The Shivering Sands (31 page)

The girls brought back glowing reports of Mr. Wilmot from the vicarage.

“So handsome!” sighed Allegra. “He’ll never want to marry Sylvia.”

Sylvia flushed and looked angry.

I came to her rescue. “Perhaps Sylvia wouldn’t want to marry him.”

“She’d have no choice,” retorted Allegra. “Nor will he if he stays. Mrs. Rendall has quite made up her mind.”

“This is nonsense,” I said.

Alice and Allegra exchanged glances.

“Good heavens,” I cried. “The poor man has only just arrived.”

“Mrs. Rendall thinks he’s wonderful though,” murmured Alice.

“The arrival of a new personality at this place has turned everyone’s head.”

It was true that people were talking of the new curate. “Very different from that Mr. Brown.” “I hear his father’s a lord or something.” “He’s very good looking…and such nice manners.”

These were the comments I heard throughout the village in the days before I met him and by this time I was looking forward to making the acquaintance of this paragon. At least his coming took the limelight from Edith’s disappearance. Not that Edith was forgotten. When I saw the constable in the village I stopped and talked to him.

“The case is still open, Mrs. Verlaine,” he said. “Until it’s definitely proved she’s run off with this young man we’ll keep our eyes open.”

I wondered what they were doing about the case, but when I asked him, he merely looked mysterious.

“Come into the drawing room,” Mrs. Rendall greeted us. “Mr. Wilmot is with the vicar in his study.”

We all followed her into the drawing room where Sylvia was standing by the window.

“Pray sit down, Mrs. Verlaine, and you too.” She signed to the girls. “Sylvia, don’t stand there so
awkwardly.
” Anxious maternal eyes surveyed Sylvia. “How untidy you look! That hair ribbon is positively grubby. Go and change it at once.”

I saw Allegra and Alice exchange glances, and it occurred to me how observant—and critical—the young were.

“Don’t slouch so,” said Mrs. Rendall to the departing Sylvia who blushed uncomfortably. “And put your shoulders back.” She added in exasperation: “Girls!”

She talked desultorily of Sir William’s health and the weather until Sylvia returned wearing a blue hair ribbon.

“H’m!” said her mother. “Now go to the study and tell the vicar and Mr. Wilmot that Mrs. Verlaine is here.”

She watched her daughter speculatively, but perhaps I thought that because of the girls’ comments. In a few moments the vicar entered the drawing room accompanied by Mr. Wilmot, who was indeed an extremely personable young man—a little more than medium height with a very charming and candid expression. He had perfect white teeth, which were very evident when he smiled, and his manners were easy. He was a contrast to the meek Mr. Brown.

“Ah, Mr. Wilmot!” I had never heard Mrs. Rendall’s tone so cooingly gentle. “I want you to meet Mrs. Verlaine. You will want to talk about lesson times with her. She is teaching the girls the piano.”

He came toward me. “Mrs. Verlaine,” he said. “That’s a very famous name.”

He took my hand; his warm brown eyes looked into mine.

“You are referring to my husband,” I said.

“Ah, Pietro Verlaine…what an artist!” His expression clouded. He would be remembering that I was a widow. It lightened suddenly. “Why,” he went on, “I knew your sister. It was here…”

I was unable to control my expression. I was exposed. It had been bound to happen sooner or later. Pietro was too well known; and in her circles so was Roma. Someone would one day be bound to link me up.

He must have noticed my expression of fear for he said quickly: “Perhaps I am mistaken…”

“My sister…is dead,” I heard myself stammer.

Mrs. Rendall said: “How very sad!” She turned to Mr. Wilmot. “Mrs. Verlaine’s father was a professor. It is sad that her only sister died…not very long ago, I believe.”

Mr. Wilmot came gallantly and magnificently to the rescue. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Verlaine, for introducing a subject which must be painful.”

I did not speak, but I think my eyes must have expressed my gratitude.

“Mr. Wilmot is very interested in our little village,” said Mrs. Rendall archly.

“Oh yes,” said our new curate, “I find the Roman remains quite fascinating.”

“They are, I believe, one of the reasons why you decided to come here.”

He smiled charmingly. “They are just an added attraction.” He turned to me: “I am an amateur archaeologist, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I swallowed and said: “How very interesting.”

“At one time I intended to make it my profession. Then…rather later than usual…I decided to go into the Church.”

“How very fortunate for us,” boomed Mrs. Rendall. “I do wish you could persuade Sylvia to show a little interest in our remains, Mr. Wilmot.”

“I can try,” he said smiling.

The vicar said: “Ah…very interesting!” and I could see he was pleased, for now that the curate showed an interest in the Roman remains Mrs. Rendall had discovered how fascinating they were.

“I don’t think our lessons are going to overlap,” I said, bringing the conversation to the subject we had come to discuss.

“I’m sure they won’t.”

I was immediately conscious of his interest and I was not surprised. He must wonder why I was so anxious that he should not betray the fact that I was Roma’s sister.

