Lady Anne's Deception

by M C Beaton

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Bangor, flashing a smile that started somewhere in Annie’s direction and ended up in the marquess’s. “My husband couldn’t come this evening, so dear Jasper and I were consoling each other.”

  “Well, you don’t need to do that any longer now that I am here,” said Annie sweetly. “I see you have finished your meal, Mrs. Bangor, and I do want a word in private with my husband, so…”

  “But there is plenty of room at the table for three,” said her husband, with maddening good humor. “I am sure whatever it is can wait.” He pulled a chair forward between himself and Mrs. Bangor. Annie reluctantly sat down. The marquess signaled to a footman and ordered supper for Annie.

  “Now, Dolly,” he said to Mrs. Bangor, “do go on. It sounds quite a fascinating plot.”

  “Well, it was fun, really,” said Mrs. Bangor. Her eyelashes were quite definitely false, Annie thought sourly. “You see, it turned out she wasn’t a simple village girl after all, but a Russian princess. Fancy! So of course it was all right for the prince to marry her. Oh, it was so moving. They hold hands and sing ‘Our Love Will Last Forever.’ How does it go? Let me see… tum-titty, tum-titty, tum, tum, tum.”

  “Not a very good lyric,” said Annie nastily.

  “Well, it’s not the words, dear. It’s the tune,” explained Mrs. Bangor, as if talking to an idiot.

  “You must forgive my wife,” said the marquess blandly. “Annie is quite tone deaf, you know. More salad, my dear?”

  “I am not tone deaf, Jasper, and I do not want any salad. I want…”

  “Oh, here’s Lady Marigold. And Harry! Well, that’s splendid,” said the marquess, getting to his feet. “Marigold and I have the next dance, Annie. Harry, be a good chap and sit with my wife. You know Mrs. Bangor, of course. Dolly, do tell Mr. Bellamy about that simply splendid musical….”

  He walked off with Marigold, who threw a mocking look at Annie over her shoulder.

  Annie sat and fumed. She was very hungry, but she thought that the food would choke her.

  Mrs. Bangor had started to tell them all about the musical from the opening scene to the grand finale. At last Annie felt that she could bear it no longer. She muttered an excuse and left the table.

  As soon as Annie entered the ballroom, she was accosted by her hosts and had to stand and chat with them for several moments, while all the time she was aware of her husband with Marigold in his arms, dipping and swaying and pirouetting.

  “They make a handsome couple,” said little Mrs. Bunbury, and then she giggled. “Oh, I say, I quite forgot he was your husband!”

  Annie’s head felt hot and heavy, and she realized she had caught a chill.

  And then Mr. Shaw-Bufford was at her side, begging for the next dance.

  “I don’t feel like dancing,” said Annie, looking at the chancellor with some distaste. “In fact, I think I have caught another cold, Mr. Shaw-Bufford, and I would rather sit down.”

  “But, of course,” he said, smiling. “What about some cold champagne? An excellent remedy.”

  Annie nodded weakly and allowed him to lead her back to the supper room. She did not want to be in his company, but, on the other hand, she did not want to stand at the edge of the ballroom watching her husband flirting.

  Mr. Shaw-Bufford found her a secluded table in a corner far away from where Mrs. Bangor was still entertaining Harry Bellamy.

  After two ice-cold glasses of champagne, Annie began to feel quite warm toward the chancellor. He had talked easily and pleasantly of this and that. He had told her that she was looking very beautiful, and that was balm to Annie’s wounded esteem. And Scotland Yard had said that he was genuine in his support of the feminist movement.

  Suddenly she realized that his voice had taken on a more serious tone and he was saying, “Well, I gather we are no longer considered murderers by the gentlemen of the Yard.”

  “Murderers!” squeaked Annie. “They couldn’t have possibly considered me a murderer.”

  “They had found out about your fight in the park with your sister, and I think they considered that, were you in a rage, you might have exceptional strength.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. Did you say they suspected you? But surely your high position should—”

  “Protect me? Alas, no. That was what gave me the motive in their eyes. You see, with Jimmy Macleod gone, I would then be in line for prime minister. They may have wondered if I had put Miss Hammond up to the shooting, and, when she failed, well, I simply got rid of her. Fortunately for me, I was in my club at the time the murder was taking place.”

