Imperfect Pretence

by Imperfect Pretence (retail) (epub)

  ‘Then let us repair to our refreshments,’ Max replied, ushering the baronet into the book room. He poured them both a glass of brandy, and invited his guest to be seated, making polite conversation the while about the quality of the spirits in front of them, and of the difficulty of obtaining good brandy by legitimate means.

  The topic was almost exhausted when there was a soft knock on the door, and Barnes entered. ‘Well now, Barnes,’ said Max, ‘perhaps you had better tell the magistrate about your part in this evening’s sorry affair.’

  ‘Magistrate?’ said the valet in anxious tones. ‘Oh pray, Your Grace, don’t let him take me to prison. I was only doing what I thought was right.’

  ‘Indeed, Barnes, and I am convinced that someone as perspicacious as Sir Godfrey plainly is will give you credit for it.’

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ said the baronet, visibly pluming himself at this praise. ‘Speak up, my man.’

  ‘Perhaps I had better give my side of the story first,’ said Max. ‘Being unable to sleep, I came downstairs in search of a book. I was in here leafing through’ – he picked up the volume on the table in front of him – ‘The Widow of Malabar by Mariana Starke, when I felt sure that I heard the sound of someone entering the house.’

  ‘Good Gad, sir!’ the baronet exclaimed.

  ‘Exactly so,’ Max murmured. ‘Naturally, I feared that we were under attack by housebreakers. I was unarmed, so as you might suppose, I was feeling very vulnerable. Some of these fellows are desperate rogues.’

  The magistrate shook his head. ‘There is no need for you to tell me so,’ he said. ‘You would be shocked at the number of scoundrels I have to deal with in the course of my duties. But I have interrupted your story.’

  ‘Imagine my surprise when Mr Snelson entered the room, waving a pistol in the air, and talking wildly. I could not imagine what he was doing in my house at that hour, and said so.’

  ‘Did he explain himself?’ Sir Godfrey asked.

  Max looked at Barnes. ‘I’m afraid he did not have the opportunity,’ the valet admitted in sheepish tones. ‘I heard the noise of an intruder, and on coming into the room I saw a man whom I did not recognize threatening His Grace.’

  ‘You did not recognize him?’

  ‘Snelson was not here when I arrived with Barnes,’ Max explained. ‘He only appeared a day or so ago, and Barnes had not met him.’

  ‘Very well. You saw him threatening the duke, you say?’ said the magistrate.

  Barnes nodded. ‘I had no weapon myself, and Mr Snelson was brandishing a pistol. I took hold of that bronze ornament yonder,’ he went on, indicating the object with which Constance had struck the bailiff, ‘and hit him on the head. Oh pray, Sir Godfrey, believe me, if I had had the slightest idea of who the man was, I would never have struck him.’

  ‘Very well, Barnes,’ Max replied. ‘I’m sure that Sir Godfrey understands that you acted in good faith.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Sir Godfrey agreed. ‘Where is young Snelson now?’

  ‘Upstairs in bed,’ Max replied. ‘Do you wish to see him? I’m afraid he won’t be able to talk to you, as he has been given a sleeping draught.’

  The baronet made a dismissive gesture. ‘No need, no need. And your man may go back to his duties. He was obviously acting in defence of his master. It is plain to me that young Snelson let his enthusiasm run away with him.’

  ‘Off you go then, Barnes,’ said Max. Then when the valet had gone, he turned to his visitor again.

  ‘Now, to the purpose for your visit. As I came downstairs, I overheard talk of a traitor. Can you tell me any more? It is a matter which interests me exceedingly, since I am told that the question of the security of the realm has been raised in the House. I have not yet spoken since I came into the dukedom, and might make this the topic of my maiden speech. Should you object if I were to mention your name as my source of information?’

  ‘No; no indeed,’ the baronet replied, his head full of dizzy visions of himself being pointed out as the man who had featured in an important political debate. ‘However,’ he went on with some regret, ‘I confess that I do not know a great deal about the business. My chief informant was Mr Snelson.’

  ‘Snelson has a cottage of his own. I wonder why he arranged to meet you here?’

