The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  “Oh dear,” sighed Allegra. “I wish I hadn’t chosen that crushed strawberry. The burgundy red would have been so much better.”

  “I did tell you,” said Alice mildly reproachful. “In any case we can’t keep Miss Clent waiting.”

  So they left us to discuss the possibility of Godfrey’s theory regarding the mosaic.

  “Alice has written a story about the mosaic,” Allegra announced. “It’s really a good one.”

  “That’s very creditable,” I said. “You must show me this one, Alice.”

  “I want to wait until I’m really satisfied.”

  “But you showed Allegra and Sylvia.”

  “I just see the effect on them. Besides they’re only children ... they aren’t much more. Grownups would be more critical, wouldn’t they?”

  “I don’t see why they should be.”

  “Oh yes, of course they would. They are experienced of the world, whereas we have so much to learn.”

  “So you won’t show me this story?”

  “I will one day... when I’ve perfected it.”

  “It’s about the man in the quicksand,” said Allegra.

  Alice sighed and looked at Allegra who shrugged her shoulders sullenly.

  “I thought you were proud of it,” she said.

  Alice ignored her and turned to me. “It’s about the Romans,” she said. “If anyone did anything wrong they used to put them in this quicksand and it very slowly swallowed them right up. It was slow. That was why they used it. Some quicksands swallow things up quickly ... that’s why they call them quicksands. But these were slow sands ... it makes it last longer and is more of a punishment. They move and grip ... you see ... and the victim can’t get away. So the Romans put their criminals into these sands. It was a good punishment. And there was a man in my story who had to make a mosaic of the sands and himself being swallowed up in them ... before it happened to him. You see that was what was called refined torture. It was worse than just putting him in and letting him go down ... because all the time he was making the mosaic he knew what was going to happen to him. And because he felt all that he made a wonderful mosaic ... better than anyone could if they hadn’t been so personally involved.”

  “Alice what ideas you get!”

  “You think it’s a good thing, don’t you?” she asked anxiously.

  “It is, provided you don’t let your imagination run riot. You should let it dwell on pleasant things.”

  “Oh,” said Alice, “I see. But one has to be truthful, doesn’t one, Mrs. Verlaine. I mean one mustn’t shut one’s eyes to truth.”

  “No certainly not but...”

  “I was only thinking that why did they make those pictures on the mosaic if they were thinking of pleasant things? I can’t believe it’s very pleasant being caught in the shivering sands. That’s what I’m calling my story. The Shivering Sands. It made me shiver when I wrote it. And the girls did, too, when I read it to them. But I will try to let my imagination work on pleasant things.”

  When I came out of my room I ran straight into Sybil who seemed to have been lurking outside waiting for me.

  “Ah, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said, as though I was the last person she expected to see coming out of my own room. “How nice to see you! It seems a long time since I last did. But then you have been so busy.”

  “There are the lessons,” I replied vaguely.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that.” She was looking into my room with excited prying eyes. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Would you care to come into my room?”

  “That would be nice.”

  She tiptoed in as though we were partners in a conspiracy and looked all round the room. “Pleasant,” she commented “Very pleasant. I think you’ve been quite happy here, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said. “You’d be sorry to go.”

  “Yes I should ... if I were going.”

  “I saw you with the curate. I suppose some would say he was a very handsome young man.”

  “I suppose some would.”

  “And you, Mrs. Verlaine?” Her archness made me feel uncomfortable.

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so.”

  “I hear he’ll soon be going to a very fine living. Well, it was to be expected. He has the right connections. He’ll get on. A suitable wife is just what he needs.”

  A flicker of irritation crossed my face and she may have noticed it for she said: “I’ve taken a fancy to you. I shouldn’t want you to go away. You seem to have become part of the place.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course everyone here is part of the place. Even people like Edith—who hadn’t much personality, poor girl—she had her effect, didn’t she? And a big one too. Poor child!”

  I wished that I had not asked her in. I could have made my escape easily from the corridor.

  “And of course,” she went on, ’“it was your playing that startled William and made him so ill.”

  I said with some exasperation: “I’ve already told you that I was only playing what I was given to play.”

  Her eyes brightened suddenly—glinting points of blue light embedded in the wrinkles.

  “Oh yes ... but who gave you that particular piece do you think, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  I said: “I wish I knew.”

  She had become so alert that I knew she was about to disclose what she had come to tell me.

  “I remember the day she died...”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Isabella. She played all the day. It was a new piece. She had just found the piano arrangement of it. Danse Macabre.” She began to hum it off-key which made the melody sound supernatural. “The Dance of Death...” she mused.

  “And all the time she was playing it she was thinking of death. Then she took the gun and went into the woods. That was why he couldn’t bear to hear it played. He would never have put that piece in for you to play, would he?”

  “Someone did.”

  “I wonder who?”

  She began to laugh and I said: “Do you know?”

  She did her mandarin’s nod. “Oh yes, Mrs. Verlaine, I know.”

