Duplicate Death

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘You are quite sure of that, Mrs Haddington?’

  She stared at him. ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘You don’t think that there is any doubt that he heard your conversation with Miss Birtley?’

  ‘Not the slightest. He is not deaf.’

  ‘That wasn’t quite my meaning. You don’t think it possible that he came out on to the landing after you had finished speaking to Miss Birtley?’

  ‘Certainly not. At one moment I was speaking to Miss Birtley; at the next I became aware of young Butterwick hovering just behind me.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very clear. Now, I understand that the wire found twisted round Mr Seaton-Carew’s neck has been identified as part of a length bought yesterday afternoon by Miss Birtley, and left by her on the shelf in the cloakroom.’

  ‘So I have been told. I never saw the wire myself.’

  ‘You didn’t go into the cloakroom?’

  ‘I had no occasion to do so. I am aware that Miss Birtley has stated that she left what she did not use of the wire on the shelf. I can only say that if this is true she had no business to do so: the shelf in the cloakroom is not the place for odds and ends. Furthermore,’ she added, ‘it seems to me a very peculiar circumstance that not one of my guests saw the wire in the cloakroom.’

  ‘Have you any reason for thinking, madam, that Miss Birtley did not leave the wire there?’

  She shrugged. ‘I should not, myself, place any very great reliance on what Miss Birtley said,’ she replied.

  ‘How long has Miss Birtley been in your employment?’

  ‘About five months.’

  ‘I take it that she doesn’t give entire satisfaction,’ said Hemingway. ‘Would you mind telling me if her references were all in order?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you over that. I engaged her on the recommendation of Mr Seaton-Carew.’

  ‘Is that so, madam? Was Miss Birtley a friend of his?’

  ‘Mr Seaton-Carew had – most kindly – interested himself on her behalf. A form of charity rather than of friendship. I should have said that Miss Birtley cordially disliked Mr Seaton-Carew. It would be better, perhaps, if you questioned Miss Birtley her self. I am very reluctant to say anything more about her than that she is in my employment, and that while she has been with me I have had no reason to complain of her conduct. Now, if that is all – ?’

  ‘Not quite, madam. How long have you known Mr

  Seaton-Carew?’

  She had made as if to rise from her chair, but she relaxed again. ‘For very many years. He was a close friend of my husband’s – almost one of the family. Since my husband’s death, twelve years ago, he has advised me on business matters. His death has been a terrible shock to me: I can scarcely realise it yet. I find it very painful to be obliged to discuss it.’

  ‘I’m sure you must,’ agreed Hemingway sympa thetically. ‘I understand he dined with you tonight?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Was there any sort of disagreement between you, madam?’

  She looked at him, her tinted lips thinning. ‘I see. You have been listening to servants’ gossip, I think, Chief Inspector. It is quite true that I had occasion to be most annoyed with Mr Seaton-Carew, and equally true that I took him sharply to task, after dinner, and before my Bridge-guests arrived.’

  ‘I’m afraid I shall have to ask you what was the cause of this quarrel, madam.’

  ‘There was no quarrel. Mr Seaton-Carew never quarrelled with anyone. He was not a man who took things seriously. He was sometimes, in fact, far too flippant, which made him very irritating. This was by no means the first time he had succeeded in making me lose my temper, I can assure you!’

  ‘Very understandable, madam. And the reason?’

  ‘If you must know, I told him that I would not allow him to philander with my daughter! My daughter is an extremely lovely girl, but quite inexperienced, and Mr Seaton-Carew’s manner towards her was putting ridiculous ideas into her head. He was a very attractive and handsome man, and I expect you know as well as I do how flattered a young girl can be when a man of his age makes a pet of her. He meant nothing, of course, but a child of nineteen couldn’t be expected to realise that. I told him that this foolish flirtation must stop, or I should be obliged to stop inviting him to my house. He tried to make a joke of it, and I lost my temper. That is all. Is there anything else I can tell you?’

  ‘Just one thing, madam. Is Mr Butterwick a frequent visitor to your house?’

  She was perceptibly amused. ‘Sydney Butterwick! He most certainly is not! I think I first met him at a party given by Mrs Chetwynd. He came to a ball I gave for my daughter at Claridge’s, and I remember, to my cost, that I invited him to a musical soirée at this house about a month ago. The quite ridiculous and revolting scene he created on that occasion because he imagined that Mr Seaton-Carew was paying too much attention to some one other than himself, made me say I would never again invite him. Nor should I have, but that I was let down yesterday by one of my other guests, and had to fill a gap at a moment’s notice!’

  ‘And on the occasion of this musical evening, Mrs Haddington, do you recall whether the telephone rang?’

  She raised her brows. ‘Good heavens, no! If it did, my butler would have answered the call, and said that I was engaged. I should not, in any event, have heard the bell, because it is muffled. It rings in the hall, and in the butler’s pantry, and the call can be taken from any of the instruments

  I had installed in the house.’

