The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  “But you must ... you must.”

  “Please don’t be so determined. You unnerve me. No one has ever tried to make a hero of me before.”

  “I ... make a hero of you! I assure you I am not doing that. I merely want you to face facts as they are ... to realize that it is a mistake to brood on tragedies of the past ... particularly when they are accidents which could happen to any of us.”

  “Oh no,” he said. “Could this happen to your friend Godfrey Wilmot for instance?”

  I was dismayed and he was aware of it How deeply conscious we were of each other!

  “Anyone could have such an accident,” I said sternly.

  “Do you ever hear of anyone who did but me?”

  “No, but...”

  “Of course you didn’t. And there is Godfrey Wilmot, that eligible young man, who can offer so much. Perhaps he has already offered and been accepted.”

  “I fear a great many people have been jumping to conclusions.”

  “At which I infer there has been no formal betrothal.”

  “It is embarrassing when one is friendly with a young man and everyone attempts to marry one off to him.”

  “People like to imagine they are prophets.”

  “Then I wish they would leave me out of their prophecies.”

  “You have not thought of marrying again? It is because you still think of your late husband. But you’ve changed,” he added softly. “I’ve noticed the change. Did you know you laugh more frequently? You seem to have found a new reason for living. Lovat Stacy has done that for you.”

  I was silent and he went on: “Could you have cared so much for him if you can forget him so quickly?”

  “Forget him!” I said vehemently. “I shall never forget Pietro.”

  “But you are ready now to build a new life. Is he going to be there always ... the shadowy third? He will grow more perfect every year. He will never grow old. How could anyone compete with him?”

  I shivered and said: “The night air is cool. I can feel that my feet are damp.”

  He stooped and taking my foot removed my shoe. He held my foot in his hand and said: “You should have put on something heavier than this flimsy thing.”

  “There wasn’t time. I wanted to catch the ghost.”

  “You wanted to know who was so determined that my brother’s death should not be forgotten.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “You are a very inquisitive young woman.”

  “I fear so.”

  “And an impulsive one.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You were impulsive once. Perhaps you will be so again.” He put on my shoe. “You are shivering a little. Is it the night air? There is a question I want to ask you. Once you made a decision. From a worldly point of view it was a very stupid decision. You threw away your career ... for a man. You must have experienced a great deal of soul-searching when you did that. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “There was no great wrestling with yourself?”

  “No.”

  “As usual you were impulsive and you believed that decision the right one... the only one?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you regret it now.”

  “I regret nothing.”

  “You made a bold decision once.” He spoke almost wistfully. “I wonder if you would ever do it again.”

  “Perhaps I have not changed very much.”

  “Perhaps we shall discover how much. I am glad you don’t regret. People who do are often sorry for themselves and self-pity is such an unattractive quality. I try to avoid it.”

  “You do ... very successfully.”

  “But I fear I am often sorry for myself. Constantly I say to myself: ‘How different it might have been if...’ And I have said that more frequently since you came here. You know why. There is so much between you and me,” he said. “Edith. Poor Edith ... so much more effective in death than in life.”

  “Death?” I said sharply.

  “I think of her as dead. Ah, how suspicious you are. You doubt me. And yet a little while ago ... Oh yes, you doubted me, and in a way I wanted you to. I want to say to myself ... in spite of her doubts ... You see then it would be the same sort of blindness which affected you before. No consideration for anything.”

  I interrupted quickly: “I must tell you that I overheard your quarrel with your father ... some of it at least. I heard him tailing you that he would send you away.”

  “And you heard me refusing to go.”

  “And shortly afterwards I played that piece of music which someone put with the sheets he had chosen for me.”

  “And you think I put it there.”

  “Not unless you tell me you did.”

  “Then I will tell you I did not. And you will believe me?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I believe you.”

  He took my hand and kissed it.

  “Please,” I said, “always tell me the truth. If I am going to be of any use I must know the truth.”

  “You make me very happy,” he said; and I was deeply moved because I had never heard his voice so low, so tender.

  “It is what I want,” I replied impulsively. Then I added quickly: “I must return to the house.”

  I started to move away. He was beside me and he said suddenly: “There was always a link between us. We were both being smothered by the past. I killed my brother; and you loved not wisely but too well.”

  “I do not believe it is ever unwise to love and one cannot love too well.”

  “So you defy the poet?”

  “I do. I am sure one cannot love too much ... give too much ... for the greatest joy in life is surely loving and giving.”

  “More than loving and receiving?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “Then you must have been very happy.”

  “I was.”

  We were crossing the lawns and the garden loomed before us.

  “So,” I said, “we did not find the ghost.”

  “No,” he answered, “but perhaps we discovered something more important.”

  “Good night,” I said. I left him standing outside and went into the house.

  11

  I looked in at Mrs. Lincroft’s sitting room to tell her that I was not going to the vicarage that morning and that Sylvia would be returning with the girls for her music lesson now that she had recovered from her spell in bed.

