Anne Belinda: A Golden Age Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  “It’s so hateful! No—I want to get it over—I’d rather go on—it’s only—”

  “I know—Anne darling.”

  “I’m all right. We took a taxi. The road was up; we went by a lot of side streets. I didn’t know where we were. I said, ‘Oughtn’t we to be in Bond Street?’ and I leaned out of the window. We were just opposite a jeweller’s shop. There was a man without a hat looking in at the window. He turned round and he saw me, and he called out something, and Jenny pulled me back, and our taxi went on round the corner into Bond Street. I looked back, and I saw that the man was running. And then I looked round and I saw Jenny’s face. John, she looked as if she was dying—she really did. She said: ‘Save me, Anne, save me!’ And then she said: ‘Is he coming?’ And I looked again and the man was getting into a taxi. I said: ‘Yes—what is it?’ And she told me. John, I thought she had gone mad. She said: ‘I took his pearls yesterday. Is he coming?’ I don’t know what I said. She went on saying: ‘I took them.’ And then she said ‘Prison’ in a dreadful sort of whisper. She said: ‘I can’t go to prison.’ I thought she was going to faint. I shook her, and I said: ‘Where are the pearls?’ And she pushed her bag into my hand. I made up my mind what I would do. The man thought I was Jenny—we had grey coats and skirts just alike, and little black hats—I’m wearing mine now, but I expect Jenny’s burnt hers. She was wearing it when she took the pearls, but in the taxi she wasn’t wearing it. She had an old blue coat on. The man saw my grey coat and skirt and thought I was Jenny.”

  “You’re not so much alike.”

  “We used to be. I was fatter than I am now, and I’d more colour; and clothes do a lot. People were always taking us for each other when we dressed alike. That’s why Nicholas didn’t like it. Well, I felt sure that the man would follow my grey coat and skirt, and I made a plan. I told Jenny she was to drive straight to the station and go down with Nanna, and that, whatever happened, she wasn’t to say a word or tell a soul. And then I looked out again, and, just as I looked, our taxi stopped in a block. I grabbed Jenny’s bag, and I jumped out and ran round the back of the taxi so that the driver shouldn’t see me.” Anne stopped.

  “Anne—you little plucky darned idiot! Go on.”

  “There isn’t any more. I thought I might get away—then I could have sent the pearls back—but I didn’t.” Her voice trailed away, and a shiver shook her from head to foot.

  For a long minute she went on trembling, her head on John’s shoulder, his arms comforting her. Then she sat up.

  “I am a fool!”

  “Yes, darling Anne, why did you do it? No one has any right to a sacrifice like that.”

  Anne put her hand on his shoulder and pulled herself up. She had to move, to try and break the vivid memory of that one most unendurable moment when Levinski’s voice had accused her and she had felt the policeman’s hand fall on her shoulder. It was the worst moment of all; nothing that came afterwards was as bad as that—the crowd, staring eyes, someone laughing, the accusing voice, and that hand on her shoulder.

  She went over to the fireplace and leaned there warming herself against those icy shudders, which came back even now when she let herself think about it.

  John followed her to the fire, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Then he said roughly:

  “You’d no business to do it. It was your whole life.”

  Anne leaned on the mantelshelf and looked down into the fire.

  “I do want you to understand,” she said. “I do, do want you to understand.”

  Her left hand hung at her side. He took it, held it strongly for a moment, and then let it go again.

  “I’ll try.”

  Anne began to speak in a low voice:

  “I only had a minute to think what I was going to do, but I just seemed to see the whole thing, for me and for Jenny. Time didn’t seem to come into it. I saw it.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw Jenny.” She turned a little and began to look at him as she spoke. “I saw what had happened to her. It was just ruin—Nicholas, her marriage, her friends, her whole life, smashed and done for. Jenny couldn’t—ever have got up again—she couldn’t. I could.” The colour rose brightly in her face. “That’s what I want you to understand. I saw the whole thing; I didn’t go into it without seeing it all. And I knew I could do it. Don’t you know? You have that feeling sometimes. There’s something very hard. You look at it, and all of a sudden you know you can do it; you have the feeling, the strength. That’s how it was. I knew I could do it. I knew I could make them think it was me. And I knew, if they sent me to prison, that I could come out of it and not be different. Jenny couldn’t. That’s why I couldn’t let her; she’d have been smashed. I knew I could do it and be just the same in myself.”

