The Shivering Sands

8

During the following weeks when I continued to avoid Napier, it occurred to me that everyone was taking the explanation of Edith’s disappearance too much for granted, and I was astonished at the attitude in the house. Mrs. Lincroft was solely concerned with nursing Sir William. Perhaps it was Mrs. Lincroft who jostled everyone into accepting the explanation because she wanted the matter put aside and forgotten—for Sir William’s sake, of course. But the girls were always whispering about it. I would catch Edith’s name often when I came upon them; then they would look a little embarrassed and talk of something else.

In the village they went on discussing the disappearance of Edith; but they were all convinced too that she had gone off with her lover. The story was embellished as the weeks passed.

I heard Mrs. Bury whispering to one of her customers. “They say she left a note telling them she couldn’t live with that Nap any more. Poor thing!”

It was amazing how these rumors, which had no word of truth in them, could start.

“It was the curse on the house,” I heard Mrs. Bury say on another occasion. “You see it should have been Master Beau’s by rights. And Mr. Nap came home and took his place. Oh I know she went off with the curate. It’s what they call predestination…part of the curse, you see.”

Whenever anyone from the house appeared it would set tongues wagging. Once I saw the three girls in Mrs. Bury’s shop I guessed she was talking to them about the curse on Lovat Stacy and Edith’s disappearance. There was an air of guilty conspiracy about them all.

I thought a great deal about Napier and that conversation when he had told me that he was not indifferent to me. I wondered how sincerely he meant those words. He had seemed genuine but this could be a method of approach. I was a woman and a widow, experienced of life. He was not free to make any honorable declaration—no more now than then. Yet he had made a declaration of a sort, and if I were wise I would stop thinking of him. But it was true that I was struggling out of my own slough of despondency as perhaps he was…if I could believe him…and it was partly due to him. Whatever I thought of him he had given me a new interest in life and because I was not thinking of Pietro every hour of the day it was rather like seeing a faint light at the end of a dark tunnel through which one had struggled for a long time—and being afraid of what one might find in the light.

I had promised myself that I would never be involved again. If I had visualized another life, marriage, children, a home of my own, I had seen my husband as a shadowy figure. I should be fond of him, but I would never give him the power to hurt me as Pietro had hurt me. Not only in dying and leaving me alone, but in our life together. Yes, I was admitting the hurts now, the carelessness, the lack of tenderness, the ruthless squandering of my career for his. This admission was new and—I must face it—it had come through my relationship with Napier. But children…I longed for children. With them I could build a new life. I might be freeing myself from my past but Napier was chained to his as surely as he had been when Edith was in the house.

Her memory was more vivid than she had been herself. Her clothes were still in the wardrobe and her room was just as she had left it. There were now Beau’s room and Edith’s room; but Edith’s would not be a shrine as Beau’s had been. I was sure that as soon as Mrs. Lincroft had nursed Sir William back to health something would be done.

And then the new curate arrived and everyone had something else to talk about. Edith’s “elopement with the curate” was still a topic of conversation but not now of paramount importance. Mr. Godfrey Wilmot had replaced her.

Mrs. Rendall came over to Lovat Stacy to talk to Mrs. Lincroft and me about Mr. Wilmot. She was clearly delighted with him.

“What great good fortune! I am glad now that we rid ourselves of that—of that—well, no matter. Mr. Wilmot is here now. The most charming man, and the vicar has taken such a fancy to him.”

Poor vicar, I thought, obviously he dare do nothing else.

“Oh yes,” continued Mrs. Rendall, “I have no doubt you will agree we have a find in Mr. Wilmot. Such a charming young man!” She beamed on us both and whispered: “He is thirty. Such good family. His uncle is Sir Laurence, the judge. Of course he will have a very good living in time. The reason he hasn’t one already is because he made a late decision to come into the Church. We shan’t keep him very long, I fear.” She smiled rather coyly. “Though I shall do my best to make him so happy that he doesn’t want to leave us. You must come to the vicarage to meet him. He is delighted, by the way, to help in the instruction of the girls.”

Mrs. Lincroft said that she was eager to meet the new curate and it was most satisfactory that he should satisfy Mrs. Rendall’s requirements so completely.

“I believe,” said Mrs. Rendall, “that Mr. Brown’s desertion is going to prove a blessing in disguise.”

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?”

“You remind me of Roma. You become completely…absorbed in all this.”

