The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  In fact she was really a mother eager for news of her child.

  “Allegra is a very intelligent girl but she’s rather lazy and won’t concentrate. If she did I think she would do very well indeed.”

  She nodded and then went on: “In the house there you see the way things are. Sir William, is he fond of her? Is he going to find a husband for her?”

  “She is young yet.”

  “Young! Why at her age ... but no matter. Is he fond of her?”

  “Sir William has been ill since I’ve been in the house. I haven’t seen him and Allegra together.”

  She was fierce suddenly. “He’ll have to remember her. After all she’s his granddaughter.”

  “I’m sure he does not forget it.”

  “Wrong side of the blanket,” she said. "It counts. But she’s the granddaughter for all that ... no getting away from it. I tell you what I’m afraid of. That Amy Lincroft. She’s a cunning one, she is. She’ll try to push her Alice in and my Allegra out.” She narrowed her eyes and looked wicked. “If she does, I’ll ... I’ll ... I’ll make her sorry she was ever born and Alice was ever born too.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Lincroft couldn’t be kinder to Allegra.”

  “Kind! When she’s trying to get her pushed aside for her Alice! She’d better not.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s being pushed aside. I’m sure both Alice and Allegra will be provided for.”

  I moved impatiently, asking myself what I was doing standing in a graveyard arguing with a gypsy.

  “But suppose Nap was to get pushed out again.”

  “Pushed out?”

  “Well he was before. Sent away. Sir William couldn’t bear the sight of him. There was talk then that he’d disinherit him because he’d shot Beau. Well then who’d inherit? If Nap’s pushed out? He has a granddaughter, my Allegra. So...”

  “I really must be going.”

  “Listen!” Her eyes were pleading and she was suddenly beautiful. I could see in that moment why Napier had fallen into temptation. “Keep your eye on Allegra, will you? Tell me if anyone tries to hurt her.”

  “I shall certainly do my best to see that she is not harmed. And now I must go.”

  She smiled at me, nodding slowly.

  “I’ll be on the watch,” she said. “No one’s going to drive me away. They daren’t. I’ve told them so. Neither Nap—and he’d be glad to see me go—nor Amy Lincroft. I’ve told them both and they know I mean it.”

  “Good day,” I said firmly and walked towards the lych-gate and the road

  That evening I saw the light again. Alice had come to my room to bring me the first of the pillowcases she had been embroidering.

  “I wanted to see whether you like this kind of flower. It’s pansies. Pansies are for thoughts, they say. But you could have another flower. I wonder whether it would be nice to have all your pillowcases with different flowers.”

  “Why, Alice,” I said, “you’ve worked it beautifully.”

  She smiled with pleasure. “I’m so glad you like it, Mrs. Verlaine. You’ve been so kind to me and to Mamma. Mamma was only saying the other day how glad she was that you had come here.”

  “And you,” I said, “saved my life. That’s something one never forgets, Alice.”

  She turned pink and replied: “But I just happened to be there. It would have been the same with anyone who had been on the spot. They would have done the same.”

  “It was very brave to go into a burning house.”

  “I didn’t think of it. I only thought that you were in there and how awful it would be ... But my mother says we shouldn’t talk of it. It’s better for you not to think of it ... if you can help it Allegra’s pillowcase is coming along very nicely now. She does try, you know—but I think sometimes she feels she has to be naughty. It’s on account of her unfortunate birth. Mine was unfortunate, too, in a way. It would have been so much more respectable of Mamma and Sir William to have waited ... and then married. But you see, he never married her. It was because she gave in first, but you mustn’t think badly of her for that. It was because she loved him. May I sit in your window seat? I love window seats. There are lots in this house. What a lovely view you have across the copse.”

  “Yes, it is a beautiful view. I have to be grateful to your mother for ... giving me this room.”

  “All the rooms are beautiful but naturally Mamma would want you to have one of the best. Poor Sylvia! I do hope she is better. She looked ill when we saw her. She could hardly sneak to us and the doctor says she’s to have at least three days in bed. I’m going to collect some books to take over for her tomorrow.”

  “Does she enjoy reading?” I asked dubiously.

  “No. But that’s all the more reason I should take her books, isn’t it? Then she will learn to like it and improve her mind.” Alice caught her breath. I took a step to the window and saw the light flash.

  “There!” she cried. “It’s there again.” She stood up. “Would you like to come to my room, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “No thank you, Alice,” I said.

  She nodded gravely and went to the door.

  “I’m glad you saw it tonight,” she said, “because I believe you thought it was Sylvia doing it. And now you know she’s in bed ... so it couldn’t be her, could it?”

  I said: “It’s someone on the road somewhere.”

  “But the road doesn’t...” She paused and smiled at me a little sadly. “I want to go up to see if it flashes again. I always think I may see something else.”

  “Then you go,” I said; and she went As soon as she had gone I put on a cloak and went swiftly down the great staircase, through the hall to the gardens.

