The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  I was thinking of this as I smoothed down a pale mauve dress—one of the colors which became me most—and put on my grey coat. I was going for a walk. There was a great deal about which I wanted to think.

  My position here for one thing. I had not played again for Sir William, nor had there been any suggestion of my doing so for his guests; the girls’ lessons did not really occupy me fully. I wondered whether they would decide I wasn’t worth my salt. Mrs. Lincroft had told me that Sir William had plans but that he had not been very well since my arrival, but when he recovered a little I should find myself busier.

  I did not want to think too much about Napier Stacy. The subject, I told myself, is unpleasant; but I did wonder a great deal about his relationship with Edith. Roma was constantly in my mind. I longed to press on with my enquiries, but I was afraid that if I did so I should immediately arouse suspicion. Even so, I feared I had made my interest in her too obvious.

  Thoughts of her took me to the ruins that day. I wandered about, my memories of her so vivid that it almost seemed that she was there beside me. The place was deserted. I suppose Roma’s discoveries were minor ones compared with many in the country; and after the first excitement few people came to see them. I looked at the baths and the remains of the hypocausts with which they were heated and I could hear Roma’s voice and the pride in it as she had shown me these things.

  “Roma,” I whispered. “Where are you, Roma?”

  I could picture her so clearly—her eyes alight with enthusiasm, the chunky necklace rising and falling on her sombrely clad bosom.

  As if she would have gone away without telling me where she was going. She could only be dead.

  “Dead!” I whispered; and a hundred scenes from our childhood came to my mind. Dear solid Roma with never a spark of malice, her only fault a certain pitying tolerance towards those who failed to appreciate the joys of archaeology.

  I walked to the cottage where she had lived during those days of the excavation and which I had shared with her. During that time I had never seen any of the people who were becoming so familiar to me now; and they had been unaware of me ... at least I hoped so. Had Roma mentioned that she had a sister? It was hardly likely. She had never been communicative with chance acquaintances—except on the subject of archaeology, of course; and if anyone had seen me then and recognized me now, I should have discovered it surely. When I had last been here there had been many strangers walking about the “dig.” Why should one of them have been singled out?

  The cottage looked more derelict than ever. I pushed open the door for it was not locked. It creaked uneasily on its hinges. Why should I be surprised that it was unlocked? There was nothing to protect here.

  There was the familiar room ... the table at which I had sat watching the restoration of the mosaic. A few brushes lay about and a pick and a shovel with a pail. An old oil stove on which Roma had done her casual cooking—and a big drum in which she had kept the paraffin. Just enough to show that the archaeologists had passed this way.

  And out of this cottage Roma had walked one day and never returned.

  Where, Roma, where?

  I tried to visualize where she would go. Would she have gone for a walk? She never walked for the sake of walking ... only to get from one place to another. Had she gone for a swim? She swam very little; in fact she never had time for it

  What had happened on that day when she had finished her packing and walked out of the cottage?

  The answer was somewhere; and I was more likely to find it here than anywhere.

  I started up the stairs which led from the room. They twisted round and at the top of them was a heavy door. Opening this, one stepped straight into a small box room and in this room was a door which opened onto a bedroom—which was in fact only a little larger than the box room. It had one tiny window with leaded panes and I remembered how dark it had been even at midday. I had slept in a camp bed in that bedroom and Roma had had her camp bed in the box room.

  I pushed open the heavy door and looked inside. The beds had been removed. Roma would have had them ready to be taken away no doubt when she walked out of this cottage.

  I shivered. The stone walls were thick and it was cold.

  Yet here in the cottage I felt close to Roma. I kept murmuring her name: “Roma! Roma, what happened on that day?”

  I thought of her standing at the little window looking out towards the dig. She had been completely absorbed by her work here. She had talked of it while she hastily washed in the water which had been heated on the old paraffin stove downstairs. On that last day, of what had she been thinking? Of her departure? Of new plans?

  And then she would put her plain coat over her plain skirt and blouse and her only adornment would be a string of cornelian beads or odd shaped turquoises ... and have gone out into the fresh air to which she was addicted. She would have walked across the dig and beyond into ... limbo.

  I shut my eyes. I could see her so clearly. Where? Why?

  The answer could be in the cottage.

  Then I heard a sound below. I felt suddenly colder and there was a prickly sensation at the back of my spine. I thought of Allegra’s words: “Has you hair ever stood on end?” And I was immediately aware of the isolated position of the cottage; and the thought entered my head: You came to find out what happened to Roma. Perhaps you could learn if the same thing happened to you.

  A footstep in the silence. The creak of a board. Someone was in the cottage.

  I looked at the window. I knew from the past how small it was. There was no escape that way. But why should I feel this sense of doom simply because someone else had decided to look at an empty disused cottage?

  I was too fanciful perhaps; but it seemed to me that Roma was in this place ... warning me.