  Annie shivered and sneezed. “I often wonder who did it,” she said.

  “Oh, some fanatic. Let me fill your glass.”

  “I also wonder about poor Miss Hammond. What drove her to take such a crazy action? I suppose there is no hope it was really suicide?”

  “Well, of course, I think it was,” said the chancellor. “I feel the police have bungled and are too pigheaded to admit their error. Some women are born to be martyrs, and Mary Hammond was one of them.”

  Annie sat very still. Her head was hot, and the room was becoming blurred. She had a sudden flash of total recall. The supper room spun away and she was back again outside the study door, listening to the voices of the chancellor and Mary Hammond.

  “If I am caught, I shall at least be a martyr….”

  “You will not be caught, Miss Hammond. Remember, my name must never be mentioned. Never!”

  Gradually she returned to reality. The chancellor was looking at her oddly. Mrs. Bangor over at the other end of the room had reached her favorite song. “Tum-titty, tum-titty, tum, tum, tum,” she sang.

  “Jolly good that, what!” Harry Bellamy chortled.

  “Are you ill?” Mr. Shaw-Bufford was leaning forward, looking at Annie intently.

  “What,” said Annie, “did you mean, Mr. Shaw-Bufford, when you told Miss Hammond that she would never be caught—and that your name must never be mentioned? It was after she said that at least she would be a martyr if she were caught.”

  “I am sure I said nothing of the kind,” said the chancellor smoothly. “Your glass is empty, Lady Torrance. A little more?”

  “But you did,” said Annie fretfully. “I heard you. I was outside the study door when you were talking.”

  “You misunderstood,” said Mr. Shaw-Bufford. “I hope you didn’t tell any of this nonsense to the police?”

  “I couldn’t,” said Annie simply. “I’ve only just remembered. Mr. Carton is calling tomorrow to see if I can remember anything more.”

  “You must not trouble him with things you only think you heard.”

  “Oh, but I did hear it,” said Annie wearily. “I won’t tell him what you said. Just the bit about Miss Hammond expecting to be a martyr. They might find that important.”

  Mr. Shaw-Bufford took a deep breath. “You must do as you see fit. You look unwell, Lady Torrance. Perhaps I should fetch your husband.”

  “Please,” Annie said in a small voice. She now felt very ill. She knew vaguely that she had said something she should not.

  The chancellor stood up. He seemed to loom over her. “Lady Torrance,” he began urgently. Then he gave a shrug and was gone.

  After a few moments he was back. He pulled his chair close to Annie’s and took her hand in his.

  “I am afraid your husband is otherwise occupied,” he said in a low voice.

  “What?” asked Annie, dizzy from the effects of the champagne and a rising temperature. “What do you mean?”

  “I hate to see a lady such as you—a lady I have come to care for deeply—being so deceived. Your husband was not in the ballroom. I questioned the servants and found him in a small room leading off the ballroom at the far end. He had your sister in his arms and he was kissing her—passionately.”

  Annie’s world fell apart. Gone was the Marchioness of Torrance. In her place sat little Annie Sinclair, humiliated again.


  “Take me home,” she said through dry lips.

  “Certainly,” he said in a low voice. “We will leave through that door at the other end. That way we will avoid attracting notice.”

  Blindly, Annie let him lead her away down a back staircase, out of a side entrance, and into his waiting carriage.

  Ill as she was, it dawned on Annie after a time that surely they should have been turning into St. James’s Square by now. She looked out of the carriage window and recognized Trafalgar Square.

  “Where are we going?” asked Annie.

  “I have left some important papers at my flat,” said the chancellor. “I must pick them up and then I will take you home.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been more sensible to have dropped me off first?” said Annie, shivering and sneezing.

  “You are right. Forgive me,” he said. “I was so concerned about the papers that I did not think. It will only take me a moment, and my man can give you something for your cold.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Annie. “Only make it quick.” All she wanted to do was to sink in between nice, cool sheets and go to sleep, shutting away all the misery and hurt.