  I might just be in time. It wasn’t Sylvia then, so who was it? Someone who wanted to keep the legend of the ghost alive and so the story of the unfortunate shooting accident. Someone who was hoping to drive Napier away.

  The ground was a little spongy underfoot on account of the recent rain and when I reached the copse the grass was very wet. My footsteps made a squelching sound which I feared would betray me. The important thing was speed. I must reach the ruin before whoever was haunting it had time to disappear.

  There was no moon but the sky was clear of cloud and there was enough starlight to show me the way. I confess to a sudden panic as I caught sight of the grey bricks of the chapel.

  I hurried on wishing I had changed my footwear for I was only wearing house shoes and I could already feel the damp seeping through them. I put out a hand to touch the wall and with my heart leaping uncomfortably went inside the ruin. It was a little darker than outside for some of the roof remained, but glancing up I could see a patch of starlight which was comforting.

  There was nothing there. No sign of anyone.

  “Who’s there?” I whispered.

  No answer. But had I heard a faint sound which could be that of feet on wet grass?

  I felt a great urge to get outside, to escape from those walls, and as I stepped out and looked up at the sky I was suddenly caught from behind and held firmly in a vise-like grip.

  I had not been so terrified since my adventure in the cottage and I immediately thought what a fool I had been to come. I had been warned—as both the gypsy and Sybil Stacy had pointed out to me. I could not expect to be so fortunate again.

  “Well,” said a voice, “you always wanted to meet the ghost of Beaumont Stacy.”

  “Napier!” I gasped, and tried to wriggle free but he would not release me.

  “You here to meet Beaumont, didn’t you?” He let me go but as I turned he caught me by the shoulders.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You terrified me.”

  “You haven’t by any chance been displaying lights?”

  “I came to see who was.”

  “Good God, haven’t you learned your lesson?”

  “My lesson.”

  He looked at me quizzically; and I thought of his bringing the spade into the stables, of his mee
ting me here in the copse when he discovered that I was looking for a grave. And shortly afterwards I had been trapped in the cottage— and he was asking me if I had not learned my lesson. And I was here in the copse with him. It was dark and no one knew I had come.

  I heard myself stammer: “I ... I saw the light. I was with Alice. I said I would come and investigate...”

  “All alone?” His voice mocked me. “You are a very brave woman. Only recently...” His voice sounded suddenly harsh; his grip tightened on my shoulders. “You were up there ... and couldn’t get down. For God’s sake, take care.”

  “It is the sort of thing which happens once in a lifetime.”

  “Some people are accident prone.”

  “You mean without a reason?”

  “Perhaps the reason is an unseen one.”

  “This sounds very mysterious.” I was recovering after that terrible fear. I could not help it but when I was in his presence I could feel elation which banished all my fear. I said: “Did you come down here to discover the source of the light?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And found nothing?”

  “The ‘ghost’ was too quick for, me. Every time I am too late.”

  “And have you a suspicion as to who it might be?”

  “Only that it is someone who is trying to drive me away.”

  “How could they?”

  “By making things so uncomfortable here that I preferred to be elsewhere.”

  “I should scarcely have thought you were the sort of man to be driven away because you were uncomfortable.”

  “You’re right. All the same it revives the old story. It keeps it alive in my father’s mind. He could be the one to decide that I went away. He was before. I’m not really very popular here, Mrs. Verlaine.”

  “It’s a pity.”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry for me. I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me.”

  I felt a great surge of emotion then because he was lying. Of course it did bother him.

  I said: “Do you think we should talk? We might frighten the ghost away.”

  “Don’t you think he—or she—has done his—or her— haunting for the night?”

  “I don’t know how he or she works. Let’s wait awhile ... quietly.”

  He took my arm and we went into the shelter of the ruined walls. An almost unbearable excitement had taken possession of me. I leaned against the cold damp wall and looked up at his profile. It appeared stern, sharply defined in the half light—tortured and sad; and my emotion was so mixed that I could not altogether understand it. I only knew that I would never forget his face as, I saw it on this night and that the longing to help him was something as intense as my love for Pietro had been. Perhaps there was something of the same nature in my feelings—the longing to care for, to protect against the world.

  I wanted so much for the person who was playing the tricks to come into that enclosure; I wanted us to lay hands on that person, to expose him as the ghost, to put an end to this attempt to keep open an old wound.

  I wanted to see Napier settled in Lovat Stacy, doing work which was so suited to him. I wanted to see him happy.

  He looked down at me suddenly and said in a whisper: “I believe you are sorry for me.”

  I could not answer him because my emotion threatened to choke me.

  “Why?” he whispered. “Why?”

  “Hush,” I said. “The ghost will hear and keep away. Don't forget we want to catch him.”

  “I want to know why you’re sorry for me even more than to discover the ghost.”

  “It was so unfair,” I said. “Everything was unfair. One accident and your life ... shattered.”

  “You put it too strongly,” he said.

  “No,” I answered firmly. “They were so cruel to blame you ... to send you away from your home.”

  “Everyone is not as tenderhearted as you are.”

