Lord Peter Wimsey Stories

 

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THE IMAGE IN THE MIRROR

 

THE LITTLE MAN WITH the cowlick seemed so absorbed in the book that

Wimsey had not the heart to claim his property, but, drawing up the other

arm-chair and placing his drink within easy reach, did his best to entertain

himself with the Dunlop Book, which graced, as usual, one of the tables in

the lounge.

The little man read on, his elbows squared upon the arms of his chair,

his ruffled red head bent anxiously over the text. He breathed heavily, and

when he came to the turn of the page, he set the thick volume down on his

knee and used both hands for his task. Not what is called “a great reader,”

Wimsey decided.

When he reached the end of the story, he turned laboriously back, and

read one passage over again with attention. Then he laid the book, still

open, upon the table, and in so doing caught Wimsey’s eye.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in his rather thin Cockney voice, “is

this your book?”

“It doesn’t matter at all,” said Wimsey graciously, “I know it by heart. I

only brought it along with me because it’s handy for reading a few pages

when you’re stuck in a place like this for the night. You can always take it

up and find something entertaining.”

“This chap Wells,” pursued the red-haired man, “he’s what you’d call a

very clever writer, isn’t he? It’s wonderful how he makes it all so real, and

yet some of the things he says, you wouldn’t hardly think they could be

really possible. Take this story now; would you say, sir, a thing like that

could actually happen to a person, as it might be you—or me?”

Wimsey twisted his head round so as to get a view of the page.

“The Plattner Experiment,” he said, “that’s the one about the

schoolmaster who was blown into the fourth dimension and came back with

his right and left sides reversed. Well, no, I don’t suppose such a thing

would really occur in real life, though of course it’s very fascinating to play

with the idea of a fourth dimension.”

“Well—” He paused and looked up shyly at Wimsey. “I don’t rightly

understand about this fourth dimension. I didn’t know there was such a

place, but he makes it all very clear no doubt to them that know science.

But this right-and-left business, now, I know that’s a fact. By experience, if

you’ll believe me.”

Wimsey extended his cigarette-case. The little man made an instinctive

motion towards it with his left hand and then seemed to check himself and

stretched his right across.

“There, you see. I’m always left-handed when I don’t think about it.

Same as this Plattner. I fight against it, but it doesn’t seem any use. But I

wouldn’t mind that—it’s a small thing and plenty of people are left-handed

and think nothing of it. No. It’s the dretful anxiety of not knowing what I

mayn’t be doing when I’m in this fourth dimension or whatever it is.”

He sighed deeply.

“I’m worried, that’s what I am, worried to death.”

“Suppose you tell me about it,” said Wimsey.

“I don’t like telling people about it, because they might think I had a

slate loose. But it’s fairly getting on my nerves. Every morning when I

wake up I wonder what I’ve been doing in the night and whether it’s the day

of the month it ought to be. I can’t get any peace till I see the morning

paper, and even then I can’t be sure. …

“Well, I’ll tell you, if you won’t take it as a bore or a liberty. It all began

—” He broke off and glanced nervously about the room. “There’s nobody to see. If you wouldn’t mind, sir, putting your hand just here a minute—”

He unbuttoned his rather regrettable double-breasted waistcoat, and laid

a hand on the part of his anatomy usually considered to indicate the site of

the heart.

“By all means,” said Wimsey, doing as he was requested.

“Do you feel anything?”

“I don’t know that I do,” said Wimsey. “What ought I to feel? A

swelling or anything? If you mean your pulse, the wrist is a better place.”

“Oh, you can feel it there, all right,” said the little man. “Just try the

other side of the chest, sir.”

Wimsey obediently moved his hand across.

“I seem to detect a little flutter,” he said after a pause.

“You do? Well, you wouldn’t expect to find it that side and not the

other, would you? Well, that’s where it is. I’ve got my heart on the right

side, that’s what I wanted you to feel for yourself.”

“Did it get displaced in an illness?” asked Wimsey sympathetically.

“In a manner of speaking. But that’s not all. My liver’s got round the

wrong side, too, and my organs. I’ve had a doctor see it, and he told me I

was all reversed. I’ve got my appendix on my left side—that is, I had till

they took it away. If we was private, now, I could show you the scar. It was

a great surprise to the surgeon when they told him about me. He said

afterwards it made it quite awkward for him, coming left-handed to the

operation, as you might say.”

“It’s unusual, certainly,” said Wimsey, “but I believe such cases do

occur sometimes.”

“Not the way it occurred to me. It happened in an air-raid.”

“In an air-raid?” said Wimsey, aghast.

“Yes—and if that was all it had done to me I’d put up with it and be

thankful. Eighteen I was then, and I’d just been called up. Previous to that

I’d been working in the packing department at Crichton’s—you’ve heard of

them, I expect—Crichton’s for Admirable Advertising, with offices in

Holborn. My mother was living in Brixton, and I’d come up to town on

leave from the training-camp. I’d been seeing one or two of my old pals,

and I thought I’d finish the evening by going to see a film at the Stoll. It

was after supper—I had just time to get in to the last house, so I cut across

from Leicester Square through Covent Garden Market. Well, I was getting

along when wallop! A bomb came down it seemed to me right under my

feet, and everything went black for a bit.”

“That was the raid that blew up Oldham’s, I suppose.”

“Yes, it was January 28th, 1918. Well, as I say, everything went right

out. Next thing as I knew, I was walking in some place in broad daylight,

with green grass all round me, and trees, and water to the side of me, and

knowing no more about how I got there than the man in the moon.”

“Good Lord!” said Wimsey. “And was it the fourth dimension, do you

think?”

“Well, no, it wasn’t. It was Hyde Park, as I come to see when I had my

wits about me. I was along the bank of the Serpentine and there was a seat

with some women sitting on it, and children playing about.”

