Duplicate Death

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘Straight on. If Miss Pickhill arrives – can I go, or must I wait till that man gets back?’

  ‘No, I’ll trust Mr Harte to keep an eye on you,’ he replied, opening the door.

  She lingered for a moment. ‘Thanks! I – I’m sorry I was rude to you before!’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’ve been quite helpful.’

  He shut both her and Timothy out, and went to sit down at the desk, picking up the telephone. ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Is it yourself, sir?’ asked the voice of Inspector Grant.

  ‘It is. Where are you speaking from?’

  ‘From your office, sir. Mr Poulton was driven from Charles Street straight to Northolt Aerodrome, and has left for Paris.’

  Sixteen

  So long a silence followed this announcement that Inspector Grant presently said: ‘Are you still there, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ Hemingway replied. ‘Where did you find this out?’

  ‘When I left you, I went to Belgrave Square. It was the butler told me that Mr Poulton was flying to Paris for a business conference tomorrow morning. I asked him when he expected Mr Poulton to return, and he told me, tomorrow evening. As to that, I have my doubts!’

  ‘Did you get on to Northolt?’

  ‘Cinnteach! But I was too late, for the plane had taken off already. I have seen the chauffeur. He has had his orders since the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Has he also got orders to meet some plane tomorrow?’

  ‘Ma seadh! But what does that prove? He may go to Northolt, and come away without his master, it seems to me! Would you have me apply for extradition?’

  ‘No. Not a bit of use. I haven’t enough on him to have a hope of getting it.’

  ‘Ciod e so? Is there another that has as much motive for these murders?’

  ‘That’s what I don’t know yet. You can take it from me that Big Business interests aren’t going to be annoyed on the evidence I’ve got. You can go round to Poulton’s office first thing in the morning, and check up on this conference story. Meanwhile, I’m getting a lot of funny ideas about this case. I have to keep telling myself that first thoughts are best. I’m staying here till Mrs Haddington’s sister turns up. You nip round to wherever it is Mr Sydney Butterwick hangs out – you’ve got the address, haven’t you? Park Lane, or something – and get his story out of him. Unless you get something startling from him, you needn’t show up again till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And where,’ asked the Inspector politely, ‘will you be going yourself, Chief Inspector, when you leave Charles Street?’

  Hemingway grinned. ‘Back to the Yard!’

  ‘I will be seeing you there, then,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘All right, Sandy. You’re several kinds of silly ass, but, barring your habit of breathing that Gaelic at me, I don’t know when I’ve had a sub I got on with better!’

  ‘Moran taing! ‘ said the Inspector.

  A click indicated that he had replaced his receiver. Hemingway followed his example, mentally registering a vow to discover the meaning of this cryptic valediction at the earliest opportunity. He went into the hall, where one of his men was sitting. To him, he issued instructions to lock and seal the doors into Mrs Haddington’s bedroom and boudoir. The officer had scarcely reached the half-landing when the front-door bell rang. Forestalling Thrimby, who had retired to his underground fastness, Hemingway opened the door, and admitted into the house Miss Violet Pickhill, who bore all the appearance of one who had snatched up the first hat and coat that chanced to meet her eyes. Fumbling within the folds of the coat, she drew forth her pince-nez, on the end of a thin chain, and jabbed them on to her nose. Through them she subjected the Chief Inspector to a suspicious scrutiny. ‘Who may you be?’ she demanded.

  Hemingway announced himself, and was annoyed to detect a note of apology in his own voice.

  ‘Disgusting!’ said Miss Pickhill. She removed the pincenez from her nose, and added in a milder tone: ‘I don’t mean you, but to think it should have come to this! Well, I always knew Lily was heading for trouble! Time and again I’ve told her that her behaviour was enough to make my poor father turn in his grave, and now we see how right I was! Where’s my niece?’