  Sir Godfrey looked rather embarrassed. He fiddled with the stem of his empty brandy glass, which Max chose to take as a hint that he would like to have it refilled. ‘Well, you see, he came to me with a tale of a man who he was sure was not who he was pretending to be.’

  ‘An imposter of some sort? Your good health, Sir Godfrey.’

  ‘Oh ... oh yes, and yours too, Your Grace.’

  ‘And Snelson suggested that you consult me, presumably? Very proper, of course, but at this hour?’

  If anything, Sir Godfrey’s embarrassment increased. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, failing to meet Max’s eyes.

  By now, Max was enjoying himself so much that he was able to produce a genuine laugh without the slightest difficulty. ‘Good God! Snelson actually suggested that I was the imposter, didn’t he? Didn’t he? Don’t deny it. My dear sir, it’s written all over your face!’

  The baronet looked at him then, half puzzled, half relieved that this haughty aristocrat appeared to be unbending at tidings which might have been expected to arouse his wrath. ‘Well, I have to admit—’ he began.

  ‘I knew it!’ Max exclaimed. ‘And you arrived, only to have my identity vouched for by your own men!’

  The baronet did chuckle then. ‘That was a stroke of luck for both of us,’ he agreed.

  Max nodded. ‘What did he say to you? How did he convince you that I must be an imposter?’

  ‘He said that he had been to Haslingfield, your principal seat. Apparently, the portraits that purport to be of the duke are nothing like you.’

  ‘I should be very surprised if they were,’ Max remarked, pouring another generous measure of brandy into the baronet’s glass. ‘I only came into the dukedom a few short weeks ago. I’m from a junior branch of the family, and don’t have the height and colouring that is normally found in those that hold the title.’

  ‘Ah, that would explain it,’ said Sir Godfrey, relaxing under the influence of several generous measures of spirits.

  ‘I think that perhaps he had an additional motive,’ Max went on. ‘He has been courting a young lady in the village who has so far been spurning his advances. Perhaps the notion of looking like a hero in front of her encouraged him to rash action.’

  ‘Very likely,’ agreed Sir Godfrey, gesturing rather more expansively with one hand than he had intended, and nearly losing hold of his glass with the other.

  ‘Sadly, tonight’s escapade will make him look rather foolish in front of her. That, coupled with the fact that he has placed me in a very awkward position, will be enough to make him want to play least in sight when he has recovered.’

  ‘Perhaps the young lady will take pity on him when she sees his broken head; eh? Eh?’ put in the baronet.

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ Max agreed, smiling slightly. ‘Well, I must not detain you further. Now that you have satisfied yourself as to my identity, you will no doubt wish to take your men back to Aylsham and their beds.’ He got to his feet. It was not part of his plan to have his unexpected guest drop off in the book room.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ the baronet agreed, setting down his glass with some reluctance, for it had been exceedingly fine brandy. ‘When young Snelson comes round, I trust you will oblige me by giving him a flea in his ear for bringing me out on this wild goose chase?’

  ‘I will do so, of course. No doubt his intentions were good, but he must learn to get his facts straight.’

  After the unwanted visitors had gone, Max went back into the book room in order to finish his glass of brandy. Although he had appeared to fill his glass as frequently as Sir Godfrey’s, he had in fact drunk very little, feeling that he needed to keep alert. Now, he decided that he deserved a little more.

&nb
sp; The book room was set at one of the corners of the house, overlooking a quiet part of the garden. The man who had built the house originally had clearly wanted to be able to walk out into his garden at a moment’s notice for, like every other room on the ground floor, it had a door which led directly outside. The curtains in this room had been closed earlier, giving it a feeling of cosiness. It was as Max was crossing the room to pick up his glass that he heard a noise outside. Swiftly, he blew out the candles set on the mantelpiece, and moved stealthily to the outside door. Taking out his pistol, he threw the door open, then stepped to one side, saying, ‘Show yourself, damn it. I’ve had enough cloak and dagger for one night.’

  ‘And so have I,’ said a faint voice from outside. ‘For God’s sake, let me in, Max – if you’ve finished peacocking about in that dressing gown.’