He smiled that frank and engaging smile. “Don’t forget,” he said, “we are looking for clues.”

“Young widows,” said Allegra, “are said to be very fascinating.”

The girls were in the schoolroom at Lovat Stacy and Sylvia had come over for a piano lesson. I had walked in to remind Allegra that it was time for her lesson. She was never punctual. They were seated at the table and looked rather startled when I entered.

“We were talking about widows,” said Allegra saucily.

“You should’ve been thinking about your lesson. Have you done your practice?”

“No,” replied Allegra.

“And you Alice, and you Sylvia?”

“Yes, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“They are the good girls,” mocked Allegra. “They always do as they’re told.”

“It’s often wiser,” I put in. “Now Allegra.”

Allegra wriggled in her chair. “Do you like Mr. Wilmot, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“Like him? Of course I like him. I believe he is a very good curate.”

“I think he likes you.” She turned her withering gaze on Sylvia. “And he does not like you one little bit. He thinks you’re a silly little girl. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Verlaine? He’s probably told you what he thinks of Sylvia.”

“I don’t agree, and he has never mentioned Sylvia to me. I am sure he likes her very well. At least she tries with her lessons, which is more than some people do.”

Allegra burst out laughing, and Sylvia and Alice looked embarrassed.

“Of course he doesn’t like silly girls. He likes widows.”

“I see you are trying to delay your lesson. It’s quite useless. Now…come along.”

Allegra rose. “All the same,” she said, “widows are attractive. I’m sure of it. It’s on account of having had a husband and lost him. I shall be very glad when I have had a husband.”

“What nonsense!”

I led the way to the music room conscious of those three pairs of eyes studying me.

How often, I asked myself, did those three pairs of eyes watch me when I was unaware of it.

I came face to face with Napier on the wide staircase which led to the hall. “I scarcely see you now—since Edith went.”

“No,” I answered.

“I want to talk to you.”

“What do you wish to say?”

“Nothing here. Not in this house.” His voice had sunk to a whisper. “Ride out to Hunters Knoll this afternoon. I’ll see you there at half-past two.”

I was about to protest, but he said: “I’ll be waiting there,” and passed on.

I was aware of the silence of the house about us. And I wondered if anyone had seen us meet and exchange a few words on the stairs.

He was there waiting for me.

“So you have come,” were his first words.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I wasn’t certain. What have you been thinking these last weeks?”

“Wondering chiefly what has become of Edith.”

“She has gone off with her lover.” It was a cold statement of fact; he showed no rancor, no emotion.

“Do you believe that?”

“What else can I believe!”

“There could be other explanations.”

“This seems the most likely. There is something I want to say to you…I suppose because I don’t want you to think too badly of me. When I married her I believed we could make something of our marriage. I want you to know that I did try to do this. So did she, I believe. But it was just not possible.”

I was silent and he went on: “I suspected that she was in love with the curate. I don’t blame her. I am sure I was the one to blame. But I don’t want you to think that I was callous…calculating…not completely so, anyway. She could not endure her life here. I understand that. So she went away. Let us take it from there.”

I was glad that he had said that because I believed him. He had not been unkind to her as I had at first thought. He had merely been struggling—clumsily perhaps—with an impossible situation.

“What did you wish to say to me?” I asked.

“That you should not avoid me as you have been doing.”

“Have I? I did not do so consciously. I’ve simply not seen you. I could say that you have been avoiding me.”

“If I’ve done so, you know the reason. But now we have this Mr. Wilmot.”

“What of him?”

“He is by all accounts a very attractive young man.”

“Mrs. Rendall seems to think so and she is not easily pleased.” I spoke lightly, but he did not enter into my mood.

“I’ve heard that you and he have quickly become good friends.”

“He is interested in music.”

“And you’ve both discovered a passion for archaeology.”

“So has Mrs. Rendall.”

He was determined that no lightness should enter the conversation.

“He is no doubt charming.”

“No doubt.”

“You would know.”

“We have known each other such a short time, but yes, I should say he would be a very charming companion.”

“I hope you will not do anything…rash…commit yourself….”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you should not be impulsive, Caroline. Be patient.”

We both heard the sound of horses’ hoofs together, and almost immediately three riders came into sight. Allegra, Alice and Sylvia.

I thought: They must have seen me leave and followed me.

Allegra confirmed this. She called out: “We saw you leave, Mrs. Verlaine, and we wanted to come with you. Do you mind?”