  The door was slightly ajar and I knocked lightly. There was no answer so I called Mrs. Lincroft softly and pushing open the door, looked in.

  To my astonishment she was there, seated at the table, a newspaper spread out before her. She had not heard me, which was strange.

  “Mrs. Lincroft,” I said, “are you all right?”

  She looked up then, and I saw how pale she was and that there was a strange glazed look in her eyes which could have been unshed tears.

  Almost immediately her expression changed, and she was her serene self.

  “Oh, Mrs. Verlaine, do come in.”

  “Are you feeling well?” I asked as I entered.

  “Oh ... er ... yes. I feel rather sleepy actually. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Is that unusual with you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for years.”

  “That’s very bad. You’re not worried about something, I hope.”

  She looked at me in some alarm and taken off her guard she laid a hand on the paper as though to hide it from me. “Worried? Oh ... no certainly not.”

  A little vehement? I wondered.

  She laughed but her laughter sounded high-pitched. “Since I came back here I’ve had a very comfortable existence. Nothing to worry about. I can’t tell you what a relief it is when one has a child.”

  “I can imagine it. It’s difficult for a woman to bring up a child on her own.”

  A faint color came back into her cheeks and I went on:
“And you have made an admirable job of it.”

  “Dear Alice. I didn’t want her when she was on the way but when she arrived...” She said suddenly: “Alice told you whose child she is, I know. She confessed it to me. She’s apt to boast of it, I believe. Perhaps I can’t blame her. It’s unfortunate in a way that she knew, but it’s hard to keep these things secret ... especially with a girl like Alice. She seemed to sense the truth.”

  “I think she is proud of her birth, which surely is better than that she should be ashamed.”

  “Little to be proud of,” said Mrs. Lincroft. She spread her hands over the newspaper. “You’re a woman of the world, Mrs. Verlaine. You’ve lived abroad and you’ve traveled about, and I daresay you understand better than most how these things come about. I wouldn’t like you to judge me ... or Sir William too harshly. He wasn’t enjoying a happy marriage, and I was able to comfort him. I don’t know how it happened, but I suppose one falls into these situations.”

  “Of course,” I said. She seemed as though she had to go on and could not stop herself.

  “My mother used to say that there was a slippery stone on all doorsteps. She was Scottish and it’s a saying they have up there. It means of course that any of us can slip up if we’re a bit careless ... and it’s true to some extent.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “When I came here I was very young. I had been a governess for a few months and then I came as companion to Lady Stacy. My duties were to sit with her, to read to her, to do her hair. It was a comfortable enough position for she was very gentle, very sweet, which somehow makes it worse. She reminded me a little of Edith. Perhaps that’s why Sir William was so fond of Edith.”

  As she talked I saw the picture clearly; the beautiful young woman, for she must have been beautiful before she had grown so sad and faded. How appealing she must have been, with her slender willowy figure and beautiful features and those deepset blue-grey eyes. And Isabella Stacy ... the mother of two boys, the adored Beau and Napier who could never quite compare with his brother. I saw the picture clearly. Isabella who was perhaps a little resentful because she had given up her career for marriage, a woman who had not succeeded in holding her husband’s affections completely. And then this beautiful creature appeared on the scene and Sir William fell in love with his wife’s handmaiden.

  She went on: “I was there when the accident happened. I shall never forget the day.”

  “How was Napier then? The accident must have changed him considerably.”

  “He was just an ordinary boy. But for the fact that he must be constantly compared with his elder brother one would scarcely have noticed Nap. We called him Nap then. He was a little wild ... as boys will be. I believe he had gone through most of the scrapes that boys do. He had just managed to get through his examination at school, whereas Beau was brilliant. Beau was a social and an academic success; his charm was irresistible. No one could describe Beau. He had to be seen and known to be believed. He had a sunny nature; nothing perturbed him; I never saw him lose his temper, whereas Nap was inclined to be moody. Jealous perhaps ... always trying to equal Beau but never succeeding. I think that was why he was so bitterly blamed. Sir William never quite believed that it was entirely an accident.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Life is unfair. I was there at the time when the gypsy girl disclosed the fact that she was pregnant and that Nap was responsible. It had already been decided that he should go.”

  “So the gypsy’s condition was discovered before he went.”

  She nodded. “I left too because I thought I should. The position was becoming intolerable. Lady Stacy was stricken with grief. I did not wish to add to that so I went away. I discovered that I was going to have a child. I was fortunate. I had an old friend who knew the position and he married me. I thought I would settle down to a quiet life, make a home for my child and never let her know that my husband was not her father. Then Lady Stacy killed herself.”

  “What a dreadful tragedy!”

  “It was like a series of explosions. In a way each tragedy was connected with the others. Alice was born and I lost my husband. I was desperate. I had no money and a child to think of. So I wrote to Sir William and told him of my predicament. His suggestion was that I return in the capacity I now hold and it was my great good fortune to do so. I was lucky. There are few positions where one can work and bring up a child at the same time.”

  I nodded.