  I laughed. I had stopped thinking of catching the ghost. It seemed to me too that it was more important that we should understand each other.

  “You were so young.”

  “Seventeen is not young really. I was old enough to kill ... therefore old enough to be dealt with accordingly.”

  “Please don’t talk of it if it upsets you.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be upset? I ended his life didn’t I? There he was ... magnificently alive and then ... dead. And here am I alive and having had thirteen years of life which has been denied him. And you say I shouldn’t be upset.”

  “It was an accident Can’t you get that into your head? Can’t anyone?”

  “How vehement you are. The counsel for the defense!”

  “How flippant you are. But you don’t deceive me. It’s because you feel it so deeply now.”

  “I am very happy to have you speak so vehemently in my defense. So some good comes out of evil.”

  We were standing side by side and suddenly he took my hand.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I wish I could deserve your thanks.”

  “I should not have given them if I had not considered them deserved.”

  “I don’t see what I have done.”

  His face was close to mine and he said: "You are here.”

  I said uneasily: “Perhaps we should go in. The ghosts won’t come back having heard us talking.”

  “It’s rarely now that I have an opportunity of talking to you.”

  “Yes ... it has changed since Edith ... went.”

  “So much. You are full of doubts. How could it be otherwise? But at least they are doubts. You do not stand in judgment. Nor will you until you have proved your suspicions to be true.”

  “Don’t think that of me. I loathe people who judge others. How can they know every little detail which led up to disaster ... and it is the details which are often of so much importance.”

  “I think of you often,” he said. “In fact ... all the time.”

  I was silent and he went on: “There is so much between us. You know, don’t you, that it is believed by many people that I disposed of Edith. I’m not surprised. I soon realized how hopeless it was—and so did she. I knew of course that she was in love with the curate and I suppose I despised her for allowing herself to be forced into marriage with me—as I despised myself. But I tried to make something of our marriage—quite wrongly of course. I tried to make her into the sort of woman I could admire. Her meekness irritated me ... her timidity, her fears. There is no excuse. My conduct was despicable. But you know what kind of man I am. Not very admirable, I fear. Why am I trying to explain?”

  “I understand.”

  “And do you understand too that I don’t want you to be involved ... now?”

  “How could I be?” I asked sharply.

  “People tarnish with their thoughts ... their evil whisperings. I have to prove to you, don’t I—and to the world—that I had nothing to do with Edith’s disappearance ... at least directly.”

  “You mean that indirectly you may be responsible?”

  “I fear that’s obvious. The poor child—for that was what she was—was afraid of me. Everyone was aware of this. So ... I am branded Edith’s murderer.”

  “Don’t say things like that.”

  “Why not, when they’re true? I thought you would be the first to agree with me that it is never wrong to speak the truth. I am telling you why you should spare your pity on my account. You can ask the advice of a number of people and they will all give you the same answer. They will assure you that you waste your pity. And more than that. They will warn you. Think of the case against me. Are you wise to linger in a haunted chapel with me?”

  “Please be serious. This is a serious matter.”

  “I’m deadly serious. You are in danger. You, my beautiful, poised widow are in acute danger.”

  “How and from whom?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course I do.”

  His answer was to turn to me and with a swift move
ment put his arms about me. He held me tightly against him so that I could feel the beating of his heart and I knew he could feel mine. He put his face against my head. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he did not. He just stood very still holding me, and I remained in his arms, without protest because my one desire was to stay there and it was too strong to be resisted.

  At length I said: “This is ... unwise.”

  Then he laughed bitterly and answered: “That is what I told you. Most unwise. You wanted to know why you are in danger. I told you.”

  “And you wish to preserve me from that danger?”

  “Oh no. I want to lead you right into it. But I am perverse. I want you to walk straight into it ... knowing the danger ... seeing the danger... I want you to choose it.”

  “Are you talking in riddles?”

  “Riddles to which we both know the answer. You could call it that. I will state my intentions which can scarcely be called honorable. Let’s look at the facts. I murdered my brother.”

  “I insist on the truth,” I interrupted. “You shot your brother accidentally.”

  “... when I was seventeen. My mother killed herself because of it. So there were two deaths at my door.”

  “I don’t agree. You can’t be blamed for that.”

  “Sweet counsel,” he said. “Sweet vehement counsel for the defense. While I was in Australia I longed to come home ... but when I arrived I discovered that what I longed for was no longer there. I had dreamed of my home before the accident. How different it was! I was married. It was after all for this I had come home. My wife was a child ... a frightened child who was afraid of me and I don’t blame her. She was in love with someone else. What could I do with such a marriage? No sooner had I made it than I began to wonder whether it would have been better for us all if I had remained on the Station.”

  “But you love Lovat Stacy!”

  He nodded.

  “It’s your home... where your roots are.”

  “And it’s not easy for some to uproot themselves. Why, I am taking over your job ... defending myself, and that’s exactly what I must not do. There is no defense. I shot my brother. It is something I shall never forget.”