Imperfect Pretence

by Imperfect Pretence (retail) (epub)

  ‘It seemed only right,’ the vicar agreed. ‘The incident having occurred within the duke’s jurisdiction, so to speak.’

  ‘And did you see the duke?’

  ‘No, I spoke to his manservant,’ the vicar replied. ‘Apparently, His Grace is indisposed. He did at least give permission for me to carry forward the arrangements that I already had in mind. Ah well, I had best get home and start to write an address for the occasion. What on earth does one say, though?’

  ‘Perhaps that he was faithful in … in fulfilling his duty,’ Constance suggested faintly.

  ‘Ah yes, that might be suitable. Good day, then, Miss Church.’

  After he had gone, Constance walked into the back garden and sat on the grass with her back to a tree. Her conversation with the vicar had almost caused her to bring back what little she had consumed for breakfast. Would she ever become accustomed to the shocking knowledge that she had killed a man? Heretofore, she had had the luxury of a comparatively clear conscience. Would she now be obliged to go through life with this stain upon it?

  She had no more idea of what she ought to do next than she had had when she woke up that morning. What had happened to Max? What was this indisposition from which he was suffering? He had certainly not been injured when she had last spoken to him. If he had been hurt resisting arrest, then he would have been carried off to be locked up somewhere, unless he had somehow escaped and Barnes was hiding him. However could she find out what was going on without betraying her close involvement in the affair?

  She was so deep in thought that her aunt had to call her name three times before she answered. ‘Connie! Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt,’ she answered, scrambling to her feet. ‘I’m sorry; I was in a brown study. Do you need me for anything?’

  ‘Why yes,’ her aunt responded. ‘I was wondering whether you would go to Annie Habgood on my behalf? I was intending to do so myself, but—’

  ‘But you cannot wait to get started on your new painting,’ Constance said, finishing her sentence. ‘Yes of course. I’ll get my bonnet.’ Truth to tell she was thankful for any means of diverting her morbid thoughts.

  Annie was a relation of Mrs Dobbs. Her husband, who was at sea, always took care to leave his wife adequately provided for. Unfortunately, Mrs Habgood had never really mastered the art of managing, and often had to be helped out by friends and neighbours. Mrs Dobbs, very conscious of her own position at The Brambles, would as soon fly to the moon as ask for assistance, so Miss Fellowes always made sure that visits to the Habgood household took place without her foreknowledge, so as not to embarrass her.

  When Constance arrived, she found that Mrs Habgood was surrounded by the usual chaos. She had seven children, one of whom was now in service in one of the farms in the local area, whilst another had been taken on as a groom at an inn in Cromer. Although only five were still at home, there always appeared to be more, because they were never properly supervised, Mrs Habgood having the habit of throwing her apron over her head and howling whenever things became too much.

  The first thing that Constance did was to set about getting the children washed, instructing the older ones to help their juniors. This done, she sat them down at the table for a breakfast of bread and dripping. Then, after they had eaten, she sent them out to play whilst she helped Annie to wash up and tidy the house. After two hours spent cleaning, washing and baking, the house looked very different, and Constance was left with the satisfaction of knowing that the family would be adequately fed and clothed for the rest of the week, at least.

  Perhaps because for a brief period her mind had been taken off the previous night’s troubles, she instinctively took a different route home, longer, and with some attractive views. To her surprise and dismay, she looked up to find herself only a few steps away from Snelson’s cottage. ‘Oh, no!’ she gasped, the horror of what had happened hitting her like a blow that temporarily deprived her of breath.

  What would happen to his cottage and his things, she wondered to herself? She took a few steps towards it. She hoped that measures had been taken to secure his property. It would be dreadful if some vagrant wandered in and made free with his belongings. She hesitated. Should she try the door herself, or refer the matter to the estate office? Telling herself not to be foolish, she walked towards the cottage. She was almost at the door when it opened, and in front of her stood Snelson, his face rather pale and surmounted by a bandage.

