Duplicate Death

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘Oh, not quite as little as that!’ said Timothy cheerfully. ‘I know, for instance, that at some time or another you’ve taken a nasty knock which has led you to suppose that the world is against you. Also that you have quarrelled with your relations; and that beneath your not-entirely convincing air of having been hard-boiled early in life you are more than a little scared.’

  ‘Scared? Why should I be scared?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘That,’ he replied, ‘I do not know, and do not propose to ask you. I am quite content to wait for the day when your woman’s instinct tells you that I am a fit and proper person to confide in.’

  She rose abruptly to her feet, gathering up her gloves and her handbag, and saying: ‘I must go. I’d no idea it was so late. Don’t come with me! I – I’d rather you didn’t!’

  Three

  The house in Charles Street which was rented by Mrs Haddington differed externally hardly at all from its neighbours, but was distinguished internally, according to young Mr Harte, by an absence of individual taste which made it instantly remarkable. Nothing in the furnishing of its lofty rooms suggested occupation. From the careful arrangement of expensive flowers in the various bowls to the selection of illustrated periodicals, neatly laid out on a low table before the drawing-room fire, the house reminded the visitor of nothing so much as an advertisement of some high-class furnishing emporium. Sofas and chairs of the most luxurious order were upholstered in the same material which masked the tall windows, and were provided with cushions which, embellished with large tassels, were exactly placed, and incessantly plumped up, either by her butler, or by Mrs Haddington herself.

  The entrance hall and the staircase were carpeted with eau-de-nil pile. A Regency sidetable stood under a mirror framed in gilt, and was flanked by two Sheraton chairs whose seats were upholstered in the exact shade of green to match the carpet. A door on the right of this broad passage opened into the dining-room – mahogany and wine-red brocade – and beyond the discreet door which gave access to the basement-stairs was one leading into an apartment built out at the back of the house and furnished as a library. Two tall windows, fitted with interior shutters, and draped with curtains of studious brown velvet, looked out at rightangles to the dining-room on to a yard transformed into a paved garden with a sundial and several flower-beds, which displayed, at the appropriate seasons, either daffodils, or geraniums. Standard authors in handsome bindings lined the walls; a massive knee-hole desk, bearing a blotter covered in tooled leather, a mahogany knife-box converted to accommodate writing-paper and envelopes, and a silver ink-stand, stood between the two windows; and all the chairs were covered with oxhide leather. Above this apartment, and having access on to the half-landing between the ground and first-floors, was a similar room, dedicated to the mistress of the establishment, and known to everyone except Miss Birtley (who persisted in calling it Mrs Haddington’s sitting-room) as the Boudoir. It was of the same proportions as the room beneath, but decorated in quite another style. Diaphanous folds of nylon veiled the two windows by day, and opulently gathered ones of lilac brocade, drawn across the shallow embrasures, shut out the night. A low table of burr walnut, bearing an alabaster cigarette-box and an ashtray en suite, stood beside a day-bed furnished with cushions of lilac and rose silk. There were two arm-chairs, upholstered in lilac satin; several others, described by their creators as incidental, filling gaps against the panelled walls; a carpet of purple pile; and, in the corner between the door and the first of the two windows, a spindle-legged table bearing on it a telephone (cream enamel) and a reading-lamp, shaded in rose silk. Thoughtfully placed beside this table was a low, cabriole-legged chair, its lozenge back and sprung seat uphol stered in the same delicate shade of lilac brocade which hung beside the windows. The floral decoration of the room was provided by an alabaster bowl on a torchére pedestal, filled in summer with roses or carnations, and, in winter, by honesty and sea-lavender.

  The first floor of the house was wholly occupied by the drawing-room (Empire), which was an L-shaped apartment, originally two rooms connected by an archway. Above this were the respective bedrooms of Mrs and Miss Haddington, with their bathrooms; and above this again, for two floors, was a vast terra incognita inhabited by Mrs Haddington’s staff.