  ‘Miss Haddington hasn’t come in yet,’ said Hemingway. ‘The servants seem to think she went off to some party or other, but she’s expected to come home for her dinner. Miss Birtley – Mrs Haddington’s secretary –’

  ‘I know very well who Miss Birtley is!’ interrupted Miss Pickhill. ‘She rang me up, and I thought the better of her for having done so! It showed a very proper spirit, whatever my sister may say! Not, of course,’ she corrected herself punctiliously, ‘that my sister can say any thing now, for I will tell you at once that I am not a believer in this Spiritualism, and never shall be!’

  At this point, and considerably to the Chief Inspector’s relief, the taxi-driver created a diversion by appearing on the scene for the purpose of dumping a suitcase inside the hall, and of collecting his just dues. Miss Pickhill groped in her capacious handbag, and handed these to him, forestalling criticism by informing him that if he wanted to receive a more handsome gratuity he should not have put his fares up. She clinched the matter by adding that if he had anything to say he might address his remarks to Hemingway, whom she introduced to him under the title of ‘this policeman.’ The taxi-driver wisely decided to withdraw without uttering the expostulation trembling on his tongue, and Miss Pickhill, shutting the door on him, turned to Hemingway, and demanded to be put in possession of the facts of her sister’s murder.

  He took her into the library, and told her briefly that her sister had been strangled in her own boudoir. She ejaculated first that it was a judgment on her, and then commanded Hemingway to tell her who had perpetrated the deed. Rather to his surprise, she accepted without comment his reply, that he was unable to enlighten her. She said: ‘Well, I was saying only yesterday to Mr Broseley – he is our Vicar, and a most enlightened man! – that a woman without religion is like a ship without a rudder. I may say that he entirely agreed with me! We were not, of course, discussing my poor sister. Whatever I may have thought, I hope I am too loyal to discuss any of my family, even with dear Mr Broseley! But it all goes to show! From the moment she married Hubert Haddington – right against her father’s wishes, I may say! – Lily (for call her Lilias I never would!) took a turn for the worse! My father always said – he had a very unconventional way of expressing himself, though a thorough Churchman! – that Hubert was a bad hat. Of course, Lily took after the Whalleys: there’s no getting round that! My mother’s people – not that I wish to say a word against them, but there’s no denying that they were not Pickhills! My mother, naturally, was different, but I well recall hearing my dear father saying that her relations were some of them most uncongenial people. Quite irreligious, I fear, and with what my father used to call an eye to the main-chance. It was the same with Lily. As hard as nails! The only person she ever cared twopence for was my niece, and, as is always the way, she spoiled her atrociously! Often and often I’ve told her so, but you might as well have talked to a brick wall! And what has been the result? The child spends her whole life making up her face, and going to cocktail-parties, and my poor sister has been murdered! Of course, if he weren’t dead already, I should have said that Mr Seaton-Carew had done it!’

  ‘Would you, madam?’ said Hemingway, in a conversational tone which would not have deceived Inspector Grant for even the fraction of a second. ‘Now, I wonder what makes you say that?’

  ‘I always trust my instinct,’ said Miss Pickhill darkly. ‘It’s never at fault – never! The instant I clapped eyes on him I knew! A friend of Hubert Haddington’s, I need hardly say! Pray do not ask me what his relationship with my unhappy sister was! That is something I prefer not to think about! Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil!’

  ‘Very proper, madam!’ approved Hemingway. ‘What, if I may ask, was the late Mr Haddington’s professi
on?’