Alice had stumbled through the Czerny Study and looked at me expectantly.

“Not bad, but there’s plenty of room for improvement.”

She nodded sadly.

“Well,” I went on consolingly, “you do take pains and you are getting on.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Verlaine.” She looked down at her hands and said: “The lights have started again.”

“What?”

“The lights in the chapel. I saw them last night. It’s the first time…since Edith…went.”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry too much about it if I were you.”

“I don’t worry, Mrs. Verlaine. I just feel a little scared.”

“No harm will come to you.”

“But there really does seem to be a curse on the house, doesn’t there?”

“Certainly not.”

“But there were all those deaths. It started when Mr. Napier shot Beau. Do you think it’s true that Beau has never forgiven him?”

“What nonsense. And I’m surprised at you, Alice. I thought you had more sense.”

Alice looked ashamed. “It’s what everyone says…that’s all.”

“Everyone?” I repeated.

“The servants say it. They say it in the village. They see the light and say it. They say that there will never be any peace until Mr. Napier goes away again. I think that’s unkind, don’t you? I mean it would make Mr. Napier unhappy if he heard…and I think he has heard because he does look unhappy, doesn’t he? But perhaps he’s thinking of Edith.”

“Your head seems to be filled with a lot of silly gossip,” I said. “No wonder you don’t make progress with your music.”

“But you said I was making progress, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“More progress,” I added.

“So you don’t think it’s Beau who is haunting the chapel?”

“Of course not.”

“I know what Mrs. Verlaine thinks.” It was Allegra coming for her lesson, punctual for once. “She thinks I do it. Don’t you, Mrs. Verlaine? You think I’m playing tricks.”

“I hope you would never do anything so foolish.”

“But you suspect me, don’t you? Do you know what I am? I’m an object of suspicion.”

“I know it isn’t Allegra,” said Alice. “I’ve seen the light when Allegra has been with me.”

Allegra grimaced at me.

“We’ll show you,” she said.

“And now,” I said, “perhaps you will show me how well you have done your practice.”

The opportunity to “show me” came a little too soon for my peace of mind. That very evening I was in my room when Allegra burst in. She was very excited. “Now, Mrs. Verlaine. Alice and I saw the light only a moment ago.”

Alice was at the door. “May I come in, Mrs. Verlaine?”

I gave permission and the two girls stood before me.

“A moment ago,” cried Allegra. “We could see it from your window, but it’s better from Alice’s.”

I followed them up the stairs to Alice’s bedroom; she lighted a candle and held it up to the window. She stood there for some moments until I said: “Do put that candle down, Alice. You’ll set the curtains on fire.”

Obediently she set it down and lighted another.

While she was doing so, Allegra caught the sleeve of my dress and whispered: “Look. There it is.”

And there it was. The light flashing momentarily and then disappearing.

“I’m going to see who’s there,” I said.

Alice caught my sleeve, her eyes agonized. “Oh no, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“Someone is playing tricks, I’m sure of it. Who’ll volunteer to come with me?”

Alice looked at Allegra, her face visibly blanching. “I’d be terrified,” she said.

“So would I,” replied Allegra.

“Until we discover who it is playing these tricks you will go on being terrified.”

I moved toward the door. I was not going to admit that I was uneasy myself. A sudden idea had come to me, and it startled me. What if there was something so mysterious going on in this house that I had no notion as to what it could be? In that moment I experienced what I can only call a premonition and it was as though Roma herself was warning me.

“Be careful. You know how impulsive you always were.”

She had said something like that to me on many occasions and I could distinctly hear her voice in my mind.

I had a friend now, an ally. Wouldn’t it be wise to enlist the help of Godfrey Wilmot before trying to discover the reason for this strange phenomenon?

One of the candles suddenly went out; and it was immediately followed by the other; the room was almost in darkness.

Alice said shrilly: “It’s a sign, Mrs. Verlaine. It’s a warning, the two candles going out like that when there was no draft.”

“You blew them out.”

“I didn’t, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I turned to Allegra. “She didn’t either,” declared Alice. “They went out of their own accord. Strange things happen in this house, you know. It’s on account of all that happened all those years ago. It was a warning. We mustn’t go to the ruin. Something awful would happen if we did.”

As she lighted the candles I saw her hands were trembling.

“Alice,” I said, “you are letting your imagination run riot again.”

She nodded gloomily. “I can’t help it, Mrs. Verlaine. Ideas come to me. I wish they wouldn’t…and then I think what could be and sometimes it’s frightening.”

