Duplicate Death

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘Before we come to him,’ said Hemingway, ‘what’s Mrs Haddington’s evidence?’

  ‘Mrs Haddington states that after Miss Birtley had set off downstairs to fetch Seaton-Carew to the telephone, she was just going up to her room when she found that Mr Butterwick had come out of the drawing-room, and was standing behind her. He said he was going down to the dining-room to get himself a drink, play having finished at his table. She then went on up to her bedroom, and cannot state whether he went straight downstairs or not. She remained in her room for a few minutes only – uncorroborated, except that one or two people in the drawing-room say she wasn’t gone for long – and then returned to the drawing-room, which she did not again leave until after the murder had been discovered. Mr Butterwick tells the same story. He says he left Mrs Haddington going upstairs, and himself went running down to the dining-room. He did not meet either SeatonCarew or Miss Birtley and that, Chief Inspector, is where I think he’s lying. He also states that he didn’t hear any of the conversation between Mrs Haddington and Miss Birtley about this telephone-call, and that’s another lie, or I’m much mistaken. He stayed in the dining-room, and came back into the drawing-room just as Sir Roderick Vickerstown was leaving it to find out what was keeping Seaton-Carew. Corroborated by Sir Roderick. The butler doesn’t know when he left the dining-room, because he himself had gone down to his pantry while Mr Butterwick was still there.’

  ‘I see. And has this Butterwick any reason for killing Seaton-Carew?’

  ‘To my mind, he’s got more reason than anyone else,’ said Pershore. ‘By what I’ve gathered, and from the looks of him I don’t find it hard to believe, he used to be very thick with Seaton-Carew, and always flying into tantrums if ever Seaton-Carew paid too much attention to anyone else.’

  ‘Oh, a homosexual, is he? Of course, I would have to strike a case with one of them in it!’

  The Inspector looked down his nose. ‘That is how he seems to me, and it’s what I’ve been given to understand. But the butler, and Mrs Haddington’s personal maid, both state that Seaton-Carew was after Miss Cynthia Haddington, which was not at all what Mrs Haddington wished, for he was as old as she was, and, what’s more, he was very intimate with her. But that,’ he added austerely, ‘is uncorroborated gossip.’

  ‘Nice goings-on!’ commented Hemingway. ‘Where are we getting to? Did Mrs Haddington strangle Seaton-Carew because he was making up to her daughter, or did Butterwick do it for the same reason?’

  ‘Well,’ said Pershore, ‘it’s only fair to state that both the butler and the parlourmaid say that after dinner tonight Mrs Haddington and Seaton-Carew were alone together in the library, and it sounded as if they were having some kind of a dispute – to put it no higher. And Miss Haddington says that when Butterwick arrived he found her talking to Seaton-Carew in the back drawing-room, and created a scene. She says he flew into a rage, and she was afraid he was going to do something silly, he was so upset. Lady Nest Poulton more or less agrees with that, though she didn’t hear the actual words that passed between him and Seaton-Carew. She just says he seemed to be upset, but it wasn’t anything out of the way with him. A Miss Cheadle, who was his partner, says that she thought he had something on his mind, but she knew nothing about the quarrel with Seaton-Carew.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Hemingway. ‘Did Miss Birtley have a row with this Seaton-Carew as well?’

  ‘According to the servants, Miss Birtley has always disliked him, and made no bones about showing it. He and she arrived at the house together tonight, and when the butler opened the door to them it was plain Miss Birtley was very angry with Seaton-Carew. He was laughing, and taunting her, by what the butler could make out, and she said something of a threatening nature about being determined as well as cruel, and he’d better not be too sure of something.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the sort of evidence that makes me wish I’d gone in for lorry-driving, or something easy. Any more people who had a silly quarrel with this popular number?’

  ‘No, not exactly,’ replied Pershore. ‘But it seems that Lord Guisborough couldn’t stand him – in fact, he as good as told me so. He’s in love with Miss Haddington too, but he’s accounted for: he was playing Bridge at one of the tables in the library, and he never left the room till the murder had been discovered. None of them did, at his table.’

  ‘What a shame!’ said Hemingway. ‘Quite my fancy, he was. I’ve never arrested a lord yet, and he seems to have got just as much motive as anyone else I’ve heard of so far. What about the rest of the gang in the library?’

  ‘Two only left the room while Seaton-Carew was absent. Mr Poulton, who was playing at his table, went out to get a breather – they all agree it was a bit stuffy in the room by that time. He states that he strolled along the hall to the front-door, and stood for a moment or two at the top of the steps. Then he went back to the library, visiting the cloakroom on the way. No corroboration.’

  ‘Any motive either?’

  ‘Not,’ said the Inspector, ‘that I have been able to discover.’

  ‘That’s fine: we’d better fasten on him,’ said Hemingway.

  ‘Fasten on him?’ repeated the Inspector, staring.

  ‘Well, I’d rather have no motive at all than the lot I’ve been listening to. Who else left the library?’