I had given Sylvia her music lesson and was crossing the vicarage garden on my way back to Lovat Stacy when I heard my name called, and there was Mr. Wilmot running after me, smiling his engaging smile.

“I’ve set the girls some work,” he said. “I had to speak to you.”

“About my sister?”

He nodded. “I only met her once or twice. She mentioned you then. She was worried about you because of your marriage. She thought it wouldn’t be good for your career.”

“Thank you for keeping silent,” I said.

His puzzled gaze met mine. “They don’t know of the relationship obviously.”

I shook my head. “Let me explain. You know my sister…disappeared.”

“Yes. It’s one of the reasons why I could not resist taking the opportunity—when it arose—of coming here. That…and the finds. And you?”

“I came here to teach the girls the piano and to try to find out what has become of my sister.”

“And decided to keep the relationship secret?”

“Perhaps it was silly of me, but I was afraid they wouldn’t have me if they knew. Roma had come here though they didn’t want her and her party. And then she brought unpleasant publicity here by disappearing. I wanted to find out what had happened to my sister…so I came here.”

He gave a deep sigh. “How thankful I am that you stopped me in time. You know I might have mentioned it if I’d heard your name before meeting you.”

“Yes. It’s difficult to remain anonymous after having been married to a famous man.”

He nodded. “It’s very…intriguing.”

“It’s horribly mystifying. And now Edith has disappeared too.”

“Oh, that unfortunate affair. She’s run away from her husband, I hear.”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that she disappeared and Roma disappeared.”

He looked at me shrewdly. “I understand your feelings. I wonder if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“At least someone knows who I am…” I began.

“You can be sure no one else will learn through me.”

“I’m grateful.”

He smiled. “I saw the panic in your face. We must have a talk about this. As an archaeologist…strictly amateur…I might be of use. Incidentally I’m fond of music. I play the organ.”

I turned and saw the drawing-room lace curtain move slightly. We were being watched—by Mrs. Rendall I guessed. She would be wondering why her attractive curate had come out of the house to speak to me.

In a very short time Godfrey Wilmot and I had become friends. It was inevitable. Our mutual love of music would have drawn us together in any case, but the fact that he knew who I was made an even greater bond. I was extremely grateful for the dexterous manner in which he had extricated me from an awkward situation.

We met at the remains and talked of Roma as we wandered around.

“She would have been one of our leading archaeologists had she…”

“Lived,” I said tersely. “I think I have faced the certainty that Roma is dead.”

“There could be other explanations.”

“I don’t know of any. Roma would never have gone away without letting me know. I am sure of it.”

“Then what can have happened to her?”

“She’s dead. I know it.”

“You feel there was an accident?”

“It seems the most likely explanation, for who would want to kill Roma?”

“That’s what we have to find out.”

I warmed toward him when he said “we” in that way. I said impulsively: “It is good of you to make my problem yours.”

He laughed suddenly. He had the most infectious laughter.

“It’s good of you to allow me to. I must say it’s an intriguing situation. Could it have been an accident?”

“There is a possibility of course. But where is she? That’s what I want to know. There should be some trace of her. Think of it. She was here in this place…packing up her things…She went for a walk and never came back. What
could
have happened?”

“She could have gone for a swim and been drowned.”

“Wouldn’t there have been some evidence? Besides she had never swum very much. It was a cold day. And wouldn’t there have been some evidence?”

He said: “The alternative is that someone hid the evidence.”

“Why?”

“Because they did not wish to be discovered.”

“But why…why,
why
? I sometimes think that someone
murdered
Roma. But why?”

“Some jealous archaeologist. Someone who knew that she had discovered a secret which he—or she—wished to make his or her own discovery.”

“Oh, that
is
far-fetched!”

“There is such a thing as professional jealousy. In this field as in others.”

“Oh, but it’s not possible.”

“People who delve into the past are thought to be a little mad by lots of people.”

“Still, one should explore every avenue. She walked out of that cottage to…disappear. Let’s think about it.”

We were silent for a while, then I said: “And there’s Edith.”

“The lady who ran away with her lover?”

“It’s the general idea.”

He reminded me of Roma—that complete absorption, that sudden pause to examine a certain piece of paving which caught his notice. Then he would expound on it a little.

“Archaeology had made such rapid strides in the last few years,” he explained to me. “Before that it was little more than a treasure hunt. I remember when I attacked my first tumuli. It was in Dorset. I tremble now to think of how careless I was and what real treasure I might have destroyed.”

I told him about my parents and the atmosphere in which I had been brought up. It all sounded rather amusing when I related it to him and we laughed frequently.

Suddenly he said: “There’s a recurring motif in these mosaics. I wonder that it means. A pity they’re so damaged. I wonder whether it’s possible to clean them a little. I expect your sister and her party would have done that if it were possible. What a pity time destroys the colors. These stones must have been very vivid originally. Why are you smiling?”