Duplicate Death

by Georgette Heyer

  Since his lordship wore no hat, his black locks were tossed into more than ordinary confusion, a fact that seemed to trouble him no more than his lack of gloves or walking-stick. He refused to allow Thrimby to help him to take off his overcoat, favouring him instead with a short dissertation on the Equality of Men, which made Thrimby despise him more than ever. He was even misguided enough to say that Thrimby need not trouble to announce him to his hostess, but this revolting suggestion Thrimby was able to ignore, merely by preceding his lordship to the staircase.

  At this moment, a door opened on the landing above, and Mr Butterwick’s voice was heard assuring Mrs Haddington that nothing would induce him ever again to enter her house. He came charging down the stairs, and almost collided with Thrimby on the half-landing. After swearing at him, he perceived Lord Guisborough, mounting the first flight in his wake, flushed, muttered a confused greeting, and brushed past him on his way down to the hall. Thrimby, only hesitating for a moment, proceeded on his stately way, threw open the door into the drawing-room, and announced his lordship.

  ‘Ah, Lord Guisborough! So glad you were able to spare me a few minutes!’ said Mrs Haddington, rising from the sofa, and holding out her hand.

  Plainly, no drama was to be looked for during this visit. Thrimby withdrew, prepared, if necessary, to assist Mr Butterwick to put on his coat. However, by the time he reached the ground-floor, there was no other sign of Mr Butterwick than his malacca walking-cane, which, in his agitation, he appeared to have left behind him. Thrimby went back to the basement, and disposed himself comfortably in his pantry to peruse the evening paper. He was startled hardly more than half an hour later by hearing the front door slammed with sufficient violence almost to shake the house. An instant later, the drawing-room bell rang insistently. Thrimby pulled himself out of his chair, straightened his hair and his tie, and climbed the stairs to the ground-floor. He did not hurry, because he was a man of portly habit and he had, besides, his dignity to consider. He was hailed from the half-landing by his employer, who demanded whether it took him all day to answer the bell. Without giving him time to reply, she said, in her most cutting tone: ‘Lord Guisborough has let himself out. Kindly remember that I am not, in future, at home to his lordship! If he should ring up at any time you will say that neither I nor Miss Cynthia can come to the telephone. Do you clearly understand me?’

  Thrimby was far from understanding what could have been the cause of so sudden a change of face, but he merely bowed, and said: ‘Certainly, madam.’

  ‘And tell Miss Birtley I wish to see her before she leaves!’

  ‘Miss Birtley, madam, left a quarter of an hour ago, at six o’clock,’ said Thrimby.

  ‘Oh! Union rules, I suppose!’ said Mrs Haddington, with a disagreeable little laugh. ‘Very well, never mind! You can bring cocktails up to the drawing-room now!’

  Thrimby bowed again, contriving to convey the information that he had had every intention of bringing cocktails up to the drawing-room, and that if his mistress wished for drinks half an hour in advance of the usual hour she should not only have them, but he would keep his inevitable reflections to himself. ‘And,’ said Mrs Haddington, in the sharp tone that never failed to infuriate her servants, ‘I have lost my emerald brooch!’

  Thrimby stiffened. ‘Indeed, madam? I am exceedingly sorry to hear it, and I can assure you –’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of having stolen it! The safety-catch is loose, and it must have come undone. I am merely telling you that it is somewhere in the house, and must be found, when the rooms are swept in the morning.’

  ‘Certainly, madam. I will myself inform the maids,’ said Thrimby, preparing to descend again into the basement.

  The drawing-room was empty when he presently brought up the cocktail-tray, but while he was still straightening cushions, and tidying the hearth, Mrs Haddington came down from the second floor. There was a frown between her brows; she said: ‘Do you know if Miss Cynthia went out, Thrimby?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, madam.’

  ‘She didn’t ask you to call her a taxi, or anything?’

  ‘No, madam. I haven’t seen Miss Cynthia.’

