Джорджетт Хейер - Duplicate Death

"I have Mrs. Haddington's keys, miss," Hemingway interposed. "They were in her handbag - some of them, that is. Perhaps you can tell me what they belong to?"

"I call it pretty good cheek of you to take my mother's keys without asking me first!" said Cynthia. "That's the one to her jewel-box, and the other's the little desk in her room. And that's her latch-key. And if you're going to unlock her room now, I'm coming too!"

"Cynthia, dear child!" said Miss Pickhill, repressing, as a Christian, her strong desire to box her niece's ears, "there is no need for you to do that. I will accompany these Persons. You do not want, I am sure, to go into your poor mother's room today."

"Yes, I do," asserted Cynthia obstinately. "Of course it'll practically kill me, but I've got to face it sometime, haven't I? And if I havee to wear this dingy frock, I don't see why I shouldn't have that marvellous black-andsilver scarf of Mummy's, to go with it. She'd like me to: I know she would!"

Miss Pickhill found this speech so daunting that she was unable to think of a reply to it that would not violate her own canons of behaviour towards the bereaved.

Inspector Grant, averting his grave eyes from the pretty, spoilt face of the orphan, encountered a glance from Hemingway, and went up the stairs, carrying the key to Mrs. Haddington's bedroom in his hand. With the exceptions of Miss Spennymoor and Thrimby, the party followed him.

The room was in darkness, the heavy curtains of brocaded silk still being drawn across the windows.

When these had been pulled back, it was seen that Mrs. Haddington's dinner-gown of black velvet had been laid out on the bed, her opulent dressing-gown disposed across a chair, and a pair of paper-thin stockings placed ready for her to put on. Miss Pickhill drew in her breath with a hissing sound, and Cynthia burst into tears. However, when it was suggested to her that she should withdraw from a scene so painfully reminiscent of her loss, she stopped crying, very nobly announcing her determination to face facts, and went to powder her face at the dressing-table between the two windows.

The furniture in the room, besides the bed and the dressing-table, included an enormous wardrobe of Victorian design, the central division of which contained shelves and drawers; an upholstered day-bed, several chairs, and a small walnut bureau on cabriole legs, which stood on one side of the fireplace. The top of this contained nothing of more interest than two cheque-books; an engagement diary; a bundle of letters tied up with faded ribbon, which a cursory glance informed Hemingway were the letters Cynthia had written to her mother from school; and a quantity of writing-paper and envelopes. There were three drawers to the bureau, the two small top ones containing such oddments as sealing-wax, a supply of postcards, stamps and telegraph-forms; the long drawer beneath them was, unlike them, locked. In it lay a piece of petit-point, with the needle still stuck in it, a sewing-bag, and, lying beneath the unfinished embroidery, a large black lace fan, mounted on ebony sticks.

The sight of it most vividly conjured up the picture of Mrs. Haddington, as he had first seen her, to Hemingway's memory. She had been holding the fan between her ringed hands, gripping it rather tightly when some question he had asked her annoyed, or perhaps alarmed her. Hemingway lifted it out of the drawer, staring at it. Across the polished guards several deep scratches were visible, andd where the lace-leaf protruded beyond them he saw that it had been slightly torn. Standing with his back to the room, he carefully opened the fan, observing as he did so that it had suffered some kind of a wrench which had thrown the sticks out of the straight. The tear in the lace cut irregularly across the leaf, small holes occurring here and there only, but always in the same diagonal line. He shut it, found Grant at his elbow, and gave it to him, muttering: "Take that, and keep your mouth shut!"

"You won't find anything in there," Cynthia said, over her shoulder. "That's only where Mummy keeps her work!"

Hemingway shut the drawer. "So I see, miss. Now, if you'll be so good, I should like just to look inside the wardrobe."

"I find it most objectionable to have my poor sister's clothing pawed about by Men!" announced Miss Pickhill, her eyes snapping.

"I shan't disturb anything more than I need, madam. Yes, I see: dresses in the side-wings: I don't want to touch anything there, thank you. If I may see inside the central division?"

As he had expected, shelves, with drawers below them, were concealed by the double doors in the middle of the wardrobe. On one of the shelves a large jewel-box stood, beside a glove-box, and a quilted handkerchief sachet.

Miss Pickhill, perceiving this, instantly called upon Mr.. Eddleston to open it, and to place in it the emerald brooch, which she was still holding. "And for the present," she said, "I consider the case ought to be in safe custody! Perhaps you will take charge of it! My sister possessed some very valuable jewels."

Cynthia at once protested, pointing out that it had nothing to do with her aunt. Miss Pickhill retorted that as her niece's guardian it had everything to do with her, a pronouncement which caused Cynthia to express an impassioned wish that she too were dead. Meanwhile Mr.. Eddleston, carefully avoiding the Chief Inspector's speaking eye, lifted the box out of the wardrobe, and asked for its key. Hemingway handed it to him, and he unlocked the box, disclosing a collection of ornaments of a fashionable rather than a valuable nature, tumbled into a velvet-lined tray.

"That isn't where Mummy puts her good stuff!" Cynthia said scornfully. "Oh, couldn't I just have those paste-clips to wear now? I don't see why I shouldn't! They aren't real, but they'd look rather marvellous on this frock. Mummy used to wear them with it. They go with it!"

"Jewellery is not worn with deep mourning!" said Miss Pickhill. "Can you think of nothing but personal adornment, child?"

"I think you're most unfair!" Cynthia cried, tears once more starting to her eyes. "You know I'm absolutely shattered, and you begged me to try not to think about it, and the instant I manage to take my mind off it you're beastly to me!"

Mr.. Eddleston, who was beginning to look harassed, lifted out the tray of the jewel-box, and laid it aside. A number of leather cases were stacked under the tray.

"If you must put the brooch away, just as if you thought I meant to steal it," said Cynthia, "this blue case is where it lives." She lifted the case out as she spoke, and gave an involuntary exclamation. "My compact!"

Under the blue-leather case lay a powder-compact, its lid covered in petit-point.

Cynthia dropped the blue case on the floor, and eagerly snatched the compact from the box. Her cheeks were suddenly flushed, and her eyes sparkling. She cast a quick look at Hemingway, and said: "It's the one I lost. My favourite one! Mummy must have found it, and - and put it here to be safe!"

"Nonsense, child!" said Miss Pickhill. "Why should your mother have done any such thing? Put it back, for goodness' sake!"

"It's mine, I tell you! It's mine!" Cynthia declared clasping it tightly to her bosom. "It's' the one Dan gave me! No one but me has any right to it!"

"May I see it, miss?" said Hemingway, holding out his hand.

She backed away from him, frightened, staring at him. "No! Why should you? It isn't my mother's! Send for Miss Birtley! She'll tell you it's truly mine!"

"I'm not doubting that, miss, but I should like to see it."

Rather unexpectedly, Miss Pickhill took her niece's part. "There is no need to be hysterical, Cynthia, but I'm bound to say I can see no reason why you should want to look at a powder-compact, Chief Inspector!"

"No, madam, very likely not. Come, miss! Mr.. Eddleston here will tell you that you mustn't try to obstruct me in the performance of my duty."