Duplicate Death

by Georgette Heyer

  At three o’clock, having been kicking his heels for some time in the waiting-room, he was ushered into Dr Westruther’s consulting-room, a gracious apartment, decorated in shades of grey, which ranged from palest pearl-grey on the walls and in the windows, whose lights were veiled by curtains of diaphanous chiffon, to a deep elephant-grey on the floor. A few chaste Chinese prints hung on the walls; and a magnificent screen of mutton-fat jade stood in the centre of the mantelshelf, flanked by two Blanc-de-Chine Kuan-Yin figures of the Ming period. Hemingway, his feet sinking into the heavy-pile carpet, found himself wondering whether the doctor’s more neurotic patients were soothed by this subdued but expensive décor. Dr Westruther enjoyed a reputation for dealing almost exclusively with wealthy, society women. He was not precisely known to the police, but once or twice the breath of ugly scandal had wafted perilously near to him. He had a controlling interest in an extremely luxurious Nursing Home, where the staff was paid with unusual generosity; he was always very well dressed, affecting the cutaway morning coat and butterfly collars of a more sartorial age; he owned, besides the house in Harley Street, a charming riverside residence at Marlow; and he generally managed to spend several weeks of the year at Biarritz, or Juan-les-Pins.

  He greeted the Chief Inspector with perfect sangfroid, apologising for having kept him waiting. He had been called away to a case, he said, and had only just returned to Harley Street. As Hemingway had expected, he told him nothing that he wanted to know. Lady Nest Poulton was a woman who, in lay parlance, lived on her nerves: he would not bemuse the Chief Inspector with technical terms, but he might rest assured that the condition was one well-known to every practitioner. He agreed that certain symptoms might be mistaken by the unlearned for the after-effects of drugs. In view of what the police had discovered in Seaton-Carew’s flat, he could pardon the Chief Inspector for having fallen into error, but he felt obliged to point out that such an allegation against a lady of his patient’s birth and breeding was a very, very serious matter. He quite appreciated the Chief Inspector’s wish to interrogate Lady Nest, and he hoped that within a week or so it would be possible for him to see her. At present he could not sanction any visits whatsoever. Rest and quiet were essential to her.

  The Chief Inspector returned in due course to his headquarters, and sent down a message to the Finger-print Department. When Inspector Grant at last joined him, he found him studying photographs through a magnifyingglass, a fair young man at his elbow. He glanced up as the door opened, and said: ‘Come and take a look at this, Sandy, and see what you make of it!’

  Grant trod over to the desk, nodding to the fair youth. ‘I am sorry to have been away for so long,’ he said. ‘The lassie was sleeping, but I said I would wait. She came down to the servants’ hall for her tea. In the meantime I had some talk with Mrs Haddington’s personal maid – making myself agreeable. What have you there? Is it the prints on the telephone?’

  ‘It is – by which I mean Yes! I knew I should go and catch it! Next thing I know I shall have people thinking I’m Scotch too!’

  ‘You will not, then,’ said the Inspector dryly. He bent over the desk, keenly surveying the several photographs laid out on it. ‘I have looked at these before: there is no trace of Seaton-Carew’s finger-prints upon the instrument.’

  ‘Never mind about that! Anything else strike you?’

  A frown creased the Inspector’s brow; he picked up one of the photographs, and scanned it more closely. The fair young man coughed behind a discreet hand. ‘It’s very blurred,’ he said apologetically. ‘I wouldn’t care to swear to it myself, sir.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to swear to anything. Don’t try to prejudice the Inspector!’

  The fair youth blushed hotly. ‘I’m sorry, sir! I’m sure I didn’t mean –’

  ‘Whisht!’ said Inspector Grant, casting an indulgent glance in his direction. He picked up two more photographs from the desk, and compared them with the one he still held in his right hand. ‘I see what I recall I saw before: there is a clear impression of Miss Birtley’s thumb, and first two fingers. It may be that all five fingers were laid upon the instrument, but there is a blur over the prints on the third and fourth finger. I observe one distinct impression of the butler’s index finger – but that, I am thinking, has no bearing on the case.’