  ‘Oh, well, perhaps she’s sitting in the boudoir!’ said Mrs Haddington, with more hope than conviction. She had found abundant signs in her daughter’s bedroom of a rapid change of costume, and although it was possible that Cynthia had changed into a dinner-dress suitable for an evening to be spent at home, it seemed more likely that she had sallied forth in her new and daring cocktail-frock to attend the forbidden party.

  The boudoir was in darkness. Mrs Haddington closed the door, found that Thrimby had followed her down the stairs, and said: ‘I think Miss Cynthia must have gone out. Tell Gaston I won’t wait dinner for her, if she isn’t back by eight o’clock. Oh, good God, who can this be?’

  ‘Shall I say that you are not at home, madam?’ Thrimby asked, preparing to descend to the hall, to answer the door-bell.

  ‘Yes – no! If it should be Lady Nest, or Sir Roderick, or Mr Harte, or someone like that, I’ll see them,’ she replied, drawing back out of the direct line of vision from the front door.

  It was none of these persons. Mrs Haddington, listening on the half-landing, heard the level voice of Godfrey Poulton requesting to be announced. She stepped forward to the head of the stairs, saying in her most social tone: ‘Mr Poulton! What a pleasant surprise! I was just telling my butler to deny me, but of course you are always a welcome guest! But isn’t dearest Nest with you?’

  Poulton handed his gloves and his scarf to Thrimby, and glanced up the stairs. ‘Good-evening, Mrs Haddington. No, I fear my wife is not with me. I should be most grateful if you would spare me a few moments.’

  ‘But of course!’ she said, still smiling, but with a suggestion of rigidity about her mouth. ‘I hope you haven’t brought bad news of Nest?’

  He went up the stairs towards her. He did not answer this question, but said: ‘May I see you in private? I shall not keep you long, I trust.’

  She opened the door into the boudoir. ‘Really, you are quite alarming me, Mr Poulton! Come into my room! We shall be quite undisturbed. Do you know, I have been feeling uneasy about Nest all day? So unlike her not to have given me a ring!’

  He followed her into the room, and closed the door; Thrimby went back to the basement, where, encoun tering Miss Mapperley, he disclosed that Something was undoubtedly Up.

  ‘For it is not Mr Poulton’s habit to drop in at this house,’ he said, ‘and from the look of him he hadn’t come just to pass the time of day.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Miss Mapperley, pleasurably thrilled, ‘if he’d come to tell Madam that he won’t have her ladyship visiting here any more, not after what’s happened! I saw him at the party, and he looked ever such a masterful man. A bit like Cary Grant, only older, of course, and not as handsome. I said so to Elsie, at the time. I’d give something to know what he’s saying to the old hag!’

  However, neither she nor Thrimby was destined to know what was said in the boudoir. The interview did not last long, the bell summoning Thrimby to show the visitor out after little more than twenty minutes.

  He reached the hall to find Godfrey Poulton descend ing the stairs in a leisurely way. That impassive countenance betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Poulton thanked him briefly for helping him on with his coat, received his gloves and hat from him, and went out to where his car awaited him. The chauffeur sprang out to open the door for him; he got in, and as Thrimby closed the front door, the car drove away.

  Miss Mapperley, eagerly awaiting Thrimby’s report, was disappointed, but reflected that she would probably be able to gather from Mrs Haddington’s manner, when she went up to help her change for dinner, whether or not the visit had afforded her gratification. ‘You can always tell when anything’s happened to annoy her,’ she observed. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting I can’t do right tonight!’

  Mrs Haddington’s bedroom-bell was late in ringing. No
summons had reached Miss Mapperley by the time Thrimby went up to the dining-room to lay the table. He was engaged in folding a napkin into the shape of a water-lily when a soft footfall in the hall took him to the door. Beulah Birtley was just about to let herself out of the house.

  ‘I thought you had gone home, miss!’ Thrimby said.

