The Shivering Sands (15 page)

“I did not say that, Mrs. Verlaine. I merely said that you reminded me of the poor unfortunate lady.”

“You knew her well?”

“The dedication was obvious. One did not need to be on familiar terms with her to be aware of it.”

I said recklessly: “What happened to her?”

“You are asking for my theory?”

“If you have nothing better to offer.”

“But why should you imagine I should have more than a theory to offer?”

“You have met her. You saw her. Perhaps you have some notion of the sort of woman she was…”

“Or is,” he said. “No need to speak of her in the past tense. We cannot be sure that she is dead. I’m inclined to think she went off on some project. But it is a mystery. Perhaps it will always be a mystery. There are many unsolved mysteries in the world, Mrs. Verlaine. And this one…perhaps it’s a warning to let the past alone.”

“One which every archaeologist will, I am sure, ignore.”

“I can tell by your tone that you thoroughly approve. So you think it is good to probe into the past?”

“Surely you admit that archaeologists are doing valuable work?”

He smiled at me, that slow maddening smile which I was beginning to hate.

“So you don’t,” I said heatedly.

“I did not say so. I was not in fact thinking of archaeologists. You have become obsessed by this young woman. I merely said do you think it is good to probe the past? Pasts are something we all have. They are not the prerogative of these scrabblers in the dust.”

“Our personal pasts are our own concern, I think. It is only the historic past which should be revealed.”

“A fine distinction—for who made the historic past but the individuals? I was being impertinent—a not unusual habit of mine—and was suggesting that you, like myself, would doubtless prefer to forget the past. Ah, you find me…indelicate. I should not have said that. One does not say such things in polite society. It is ‘What a fine day today, Mrs. Verlaine? The wind is not so cold as it was yesterday.’ Then we discuss the weather of the last few weeks and pass on pleasantly unruffled, and we might just as well never have spoken. So you object to bluntness.”

“You leap to conclusions, do you not? As for bluntness I find that those who pride themselves on being frank usually apply the term to their own plain speaking. They often have another for other people’s—rudeness.”

He laughed—little lights shooting up in his eyes. “I will prove to you that that is not the case with me. I will speak plainly about myself. What have you heard of me, Mrs. Verlaine? I know. I murdered my brother. That’s what you have heard.”

“I have heard there was an accident.”

“That is what is commonly known as being couched in diplomatic terms.”

“I was not attempting to be diplomatic. I was merely speaking frankly. I had heard that there was a fatal accident. I know that these occur.”

He lifted his shoulders and put his head on one side.

“And,” I said, “although they are deeply deplored, they should be forgotten.”

“This was no ordinary accident Mrs. Verlaine. The death of the heir of the house—handsome, charming, well beloved. Shot dead by his brother—who became the heir to the house and was neither handsome, charming, nor well beloved.”

“Perhaps he could have become so…had he tried.”

He laughed and I heard the terrible bitterness in the laughter, and my opinion of him changed a little in that moment. He was cruel, he was sadistic, because he was taking his revenge on a world which had treated him so badly. I was actually sorry for the man.

I said, rather gently I supposed: “No one should be blamed for what was done accidentally.”

He came closer to me—those eyes, so brilliantly blue, so startling in the bronzed face, looked into mine. “But how can you be sure that it was done accidentally? How could they?”

“But of course it was,” I said.

“Such sentiments expressed so forcibly by a sensible young woman are very flattering.”

I opened my coat to look at the watch pinned to my dress.

“I see it is nearly half-past three.”

I moved toward the door, but he remained in his position between me and it.

“You,” he said, “know so much about our family. Yet I know so little about you.”

“I cannot believe that you would wish to. As to what I have learned—I know very little beyond what you have just told me. I am here in the capacity of music teacher, not family historian and biographer.”

“But how interesting it would be if you were here in that latter capacity. Perhaps I should suggest this to my father. What a chronicle you would be able to produce. The shooting of my brother…why even the disappearance of our archaeologist. It all happened hereabouts.”

“Music is my profession.”

“But you have such a vital interest in everything concerning us all. You are fascinated by the disappearing lady…simply because she disappeared here.”

“No…”

“No? You would have been equally interested if she had gone somewhere else to disappear?”

“Mysteries are always intriguing.”

“Far more so, I agree, than a straightforward shooting. There can be little doubts about the motive behind that.”

“Accidents are without motive. They just…happen.”

“So you have very kindly convinced yourself that it was an accident. Perhaps later you will change your mind, when you have listened to what certain people have to tell you.”

He puzzled me. I wondered why my opinion should be of importance to him. My desire to get away had completely left me. I wanted to stay and talk to him. In a strange way he reminded me of Pietro, who would sometimes lash himself into a state of nervous despair over some critical judgment of his work which he declared he didn’t believe.

I must have softened, thinking of Pietro, for Napier went on: “I’ve been away for a long time, Mrs. Verlaine. I’ve been on a cousin’s property in the outback of Australia. So you must forgive me if I lack your English diplomacy. I would like to tell you my version of the…accident. Will you listen to me?”

I nodded.

“Imagine two boys…well, hardly boys. Beaumont was almost nineteen, I was nearly seventeen. Everything Beaumont did was perfect; everything I did was suspect. Quite rightly so. He was the white sheep; I was the black one. Black sheep become resentful—they grow as black as people believe them to be…so this black sheep grew blacker and blacker until one day he picked up a gun and shot his brother.”

If he had shown some emotion I should have felt happier; but he spoke in a calm, cold-blooded way and the thought came into my mind: It was
not
an accident.

“It happened a long time ago…” I began uneasily.