“Had the explosion damaged you?”

“Nothing to see or feel, except that I had a big bruise on one hip and

shoulder as if I’d been chucked up against something. I was fairly

staggered. The air-raid had gone right out of my mind, don’t you see, and I

couldn’t imagine how I came there, and why I wasn’t at Crichton’s. I

looked at my watch, but that had stopped. I was feeling hungry. I felt in my

pocket and found some money there, but it wasn’t as much as I should have had—not by a long way. But I felt I must have a bit of something, so I got

out of the Park by the Marble Arch gate, and went into a Lyons. I ordered

two poached on toast and a pot of tea, and while I was waiting I took up a

paper that somebody had left on the seat. Well, that finished me. The last

thing I remembered was starting off to see that film on the 28th—and here

was the date on the paper—January 30th! I’d lost a whole day and two

nights somewhere!”

“Shock,” suggested Wimsey. The little man took the suggestion and put

his own meaning on it.

“Shock? I should think it was. I was scared out of my life. The girl who

brought my eggs must have thought I was barmy. I asked her what day of

the week it was, and she said ‘Friday.’ There wasn’t any mistake.

“Well, I don’t want to make this bit too long, because that’s not the end

by a long chalk. I got my meal down somehow, and went to see a doctor. He

asked me what I remembered doing last, and I told him about the film, and

he asked whether I was out in the air-raid. Well, then it came back to me,

and I remembered the bomb falling, but nothing more. He said I’d had a

nervous shock and lost my memory a bit, and that it often happened and I

wasn’t to worry. And then he said he’d look me over to see if I’d got hurt at

all. So he started in with his stethoscope, and all of a sudden he said to me:

“‘Why, you keep your heart on the wrong side, my lad!’

“‘Do I?’ said I. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

“Well, he looked me over pretty thoroughly, and then he told me what

I’ve told you, that I was all reversed inside, and he asked a lot of questions

about my family. I told him I was an only child and my father was dead—

killed by a motor-lorry, he was, when I was a kid of ten—and I lived with

my mother in Brixton and all that. And he said I was an unusual case, but

there was nothing to worry about. Bar being wrong side round I was sound as a bell, and he told me to go home and take things quietly for a day or

two.

“Well, I did, and I felt all right, and I thought that was the end of it,

though I’d overstayed my leave and had a bit of a job explaining myself to

the R.T.O. It wasn’t till several months afterwards the draft was called up,

and I went along for my farewell leave. I was having a cup of coffee in the

Mirror Hall at the Strand Corner House—you know it, down the steps?”

Wimsey nodded.

“All the big looking-glasses all round. I happened to look into the one

near me, and I saw a young lady smiling at me as if she knew me. I saw her

reflection, that is, if you understand me. Well, I couldn’t make it out, for I

had never seen her before, and I didn’t take any notice, thinking she’d

mistook me for somebody else. Besides, though I wasn’t so very old then, I

thought I knew her sort, and my mother had always brought me up strict. I

looked away and went on with my coffee, and all of a sudden a voice said

quite close to me:

“‘Hullo, Ginger—aren’t you going to say good evening?’

“I looked up and there she was. Pretty, too, if she hadn’t been painted up

so much.

“‘I’m afraid,’ I said, rather stiff, ‘you have the advantage of me, miss.’

“‘Oh, Ginger,’ says she, ‘Mr. Duckworthy, and after Wednesday night!’

A kind of mocking way she had of speaking.

“I hadn’t thought so much of her calling me Ginger, because that’s what

any girl would say to a fellow with my sort of hair, but when she got my

name off so pat, I tell you it did give me a turn.

“‘You seem to think we’re acquainted, miss,’ said I.

“‘Well, I should rather say so, shouldn’t you?’ said she.

“There! I needn’t go into it all. From what she said I found out she

thought she’d met me one night and taken me home with her. And what

frightened me most of all, she said it had happened on the night of the big

raid.

“‘It was you,’ she said, staring into my face a little puzzled-like. ‘Of

course it was you. I knew you in a minute when I saw your face in the

glass.’

“Of course, I couldn’t say that it hadn’t been. I knew no more of what

I’d been and done that night than the babe unborn. But it upset me cruelly,

because I was an innocent sort of lad in those days and hadn’t ever gone

with girls, and it seemed to me if I’d done a thing like that I ought to know

about it. It seemed to me I’d been doing wrong and not getting full value for

my money either.

“I made some excuse to get rid of her, and I wondered what else I’d

been doing. She couldn’t tell me farther than the morning of the 29th, and it

worried me a bit wondering if I’d done any other queer things.”

“It must have,” said Wimsey, and put his finger on the bell. When the

waiter arrived, he ordered drinks for two and disposed himself to listen to

the rest of Mr. Duckworthy’s adventures.

“I didn’t think much about it, though,” went on the little man; “we went

abroad, and I saw my first corpse and dodged my first shell and had my first

dose of trenches, and I hadn’t much time for what they call introspection.

“The next queer thing that happened was in the C.C.S. at Ytres. I’d got

a blighty one near Caudry in September during the advance from Cambrai

—half buried, I was, in a mine explosion and laid out unconscious near

twenty-four hours it must have been. When I came to, I was wandering

about somewhere behind the lines with a nasty hole in my shoulder.

Somebody had bandaged it up for me, but I hadn’t any recollection of that. I walked a long way, not knowing where I was, till at last I fetched up in an

aid-post. They fixed me up and sent me down the line to a base hospital. I

was pretty feverish, and the next thing I knew, I was in bed with a nurse

looking after me. The bloke in the next bed to mine was asleep. I got talking

to a chap in the next bed beyond him, and he told me where I was, when all

of a sudden the other man woke up and says:

“‘My God,’ he says, ‘you dirty ginger-haired swine, it’s you, is it? What

have you done with them vallables?’