  ‘If you can discover that,’ said Miss Pickhill, ‘you will have discovered more than my father ever did! It was his belief that Hubert was an adventurer. Those were the very words he used. One moment they were driving about in Rolls-Royces; the next they hadn’t a penny to bless themselves with! Never shall I forget the day we discovered that Lily was being sued in the County Court for a bill to a dressmaker! That was too much! As my father said at the time, one can put up with a great deal, but not with being County-Courted! However, the next time we saw her she was in her own car, with a chauffeur, so naturally my father had to allow her to enter the house, which at one time he said he never would again. That was many years ago, of course, when Cynthia was a baby. After Hubert died, she chose to gad about all over Europe, instead of coming to live at home with me, which I naturally begged her to do, because whatever my feelings may have been I’ve always held that blood is thicker than water, and Cynthia could have attended the High School, which, if you were to ask me, would have been far better for her than that ridiculous Swiss school Lily sent her to! But that wasn’t good enough for Lily! Cynthia had to have the very best of everything! Why, when she was a toddler even, nothing would do for Lily but all her little dresses had to be hand-embroidered! Goodness only knows what she squandered on the child, from first to last! Of course, I don’t deny that she’s a very pretty girl, but for my sister to be setting her heart on making some grand match for her was just tempting Providence! “You’ll have her running off with the chauffeur!” I said to Lily once; and never shall I forget my dear old Aunt Maud asking me if Lily meant to get the Prince of Wales for her daughter! That was a figure of speech, of course, because we hadn’t got a Prince of Wales at that time, and Aunt Maud knew that just as well as anyone else, for it was only on certain subjects that her mind wandered, and then only quite at the end.’

  She paused for breath, and Hemingway, who, while not unappreciative of her discourse, had reached the conclusion that she knew nothing about her sister’s more private affairs, seized the opportunity to ask if she could furnish him with the name of Mrs Haddington’s solicitor.

  ‘Well, if Lily took her affairs out of our dear Mr Eddleston’s hands, it’s news to me!’ replied Miss Pickhill. ‘Of course, I daresay it’s young Mr Eddleston who looks after things now, but that her Will is deposited with them I do know, for Lily told me she was making me one of poor little Cynthia’s trustees, just in case anything should happen to her, which she didn’t for a moment expect, or I either, if it comes to that, and Mr Eddleston the other. For I said to her at the time, Don’t name Mr Lowick, because if you do, I said, I shall refuse to act. Mr Lowick is the junior partner, and when I tell you that the day I went up to see him about the ground-rent he not only kept me waiting for ten whole minutes, but received me with a pipe in his hand, you will understand why I said what I did. There are limits!’

  Jotting the name down in his book, Hemingway said: ‘Well, madam, I think that’s all at present. I shall be getting into touch with Mr Eddleston at once. You’ll understand that I shall have to go through Mrs Haddington’s papers, and her solicitor will of course be present. Until then, I have had the boudoir and her bedroom locked up.’

  Miss Pickhill plainly took this amiss, for she bridled, and said in a stiff voice: ‘Well, really, I can’t see what you want with my poor sister’s private papers, and as for locking her bedroom, I call it most officious!’

  ‘Just a matter of routine!’ Hemingway said.

  ‘I’ve no doubt!’ interrupted Miss Pickhill. ‘It’s exactly what Mr Broseley was saying to me only the other day! Encroachment! Ever since the War, officials seem to think they can do exactly as they like, and I daresay the police are just as bad as the Ministry of Food, interfering right and left, and telling people how to cook cabbages, which we all knew long before they were ever born or thought of !’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of telling you how to cook cabbages, madam!’ Hemingway assured her. ‘For one thing, I don’t know, and for another –’

  ‘I should hope not indeed! It would be a great deal more to the point if you drilled some of your new policemen, let me tell you! In my young days the police were fine, upstanding men, but whenever I come to London now all I see is a lot of young constables, standing about with their chests in and their stomachs out, and their mouths hanging open. I wouldn’t even ask one of them for the time! Enough to make my father turn in his grave!’

  Reflecting that Mr Pickhill’s ghost must be the most restless one ever to disturb a cemetery, Hemingway said meekly: ‘It’s a scandal, madam: I’ve often thought so. But I daresay you wouldn’t want to stop me finding out who murdered Mrs Haddington!’