  She was startled, and turned quickly, colouring. ‘Oh! I didn’t know you were there! Yes, I had, but I left Mrs Haddington’s cheque behind, and had to come back for it. For heaven’s sake, don’t tell her!’

  Thrimby was aware, of course, that Miss Birtley had been granted a latch-key, for this had been bestowed upon her to save him the trouble of answering the door to her every time her employer sent her forth on an errand, but he chose to assume an air of deep disapproval, and to say: ‘Madam wished to see you before you left, miss, so it is quite fortunate that you have returned. I fancy you will find her in the boudoir.’

  ‘I haven’t any desire to find her, thank you!’ said Beulah. ‘I went off duty at six, and I’m going home, and there’s not the slightest need for you to tell her I ever came back!’

  ‘If you will wait for a moment, miss,’ said Thrimby implacably, ‘I will just ascertain whether Madam has any message for you.’

  He observed, not without satisfaction, that his words had brought a scowl to Miss Birtley’s brow, and went in his stately way up to the boudoir.

  Fourteen

  It was shortly after half-past seven o’clock that the Chief Inspector arrived in Charles Street. The door was opened with unusual celerity by Thrimby, who stared at the two detectives as though he could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes, and ejaculated: ‘I didn’t think you would have been here so soon!’

  ‘So soon?’ said Hemingway, his quick, frowning glance taking in certain signs of disorder in the butler’s bearing. ‘I want to see your mistress!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course!’ Thrimby said, with a gulp. ‘If you’d come this way!’ He waited for the two men to cast their overcoats on to a chair, and led them up to the boudoir. Without a word, he opened the door, and stood aside for the detectives to enter the room, carefully averting his gaze.

  Seated in the chair beside the telephone-table, was Mrs Haddington, her eyes and tongue protruding horribly, and behind her head two strands of picture-wire projecting.

  The Chief Inspector stood, as though turned to stone, on the threshold. Behind him, he heard Grant gasp: ‘A Mhuire Mhathaid! ‘ He swung round quickly to confront the butler. ‘When did this happen?’

  Thrimby shook his head, moistened his lips. ‘I don’t know. It isn’t more than ten minutes since I found her. I rang up Scotland Yard. They said you’d be along in a few minutes.’

  ‘We must already have left the building,’ Hemingway muttered. ‘Any idea who could have done it?’

  ‘Yes, sir! It can’t have been anyone but Mr Poulton, or Miss Birtley: I’m sure of that! I’m holding Miss Birtley, in the library. Mr Poulton left the house nearly half an hour ago.’

  ‘All right!’ Hemingway said curtly. ‘I’ll have a word with you presently: you can clear off for the present!’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ said Thrimby, with real gratitude, and effaced himself.

  Hemingway shut the door of the boudoir. He laid his fingers for a brief space over Mrs Haddington’s wrist, and then said in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘Seem to have got on the wrong scent, don’t I? A nice set-out, this is! I daresay the Department has sent the doctor off already, but you’d better ring through, Sandy, in case of accidents. I don’t know how long she’s been dead, but she’s warm still. Tell ‘em I’ve got a duplicate murder on my hands, and I want the usual bag of tricks sent round!’

  The Inspector drew out his handkerchief, and, through its folds, picked up the telephone. While he spoke into the receiver, his superior was subjecting the body of Mrs Haddington to a close scrutiny. The chair in which she sat had been slewed a little away from the telephone-table; her head was thrown back, the nape of her neck resting against the gilded wood framing the padded back of the chair, and both her legs stuck out before her. Her arms hung limply, outside the arms of the chair, and her dress was rucked up on one side. The Chief Inspector cast a keen look round the room.

  Grant replaced the telephone on its rest. ‘The finger-print and photographic units are on their way, sir,’ he announced. ‘Mo thruaighe, but this is a terrible thing!’

  Hemingway nodded.

  ‘Is the man a maniac, think you?’

  ‘Can’t say, I’m sure.’