  Miss Beulah Birtley, whose errand on this February afternoon had been to discover whether there existed in London a firm willing to supply fresh caviare at a cut price for a party of fifty-odd persons, returned to Charles Street to discover her employer in the drawing-room, sustaining a visit from her sole and unmarried sister, Miss Violet Pickhill.

  There was a slight physical resemblance between the two ladies, both being lean, long-limbed, and of an aquiline cast of countenance; but it would have been hard to have found a more ill-assorted pair. Mrs Haddington was as well-groomed as she was well-dressed; and her thinness, coupled as it was with considerable height, inspired dressmakers to congratulate her on her wonderful figure. Her beautifully waved hair showed no grey streaks, being of a uniform copper, and if it occasionally seemed to be rather darker towards the roots this was a blemish which could be, and was, very easily rectified. Her eyes were of too cold a blue for beauty, but her features were good, and if there was a hint of ruthlessness about her tinted lips this was generally disguised by the social smile which had become so mechanical that she frequently assumed it when addressing persons, such as her secretary, whom it was quite unnecessary for her to charm.

  Miss Pickhill, some years her senior, had no artificial graces. She was shorter and thinner than her sister, and both her complexion and her hair were her own. The one was non-existent, and the other had faded from gold to dusty straw, here and there streaked with grey. She wore clothes of good material but tasteless design, lived in a gaunt house in one of the roads leading off Putney Hill, which she had inherited from her father, and interested herself in Parish matters, the Girl Guides, the Women’s Conservative Association, and various other worthy enterprises. No one could fathom what attracted her to the house in Charles Street, for she plainly disapproved of everything she saw there, and received no encouragement to continue her visits. The truth was that she was not at all attracted, but had been brought up to know where her duty lay. She said that it was her duty to keep an eye on her sister. She also considered it to be her duty to utter the most blighting criticisms on Mrs Haddington’s manners, appearance, morals, and ambitions; and to prophesy a rapid descent to the gutter for her niece, who had been brought up, she said, to think of nothing but painting her face and running after young men.

  She was engaged on this fruitful topic when Beulah returned from having tea with young Mr Harte, and had just informed Mrs Haddington (whom she persisted in calling Lily in the teeth of every injunction to alter this commonplace name to Lilias) that she would live to rue the day when she sent her daughter to be educated at a school in Switzerland, instead of rearing her to be a useful member of society, when Beulah walked into the drawing-room.

  Mrs Haddington betrayed no pleasure at the sight of her secretary. ‘Well?’ she said sharply. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you,’ said Beulah, laying a scrap of silk on the arm of her chair, ‘but this is the nearest I can get to the stuff you gave me to match.’

  ‘Well, it won’t do,’ said Mrs Haddington, contemptuously flicking the scrap with one pointed, blood-red fingernail. ‘Really, I should have thought you could have seen that for yourself!’

  ‘I did, but I thought I’d better bring you a sample of it. And caviare is the same price everywhere.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder what I pay you for!’ remarked Mrs Haddington.

  Beulah flushed, and folded her lips.

  ‘Exactly what I have always said!’ remarked Miss Pickhill. ‘What a healthy woman of your age, Lily, wants with a secretary, or whatever Miss Birtley calls herself, to run her errands for her is more than I can fathom. Caviare, indeed! More of your grand parties, I suppose! Enough to make poor Father turn in his gra
ve!’

  ‘That will do!’ Mrs Haddington said, dismissing Beulah.

  ‘Will you want me any more today?’ Beulah asked.

  Mrs Haddington hesitated. She was taking a party to the theatre, and dining afterwards at London’s newest and smartest restaurant, so that there really was nothing at all for her secretary to do. ‘No, you can go,’ she said at last. ‘And please don’t be late in the morning!’

  ‘I never am,’ replied Beulah. ‘Good-night!’

  ‘A very impudent manner that girl has,’ said Miss Pickhill, as the door closed behind Beulah. ‘Not but what you bring it on yourself, with your slave-driving ways. I suppose she’ll be leaving next!’