“You ought to live in some little house where nothing has ever happened,” said Allegra.

“No, no. I want to live here. I don’t mind being frightened now and then as long as I can live here.”

She turned to the window and stood looking out. I went to stand beside her.

We were both watching the copse; but the light did not appear again.

The candles burned steadily and Alice turned to look at them with satisfaction.

“You see they’re all right now. It was a warning. Oh, Mrs. Verlaine, don’t ever go to the ruin alone in the dark.”

I said: “I should like to get to the bottom of the silly affair.”

I was relieved however that it was not Allegra; and it occurred to me then that it might be one of the menservants signaling to one of the women.

I had met Godfrey in the cottage near the site. Because of his interest in archaeology he was frequently there and we had made the cottage a rendezvous.

I sat on the stairs and he perched himself on the table while we talked about Roma. I told him of her delight in this place because it was so close to the remains and how, when I had stayed here, I had tried to instill a little domestic comfort.

“Not,” I said, “that one could cook much, but there was an oil stove which she kept in the little outhouse. It smelled abominably—but perhaps that was mainly the drum of paraffin oil she kept there. Oh, what a relief it is to talk of Roma!”

“What could have happened?” he asked. “Let’s think of all the possibilities. Let’s explore them—one by one.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing ever since I heard. I explore and reject. What was that?” I was sure the room had darkened suddenly. I had my back to the tiny window and so had Godfrey. It was so small that the cottage was always dark but in that moment it had become a degree darker.

“Someone was at the window,” I whispered.

In a second or two we were at the door, but there was no one in sight.

“Why,” said Godfrey, “you’re really scared.”

“It’s the thought of being overlooked…when I’m not aware of it.”

“Well, whoever it is can’t be far away.”

We hurried round the cottage, but found no trace of anyone.

“It must have been a cloud passing across the face of the sun,” said Godfrey.

I looked up at the sky. There was scarcely a cloud.

“No one could have got away in time,” he went on. “Roma’s disappearance has unnerved you naturally. It’s made you jumpy.”

I was prepared to concede this. “I shan’t have a moment’s real peace until I know where she is,” I said.

He nodded. “Let’s get out of this place. Let’s have a walk round outside. We can talk as easily there.”

So we went outside and we talked; and after a while I said: “We didn’t look in the outhouse. Someone could have hidden there.”

“If we had we should probably only have found your old oil stove.”

“But I have a strange feeling…”

I didn’t finish. I could see that he was thinking I had imagined the shadow at the window.

It was a few days later when the startling news was revealed. I had met Godfrey at the cottage, talked there for a while and then taken a walk round the site.

Godfrey was growing more and more certain that the answer to Roma’s disappearance at any rate was to be found here. He enjoyed examining minutely the baths and the pavements, looking, he said, for clues. But I knew he delighted in studying them. I mentioned the light to him and told him that the idea had occurred to me that Roma might have gone there to investigate.

But Roma had disappeared during the afternoon. The light could not have been in evidence then. But had she? What if she had gone out in the afternoon, perhaps for a walk—and returned at dusk, saw the light, investigated.

“It was possible,” agreed Godfrey. “We must go to the ruin one evening and wait for the kindler of the light to appear.”

I thought that might be a little compromising in view of the remarks the girls had made; and I believed that Mrs. Rendall was eying me with attention and suspecting me of what she would call “setting my cap” at the curate.

However I did not comment on this and when I said goodbye to Godfrey we were no nearer solving the mystery of Roma’s death than we had ever been.

I came back to Lovat Stacy and as I entered the hall I heard footsteps behind me. I swung round and came face to face with Napier. He looked very tired and strained.

“I have just come back from London,” he said. “There is news.”

“Of Edith?” I said.

“She is not with Jeremy Brown.”

“Not…” I stared at him.

“Jeremy Brown arrived in East Africa—alone.”

“But—”

“We have been quite wrong,” he said, “to suspect that Edith went off with a lover. She did no such thing.”

“Then what?”

He looked at me blankly. “Who can say?” he whispered.

But there were those who had much to say. The secret was soon out, and the village was gossiping about it. The vicar received a letter from Jeremy Brown to say that he had arrived safely and was becoming absorbed in his work. So this was further confirmation that he was alone. Edith had not gone with him. Then where was Edith?

Eyes were turned once more on Lovat Stacy. That house, that unlucky house which many said was cursed.