“I tell you, I was struck all of a heap. Never seen the man in my life.

But he went on at me and made such a row, the nurse came running in to

see what was up. All the men were sitting up in bed listening—you never

saw anything like it.

“The upshot was, as soon as I could understand what this fellow was

driving at, that he’d been sharing a shell-hole with a chap that he said was

me, and that this chap and he had talked together a bit and then, when he

was weak and helpless, the chap had looted his money and watch and

revolver and what not and gone off with them. A nasty, dirty trick, and I

couldn’t blame him for making a row about it, if true. But I said and stood

to it, it wasn’t me, but some other fellow of the same name. He said he

recognised me—said he and this other chap had been together a whole day,

and he knew every feature in his face and couldn’t be mistaken. However, it

seemed this bloke had said he belonged to the Blankshires, and I was able

to show my papers and prove I belonged to the Buffs, and eventually the

bloke apologised and said he must have made a mistake. He died, anyhow,

a few days after, and we all agreed he must have been wandering a bit. The

two divisions were fighting side by side in that dust-up and it was possible

for them to get mixed up. I tried afterwards to find out whether by any

chance I had a double in the Blankshires, but they sent me back home, and before I was fit again the Armistice was signed, and I didn’t take any more

trouble.

“I went back to my old job after the war, and things seemed to settle

down a bit. I got engaged when I was twenty-one to a regular good girl, and

I thought everything in the garden was lovely. And then, one day—up it all

went! My mother was dead then, and I was living by myself in lodgings.

Well, one day I got a letter from my intended, saying that she had seen me

down at Southend on the Sunday, and that was enough for her. All was over

between us.

“Now, it was most unfortunate that I’d had to put off seeing her that

week-end, owing to an attack of influenza. It’s a cruel thing to be ill all

alone in lodgings, and nobody to look after you. You might die there all on

your own and nobody the wiser. Just an unfurnished room I had, you see,

and no attendance, and not a soul came near me, though I was pretty bad.

But my young lady she said as she had seen me down at Southend with

another young woman, and she would take no excuse. Of course, I said,

what was she doing down at Southend without me, anyhow, and that tore it.

She sent me back the ring, and the episode, as they say, was closed.

“But the thing that troubled me was, I was getting that shaky in my

mind, how did I know I hadn’t been to Southend without knowing it? I

thought I’d been half sick and half asleep in my lodgings, but it was misty-

like to me. And knowing the things I had done other times—well, there! I

hadn’t any clear recollection one way or another, except fever-dreams. I had

a vague recollection of wandering and walking somewhere for hours

together. Delirious, I thought I was, but it might have been sleep-walking

for all I knew. I hadn’t a leg to stand on by way of evidence. I felt it very

hard, losing my intended like that, but I could have got over that if it hadn’t

been for the fear of myself and my brain giving way or something.

“You may think this is all foolishness and I was just being mixed up

with some other fellow of the same name that happened to be very like me.

But now I’ll tell you something.

“Terrible dreams I got to having about that time. There was one thing as

always haunted me—a thing that had frightened me as a little chap. My

mother, though she was a good, strict woman, liked to go to a cinema now

and again. Of course, in those days they weren’t like what they are now, and

I expect we should think those old pictures pretty crude if we was to see

them, but we thought a lot of them at that time. When I was about seven or

eight I should think, she took me with her to see a thing—I remember the

name now—The Student of Prague, it was called. I’ve forgotten the story,

but it was a costume piece, about a young fellow at the university who sold

himself to the devil, and one day his reflection came stalking out of the

mirror on its own, and went about committing dreadful crimes, so that

everybody thought it was him. At least, I think it was that, but I forget the

details, it’s so long ago. But what I shan’t forget in a hurry is the fright it

gave me to see that dretful figure come out of the mirror. It was that ghastly

to see it, I cried and yelled, and after a time mother had to take me out. For

months and years after that I used to dream of it. I’d dream I was looking in

a great long glass, same as the student in the picture, and after a bit I’d see

my reflection smiling at me and I’d walk up to the mirror holding out my

left hand, it might be, and seeing myself walking to meet me with its right

hand out. And just as it came up to me, it would suddenly—that was the

awful moment—turn its back on me and walk away into the mirror again,

grinning over its shoulder, and suddenly I’d know that it was the real person

and I was only the reflection, and I’d make a dash after it into the mirror,

and then everything would go grey and misty round me and with the horror

of it I’d wake up all of a perspiration.”

“Uncommonly disagreeable,” said Wimsey. “That legend of the

Doppelgänger, it’s one of the oldest and the most widespread and never

fails to terrify me. When I was a kid, my nurse had a trick that frightened

me. If we’d been out, and she was asked if we’d met anybody, she used to

say, ‘Oh, no—we saw nobody nicer than ourselves.’ I used to toddle after

her in terror of coming round a corner and seeing a horrid and similar pair

pouncing out at us. Of course I’d have rather died than tell a soul how the

thing terrified me. Rum little beasts, kids.”

The little man nodded thoughtfully.

“Well,” he went on, “about that time the nightmare came back. At first it

was only at intervals, you know, but it grew on me. At last it started coming

every night. I hadn’t hardly closed my eyes before there was the long mirror

and the thing coming grinning along, always with its hand out as if it meant

to catch hold of me and pull me through the glass. Sometimes I’d wake up

with the shock, but sometimes the dream went on, and I’d be stumbling for

hours through a queer sort of world—all mist and half-lights, and the walls

would be all crooked like they are in that picture of ‘Dr. Caligari.’ Lunatic,

that’s what it was. Many’s the time I’ve sat up all night for fear of going to

sleep. I didn’t know, you see. I used to lock the bedroom door and hide the

key for fear—you see, I didn’t know what I might be doing. But then I read

in a book that sleep-walkers can remember the places where they’ve hidden

things when they were awake. So that was no use.”

