The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  It was a few days later when the startling news was revealed. I had met Godfrey at the cottage, talked there for a while and then taken a watt round the site.

  Godfrey was growing more and more certain that the answer to Roma’s disappearance at any rate was to be found here. He enjoyed examining minutely the baths and the pavements, looking, he said, for clues. But I knew he delighted in studying them. I mentioned the light to him and told him that the idea had occurred to me that Roma might have gone there to investigate.

  But Roma had disappeared during the afternoon. The light could not have been in evidence then. But had she? What if she had gone out in the afternoon, perhaps for a walk—and returned at dusk, saw the light, investigated.

  “It was possible,” agreed Godfrey. “We must go to the ruin one evening and wait for the kindler of the light to appear.”

  I thought that might be a little compromising in view of the remarks the girls had made; and I believed that Mrs. Rendall was eying me with attention and suspecting me of what she would call “setting my cap” at the curate.

  However I did not comment on this and when I said goodbye to Godfrey we were no nearer solving the mystery of Roma’s death than we had ever been.

  I came back to Lovat Stacy and as I entered the hall I heard footsteps behind me. I swung round and came face to face with Napier. He looked very tired and strained.

  “I have just come back from London,” he said. “There is news.”

  “Of Edith?” I said.

  “She is not with Jeremy Brown.”

  “Not...” I stared at him.

  “Jeremy Brown arrived in East Africa—alone.”

  “But—”

  “We have been quite wrong,” he said, “to suspect that Edith went off with a lover. She did no such thing.”

  “Then what?”

  He looked at me blankly. “Who can say?” he whispered.

  But there were those who had much to say. The secret was soon out, and the village was gossiping about it. The vicar received a letter from Jeremy Brown to say that he had arrived safely and was becoming absorbed in his work. So this was further confirmation that he was alone. Edith had not gone with him. Then where was Edith?

  Eyes were turned once more on Lovat Stacy. That house, that unlucky house which many said was cursed.

  And why was it cursed? Because a man had killed his brother. They called it the curse of Cain. And because he had killed his brother his mother had died, and now his wife had disappeared. Where could she have gone? Who could say? But perhaps there was one who could.

  When a wife met some misadventure, the first person open to suspicion was her husband.

  I was aware of the mounting feeling against Napier, and it disturbed me deeply—more so, it appeared, than it disturbed him.

  There was wild speculation everywhere. I noticed the way in which everyone was avoiding Napier. Mrs. Lincroft’s expression changed when she spoke of him; her lips tightened. I knew she was thinking of what Edith’s disappearance had done to Sir William and was blaming him for it.

  The girls were constantly discussing the affair together, although they did not talk to me very much about it. I wondered what construction they put on it.

  Allegra did say on one occasion: “If Sir William died and it was through the shock of Edith’s going ... that would be like history’s repeating itself. You know, Beau died and then his mother...”

  I retorted sharply: “Who said Edith was dead?”

  “No,” cried Alice vehemently. “She’ll come back.”

  “I hope so,” I said fervently; and how I hoped it! I wanted Edith to come back more than I had wanted anything since Pietro had died. I tried to work out all sorts of reasons for her disappearance. Amnesia? Why not? She was wandering somewhere because she had lost her memory. What a joy that would be! I did not want Napier to be a murderer. And if Edith had been murdered...

  I just would not accept that But what of Roma?

  The strangeness of this—the awful coincidence—struck me afresh. Two young women disappeared in exactly the same manner. They both walked out, saying nothing, taking nothing with them.

  It was horribly, frighteningly sinister.

  I was deeply concerned. One of those women was my sister; the other the wife of Napier.

  I must know. If anything my determination was doubled; and at the same time I thought of them both—no two women could have been more unlike; poor Edith with her ineffectuality, poor frightened Edith; and Roma, the determined, the fearless, the woman who knew exactly where she was going ... except perhaps on one occasion.

  I don’t care where it leads me, I told myself. I am going to find out.

  “Have a care, Caro.” It was Roma’s voice cautioning me. “This could be murder.”

  But I would not accept that it was murder even if others did.

  I could sense the wall of suspicion growing as fast as a jungle bamboo.

  I wished that I had not heard that quarrel between Sir William and Napier. I had gone up to play for Sir William again because Mrs. Lincroft had decided that my music soothed him. I did not go through Sir William’s room but straight to the piano in the next, for Mrs. Lincroft had said that he might be dozing and that he liked to wake and hear the music I was playing.

  On this occasion as I entered the room I heard the sound of angry voices: Sir William’s and Napier’s.

  “I wish to God,” Sir William was saying, “that you’d stayed out there.”

  “And I can assure you,” retorted Napier, “that I have no intention of going back.”

  “You’ll go if I say, and let me tell you this, there’ll be nothing for you.”

  “You’re wrong. I have a right to be here.”

  “Listen to me. Where is she, eh? What’s happened to her? Run off with a curate. I knew she’d never do that. Where is she? You tell me, eh?”

