The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

“But I saw it. It was the reason I went to the cottage.”

  He shook his head.

  I went on in exasperation: “It was addressed to me and it said as far as I remember: ‘Dear C. Will you come to the cottage at 6:30 tonight? I have something important to tell you. G.W.’ ”

  “I should never have written such a note.”

  “Then who did?”

  He stared at me in horror. “Where is this note?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I may have left it in my room. I may have put it into my pocket. But I can’t find it now.”

  “A pity,” he said. “But you know my writing.”

  “It’s the first note you’ve ever written to me. But I’ve seen your writing of course, and it didn’t occur to me that you hadn’t written it.”

  “Caroline, if someone forged my handwriting...”

  “If?” I demanded. “Are you suggesting that there was no note?”

  “No ... no ... of course not.” He was a little embarrassed. “But ... if ... I mean someone must have sent that note to get you to the cottage.”

  “That inference is obvious.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It could mean,” I said, “that I am marked down as the next victim.”

  “Caroline!”

  “Well, I should have been, but for Alice.”

  He nodded. “But, my dear Caroline, it’s ... it’s frightening!”

  “I agree with you,” I said coolly, for I could not forgive him for merely hinting that I might have imagined that note. “Roma ... Edith ... and now myself. Where is the connection? Is it because the person responsible for these two disappearances knows that I am trying to find the reason for them?”

  “But who knows that you are doing this?” he asked. “I am the only one who does. You don’t think that I...”

  I laughed and was almost immediately sober. “But, Godfrey, someone is trying to kill me. What can I do?”

  “You could go away from here.”

  “Go away!” I visualized my lonely life, shut away from Lovat Stacy, not knowing what was going on in that house which had become the background of my new existence. I knew that whatever happened I did not want that

  “I shall not go away,” I said vehemently. “I’ll take special care and the next time I receive a note suggesting a meeting place I shall insist on confirming it in the presence of witnesses.”

  “For heaven’s sake do.”

  “Godfrey, I do wonder how that note came to me...”

  “And in my handwriting ... at least with my initials.”

  A cold sensation made me shiver uncontrollably. Where was the note? I was sure I had not destroyed it I believed I had left it in my room. And there was the mystery of the locked door. Alice had said she had thought it was hard to open; she thought there was something strange about the handle.

  “But,” she had said, “I was so frightened that I didn’t take much notice of it. I only knew I had to get Mrs. Verlaine out. I just forced the door open. I can’t remember it' clearly. Once I got into the cottage I kept saying to myself: I’ve got to get Mrs. Verlaine out ... and I don’t even remember running up the stairs.”

  Everyone said that was understandable in the circumstances, and that the door had become jammed possibly, after all the rain we had, and finding it difficult to open I assumed it was locked which it obviously could not have been. I had panicked, was the general opinion, although no one said this. I had believed myself to be locked in a burning cottage; it was enough to make anyone get into a panic.

  And the cause of the fire? Roma had used paraffin oil with which to cook and there was a drum in the outhouse which had obviously contained the remains of her supply. The theory was that a tramp had been sleeping in the cottage and left a pipe or cigarette smoldering somewhere. Fires could start easily enough.

  “Tramps,” said Godfrey. “It’s the answer. And do you remember that day you thought you saw a shadow at the window? That could have been one of them and he hid himself in the outhouse when we came out.”

  It was a plausible explanation, but somehow I did not believe it. I was certain the incident had been cleverly and diabolically planned.

  If I mentioned this people would say I was letting my imagination run away with my common sense. Godfrey felt this, I was sure; and if he, who knew I was Roma’s sister and had come here to investigate her disappearance thought that, how much more readily would others, who did not know that there was a special reason for my being here.

  I knew that but for Alice I should have been burned to death—murdered as my sister and Edith, I was certain now, had been before me.

  10

  It took me some weeks to recover from the shock of my experience. Everyone was most concerned for me, which was flattering, but I just could not rid myself of the notion that one of these people who now enquired so solicitously after my health, had deliberately tried to kill me. But I kept my thoughts to myself; I pretended to accept the theory that a tramp’s carelessness had started the fire, that it had probably been smoldering in the outhouse for hours and, by some trick of fate, had burst into a conflagration embracing the lower part of the cottage some five or ten minutes after I had entered the place and gone upstairs; and the door had not been locked, merely jammed. That was the comforting theory.

  I avoided Napier. I could not bear to look into his face for fear I should read something there which I dreaded. I kept thinking of our meeting in the copse and it haunted my dreams.

  Mrs. Lincroft suggested that I take a little time off my duties.

  “You will recover all the quicker,” she said. “It was a horrible shock. And it won’t hurt the girls to miss their music lessons for a while. They can, in any case, do their practicing.”

  I myself found a great solace In the piano. I would sit by the hour playing Chopin and Schumann and trying to stop my thoughts going back over those nightmare moments when I had realized I was trapped in the cottage. One day I heard the girls discussing the fire. Allegra was leaning her elbows on the table looking dreamily into space. While I sorted out my music I listened to them.

