The Shape of Sand (32 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: The Shape of Sand
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His affront was palpable. Time had done nothing to soften the impact of his shock, but after a second or two he went on with a tale evidently still crystal clear in his mind.
“Ah well, I forget myself. It is of no matter, now … She began to scream that I had touched her – improperly – that afternoon in the temple, that I had just attempted it again. She was hysterical. As for Major Randolph, that stiff Englishman, he was beside himself with fury. He sheltered her in his arms, while reviling me with all the names under the sun. Imagine my feelings! I had no idea what she meant by those accusations, but she was led away and I was given no chance to defend myself, then or thereafter. My protestations were not listened to and she – she said not a word in my defence. I was struck dumb by her treachery.”
He leaned forward and filled their three tiny cups with yet more of the cloying coffee and after sipping, went on: “The sum of it was, I was dismissed, sent back to Cairo like a criminal. I burned with the injustice of it, but I was a young man,
only just embarking on my career, with little or no redress against people like that. And it followed me, that incident. I had done nothing wrong, it was blown out of all proportion, but my days of guiding European parties around to earn a little money to help me until I established myself as a teacher were numbered. I had no choice but to try and forget it. I did the best I could for money, plunged deep into my studies and I might say came through with the highest honours, helped and encouraged by your father, Tom – by Professor Verrier. Gradually, of course, as the years went by, the incident was forgotten – by all but me. The unfairness of it still rankled. I determined I would not rest until I had seen Beatrice Jardine once more and forced her to tell me why she had levelled those false accusations against me. Then I would be satisfied. By that time, I had reached a professorship myself. I arranged to take time off, and went over to England. I wrote to her, asking her to see me, though I did not expect her to agree. I would have forced myself into her presence, if necessary. However, there was no need for that. To my amazement, she wrote back in the most pleasant terms, inviting me to stay with her and her family at their country home.”
“You didn't go over to England to see her with the idea of revenge?” Tom interrupted the flow gravely. Revenge, to the Arab nature, was a matter of honour, and Iskander was part Russian, as well, not a nation renowned for lying down for ever under injustice.
“No, no. As Allah is my witness, that was not my intention. I would have been satisfied if she had simply given me a reason for doing what she did, had told me in what way I had offended her. At first, I was puzzled as to why she had invited me to Charnley at all, but I soon realised that she feared I would make trouble if the invitation had been withheld, and that she hoped to persuade me that the business in Luxor had all been a big mistake. ‘I did not know what I was doing that evening, Valery,' she said, whenever I approached the subject. ‘That bump on my head must have made me a little delirious. Can't you understand?' She begged my forgiveness for casting suspicion on me, but how could I give it without some more satisfactory explanation? Her conduct had nearly ruined my
prospects of a career and I could not easily forgive that. On reflection, I realised she was playing for time, trying to think of a way she might wriggle out of the situation. But I was older and more experienced than I had been in Luxor, and I was on my guard. I had no intention of being caught in the same way twice, for I had begun to see her in a very different light.” He shrugged. “Maybe she had changed, or maybe I had previously been simply too naive. What I did see was that she was toying with the young man – Kit – as she had with me all those years ago. He was neither so young or so naïve as I had been that time in Luxor, but still, I could see he was dazzled by her. She was playing him off against Lord Wycombe – in the same way she had once played me off against him.” Iskander paused dramatically.
“Trying to make Wycombe–”
“Jealous? Exactly, Miss Nina. Well, finally, I lost my patience. I had not come all that way to be fobbed off. I wanted a full admission from her, an apology – and I wanted it then. I told her at her birthday party that I would wait no longer, that if she would not agree to give an explanation that satisfied me, I would go straight to her husband. I could see she was frightened by that. She told me to meet her in the conservatory after the party was over. So, after the last guest had departed, I went there and waited. And waited. I stayed there until the house should grow silent. But there was much noise, which went on for a long time. There were many comings and goings, mostly, I think, due to the exuberance of the young people. Because there had been elderly people at the celebration, who left early, the party was over too soon for them, before it came to its natural end and everyone was tired enough to go straight to bed and sleep soundly.”