And why was it cursed? Because a man had killed his brother. They called it the curse of Cain. And because he had killed his brother his mother had died, and now his wife had disappeared. Where could she have gone? Who could say? But perhaps there was one who could.

When a wife met some misadventure, the first person open to suspicion was her husband.

I was aware of the mounting feeling against Napier, and it disturbed me deeply—more so, it appeared, than it disturbed him.

There was wild speculation everywhere. I noticed the way in which everyone was avoiding Napier. Mrs. Lincroft’s expression changed when she spoke of him; her lips tightened. I knew she was thinking of what Edith’s disappearance had done to Sir William and was blaming him for it.

The girls were constantly discussing the affair together, although they did not talk to me very much about it. I wondered what construction they put on it.

Allegra did say on one occasion: “If Sir William died and it was through the shock of Edith’s going…that would be like history’s repeating itself. You know, Beau died and then his mother…”

I retorted sharply: “Who said Edith was dead?”

“No,” cried Alice vehemently. “She’ll come back.”

“I hope so,” I said fervently; and how I hoped it! I wanted Edith to come back more than I had wanted anything since Pietro had died. I tried to work out all sorts of reasons for her disappearance. Amnesia? Why not? She was wandering somewhere because she had lost her memory. What a joy that would be! I did not want Napier to be a murderer. And if Edith had been murdered…

I just would not accept that. But what of Roma?

The strangeness of this—the awful coincidence—struck me afresh. Two young women disappeared in exactly the same manner. They both walked out, saying nothing, taking nothing with them.

It was horribly, frighteningly sinister.

I was deeply concerned. One of those women was my sister; the other the wife of Napier.

I must know. If anything my determination was doubled; and at the same time I thought of them both—no two women could have been more unlike: poor Edith with her ineffectuality, poor frightened Edith; and Roma, the determined, the fearless, the woman who knew exactly where she was going…except perhaps on one occasion.

I don’t care where it leads me, I told myself, I am going to find out.

“Have a care, Caro.” It was Roma’s voice cautioning me. “This could be murder.”

But I would not accept that it was murder even if others did. I could sense the wall of suspicion growing as fast as a jungle bamboo.

I wished that I had not heard that quarrel between Sir William and Napier. I had gone up to play for Sir William again because Mrs. Lincroft had decided that my music soothed him. I did not go through Sir William’s room but straight to the piano in the next, for Mrs. Lincroft had said that he might be dozing and that he liked to wake and hear the music I was playing.

On this occasion as I entered the room I heard the sound of angry voices: Sir William’s and Napier’s.

“I wish to God,” Sir William was saying, “that you’d stayed out there.”

“And I can assure you,” retorted Napier, “that I have no intention of going back.”

“You’ll go if I say, and let me tell you this, there’ll be nothing for you.”

“You’re wrong. I have a right to be here.”

“Listen to me. Where is she, eh? What’s happened to her? Run off with a curate. I knew she’d never do that. Where is she? You tell me, eh?”

I should have slipped away. But I could not. I felt too involved. I had to stand there. I had to listen.

“Why should you think I know?”

“Because you didn’t want her. You married her because there was no other way of coming back. The poor child!”

“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.

Then she shook her head. “No, she can’t come back. She’s dead, poor child. I know it.”

“You can’t be sure,” I repeated.

“Strange things are happening in this house,” she went on. “Don’t you feel it?”

I shook my head.

“You aren’t telling the truth, Mrs. Verlaine. You do feel it. You’re sensitive. I know it. I shall put it in my picture when I paint it. Strange things are going on…and you know it.”

“I wish…oh how I wish Edith would come back!”

“She would if she could. She was always so meek and would do what people wanted. You know what’s happened, don’t you…to William?”

“He’s very ill, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, and all because he came to see who was playing.”

“He knew I was playing.”

“Oh no he did not, Mrs. Verlaine. That’s where you’re wrong. He thought it was someone else.”

“How could he? I play to him often.”

“He chooses the music for you, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I know. He chooses the pieces he likes to hear, pieces which remind him of pleasant things. And now because of what happened Napier will stay. I believe Napier would have had to go but for what had happened. So what is good for Napier is bad for Sir William. One man’s meat, so they say, is another’s poison. Oh how true! How true! Listen to the rain. It rained on St. Swithin’s Day. You know what that means, Mrs. Verlaine. Forty days and forty nights it will rain now…and all because it rained on St. Swithin’s Day.”