  She had never fainted in her life, not even after she had struck Snelson over the head and thought that she had killed him. She almost did so now when confronted with a dead man, and had to steady herself by clutching at the doorpost. Would he point at her with a white finger, as she had imagined him doing from his coffin?

  ‘Miss Church!’ he exclaimed. Constance opened and closed her mouth without any sound coming out. ‘Come inside,’ he said quickly, ushering her in and pulling out a chair for her to sit down. After another swift look at her face, he crossed the small sitting room, which opened out directly from the front door, and took a serviceable decanter from the top of the sturdy sideboard under the window. He poured a measure of brandy into a glass which he then placed in her hand. After a brief hesitation, during which she looked up at his face, she took a sip and choked slightly.

  ‘That’s better,’ Snelson said a moment or two later, when he saw the colour begin to return to her cheeks. ‘Now tell me what has occurred, for the plain truth is that when I opened the door to you, you looked as if you had seen a ghost.’

  For a moment she could not think how to answer. How could she say that she had thought him to be dead because she had struck him? ‘I … I had not expected to see you,’ she confessed eventually.

  ‘Not expect to see me in my own cottage?’ Fortunately, because she could not think how to respond to this objection, he answered the question himself. ‘Oh, I expect you thought that I would still be engaged with the magistrate.’

  ‘Yes … yes, that was it,’ she replied, thankful for the breathing space given by his mistaken assumption. ‘Did … did you go? What transpired?’

  ‘As to that, I am not very sure,’ he answered, wrinkling his brow. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? As you can see, I have sustained a blow to the head and I am still feeling a little unsteady.’

  ‘Please do,’ she answered, suddenly overcome anew by feelings of guilt.

  ‘I did indeed go to Aylsham. I spoke to Sir Godfrey, and tried to impress upon him the seriousness of the case. He told me that it would take him some little time to assemble the men, so I offered to return here and keep watch. It then occurred to me that the imposter might make off before they arrived, so rather than meekly waiting for them, I decided to detain him myself. I cornered him in Beacon Tower, and he looked pretty fearful, I can tell you! But even while I had my pistol trained upon him, someone – one of his confederates, no doubt – struck me down from behind and rendered me unconscious.’ Constance raised her hand to her mouth. Snelson, glancing at her, evidently perceived it as a sign of shock. ‘My dear ma’am, I am distressing you with this account, so I will say no more.’

  ‘No indeed,’ Constance exclaimed. Then realizing the infelicitous nature of this expression, she corrected herself hastily. ‘I mean, yes. It is very distressing! Pray tell me, how did you make your way from Beacon Tower to here? When did you come round?’

  ‘I would hazard a guess that I was carried here late last night or in the early hours of the morning,’ Snelson said thoughtfully. ‘I have a vague memory of coming round in a daze, and being given a draught of some sort. I suspect that it may have been a sleeping draught, probably to make sure that I was unable to intervene when the magistrate arrived.’ Here his voice took on a bitter tone. ‘No doubt that imposter spun him some plausible tale, making me out to be a foolish country yokel, in order to persuade him to go away again.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Constance murmured. ‘So what do you plan to do now?’

  ‘I cannot fetch Sir Godfrey again,’ S
nelson replied. ‘I expect I am a laughing-stock the length and breadth of Aylsham by now. I will have to return to Beacon Tower and secure him properly myself; and this time, I will have no compunction about shooting to kill, if necessary.’

  ‘Oh, pray wait until your head is better,’ Constance begged him, horrified at the notion of more violence.

  He paused, thoughtfully. ‘I will wait until my head has recovered,’ he agreed eventually. ‘At the moment, I feel as though I could be overpowered very easily.’

  ‘I will ask my aunt to send you some broth,’ Constance promised, getting to her feet. All kinds of thoughts were crowding into her head and she needed solitude in order to examine them.

  ‘You are very kind,’ said Snelson, also rising and taking her hand. ‘A veritable angel of mercy.’

  ‘One very much in disguise,’ she said ruefully, removing her hand before he could kiss it. It had after all been the one with which she had struck him down.

