss Lenox. I am your friend. I should like to know that we are to work together in friendly association. I am——” He cleared his throat again. “Frankly, Miss Lenox, I am without any resources to fall back upon. Mr. Dale's death has been a great blow to me. If I could feel assured of a continuance of my present salary and something on account of the legacy which Mr. Dale intended me to have——”

The sheer impudence of it took Susan's breath away. She came to her feet with the strength of anger.

“Mr. Phipson!”

He said, “Careful, Miss Lenox—I really do advise you to be careful. Once I have laid this evidence before the police there will be no turning back.”

Susan caught her breath, caught back the words which that breath should have carried. She could hold them now, but once spoken they would be beyond recall. And if she made this man her enemy, what would be the end of it? She didn't know. No one could possibly tell. With a very great effort she forced her voice to a quiet tone.

“Mr. Phipson, I don't know what to say. You must give me a little time.”

He echoed her words with a difference.

“A little time? Oh, certainly, Miss Lenox, but it would really have to be a little time. I will call again tomorrow.”

CHAPTER XXXI

Susan shut the front door behind Montague Phipson and stood there leaning against it. The solid, old-fashioned brass door-knob was cold in her hand. She didn't know how long it was before she straightened herself and turned. She was not faint. Faintness would have been a relief. She went slowly through the hall and up the stair to where her door faced Cathy's across the narrow passage.

Cathy's door was ajar, and Susan could hear her moving. With sudden energy she pushed open the door and went in, shutting it behind her. Cathy, on her knees before a pulled-out drawer, looked round and showed a startled face. She was still exceedingly pale, and her eyes had smudges under them. She said rather quickly,

“I was turning out this drawer.”

Susan sat down on the bed. She was so tired that it would be easy just to sit here—pull up the pillows and lean back—leave unsaid the things she had come here to say. It would be easy, but she couldn't do it—she had to go on.

She said, “Cathy—”

“Yes?”

“Cathy, are you all right again?”

“Yes—I am, really—you needn't worry about me.”

Susan shook her head. There was more to worry about than Cathy's health. She said,

“Then I want to ask you about Saturday. I want to know how much you heard.”

Cathy bent over a little pile of underclothes. Her hand shook as she picked them up one by one and laid them back in the drawer. She said,

“I fainted.”

“Yes, I know you did, but you didn't go on fainting. Mr. Dale and I were talking. I want to know how much you heard.”

Cathy looked over her shoulder. It was an involuntary frightened movement.

“Please—don't let's talk about it.”

“Do you suppose I want to talk about it? I've got to. I've got to know how much you heard.”

Cathy began to tremble. She had been kneeling. She got up and came towards the bed.

“Oh, Susan, I wouldn't have let you do it—I wouldn't really.”

“Then you did hear what he said.”

Cathy sank down at the foot of the bed. She had a defenceless look which went to Susan's heart. She said in a whispering voice,

“I couldn't let you do it, could I—even if he sent me to prison.”

Susan looked at her and wondered. Was it Cathy? Could it have been Cathy? In anything except a nightmare the answer would be “No”. But they had got far from daylight and its ways, and in a dream like this any impossible thing might wear a possible shape. She said,

“You heard everything. You knew I was going to marry him.”

Cathy drooped against the bed foot. Her hands plucked at one another.

“I couldn't have let you do it. Oh, Susan, I
couldn't
”!

“What could you have done?” said Susan wearily. Then, with sudden energy, “Cathy, what
did
you do?”

Cathy sat up.

“I don't know what you mean.”