The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  “Then he couldn’t have been so wonderful,” I said sharply and wondered why I wanted to protect Napier. It was the boy I was eager should have justice, not that arrogant man in the stables.

  “Just in a boyish way. He was so boyish ... And Napier, well he was quite different.”

  “In what way?”

  “Difficult. He’d go off on his own. He was always going off on his own. Wouldn’t practice the piano.”

  “They have always been fond of music in this house?”

  “Their mother played the piano beautifully. As well as you do. Oh yes, I heard you just now. I could have believed it was Isabella come back. Isabella could have been a very great pianist, I’ve heard it said. But she didn’t go on studying when she married. William didn’t wish it. He wanted her to play for him only. Can you understand that, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “No,” I said vehemently. “I think she should have been allowed to go on with her studies. If we have talent we should not hide it away.”

  “The parable of the talents,” she cried, her eyes alight with pleasure. “It’s what Isabella thought too. She was ... resentful.”

  I felt a sympathy with Isabella. She had thrown away a career no doubt for marriage ... somewhat as I had.

  I felt those childish yet penetrating eyes on me.

  Then she turned once more to the picture. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mrs. Verlaine. That is my work.”

  “Then you’re an artist.”

  She put her hands behind her back and nodded slowly.

  “How interesting!”

  “Oh yes. I painted that picture.”

  “How long before he died did he sit for it?”

  “Sit for it He never would sit for anything. Imagine getting Beau to sit down! And why should I want him to? I knew him. I could see him clearly then ... just as I see him now. I didn’t need him to sit, Mrs. Verlaine. I only paint the people I know.”

  “It’s very clever of you.”

  “Would you like to see some more of my pictures?”

  “I’d be most interested.”

  “Isabella was a clever musician, but she wasn’t the only clever one. Come to my rooms now. I have my own little suite. I’ve had it all my life. There was a time when I might have left here. I was going to be married...” Her face puckered and I thought she was going to burst into tears. “But I didn’t ... and so I stayed here where I had been all my life. I had my home and my pictures...”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She smiled. “Perhaps I’ll paint you one day, Mrs. Verlaine. It’ll be when I’ve learned to know you. Then I’ll see how I’ll paint you. Come with me now.”

  I was fascinated by this strange little woman. She sprang round daintily and I saw her black satin slippers peeping out from beneath her blue skirt. There was mischief in her smile; as I have said she was like a high-spirited little girl and the manner coupled with that wrinkled face was intriguing and yet, I fancied, a little sinister. I wondered what I was going to see in her room, and if she really was responsible for the picture over the fireplace in Beau’s room.

  Upstairs and through corridors we went. She looked over her shoulder at me and said: “Now, Mrs. Verlaine, you are lost, are you not?” in the manner of a teasing child.

  I admitted I was but added that I supposed I should be able to find my way about in time.

  “In time...” she whispered. “Perhaps. But time does not teach everything, does it? Time heals they say, but everything they say is not true, is it?”

  I did not want to enter into a discussion at this point so I did not attempt to disagree with her; and smiling she walked on.

  Eventually we came to what she called her suite. We were in one of the turrets and gleefully she showed me the apartment. There were three rooms in the great tower. “It’s a circle,” she pointed out—“you can go all round—one room leading to another and you come back to where you started from. Isn’t that unusual, Mrs. Verlaine? But I want to show you my studio. It faces north, you know. The light is so important to an artist. Come along in and I’ll show you some of my work.”

  I went in. The windows were bigger in this room than in the others and the north light was strong. Her look of youth was harshly denied in this room; the little bows, the blue gown with its satin sash, the little black slippers, were not enough to combat the wrinkles, the brown smudges on the thin claw-like hands; but she had lost none of her animation. The room was simply furnished; there was a door at each end which I knew opened onto the next room; on the walls were several pictures and canvases were stacked up in a corner. On a table lay a pallet and an easel was set up; on this was a half-finished picture of three girls; and I knew at once that they were Edith, Allegra, and Alice. She followed my gaze.

  “Ah,” she said conspiratorially. “Come and look.”

  I went closer beside her. She was watching me eagerly for my reactions. I studied the picture; Edith with her golden hair; Allegra with her thick black curls and Alice neat with a white band holding back her long straight light-brown hair.

  “You recognize them?”

  “Of course. It’s a good likeness.”

  “They’re young,” she said. “Their faces tell nothing, do they?”

  “Youth ... innocence ... inexperience...”

  “They tell nothing,” she said. “But if you know them you can see beneath the face they show the world. That is the artist’s gift, don’t you think? To see what they are trying to hide.”

  “It makes the artist rather alarming.”

  “A person to be avoided.” Her laughter was pitched and girlish. She was looking at me with those childlike eyes and I felt uneasy. Was she trying to probe my secrets? Was she seeing my stormy life with Pietro? Would she attempt to probe also into my motives? What if she discovered that I was Roma’s sister?

  “It would all depend,” I said, “whether one had something to hide.”