  She left his cottage deep in thought, and wandered home by a circuitous route, not really conscious of her whereabouts. What exactly had been going on the previous evening? At the time, she had felt as though everyone involved, including herself, had been taken equally by surprise by what had transpired. Now, as she looked back, she began to wonder how many of the evening’s events had been carefully orchestrated for her benefit. She was sure that she could acquit Colin Snelson of deceit. Why, he had been so unsuspecting of her own motives that he had told her of his intention to summon the magistrate, never dreaming that she would betray him.

  What of Max? Her opinion of him over the time of their acquaintance had see-sawed wildly between contempt, fascination, admiration, and finally love. Last night, she had even consented to fly with him. Had she not been waiting for him to come for her? He had never appeared.

  She had been so relieved that Snelson was not dead that she had not thought any further about who had arranged for him to be transported to his cottage. Now, it occurred to her that Barnes must have lied when he said that Snelson was dead. Had his master known all along that the bailiff had only been stunned? Even if he himself had been deceived by Barnes, the valet must have enlightened him when he returned to Beacon Tower. Max had known how much she had been affected by Snelson’s supposed death. He must have guessed how she would be racked by guilt; yet he had allowed her to pass an entire night in the belief that she had been responsible for the death of a man.

  She remembered her meeting with the vicar. Doubtless the funeral of which he had spoken was to be for one of the drowned sailors. Furthermore, the news that he had given concerning Max’s indisposition had almost certainly come from Barnes, who was now revealed to be untruthful. It was far more likely that whilst she had been tossing and turning, tortured mentally by what she thought she had done, Max had either been enjoying an undisturbed night’s sleep, or running away in order to save his own skin.

  ‘How could he be so cruel?’ She declared out loud. She could no longer fool herself with regard to the nature of the man; he was all deceit, all lies; and, fool that she was, she had actually fallen in love with him! Well, that was where her folly would end. He would never cozen her into trusting him again! What was more, she would go to Beacon Tower this instant in order to give him a piece of her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The walk that took her there, far from calming her temper, whipped it up so that when Barnes opened the door to her, she was blazing with fury.

  ‘Miss Church; may I be of assistance?’ The dapper little man’s very courtesy fanned the flames of her indignation.

  ‘Certainly,’ she responded, stalking past him in a manner which seemed to say that if he did not move, she would walk over him. ‘You may tell me what I have ever done to you to merit being treated in such a barbarous way,’ she demanded.

  Barnes stepped back in surprise. ‘Barbarous? Madam, I—’

  ‘Barbarous,’ she repeated. ‘You knelt by Mr Snelson’s body and allowed me to believe that I had killed him. How could you?’

  ‘May I be permitted to know how you have discovered that he still lives?’ Barnes asked her.

  ‘The man came to his own front door! That would constitute a pretty robust case for his not being dead, would you not agree?’

  Barnes inclined his head. ‘I deemed the subterfuge prudent, madam,’ he said, regaining most of his equanimity.

  ‘Prudent! What of my feelings in this matter? How could you do such a thing, after my aunt and I had extended the hand of friendship to you on the journey here? Oh, but I am forgetting,’ she went on, her tone heavy with sarcasm. ‘All of that was a lie, too, was it not? You were not newly acquainted with the duke; you knew him very well indeed.’

  ‘No, madam,’ Barnes insisted. ‘I had never met him before that day.’

  ‘You will understand, I am sure, if I keep to my own opinion on that matter,’ she replied. ‘However, I am reminded that I did not come to bandy words with you. I have come to speak to that … that pitiful excuse of a man who pays your wages.’

  It was at this point that the normally imperturbable Barnes found himself in a real dilemma. The man whom the wrathful young lady in front of him had known as the Duke of Haslingfield had gone to London on a vital mission; the real Duke of Haslingfield was even now upstairs. At no point had anyone informed him, Barnes, whether it was now safe to reveal the presence and identity of the genuine nobleman. Seeking to temporize, therefore, he said, ‘His Grace is not available, I fear.’

  ‘Not available? What upon earth does that mean?’