  ‘Alistair?’ Max exclaimed, putting his gun back in his pocket and stepping outside. His cousin stood just to the right of the door, leaning against the wall. His manner could have passed for his usual nonchalance, until it became apparent that he had one hand pressed to his shoulder. ‘Come on, inside with you.’

  It was not until he had helped his cousin into the house that Max realized another man had followed them. ‘This is Anders,’ said Alistair. ‘He’s one of us.’

  Now that they were in the light, Max could see the bloodstains beneath Alistair’s hand. ‘Good God, what happened here? Have you been followed?’ His hand went to his gun once more.

  Alistair shook his head. ‘Winged as we left the French coast. This has largely dried up, but I’m feeling devilish weak.’

  ‘Your mission?’ Max asked as he helped his cousin into a chair.

  ‘Compromised,’ Alistair responded. ‘Dead in the water before it even began. Someone was on to me, that’s for sure. Where’s Barnes?’

  ‘Seeing our other visitors off the premises.’

  Alistair closed his eyes. His naturally pale complexion was chalky white. ‘Max, the mission might have failed but there are papers … vital information … they must go to Hampson … I—’

  At this fortuitous moment, the door opened to admit Barnes. ‘Your Grace!’ he exclaimed when he saw Alistair. Max grinned. Barnes had served him well, but there was no doubt where his deepest loyalty lay. Alistair opened his eyes then. ‘Barnes,’ he murmured with the ghost of a grin. ‘Now I shall do.’ Then turning to Max he said, ‘You’ll go?’

  ‘At once,’ Max replied. Half an hour later he was heading for London on horseback with Alistair’s precious papers in his pocket.

  Chapter Twenty

  On reaching her room, Constance found herself completely at a loss as to what to do next. Going tamely to bed was unthinkable. Max had not said when he might come for her. For all she knew, he might be back as soon as the magistrate had gone, which might be in one hour or in three. She had visions of his throwing stones up at her window in order to catch her attention. Then it occurred to her that he would not necessarily know which window was hers. For a short while, she sat at the window with the candle burning, until she realized that anyone who chose to snoop about would see her there and wonder at her actions. So she blew out the candle, leaving the curtains open. This meant that she was unable to read – not that she could set her mind to anything other than the events of the evening.

  She tried to concentrate on Max: on his laughing eyes, his promise, his kiss, even his declaration; anything other than that dreadful moment when Colin Snelson had fallen beneath her blow. She had not imagined that it could be so easy to kill a man; and yet the bronze ornament had been very heavy. She could still hear the sickening thud as it had fallen on his unprotected head. Hurriedly she pushed that thought to the back of her mind and again began to think of Max. Was he all right? Had he managed to make believable enough excuses to the magistrate? Was he even now being carried off in shackles? She sprang up and began to pace about, only to return hastily to her place at the window, in case he should come and find her absent.

  Eventually she closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against the window frame. She schooled her mind to think of events earlier in their acquaintance. She remembered him fencing with Abdas, walking with her in the garden, looking at the lighthouse. At last, the excitement of the day and late evening took their toll, and she drifted off to sleep where she was.

  By the time she woke, the day had begun. Before she opened her eyes, she could hear sounds of movement in the house, and came to, for a moment not remembering why she had fallen asleep fully dressed and sitting by the window. She stretched, feeling an unaccustomed stiffness in her back, and was slowly returning to full awareness when the door opened softly and Lucy the maid put her head around the edge of it.

  ‘Why, Miss Connie!’ she exclaimed. ‘Never say you’ve been there all night!’

  Constance was about to deny it, when she realized that the evidence of her creased clothes, let alone her untouched bed, would give the lie to such an assertion. ‘The moonlight was so strong last night that I couldn’t sleep,’ she said, glad that there had been a full moon and a clear sky. ‘So I sat here to look at it and must have dropped off eventually. What time is it?’

  ‘It’s still early, Miss Connie,’ Lucy told her. ‘Not quite seven o’clock. I’d just stepped out into the garden for some herbs for Mrs Dobbs and I saw that your curtains were open. Do you want your water and your chocolate now, or shall I help you out of your things so you can sleep in your bed for an hour or two? You must be that stiff!’