He smiled faintly. “I had heard of what went on at those country house parties, but that night there were no unattached lady guests and the daughters of the house were of unexceptionable character. No, I believed Beatrice was waiting until all had settled before she came down, so I curbed my impatience. I sat and smoked until the butler – what was his name? Ah yes, Mr Albrighton – came in on his rounds, to check that everything was secure for the night. He asked me politely if there
was anything I required but I said no, I would finish my cigarette and then go to bed. He turned off all the lamps but one, bade me a civil goodnight, and I was left alone again.
“When it became apparent she was not going to come, I put out my cigarette and sat quietly, thinking about what I should do. I must have fallen into a trance, or I may have dozed. When I came to, I was stiff and cramped. I stood up, ready to retire to my room, when I heard someone come in through the very door that Albrighton had just locked. I drew back a little, into the shadows behind a large plant, but I must have made some sound, for I suddenly felt myself seized roughly by the shoulders and pulled forward into what light there was.
“‘Take your hands off me, Copley.' I had recognised my assailant as the chauffeur.
“He gave a curse. ‘What were you doing, hiding there in the dark – sir.' The last word was added as an afterthought, servant that he was. The insolence of his tone was not to be believed, but he had never shown me any respect, having all the Englishman's distrust of ‘foreigners'. He added, with a little more prudence, but hardly less insolently, that I had startled him, he hadn't seen me sitting there in the shadows. Which was clearly meant to be – and was – taken as a reference to the colour of my skin.
“‘What are you doing in here this time of night?' I asked. In the dim lamplight, he looked wild and dangerous – and, I thought, not a little afraid.
“It was then that I saw why he might have reason to be – for he had a companion with him. ‘My sister and I wanted to have a private word, sir.'
“His sister, that was a rich invention! The woman who had been standing behind him, and who had said not a word was Beatrice's maid, Clara Hallam. I knew the woman well, but disliked her none the less for all that – we had, after all, spent several weeks together in the close confines of the dahabeah. What the pair of them were doing there was none of my business, or indeed, how they had entered through the conservatory door when I had just seen the butler lock it. I assumed an assignation between the two – and that the chauffeur had no doubt at some time had a key cut for his own purposes. It was
apparent they had been up to no good, but that was not my concern, I had other, more important, things to think of.
“‘I will not mention this to anyone,' I told them. ‘I am leaving' — I glanced at my watch, it was nearly three in the morning - ‘by the earliest train.' For this was the decision I had come to. It was a sad end to my bold enterprise, but during my long vigil, I had seen how futile my hopes were. After closely observing her behaviour towards the two men she had been flirting with that evening, under her husband's very nose, seeing how she enjoyed the spice of danger, I had come to the conclusion that I was not going to get the explanation I had come to England for, much less an apology, from Beatrice Jardine. She had merely been putting me off all this time. If necessary, she would have gone to Amory herself, to put him against me before I had the chance to speak. For all his reserve, anyone could see he was besotted with her and would have believed her rather than me. More importantly, I believed that now the explanation for her previous – and her present – conduct, was self-evident. She was in love with Lord Wycombe, and he with her, though I had seen that all was not well between them. I disliked Wycombe as heartily as I believe he disliked me, but I believed him to be a man of honour. I guessed he was guilty about carrying on an affair with his friend's wife, reluctant to continue – or resume – what I believed had begun in Egypt. I saw that she was again trying to make him jealous, this time by using the young fellow Kit as she had once used me. I think, perhaps, until that time in Luxor, Wycombe had resisted her but, recalling vividly how she had run into his arms after pretending I had violated her, how tenderly he had held her … yes, I am certain that was when it had begun.”