  John watched her with a deep emotion, for which he could not find any words. With those shining eyes, that ebb and flow of sensitive colour, that soft appealing voice, she moved him to a passion of pity and love. He lifted her hand and put it to his lips. He wanted to speak to her, but he could not find his voice. He held her hand against his face and struggled into speech.

  “I swear I’ll make it up to you!” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Anne’s hand pressed his cheek for a moment before it slipped away.

  “I can’t let you,” she said.

  “I’m not asking you to let me do anything; I’m telling you what I’m going to do.”

  Anne murmured something almost indistinguishable. He understood her to say that she didn’t see how he could get married alone. When she had said this she blushed rather beautifully and looked into the fire again. John put his arm round her, and there was an interlude. When the interlude was over, John was very much himself again, and not in the least in a mood to stand any nonsense.”

  “Sit down on the fender-stool—it’s nice and warm—and I’ll tell you exactly what we’re going to do. First of all, as I said, you’re coming here to Aurora. And if Mrs. Courtney asks you, you can go to her for a few days. You want to go about and show yourself and go and see everyone you know. Aurora’ll see you do it whilst you’re with her. And then you’ll go down to Waterdene and stay with Jenny until we get married.”

  “John—I can’t!”

  “I do wish you’d stop saying that; I’m frightfully fed up with it. You’ve got to. It won’t be for long, because we’re going to give our engagement out at once and get married in about three weeks. No, don’t begin all over again and say you can’t go to Waterdene because Jenny and Nicholas won’t have you. You were going to say that, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “I knew you were. Now, look here, I’ve had about enough of this. You’ve made the sort of sacrifice for Jenny that only about one person in ten million would ever dream of making for anyone, and the sooner Jenny and Nicholas get down on their knees and start licking your shoes, the better.”

  Anne looked at the point of her shoe, and her lips trembled. She said: “John—dear!” And then: “Nicholas doesn’t know.”

  “Nicholas has got to know. No, Anne, it’s not the slightest use. The people who think you took those pearls have got to know the facts. Jenny knows, you and I know, Aurora knows. The people who’ve got to be told are your old nurse, and Mr. Carruthers, and Nicholas.”

  Anne locked her hands together and gazed at him, pale and agitated.

  “John—really!”

  “I’ve thought it all out. It’s what’s right. I’m not vindictive; I’m not out to hurt Jenny. Mrs. Jones is devoted to her and as safe as a house. Your family lawyer ought to know, and must know. And Nicholas has got to know. Jenny can tell him herself—put it any way she likes. But he’s got to know what Jenny owes you, and he’s got to do what he can to put things right for you. He can do a lot. I won’t have talk about you.”

  Anne lifted her head with a small, proud movement.

  “You mean you won’t have talk about your wife. That’s why I won’t marry you
; there’s bound to be talk.”

  “I don’t mean anything of the sort. I do wish you’d stop talking nonsense! I mean I won’t have talk about you—you. I don’t care who you marry. I’m not thinking of your husband’s feelings; I’m thinking about you—and you ought to know that by now. Anyone who’s heard the lie about you is going to hear the truth. That lets Jenny down a lot more lightly than she deserves. I’ve written to her. You can read the letter if you like.”

  He produced an envelope from his pocket, extracted a large sheet of paper, and laid it open upon Anne’s knee. She read, in John’s firm, rather upright hand:

  “DEAR JENNY,

  “Anne and I are going to be married. I hope you will be pleased, because we are. Anne is going to stay with Aurora for a week, and then, I think, she ought to come and stay with you until we’re married. I’m sure you will want Anne to be married at Waterdene. She need not stay with you for more than a fortnight, because we want to get married as soon as possible.”