“Why didn’t you get someone to share the room with you?”

“Well, I did.” He hesitated. “I got a woman—she was a good kid. The

dream went away then. I had blessed peace for three years. I was fond of

that girl. Damned fond of her. Then she died.”

He gulped down the last of his whisky and blinked.

“Influenza, it was. Pneumonia. It kind of broke me up. Pretty she was,

too. …

“After that, I was alone again. I felt bad about it. I couldn’t—I didn’t

like—but the dreams came back. Worse. I dreamed about doing things—

well! That doesn’t matter now.

“And one day it came in broad daylight. …

“I was going along Holborn at lunch-time. I was still at Crichton’s.

Head of the packing department I was then, and doing pretty well. It was a

wet beast of a day, I remember—dark and drizzling. I wanted a hair-cut.

There’s a barber shop on the south side, about half way along—one of those

places where you go down a passage and there’s a door at the end with a

mirror and the name written across it in gold letters. You know what I

mean.

“I went in there. There was a light in the passage, so I could see quite

plainly. As I got up to the mirror I could see my reflection coming to meet

me, and all of a sudden the awful dream-feeling came over me. I told

myself it was all nonsense and put my hand out to the door-handle—my left

hand, because the handle was that side and I was still apt to be left-handed

when I didn’t think about it.

“The reflection, of course, put out its right hand—that was all right, of

course—and I saw my own figure in my old squash hat and burberry—but

the face—oh, my God! It was grinning at me—and then just like in the

dream, it suddenly turned its back and walked away from me, looking over

its shoulder—

“I had my hand on the door, and it opened, and I felt myself stumbling

and falling over the threshold.

“After that, I don’t remember anything more. I woke up in my own bed

and there was a doctor with me. He told me I had fainted in the street, and they’d found some letters on me with my address and taken me home.

“I told the doctor all about it, and he said I was in a highly nervous

condition and ought to find a change of work and get out in the open air

more.

“They were very decent to me at Crichton’s. They put me on to

inspecting their outdoor publicity. You know. One goes round from town to

town inspecting the hoardings and seeing what posters are damaged or

badly placed and reporting on them. They gave me a Morgan to run about

in. I’m on that job now.

“The dreams are better. But I still have them. Only a few nights ago it

came to me. One of the worst I’ve ever had. Fighting and strangling in a

black, misty place. I’d tracked the devil—my other self—and got him

down. I can feel my fingers on his throat now—killing myself.

“That was in London. I’m always worse in London. Then I came up

here. …

“You see why that book interested me. The fourth dimension … it’s not

a thing I ever heard of, but this man Wells seems to know all about it.

You’re educated now. Daresay you’ve been to college and all that. What do

you think about it, eh?”

“I should think, you know,” said Wimsey, “it was more likely your

doctor was right. Nerves and all that.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t account for me having got twisted round the way

I am, now, does it? Legends, you talked of. Well, there’s some people think

those medeeval johnnies knew quite a lot. I don’t say I believe in devils and

all that. But maybe some of them may have been afflicted, same as me. It

stands to reason they wouldn’t talk such a lot about it if they hadn’t felt it, if

you see what I mean. But what I’d like to know is, can’t I get back any

way? I tell you, it’s a weight on my mind. I never know, you see.”

“I shouldn’t worry too much, if I were you,” said Wimsey. “I’d stick to

the fresh-air life. And I’d get married. Then you’d have a check on your

movements, don’t you see. And the dreams might go again.”

“Yes. Yes. I’ve thought of that. But—did you read about that man the

other day? Strangled his wife in his sleep, that’s what he did. Now,

supposing I—that would be a terrible thing to happen to a man, wouldn’t it?

Those dreams. …”

He shook his head and stared thoughtfully into the fire. Wimsey, after a

short interval of silence, got up and went out into the bar. The landlady and

the waiter and the barmaid were there, their heads close together over the

evening paper. They were talking animatedly, but stopped abruptly at the

sound of Wimsey’s footsteps.

Ten minutes later, Wimsey returned to the lounge. The little man had

gone. Taking up his motoring-coat, which he had flung on a chair, Wimsey

went upstairs to his bedroom. He undressed slowly and thoughtfully, put on

his pyjamas and dressing-gown, and then, pulling a copy of the Evening

News from his motoring-coat pocket, he studied a front-page item

attentively for some time. Presently he appeared to come to some decision,

for he got up and opened his door cautiously. The passage was empty and

dark. Wimsey switched on a torch and walked quietly along, watching the

floor. Opposite one of the doors he stopped, contemplating a pair of shoes

which stood waiting to be cleaned. Then he softly tried the door. It was

locked. He tapped cautiously.

A red head emerged.

“May I come in a moment?” said Wimsey, in a whisper.

The little man stepped back, and Wimsey followed him in.

“What’s up?” said Mr. Duckworthy.

“I want to talk to you,” said Wimsey. “Get back into bed, because it may

take some time.”

The little man looked at him, scared, but did as he was told. Wimsey

gathered the folds of his dressing-gown closely about him, screwed his

monocle more firmly into his eye, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He

looked at Mr. Duckworthy a few minutes without speaking, and then said:

“Look here. You’ve told me a queerish story tonight. For some reason I

believe you. Possibly it only shows what a silly ass I am, but I was born like

that, so it’s past praying for. Nice, trusting nature and so on. Have you seen

the paper this evening?”

He pushed the Evening News into Mr. Duckworthy’s hand and bent the

monocle on him more glassily than ever.

On the front page was a photograph. Underneath was a panel in bold

type, boxed for greater emphasis:

“The police at Scotland Yard are anxious to get into touch with the

original of this photograph, which was found in the handbag of Miss Jessie

Haynes, whose dead body was found strangled on Barnes Common last

Thursday morning. The photograph bears on the back the words ‘J. H. with

love from R. D.’ Anybody recognising the photograph is asked to

communicate immediately with Scotland Yard or any police-station.”

