Джорджетт Хейер - Duplicate Death

"Hold on a minute! Didn't you tell me that the doctor's movements weren't entirely accounted for that evening?"

"No, hang it all, Jim, you must draw the line somewhere! Do you see a fashionable physician strangling a man in the middle of a Bridge-party?"

"Why not? What if Seaton-Carew was a danger to him?"

"Blackmailing him, do you mean? More likely to have slipped something lethal into his drink, if he wanted to get rid of him!"

"Not at all," said Jim. "Poison would have made him instantly suspect!"

"You win that point," admitted Timothy. "Now tell me why he murdered Mrs. Haddington!"

"I haven't yet worked that one out," confessed Jim.

"And while you are working it out, work out how he got into the house without anyone's knowing it!"

"I can't."

"Of course you can't! And don't ask me to consider poor old Roddy Vickerstown, because it's a sheer waste of time. He's not above lending the light of his countenance to hopeless outsiders, who feed and wine him in the style to which he's accustomed, but he does draw the line somewhere! He's tottering round the town saying that the fellah can't be a gentleman, because strangling is the lowest form of murder, and no one with any breeding at all would dream of killing a man in somebody else's house. Damn' bad form, my boy!"

Jim grinned. "All right, wash him out too! Where do you go from there?"

"I think the first murder was premeditated, and the second wasn't. And, working from that point, it looks as if the same man did both. Quite obviously, things were desperate, and Mrs. Haddington had to be silenced. Supposing she knew who committed the first murder?"

"Then why didn't she clear herself by telling the police what she knew?"

"That's just the point: if she'd been in danger of taking the rap, she undoubtedly would have told the police. But you weren't privileged to know the lady! She was one of the most coldblooded, calculating females I've encountered. My guess - and I admit it is only a guess - is that she was planning the biggest blackmailing coup of her career, and that was why she had to be eliminated."

"Yes, but wait a bit, Timothy! What was to stop the guilty party paying up until all the smoke had cleared away, and then disposing of Mrs. Haddington, when the police were not haunting the house?"

"The fact that Mrs. Haddington was herself a suspect!" said Timothy instantly. "He dared not chance it. If she got charged with the murder, she'd spill the beans at once: she'd have to!"

"I expect there's a flaw in it somewhere," said Jim, "but I'm bound to say it's quite ingenious, if you can clear the first hurdle. Would she really cash in on the death of an old friend?"

"I should say that the only thing she wouldn't cash in on would be Cynthia," replied Timothy. "She was a remarkably repellent piece of work, but I'll hand her this!

- she was utterly devoted to that very unrewarding girl! Praise be to God, here's my intended at last! How are things, darling?"

"Nightmareish!" Beulah said, shuddering. "We've got her to bed, and Mrs. Foston's going to sit with her till she goes to sleep. I don't think it'll be long. I'm sorry for Miss Pickhill, having to take on the job of looking after her. I know she's a bit drunk, and, of course, shock does make people react queerly, but when I left she seemed to be deriving consolation from the thought that she would now be frightfully well-off, and could do anything she liked. For God's sake, take me out, and give me something to eat! With the slightest encouragement, I shall pass out, which is probably because I've had nothing but a cup of tea and a biscuit since luncheon."

"You will get no encouragement from either of us," said Timothy, taking her arm in a sustaining way, and propelling her towards the door. "Come on, Jim! Dinner!"

It was some little time later that Sergeant Snettisham returned to Charles Street, and laid before his chief Mrs. Haddington's household bills. He explained that it had taken him rather a long time to complete the journey, because in each instance he had just missed a train. His timing added ten minutes to Beulah's estimate of the double journey; he gave it as his opinion that to allow only half an hour from door to door was running it very fine.

"That seems to let her out, then," Hemingway said. "Not that I ever fancied her much, I'm bound to say." He glanced at his watch, and once more turned to the stand which held the telephone directories, and drew out one of the volumes. As he flicked over the pages, he said: "I don't think there's anything more you can do tonight: you can get off home."

"Thank you, sir. What's going to happen about the Inquest tomorrow?"

"We shall ask for an adjournment. I'm meeting Mrs. Haddington's solicitor here later in the morning. You've sealed up those two rooms? All right: tell your chaps they can clear off now!"

He himself, when he left the house, was driven to the street in Chelsea where Lord Guisborough shared a maisonette with his sister. It was by this time after nine o'clock, and it was apparent to Hemingway, as he alighted from the police-car, that someone in the house was entertaining a party. One or two small cars were parked outside; and from the lower floor issued a muffled roar of sound, strongly reminiscent of the lion-house at the Zoo, but indicated to the initiated that a number of persons, being gathered together, were all talking together. The noise was obviously too great to allow of anyone's hearing the front-door bell, so, after keeping his finger on it for nearly a minute, Hemingway resorted to the knocker. At the third assault on the door, it was opened to him by a dark young woman in a crumpled skirt, and an orange knitted jumper, who held a large jug in one hand, and had a half-smoked cigarette between her lips. She blinked at Hemingway, and said: 'Hallo! Who are you? Not that it matters: come right in! The gin ran out twenty minutes ago, but there's plenty of beer. Have some!"

She raised the jug, and seemed to be about to pour some beer into a non-existent glass. Hemingway thoughtfully straightened the perilously poised jug, saying: "No, thank you, miss. Are you the Honourable Beatrice Guisborough?"

"No, I'm bloody well not! Don't you go saddling me with outworn titles! I'm Trix Guisborough! Neither more nor less! Try the title-stuff on my brother: he'll lap it up! Give him time, and he'll be one of the pillars of the Tory party, poor little sap! Are you one of his nice new respectable pals? Strictly speaking, this is my party, but make yourself at home! You'll find Lance in that mob." She jerked her head towards the door into the studio, which stood open, and revealed a glimpse of many people seen through a thick haze of tobacco-smoke.

Hemingway produced his card, and handed it to her. It took her a moment or two to get it into focus, and he wondered how many more slightly inebriated young women he was destined to meet that evening. When she had succeeded in deciphering it, she gave a laugh, and exclaimed: "God, I shall dine out on this one! A whole, live Chief Inspector at one of my parties!"

"And very nice too, I've no doubt," said Hemingway. "But I haven't come to the party, miss, thanking you all the same. What I want is a few words with your brother."

"I shouldn't think they'd do you much good: he's well away!" she replied. "If you want to call me anything, call me CoMr..ade, not miss! What do you want with Lance?"

"I'll tell him, if you'll be so good as to fetch him along," said Hemingway.

"But why?" she argued. "If it's about the murder the other night, Lance can't tell you anything! The man you want is Butter-wick. If you don't recognise the description, I mean a God-awful little pansy-boy, with curly hair and long eyelashes! You take a look at him, and you'll know why the privileged classes are doomed! And I don't want any dirty cracks about Lance!" she added fiercely. "He's got himself into a rotten set, that's all that's the matter with him! He's got a bourgeois streak which makes him think it's the hell of a thing to be a peer of the realm, but he'll get over it! Trust me!"