Джорджетт Хейер - Duplicate Death

The Inspector lingered. "Would that one have had the time to have committed the murder, you think?"

"Any of them would have had time and to spare. In fact, this is one case where the time-factor isn't going to bother us - or help us either, for that matter! As far as I can make out, it was anything from ten to twenty minutes between Seaton-Carew's being called to the 'phone and Sir Roderick's finding him dead. How long do you reckon it would take you to nip up half a flight of stairs, twist a wire round a bloke's neck, and nip down again?"

"It is in my mind," said the Inspector, "that it would have been a strange thing for him to have gone into a room where he knew a man to be speaking on the telephone."

"You mean you think it would have put Seaton-Carew on his guard. It might, and it mightn't. Of course, if Seaton-Carew had reason to think Poulton wanted to do him in, I agree that you'd expect to find some sign of a struggle. Supposing he hadn't? Supposing this Poulton-bird walked in, just said, "Excuse me!" as though he'd just come to fetch something?"

"Och, mo thruaighe!" exclaimed the Inspector. "What would he have come there to fetch, tell me that?"

"By the time Seaton-Carew had thought that one up," retorted Hemingway, "the wire was round his throat! Mind, I don't say it happened like that, but even if it didn't there's no need for you to make those noises, which I take to be highly insubordinate. Go and fetch that pansy down to me!"

Mr. Sydney Butterwick, ushered into the boudoir a few minutes later, flinched perceptibly, but seemed to have himself fairly well in hand. His face still bore traces of the emotions which had ravaged it, but he was able to smile, albeit a little nervously, at Hemingway, and to assure him that if he could possibly be of assistance to the police they could count upon his cooperation.

"I was devoted to Dan!" he said. "Utterly devoted to him! I suppose anyone will tell you that. In some ways, you know, he was rather a marvellous person. Slow extravert, of course, and I'm definitely a quick extravert, but with a certain amount of overlap, if you know what I mean. I suppose you might call me an intuitive extravert. I'd better tell you at once that I wasn't in the least blind about Dan! In fact, I recognised and accepted him for what he was. In some ways, I do absolutely agree that he was just a handsome brute, and I shan't deny for one moment that I used to quarrel with him quite terribly. As a matter of fact he upset me rather poignantly tonight, and it's the most ghastly thought that the last time I saw him I was furious with him! Well, not so much furious as wounded. Of course, I know I take things to heart too much: my type always does - I don't know if you've read Jung?"

Inspector Grant's gaze shifted to the Chief Inspector's face. The Chief Inspector had two hobbies: one was the Drama; and the other, which he pursued to the awe, amusement, and exasperation of his colleagues, was Psychology. He had listened amiably to Mr. Butterwick's flow of words, but at this challenge he lost patience. "Yes, and Wendt, Münsterburg, Freud, and Rosanoff as well!" he replied tartly. "That's how I know you don't belong to the Autistic Type. I haven't had time yet to decide whether you're Anti-Social, or Cyclothymic, but I daresay I'll make up my mind about that presently."

This unexpected rejoinder threw Sydney off his balance. He said, with a titter: "How marvellous to meet a policeman interested in psychology! I think I'm definitely the Anti-Social, or Hysteric Type. I mean, I haven't a single illusion about myself. It's fatal not to face up to oneself, isn't it? For instance, although I adore Michael Angelo I do realise that that's probably an expression of empathy-wish, in the same way that -"

"Sit down, sir!" said Hemingway.

Sydney obeyed him, passing a hand over his waving fair locks, and then mechanically straightening his tie. "Do ask me any questions you like!" he invited. "I shall answer them absolutely honestly!"

"That's very sensible of you, sir," said the Chief Inspector dryly. "Suppose you were to tell me, as a start, what was the cause of your quarrel with Mr. Seaton-Carew last night?"

"He had hurt me," replied Sydney simply.

"How did he manage to do that?"

"I hadn't seen him for three days, and he wouldn't speak to me on the telephone. That was the sort of thing he used to do, when he was in that mood. Teasing me, you know, but not really meaning to hurt. He told me once that I took life too hard, and I suppose it was true, but -"

"You thought he was sick of you, didn't you?" interrupted Hemingway ruthlessly. "Oh - ! Not really!"

Hemingway glanced at the notes under his hand. "You said to him, I suppose that means you're fed up with me! and he replied, All right, I am! Is that correct, sir?"

The colour rushed up to the roots of Sydney's hair. He exclaimed in a trembling voice: "How do I know what I said? I suppose you got that out of that little bitch of a Haddington girl!"

"Do you, sir? Why?"

"I've no doubt Cynthia Haddington imagines that just because he took a little notice of her Dan was in love with her!" said Sydney, trembling slightly, and quite ignoring the Chief Inspector's question. "Well, he wasn't! He wasn't! And if she's stuffed you up with some tale of my being jealous of her, it just makes me want to laugh! That's all!"

Anything further removed from laughter than Mr. Butterwick's aspect would have been hard to have found; but Hemingway, while making a mental note of this fact, forbore to pursue the matter. He merely requested Sydney to describe to him what had been his movements from the moment of his leaving his table to get himself a drink to the moment of his re-entry into the drawingroom.

"Oh, of course, if it interests you -" said Sydney, shrugging his shoulders.

"A Chruitheir!" uttered Inspector Grant under his breath.

"There's really nothing to tell," said Sydney. "We had finished playing that particular hand at my table, and I seized the opportunity to go down to the dining-room, that's all. I didn't see anyone, except the butler, if that's what you want to know."

"Didn't see anyone, sir? I understand that you had some conversation with Mrs. Haddington, at the top of the stairs."

"Oh, that! I thought you meant, did I see Dan, or anyone else, who might have killed him. Yes, I believe I did exchange a word or two with Mrs. Haddington, but I don't remember what was said. Quite unimportant, in any case."

"Was anyone else on the landing, or the stairs, when you came out of the drawing-room, sir?"

"I really don't remember. I don't think so."

"What was Mrs. Haddington doing on the landing?" "Good God, how should I know? She was going up to the second floor - in fact, she started to go up when I went down."

"Miss Birtley, I take it, had gone down before you followed her?"

"Yes - that is, I suppose she must have, because, to tell you the truth, I don't recall seeing her. I daresay she may have been there: I wouldn't notice. And, of course, since it all happened mere trivialities have passed from my mind."

"Did you hear the telephone-bell ringing, sir?"

"No, but I probably wouldn't, because it's got a muffled bell, and only makes a sort of burring noise."

"Is that so? How do you happen to know that, sir?" Sydney stared at him for a moment. The smile wavered on his lips. "Oh - oh, this isn't my first visit to the house!"

"I see. And you didn't hear it tonight, didn't know the call was for Mr. Seaton-Carew, and didn't hear anything that passed between Mrs. Haddington and Miss Birtley? I want to get this quite straight, sir, so that Inspector Grant can take it down accurately, and we shan't have to make a lot of corrections later."

Sydney glanced at the impassive Inspector, and from him to Hemingway. Once more he smoothed his hair.