  ‘It means that he cannot speak to you at present,’ said Barnes. ‘Rest assured, Miss Church, that when I next speak to him, I will inform him of your visit. No doubt he will do himself the honour of waiting upon you when he has the opportunity.’

  Obviously insisting on speaking to him was not going to get her anywhere. Doing what she wanted to do, namely, storming through the house and flinging all the doors open in search of the man, was unthinkable. She thanked Barnes with as much civility as she could muster, then went home, where she gave vent to her feelings by indulging in such vigorous pursuits as giving assistance with the laundry, sorting out the attic – a task which she had been putting off for months – and weeding for her uncle. Although these tasks did not entirely succeed in diverting her mind, they had the merit of tiring her out. Thanks to her busy day, the relief of having a clear conscience, and the wakefulness of the night before, she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  Constance had always been accustomed to knowing what needed to be done and getting on with it. It was with a sense of weary disillusionment that she awoke yet again in an indecisive frame of mind. Whilst part of her wanted to make a second visit to Beacon Tower and demand an explanation, she dreaded looking like one of those women who are forever to be found chasing after a man. Yet for how long was she expected to sit here whilst Max decided when to be ‘available’ to see her?

  Before she could fret herself into a headache, Colin Snelson arrived at The Brambles with a much smaller bandage around his head, looking very much more like himself, and clearly wanting a word with her. This objective was not accomplished very easily, as by now her aunt and uncle had heard a rumour concerning his misfortune. This rumour appeared to be confirmed by the bandage he wore, and consequently they were very concerned.

  ‘Is it known who struck you?’ Mr Fellowes asked. ‘Was it a housebreaker, do you suppose?’

  ‘Who can say?’ said Snelson. ‘I was attacked from behind so did not catch a glimpse of the villain.’

  ‘Housebreakers?’ exclaimed Miss Fellowes. ‘Oh, merciful heaven, might they still be in the vicinity? Brother, we must check all the doors and windows, and make sure that we are not an easy target.’

  After Miss Fellowes had ushered her brother insistently out of the room – for even in her agitation, she did not forget the desirability of thrusting her niece and the bailiff together – Snelson said, ‘Forgive the subterfuge.�
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  ‘Subterfuge?’ Constance echoed, not certain at first to what he might be referring.

  ‘The housebreaking story. I was no more struck over the head by housebreakers than by … by you,’ he declared, seizing upon the most unlikely assailant that he could imagine. Fortunately, his agitated pacing meant that he was not looking at her as he spoke. ‘I have no doubt that I was struck by some confederate of his – possibly that secretary whom I have not yet seen. It makes me all the more determined that their plan should be foiled.’

  ‘How … how do you intend to do that?’

  ‘I intend to go to Beacon Tower.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Constance asked him, wrinkling her brow.

  ‘What could be more natural? I am the estate bailiff, after all. I wonder, would you care to accompany me? After what happened last time I went to Beacon Tower, I would prefer to have you behind me.’ Wincing slightly at the irony of his words, Constance agreed and went to fetch her bonnet.

  There was no question of not being admitted on this occasion. Mr Snelson was employed by the estate and had as much right to be on the premises as Barnes himself. ‘In fact, in some senses the security of the property is more my province than yours, Mr Barnes,’ he said, as they were standing in the hall. ‘I would like a word with His Grace, if you please, so that I may receive his commands.’

  ‘As I told Miss Church yesterday, I am not sure whether that will be possible,’ said Barnes.

  It was at this point that another voice spoke from above them. ‘Most things are possible, my dear Barnes, if one will only make the effort,’ it drawled. Just as Sir Godfrey and his magistrate had observed Max descend the stairs in his dressing gown the previous night, so now the occupants of the hall saw another gentleman, as fair and pale as Max was dark and swarthy, and clad in the same garment. ‘It would appear that I have visitors, and at an early hour,’ he went on, as he continued his descent. ‘You must forgive my undress; I have sustained a little – ah – mishap.’ He drew their attention to the fact that one arm was supported by a sling. ‘Whom might I have the honour of addressing?’