Mr. Duckworthy looked, and grew so white that Wimsey thought he

was going to faint.

“Well?” said Wimsey.

“Oh, God, sir! Oh, God! It’s come at last.” He whimpered and pushed

the paper away, shuddering. “I’ve always known something of this would

happen. But as sure as I’m born I knew nothing about it.”

“It’s you all right, I suppose?”

“The photograph’s me all right. Though how it came there I don’t know.

I haven’t had one taken for donkey’s years, on my oath I haven’t—except

once in a staff group at Crichton’s. But I tell you, sir, honest-to-God, there’s

times when I don’t know what I’m doing, and that’s a fact.”

Wimsey examined the portrait feature by feature.

“Your nose, now—it has a slight twist—if you’ll excuse my referring to

it—to the right, and so it has in the photograph. The left eyelid droops a

little. That’s correct, too. The forehead here seems to have a distinct bulge

on the left side—unless that’s an accident in the printing.”

“No!” Mr. Duckworthy swept his tousled cowlick aside. “It’s very

conspicuous—unsightly, I always think, so I wear the hair over it.”

With the ginger lock pushed back, his resemblance to the photograph

was more startling than before.

“My mouth’s crooked, too.”

“So it is. Slants up to the left. Very attractive, a one-sided smile, I

always think—on a face of your type, that is. I have known such things to

look positively sinister.”

Mr. Duckworthy smiled a faint, crooked smile.

“Do you know this girl, Jessie Haynes?”

“Not in my right senses, I don’t, sir. Never heard of her—except, of

course, that I read about the murder in the papers. Strangled—oh, my God!”

He pushed his hands out in front of him and stared woefully at them.

“What can I do? If I was to get away—”

“You can’t. They’ve recognised you down in the bar. The police will

probably be here in a few minutes. No”—as Duckworthy made an attempt

to get out of bed—“don’t do that. It’s no good, and it would only get you

into worse trouble. Keep quiet and answer one or two questions. First of all, do you know who I am? No, how should you? My name’s Wimsey—Lord

Peter Wimsey—”

“The detective?”

“If you like to call it that. Now, listen. Where was it you lived at

Brixton?”

The little man gave the address.

“Your mother’s dead. Any other relatives?”

“There was an aunt. She came from somewhere in Surrey, I think. Aunt

Susan, I used to call her. I haven’t seen her since I was a kid.”

“Married?”

“Yes—oh, yes—Mrs. Susan Brown.”

“Right. Were you left-handed as a child?”

“Well, yes, I was, at first. But mother broke me of it.”

“And the tendency came back after the air-raid. And were you ever ill as

a child? To have the doctor, I mean?”

“I had measles once, when I was about four.”

“Remember the doctor’s name?”

“They took me to the hospital.”

“Oh, of course. Do you remember the name of the barber in Holborn?”

This question came so unexpectedly as to stagger the wits of Mr.

Duckworthy, but after a while he said he thought it was Biggs or Briggs.

Wimsey sat thoughtfully for a moment, and then said:

“I think that’s all. Except—oh, yes! What is your Christian name?”

“Robert.”

“And you assure me that, so far as you know, you had no hand in this

business?”

“That,” said the little man, “that I swear to. As far as I know, you know.

Oh, my Lord! If only it was possible to prove an alibi! That’s my only chance. But I’m so afraid, you see, that I truly have done it. Do you think—

do you think they would hang me for that?”

“Not if you could prove you knew nothing about it,” said Wimsey. He

did not add that, even so, his acquaintance might probably pass the rest of

his life at Broadmoor.

“And you know,” said Mr. Duckworthy, “if I’m to go about all my life

killing people without knowing it, it would be much better that they should

hang me and done with it. It’s a terrible thing to think of.”

“Yes, but you may not have done it, you know.”

“I hope not, I’m sure,” said Mr. Duckworthy. “I say—what’s that?”

“The police, I fancy,” said Wimsey lightly. He stood up as a knock came

at the door, and said heartily, “Come in!”

The landlord, who entered first, seemed rather taken aback by Wimsey’s

presence.

“Come right in,” said Wimsey hospitably. “Come in, sergeant; come in,

officer. What can we do for you?”

“Don’t,” said the landlord, “don’t make a row if you can help it.”

The police sergeant paid no attention to either of them, but stalked

across to the bed and confronted the shrinking Mr. Duckworthy.

“It’s the man all right,” said he. “Now, Mr. Duckworthy, you’ll excuse

this late visit, but as you may have seen by the papers, we’ve been looking

for a person answering your description, and there’s no time like the

present. We want—”

“I didn’t do it,” cried Mr. Duckworthy wildly. “I know nothing about it

—”

The officer pulled out his note-book and wrote: “He said before any

question was asked him, ‘I didn’t do it.’”

“You seem to know all about it,” said the sergeant.

“Of course he does,” said Wimsey; “we’ve been having a little informal

chat about it.”

“You have, have you? And who might you be—sir?” The last word

appeared to be screwed out of the sergeant forcibly by the action of the

monocle.

“I’m so sorry,” said Wimsey, “I haven’t a card on me at the moment. I

am Lord Peter Wimsey.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the sergeant. “And may I ask, my lord, what you

know about this here?”

“You may, and I may answer if I like, you know. I know nothing at all

about the murder. About Mr. Duckworthy I know what he has told me and

no more. I dare say he will tell you, too, if you ask him nicely. But no third

degree, you know, sergeant. No Savidgery.”

Baulked by this painful reminder, the sergeant said, in a voice of

annoyance:

“It’s my duty to ask him what he knows about this.”

