Victoria Holt

by The Shivering Sands

  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 movement 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 S
tacy!”

  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.”

  “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 telling 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 ha
nd 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 deep-set blue-gray 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.