  Anne shot him a chilly glance, met one that confused her, and went on reading:

  “I think you had better tell Nicholas all about Levinski’s pearls. It will make it easier for you to be nice to Anne. Besides, it will be really more comfortable for you when he knows—he’s rather in a false position. Anne didn’t tell me about Levinski. I found out. The old man noticed your emerald ring, and the assistant who served you admired your hair. Besides, I was sure of it all along. Don’t get frightened—I’m not going to hurt you. Mrs. Jones must know, and Mr. Carruthers, and Nicholas; because they think it was Anne, and I can’t have that. You’d better tell Nicholas at once, because I’m coming down to-morrow, Monday, afternoon to talk things over. You see, people have been talking about Anne and wondering where she’s been all this time, and all that’s got to stop. It can be stopped quite easily if we all rally round. But if you and Nicholas don’t play up, people will go on thinking there’s something wrong. So will you please tell Nicholas at once.

  “Anne sends her love.

  “Yours,

  “J. M. W.”

  Anne lifted her eyes from the page, caught a glimpse of John’s chin, sighed, and said:

  “What a hurry you’re in!”

  “Of course I’m in a hurry.”

  He took away the letter, put it in its envelope, stuck down the flap, and rose.

  “I’ll just go out and post this.”

  “John, please don’t!”

  “I won’t be a minute. I want Jenny to get it by the first post, because I’ve got to-morrow all mapped out. Directly after breakfast I shall go down and see Mrs. Jones. Then I shall do Carruthers. By the way, I’m telling him to open an account for you at Lloyds’. They’ll want your signature, but we can see about that on Tuesday. Carruthers will pay in five hundred pounds to start with. Then I shall have some lunch and push off to Waterdene.”

  Anne gazed at him with an odd helpless feeling. With the letter in his hand he crossed to the door. At the door he turned.

  “You’d better see Mrs. Fossick-Yates directly after breakfast to-morrow and tell her that urgent private affairs are tearing you away from her. Aurora will expect you here by tea-time. If you haven’t come, she will come and fetch you. But I think it would be just as well if Aurora and Mrs. Fossick-Yates didn’t meet. I don’t think they’d get on very well, and Mrs. Fossick-Yates might get ideas in her head about Annie Jones going to stay with an explorer. So I think you’d better get here for tea. I’ll roll up about seven. Aurora has asked me to dinner.”

  He went out and shut the door behind him with decision.

  Anne put her chin in her hand and wondered why she wasn’t angry. She felt that she ought to have been angry. She ought to say that she wouldn’t have a banking account, or stay with Aurora, or be engaged. On the other hand, when she did say these things they did not seem to make any impression. She felt limp, and weak, and rather happy.

  Horrocks opened the door and began, slowly and disapprovingly, to bring in tea.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Carefully mapped-out days do not always conform to plan. John interviewed a tearful, incredulous, protesting Mrs. Jones, and a silent and shocked Mr. Carruthers. After which he lunched and took the road.

  Jenny would have had six hours in which to tell Nicholas the truth. He drove through a light drizzle, feeling cheerful and determined, and quite unconscious of the fact that his letter had not reached Jenny. It lay in the hall at Waterdene with half a dozen others awaiting the return of Sir Nicholas and Lady Marr from a week-end visit.

  John drove up to the house five minutes after Jenny had picked up her letters and run upstairs to the nursery.

  “Sir Nicholas is in the study,” said the butler. And to the study John followed him.

  Nicholas was pulling a spaniel’s ears. He said, “Down, Jess! Steady, old lady!” and turned as charming a smile on John as if their last interview had never been. “She nearly eats me when I’ve been away.”

  John’s cheerful confidence received a slight shock. Was it possible for a man who had just—well, in the last six hours—been told something which was bound to be a bit of a facer to look quite so unconcerned and easy as Nicholas was looking?

  “What will you have?” said Nicholas with his hand on the bell.

  “Oh, nothing, thanks. As a matter of fact, I’ve really come down to talk business.”

  “The last man who did that wanted to sell me some dud shares in a non-existent mine,” said Nicholas.