  I should have slipped away. But I could not. I felt too involved. I had to stand there. I had to listen.

  “Why should you think I know?”

  “Because you didn’t want her. You married her because, there was no other way of coming back. The poor child!”

  “You were the one who sacrificed her, weren’t you? How like you, to insist on the marriage and blame me for it. I did my best to make the marriage succeed.”

  “Marriage! I’m not talking of the marriage! I’m asking you what you have done with her.”

  “You’re mad. Are you suggesting...?”

  “Murderer...” cried Sir William. “Beau ... Your mother...”

  “My God,” cried Napier. “Don’t think you’re going to cheat me out of my inheritance with your lies.”

  “Where is she? Where is she? They’ll find her and then—” I could not bear any more. I went to the door and sped silently away to my room.

  I felt sick with fear.

  Sir William believed his own son had murdered Edith.

  “It’s not true,” I whispered. “I won’t believe it.”

  And in that moment I pledged myself to solve the mystery of Edith’s disappearance just as I had that of Roma. It was of the utmost importance to me.

  I couldn’t bear the suspicion.

  In the village they were whispering. “It stands to reason. He married her. He wanted to be rid of her once he’d got her money. There’s a curse on Lovat Stacy ... and will be as long as that bad man is there.”

  I saw Sybil now and then; the sly look of knowledge in her eyes and the general coyness were more grotesque than usual.

  I wondered whether secret investigations were going on. It had been discovered that Edith was not with Jeremy Brown. What else would be found out?

  Why should a husband rid himself of a wife? There were many reasons. Because he did not love her. Because he now had her money; because now that he was taken back into the family and had been reinstated as his father’s heir ... I paused there, remembering the quarrel I had overheard. Sir William hated Napier. Why should he harbor such an u
nnatural feeling? And now that Edith had disappeared they had quarreled bitterly. Perhaps Sir William would disinherit his son, banish him as he had once before.

  Why should this have happened?

  Napier had not loved Edith. He had made no secret of that. And during the last weeks ... I thought of the conversations we had had together and I was overcome with a feeling of horror. Had I mistaken his implications? Had he really been telling me that had he been free he would have proposed marriage to me?

  It was an alarming situation. I thought of three pairs of youthful eyes studying me. How deeply enmeshed was I in this?

  And at the same time I had a great desire to prove these people wrong about Napier. I wanted to shout: “It’s not true. He’s being maligned now, as he was once before. Because of that accident in his youth is he to be blamed forever?”

  What had happened to me? The most important thing in my life now was to prove Napier innocent.

  Mrs. Lincroft frowned across the table at me.

  “This has upset Sir William terribly,” she said. “I am very much worried about him. I do wish there could be some news of Edith.”

  “What do you think has happened to her?” I asked earnestly.

  “I dare not think.” She avoided my eyes. “I’m very much afraid that he’ll have another stroke. It would be better if Napier went away.”

  “If he went away,” I pointed out, “malicious people would say he was running away.”

  She nodded; then she said: “He may not have much choice in the matter. Sir William was talking of sending for the family solicitor. You can guess what that means.”

  “He seems always to judge and blame without evidence. He was longing for a grandchild. And now ...”

  “Perhaps Edith will come back.”

  “But where is she?”

  I expounded my favorite amnesia theory.

  “It is good of you to take such a deep interest in the family’s affairs, Mrs. Verlaine, but don’t become ... too involved.”

  “Involved!” I repeated.

  She looked at me intently for a few seconds and her entire demeanor seemed to change in that brief spell of time. The gentle woman I had always imagined her to be receded and another personality, quite alien to everything I had known of her, took her place. Even her voice was different. “It’s sometimes not wise to interest oneself in other people’s affairs. One becomes caught up.”

  “But naturally I’m interested. A young wife ... a pupil of mine ... disappears. Surely you don’t expect me to treat that as an everyday occurrence.”

  “It could not be an everyday occurrence in anyone’s point of view. But she has disappeared; we don’t know where ... yet. Perhaps we never shall. The authorities are trying to discover her whereabouts. Has it occurred to you, Mrs. Verlaine, that if what some people suspect is the truth, your inquisitiveness could put you in danger?”

  I was astonished. I had no idea I had betrayed my determination to discover the truth.

  “Danger? What sort of danger?”

  There was a pause. The change had taken place again. There was the Mrs. Lincroft whom I had known since my arrival at Lovat Stacy, a little vague, remote. “Who can say? But I should keep aloof if I were you.”

  I thought: She is warning me. Does she mean that I must not become involved with a man who is suspected of being concerned in his wife’s disappearance? Or is she telling me that by interfering I am putting my life in danger?

  “As for danger,” she went on with a little laugh, “I am being a bit too vehement, I expect. This matter will be cleared up sooner or later. Edith will come back.” She added with forced conviction: “I feel sure of it.” I was about to speak but she hurried on: “Sir William told me that he so much enjoyed the Schubert the other evening. Your playing sent him into a deep sleep which was just what he needed.” She smiled at me gratefully. Anyone who could soothe Sir William was a friend of hers.

