Duplicate Death Read online

  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 sealingwax, 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, and 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 favour ite 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.’

  ‘But it has nothing to do with you! Look, I’ll put it back in Mummy’s box, and Mr Eddleston can keep it! I don’t mind doing that!’

  ‘Miss Haddington,’ said Hemingway, ‘I don’t want to make things any more unpleasant for you than what they are already, but if you don’t give me that compact I shall have to. You see, I’m going to inspect it, whether you want me to or not, and it will be very much better for you to give it to me without any more fuss.’

  She began to cry again, but when Hemingway unclasped her fingers from about the compact she only feebly resisted.

  Inspector Grant said: ‘Will you give it to me, if you please, sir?’

  He took it from Hemingway, and walked over to the window with it, standing there with his back to the room, his head a little bent. After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder. Hemingway went to him, while Miss Pickhill and Mr Eddleston stared at him. Cynthia had collapsed on the day-bed, and was sobbing into one of its opulent cushions. The Inspector said nothing at all, but showed Hemingway the compact, lying in the palm of his hand. He had opened it, but no little powder-puff and mirror were disclosed. A very small quantity of white powder was all that met Hemingway’s gaze. He looked up questioningly, and the Inspector nodded, shut the case, and opened it again, this time revealing mirror, puff, and powder-filter. Hemingway turned from him.

  ‘Miss Haddington,’ he said, ‘I want to have a word with you. Now, I think it would be best if I saw you privately, but if you wish it you may have your aunt or Mr Eddleston with you.’

  She raised her head, gazing up at him out of terrified, tear-drowned eyes. ‘What are you going to do to me?’

  ‘I’m going to ask you one or two questions, miss, and you may take it from me that if you answer me truthfully you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.’

  She seemed to be undecided; Miss Pickhill exclaimed: ‘I demand to be told what all this means!’

  ‘No, no, don’t!’ shrieked Cynthia. ‘Please don’t!’

  ‘No, miss, I’ve no wish to do so. Suppose we were to go down to the drawing-room – just you and me, and Inspector Grant?’

  ‘I think,’ said Mr Eddleston, clearing his throat, ‘that I ought to be present, Chief Inspector, if you wish to question Miss Haddington on any serious matter.’