  “It was someone who wanted to upset Sir William ... to shock him. And he a sick man!”

  “Why not?” she said. “Why should he pretend to be so virtuous? He wasn’t. I can tell you that. So why shouldn’t he be shocked?”

  “But it might have killed him. He’s not to be upset.”

  “You thought it was Napier. They quarreled and he threatened Napier that he’d send him off again. Imagine it. There’d be no excitement here then. Why should Napier have to go? Why should Sir William pretend to be so good? There was a time...”

  “Miss Stacy,” I said, “did you put that piece of music among the selection I was to play?”

  She hunched her shoulders like a child and nodded.

  “So, you see,” she said, “you shouldn’t think too badly of Napier, should you?”

  She was mad, I thought, dangerously mad. But I was glad then that she had come to my room. At least he was not guilty of that.

  The mosaic was constantly in my mind and I could not rid myself of the idea that we had discovered something of importance. I went back again to the remains, and wandered about thinking of Roma, trying to remember what she had told me. One morning I met Napier there.

  “You’ve started coming here again,” he said. “I guessed I’d meet you sometime.”

  “You have seen me then?”

  “Often.”

  “When I was unaware of it? It is a little alarming to be watched when one is not conscious of it.”

  “It shouldn’t be,” he countered, “if you have nothing to hide.”

  “How many of us are as virtuous as that?”

  “It’s not necessarily a matter of virtue. For instance one might be engaged on a very creditable undertaking which required ... anonymity. In which case it would be alarming to be secretly observed.”

  “Such as...”

  “Such as coming
to a place incognito to solve the mysterious disappearance of a sister.”

  I caught my breath and said: “You know!”

  “It was not so difficult to discover.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Very soon after you came.”

  “But...”

  He laughed. “As I said it was very easy. I wanted to know so much about you, and as you had a famous husband that simplified matters considerably. A famous husband, a sister who was well known in certain circles. Oh come, you must admit it was not a very difficult proposition.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It would have made you uneasy, and I would rather you had told me who you were.”

  “But I should never have been allowed to come had I told.”

  ‘Told me,” he said. “Not others.”

  “Well what are you going to do about it?”

  “Precisely what I have been doing.”

  “You are annoyed with me?”

  “Why should I be so suddenly when I have known all along.”

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “I’m admiring you.”

  “For what?”

  “For coming down here ... for caring enough for your sister to put yourself in danger.”

  “Danger! What danger should I be in?”

  People who try to discover what became of one who was possibly a murderer’s victim often are.”

  “Who said she was murdered?”

  “I said ‘possibly.’ You can’t say that she was not.”

  “Roma was the last person anyone would want to murder.”

  “Most murderer’s victims are believed to be that. But how do you know what secrets she had? You could not know everything in her life.”

  “In fact I knew very little.”

  “So there you are. You may have rushed boldly into danger, and that is what I admire you for ... and other things as well, of course.”

  He had taken a step closer to me, gazing at me with an intense longing, and I felt excited and eager to comfort him.

  “It has occurred to you,” he went on, “that there are two disappearances ... and two is one too many for this to be accidental.”

  “It’s an obvious conclusion,” I said, “so it did occur to me.”

  “What do you think happened to your sister?”

  “I don’t know, except that she would never have gone away without saying where.”

  “And Edith?”

  “Edith too.”

  “And you feel the two are connected?”

  “It seems likely.”

  “Has it occurred to you that Edith discovered something ... some clue that might have thrown light on your sister’s death? If this were so ... what of you yourself who are boldly attempting to do the same thing? Shouldn’t you be careful? You should not hunt alone ... ah, but then Godfrey Wilmot hunts with you, doesn’t he?”

  “You can hardly call it that.”

  “But he knows who you are.”

  I nodded.

  “You told him although you kept the secret from the rest of us.”

  I shook my head. “He knew who I was as soon as he saw me.”

  “And confessed it? Of course he is frank and open ... unlike some.”

  “It was all so spontaneous. He knew me at once, and I was grateful that he did not betray me.”

  “I have kept the knowledge to myself. Are you grateful to me?”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know,” he said looking intently at me, “that I would do anything to help you.” I did not answer and he insisted: “You do believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad. If we could solve our mysteries there is a great deal I could say to you. You know that too? So that it is as important to me ... perhaps more so ... to find the answers to these riddles.”

  I was afraid suddenly of what he might say next and I was perhaps afraid of my own response. When I was with him I was fascinated by him; it was only when he was not there that I could view him coolly and dispassionately.

  He seemed to understand this for he did not pursue it and went on: “I saw your sister once or twice. She was passionately dedicated. She lived in that cottage all alone.”

  “I came and stayed with her for a few nights.”

  “How strange! You were so close and we did not meet.”

  “It was hardly strange. I daresay there were many people on the dig whom you didn’t see.”

  “I was not thinking of many people ... but of you. And you have come no nearer to discovering what happened to her than you were when you arrived?”

