Duplicate Death Read online

  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 remember 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?’

  Thrimby 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 safety-catch 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 cocktail-frock 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 none 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 Haddington. 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, encoun tering 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 descend ing 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. The 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