The Shivering Sands (36 page)

I felt as though those gray walls blackened by the fire were shutting me in; I turned quickly and went out into the copse.

If anyone had dug a hole, might he—or she—not have done so near those walls for since the place had the reputation of being haunted, people avoided it; perhaps it was just the spot in which to dig a victim’s grave. And the light? Was that meant to keep people away from the spot? I felt I had to find a reason for all these strange happenings.

I studied the earth near the wall. There was one patch without grass. I went down on my hands and knees to examine it more closely. And then…the crackle of undergrowth; the shadow looming over me.

“Searching for something?”

I gasped and standing up looked into Napier’s face. His voice was mocking but there was a deadly earnestness in his eyes and I knew he was angry.

“I…I didn’t hear you until a second ago.”

“What on earth are you doing? Praying? Or have you dropped something?”

I said: “My brooch…”

He touched the cameo at my throat. “It’s there…securely pinned.”

“Oh, I thought…”

I was making a bad job of it but I could not tell him that I—like everyone else—suspected him of murdering his wife. I didn’t suspect him. I hastily corrected that. I wanted to prove that he was innocent in face of all the calumnies.

He stood, that sardonic smile on his face, not helping me out of my embarrassment at all.

“I saw you from the distance at the Brancots’ cottage.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I know. Brancot told me you’d been complimenting him on the garden and that he’d told you I gave him a hand. You remember…seeing me come back with my spade?”

“I remember.”

He laughed. “Well, it’s brave of you to come to this place. It has such an evil reputation.”

“In broad daylight?” I said, recovering my calm.

“Well, if one is alone…”

“But I am not.”

“When you come to think of it, it is the fear of
not
being alone that makes people afraid.”

“You mean they’re afraid of ghosts?”

“You looked very startled when I came on you kneeling here. Perhaps you are a little uneasy now.” He took my wrist and with a mocking smile put his finger on my pulse. “A little too fast, I think,” he commented.

“I admit to being startled. You came on me so suddenly.”

“You weren’t looking for the brooch, were you? The first place you would look is at your throat and it is there.” He put his hands on my brooch and came and stood very close to me. I caught my breath…as he meant me to. All friendliness seemed to have gone from him now. He knew what had been in my mind and I think he hated me for it.

“I’d like us to be frank,” he said reproachfully, dropping his hands.

“Of course.”

“But you haven’t been, have you? Did you come because you think Edith is buried here…in this copse?”

“She must be somewhere.”

“And you think that someone…killed her and buried her here?”

“I don’t think that can be the solution.”

“Have you an alternative solution?”

I said: “I think it rather strange that two people disappeared in this neighborhood.”

“Two?” he said.

“Have you forgotten the archaeologist?”

“She disappeared too. Why of course.” He took a pace backward and leaned against the wall of the chapel. “Do you think she’s buried here, too? And have you decided on the murderer?”

“How can I? But I believe we should all feel better if we knew the answer to those questions.”

“Except the murderer. Don’t you think he would feel far worse?”

“I do not think he—or she—can be feeling very happy now.”

“Why not?”

“Could anyone take life and be happy?”

“If a man saw himself as all important and others of no account he would see no reason why he should not eliminate a person as he would a moth or a wasp.”

“I suppose there are such people.”

“I fear there are. I imagine our murderer is delighted with himself. He has won. He has gained what he set out to gain and the rest don’t even know who he is. He has fooled them all. Let us walk through the copse together examining the earth for the graves of the victims. Would you care to do that?”

I said: “I have work to do. I must get back to the house.”

He smiled as though he did not believe me, and we walked back to our horses. He held mine which I mounted; then leaping into the saddle he rode beside me to the house.

I went straight up to my room and looked at myself in the mirror. I hoped my emotions did not show on my face, for I was not even sure what they were.

I was terribly afraid and would not face the possibilities which were thrusting themselves into my mind. I would not believe them because I was determined not to.

G
odfrey Wilmot was constantly seeking to be alone with me. This was not easy, for Mrs. Rendall contrived to see that we did not have many opportunities.

Perhaps I should admit to a certain mischievous pleasure in teasing her, hoping it would help to lighten the heavy mood which had settled upon me. I was trying to thrust all thoughts of Napier from my mind and the company of Godfrey helped me to do this more than anything else. There was his knowledge of my identity; there was his love of music and his deep interest in that subject which had enthralled my sister and my parents and had in a way been responsible for their deaths. There was comfort, too, in feeling my friendship growing for a charming man who was open and frank and free of those complexes which while they seemed to cast some sort of spell upon me, could make me uneasy and extremely apprehensive.

Certainly I made no attempt to avoid Godfrey and we used to laugh together about Mrs. Rendall’s attitude and plan how to frustrate her endeavors to prevent our being alone together.

Sometimes we met in the church where Godfrey went to practice the organ. I would slip in while he was playing and this was what I did on the day after my uncomfortable encounter with Napier in the copse.

The church was a beautiful example of fourteenth-century architecture with its gray stone tower and lichen-covered walls. I stood at the door listening to the full tones of the organ and was deeply moved for Godfrey had a masterly touch. I did not want to disturb him so I stood very still while I gazed about me at the stained-glass windows—the one dedicated to Beau; the Stacy pew; the list of vicars engraved on the wall from the first in 1347 to Arthur Rendall in the year 1880. The musty damp smell of age was more apparent when the church was empty, and I imagined generations of Stacys coming here to worship. I thought of Beau and Napier being baptized at the font, of Sybil, dreaming of coming to this altar to her bridegroom. As the music came to its triumphant finale I went over to the organ.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “I was beginning to be a little worried about you.”

“Worried about me? Why?”

“The idea suddenly came to me. You could be putting yourself into danger.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s the news about Mrs. Stacy. When we thought she had gone off with her lover, looking for your sister seemed a reasonably safe project. But if these two disappearances are linked it appears that someone must be responsible for them. You can’t make two people disappear very well without killing them. It struck me that we have a dangerous murderer in our midst. He wouldn’t be very pleased with someone who probed into his affairs would he? And it may be that when he isn’t pleased with people he…eliminates them.”

“So you’ve marked me down for the next victim?”

“God forbid! But shouldn’t you be careful?”

“I see what you mean. Have you anyone in mind?”

“Oh yes.”

“Who?”

“The husband, of course.”

“Isn’t that too obvious?”

“Good heavens, this isn’t a puzzle. It’s real life. Who would want to be rid of Mrs. Stacy except her husband?”

“There could be others.”

“Think of the reasons. I understand she was an heiress. He gets her money. And he wasn’t very eager to marry her in the first place.”

“He had the money already so why bother to murder her?”

“He was heartily sick of her.”

“I don’t like this conversation. It’s…uncharitable. We have no right to continue with it.”

“But we must be practical.”

“If being practical means maligning innocent people…”

“But how do you know he is innocent?”

“Shouldn’t one presume a man to be innocent until he is proved guilty?”

“You’re talking about British justice. We’re not judges…just amateur sleuths. We have to look at all possibilities.”

“In that case I might suggest that you are guilty, and you me.”

“I might. But where are the motives?”

“I daresay we could think of some. You might be a cousin in disguise who wants to inherit Lovat Stacy so you murder Edith and hope her husband will be accused of the crime and hanged, which will make you the heir.”

“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. And you want to marry into the Stacy family so you murder Edith and leave the way clear for yourself.”

“You see,” I pointed out, “you can make up a case against anyone.”

“But what of your sister? Where does she come into it?”

“That’s what we have to find out.”

It was at this point that I felt certain we were being observed. I looked uneasily about me. Godfrey had noticed nothing. What was it? I couldn’t say. Just an uncanny feeling—the extra sense one gets that somewhere, unseen, someone is watching…malignantly.

What was the matter with me? I could not explain this strange feeling to Godfrey. It sounded so absurd. I heard nothing. I saw nothing; I merely sensed it. And he had thought I was fanciful in the cottage.

“Be careful,” he said. “Don’t forget there may be a murderer among us.”

I looked over my shoulder and shivered.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Oh…nothing.”

“I’ve frightened you. Good! It’s what I intended. You will have to be very careful in future.”

I kept thinking of Napier in the copse and my heart refused to accept the inference which my brain insisted on presenting to me.

“I’m determined to find out what happened to my sister,” I said fiercely.

“We both will,” he assured me, “but we’ll be cautious. We’ll work together. Any little clue one of us discovers should be passed on to the other.”

I said nothing of Alice’s story which had so disturbed me; I said nothing of my encounter with Napier in the copse.

He went on: “I can’t help feeling that the answer is somewhere on the dig. It’s because of your sister. She was the first. I think we’ll find the answer there.”

I let him expound on this—anything to stop him seeking to hang suspicion on Napier.

We were startled suddenly by a little cough behind us.

Sylvia was coming silently up the aisle toward the organ.

“Mamma sent me to look for you, Mr. Wilmot. She says would you care to come to tea in the drawing room.”

The girls had invited me to ride with them. I said I should be delighted and in due course we set out.

“There are gypsies in Meadow Three Acres,” Allegra told me. “One of them spoke to me and said her name was Serena Smith. Mrs. Lincroft was not very pleased when I told her.”

“She was not pleased because she knows Sir William will not be,” said Alice quickly in defense of her mother.

Allegra rode on a little way ahead and called over her shoulder: “I’m going to see them.”

“My mother says they’re a disgrace to the place,” said Sylvia.

“She would!” retorted Allegra. “She hates anything that’s…fun. I like gypsies. I’m half one myself.”

“Do they come here often?” I asked, remembering Mrs. Lincroft’s reaction to the news that they had arrived.

“I don’t think so,” replied Alice. “They roam the country never staying long in one place. Just fancy, Mrs. Verlaine. That must be rather exciting, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure I’d rather stay in one place.”

Her eyes grew dreamy and I wondered whether she would write a story about gypsies. I must see some of her stories one of these days. It could well be that if she had no talent for music she had for literature. She read a great deal; she was extremely industrious and she had undoubted imagination. Perhaps I should speak to Godfrey about her.

Allegra called to us not to dawdle and we broke into a canter. It was not long before we reached the encampment.

There were about four gaily colored caravans in the field which was called Meadow Three Acres. But there was no sign of any gypsies.

“Don’t go too close,” I cautioned Allegra.

“Why ever not, Mrs. Verlaine? They won’t hurt us.”

“They might not like to be stared at. You should respect their privacy.”

Allegra looked at me in astonishment. “They haven’t any privacy, Mrs. Verlaine. People who live in caravans don’t expect to have any.”

The sound of our voices may have carried over the air for as we stood there a woman came out of one of the caravans and toward us.

I could not say what it was but there was a vague air of familiarity about her. I felt I had seen her before, though I could not say where. She was plump and her red blouse was stretched to bursting point over her full breasts; her skirt was a little ragged about the hem, her legs and feet very brown and bare. Big gold-colored Creole earrings dangled in her ears. Her laughter shattered the silence and while it was loud and raucous it suggested that she found life amusing. She had a bush of dark curly hair and was, in a robust and voluptuous way, beautiful.