  “All people have something to hide don’t they, Mrs. Verlaine? It could be only one little thing ... but it’s something so very much one’s own. Older people are more interesting than the young. Nature is an artist. Nature draws all sorts of things on people’s faces which they would prefer to hide.”

  “Nature also draws the pleasanter things.”

  “You’re an optimist, Mrs. Verlaine. I can see that. You’re like the young woman who came here ... digging.”

  My uneasiness increased. “Like...” I began.

  She went on: “William didn’t want the place disturbed, but she was so persistent. She wouldn’t let him rest so he said yes. And they came down looking for Roman remains. It hasn’t been the same since.”

  “You met this young woman?”

  “Oh yes. I like to know what’s going on.”

  “She would be the one who disappeared?”

  She nodded delightedly, her eyes almost lost among the wrinkles.

  “You know why?” she said.

  “No.”

  “Meddling. They didn’t like it.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Those who are dead and gone. They don’t go ... altogether, you know. They come back.”

  “You mean the ... Romans?”

  “The dead,” she said. “You can sense them all round you.” She came closer to me and whispered: “I don’t think Beau will like Napier’s coming back. In fact I know he doesn’t. He’s told me.”

  “Beau ... has told you!”

  “In dreams. We were close ... He was my little boy. The one I might have had. I’d pictured him ... just like Beau. It was all right when Napier wasn’t here. It was right and proper that he should be sent away. Why should Beau be gone and Napier stay? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But now he’s back and that’s bad, I tell you. Just a moment.” She went to the stack of canvases and brought out a picture. She set it against the wall and I gasped with horror. It was a full length picture of a man. The face was wicked ... the hawknose was accentuated; the eyes were narrowed, the mouth was curv
ed into a repulsive snarl. I recognized it as Napier.

  “You recognize it?” she asked.

  “It’s not really like him,” I said.

  “I painted it after he’d murdered his brother.”

  I felt indignant. For the boy, I told myself fiercely once more. She was watching my face and she laughed.

  “I see you are going to take his side. You don’t know him. He’s wicked. He was jealous of his brother, of beautiful Beau. He wanted what Bean had ... so he killed him. He’s like that. I know it. Others know it.”

  “I am sure there are some who...”

  She interrupted me. “How can you be sure, Mrs. Verlaine? What do you know? You think because William brought him back and married him to Edith ... William is a hard man too, Mrs. Verlaine. The men of this house are all hard ... except Beau. Beau was beautiful. Beau was good. And he had to die.” She turned away. “Forgive me. I feel it still. I shall never forget.”

  “I understand.” I turned my back on that portrait of the young Napier. “It is very kind of you to show me your pictures. I was trying to find my way to my room. I think I may be wanted.”

  She nodded. “I hope that one day you will see more of my pictures.”

  “I should like to,” I said.

  “Soon?” she pleaded like a child.

  “If you will be so good as to invite me.”

  She nodded happily and pulled a bell rope. A servant came and she asked the girl to conduct me to my apartments.

  When I reached my room Alice was there.

  She said: “I came to tell you that you will be having dinner with Mother and me tonight, and that I will come and take you to her rooms at seven o’clock.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “You look startled. Was Sir William kind to you?”

  “Yes. I played for him. I think he liked my playing. But I lost my way and met Miss Stacy.”

  Alice smiled understandingly. “She is a little ... strange. I trust she did not embarrass you.”

  “She took me to her studio.”

  Alice was surprised. “You must have aroused her interest. Did she show you her pictures?”

  I nodded. “I saw one of you with Mrs. Stacy and Allegra.”

  “Did you? She didn’t tell us she was painting us. Is it good?”

  “It seems a perfect likeness."

  “I should like to see it.”

  “She will surely show it to you.”

  “She’s a little odd at times. It’s because she was crossed in love. By the way did you notice anything strange about our names, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “Your names?”

  “The three of us ... your pupils?”

  “Alice, Edith, Allegra. Allegra is unusual.”

  “Oh yes, but the three of us together. They come into a poem. I like poetry. Do you?”

  “I like some,” I answered. “To which poem are you referring?”

  “It’s by Mr. Longfellow. Shall I say the bit I like? I know it by heart.”

  “Please do.”

  She stood beside me, her arms folded behind her back, her eyes lowered as she quoted:

  “From my study, I see in the lamplight

  Descending the broad hall stair

  Grave Alice and laughing Allegra

  And Edith with golden hair.

  A whisper and then a silence;

  Yet I know by their merry eyes

  They are plotting and planning together

  To take me by surprise.”

  She lifted her eyes to my face and they were shining. She said: “You see, laughing Allegra, Edith with golden hair, and I am grave, am I not? You see it is us.”

  “And you are planning to take someone by surprise?”

  She smiled her quiet little smile.

  Then she said with undoubted gravity: “I expect all of us surprise each other at some time, Mrs. Verlaine.”

