Duplicate Death Read online

  ‘Much as usual, I think,’ Beulah replied, perching on the edge of the table, and lighting a cigarette. ‘No good offering you one of these, is it?’

  ‘No, dear, thank you. I don’t know how it is, but I never seemed to take to it. It isn’t my scruples, because I’m very broad-minded, although I’m sure my poor old father would practically have turned me out of the house if he’d have seen me smoking. He was very particular, was my father. He wouldn’t have what you might call a risky story told, not in his hearing he wouldn’t; and the way he took on when short skirts first came in you wouldn’t believe. Yes, he was a very good man, except for the drink, and there I’m bound to say he was a wee bit of a trial to my mother, because as sure as fate she’d have to go and look for him in the public houses as soon as ever he got his wages, and often he wasn’t at all willing to go home with her, not at all. But I often say it takes all sorts to make a world, and he was very highly respected, on account of his principles. Is it a dance tonight, dear?’

  ‘No, just a Bridge-party.’

  ‘I’m bound to say I’ve never played Bridge, though I used to be very fond of a rubber of whist. I daresay there will be a lot of celebrities?’ Miss Spennymoor said hopefully.

  ‘Yes, quite a lot,’ said Beulah, knowing that the little dressmaker used this term to describe any titled person. She perceived that more was expected of her, and added: ‘Lady Floddan – do you know her?’

  Miss Spennymoor shook her head. ‘I don’t think she ever got her name in the papers, dear,’ she said simply.

  Realising that she had failed to give satisfaction, Beulah tried again. ‘Well – Sir Roderick Vickerstown!’

  ‘Now him I do know!’ said Miss Spennymoor, pleased. ‘He was at the races, though which races I don’t precisely remember, not at the moment, with the Marquis of Chetwynd and Lady Caroline Ramsbury, smoking a cigar.’

  ‘It sounds very probable. Lady Nest Poulton,’ offered Beulah.

  ‘Ah, now, what a lovely girl she was!’ sighed Miss Spennymoor. ‘She used to be in all the papers. One of the Season’s débutantes; that was before she was one of the Leaders of the Younger Set, of course. Sweetly pretty, and such dresses! I remember when she got married she had a wedding-dress of cloth of gold, which created a regular sensation, because it was quite an innovation, as they say, at that time. Anyone else?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Except Lord Guisborough.’

  ‘Yes, I thought he’d be coming, for I hear he’s very sweet on Miss Cynthia, but he’s not what I would call a celebrity, dear, if you know what I mean. You see, I knew his mother – oh, ever so well I knew her!’

  Since this was by no means the first time Beulah had been the recipient of this confidence, her reply was a trifle mechanical. ‘Really?’

  ‘First line,’ said Miss Spennymoor cryptically. ‘Oh, she was a one! Daring! You wouldn’t believe! Never till my dying day shall I forget the night she went off to some party with no more money in her bag than would pay for her taxifare (for keep twopence together she could not!) and the dress she wore as one of the Guests at the Grand-Duke’s Reception. Now, what was the name of that show? It’ll come back to me. Of course, I should have got into trouble if it had ever been found out, not that I knew anything about it, for she did it when my back was turned, I need hardly say. What a lad! All the other girls used to laugh at her for taking up with Hilary Guisborough the way she did. Hilary! Well, I couldn’t help laughing myself: what a name for anyone to have! The funny thing was she was the last girl you’d have thought would have been so soft, but there it was, and, as I’ve often said, he who laughs last laughs best, for he married her. No one ever thought he would, but he said he wasn’t going to have people calling his kids bastards, if you’ll pardon the expression, which shows that he was a real gentleman, doesn’t it? Not that it did her much good, because what must that Hilary of hers go and do but catch cold and die of a pneumonia when the twins were no more than six years old, if as much. Not that he was ever much use, really, in spite of his grand relations, but half a loaf is better than no bread, when all’s said and done, and there she was, left with two children on her hands, and nothing but a lot of bills to pay. Still, she kept up her spirits, and always enjoyed a joke. I sometimes think what a laugh she’d have if she knew her Lance had come into the title!’

  She indulged in a little laughter herself at this reflection, but her mirth was cut short by the entrance of Mrs Haddington, who walked into the room, raising her eyebrows at her secretary, and saying: ‘So this is where you are!’

  ‘Do you want me, Mrs Haddington?’ asked Beulah.

  ‘Kindly go downstairs and see that the markers are all ready, and the pencils properly sharpened. Miss Spennymoor, please come to my daughter’s room! I should have thought you could both have found some thing better to do than to sit gossiping here.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Haddington!’ said Miss Spennymoor meekly. ‘Not but what it was quite my fault, and not at all Miss Birtley’s, which it is only right I should say, because I was telling her how I used to know Lord Guisborough’s poor mother, and one thing leading to another –’

  ‘Lord Guisborough’s mother?’ repeated Mrs Haddington. ‘Indeed!’

  This icy interjection not unnaturally covered the little dressmaker with confusion. She scuffled her thimble and her scissors into her work-bag, and picked it up, saying in a crushed voice: ‘Quite ready now, Mrs Haddington!’

  ‘Then please come downstairs!’ said Mrs Haddington.

  Five

  At eight o’clock, fortified by the tablet of aspirin she had swallowed on her hurried return to her lodging in Earl’s Court earlier in the evening to fling herself into her one dinner-dress, Beulah joined the small party assembled in the drawing-room. Originally, the only invited guest had been Dan Seaton-Carew, but Cynthia, encountering Lord Guisborough and Mr Harte at her luncheon-party, had, with reckless hospitality, begged both to dine in Charles Street before the rest of the Bridge-guests arrived. Since Beatrice Guisborough, who shared a studio with her brother, had not been present, she was easily able to forget the propriety of including her in her invitation; and as Lord Guisborough was contemptuous of all social conventions, and, in any event, never considered the convenience of anyone but himself, he had no hesitation in accepting the invitation, and leaving Beatrice to join the Bridge-party under her own escort.

  Mrs Haddington, informed midway through the afternoon of this alteration of her plans, had almost lost her temper with her idolised daughter, even going so far as to say that it was really rather thoughtless of her. Her chef entirely lost his, and was only deterred from walking out of Mrs Haddington’s life then and there by the reflection that the incident, judiciously handled, would provide him with an unanswerable pretext for demanding an increase in his already handsome salary.

  ‘My pet, if you had invited one of them, it would have been quite all right,’ said Mrs Haddington, in the fond voice none but her daughter was privileged to hear. ‘But now our numbers are wrong!’

  ‘Oh, Mummy, what on earth does it matter? Besides, they always were!’

  ‘Nonsense, I don’t count Dan as a regular guest! I suppose I shall have to tell that Birtley girl she can dine with us.’

  She then remembered that the library, where Beulah usually partook of meals served to her on a tray, was swept, garnished, and furnished with card-tables; reflected that the servants would infallibly be affronted by any suggestion that they should serve two separate meals that evening, and became more cheerful. Beulah received a curt intimation that she was expected to dine with her employer with outward apathy. Her spirits were not raised by the contemplation of her image in the mirror set within the panel of her wardrobe door. The discreet dinner-dress, bought for just such an occasion as the present one, had, for its provenance, the Inexpensive Department of a London store distinguished more for its reasonable prices than for its exclusiveness of design, and had been worn rather too often. Not even the addition of a penda