  ‘None at all. Take a look at that blur through the glass!’ said Hemingway, handing it to him.

  The Inspector took it, focused it, and intently studied the photograph. He then discarded one of the photo graphs he held in his left hand, and subjected the other to a minute scrutiny. The Chief Inspector, observing which of the photographs had been rejected, drew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and offered it to the young man beside him, saying: ‘There you are! Even a poor Scot can get on to what you fellows miss!’

  ‘We didn’t miss it, sir!’ protested Thirsk, drawing a cigarette from the packet. ‘Only it’s so indistinct no one could stand up in a Court of Law and swear to it!’

  The Inspector raised his eyes from the photographs, both now held fan-shaped in his hand. ‘You are thinking that there is an impression of Mrs Haddington’s finger, superimposed on Miss Birtley’s third and fourth fingers,’ he said. ‘I am of Thirsk’s opinion: I would not care to swear to it. The whole is verra much blurred.’

  ‘Not so blurred but what you saw what I was after,’ Hemingway pointed out.

  ‘Ma seadh! But it may be that Miss Birtley never had all five fingers on the instrument, and Mrs Haddington’s prints are what we would expect to find.’

  ‘Now tell me the story that girl told was all lies, and you’ll be happy!’ recommended Hemingway. ‘All right, Thirsk: I’ve done with ‘em for the moment! Take ‘em away!’ He waited until the young finger-print expert had withdrawn, and then said: ‘Let’s have it, Sandy! True, was it?’

  ‘I am of the opinion that it was true,’ Grant said. ‘I would not set great store by anything a lassie in her position would say, because well I know they will lie to one for no reason at all, unless it might be that they do not like the police. But I think Mrs Haddington looked into the cloakroom before any of the guests arrived, and I am verra sure that she scolded Elsie for taking the wrong towel from the linen cupboard. It is coloured towels that they use in that house, and Elsie took one of the peach ones that go in Miss Haddington’s room, instead of one of the apricot ones that are for the cloak room.’ He smiled. ‘I would not myself know the difference! Be that as it may, Elsie did not see any wire upon the shelf when she changed the towel. So she says, but that might not be true. There is no reason why she should deny that she saw it, if indeed she did, but och! Tha eagal oirre! – She is afraid we might charge her with the murder, the silly creature! Yet I do not think that she saw it. Now the other lass – Gwenny Mapperley – is not afraid: she is a bold one, and she would be glad to do her mistress as much harm as she can. She leaves, she tells me, at the month. She talked – och, how she talked! – of all the trouble there has been in the house, and how much to believe I will leave you to judge. There are first the servants, who will not stay with Mrs Haddington, except the butler and the chef, to whom she pays huge wages: there is then Miss Birtley, whom the servants do not like – but I think that is jealousy, for she is also in Mrs Haddington’s employment, and yet above them. When Mrs Haddington is rude to her, she gives her some verra sharp back-answers. Indeed, from all I hear she has a hot temper! There was a fine quarrel between them this morning! There has also been trouble with Miss Cynthia – I caught a wee glimpse of her, Chief: she is the bonniest lassie you ever did see! – but such tantrums, and such gallivanting about the town! She was not in her bed last night until past three o’clock, but dancing at some place or other with the young lord – Guisborough, is it? It is not decent! But for all Mrs Haddington has set her heart on making a grand match for the lassie, they say she doesn’t favour the lord, but it is Mr Harte she has in her eye. But the servants know as well as you or I that it is Miss Birtley and not M
iss Haddington that brings that young man to the house. And I think you were maybe right when you thought that Mrs Haddington had a hold over the Lady Nest, for Gwenny Mapperley has heard Mrs Haddington speaking to her on the telephone, as though she had only to give her orders and her ladyship would obey them.’

  ‘You have been having a good gossip, haven’t you?’ said Hemingway. ‘Allowing for a bit of exaggeration, I shouldn’t wonder if you’d been given a fair picture, though. Did your little pal, Gwenny, say anything about the late Seaton-Carew?’

  ‘She did, but I think that was mostly spite against her mistress. He was paying great attention to Miss Cynthia, and I don’t doubt the lass’s mother would not like that; but whether she herself was his mistress or not they none of them know, whatever tales they may tell. She has not been that since she came to live in London.’