  ‘Thank you, madam, I shan’t keep you any longer tonight,’ said Hemingway.

  Inspector Grant closed the door behind trailing folds of black velvet, and turned to survey his chief with a troubled look in his eyes. ‘It is in my mind,’ he remarked, ‘that she is a bad woman – a verra bad woman! Look you, it is a clach she has in her body, not a heart!’

  ‘I wouldn’t wonder!’ retorted Hemingway. ‘Talk English, Sandy, can’t you?’

  ‘And all she said to you about that caileag was spite!’ pursued the Inspector, disregarding this admonition.

  ‘If,’ said Hemingway patiently, ‘the halleuk, or whatever it was you said, means Miss Beulah Birtley, I’m not at all surprised. What does surprise me is that she gave the girl a job in the first place. Because she’s not my idea of a philanthropist, not by a long chalk!’

  ‘What is this?’ demanded Grant.

  ‘Well,’ replied the Chief Inspector, ‘apart from Terrible Timothy, Miss Beulah Birtley is the only one of this push I ever saw before. And I saw her a matter of eighteen months ago, at the London Sessions. She got sent down for nine months, I think, for robbing her employer. Forgery, I think it was, but it wasn’t my case, and I might be mistaken about that. Fetch her down to have a nice heart-to-heart with me, will you?’

  Nine

  Mrs Haddington, sweeping into the drawing-room, found that young Mr Harte was still seated by the fire, engaging Miss Birtley in desultory conversation. Mrs Haddington favoured him with her mechanical smile, but addressed herself to her secretary. ‘I imagine the Chief Inspector will wish to interrogate you, Miss Birtley. I suppose you had better spend the rest of the night here – unless you could get hold of a taxi to take you home. At my expense, of course, but heaven knows what the time is, and whether there are any taxis still on the streets I have really no idea.’

  ‘Don’t worry!’ Timothy said, rising to his feet. ‘I’ve got my car outside, and I’ll run Miss Birtley home when the Inquisitors have finished with her.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t bother!’ Beulah said.

  ‘No bother at all, dear Miss Birtley: a pleasure!’ Timothy responded promptly.

  ‘Really, I think it is extremely kind of you!’ Mrs Haddington said, slightly raising her plucked eyebrows. ‘If you will forgive me, I shall go up to bed.’

  ‘Please don’t sit up on my account!’ Timothy begged. ‘You must be dropping on your feet!’

  ‘I am very tired,’ she acknowledged. She
turned her head, as the door opened, and said: ‘Ah, you want my secretary,

  I expect!’

  ‘If you please, madam,’ said Inspector Grant.

  Beulah rose jerkily. ‘I’m quite ready. I – I wish you wouldn’t wait, Timothy!’

  ‘You’ve said that before,’ he pointed out. ‘My own conviction is that you ought to be supported by your legal adviser during this interview.’

  ‘No, no, really I’d rather not! Please! ‘

  ‘The Chief Inspector, sir, would like to see Miss Birtley alone, I think,’ said Inspector Grant.

  ‘What the Chief Inspector would like leaves me very cold,’ retorted Timothy.

  ‘Timothy, I would much prefer to be alone!’

  ‘That,’ said Timothy, ‘is quite another matter. Go with God, my child!’

  Upon entering the boudoir, Beulah could not forbear casting one shrinking glance towards the chair beside the telephone-table. It was, of course, empty, and she seemed to breathe more easily. Hemingway, who had equipped himself, at the start of his interrogations, with one of the small tables with which the room was generously provided, rose from behind it, and invited her to take the seat he had placed opposite to his own. He then requested her, in an official tone, to furnish him with her full name.

  She said, in her brusque way: ‘Beulah Birtley. I’ve already told the police that once tonight.’

  ‘I know you have,’ replied Hemingway. ‘What I’m asking you for is your full name.’ Across the little table, their eyes met, hers challenging, his mildly enquiring. ‘I remember Beulah,’ said Hemingway conversationally. ‘But there was another Christian name, foreign, I think; and Birtley wasn’t the surname.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Hemingway said. ‘I’ve got a good memory for faces, and yours isn’t one I’d forget easily.’

  ‘You are mistaken. You may think you know me, but I’ve never seen you before in my life!’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have noticed me: I wasn’t concerned in your case. But I happened to be in Court that day. So now let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? It doesn’t do you any good to tell me lies, and it’s very wearing for me. Name?’

  She looked for a moment as though she did not mean to answer, but in the end she said sullenly: ‘Francesca Beulah Birtley Meriden.’

  ‘I thought there was a foreign name in it,’ commented Hemingway, writing it down. ‘You got nine months, didn’t you? Embezzlement?’

  ‘Also forgery.’

  ‘How old are you?’ he asked, glancing shrewdly at her.

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Parents?’

  ‘Both dead.’

  ‘Any other relatives?’

  ‘I have an uncle – though he would prefer me not to

  say so. I’ve neither seen him nor heard from him since my imprisonment. He’s probably forgotten my existence by now: he’s very good at forgetting unpleasantness.’ She shot him a darkling look. ‘What has all this got to do with what happened here tonight? I suppose you think that because I was convicted of theft and forgery you can pin this murder on to me?’

  ‘Not without a bit of evidence I can’t. Though it’d be just like the wicked police to fake up a lot of evidence against you, wouldn’t it? Let’s cut that bit! You’d be surprised the number of times I’ve listened to it before. How long had you known Seaton-Carew?’

  ‘Since I came out of prison.’

  ‘Oh? How did you get to know him?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Come on!’ Hemingway said. ‘What was he up to? Giving a helping hand to lame ducks? Or did you meet him socially?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Someone told me to go to him. Said he’d find me a job.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘Probation officer, by any chance?’

  ‘No. A fellow convict!’

  ‘Now, that’s very interesting,’ said Hemingway. ‘Don’t bother to tell me you didn’t go to the Probation officer, or report yourself at any police station, because I can guess that, and it isn’t what I want to talk about, anyway. What made this woman think Seaton-Carew would find

  you a job?’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘I don’t know. At least, I didn’t know at the time. There were still quite a lot of flies on me six months ago! I don’t really know now – but it wasn’t because he was a philanthropist! She apparently thought he would find a use for me. He did: he sent me to Mrs Haddington. That was very nice for all of us. He got her gratitude; she got a secretary who wouldn’t give notice, however poisonous she was; and I got a fixed wage.’

  ‘Well, that sounds like philanthropy, doesn’t it? What was Seaton-Carew’s job in life?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Now, look here!’ said Hemingway. ‘You’ve thrown out a few hints that he was up to no good, so presumably you have got an idea! Suppose you were to stop behaving as though you thought you were Little Red Ridinghood and I was the Wolf ! If I were, I should start getting nasty about your failure to report yourself while on licence, whereas I’m not saying anything about that at all. At the same time, you’re on a sticky wicket, and the best thing you can do is to come clean.’

  ‘I thought it wouldn’t be long before we reached threats!’ Beulah said, her lip curling.

  Hemingway sighed. ‘Have sense!’ he begged. ‘So far, the only member of this outfit who’s got a record is you. You haven’t got an alibi; you bought the wire which was used to strangle him. If you can add that lot up to a different total than what I come to you’re a darned sight smarter than I think! Which isn’t saying much,’ he added caustically.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Look!’ she said, between closed teeth.

  ‘Once upon a time Little Red Ridinghood thought the police were her guardian angels, and that all she had to do was always to tell them the truth. Then she discovered her error, and, being several darned sights smarter than you think, she didn’t fall into it again! I’m not spilling my heart out to you, Chief Inspector! The only thing I’m going to tell you is that I didn’t murder Seaton-Carew – though I rather wish I’d thought of it – and if you can pin it on to me, good luck to you! I don’t care a damn! I know what kind of a merry hell one can live through if one is a released convict, and I’d a lot rather be dead! I haven’t the slightest doubt that you’ll tell the world my record, so you may as well make a clean sweep, and arrest me for murder while you’re about it!’

  ‘Yes, but, you know, I’m handicapped,’ objected Hemingway. ‘We do have to be so careful in the Force. Telling the world about your record would be clean against regulations.’

  She looked up quickly, but only said: ‘Well, I don’t care. I don’t know anything about Dan Seaton-Carew.’

  ‘All right, we’ll leave it at that,’ said Hemingway. ‘Tell me something you do know! When you took that call, what did you do with the receiver?’

  ‘What did I do with it? Put it on the table, of course!’

  ‘Just show me, as near as you can, will you?’

  She looked frowningly at him, as though suspicious of a trap. After a moment, she rose, and went to the table, lifting the receiver from the rest with her left hand, and laying it on the table.

  ‘No nearer to the edge than that?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure, but I think this is how I left it.’

  ‘Thanks; you can put it back now. Who was on the landing outside the drawing-room when you took the call for Seaton-Carew last night?’

  ‘My employer.’

  ‘No one else?’

  She frowned. ‘No. Not at once. Mr Butterwick came out of the room, but he wasn’t there at first.’

  ‘Did he come out in time to hear your conversation with Mrs Haddington?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t paying much heed to him.’

  ‘Did you see him again while Seaton-Carew was in this room?’

  ‘I saw him in the dini
ng-room, but I didn’t speak to him.’

  ‘Did you notice whether he was what you might call normal, or a bit upset?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘You’re a great help, aren’t you?’ said Hemingway.

  ‘I’ve got no wish to help the police.’

  ‘Go away before I lose my temper with you!’ recommended Hemingway.

  He succeeded in surprising her. She looked astonished and blurted out: ‘Is that all? Don’t you want to know what I did with the spare coil of wire?’