“There are events in life which will never be forgotten. Your husband died. He was very famous. I am, as you so kindly pointed out, a Philistine, with no drawing-room accomplishments, yet even I have heard your late husband’s name. And you are also talented.” His eyes scanned my face lightly and he said mockingly: “That must have been idyllic.”

And as he spoke I saw Pietro, his eyes full of rage because of some slight to his genius; I heard his voice taunting me…And I thought: This man knows what my marriage was like and he is trying to spoil my memories. He is cruel after all. He likes to destroy. He wants to mutilate my dream…and he wants to hurt Edith. He would hurt me if he could, but I am beyond him except when he sneers at my marriage.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he remarked, and he implied that he understood what I was feeling. It was as though he were peering into my past, that he heard Pietro’s mocking laughter. “I have reminded you of what you would prefer to forget.”

The quietness of his voice was somehow more cutting than his sneers would have been because I was aware of the cynical undercurrents.

I said: “I really must go. I have lessons to prepare.”

“I will accompany you back to the house,” he told me.

“Oh…there is no need.”

“I am walking that way, unless, of course, you would prefer I did not walk with you?”

“I see no reason why I should.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Verlaine.” He gave me a little ironic bow. “My heartfelt gratitude.”

He opened the door and stood aside for me to pass down the stairs. The foolish uneasy feeling remained with me. I did not like to think of his walking close behind me. He had unnerved me by his near confession that he had killed his brother. He seemed to glory in it. Or did he? I was not sure. The man was an enigma. But that was no concern of mine. But was it? He had been here when Roma had been here. He had known her, spoken to her. “You remind me of her, Mrs. Verlaine,” he had said.

I breathed more easily when we had left the cottage.

As we passed close to the excavations he said quite suddenly: “We didn’t hear much about the family. The parents I believed had been killed in the service of archaeology.”

“What?”

“Our mysterious lady, of course. Would it surprise you if she turned up one day…in an absentminded way? It drew attention to her discoveries, you know. People came to see the place where the lady disappeared, not the remains of Roman occupation.”

I said warmly: “You should not credit her with such intention. I am sure she did not deserve them.”

“But how can you be so sure?”

“I…I don’t think those people are like that.”

“You have a kind heart and believe the best of everyone. What a comforting person to have around.”

He began to talk about the discoveries and I gathered that he was well acquainted with them. He mentioned particularly the mosaic pavement. The colors he believed were as bright as anything that had been found in Britain.

I said unthinkingly: “An application of linseed oil and exposure to the sun helps a great deal.” I was unconsciously quoting Roma. “Although, of course, the colors would be brighter still if they had been exposed to a tropical sun.”

“How knowledgeable you are!” Another false step. This man unnerved me in a strange way. He was smiling and I caught the gleam of his teeth—as startling in their whiteness as his blue eyes in that brown face. “You’re not a secret archaeologist, are you?”

I laughed…but uneasily.

“You are not down here on a secret mission, are you?” he pursued the point. “You won’t creep out in the night and begin delving under the foundations of our house?”

I thought: Does he know? And if so what will he do about it? He killed his brother. What does he know about Roma’s disappearance?

I said as calmly as I could: “If you had the slightest knowledge of archaeology you would quickly discover that I know practically nothing. It’s common knowledge that the sun and linseed oil restore color.”

“Not all that common. I was unaware of it. But perhaps I am unusually ill-informed.”

The house loomed before us, magnificent against the background of blue sea.

“One thing my family shared with the Romans,” he said. “They knew how to choose a good building site.”

“It’s wonderful,” I said, softened by the sight.

“I am glad you approve of our dwelling.”

“You must be proud to belong to such a house.”

“I would prefer to say that the house belongs to us. You are thinking of the stories those bricks could tell if they could talk. You are a romantic, Mrs. Verlaine.” Pietro again. The romantic under the facade of worldliness…Did it show so clearly then in spite of all I had done to suppress it since I lost Pietro? “But in fact,” he went on, “it’s a mercy the bricks don’t talk. What they say might be very shocking. But you believe the best of people don’t you, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“I try to…until the worst is proved.”

“A philosopher as well as a musician. What a combination!”

“You are laughing at me.”

“Sometimes it is very pleasant to laugh. But I cannot hope that your beneficent attitude extends to me. When the mark of the beast is as clearly defined, the most kindly philosophers must accept it.”

“The mark of the beast…” I echoed.

“Oh yes, it was put on me when I killed my brother.” He put his hand to his forehead. “It’s there, you know…No one fails to see it. You will if you look, Mrs. Verlaine. And if you do not see it there will be plenty to point it out.”

I said: “You should not talk in that way. You sound…bitter.”

“I?” He opened his eyes wide and laughed. “No…only realistic. You will see. And once the mark of the beast is set upon a man…or woman…only a miracle can remove it.”

The sun was shining on the water and it was as though a giant hand had scattered diamonds over it. Across that dazzling strip of water I could just make out the masts on the Goodwins. I looked down on the towns in the distance and from this spot it seemed as though the houses were falling into the sea.

Neither of us spoke.

He left me in the courtyard and I went up to my room feeling very disturbed by the encounter.

Later that afternoon, having half an hour to spare, I went into the gardens. I had had an opportunity of exploring them and although I admired the terraces and the parterres my favorite spot was the little enclosed garden which I had discovered on my first day. A luscious green Virginia creeper covered one wall and I imagined the splash of scarlet it would be with the coming of the autumn. Inside these four walls there was peace and I felt I needed to be alone to think, for Napier Stacy had disturbed me more than I cared to admit.