  ‘Mr Harte. He was playing with Miss Haddington, against Mr and Mrs Kenelm Guisborough, who are by way of being Lord Guisborough’s cousins. Some minutes after Mr Poulton had gone out, Mr Harte became dummy, and he too left the room. He met Mr Poulton coming out of the cloakroom.’

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘According to his story, he too went into the cloak room. Mr Harte has no apparent motive – so perhaps you’d prefer to fasten on him, Chief Inspector!’ said Pershore, with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘You know, every time you say that name it rings a bell with me,’ said Hemingway, frowning. ‘But for the life of me I can’t place it. Harte – Harte – I know I’ve met it before!’

  ‘He is a nice-looking young gentleman,’ offered Pershore. ‘In the late twenties, I should say. He’s a barrister, so perhaps that’s how you come to know of him.’

  Hemingway shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it. Oh, well! Perhaps I’ll remember when I see him.’

  ‘He is being detained in the drawing-room, along with Miss Birtley, Mr Butterwick, Mr Poulton, and Dr Westruther. Dr. Westruther, being a scorer, was in the library when SeatonCarew left it, and went up to the drawing-room to inform them there of the cause of the delay in the game before the discovery of the murder. Dr Westruther states that he had not met Seaton-Carew previous to this evening.’

  ‘Well, what do you want to go detaining him for?’ demanded Hemingway. ‘A nice temper he’ll be in by this time!’

  ‘Properly speaking, I did not detain him. He remained of his own choice, or perhaps Mrs Haddington asked him to, Miss Haddington being a good deal upset – quite hysterical, she was, at first, but he got her calmed down.’

  ‘Thank God for that, at all events! What I’d better do is to see these people, and get rid of those who don’t belong here, or we shall have them pitching complaints in about the way they were kept up all night for no reason. What about the servants? Are they sitting up too?’

  ‘Only the butler and the parlourmaid. None of the others was unaccounted for at the time, being in the servants’ hall, and the kitchen.’

  ‘Sandy, go and talk to them, and pack them off to bed! One last thing before I give your suspects the once-over, Pershore! Anyone know where that bit of picture-wire that was used for the job came from?’

  ‘The wire, Chief Inspector, is part of a coil bought this morning – that is to say, yesterday morning – by Miss Birtley, at Mrs Haddington’s instigation. Some of it she used to make what I understand to be a kind of flower-holder; and the rest she left on a shelf in the cloakroom.’

  ‘In full view of any of the gentlemen who went into the cloakroom, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes,�
� said the Inspector, considering it. ‘Anyone washing his hands, or maybe straightening his tie in the mirror, would be pretty well bound to see it, if she left it where she says she did.’

  ‘It gets easier and easier, doesn’t it?’ said Hemingway.

  ‘It doesn’t strike me that way. And not one of them did see it. Or, if they did, they won’t own to it,’ said the Inspector.

  Eight

  A group of six people was assembled in the front half of the drawing-room, from which the card tables had been removed. The velvet curtains had been drawn across the archway leading into the back drawing-room, and the fire was burning brightly in the grate. The room presented a comfortable, if slightly over-opulent, appearance, but nothing could have looked less comfortable than five of the six persons disposed round the fire. In one corner of a sofa, Mrs Haddington sat bolt upright, staring into the flames, her thin, ringed hands tightly clasping her fan. She had risen magnificently to the occasion, when first the body of her old friend had been discovered, her social instincts prevailing over more primitive emotions; but the effort of carrying off an entirely unprecedented situation, coupled with the rapid collapse of her daughter into strong hysterics, had levied a toll on her vitality. She looked haggard, every muscle on the stretch, as though it was only by a supreme exercise of willpower that she refrained from breaking-down. Beside her, occasionally glancing at his wrist-watch, and imperfectly stifling a yawn, sat Dr Westruther, wondering why he had allowed his nobility to lead him to announce that he would remain on the premises until the arrival of ‘the man from Scotland Yard’. He had not, of course, supposed that this

  would be so long delayed.

  Opposite the sofa, in a deep armchair with wings, Mr Godfrey Poulton sat, contemptuously flicking over the pages of a weekly periodical, yawning quite openly, and presenting the appearance of one who ought to have been in bed several hours earlier. A little withdrawn from the fire, and seated limply in a chair, her eyes shaded by her hand, was Miss Birtley. Her other hand ceaselessly kneaded her handkerchief. Completing the circle, were Mr Sydney Butterwick, and Mr Timothy Harte. Mr Butterwick’s first reactions to the tragedy had rivalled Cynthia’s in intensity and dramatic expression. From these transports of unbridled and slightly spirituous emotion, he had passed into a mood of such distressing despair, that Mr Harte, the only unaffected member of the party, had exerted himself, partly from pity and partly from dislike of watching adult males weeping bitterly, to divert his mind. The task had been a difficult one, but Timothy had persevered, to such good effect that by the time Chief Inspector Hemingway walked into the room Sydney had been coaxed into his paramount hobby, and was passionately assuring Timothy that Giselle was the only real test of a classical dancer’s art.

  Inspector Pershore ushered Hemingway into the room, announcing that the Chief Inspector wanted to have a word with its occupants.