  ‘Oh, no, she won’t!’ replied Mrs Haddington, with a slight laugh.

  ‘Yes, that’s what you say, but nowadays girls won’t put up with the way you treat them, and so I warn you!’

  ‘You needn’t worry: I know too much about Miss Beulah Birtley for her to leave me in a hurry. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s time I went up to change. I have a theatre-party.’

  Miss Pickhill said severely: ‘Theatres and balls! You don’t seem to me to think of anything else. Where you get the money from to pay for all this wicked extrava gance is more than I can tell! It’s no use saying Hubert left you very welloff: he didn’t leave you with a fortune; and, what’s more, if he had it would be taken away from you by the Government. Sometimes I lie awake for hours worrying about the way you live, Lily, and expecting to read in the paper any minute that you’ve been had up for cheating the Income Tax, or running a gaming-house.’

  ‘Running a gaming-house! Really, Violet – !’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it beyond you,’ said Miss Pickhill darkly. ‘You can fool all these grand friends of yours, I daresay, but you can’t fool me! There’s very little you’d stop at, Lily. You’ve always been the same: out for what you can get, and never mind how! I shall never forget how you threw poor Charlie Thirsk over because Hubert came along with twice his income. Well, I’m sure I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but I never did like that man, and no more did Father. He always said there was something not quite straight about him, and as for the people he went about with – Well, there’s only one word to describe them, and that’s flashy! Like that Mr Seaton-Carew I’m always running into here!’

  ‘There’s a remedy for that,’ retorted Mrs Haddington. ‘Don’t come here!’

  ‘Oh, I know very well I’m not wanted!’ said Miss Pickhill, in no way abashed. ‘But blood’s thicker than water, and I know my duty, Lily!’

  With these words she offered her cheek to her sister, a courtesy which Mrs Haddington acknowledged by touching it with her own, said that there was no need to ring for the butler, since she was quite capable of seeing herself out, and went away. Mrs Haddington was just about to go up to her bedroom when the door opened again, and her daughter strolled into the room.

  Cynthia Haddington was nineteen years old, and a girl of quite outstanding beauty. She was dazzlingly fair, with large, china-blue eyes, and hair of shining gold. A slender figure, exquisite tailoring, and the discreet use of mascara on brows and lashes brought her appearance to perfection. An expensive finishing-school, while adding very little to her mental attainments, had taught her to move with more grace than was often to be seen amongst her contemporaries; she was a good dancer; she skated well; played a moderate game of tennis; and had a good enough seat on a horse to show to advantage on the Row, if not in the hunting-field. Her disposition was uneven; nor did she give the impression of being one who enjoyed robust health. During her first season she had flagged rather frequently; but she seemed to be growing accustomed to late hours and town-life, and was beginning to develop astonishing recuperative powers. When she was doing what she liked, she was gay and good-humoured, but when anything happened to thwart her plans she was inclined to fall into what her mother called a nerve-storm and everyone else called tantrums. Those who disliked her said that she was wholly devoid of intellect, but this was unjust. Whenever she had a few minutes to spare between her various engagements she would turn over the pages of society journals, even reading the captions under the pictures; and she never entered her bedroom without turning on the radio.

  She came in now, looking tired, but extremely smart in navy-blue, with a tiny hat on her head, and very high heels to her shoes, and uttered in the slightly adenoidal voice acquired through constant study of the delivery in vogue amongst her favourite announcers: ‘Oh, Mummy, too sickening! I walked into Aunt Violet on the doorstep! I do think she’s too lethal! Why do you let her absolutely infest the house?’

  ‘Because I can’t stop her,’ replied Mrs Haddington. Her eyes ran over the charming figure before her, and softened. ‘That frock suits you. I wasn’t sure, at the time, but it’s just right. Where have you been, darling?’

  ‘Oh, I went to a flick with Lance, and then tea,’ responded Cynthia, sinking into a chair and casting off her hat. ‘It was rather ghastly, really, with captions and things, because of being in Italian, and an absolute purge, Mummy, which Lance thought was too terrific!’