  ‘It is identical!’ the Inspector said, staring at the body.

  ‘Think so? Well, I don’t! For one thing, unless I’m much mistaken, she wasn’t sitting in that chair when she was murdered. Take a look at the position she’s in! To have fallen back with her neck against the chair, she’d have had to have sat down on the very edge of it, and she’d have fallen forward, not backward. Take a look at those marks on the carpet too! If you ask me, she was sitting in front of the fire, and it was her heels that made those marks when she was dragged to where we see her now!’

  The Inspector looked down at the carpet. The pile had been rubbed the wrong way in two diagonal lines. ‘But why?’ he demanded incredulously.

  ‘You can search me! Maybe you’re right, and it is a maniac. Maybe he’s just got a queer sense of humour. I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘There is nothing mad about Poulton,’ Grant said. ‘I never saw a saner man than that one!’

  ‘For the lord’s sake, Sandy, don’t go jumping to conclusions!’ Hemingway said irritably. ‘That ‘ud land us in a packet of trouble! Not but what we’re in it now. I like this fellow’s nerve, bumping off a second victim while I’m still investigating the first murder! And don’t tell me Poulton’s got nerve enough, because I know that already!’

  ‘Ch’an abair mi dad! ‘

  ‘If you’re trying to send me haywire, my lad – ! What’s that mean?’

  The Inspector apologised. ‘It slipped out! It means I will say nothing.’

  ‘You stick to that and perhaps I can still pull this case out of the mud!’ said Hemingway. He relented, and added: ‘Sorry, Sandy! You know, I had more than half an idea I was going to make an arrest this evening.’

  ‘I do know, of course,’ Grant agreed doubtfully.

  ‘All right, it certainly looks like being one up to you. What I’m due for is one of the bigger official kicks. See who that is!’

  The Inspector opened the door to admit the police- surgeon. Dr Yoxall came briskly in, cast a dispassionate glance at the body in the chair, and set down his bag. ”Evening, Hemingway! What’s all this?’

  ‘Just another little job for you, sir. Getting monot onous, isn’t it?’

  The doctor bent over the body, deigning no response. After a few moments, he said: ‘I can’t tell you anything you aren’t capable of grasping for yourself. Been dead under an hour; strangulation; method identical with the first death in this room. What have you got, Chief Inspector? A homicidal maniac?’

  ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it, sir? Did she die where you see her?’

  The doctor’s sharp eyes studied the position of the body. ‘Hard to say. She may have slipped forward on the chair in her death-throes. I shouldn’t have expected to have found her quite like that, but I’m not prepared to say she couldn’t have got into that position. A ruthless man, this murderer: wish you luck, Hemingway! Have the body sent down to the mortuary when you’ve finished with it. Not that I shall be able to tell you anything more: I shan’t. A dull case! Thought so at the start! ‘Night!’

  ‘The only case that chap thinks is interesting,’ said Hemingway, when the doctor had gone, ‘is the kind of messy job where you get half the medical profession into the witness-box, swearing blind that black’s white just to score off the other half !’

  ‘Och, now, whisht!’ said the Inspector reasonably. ‘Here is Bromley!’

  Several persons came into the room. Hemingway nodded to their leade
r. ‘Case of Here we are again, Tom! Get busy, will you? Get me a composite, taking in the body, and those marks on the carpet. I don’t have to tell you what to try for, Bromley: go over all the furniture – mantelpiece – anything a man might have put his hand on! You stay, Sandy: you can let the ambulance-men take the body away as soon as these chaps have finished. Lock the room!’

  He left the room as he spoke, and went down the stairs to the hall. Here, Thrimby awaited him. He said: ‘Now then, let’s hear what you’ve got to say! Come in here!’

  He led the way into the dining-room. The table was laid for two persons, a circumstance which seemed to affect the butler poignantly. He shuddered, and said: ‘I’d only that minute finished laying for Madam, and Miss Cynthia!’