“‘I'll say no more about this,' I repeated to the chauffeur, ‘But you will drive me to the station to catch the first train to London in the morning.'
“We looked at each other and he knew that I was capable of carrying out my threat. Which he obviously had every reason to be afraid of. His ‘sister' had said not a word throughout.
“‘Not in the motorcar,' Copley said, ‘The trap will have to do.'
“And with that I had to be content. Thus did I leave Charnley. My hopes dashed …”
It could only be a good omen, the letter which arrived for Harriet that morning from Tony Bentham's solicitor, lifting some of the gloom occasioned by that encounter with Clara Hallam the previous day. The solicitor informed her that Tony had met and married an Australian woman in South America, would not be returning to England and therefore had no further need of his cottage. Harriet was to be given first refusal to buy it, and whatever of its contents might have taken her fancy.
 
This was something she hadn't dared to hope for, yet now that the opportunity presented itself it hit her like a blow to the stomach that much as she loved the cottage, buying it would mean commitment to the kind of life she wasn't sure she wanted to be permanent. Finding somewhere like this had filled a need, but was she prepared to spend the rest of her life pottering about in this quiet village where nothing happened? Was that what she really wanted? Unsettled, baffled by her own disconcerting change of heart, she made herself a cup of coffee, putting off a decision for the time being. The travellers - Tom and Nina – were due to land any time now from Egypt and before they arrived, she wanted to get her mind straight about the packet Hallam had thrust into her hands.
 
It constituted a disjointed collection of small snippets and snatches, written at various times in the weeks just prior to her mother's death, almost as though Beatrice had felt compelled to use her Egyptian journal in an attempt to finish the story begun there, to close the circle.
‘I have had a letter from Valery Iskander,'
the first of the pages began,
‘and am at my wits' end to know what to do. It gave me such a shock that I was prostrate for a whole day after reading it, lying in my darkened bedroom with one of my headaches. Neither smelling
salts, eau-de-cologne nor Hallam's tisanes helped in the least. He wants to come and see me here, at Charnley! I had thought that was all behind me, that terrible time in Luxor …'
Then later:
‘Nothing must be allowed to disturb the sweet tenor of our lives – so dearly fought for, so hardly won – yet still so precarious! It would kill Amory to find out what started in Egypt, what has continued, albeit only occasionally, but I am afraid that Iskander will betray me to him. The only way is to invite him here, to see what I can to do prevent that happening.'
Later still:
‘He is here. He frightens me to the depths of my being. I look at those cold, light eyes and I believe he is quite capable of killing me if I do not do as he wants. But if I do, I shall be held up to ridicule, and as for my husband …
‘Amory frightens me, too. For all we have been married these five-and-twenty years I do not believe I truly understand him. Beneath his reserve, I know there is a depth of passion I can no longer arouse. I have tried, God knows I have tried, but all too often he puts me aside when I move towards him, as if I had suggested something shameful. Without physical connection, what is there to hold him to me? It maddens me to distraction, for I am still attractive to other men. I have not yet, like Millie, lost my looks. Yet it is only by the reassurances of men like Kit, like Iskander eleven years ago, and in a sense by Myles, that I am able to keep the fear at bay. There are times when I wonder if Amory suspects, times when I am sure he does, for what else can explain his indifference to me?'
Another entry, different ink:
‘Oh, God, what am I to do? If Iskander forces me to tell the truth, Amory will see it as a humiliation to himself, which is the one thing above all others that he cannot stand.'
The next page was written in such haste, or distress, every stroke of the headlong writing expressing frustration and fear, that it was barely decipherable.