“I quite agree,” said Wimsey. “As a good citizen, it’s his duty to answer

you. But it’s a gloomy time of night, don’t you think? Why not wait till the

morning? Mr. Duckworthy won’t run away.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“Oh, but I am. I will undertake to produce him whenever you want him.

Won’t that do? You’re not charging him with anything, I suppose?”

“Not yet,” said the sergeant.

“Splendid. Then it’s all quite friendly and pleasant, isn’t it? How about a

drink?”

The sergeant refused this kindly offer with some gruffness in his

manner.

“On the waggon?” inquired Wimsey sympathetically. “Bad luck.

Kidneys? Or liver, eh?”

The sergeant made no reply.

“Well, we are charmed to have had the pleasure of seeing you,” pursued

Wimsey. “You’ll look us up in the morning, won’t you? I’ve got to get back

to town fairly early, but I’ll drop in at the police-station on my way. You

will find Mr. Duckworthy in the lounge, here. It will be more comfortable

for you than at your place. Must you be going? Well, good night, all.”

Later, Wimsey returned to Mr. Duckworthy, after seeing the police off

the premises.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m going up to town to do what I can. I’ll send you

up a solicitor first thing in the morning. Tell him what you’ve told me, and

tell the police what he tells you to tell them and no more. Remember, they

can’t force you to say anything or to go down to the police-station unless

they charge you. If they do charge you, go quietly and say nothing. And

whatever you do, don’t run away, because if you do, you’re done for.”

Wimsey arrived in town the following afternoon, and walked down

Holborn, looking for a barber’s shop. He found it without much difficulty. It

lay, as Mr. Duckworthy had described it, at the end of a narrow passage,

and it had a long mirror in the door, with the name Briggs scrawled across it

in gold letters. Wimsey stared at his own reflection distastefully.

“Check number one,” said he, mechanically setting his tie to rights.

“Have I been led up the garden? Or is it a case of fourth dimensional

mystery? ‘The animals went in four by four, vive la compagnie! The camel

he got stuck in the door.’ There is something intensely unpleasant about

making a camel of one’s self. It goes for days without a drink and its table-

manners are objectionable. But there is no doubt that this door is made of looking-glass. Was it always so, I wonder? On, Wimsey, on. I cannot bear to

be shaved again. Perhaps a hair-cut might be managed.”

He pushed the door open, keeping a stern eye on his reflection to see

that it played him no trick.

Of his conversation with the barber, which was lively and varied, only

one passage is deserving of record.

“It’s some time since I was in here,” said Wimsey. “Keep it short behind

the ears. Been re-decorated, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Looks quite smart, doesn’t it?”

“The mirror on the outside of the door—that’s new, too, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, sir. That’s been there ever since we took over.”

“Has it! Then it’s longer ago than I thought. Was it there three years

ago?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Ten years Mr. Briggs has been here, sir.”

“And the mirror too?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Then it’s my memory that’s wrong. Senile decay setting in. ‘All, all are

gone, the old familiar landmarks.’ No, thanks, if I go grey I’ll go grey

decently. I don’t want any hair-tonics to-day, thank you. No, nor even an

electric comb. I’ve had shocks enough.”

It worried him, though. So much so that when he emerged, he walked

back a few yards along the street, and was suddenly struck by seeing the

glass door of a tea-shop. It also lay at the end of a dark passage and had a

gold name written across it. The name was “The BRIDGET Tea-shop,” but the

door was of plain glass. Wimsey looked at it for a few moments and then

went in. He did not approach the tea-tables, but accosted the cashier, who

sat at a little glass desk inside the door.

Here he went straight to the point and asked whether the young lady

remembered the circumstance of a man’s having fainted in the doorway

some years previously.

The cashier could not say; she had only been there three months, but she

thought one of the waitresses might remember. The waitress was produced,

and after some consideration, thought she did recollect something of the

sort. Wimsey thanked her, said he was a journalist—which seemed to be

accepted as an excuse for eccentric questions—parted with half a crown,

and withdrew.

His next visit was to Carmelite House. Wimsey had friends in every

newspaper office in Fleet Street, and made his way without difficulty to the

room where photographs are filed for reference. The original of the “J. D.”

portrait was produced for his inspection.

“One of yours?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Sent out by Scotland Yard. Why? Anything wrong with it?”

“Nothing. I wanted the name of the original photographer, that’s all.”

“Oh! Well, you’ll have to ask them there. Nothing more I can do for

you?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

Scotland Yard was easy. Chief-Inspector Parker was Wimsey’s closest

friend. An inquiry of him soon furnished the photographer’s name, which

was inscribed at the foot of the print. Wimsey voyaged off at once in search

of the establishment, where his name readily secured an interview with the

proprietor.

As he had expected, Scotland Yard had been there before him. All

information at the disposal of the firm had already been given. It amounted

to very little. The photograph had been taken a couple of years previously,

and nothing particular was remembered about the sitter. It was a small establishment, doing a rapid business in cheap portraits, and with no

pretensions to artistic refinements.

Wimsey asked to see the original negative, which, after some search,

was produced.

Wimsey looked it over, laid it down, and pulled from his pocket the

copy of the Evening News in which the print had appeared.

“Look at this,” he said.

The proprietor looked, then looked back at the negative.

“Well, I’m dashed,” he said. “That’s funny.”

“It was done in the enlarging lantern, I take it,” said Wimsey.

“Yes. It must have been put in the wrong way round. Now, fancy that

happening. You know, sir, we often have to work against time, and I

suppose—but it’s very careless. I shall have to inquire into it.”

“Get me a print of it right way round,” said Wimsey.

“Yes, sir, certainly, sir. At once.”

“And send one to Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, sir. Queer it should have been just this particular one, isn’t it, sir?

I wonder the party didn’t notice. But we generally take three or four

positions, and he might not remember, you know.”