  “You’ll write a story about the fire, I expect,” said Allegra. “I’ll read it to you when it’s ready.”

  “All about a gallant rescue,” said Sylvia. “I wish I could do a gallant rescue.”

  “I know,” mocked Allegra. “You’d like to rescue Mr. Wilmot from a burning cottage. You’d have to find another ... because that one’s no good now.”

  “It’s odd,” mused Sylvia. “Mamma was saying it was odd...”

  “Well,” mocked Allegra, “it must be odd then.”

  “ ... that there were two fires. The chapel in the copse and the cottage. That’s two isn’t it?”

  “Your mathematics are improving,” said Allegra. “Full marks for a correct calculation. Two it is.”

  “I’m only saying it’s a coincidence and so it is. Two fires and two disappearing ladies. I think that is very strange.”

  “Two ladies?” queried Allegra.

  “Don’t say you’ve forgotten the archaeologist,” said Alice. Sylvia whispered: “And there were nearly three.”

  “But Mrs. Verlaine didn’t disappear," pointed out Alice. “Suppose no one had known she had gone to the cottage and she had just been found there. There would have been three ladies then.”

  “But they would have found her ... remains,” said Alice.

  A hush fell on them because they had become aware of me.

  I was standing by the Stacy vault in the graveyard when Godfrey came to meet me. It was no use meeting in the church during his organ practice now; we had been discovered and Mrs. Rendall was apt to send Sylvia either to call him or to sit and “enjoy” the music.

  “Sylvia has always loved organ music,” Mrs. Rendall had said. “I think it would be better if she studied the organ rather than the piano. She certainly doesn’t seem to be making much progress in that direction, though she does work hard. Perhaps Sylvia is
not at fault and if people are more interested in other things, it may not be surprising that their pupils suffer.”

  Although since the fire, her attitude—like that of everyone else—had been gentler towards, me, because of Godfrey’s interest in me, she had added me to her many targets for attack, and because he and I were aware of this and knew the reason for it, the possibilities which could arise from our friendship were stressed.

  As he came towards me, wending his way through the gravestones, the sun on his hair, I thought how good-looking he was—not handsome, it was true, but there was great charm in his expression which came from the character within I was sure, and I thought how fortunate I was to have found such a friend. There was no doubt that friendship between us was growing at a great pace.

  The incident of the fire had brought us even closer together and I found his concern for me most touching. He was particularly disturbed because I had gone to the cottage in response to a note which was supposed to have come from him. That, in my opinion, was the most alarming aspect of the affair. I had been lured to the cottage.

  I had told no one but him about the note, and although his reaction when he had first heard of it was that I had had a shock and had imagined it, he was now perturbed. I persuaded him to say nothing; I thought it possible that the person who had written that note might betray knowledge of it in some way; but no one did. As for Godfrey he was constantly urging me to go away because it was clearly unsafe here. I could take a holiday, stay with his family. They would be delighted to have me.

  “And what about Roma?” I demanded.

  “Roma is dead, I feel sure of it. And if she is, nothing you can do will bring her back.”

  “It’s something I have to find out, no matter...”

  He understood but he continued to be very uneasy. So was I. I had developed a habit of looking over my shoulder constantly whenever I was alone. I made sure that my door was locked every night. At least I was on my guard.

  Now Godfrey was smiling as he saw me. “I escaped the watch dog,” he said. “It is believed that I have gone to play the organ. Little is it known that I’m skulking about the graveyard in the company of that teacher of music who has failed to turn Sylvia Rendall into Clara Schumann.”

  “You’re looking pleased with yourself this morning.”

  “It’s rather good news.”

  “Can it be shared?”

  “Certainly it can. I have had a living offered to me.”

  “So you’ll be leaving.”

  “You look alarmed. How delightfully flattering. It’s not for six months. Ah, now you look relieved. Equally flattering. A great deal can happen in six months.”

  “Have you told the Rendalls?”

  “Not yet. I fear when I do Mrs. Vicar will bring up the big guns. No one knows yet. I thought it appropriate to tell you first. Though of course I shall have to tell the vicar today. I must give him ample time to find a substitute. And, of course, if he does find someone before I shall retire gracefully.”

  “Mrs. Rendall will never allow that.”

  He smiled. “You haven’t asked for details.”

  “I haven’t had much opportunity yet. Please tell me.”

  “The most delightful parish ... in the country ... not too far from London so that visits will be frequently possible. An ideal spot. I know it well. An uncle of mine held the living at one time before his bishopric. I spent quite a lot of my childhood there.”

  “It certainly sounds ideal.”

  “It is, I do assure you. I’d like you to see it.”

  “And how long do you think you’ll remain there before you become a bishop?”

  He looked at me reproachfully. “You make me sound like an ambitious man.”

  I put my head on one side. “Some are born to honors, some earn them, and others have them thrust upon them.”

  “The quotation is not quite correct but the meaning is clear. Do you believe that some people are born as they say with a silver spoon in their mouths?”

  “Perhaps. But it is possible to acquire a spoon even if one hasn’t been born with one.”