  “It’s not money. By the way, I wrote to Jenny. Did she have my letter?”

  Nicholas seemed to find this a little crude. His eyebrows rose.

  “I really haven’t any idea.”

  “I wrote to tell her that Anne and I were engaged,” said John, and did not know that his voice held a challenge.

  “Anne!” said Nicholas.

  “Anne Waveney.”

  Nicholas lit a cigarette and flicked the match neatly into the waste-paper basket on the far side of his writing-table. He said, “Good shot!” and then, “Well, well.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that I suppose you know your own business.”

  “I suppose I do. But I think this is your business and Jenny’s as well as mine.”

  Between two puffs of smoke Nicholas said, “Hardly.” He sat on the arm of a chair, cigarette in hand, and looked at the toe of his boot. His smile was still quite pleasant.

  John had a moment of uncertainty. Nicholas didn’t seem to know. Jenny hadn’t played up. Well, she’d had her chance. Nicholas had got to know, only—The moment of uncertainty flickered out.

  “It’s certainly Jenny’s business. Whether it’s yours or not is just a matter for you and Jenny to settle. No, wait a minute, I want to get it off my chest, and I’d like you to listen. I thought Jenny would have spoken to you, but it seems she hasn’t.”

  “Jenny knows my views. I haven’t altered them. Perhaps it’ll save trouble if I say straight away that I shan’t ever alter them.”

  “I’d like you to listen if you don’t mind. Anne and I are going to get married in about three weeks’ time. And I think when you’ve spoken to Jenny you’ll feel—”

  Nicholas interrupted him:

  “My dear John, I shan’t ever feel differently about Anne Waveney. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it’ll save trouble all round if you’ll realize that my decision about Anne is quite final.”

  “I think,” said John, speaking mildly, “I think that when you know the facts you’ll feel that it’s up to you and Jenny—”

  Nicholas interrupted again:

  “I don’t accept the slightest obligation.”

  John pursued his way:

  “There’s been a certain amount of talk; and there’ll be more if you and Jenny go on cold-shouldering Anne. Naturally, I don’t want there to be any talk.”

  Nicholas lit another cigarette.

  “Anne Waveney took her own line. I told you what th
at line was. I haven’t the slightest intention of allowing Jenny to have anything to do with her.”

  “I really think you’d better talk to Jenny about it. I wrote to her and suggested that Anne should come down here until we could be married. Of course, if Jenny hasn’t spoken to you, you’ll say ‘No.’ So I think you’d better talk to Jenny before you say anything.”

  Nicholas shot him an odd sidelong glance. He smoked in silence for a full minute before he said:

  “Nothing that you’ve said to Jenny is going to have any effect at all upon the situation.” A second glance said quite plainly: “Now, will you go?”

  John took no notice of it. He was wondering where Jenny was. He said in rather a hesitating manner:

  “I think you don’t know all the facts. There were things which I had asked Jenny to tell you. I think when you know them you’ll feel differently about Anne. That’s why I’m not getting angry. I’d like to see Jenny, if you don’t mind.”

  Nicholas shrugged his shoulders, got up, and walked to the bell.

  “If you’d rather hear Jenny tell you that my mind is made up, I’ve no objection—Yes, I rang. Will you ask her ladyship to come down. Tell her Sir John Waveney is here.”

  Then, as the door closed behind the servant, he returned to his lounging attitude and to an expression of bored annoyance.

  Upstairs Jenny was sitting on the floor with her baby in her lap.

  “He knows me, nurse! I’m sure he knows me! Didn’t ums, lovey? Didn’t ums knows its horrid old deserting mum—going away and leaving him for two whole days? Nurse, I’m sure he’s heavier—I’m sure he is!”

  “He’s got your letters, ma’am. He’ll have them in his mouth in a minute.”

  Jenny laughed and kissed the pink clutching hands.

  “Lie still, angel! Oh, he’s sucked the corner of this one! Piggy Wiggy!”

  She held it up, and then remained looking at the envelope. Her mind said quickly: “John Waveney! Why should he write to me?” She took the letter out, tearing it a little in her haste, and read what John had written: