The Shivering Sands (34 page)

“You were the one who sacrificed her, weren’t you? How like you, to insist on the marriage and blame me for it. I did my best to make the marriage succeed.”

“Marriage! I’m not talking of the marriage! I’m asking you what you have done with her.”

“You’re mad. Are you suggesting…?”

“Murderer…” cried Sir William. “Beau…Your—your mother…”

“My God,” cried Napier. “Don’t think you’re going to cheat me out of my inheritance with your lies.”

“Where is she? Where is she? They’ll find her and then—”

I could not bear any more. I went to the door and sped silently away to my room.

I felt sick with fear.

Sir William believed his own son had murdered Edith.

“It’s not true,” I whispered. “I won’t believe it.”

And in that moment I pledged myself to solve the mystery of Edith’s disappearance just as I had that of Roma. It was of the utmost importance to me.

I couldn’t bear the suspicion.

In the village they were whispering. “It stands to reason. He married her. He wanted to be rid of her once he’d got her money. There’s a curse on Lovat Stacy…and will be as long as that bad man is there.”

I saw Sybil now and then; the sly look of knowledge in her eyes and the general coyness were more grotesque than usual.

I wondered whether secret investigations were going on. It had been discovered that Edith was not with Jeremy Brown. What else would be found out?

Why should a husband rid himself of a wife? There were many reasons. Because he did not love her. Because he now had her money; because now that he was taken back into the family and had been reinstated as his father’s heir…I paused there, remembering the quarrel I had overheard. Sir William hated Napier. Why should he harbor such an unnatural feeling? And now that Edith had disappeared they had quarreled bitterly. Perhaps Sir William would disinherit his son, banish him as he had once before.

Why should this have happened?

Napier had not loved Edith. He had made no secret of that. And during the last weeks…I thought of the conversations we had had together and I was overcome with a feeling of horror. Had I mistaken his implications? Had he really been telling me that had he been free he would have proposed marriage to
me
?

It was an alarming situation. I thought of three pairs of youthful eyes studying me. How deeply enmeshed was I in this?

And at the same time I had a great desire to prove these people wrong about Napier. I wanted to shout: “It’s not true. He’s being maligned now, as he was once before. Because of that accident in his youth is he to be blamed forever?”

What had happened to me? The most important thing in my life now was to prove Napier innocent.

Mrs. Lincroft frowned across the table at me.

“This has upset Sir William terribly,” she said. “I am very much worried about him. I do wish there could be some news of Edith.”

“What do you think has happened to her?” I asked earnestly.

“I dare not think.” She avoided my eyes. “I’m very much afraid that he’ll have another stroke. It would be better if Napier went away.”

“If he went away,” I pointed out, “malicious people would say he was running away.”

She nodded; then she said: “He may not have much choice in the matter. Sir William was talking of sending for the family solicitor. You can guess what that means.”

“He seems always to judge and blame without evidence. He was longing for a grandchild. And now…”

“Perhaps Edith will come back.”

“But where is she?”

I expounded my favorite amnesia theory.

“It is good of you to take such a deep interest in the family’s affairs, Mrs. Verlaine, but don’t become…too involved.”

“Involved!” I repeated.

She looked at me intently for a few seconds and her entire demeanor seemed to change in that brief spell of time. The gentle woman I had always imagined her to be receded and another personality, quite alien to everything I had known of her, took her place. Even her voice was different. “It’s sometimes not wise to interest oneself in other people’s affairs. One becomes caught up.”

“But naturally I’m interested. A young wife…a pupil of mine…disappears. Surely you don’t expect me to treat that as an everyday occurrence.”

“It could not be an everyday occurrence in anyone’s point of view. But she has disappeared; we don’t know where…yet. Perhaps we never shall. The authorities are trying to discover her whereabouts. Has it occurred to you, Mrs. Verlaine, that if what some people suspect is the truth, your inquisitiveness could put you in danger?”

I was astonished. I had no idea I had betrayed my determination to discover the truth.

“Danger? What sort of danger?”

There was a pause. The change had taken place again. There was the Mrs. Lincroft whom I had known since my arrival at Lovat Stacy, a little vague, remote. “Who can say? But I should keep aloof if I were you.”

I thought: She is warning me. Does she mean that I must not become involved with a man who is suspected of being concerned in his wife’s disappearance? Or is she telling me that by interfering I am putting my life in danger?

“As for danger,” she went on with a little laugh, “I am being a bit too vehement, I expect. This matter will be cleared up sooner or later. Edith will come back.” She added with forced conviction: “I feel sure of it.” I was about to speak but she hurried on: “Sir William told me that he so much enjoyed the Schubert the other evening. Your playing sent him into a deep sleep which was just what he needed.”

She smiled at me gratefully. Anyone who could soothe Sir William was a friend of hers.

The disaster happened two days later. I went to the room next to Sir William’s. Mrs. Lincroft was there. She whispered to me: “He’s a little poorly today. He’s dozing in his chair. How dark it is. There’s been nothing but rain all day. I did think it showed signs of brightening a little, but now it’s as bad as ever.”

The music was laid out for me…the pieces Sir William had chosen. I glanced at the top sheet, which was Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
.

“I think I’d better light the candles,” said Mrs. Lincroft.

I agreed and when she had done so I sat down at the piano and she tiptoed out of the room.

As I played I was thinking of Napier and feeling increasing indignation at the way in which he was accused before anything had been proved against him.

I finished the sonata and to my surprise the next piece was Saint-Saëns’s
Danse Macabre
, an unusual choice I thought. I began to play. I thought of Pietro who had always brought something indescribably spine-chilling into the playing of this piece. He said that when he played it, he saw the musician as a kind of pied piper who, instead of luring children into the mountain side, brought people out of their graves to dance round the piper…in the dance of death.

It had grown darker outside and the light from the candle was scarcely adequate, but I did not really need to read the music.

And then suddenly I was not alone. I thought at first that my playing had indeed conjured up a ghost for the figure in the doorway looked like a corpse.

“Go away…Go away…” cried Sir William. He was staring at me in a fixed, stony way. “Why…did you…come…back.”

I stood up, and as I did so he cried out in horror; and the next thing I knew he was lying on the floor.

Frantically I called to Mrs. Lincroft, who fortunately was not far off.

She stared at him in dismay.

“What…happened?”

“I was playing
Danse Macabre
,” I began…

I did not finish, for I thought she was going to faint.

Then she was her competent self again. “We must send for the doctor,” she said.

Sir William was very ill indeed. He had had another stroke and there were several doctors with him. It was thought that he might not recover.

I told them that I had been playing and suddenly I had looked up and seen him in the doorway. As he could scarcely walk it must have been a great effort for him to do so, and that effort, said the doctors, could have been the cause of his collapse.

In a day or two it was believed that he was not going to die after all and Mrs. Lincroft was greatly relieved.

She said to me: “This will mean that Napier will stay after all. I’m sure Sir William doesn’t remember what has happened to Edith. He’s a little hazy about everything and keeps fancying he’s back in the past.”

That July was a wet one; there was rain for several days and the skies were overcast.

Sybil Stacy came to my room to talk to me. I had to light the candles although it was only late afternoon. Sybil in deep mauve dress trimmed with black bows—and mauve bows in her hair—had chosen a color which I had never seen her wear before.

“Mourning,” she whispered.

I started up from my little table at which I had been preparing lessons.

She wagged a finger coyly at me. “For Edith,” she said.

“But how can you be sure?”

“I
am
sure. She would have come back if she wasn’t dead. Besides everything points to it. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, but I prefer to believe that she is alive and one day she will walk in.” I turned to the door as though I expected her. Sybil turned too and watched it expectantly.