  ‘What do they make of her reaction to his death? She struck me as pretty cool, when I saw her.’

  ‘How can one tell with that kind? The servants will have you think she hasn’t turned a hair; but the doctor went to see her today, and was with her quite a while, so maybe she is more upset than she will show.’ He added: ‘It was Dr Westruther. He will maybe have mentioned it to you?’

  ‘No, he didn’t, because I didn’t ask him. It doesn’t surprise me, though – except that I didn’t somehow take him for the sort of chap who trots round to call on his patients, with a little bag in his hand. Still, I daresay he makes her pay through the nose for a visit from him: he’s got a very expensive décor to keep up, I can tell you.’

  ‘Again the doctor has turned up, Chief.’

  ‘They do. If you’re thinking that it was him twisted that

  wire round the late Seaton-Carew’s neck, let me tell you that he’d have a lot more classy ways of doing a chap in than that! No, the more I consider the facts, the more I think we’ll go round to Charles Street, Sandy, and have a real heart-toheart with Mrs Haddington.’

  ‘You still think it was she?’ the Inspector said curiously.

  ‘I won’t go as far as to say that: I don’t know, but I think everything points to her.’

  ‘Seall, Chief, with what we have learnt this day, is it still Mrs Haddington with you?’ protested the Inspector. ‘It was motive you wanted, and which of them has the motive but Poulton?’

  ‘I know,’ Hemingway replied. He pointed the pencil he was holding at the telephone on his desk. ‘That’s what’s sticking in my gullet, Sandy! Has been, from the start. It doesn’t matter what we discover about anyone else: I keep on coming back to it.’

  ‘Because you have seen prints that are verra like Mrs Haddington’s, on an instrument she would naturally handle?’

  ‘Because I’ve got a strong notion those prints were made after Miss Birtley had laid down the receiver, and because I never did see how the receiver came to be hanging down, unless it had been deliberately put like that. Now, don’t suggest that it got knocked off the table in a struggle, because though I may look gullible, I’m not really gullible at all. Seaton-Carew might have kicked the table over, but he didn’t. He never touched the receiver –’

  ‘Could he have grasped the wire?’ Grant said doubtfully.

  ‘No, and if he had, he’d have had the whole instrument off

  the table. But he wouldn’t. You let me twist something round your neck, and see what your reaction is – so far as you’ve time to react at all, which wouldn’t be very far, according to what Dr Yoxall tells me! You won’t grab at telephones: you’ll grab at what’s round your throat, my lad.’

  The Inspector was silent. Hemingway rose, and took his overcoat off the stand in one corner of the room. ‘We won’t waste any time,’ he said. ‘We’ll go along to Charles Street now.’

  ‘They will be dressing for dinner!’ protested Grant.

  ‘Yes, I don’t suppose we shall be at all popular,’ agreed Hemingway. ‘I shan’t lose any sleep over that. In fact, I’m hoping that’s just what they are doing, because we shall be sure of catching them before they go – what’s that word of yours? – gallivanting off round the town! Come on!’

  Thirteen

  The Inspector had not exaggerated the spirit of unrest brooding over the house in Charles Street. In defiance of her mother’s wishes, Cynthia had spent the previous evening with Lord Guisborough, at a night-club; and, returning home in the small hours of the morning, had flung herself into bed without troubling even to remove the make-up from her face. Her mother, coming out of her own bedroom in a trailing velvet dressing-gown, met her on the landing, and exclaimed reproachfully. Cynthia, declaring with far from perfect diction that she refused to be spied upon, went into her room, and slammed the door.

  She was awakened at nine o’clock by the underhousemaid who carried a breakfast-tray into her room, and thus provoked a fit of mild hysterics. ‘Leave me alone!’ she commanded. ‘Take that filthy tray away! I don’t want it!’

  ‘Cynthia darling, at least drink some coffee!’ said Mrs Haddington, who had followed the maid into the room. ‘You’ll feel better, and you know you must get up! Miss Spennymoor is coming to fit that frock on you. Put the tray down on the table, Mary! That will do!’