  I crouched against the wall listening. My sudden fear was the result of an over-fevered imagination. It was because Roma had been here, because her spirit still seemed to linger as those who have violently hurried from life are said to linger. Yes, it was the spirit of Roma warning: Danger.

  And then I heard the creak of a board, a step on the stair. Someone was coming up to the bedroom. I decided I would go boldly to meet whoever it was, so I thrust my trembling hands into the pockets of my coat and stepped through the bedroom and the box room.

  As I did so the heavy door was cautiously pushed open. Napier stood before me. He seemed to loom over me; he seemed so big in this little place; and my heart began to beat too fast. He smiled, fully aware of my fear, I knew.

  “I saw you come into the cottage,” he said. “I wondered what you could find of interest here.” As I did not answer he went on: “You look surprised to see me.”

  “I am.” I was struggling for my self-control, angrily demanding of myself why I was being so stupid—and more foolish still to betray it. The man was a bully, I thought; and what he enjoyed doing was frightening people. That was why he had come quietly into the cottage, had crept stealthily up the stairs.

  “Did you think you were the only one interested in our Treasures of the Past?” He spoke those words as though they had capitals—as though he knew the ghost of Roma was in this place and mocked it.

  “Far from it. I know that many people are interested.”

  “But not the Stacys. Did you know that in the first place my father tried to prevent the work being carried out?”

  “And couldn’t he?”

  “He was over-persuaded. And so ... in the name of culture ... the Philistines gave way.”

  “How fortunate for posterity that he was persuaded.”

  His eyes glinted a little. “The triumph of knowledge over ignorance,” he said.

  “Precisely.”

  I made as though to step past him towards that heavy door; and although he did not exactly bar my way he did not move so that I should have had to brush past him to reach it. So I hesitated, not wishing to betray my desire to escape.

  “What made you come here?” he asked.

 
“Curiosity, I suppose.”

  “Are you a very inquisitive person, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “As inquisitive as most people, I daresay.”

  “I often think,” he went on, “that the inquisitive are a little maligned. After all, it is really a virtue to be interested in one’s fellow men. Do you agree?”

  “Virtues if carried to excess can become vices.”

  “I am sure you are right. Did you know that one of the archaeologists lived in this cottage?”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “The one who disappeared."

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t accept the view that some Roman god rose in his fury and wiped her off the face of the earth. Do you?”

  He move a step nearer to me. “You remind me of that archaeologist.”

  He kept his eyes on my face, and for one moment I thought: He knows. He knows why I have come here. It would be easy to have discovered that I was Roma’s sister, Pietro Verlaine’s wife ... It could even have been mentioned in the press. Perhaps he knew that I had come to discover what lay behind Roma’s disappearance. Perhaps...

  The wild thoughts that come to one in a lonely cottage when alone with a map ... a man who killed his brother ... I said feebly: “I remind you ... of her?”

  “You don’t look like her. She was not a beautiful woman.” I flushed. “I did not mean, of course...” He lifted his hands feigning embarrassment. He was telling me that I had jumped to the conclusion of thinking he was telling me I was beautiful. How he liked to humiliate! “She had a look of dedication. So sure that she was right.”

  “I see, and I too have this look?”

  “I did not say that Mrs. Verlaine. I merely said that you reminded me of the poor unfortunate lady.”

  “You knew her well?”

  “The dedication was obvious. One did not need to be on familiar terms with her to be aware of it.”

  I said recklessly: “What happened to her?”

  “You are asking for my theory?”

  “If you have nothing better to offer.”

  “But why should you imagine I should have more than a theory to offer?”

  “You have met her. You saw her. Perhaps you have some notion of the sort of woman she was...”

  “Or is,” he said. “No need to speak of her in the past tense. We cannot be sure that she is dead. I’m inclined to think she went off on some project. But it is a mystery. Perhaps it will always be a mystery. There are many unsolved mysteries in the world, Mrs. Verlaine. And this one ... perhaps if s a warning to let the past alone.”

  “One which every archaeologist will, I am sure, ignore.”

  “I can tell by your tone that you thoroughly approve. So you think it is good to probe into the past?”

  “Surely you admit that archaeologists are doing valuable work?”

  He smiled at me, that slow maddening smile which I was beginning to hate.

  “So you don’t” I said heatedly.

  “I did not say so. I was not in fact thinking, of archaeologists. You have become obsessed by this young woman. I merely said do you think it is good to probe the past? Pasts are something we all have. They are not the prerogative of these scrabblers in the dust.”

  “Our personal pasts are our own concern, I think. It is only the historic past which should be revealed.”

  “A fine distinction—for who made the historic past but the individuals? I was being impertinent—a not unusual habit of mine—and was suggesting that you, like myself, would doubtless prefer to forget the past. Ah, you find me ... indelicate. I should not have said that. One does not say such things in polite society. It is ‘What a fine day today, Mrs. Verlaine? The wind is not so cold as it was yesterday.’ Then we discuss the weather of the last few weeks and pass on pleasantly unruffled, and we might just as well never have spoken. So you object to bluntness.”