  How could she have ever believed that she could have attracted the catch of the Season? Yet why did he marry her? Why? Why? Why?

  The carriage lurched to a stop. Had she not felt so ill, Annie would never have dreamed of entering any man’s lodgings without a chaperone.

  The chancellor’s flat was in a quiet street in the shadow of the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben chimed one o’clock, a long, slow note like a death knell.

  “Ah, Hodder,” said Mr. Shaw-Bufford, as he handed his cloak to his thick-set butler. “Give her ladyship one of your special potions. Her ladyship has a bad cold. I won’t keep you long, Lady Torrance.”

  He ushered Annie into a book-lined room and lit the gaslight in the gaselier and then the gas fire in the grate, which came alive with a loud, noisy pop.

  “I shall be back presently,” he said. “Do drink Hodder’s remedy. There’s nothing like it, I assure you.”

  After he had gone, Annie sat shivering by the fire and looked about her. It was a depressing room with heavy Victorian furniture and dusty birds in glass cases. The books were great tomes that looked as if they had never been opened. A heavy Wilton carpet covered an area of hard, shiny green linoleum. The lace undercurtains at the window were still dirty from the recent fog.

  When Hodder came in bearing a tray, Annie looked at him uneasily, remembering his unlovely features from Britlingsea.

  “It’s a recipe I got from me mother,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “What’s in it?” asked Annie, taking the steaming cup.

  “Just herbs and things like that. You’ll feel ever so different after you’ve drunk it, my lady.”

  “Just leave me and don’t loom over me, Hodder,” said Annie. “Don’t worry. I shall drink it. And thank you very much.”

  Hodder bowed and, to Annie’s relief, withdrew. She found his personality strangely unpleasant.

  She raised the cup to her lips but found that she could not drink it. Her stomach was beginning to feel upset with all that she had drunk at the ball. She looked around her, wondering what to do with it. There was a depressing-looking aspidistra in a brass bowl on a cane table. After some hesitation, she rose and dumped the contents of the cup into the earth around the plant.

  After she had been waiting for ten minutes, she began to feel impatient. Part of her hurting mind wondered how she could even feel such a normal sensation as impatience when her heart was breaking and her temperature rising by the minute.

  She rose to her feet, feeling a little giddy, and opened the door. The shadowy entrance hall was gloomy and deserted. She opened several doors but only found herself looking into dark, empty rooms. Then she heard a murmur of voices coming from downstairs.

  Annie pushed open the green baize door that led to the kitchen quarters and walked down the stone steps.

  The servants’ dining room was lit by one lamp. Ahead of her, the kitchen door was closed. The voices were coming from there and, through the frosted glass of the upper part of the door, she could see the thin, predatory shadow of Mr. Shaw-Bufford confronting the squat shadow of the butler, Hodder.

  She was just about to walk forward when she realized that the men were quarrelling, and hesitated, irresolute.

  Then Hodder’s gruff voice struck a chill into her heart. “Look here, guv’nor,” he was saying. “This ain’t goin’ to be like gettin’ rid o’ that crazy woman, Hammond. I can’t bump off a marchioness wiffout bringin’ all the rozzers in London about me ears.”

  “Now, now, Hodder,” came Mr. Shaw-Bufford’s voice. “Haven’t I explained that we will not be suspected? No one saw us leave except that fool Bellamy, and he can’t remember anything from one minute to the next. I shall return to the ball as soon as possible. That drug you gave her should have taken immediate effect. All you have to do is wrap her up in a blanket, tie those chains there around the body, and tip her into the Thames. Her marriage is unhappy. If by any chance the body is found—which it should not be, if you do your job properly—then it will be assumed that she committed suicide. Arrange the chains in such a way so that she could have put them around her herself.”

  “I dunno,” said Hodder, doubtfully. “Member o’ the peerage and all, and bein’ connected, as you might say, wiff the Hammond murder… bound to smell somethin’ awful.”