“You’d better see if you’ve got any other positions and let me have them

too.”

“I’ve done that already, sir, but there are none. No doubt this one was

selected and the others destroyed. We don’t keep all the rejected negatives,

you know, sir. We haven’t the space to file them. But I’ll get three prints off

at once.”

“Do,” said Wimsey. “The sooner the better. Quick-dry them. And don’t

do any work on the prints.”

“No, sir. You shall have them in an hour or two, sir. But it’s astonishing

to me that the party didn’t complain.”

“It’s not astonishing,” said Wimsey. “He probably thought it the best

likeness of the lot. And so it would be—to him. Don’t you see—that’s the

only view he could ever take of his own face. That photograph, with the left

and right sides reversed, is the face he sees in the mirror every day—the

only face he can really recognise as his. ‘Wad the gods the giftie gie us,’

and all that.”

“Well, that’s quite true, sir. And I’m much obliged to you for pointing

the mistake out.”

Wimsey reiterated the need for haste, and departed. A brief visit to

Somerset House followed; after which he called it a day and went home.

Inquiry in Brixton, in and about the address mentioned by Mr.

Duckworthy, eventually put Wimsey on to the track of persons who had

known him and his mother. An aged lady who had kept a small green-

grocery in the same street for the last forty years remembered all about

them. She had the encyclopaedic memory of the almost illiterate, and was

positive as to the date of their arrival.

“Thirty-two years ago, if we lives another month,” she said.

“Michaelmas it was they come. She was a nice-looking young woman, too,

and my daughter, as was expecting her first, took a lot of interest in the

sweet little boy.”

“The boy was not born here?”

“Why, no, sir. Born somewheres on the south side, he was, but I

remember she never rightly said where—only that it was round about the

New Cut. She was one of the quiet sort and kep’ herself to herself. Never

one to talk, she wasn’t. Why even to my daughter, as might ’ave good

reason for bein’ interested, she wouldn’t say much about ’ow she got through ’er bad time. Chlorryform she said she ’ad, I know, and she

disremembered about it, bit it’s my belief it ’ad gone ’ard with ’er and she

didn’t care to think overmuch about it. ’Er ’usband—a nice man ’e was, too

—’e says to me, ‘Don’t remind ’er of it, Mrs. ’Arbottle, don’t remind ’er of

it.’ Whether she was frightened or whether she was ’urt by it I don’t know,

but she didn’t ’ave no more children. ‘Lor!’ I says to ’er time and again,

‘you’ll get used to it, my dear, when you’ve ’ad nine of ’em same as me,’

and she smiled, but she never ’ad no more, none the more for that.”

“I suppose it does take some getting used to,” said Wimsey, “but nine of

them don’t seem to have hurt you, Mrs. Harbottle, if I may say so. You look

extremely flourishing.”

“I keeps my ’ealth, sir, I am glad to say, though stouter than I used to be.

Nine of them does ’ave a kind of spreading action on the figure. You

wouldn’t believe, sir, to look at me now, as I ’ad a eighteen-inch waist when

I was a girl. Many’s the time me pore mother broke the laces on me, with

’er knee in me back and me ’oldin’ on to the bedpost.”

“One must suffer to be beautiful,” said Wimsey politely. “How old was

the baby, then, when Mrs. Duckworthy came to live in Brixton?”

“Three weeks old, ’e was, sir—a darling dear—and a lot of ’air on ’is

’ead. Black ’air it was then, but it turned into the brightest red you ever see

—like them carrots there. It wasn’t so pretty as ’is ma’s, though much the

same colour. He didn’t favour ’er in the face, neither, nor yet ’is dad. She

said ’e took after some of ’er side of the family.”

“Did you ever see any of the rest of the family?”

“Only ’er sister, Mrs. Susan Brown. A big, stern, ’ard-faced woman she

was—not like ’er sister. Lived at Evesham she did, as well I remembers, for

I was gettin’ my grass from there at the time. I never sees a bunch o’ grass now but what I think of Mrs. Susan Brown. Stiff, she was, with a small

’ead, very like a stick o’ grass.”

Wimsey thanked Mrs. Harbottle in a suitable manner and took the next

train to Evesham. He was beginning to wonder where the chase might lead

him, but discovered, much to his relief, that Mrs. Susan Brown was well

known in the town, being a pillar of the Methodist Chapel and a person well

respected.

She was upright still, with smooth, dark hair parted in the middle and

drawn tightly back—a woman broad in the base and narrow in the shoulder

—not, indeed, unlike the stick of asparagus to which Mrs. Harbottle had

compared her. She received Wimsey with stern civility, but disclaimed all

knowledge of her nephew’s movements. The hint that he was in a position

of some embarrassment, and even danger, did not appear to surprise her.

“There was bad blood in him,” she said. “My sister Hetty was softer by

half than she ought to have been.”

“Ah!” said Wimsey. “Well, we can’t all be people of strong character,

though it must be a source of great satisfaction to those that are. I don’t

want to be a trouble to you, madam, and I know I’m given to twaddling

rather, being a trifle on the soft side myself—so I’ll get to the point. I see by

the register at Somerset House that your nephew, Robert Duckworthy, was

born in Southwark, the son of Alfred and Hester Duckworthy. Wonderful

system they have there. But of course—being only human—it breaks down

now and again—doesn’t it?”

She folded her wrinkled hands over one another on the edge of the

table, and he saw a kind of shadow flicker over her sharp dark eyes.

“If I’m not bothering you too much—in what name was the other

registered?”

The hands trembled a little, but she said steadily:

“I do not understand you.”

“I’m frightfully sorry. Never was good at explaining myself. There were

twin boys born, weren’t there? Under what name did they register the

other? I’m so sorry to be a nuisance, but it’s really rather important.”

“What makes you suppose that there were twins?”