  “You leap to conclusions, do you not? As for bluntness I find that those who pride themselves on being frank usually apply the term to their own plain speaking. They often have another for other people’s—rudeness.”

  He laughed—little lights shooting up in his eyes. “I will prove to you that that is not the case with me. I will speak plainly about myself. What have you heard of me, Mrs. Verlaine? I know. I murdered my brother. That’s what you have heard.”

  “I have heard there was an accident.”

  “That is what is commonly known as being couched in diplomatic terms.”

  “I was not attempting to be diplomatic. I was merely speaking frankly. I had heard that there was a fatal accident. I know that these occur.”

  He lifted his shoulders and put his head on one side.

  “And,” I said, “although they are deeply deplored, they should be forgotten.”

  “This was no ordinary accident, Mrs. Verlaine. The death of the heir of the house—handsome, charming, well beloved. Shot dead by his brother—who became the heir to the house and was neither handsome, charming, nor well beloved.”

  “Perhaps he could have become so ... had he tried.”

  He laughed and I heard the terrible bitterness in the laughter, and my opinion of him changed a little in that moment. He was cruel, he was sadistic, because he was taking his revenge on a world which had treated him so badly. I was actually sorry for the man.

  I said, rather gently I supposed: “No one should be blamed for what was done accidentally.”

  He came closer to me—those eyes, so brilliantly blue, so startling in the bronzed face, looked into mine. “But how can you be sure that it was done accidentally? How could they?”

  “But of course it was,” I said.

  “Such sentiments expressed so forcibly by a sensible young woman are very flattering.”

  I opened my coat to look at the watch pinned to my dress.

  “I see it is nearly half-past three.”

  I moved towards the door, but he remained in his position between me and it.

  “You,” he said, “know so much about our family. Yet I know so little about you.”

  “I cannot believe that you would wish to. As to what I have learned—I know very little beyond what you have just told me. I am here in the capacity of music teacher, not family historian and biographer.”

  “But how interesting it would be if you were here in that latter capacity. Perhaps I should suggest this to my father. What a chronicle you would be able to produce. The shooting of my brother ... why even the disappearance of our archaeologist. It all happened hereabouts.”

  “Music is my profession.”

  “But you have such a vital interest in everything concerning us all. You are fascinated by the disappearing lady ... simply because she disappeared here.”

  “No...”

  “No? You would have been equally interested if she had gone somewhere else to disappear?”

  “Mysteries are always intriguing.”

  “Far more so, I agree, than a straightforward shooting. There can be little doubts about the motive behind that.”

  “Accidents are without motive. They just ... happen.”

  “So you have very kindly convinced yourself that it was an accident. Perhaps later you will change your mind, when you have listened to what certain people have to tell you.” He puzzled me. I wondered why my opinion should be of importance to him. My desire to get away had completely left me. I wanted to stay and talk to him. In a strange way he reminded me of Pietro, who would sometimes lash himself into a state of nervous despair over some critical judgment of his work which he declared he didn’t believe.

  I must have softened, thinking of Pietro, for Napier went on: “I’ve been away for a long time, Mrs. Verlaine. I’ve been on a cousin’s property in the outback of Australia. So you must forgive me if I lack your English diplomacy. I would like to tell you my version of the ... accident. Will you listen to me?”

  I nodded.

  “Imagine two boys ... well, hardly boys. Beaumont was almost nineteen, I was nearl
y seventeen. Everything Beaumont did was perfect; everything I did was suspect. Quite rightly so. He was the white sheep; I was the black one. Black sheep become resentful—they grow as black as people believe them to be ... so this black sheep grew blacker and blacker until one day he picked up a gun and shot his brother.”

  If he had shown some emotion I should have felt happier; but he spoke in a calm, cold-blooded way and the thought came into my mind: It was not an accident.

  “It happened a long time ago...” I began uneasily.

  “There are events in life which will never be forgotten. Your husband died. He was very famous. I am, as you so kindly pointed out, a Philistine, with no drawing-room accomplishments, yet even I have heard your late husband’s name. And you are also talented.” His eyes scanned my face lightly and he said mockingly: “That must have been idyllic.”

  And as he spoke I saw Pietro, his eyes full of rage because of some slight to his genius; I heard his voice taunting me ... And I thought: This man knows what my marriage was like and he is trying to spoil my memories. He is cruel after all. He likes to destroy. He wants to mutilate my dream ... and he wants to hurt Edith. He would hurt me if he could, but I am beyond him except when he sneers at my marriage.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he remarked, and he implied that he understood what I was feeling. It was as though he were peering into my past, that he heard Pietro’s mocking laughter. “I have reminded you of what you would prefer to forget.”

  The quietness of his voice was somehow more cutting than his sneers would have been because I was aware of the cynical undercurrents.

  I said: “I really must go. I have lessons to prepare.”