  ‘Good-evening!’ Hemingway said cheerfully, his tone a welcome contrast to the accents of officialdom assumed by his subordinate. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been kept waiting a long time, and I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Good God!’ said Mr Harte, staring at him between narrowed eyelids. ‘You’re the Sergeant!’

  It seemed, from Inspector Pershore’s alarming demeanour, that he only awaited a sign from the Chief Inspector to take Mr Harte instantly into custody; but Hemingway, regarding Mr Harte with interest and surprise, gave no such sign. ‘Well, I was once, but I’ve been promoted,’ he replied. ‘Did you happen to know me when I was a Sergeant, sir?’

  ‘Of course I did!’ said Timothy, rising, and going towards him, with his hand held out. ‘You probably don’t remember me, but don’t you remember the Kane case?’

  A blinding light flooded the Chief Inspector’s brain. ‘Harte!’ he exclaimed. ‘I said it rang a bell! Well, well, well, if it isn’t Terrible –’ He broke off, for once in his life confused.

  ‘Terrible Timothy,’ supplied Mr Harte. ‘I expect I was, too. How are you? I should have known you anywhere!’

  ‘I’m bound to say I shouldn’t have known you, sir,’ said Hemingway, warmly shaking him by the hand. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, a nice nuisance you were in those days! And how’s that brother of yours? I hope no one’s been trying to bump him off since I saw him last?’

  ‘Only Jerry. He lost a leg at Monte Cassino, but otherwise he’s flourishing. Got four kids, too.’

  ‘You don’t say! Well, time certainly does fly! When I think that it seems only yesterday you were a nipper yourself, sir, driving me mad trying to help me solve that case – well, it

  doesn’t seem possible!’

  ‘I do seem fated to be embroiled in murders, don’t I?’ agreed Timothy. ‘Only this time I’m suspect, you know!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hemingway severely, ‘and from what I remember of you, sir, that’ud just about suit your book, that would! Of course, I was handicapped on the Kane case, you being only a kid, but things are different now, and I give you fair warning, if you start getting funny with me I shall know what to do. Because the more I look at you, the more I see you haven’t changed so very much after all!’

  This interchange, though revolting to Inspector Pershore, insensibly brought about a relaxation of tension amongst the rest of the company. It was felt that if young Mr Harte stood upon such friendly terms with the man from Scotland Yard the mantle of his popularity might well be stretched to cover some at least of his fellow-suspects. Spirits rose, only to be depressed again by the Chief Inspector’s next words. Still speaking in a tone of the warmest approbation, he said: ‘I’ll have to come and hear all about what you’ve been up to since I saw you last, sir. Now, Inspector Pershore’s got your address, so that I shall know where to find you, if I should happen to want to ask you any questions about this little affair; and it won’t do for me to keep you hanging about here any longer tonight. The Inspector tells me you gave him your evidence very nicely: he’s got it all down, so I won’t waste your time asking you a whole lot of questions you’ve answered already.’

  Timothy grinned at him appreciatively. ‘Did you find me easy to get rid of when I was fourteen, Chief Inspector?’

  he asked.

  ‘No, sir, I did not, but I warned you things were different now! I can get rid of you fast enough.’

  ‘Oh, no, you can’t!’ retorted Timothy. ‘I’m Miss Birtley’s legal adviser!’

  This cool announcement had the effect of jerking Beulah’s head up, and of causing Mrs Haddington to look sharply first at her, and then at Timothy.

  Beulah said in a disjointed way: ‘No, no! I don’t need – I don’t want – I’d much prefer that you didn’t!’

  ‘Yes, you would think up a crack like that, wouldn’t you, sir?’ said Hemingway. ‘All right, you stay! You won’t worry me. And since you’re here you may as well make yourself useful, and tell me who everyone is, so that the Inspector here needn’t wait about any longer.’

  Inspector Pershore, who appeared to be more sensitive to suggestion than Mr Harte, said: ‘If you have no further need of me, sir –’

  ‘No, that’s all, thank you, Inspector. I shall be seeing you later, I daresay,’ replied Hemingway affably.

  The Inspector then withdrew, and Timothy made the remaining five persons present known to Hemingway. He favoured each in turn with his keen, bright look, but singled out Dr Westruther, saying: ‘You’ll be wanting to get off home, doctor, and I’m not going to keep you. I think Inspector Pershore asked you everything, and I know where to get hold of you, if any point should arise that you might be able to help us over. I understand you were with Dr Yoxall when he inspected the body, and there wasn’t any

  disagreement between you?’

  ‘There could hardly have been any in this case,’ said the doctor. ‘Death must have occurred within a matter of seconds.’

  ‘Just so, sir! And Mr Poulton is anxious to get home too, so I think it would be best if I asked him a few questions first. Now, sir, if you’ll be so good
!’

  Godfrey Poulton, rising in a leisurely way from his chair, said: ‘Certainly, Chief Inspector,’ in his deep, rather cold voice, and followed Hemingway from the room.

  ‘No objection to coming in here, I trust, sir,’ said Hemingway, opening the door into the boudoir. ‘It seems to be the only room that isn’t full of playing-cards or prawn-patties.’