“Oh, I don’t suppose it. I wouldn’t have bothered you for a supposition.

I know there was a twin brother. What became—at least, I do know more or

less what became of him—”

“It died,” she said hurriedly.

“I hate to seem contradictory,” said Wimsey. “Most unattractive

behaviour. But it didn’t die, you know. In fact, it’s alive now. It’s only the

name I want to know, you know.”

“And why should I tell you anything, young man?”

“Because,” said Wimsey, “if you will pardon the mention of anything so

disagreeable to a refined taste, there’s been a murder committed and your

nephew Robert is suspected. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that the

murder was done by the brother. That’s why I want to get hold of him, don’t

you see. It would be such a relief to my mind—I am naturally nice-minded

—if you would help me to find him. Because, if not, I shall have to go to

the police, and then you might be subpœna’d as a witness, and I shouldn’t

like—I really shouldn’t like—to see you in the witness-box at a murder

trial. So much unpleasant publicity, don’t you know. Whereas, if we can lay

hands on the brother quickly, you and Robert need never come into it at

all.”

Mrs. Brown sat in grim thought for a few minutes.

“Very well,” she said, “I will tell you.”

“Of course,” said Wimsey to Chief-Inspector Parker a few days later,

“the whole thing was quite obvious when one had heard about the reversal of friend Duckworthy’s interior economy.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said Parker. “Nothing could be simpler. But all

the same, you are aching to tell me how you deduced it and I am willing to

be instructed. Are all twins wrong-sided? And are all wrong-sided people

twins?”

“Yes. No. Or rather, no, yes. Dissimilar twins and some kinds of similar

twins may both be quite normal. But the kind of similar twins that result

from the splitting of a single cell may come out as looking-glass twins. It

depends on the line of fission in the original cell. You can do it artificially

with tadpoles and a bit of horsehair.”

“I will make a note to do it at once,” said Parker gravely.

“In fact, I’ve read somewhere that a person with a reversed inside

practically always turns out to be one of a pair of similar twins. So you see,

while poor old R. D. was burbling on about the Student of Prague and the

fourth dimension, I was expecting the twin-brother.

“Apparently what happened was this. There were three sisters of the

name of Dart—Susan, Hester and Emily. Susan married a man called

Brown; Hester married a man called Duckworthy; Emily was unmarried.

By one of those cheery little ironies of which life is so full, the only sister

who had a baby, or who was apparently capable of having babies, was the

unmarried Emily. By way of compensation, she overdid it and had twins.

“When this catastrophe was about to occur, Emily (deserted, of course,

by the father) confided in her sisters, the parents being dead. Susan was a

tartar—besides, she had married above her station and was climbing

steadily on a ladder of good works. She delivered herself of a few texts and

washed her hands of the business. Hester was a kind-hearted soul. She

offered to adopt the infant, when produced, and bring it up as her own.

Well, the baby came, and, as I said before, it was twins.

“That was a bit too much for Duckworthy. He had agreed to one baby,

but twins were more than he had bargained for. Hester was allowed to pick

her twin, and, being a kindly soul, she picked the weaklier-looking one,

which was our Robert—the mirror-image twin. Emily had to keep the other,

and, as soon as she was strong enough, decamped with him to Australia,

after which she was no more heard of.

“Emily’s twin was registered in her own name of Dart and baptised

Richard. Robert and Richard were two pretty men. Robert was registered as

Hester Duckworthy’s own child—there were no tiresome rules in those

days requiring notification of births by doctors and midwives, so one could

do as one liked about these matters. The Duckworthys, complete with baby,

moved to Brixton, where Robert was looked upon as being a perfectly

genuine little Duckworthy.

“Apparently Emily died in Australia, and Richard, then a boy of fifteen,

worked his passage home to London. He does not seem to have been a nice

little boy. Two years afterwards, his path crossed that of Brother Robert and

produced the episode of the air-raid night.

“Hester may have known about the wrong-sidedness of Robert, or she

may not. Anyway, he wasn’t told. I imagine that the shock of the explosion

caused him to revert more strongly to his natural left-handed tendency. It

also seems to have induced a new tendency to amnesia under similar shock-

conditions. The whole thing preyed on his mind, and he became more and

more vague and somnambulant.

“I rather think that Richard may have discovered the existence of his

double and turned it to account. That explains the central incident of the

mirror. I think Robert must have mistaken the glass door of the tea-shop for

the door of the barber’s shop. It really was Richard who came to meet him,

and who retired again so hurriedly for fear of being seen and noted. Circumstances played into his hands, of course—but these meetings do take

place, and the fact that they were both wearing soft hats and burberries is

not astonishing on a dark, wet day.

“And then there is the photograph. No doubt the original mistake was

the photographer’s, but I shouldn’t be surprised if Richard welcomed it and

chose that particular print on that account. Though that would mean, of

course, that he knew about the wrong-sidedness of Robert. I don’t know

how he could have done that, but he may have had opportunities for inquiry.

It was known in the Army, and the rumours may have got round. But I

won’t press that point.

“There’s one rather queer thing, and that is that Robert should have had

that dream about strangling, on the very night, as far as one could make out,

that Richard was engaged in doing away with Jessie Haynes. They say that

similar twins are always in close sympathy with one another—that each

knows what the other is thinking about, for instance, and contracts the same

illness on the same day and all that. Richard was the stronger twin of the

two, and perhaps he dominated Robert more than Robert did him. I’m sure I

don’t know. Daresay it’s all bosh. The point is that you’ve found him all

right.”

“Yes. Once we’d got the clue there was no difficulty.”

“Well, let’s toddle round to the Cri and have one.”

Wimsey got up and set his tie to rights before the glass.

“All the same,” he said, “there’s something queer about mirrors.

Uncanny, a bit, don’t you think so?”

 

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