  Constance looked at her bed. It did seem inviting. Max would hardly be throwing stones up at her window now that the household was stirring. ‘Just for half an hour then,’ she replied, turning so that Lucy could unlace her. ‘If anyone asks for me, you must come and tell me at once.’

  She closed her eyes, not expecting to sleep at all. To her astonishment, a comfortable bed and a warm coverlet, coupled with an exceedingly poor night, meant that the next time she opened her eyes, it was almost eleven o’clock.

  Lucy must have been on the alert for any movement, for as soon as she set her feet to the floor, the maid appeared.

  ‘Lucy, you should have roused me before this,’ Constance exclaimed. ‘Whatever must my aunt and uncle think?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you fret about that, miss,’ Lucy replied. ‘I told them you’d had a poor night and were catching up. Shall I fetch your hot water and your chocolate now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Then, before the girl left, she added craftily, ‘No doubt I’ve missed all kinds of excitement.’

  ‘Oh no indeed, miss,’ Lucy replied guilelessly. ‘Nothing’s happened that I’m aware of.’

  ‘And nobody’s asked after me?’

  No, miss,’ Lucy answered, looking at her a little curiously, for this was the second time that her young mistress had referred to such a possibility.

  As breakfast was long since over, Lucy brought toast and marmalade with the morning chocolate. Constance, who would have protested that she had lost her appetite eternally after the previous night’s goings-on, ate both slices under Lucy’s watchful eye and, to her surprise, felt better for it.

  As she prepared to go downstairs, her imagination got to work in the most morbid of ways. She imagined herself present in the parish church at Colin Snelson’s funeral. For some strange reason, the coffin would be left open during the service; the vicar would preach on the wickedness of those who had struck him down; then, as the service drew to a close, the corpse would dramatically sit up and point at her with an accusing white finger.

  Nonsense, she told herself. You were acting to defend another; but Max had gone and, despite his promise, had not yet returned. He will, she told herself. He will come, surely? Doubts arose in her mind, despite a determined effort to suppress them.

  Although she would have been glad of conversation to divert her thoughts, she was not to be so fortunate. Her uncle had walked into Cromer to meet someone, and her aunt, preparing a canvas for a new painting, showed no desire for conversati
on, or even curiosity about her late appearance, simply remarking that she hoped her niece now felt more rested.

  She went out into the garden, her eyes not taking in the beauty of the beds on which her uncle worked so hard. Part of her wanted to walk to Beacon Tower and find out what was going on; yet the very idea of going near the place where she had committed murder made her feel quite sick with dread. It would no doubt have been a virtuous act to go to the church and pray for her victim’s soul. As she thought about doing so, however, she saw in her mind’s eye that same picture of Snelson, ghastly pale, sitting up in his coffin, and shuddered.

  She wondered whether she would ever be able to sit in that church again with peace of mind. Perhaps she ought to seek the vicar out and make her confession? Yet how could she do so without implicating Max when she did not know where he was, and what he might have said or done since she had last seen him? It was whilst her thoughts were in such turmoil that the vicar came into view, almost as though she had conjured him up. He appeared to have come from the direction of Beacon Tower and, although he waved cheerfully enough, his face wore a solemn expression.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Church,’ he said politely. ‘You are taking the air, I see.’

  ‘It is such a lovely day,’ she replied, not with perfect truth as although there was some fleeting sunshine, the day promised to be a cloudy one.

  ‘Oh indeed, indeed,’ the vicar responded. ‘At least fine weather takes my mind off my sombre task.’

  ‘Your sombre—’ Her voice faded away.

  ‘Task, yes,’ he concluded heavily. ‘Arranging obsequies is always distressing, I find; particularly when the person was comparatively young, and with no family in the vicinity, either.’

  ‘Of course,’ Constance replied, feeling for the gatepost because she was conscious of a sudden giddiness. Colin Snelson’s nearest relatives were in Cambridge. How shocked they would be to hear of his death so soon after they had seen him! ‘I suppose you … you went to Beacon Tower in order to … to make arrangements.’