  3

  I dined that night with Mrs. Lincroft and Alice—Mrs. Lincroft herself doing the cooking for she had a small kitchen attached to her little suite of sitting room and bedroom. “I found it made it easier,” she explained, “when the family was entertaining, and now I often do it. It saves the servants trouble and I rather enjoy it. I think now that you have come, Mrs. Verlaine, you might take your meals here with me. Alice will join us when she does not dine with the family. Sir William very kindly invites her now and then. He may suggest you join them occasionally.”

  It was a pleasant meal and very well cooked. Alice sat quietly with us. I should always think of her as Grave Alice in future.

  Mrs. Lincroft spoke of Sir William’s illness and how he had changed since he had had his stroke a little less than a year ago.

  “His wife used to play the piano to him. When Mr. Napier came home I suppose he was reminded of the old days and that is why he thought of bringing music into the house again.”

  I was silent thinking how much Sir William must have loved his wife since he had banished music from the house after her death.

  “There are changes now,” went on Mrs. Lincroft. “And of course now that Mr. Napier and Edith are married there will be more.” She smiled. The one maid who was waiting on us had gone to the kitchen. She added: “It will be more like a normal household. And it is a relief to know that Mr. Napier has taken over the management of the estate since his return. He is very active; a first class horseman; in fact he rides everywhere. He is taking care of everything ... magnificently. Even Sir William must agree to that.”

  I waited, but she seemed to realize that she had said too much. “Would you care for some more of this pie?”

  I thanked her and declined while complimenting her on its excellence.

  “Do you ride, Mrs. Verlaine?” she asked then.

  “My sister and I went to a riding school, and we rode occasionally in the Row. Living in London didn’t give us the opportunities for riding that the country would have offered and we both had other great interests which absorbed us.”

  “Is your sister a musician too?”

  ‘Oh no ... no ...” There was an expectant pause and I saw how easily I could betray my identity and I wondered how they would react if they knew that I was the sister of the woman who had disappeared so mysteriously.

  I added lamely: “My father was a professor. My sister helped him in his work.”

  “You must be a very clever family,” she said.

  “My parents had advanced ideas, on education and although we were girls we were educated as though we were boys. You see there were no boys in the family. Perhaps if there had been it would have, been different.”

  Alice spoke then. She said: “I should like to be educated in that way, Mrs. Verlaine ... like you and your sister. I expect you wish you were with her instead of with us.”

  ‘She’s dead,” I replied shortly.

  I thought Alice was about to ask more questions but Mrs. Lincroft silenced her with a look. She herself said: “Oh, I am sorry. That is sad.” And there was a short sympathetic pause which I broke by asking if the girls were good horsewomen.

  “Mr. Napier is determined that Edith shall be. He takes her riding every morning. I expect she has improved a great deal.

  “She hasn’t,” put in Alice. “She’s worse. Because now she’s frightened.”

  “Frightened!” I echoed.

  “Edith is timid and Mr. Napier is trying to make her bold,” explained Alice. “I really believe Edith would rather jog along on poor old Silver than ride the fine horse Mr. Napier arranges for her.”

  Mrs. Lincroft again glanced at her daughter and I wondered whether Alice’s demure manner meant that she was suppressed.

  When the meal was over I stayed for an hour or so talking to Mrs. Lincroft and then, since as she suggested I was very tired, I went to bed, but I slept only fitfully. My confused thoughts of the day’s experiences kept me awake but I told myself that once I had worked out a routine for the days I should settle down.

  Breakfast was brough
t to my room on a tray and when I had eaten it Edith knocked and asked if she might come in.

  She looked very pretty in a midnight blue riding habit and black bowler type hat.

  “You are going out to ride?” I asked.

  She shuddered so faintly that it was scarcely perceptible. She was, I discovered, unable to hide her feelings. “Not yet,” she said, “that will be later, but I may not have time to change. I wanted to talk to you about my tuition.”

  “Of course.”

  “And then I will take you to the vicarage where the girls are having their lessons. You’ll want to fit yours in with those they get from the vicar, won’t you? I hope I’m not going to disappoint you, Mrs. Verlaine.”

  “I don’t think you will. I can see you feel strongly about the piano.”

  “I love playing. It ... it helps me when I’m...” I waited and she finished lamely, “when I’m a little downcast.”

  She took me to the schoolroom adjoining which was a smaller apartment to which she referred as the music room. In it was an upright piano.

  There she played for me and we talked of her progress and I quickly got an idea of how advanced she was. I realized that she would be a good pupil—hardworking and eager—that her talent was frail but definitely there. Edith would get a great deal of pleasure from her music but she would never be a great musician. It was what I had expected and I should know how to work with her.

  She became animated, talking of music.

  “You see,” she said in a rush of confidence, “it’s the only thing I’ve ever really been any good at.”

  “And I think you’ll be very good if you work hard.”

  She was pleased; and suggested we leave for the vicarage. “It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk, Mrs. Verlaine. Would you care to walk or would you like the trap?”

  I said the walk would be delightful and we set out.

  “Mr. Jeremy Brown will be teaching the girls this morning, I daresay. He often does.” She had flushed slightly, which she did often. “He’s the curate,” she added.