  ‘Oh!’ said Mrs Haddington. ‘Lance.… Well, that’s all right, I suppose. I can’t say I really like that young man, and in some ways I’d rather hear that you were running round with Timothy Harte.’

  ‘I think Timothy’s marvellous!’ agreed her daughter, with simple enthusiasm. ‘I mean, he’s much better-looking than Lance, and I go frightfully big for that kind of blue eye that goes with dark hair, don’t you? In some ways, I wish it was him that was a peer, and not Lance.’

  Mrs Haddington saw nothing to deprecate in this naive speech; she agreed with it in the main, but said that peers were not everything. ‘I don’t like the way Guisborough lives, or the ridiculous ideas he has. If he hadn’t come into the title –’ She paused. ‘Well, of course, he is Lord Guisborough, but he wasn’t brought up to be!’ she said. ‘From all I can discover, his mother was quite a common sort of person, besides – But never mind that!’

  ‘D’you mean being Lance’s father’s mistress before he married her?’ enquired Cynthia. ‘I know all about that. Trixie’s frightfully proud of it, because she believes in doing away with marriage-ties, on account of being a Communist.’

  ‘I can believe anything of Beatrice Guisborough, but doing away with marriage-ties has nothing whatsoever to do with Communism that I ever heard of!’

  ‘Oh, hasn’t it? P’raps I got it wrong, then. Only I do know she wishes her father hadn’t married her mother, because if he hadn’t Lance wouldn’t be Lord Guisborough, and she simply hates that. She won’t be an Honourable herself, and she’s always trying to get Lance to go on being plain Mr Guisborough. Actually, I don’t think Lance wants to, poor sweet. In fact, I think he’s rather thrilled about being a Lord.’

  ‘Then I wish he would learn to behave like one!’ said Mrs Haddington tartly.

  ‘Yes, I do too,’ agreed Cynthia.

  ‘In some ways, I should prefer young Harte for you.’

  ‘Yes, but he won’t ever be a Lord, Mummy,’ Cynthia pointed out.

  ‘No, but he’ll be a baronet. He comes of a very good family; he’s well-off; and he’s got the sort of background I want for you, my pet. I’m not too sure about Guisborough. The people he mixes with, and the political opinions he holds, and the fact that he wasn’t brought up in the right surroundings – well, sometimes I wonder whether he’ll ever have the entrée – title or no title! His father seems to have been a waster, and of course he more or less dropped out when he made that disastrous marriage.’

  ‘How on earth did you find out all this?’ demanded Cynthia.

  ‘I made it my business to find out,’ said Mrs Haddington shortly. ‘I’m not going to let you make a mistake that might ruin your life. You’re all I’ve got, and all I care for, Cynthia, and I’m determined you shall have the best!’

  Her daughter yawned. ‘Actually, I shall marry anyone I like,’ she said. ‘In some ways, I think I sho
uld rather like it to be Lance, because there’s simply nothing he wouldn’t do to please me, besides being Lord Guisborough. Of course, he isn’t utterly devastating, like – oh, like anyone! Anyway, I haven’t made up my mind, and the whole thing is too boring!’

  Mrs Haddington looked searchingly down into the flowerlike face, just now set into lines of weariness and discontent. ‘You’re tired,’ she said. ‘You ought to go straight to bed, only that we’re going to this first night.’

  ‘I shall be all right,’ Cynthia murmured, her eyelids drooping.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let Guisborough take you to the cinema this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy, don’t be so silly! What on earth else was there to do? Sit at home, and read a book?’

  Mrs Haddington appeared to feel the force of this argument, for she said nothing for a moment or two. The delicate chime of an ormolu clock on the mantleshelf made her raise her eyes quickly to it, and exclaim: ‘We must hurry, or we shall be late! Cynthia – tell me, my darling! – you haven’t been meeting Dan unknown to me, have you?’

  Cynthia’s eyes flew open at that. ‘Dan? Whatever do you mean?’