  “Nonsense, my good man. Did you get found out after the Hammond business? No. Did I? No. You are well paid, so go to it, man, and don’t dither about.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “And when you’ve finished your little chore, don’t lock up. I shall be late. It’s a pity we’ll have to let Macleod live. I would dearly have liked to be prime minister. Women get equality, indeed! Why, you can’t even trust one of them to carry out a simple shooting.”

  Somehow, Annie found herself turning and stumbling out of the kitchen. She thrust open the door into the hall and blundered toward the street door, knocking over a hat stand that hit the tiles with a tremendous crash.

  All she wanted to do was find a policeman.

  There was an alarmed shout from belowstairs.

  The rain had stopped and a thin, ghostly mist wreathed the London streets. Annie kicked off her shoes with their Louis heels and ran for her life. Before she had turned the corner of the street, she heard Hodder’s heavy feet pounding in pursuit.

  Along Bradley Street, through Smith Square, fled Annie, too panic-stricken to stop and scream for help. She was desperate to reach the Houses of Parliament where she felt sure there would be a policeman on duty. She could hear Hodder’s harsh breathing like that of some monster or wild animal.

  Along Lord North Street ran Annie, down Peter Street, along Millbank and Abingdon.

  Panic lending her wings, her shadow flying in front of her and then racing behind her as she passed under each gas lamp, Annie hurtled through St. Margaret’s Square. Ahead lay Parliament Square and sanctuary in the shape of a possible constable on duty.

  She had just reached the edge of Parliament Square when Hodder caught up with her and swung her around.

  She kicked and scratched as Hodder fastened his huge hands around her neck.

  Annie screamed for all she was worth. And then her voice was cut off by the murderously tightening fingers.

  A red mist swam before her eyes. I will die and he’ll never know how much I loved him, she thought as she clawed at the hands at her throat.

  Then all at once there came the sound of horses’ hooves, then a man’s shouts. Hodder released her and she crumpled to the ground.

  The Marquess of Torrance came hurtling toward the butler, who turned to face him. Hodder swung his fists wildly, but the marquess dodged and feinted and then slammed a vicious right straight to Hodder’s chin. Hodder rocked on his heels, shook his head like a bull goaded by flies, and then rushed at the marquess, head down.

 
; The marquess moved so fast that he seemed like a blur of black and white evening dress. One minute the butler was rushing toward him, and the next Hodder was hurtling through the misty air to land with a sickening thump against a lamp post. A police whistle shrilled through the damp cold.

  The marquess poked Hodder’s body with his foot to make sure that he was really unconscious, and then walked back and tenderly helped his wife to her feet, cradling her in his arms.

  “Are you all right, Annie?” he whispered. “I was worried sick about you. Harry Bellamy said that you had left the supper room with Shaw-Bufford, and Dolly Bangor said that you looked ill. You weren’t at home, so I decided you might have gone mad and gone to Shaw-Bufford’s place, and, thank God, I came looking for you. Where is the chancellor? Who is that man who attacked you?”

  “I’m surprised,” said the Marchioness of Torrance, in a thin voice, “that you had time to think of me at all.”

  “Don’t be silly….”

  “Philandering with my sister…”

  “Wot’s all this then?” came the voice of the law.

  “Philandering with… you little idiot!”

  “Don’t call me an idiot. Mr. Shaw-Bufford quite distinctly said that…”

  “I must ask you to explain…” said the policeman, trying to interrupt.

  “Oh, Jasper,” wailed Annie, turning white as the full horror of the evening suddenly flooded over her. “Shaw-Bufford murdered Miss Hammond. Well, he didn’t, but that’s his butler, Hodder, and he did. And they were trying to kill me.”

  The policeman’s whistle was answered as several more officers of the law came pounding up.

  “Wait there, Annie,” said the marquess firmly. He drew the policemen a little way away and began to talk in a rapid voice. Two policemen went to put handcuffs on the still unconscious butler, and one more ran off for reinforcements.

  There was a great deal of comings and goings. More constables arrived, headed by a squad of plainclothes detectives. Annie recognized Mr. Carton.

  “Now, Annie,” said the marquess. “Take the carriage and go home.”