  The disaster happened two days later. I went to the room next to Sir William’s. Mrs. Lincroft was there. She whispered to me: “He’s a little poorly today. He’s dozing in his chair. How dark it is. There’s been nothing but rain all day. I did think it showed signs of brightening a little, but now it’s as bad as ever.”

  The music was laid out for me ... the pieces Sir William had chosen, I glanced at the top sheet, which was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

  “I think I’d better light the candles,” said Mrs. Lincroft. I agreed and when she had done so I sat down at the piano and she tiptoed out of the room.

  As I played I was thinking of Napier and feeling increasing indignation at the way in which he was accused before anything had been proved against him.

  I finished the sonata and to my surprise the next piece was Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre, an unusual choice I thought. I began to play. I thought of Pietro who had always brought something indescribably spine-chilling into the playing of this piece. He said that when he played it, he saw the musician, as a kind of pied piper who, instead of luring children into the mountain side, brought people out of their graves to dance round the piper... in the dance of death.

  It had grown darker outside and the light from the candle was scarcely adequate, but I did not really need to read the music.

  And then suddenly I was not alone. I thought at first that my playing had indeed conjured up a ghost for the figure in the doorway looked like a corpse.

  “Go away ... Go away ...” cried Sir William. He was staring at me in a fixed, stony way. “Why ... did you ... come ... back.”

  I stood up, and as I did so he cried out in horror; and the next think I knew he was lying on the floor.

  Frantically I called to Mrs. Lincroft, who fortunately was not far off.

  She stared at him in dismay.

  “What ... happened?”

  “I was playing Danse Macabre,” I began…

  I did not finish, for I thought she was going to faint.

  Then she was her competent self again. “We must send for the doctor,” she said.

  Sir William was very ill indeed. He had had another stroke and there were several doctors with him. It was thought that he might not recover.

  I told them that I had been playing and suddenly I had looked up and seen him in the doorway. As he could scarcely walk it must have been a great effort for him to do so, and that effort, said the doctors, could have been the cause of his collapse.

  In a day or two it was believed that he was not going to die after all and Mrs. Lincroft was greatly relieved.

  She said to me: “This will mean that Napier will stay after all. I’m sure Sir William doesn’t remember what has happened to Edith. He’s a little hazy about everything and keeps fancying he’s back in the past.”

  That July was a wet one; there was rain for several days and the skies were overcast

  Sybil Stacy came to my room to talk to me. I had to light the candles although it was only late afternoon. Sybil in deep mauve dress trimmed with black bows—and mauve bows in her hair—had chosen a color which I had never seen her wear before.

  “Mourning,” she whispered.

  I started up from my little table at which I had been preparing lessons.

  She wagged a finger coyly at me. “For Edith,” she said.

  “But how can you be sure?”

  “I am sure. She would have come back if she wasn’t dead. Besides everything points to it. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think, but I prefer to believe that she is alive and one day she will walk in.” I turned to the door as though I expected her. Sybil turned too and watched it expectantly.

  Then she shook her head. “No, she can’t come back. She’s dead, poor child. I know it.”

  “You can’t be sure,” I repeated.

  “Strange things are happening in this house,” she went on. “Don’t you feel it?”

  I shook my head.

  “You aren’t telling the truth, Mrs. Verlaine. You do feel it. You’re sensitive.
I know it. I shall put it in my picture when I paint it. Strange things are going on ... and you know it.”

  “I wish... oh how I wish Edith would come back!”

  “She would if she could. She was always so meek and would do what people wanted. You know what’s happened, don’t you ... to William?”

  “He’s very ill, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, and all because he came to see who was playing.”

  “He knew I was playing.”

  “Oh no he did not, Mrs. Verlaine. That’s where you’re wrong. He thought it was someone else.”

  “How could he? I play to him often.”

  “He chooses the music for you, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know. He chooses the pieces he likes to hear, pieces which remind him of pleasant things. And now because of what happened Napier will stay. I believe Napier would have had to go but for what had happened. So what is good for Napier is bad for Sir William. One man’s meat, so they say, is another’s poison. Oh how true! How true! Listen to the rain. It rained on St. Swithin’s Day. You know what that means, Mrs. Verlaine. Forty days and forty nights it will rain now... and all because it rained on St. Swithin’s Day.”

  She snuffed out the candles. “I like the gloom,” she said. “It fits everything doesn’t it? Tell me what piece you were playing when Sir William came to the doorway.”

  “Danse Macabre.”

  She shivered. “The Dance of Death. Well, it was nearly, wasn’t it? For Sir William. It’s an eerie piece of music. Did you think it was strange that he should have chosen it?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You would have thought it more strange if you had known it was the last thing Isabella played that day. She sat at the piano all morning and she played it over and over again. And William said: ‘For God’s sake stop playing that mournful thing!’ And she stopped and she went out into the woods and shot herself. It’s never been played in this house since ... until you sat at the piano and played it.”

  “It was in the music he set for me to play for him.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t put it there.”