Duplicate Death Read online

  ‘When oysters were more plentiful,’ he said affably, ‘it was one of the articles of indenture for apprentices that they should not be fed on them more than a strictly limited number of times in the week. Which doesn’t lead one to suppose that they were very popular, does it?’

  Since his lordship was unable to refute this piece of recondite knowledge, he could think of no adequate retort, and therefore said nothing. So, having successfully put him in his place, Timothy continued in an easy, conversational tone: ‘Rather odd, the way different foods go in and out of fashion. My mother tells me that when she was a girl, for instance, scallops, which we think very well of, were considered to be too cheap and common to figure on any menu.’

  ‘I had the pleasure of meeting your mother at dear Mary Petersfield’s party,’ said Mrs Haddington. ‘I should so much like to know her better: what an interesting woman she is! How much I enjoyed her book describing her adventures on

  the Congo border!’

  Timothy, who shared with his half-brother, Mr James Kane, an ineradicable conviction that the Second World War had been inaugurated by providence to put an end to their beloved but very trying parent’s passion for exploring remote quarters of the globe, bowed, and murmured one of the conventional acknowledgements with which the more astute relatives of an author take care to equip themselves.

  ‘Is Norma Harte your mother?’ demanded Guisborough abruptly. ‘I can’t say I’ve read any of her books, but I’ve heard of her. She knows Equatorial Africa pretty well, doesn’t she? What are her views on the native question? Or hasn’t she any?’

  Timothy had not read his mother’s books either, but he was not going to put up with this sort of thing. He replied with deceptive readiness: ‘Oh, rather! I believe she’s very sound. In fact, if you’re thinking of a safari you couldn’t do better than to consult her. She’ll tell you which tribes make the best carriers, and what you want to look out for in your headman, and what are the main pitfalls: Christianised boys, boys who try to talk English to you, and sit down in your chairs – that sort of thing!’

  ‘That,’ said Guisborough, reddening angrily, ‘is not what I meant! I was referring – though possibly this might not interest Lady Harte! – to –’

  ‘Oh, do shut up about Africa and natives!’ interrupted Cynthia. ‘I do think all that sort of thing is too boring!’

  Mrs Haddington, although she could not but be glad of the intervention, uttered a reproving exclamation, looking rather anxiously at her daughter as she did so. Cynthia was in one of her petulant moods, rejecting most of the dishes offered to her, fidgeting with the cutlery, and taking no pains at all to be polite to her mother’s guests.

  ‘Tired, baby?’ asked Seaton-Carew, smiling at her across the table. ‘I suppose you’ve been on the go since breakfasttime, as usual?’

  ‘I’m afraid she has,’ said Mrs Haddington. ‘I think I shall have to have the telephone dismantled! It never stops ringing from morning till night, and always it’s someone wanting my frivolous daughter, isn’t it, Miss Birtley?’

  ‘Always,’ responded Beulah obediently.

  ‘Oh, Mummy, what lies you do tell!’ said Cynthia, hunching a pettish shoulder.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Seaton-Carew, with what even Mr Harte acknowledged to be praiseworthy swiftness, ‘I’ve been cursing the telephone all day myself. Been expecting an important call, which hasn’t come through. I’ve told the Exchange to put any calls for me through to this number, Lilias. I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

  In this he was mistaken. Mrs Haddington might be grateful to him for trying to cover up her daughter’s lapse, but she could scarcely be expected to contemplate with pleasure the prospect of seeing the smooth running of her Bridgeparty disturbed by the interruption of a telephone-call. Her response, though civil, was so lacking in cordiality that even Lord Guisborough became conscious of an atmosphere of constraint. However, Timothy was inspired to ask Cynthia if she had seen the latest gangster-film, showing at the Orpheum, a gambit which dispelled her ill-humour, and induced her to launch forth into an animated and enthusiastic discussion on this and several other films of the same order. The rest of dinner passed without untoward incident. Mrs Haddington rose from the table, playfully apologising for not being able to allow her male guests more than ten minutes with the port, and inviting them to join her in her boudoir for coffee. She then led the way out of the room, and while Cynthia went up to her bedroom to put more powder on her face and to exaggerate the already beautiful curve of her upper lip, she reminded Beulah what her various duties would be during the rest of the evening. Obedient to her command, Seaton-Carew brought his fellow-guests up to the boudoir in good time; and Thrimby, leaving a couple of flurried subordinates to clear away the remains of dinner and transform the dining-room into a refresh ment buffet, followed him with the coffee-tray, which he majestically offered to everyone in turn. Cynthia reappeared just as he was leaving the room, and nearly caused Seaton-Carew to spill his coffee by seizing his free hand and saying: ‘Oh, Dan darling, I’ve something fright fully important I want to tell you! Do come up to the drawing-room!’

  ‘Not now, my pet,’ said Mrs Haddington firmly. ‘You can talk to Dan some other time.’

  ‘But, Mummy, you don’t understand ! I particularly want to say something to him now!’

  ‘Darling, you’re forgetting! You must stay and entertain Lance, and Mr Harte. Besides, I want to have a word with Dan myself.’

  ‘We’ll go into a huddle together later on, Cynny,’ said

  Seaton-Carew soothingly.

  Cynthia pouted, and protested, but before her voice had developed more than a hint of a whining note her harassed parent had inexorably swept Mr Seaton-Carew off to the library, to discuss with him, she said, certain minor details of the approaching contest.

  ‘I do think people are sickening,’ Cynthia remarked. ‘Where’s my coffee? Oh, thanks, Timothy, you are an angel! Did you pour it out for me?’

  She then gravitated, as though drawn by a magnet, to the radio-cabinet in one corner of the room, switched it on, and began to twiddle the dials. Lord Guisborough followed her, and Timothy seized the opportunity to say to Beulah, in an undervoice; ‘Aren’t we having fun? Have you had a bloody day? You look worn-out.’

  ‘That’s not very polite. I expected better things of that charming Mr Harte who has such lovely manners.’

  ‘Less of it, my girl!’ said Timothy.

  At this moment a reverent voice announced that they were listening to the Third Preeogramme, and were about to be regaled with a composition by Meeozart. ‘This littlekneeown work,’ continued the voice, in the kindly tone of one addressing a class of backward students, ‘was compeeosed by Meeozart at the age of eighteen. It was originally –’

  ‘O God!’ ejaculated Cynthia, swinging the dial round.

  This seemed, on the whole, to be fair comment. ‘Well said!’ approved Timothy. ‘I bar having my enjoyment of a concert marred by a patronising voice that tells me a lot of arid facts I am capable of looking up for myself, should I by

  any chance wish to acquaint myself with them.’

  ‘Wireless programmes are not primarily intended for the privileged few who have had the opportunity and the leisure to acquire your culture!’ said Guisborough offensively.

  ‘Wireless programmes are neither primarily nor secondarily intended for cultured persons,’ replied Timothy, quite unruffled. ‘Too often they appear to be intended either for the entirely witless, or for those desirous of acquiring without effort a little easy knowl edge. I remember that someone once gave a fifteen minute talk on the Battle of Waterloo. A sobering thought.’

  ‘Well, at least that’s better than incessant and uninspiring glorification of the Little Man,’ said Beulah.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Guisborough contemptuously, ‘that you are one of those who fondly imagine that history is made by the so-called Great Man?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Beulah. ‘I am.’