Duplicate Death ih-3

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Notwithstanding the outrage to their finer feelings, it could not be denied that the servants derived no small degree of excitement, and even enjoyment, from the murder. Not only did it afford them an endless topic for discussion; but it rendered them interesting in the eyes of less experienced friends and relations, and it provided them with a series of not wholly disagreeable thrills. It even furnished the under-housemaid with an excuse for smashing Mrs. Haddington's early-morning teapot, and for forgetting to draw the curtains in her bathroom. Elsie, arising shakily from her sick-bed, might declare that Inspector Grant's desire to interrogate her had materially prejudiced her chances of recovery from influenza, but his visit made her instantly important, and not for the world would she have forgone it. Thrimby, listening-in, in the pantry, to a brief conversation on the telephone between his mistress and Lord Guisborough, was able to depress these pretensions by assuming the air of an informed person, and by throwing out such doubtful phrases as Hamlet warned his friends never to utter.

  Altogether, it was a rewarding day for the staff, even the visit of Dr Westruther being invested with a sinister significance. It was vain for the prosaic housekeeper to point out that the doctor's visit was not unprecedented; the fact that he was closeted with Mrs. Haddington for nearly an hour was enough to give rise to speculation; for, as Miss Mapperley so sapiently observed, it stood to reason that if all the old girl wanted was a sedative for her lacerated nerves it wouldn't have taken about twenty minutes to have given her a prescription. Hard upon the heels of the doctor came the Inspector, and although his descent into the basement caused the kitchenmaid to come over ever so queer in the scullery, it afforded everyone else considerable gratification, for, while his visit conferred distinction upon the servants' hall, he was not found to be above his company, accepting cups of tea with compliments and thanks, and chatting in the easiest way with even such lowly persons as the charwoman, who came in to help the kitchenmaid with the Rough Work. In fact, so agreeable did he make himself that even his lilting speech, at first considered peculiarly laughable, was finally adjudged to enhance his charm; and when the tea-cloth was spread in the servants' hall Mrs. Foston was moved to produce from the store-cupboard a jar of honey, which she felt to be a peculiarly Scotch conserve. If anything was needed to insure the Inspector's popularity by this time, it was supplied by the tact with which he leaped into the breach caused by the underhousemaid's social lapse in reading aloud the inscription on the jar, which declared the contents to be Finest Flower Honey, the product of unequivocally English bees. Elsie, who had tottered downstairs with the firm intention of coming over faint, emerged triumphant from her interview with him, and was able to inform her fellows that she had ascertained from him that the Inquest on poor Mr.. Seaton-Carew would be held on the following day. No one else had quite liked to ask him this vital question, but although everyone was grateful to Elsie for discovering the date and the locality, not even the precarious state of her health saved her from being recommended by Miss Mapperley not to carry on as though she thought she was Mata Hari.

  Hardly had the Inspector departed, than a mild sensation was caused by the arrival of Mr.. Sydney Butter-wick. This, in itself, was not a matter of great moment, but piquancy was added to his visit by the fact, reported by the parlourmaid, that he had demanded speech with Mrs. Haddington on the telephone, earlier in the day, and, upon being asked if he would leave a message, had replied hotly that he would not leave a message, and had rung off abruptly. Having had no instructions to exclude Mr.. Butterwick, Thrimby showed him upstairs into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Haddington, having finished tea half an hour earlier, was attempting to convince her daughter that it would be both inadvisable and improper for her to put in an appearance at a cocktailparty that evening. Cynthia had just informed her that if the slightest restraint were placed upon her she would go mad, when Mr.. Butterwick stalked into the room, also in a febrile condition. Disregarding the conventions, he burst into speech even before Thrimby had announced his name, uttering in trembling accents: "I want a word with you, Mrs. Haddington!"

  Never before had Thrimby longed so much for an excuse to linger! He could find none. The tea-table had been removed; on this bleak February afternoon he had drawn the curtains in all the sitting-rooms at four o'clock; the fire was burning brightly in the hearth; there did not seem even to be an ashtray that needed emptying. He was forced to withdraw to the landing, and even, two minutes later, to his own domain, because Cynthia, seizing the opportunity to escape from her mother's authority, came out of the drawing-room, and very nearly surprised him on the stairs. All he was able to report to Mrs. Foston was that Mr.. Butterwick had demanded of Mrs. Haddington what the devil she had meant by telling the police lies about him; and that when she had replied in freezing accents that she was at a loss to understand what he meant, he had exclaimed: "You know damned well what I mean! And what I should like to know is why you're so anxious to cast suspicion on me for Dan's death!"

  A quarter of an hour later, while Mr.. Butterwick was still closeted with Mrs. Haddington, Thrimby opened the front door to another visitor. This was Lord Guisborough, and since Thrimby had listened to his conversation on the telephone with Mrs. Haddington that morning, he had been expecting him. Lord Guisborough had rung up to suggest to Cynthia that they should spend another evening together, to which Mrs. Haddington had replied that she was anxious to have a little chat with him, and would be glad if he could make it convenient to call on her at some time during the course of the afternoon. An assignation had been arranged for a quarter-to-six. Mrs. Foston, nodding darkly, said that Madam was going to bring his lordship to the point, and not before it was time; but Miss Mapperley maintained that the old so-and-so was more likely to tick him off for keeping Miss Cynthia out until all hours.

  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 rememb
er 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?"

  "1 hrimby 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 safetycatch 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 cocktailfrock 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 nonee 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. I-Iaddington. 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, encountering 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 descending 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. Thee 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.

  Chapter 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 scarcly 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.