‘Valery Iskander is no longer the eager boy who danced attendance on me and stroked my hands and told me foolish, allegorical stories of princesses and crocodiles and how the sand obscures the shape of whatever lies beneath it. Perhaps not so foolish, at that. Perhaps he was saying how lies can obscure the reality. It was pleasant then to encourage his admiration, and rather daring, though of course nothing could have come of an association with him. I wonder that I never saw under that soft exterior and wide
smile, a purpose which to me, at least, is terrifying. What madness came over me in Luxor? I can only feel that I was driven to it by that terrifying experience in the temple – whether it was real or whether I did indeed imagine that hand — that flesh and blood hand – cupping my breast. But I cannot excuse what I did later, in the garden of the hotel. I was made mad by Myles' stubborn refusal to admit there was anything more between us than a temporary desire which we should fight. I would have done anything to break his resistance — and at least my histrionics succeeded. His chivalry overcame his scruples when I rushed into his arms. Later, he came to my room for the first time.
‘I know that his regard for Amory has always held him back from committing himself to me wholeheartedly. But it has always been more than that. He never speaks about his ambivalence towards women in general, which I recognise but unlike most women care nothing about, for on the few occasions we are able to be together, his passion for me is as strong as mine for him.'
Several things about Myles that Harriet had begun to consider ever since Kit's letter suddenly seemed to make sense. She wondered how much Vita had ever known.
The last entry merely said
‘Iskander. What am I to do?
'
Squeamish as she felt about doing so, having regard to the intimate nature of the contents, and how it would implicate Wycombe, Harriet knew she must hand the papers over to the police, though she would wait before giving them to Grigsby until Tom came back with Iskander's written testimony of what had happened the night before he left Charnley. In a call from Egypt Tom had confirmed that Iskander had indeed harboured resentments over the Luxor affair, but had not sought revenge. But, she thought –
The shrill sound of the telephone made her jump a mile. When she lifted it, the measured tones of Oscar Schulman came over the line. “Can you come up to London immediately? Your sister needs you — I think you should be with her, Harriet.”
“Oscar? What's happened?”
“It's Wycombe,” he said.
 
Oblivion. Oblivion is all that matters now. Then at last it will be finished.
The water feels shockingly cold as you go in, far colder than you'd imagined it would, despite the clothes you're wearing, though why did you take your shoes off, you old fool? Reflex action, probably, but they would have helped, filled with water and dragged you down. Instead, there's this unspeakable slime underfoot, so disgusting it almost makes you turn back, squelching up through your toes, and there's waterweed twisting itself obscenely around your legs, sharp stones that threaten to cut your feet to ribbons, though you can hardly feel that for the cold – and anyway, what does it matter now? The water will soon come to your waist – chest – chin – into your mouth and nose, until your ears are filled with a great, ceaseless roaring. And then – nothing.
Will there be last minute regrets, causing you to panic and fight helplessly, too late, against what you have chosen to do?
It's not too late to turn back, even now.
But that would defeat the object, go against all you decided to do, years ago, if matters reached this point. Yes, there will certainly be a struggle. A few violent moments when that primitive urge to hold on to life causes you to fight, despite yourself. Courage! The moments will pass. Soon, soon, it will be over. Everything. Over. Done with. All that.
And then there will be nothing left except this useless old body that will sink into the stinking mud at the bottom, where it rightly belongs, along with the frogs and toads or whatever other pondlife lives here. Where it ought to be left to rot and disintegrate, though you know that will not happen. You've read about people who drown. Fish will nibble at your flesh and your eyes, the skin on your hands will wrinkle like that of the washerwoman who used to come once a week to boil linen in the copper and scrub shirt-collars and cuffs against the rubbing board in the steaming tubs. Then gases will fill your body and bring it to the surface, where it will float quietly on the still water, bloated and obscene, until, sooner or later, some unfortunate soul finds it.
But you will at last be absolved of guilt. Maybe I shall at last be forgiven.