  ‘Oh, blast Miss Spennymoor!’ said Cynthia. ‘And if it’s that old frock of yours, I won’t wear it, Mummy!’

  Mrs Haddington poured out a cup of coffee, added sugar,

  and held it out. ‘Sit up, and drink this!’ she said. ‘Come, childie! To please me!’

  Cynthia hoisted herself up reluctantly. ‘Oh, all right! Where’s the milk?’

  ‘You don’t want milk,’ replied Mrs Haddington, a trifle grimly. ‘What did you drink last night, Cynthia?’

  ‘Champagne, of course. Lance took me to –’

  ‘Cynthia, I told you not to go out with him, and now I see how right I was! You had far too much to drink, my darling. That shows me what sort of a young man he is! It isn’t you I blame, but you know, pet, nothing puts the right kind of man off more quickly than a girl who takes too much to drink! Besides, if people like the Petworths ever saw you – well, you may take it from me that you wouldn’t be invited to their parties any more! I want you to drop Lance. Titles aren’t everything, and even if they were –’

  Cynthia hunched a shoulder. ‘Good God, as though I cared two hoots about his silly title! I happen to like him! He isn’t always trying to improve me – except about his idiotic Communism, of course, and I can always shut him up about that! He’d do simply anything to please me! Why, he even took me to Frinton’s last night, and he isn’t a member!’ She giggled suddenly. ‘Really, I do think it was lamb-like of him, Mummy, because he shied off it badly, when I said I wanted to go there! He carried it off with a superbly high hand! And those lethal Kenelm Guisboroughs were there, with a stuffy party, and Lance made Kenelm OK him. Kenelm loathed having to do it, too! It was screamingly funny! Lance and I laughed for hours !’

  This ingenuous exposition of what afforded her cherished daughter amusement appeared to daunt Mrs Haddington. She said nothing; so Cynthia added: ‘If you can get Lance to forget the starving millions, and you easily can, he’s too sweet for words! Of course, he isn’t half as good-looking as Timothy, but Timothy wouldn’t have the guts to muscle into a club he didn’t belong to, and, anyway, it isn’t me Timothy’s after!’

  Mrs Haddington was a hardheaded woman, but she had her blind spot. It was inconceivable to her that any man, beholding her daughter, could look twice at any other female. She said sharply: ‘Nonsense! If he isn’t after you, why does he come here? You seem to forget that I found you practically in his arms yesterday afternoon!’

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it dear and cherishing of him?’ agreed Cynthia, nibbling a slice of thin toast. ‘Darling Mummy, you’re too dim! Timothy’s mad cats on Beulah Birtley! I don’t say I couldn’t have had him, if I’d wanted him, because honestly I do think I could cut the Birtley girl out, don’t you? – but I’m practically certain Lance is far more my type!’

  Uncomfortabl
e recollections chased one another through Mrs Haddington’s memory. She said angrily: ‘That gaolbird! Designing little bitch! I’ll soon settle her hash! But it’s rubbish, my pet! No man would look at her while you were present! I’ve no doubt she’s trying her best to catch him, but I’ll soon put a stop to that!’

  ‘Oh, hell, who cares?’ said Cynthia, relaxing into her enormous, lace-edged pillows. ‘I don’t want him! I’d sooner have Lance! Besides, you won’t stop it. She had dinner with him last night, at Armand’s. Moira was there, and she saw them.’

  ‘Did she?’ said Mrs Haddington. Her thin lips were closegripped for a moment. She glanced down at her daughter, hesitated, and then said lightly: ‘Never mind that! I want you to get up now, my pet, and come down to my boudoir for Miss Spennymoor to fit that dress on you.’

  This mildly-worded request precipitated a minor crisis. Cynthia, whose fancy had prompted her to spray herself idly with scent from a cut-glass flagon, was goaded into hurling this expensive toy into the tiled grate, where it was shattered. However, this ebullition of temper had the happy effect of inducing her to get up, because not even she could remain in an atmosphere so redolent with the perfumes of Araby as to make her head swim. In a mood of sulky tearfulness, she presently descended the stairs to the boudoir, where Miss Spennymoor was patiently awaiting her.