  “Godfrey Wilmot thinks she may have made some fantastic archaeological discovery of which some other archaeologist was jealous. I think that is extremely far fetched.”

  He looked at me earnestly. “You must tell me if you discover anything that you think is leading you to the solution. You must let me help you. You must remember that if these two disappearances are connected it is of vital importance to me to discover the connection.”

  “Nothing would please me more than to find the truth.”

  “Then I can hope that we shall be together ... in this?”

  “Yes,” I said, “let us be together in this.”

  He reached out as though to touch me, but I turned away, pretending not to notice, and said I must return to the house.

  Sybil had worked herself into a passion about the gypsies. She could talk of nothing else and seemed even to have forgotten her painting. She stalked about the house murmuring to herself of their shortcomings.

  Sir William’s health had improved during the last weeks. I expected a fresh outbreak of that quarrel between himself and Napier, but I heard nothing, and it occurred to me that Sir William realized how useful Napier was on the estate and had decided to make the best of the state of affairs as it stood. Not a very desirable set of circumstances but better than violent quarreling.

  My walled garden was a favorite spot of Sir William’s and for that reason I now avoided it. His usual practice was to sit there for an hour every morning. Mrs. Lincroft would bring him out and wrap him about with rugs and precisely an hour later would come out to bring him back into the house.

  The first time I discovered him there Sybil was with him. I heard her voice as she talked to him.

  “You’ve got to clear them off the land,” she was shouting. “They bode no good. Look at the last time you let them stay. That girl came to work in the kitchens and look where that led us.”

  “Sybil, be quiet,” said Sir William. “Don’t raise your voice so.”

  “You always said you wouldn’t have them here. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Sybil ... be quiet. Be quiet.”

  I turned away and as I did so I came face to face with Mrs. Lincroft. She gave me a hasty glance and ran into the walled garden.

  “Miss Stacy,” she said, “please don’t worry Sir William. He is not well enough.”

  “And who are you?” cried Sybil. “Don’t tell me. I know. It’s disgraceful. You regard yourself as mistress of this house, don’t you? But let me tell you this, you may be his mistress but you are not the mistress of this house. You are encouraging those gypsies to stay. Why? Because that girl Serena knows too much, that’s why.”

  I walked away thinking: She is mad. Why did I ever listen to her nonsense? I have foolishly allowed her to influence me, when all the time she is living in a fantastic world of her own.

  A few minutes later I saw Mrs. Lincroft wheeling Sir William into the house, her face flushed, her eyes downcast.

  But Sir William did listen to his sister. He declared that he would not have the gypsies encamping on his land and to Sybil’s delight issued orders that they were to go,

  Napier had joined his voice to Mrs. Lincroft’s and there had been a noisy scene which I heard the girls discussing.

  “They will go,” Allegra had said, “because Grandfather has said they will. He is the
master here. My father and Mrs. Lincroft are both against it.”

  “My mother thinks they should go,” said Sylvia. “She says it’s a disgrace to the neighborhood. They spoil the countryside and steal chickens and they ought to go.”

  “Well I think it’s a shame,” declared Allegra.

  Alice shrugged her shoulders philosophically and said that the gypsies could find another pleasant place to have their camp and it would be better for everyone if they went.

  Later when I was alone with Sylvia she looked slyly over her shoulders and whispered to me: “My mother said that the only two who want the gypsies here are Mrs. Lincroft and Mr. Napier and the reason is the gypsy woman is blackmailing them.”

  “I shouldn’t spread a rumor like that Sylvia if I were you,” I said quickly.

  “I wouldn’t spread it. I’m just telling you, Mrs. Verlaine. But that’s what my mother says. Napier was that woman’s lover once and she is Allegra’s mother. My mother thinks that’s very regrettable and that things like that shouldn’t be allowed to happen. As for Mrs. Lincroft ... my mother says she’s a mystery and she doesn’t believe there ever was a Mr. Lincroft.”

  “I should keep that to yourself too, Sylvia,” I said; and I thought that she was the least attractive of the girls. “Come along, we’re forgetting your practice.”

  The battle with the gypsies continued and Sir William had now committed himself to the attack. Mrs. Lincroft was very uneasy; so was Napier; and I was beginning to believe that the gypsy woman had threatened them with exposure if they did not fight her tribe’s battle for shelter on the Lovat Stacy land.

  Then came that morning of revelation.

  I was in the walled garden when Mrs. Lincroft wheeled in Sir William. I was about to leave when he detained me and suggested that I remain and talk to him for a while. He wanted me to talk about music.

  So I sat beside him and Mrs. Lincroft remained while we conversed. He wanted to assure me how he enjoyed my performances on the late Lady Stacy’s piano. He was often asleep when I finished, he knew; but that meant I had soothed him and that he had found my performance deeply satisfying.

  We were talking thus peacefully when I was suddenly aware—one split second before the others—that someone had come into the courtyard. It was Serena, the gypsy.