  ‘Certainly not! Quite apart from my personal feelings I trust I am a good citizen! Good Citizenship was the subject of the last lecture we had at the Women’s Conservative Institute, and most interesting! But why prying into my sister’s letters, and things, should help you to find out who murdered her is more than I can fathom! In fact,’ said Miss Pickhill, obscurely but terrifyingly, ‘it is all on a par !’

  Fortunately, the Chief Inspector was rescued from these deep waters by the entrance of Detective-officer Bagby, who informed him that Miss Haddington had that instant let herself into the house, and was being held in check by Miss Birtley.

  Miss Pickhill shuddered, and got up from her chair, saying: ‘I will come at once! Poor child, she little knows! In the midst of life we are in death! I don’t suppose she has ever heard those very true words, for, having been educated in a foreign country, how should she?’

  Cynthia Haddington, exquisitely clothed in primrose yellow under a coat of dark mink, and with a close hat of shaded brown and yellow wing-feathers on the back of her shining head, had been coaxed into the dining-room, and was interestedly surveying Mr James Kane. She held a cigarette between the fingers of one hand, and dangled a handbag and a pair of long gloves from the other. Only a purist would have described her as drunk. Not even the exaggeratedly high heels of her cutaway shoes caused her to stumble in her walk; and if her eyes seemed slightly blurred, and her inconsequent laugh a little too ready, her speech was perfectly clear. ‘Oh, are you Timothy’s brother?’ she said. ‘How marvellous! Oh, darling-Timothy, why weren’t you at June’s party? You could have taken me on to dinner somewhere! I got stuck with Philip Arnecliffe, and he was so drunk he let that ghastly Terrington woman tack herself on to us, with the latest boy friend! Too dim, so I said, Definitely not! and came home! Is Mummy livid with me? Honestly, I couldn’t face spending the whole evening at home! June’s got some marvellous new cocktail you make with absinthe: it makes you feel simply terrific! O God, is that you, Aunt Violet?… Who on earth are you?’

  Hemingway, to whom the last question was addressed, preserved a tactful silence. He was a trifle stunned by this, his first, sight of Mrs Haddington’s beautiful daughter, for although he had been told that she was a very pretty girl he had not been prepared for quite so much empty loveliness.

  Miss Pickhill, managing to soften the sharpness of her habitual tone, said that there was bad news for Cynthia to hear, and suggested that she should accompany her upstairs to her bedroom.

  Cynthia stared at her in the blankest incompre hension. ‘Oh, hell, no, I don’t want to trail all the way up to my room!’ she protested. ‘Besides, why should I? No one’s coming to dinner! I shall stay as I am.’ She blinked, as though to clear her vision, and suddenly demanded: ‘What are you all doing in here, anyway? You haven’t had dinner, have you? Where’s Mummy?’

  Miss Pickhill cleared her throat. ‘Your dear mother has

  – has met with an accident, Cynthia!’ she said.

  ‘An accident? What’s happened?’ Cynthia asked, pitching the stub of her cigarette into the grate.

  ‘Oh, dear, I don’t know how to tell her!’ said Miss Pickhill, sitting down suddenly, and, in the agitation of the moment, sniffing into one of her serviceable gloves, which she held in one hand.

 
; ‘You tell her, Timothy!’ Beulah said, in a low voice. ‘You’ll do it best.’

  Timothy, who, with Mr James Kane, had been attempting in an unobtrusive way, to slide out of the room, cast his betrothed a glance of reproach, but responded to her appeal. He went to Cynthia, and took one of her hands, saying: ‘There isn’t a best way of telling her. You’ve got to prepare yourself for a shock, Cynthia.’

  ‘Gosh, Mummy isn’t dead, is she?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Timothy. ‘She is dead.’

  Cynthia stared at him, and then at his silent companions. She gave an uncertain laugh. ‘Oh, don’t be so silly! Quite unfunny, darling!’

  ‘Quite,’ said Timothy steadily.

  ‘But how can she be dead? There was nothing the matter with her at tea-time! You don’t mean she’s been run over, or anything, do you?’