  “So I was able to care for Alice, and since Allegra was born and deserted by her mother I looked after them both. Then Edith joined the household and I know that I have been of some use. It’s a comfort really for all the sins of the past. You understand that, Mrs. Verlaine.”

  “I can’t imagine what they would all have done without you.”

  “I can’t imagine why I’m boring you with all this.”

  “It is far from boring.”

  “But then you’re so interested in people, aren’t you? I’ve noticed that often. You are intensely interested ... as few people are.”

  “I suppose it’s true.”

  “So I don’t have to apologize for talking so much. I’m sure it’s not a failing of mine in the ordinary way. Let me give you some coffee.”

  “That would be very nice,” I said.

  She went away to prepare it and my natural curiosity urged me to look at the paper for I had a notion that something she had read in it may have disturbed her.

  There had been a vote of censure on the government. That occupied most of the space; two trains had collided on the Brighton line; a Mrs. Brindell had been caught teaching her daughter of seventeen to shoplift; one man had escaped from a prison and another from a mental home; a whole family had been burned to death in a fire; a Mrs. Linton, aged seventy, had married a Mr. Grey aged seventy-five. Linton! I thought; it was not unlike Lincroft.

  No, I thought, the paper had nothing to do with it. I just caught her in an unusually communicative mood after a bad night.

  By the time we were drinking her delicious coffee she had completely recovered her equilibrium.

  When I left I asked if I might borrow the newspaper.

  “Please do,” she said. “There’s very little interesting news in it, though.”

  Alice sat at the schoolroom table reading aloud from the newspaper. It was the same one which I had picked up in her mother’s room. Allegra was listening idly, drawing horses on a pad of paper. Sylvia, who had come over for a music lesson, was leaning her elbows on the table biting her nails and looking dreamily into space. I had come in to collect my music and give Sylvia her session at the piano.

  Alice looked up and smiled at me and then went on reading the paper.

  “ ‘Mrs. Linton and Mr. Grey had known each other for sixty years. They were childhood sweethearts and the course of true love did not run smoothly and they each married someone else. Now Romance has come...”

  “Fancy being married at seventy-five,” said Allegra. “That’s the time to be dead.”

  “Does anyone ever really believe it’s the time for them to be dead?” asked Sylvia.

  “No, but perhaps other people know it,” added Alice.

  “Who’s to say it’s the time?” asked Allegra.

  “If they did it’s obviously the time,” retorted Alice. “Listen to this: ‘Harry—inverted commas Gentleman—Terrall has escaped once more from Broadmoor where he has been for the last eighteen years. “Gentleman” Terrall is a homicidal maniac.’ ”

  “What’s that?” asked Allegra.

  “It means he kills people.”

  “And he’s escaped?”

  “He’s at large. That’s what it says at the top. ‘Gentleman Terrall is highly dangerous because he behaves normally and with great charm. He is very attractive, particularly to women who become his victims. He has escaped twice before and during one of his bouts of freedom murdered Miss Anna Hassock. He is a man now in his mid forties with charming manners which have earned him hi
s name.’ ”

  “Gentleman Terrall,” breathed Allegra. “I wonder if he’ll come here?”

  “We shall know him if he does,” put in Allegra. “If we see a man with good manners...”

  “Like Mr. Wilmot,” added Alice.

  “Do you think Mr. Wilmot...” began Sylvia, awestruck.

  “Silly!” snorted Allegra. “This man’s only just escaped and Mr. Wilmot’s been here ages. Besides we know who Mr. Wilmot is. He’s related to a knight and a bishop.”

  “Sounds like a game of chess,” said Alice. “But this Gentleman must look rather like Mr. Wilmot except that he’s older. Like Mr. Wilmot’s father then, if he has a father ... which of course he has. But it’s exciting. Imagine this Gentleman prowling about looking for victims.”

  “Suppose Edith was one,” suggested Allegra.

  There was an immediate silence round the table.

  “And,” added Sylvia, “what about that Miss ... er ... Brandon. Perhaps she was, too.”

  “Then he must have been here...” whispered Allegra, looking over her shoulder.

  “But what did he do with the bodies?” cried Alice triumphantly.

  “That’s easy. He buried them.”

  “Where?”

  “In the copse. Don’t you remember we saw...”

  I said: “This conversation is becoming too gruesome. And it’s all froth and bubble.”

  “Froth and bubble,” Allegra giggled.

  “It’s all grown out of a paragraph in the newspaper and you have all been talking utter nonsense.”

  “I think you rather liked it, Mrs. Verlaine,” said Alice demurely, “because you didn’t try to stop us till we talked of the copse.”

  Alice and Allegra were poring over a book at the schoolroom table.

  I went closer and saw that it was a fashion book and that it was open at the page of young girls’ dresses.

  “I like this,” cried Allegra.

  “It’s too fussy.”

  “You like things too plain.”

  Alice smiled up at me. “We’re going to have new dresses and we’re choosing our patterns. Mamma said we might. Then we shall go up to London and pick the material. We go once a year.”