  “What a lot of effort is saved when it’s already there. You think life is too easy for me.”

  “I believe that life is what we make it ... for us all.”

  “Some of us are lucky though.” His eyes fell on the marble statue of an angel. “We don’t have to look very far. Poor Napier Stacy whose life went wrong through a dreadful accident which could have happened to any boy! He picked up a gun which happened to be loaded and he killed his brother. If that gun hadn’t been loaded his life from then on would have been different. Fantastic, isn’t it?”

  “Fortunately chance is not always so cruel.”

  “No. Poor Napier!”<

  It was like him to spare a thought for Napier in his present elation—for elated he was. He was looking to the future with eagerness and I didn’t blame him. While at the moment he was content to dally here, to be amused by Mrs. Rendall’s scheming—how could she possibly think that Sylvia would be a suitable wife for such a man?—to talk with me, to become mildly involved in the mystery of two strange disappearances.

  But it was more than that. He was thinking of me as earnestly as I was of him.

  Good heavens! I thought. I believe he is considering asking me to share this pleasant life of his. Not immediately, of course. Godfrey would never be impulsive. Perhaps that was the reason for his success. But it was there between us. At the moment an affectionate friendship existed, fostered by our common interests and our desire to solve the mystery. I was aware that life was offering me a chance to build something.

  “I’d like you to see the place sometime,” he went on warmly. “I’d like your opinion of it.”

  “I do hope you’ll show it to me ... one day.”

  “You can be sure I shall.”

  I could see it clearly in my mind’s eye, a gracious house with a beautiful garden. My home? My drawing room would look onto the garden and there would be a grand piano. I should play frequently but not professionally; music would be my pleasure and my solace but I should not need to teach impossible musicians again.

  I would have children. I could see them ... beautiful children with placid happy faces—the boys looking like Godfrey, the girls like myself only young, innocent and unmarked by sorrow. I wanted children now as once I had wanted to startle the world with my music. The desire to win fame on the concert platform had gone. Now I wanted happiness, security, a home and a family.

  And although Godfrey was not ready to make a declaration yet and I was not ready to give him an answer, it was as though I had really come to the end of that dark tunnel and I was looking at the sunny paths spread out before me.

  When Mrs. Rendall heard the news about Godfrey she was not unduly depressed. Six months was a long time and, as Godfrey said, a great deal could happen in that time. Sylvia must grow up; Sylvia must change from an ugly duckling into a swan. Therefore she must pay more attention to her appearance. Miss Clent, the seamstress of Lovat Mill, was sent for and she made a new wardrobe for Sylvia.

  Mrs. Rendall saw only one reason why her plans should go awry. A certain scheming adventuress, she believed, had her eyes on the prize.

  I was put into the picture by the girls whose remarks, sometimes candid, sometimes oblique, made me aware of what was being attributed to me. Godfrey and I would laugh together over this and sometimes I felt that he considered it only natural that in due course he and I would slip into that relationship for which Mrs. Rendall had convinced herself I was scheming.

  Sometimes I would find Alice’s grave eyes fixed on me.

  She began embroidering a pillowcase “for a bottom drawer,” she told me.

  “Yours?” I asked; and she shook her head and looked mysterious.

  She was so industrious and whenever she had a spare moment she would bring out the needlework which she carried in a bag embroidered in wools—her own work, which her mother had taught her.<
br />
  I knew the pillowcase was for me because she was naive enough to ask my opinion.

  “Do you like this pattern, Mrs. Verlaine? It would be easy to do another.”

  “I like it very much, Alice.”

  “Alice has had a great affection for you, since...” began Mrs. Lincroft.

  “Since the fire, yes.” I smiled. “It’s because she saved my life. I think she feels extremely gratified every time she looks at me.”

  Mrs. Lincroft turned aside to hide an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “I’m so glad she was there, so ... so proud...”

  “I shall always be grateful to her,” I said gently.

  The other girls had started to make pillowcases.

  “It’s very good,” said Alice looking at me almost maternally, “to have a good supply of everything.”

  Alice’s work was neat and clean like herself—Allegra’s was quickly grubby. In any case I did not think she would finish it. As for Sylvia, hers was not a success either. Poor Sylvia, I thought, forced to help furnish the bottom drawer for the prospective bride of the man her mother had chosen for her!

  I watched them, their heads bent over their work, and I felt an affection for all of them; they had become so much a part of my life. I always found their conversation unexpected, often amusing and never dull.

  Alice was exclaiming in dismay because Sylvia had pricked her fingers and had made a spot of blood on the pillowcase.

  “You would never earn your living by sewing,” she reproved.

  “I wouldn’t want to.”

  “But you might have to,” put in Allegra. “Suppose you were starving and the only way to earn your living was by sewing. What would you do?”

  “Starve, I expect,” said Sylvia.

  “I’d go off with the gypsies,” put in Allegra. “They neither toil nor do they spin.”

  “That was the lilies of the field,” explained Alice. “Gypsies toil. They make baskets and clothes pegs.”