 
Linus Grigsby was not a happy man. He sat in the pub, alone, a pile of unread notes in front of him, staring down into his beer, leaving his pork pie lunch as yet untouched, and contemplated choices he wished he didn't have to make, which of several jobs was to be given priority: certain developments that
morning concerning a warehouse job in Wapping and a consignment of stolen sugar, or the publican who'd been attacked and robbed late last night, on his way to deposit his day's takings in a safe-deposit. Interesting rumours had also reached Grigsby that one of his old enemies had recently extended his criminal activities by entering the West End pornography business. They were all cases more demanding of his immediate attention – not to say more to his inclination – than the Jardine affair. Yet he was uneasy with leaving that one, unsatisfactory as it continued to be, simmering indefinitely on the back burner. For one thing, the Press had got their teeth into it, and scenting scandal, however old, and there not being much in the way of juicy news at the moment, they were prepared to prod it back into life. Society stories – even minor society – were always newsworthy, and this one had the added fillip of gruesome overtones by way of the corpse being mummified, and a hint of salacious sex – for had not Beatrice Jardine, exemplar of white, upper class xenophobia, been assumed to have run away with
an Egyptian?
The Press were not about to let go this titbit, in fact they were all set to have a field day. And although the investigation was yet in its infancy, several letters to
The Times
had already been brought to Grigsby's attention, pertinently demanding whether justice was not being allowed to lapse, hinting that questions should be asked in high places and alerting the powers that be to the dangers of letting the matter slide into oblivion.
But Grigsby had a nasty feeling that part of the problem lay within himself. However he might hate unfinished business, and however much he might privately think the solution was clear as day, the result of the old eternal triangle, he couldn't rid himself of the feeling that something, somewhere was escaping him. He'd had a clear picture in his own mind from the beginning of what had happened on the night of June 21st 1910: to wit, Amory Jardine surprising his wife in flagrante delicto with her lover, and killing, first her, then, later, himself. Nothing so far had given him cause to think otherwise – except for the question of why Jardine hadn't killed the lover also while he was at it. But there it was, a niggle that remained at the back of his mind.
He sighed and turned to the notes. It was all there, in his own confident, sprawling handwriting and in Fairchild's neatly typed pages, all of it pointing to the fact that the clue to the murder lay in the nature of the victim herself. On the surface she'd led an apparently blameless life – though not when you came down to it. For one thing – why had everyone been so willing to believe, when she had disappeared, that she had bolted with the Egyptian? It came back, every time, to Valery Akhmet Iskander. Grigsby groaned at the thought of what interviewing him at second hand, through the Cairo police, would entail, because of course he couldn't envisage his superintendent giving sanction to any suggestion that Grigsby should go out there himself. Knowing only too well, from his service days in Italy and various other war zones, the wild and woolly excitability that in his opinion stood for competence in most foreign police forces, Grigsby couldn't imagine faring any better with the Egyptian authorities. He thought, though, that he might have to brace himself for doing battle with them in the end. There was no getting away from the fact that Iskander had left Charnley in suspiciously hasty circumstances and, Grigsby asked himself, what had the fellow been doing, staying there in the first place? The Jardines had been nothing if not conventional in their choice of friends and associates and no satisfactory explanation for such an unusual house guest had yet been put forward.
But as to murdering his hostess … For one thing, the padre, Sacheverell, had seen her in a compromising situation on the balcony of her room with Wycombe at about twelve-thirty, near as dammit, if he was to be believed.
Myles Randolph, Lord Wycombe. He was the wild card, able to be given any value the holder pleases. The family friend, the valued uncle. Grigsby had known other ‘uncles' like that. Beatrice Jardine's daughter, Vita, however, had sworn that she and her young man had heard sounds coming from the unoccupied room where the corpse had eventually been found only half an hour later than Sacheverell had seen the lovers together on her balcony. Moreover, Beatrice had been alive at about 2 a.m. when Vita had heard her maid, Hallam, saying goodnight to her. This established parameters for the
time of death, but didn't necessarily, in Grigsby's book, exonerate Wycombe. There was nothing to prevent him having gone back after that and killing her.

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