She snuffed out the candles. “I like the gloom,” she said. “It fits everything doesn’t it? Tell me what piece you were playing when Sir William came to the doorway.”

“Danse Macabre.”

She shivered. “The Dance of Death. Well, it was nearly, wasn’t it? For Sir William. It’s an eerie piece of music. Did you think it was strange that he should have chosen it?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You would have thought it more strange if you had known it was the last thing Isabella played that day. She sat at the piano all morning and she played it over and over again. And William said: ‘For God’s sake stop playing that mournful thing!’ And she stopped and she went out into the woods and shot herself. It’s never been played in this house since…until you sat at the piano and played it.”

“It was in the music he set for me to play for him.”

“Yes, but he didn’t put it there.”

“Oh! Then who did?”

“That’s what would tell us a great deal. It was someone who wanted Sir William to hear it…to think that it was Isabella come back to haunt him. It was someone who hoped he’d get up from that chair and see you playing there…because it was dark, wasn’t it…as dark as it is now. It was someone who wanted him to fall down and hurt himself. It was someone who wanted to tell him that they knew.”

“Who could do such a thing? It was cruel.”

“Crueler things have been done in this house. Who do you think would do it? It might have been someone who was afraid of being sent away, and who wouldn’t be if Sir William were dead—because he might have died, you know. Then on the other hand it might have been someone else.”

I was deeply disturbed. I wanted her to leave, that I might be alone with my thoughts.

She seemed to sense this. In any case she had said what she had come to say.

“How can we be sure, Mrs. Verlaine?” she asked.

And shaking her head sadly she went to the door.

Sylvia came to her lessons with her two plaits wound round her head—a concession to growing up. Good heavens, I thought, is her mother really trying to catch Godfrey Wilmot as a husband for her daughter? Poor Sylvia, she looked most self-conscious. In fact she almost always was. She gave me the impression that she had been sent to do something unpleasant and would know no peace until she had done her duty.

She was sixteen—another year before she reached that age which was the conventional one for putting up the hair.

She went through her lesson in a parrot-like way. What could I say? Only: “Try to get a little more expression into it Sylvia. Try to feel what the music is saying.”

She looked puzzled. “But it doesn’t say anything, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I sighed. Really, I thought, now that Edith was gone my job was not worth doing. I could have made a competent pianist of Edith, someone to enchant the guests who came to her parties. I could have taught her to draw comfort and great pleasure from music—but Sylvia, Allegra and Alice…

Her hands were in her lap, those rather spatulate fingers with the nails painfully trying to grow. Even now she lifted her hand to her lips and dropped it hastily tasting in time the bitter aloes which her mother made her use.

“The trouble is, Sylvia, that you are too absentminded. You’re not thinking of your music. You’re thinking of something else.”

Her face lightened suddenly. “I was thinking of a horrible story Alice wrote. You know she’s always writing stories. Mr. Wilmot says her essays show real talent. Alice says she wants to write stories like Wilkie Collins…the sort that make you shiver.”

“She must show me some of her stories. I’d like to see them.”

“She reads them to us sometimes. We have to sit by the light of one candle in her room and she does the actions. It’s frightening. She could be an actress too. But she says what she wants most is to write about people.”

“What was this story?”

“It’s about a girl who disappears. No one knows where she’s gone. But just before she disappeared someone dug a hole in a copse which was near the house where she lived. There were some children who saw the hole in the copse. They nearly fell into it when they were playing and they came and watched and they saw a man. He saw them watching and he said that he was digging a trap to catch a man-eating lion because there were lions in this place. But they didn’t believe him because people don’t dig traps for lions, they shoot them. Of course he could only say that to the children but to pretend to the grown-ups, he said he was going to help someone dig up his fields. But he murdered the girl and buried her in the copse and everyone thought she had run away with her lover.”

“It’s not a very healthy sort of story,” I said.

“It makes your hair stand on end,” said Sylvia.

It was certainly making mine do so because I had suddenly remembered seeing Napier come into the stables with gardening tools. He had been helping Mr. Brancot to dig his garden, he had said.

When I next rode out alone I turned my horse toward the Brancots’ cottage. The garden looked neater than it had when I last saw it. I pulled up and stood looking at it.

I was fortunate, for while I was trying to think of an excuse for calling, old Mr. Brancot came out of the house.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Good afternoon, Miss.”

“It’s Mrs. Mrs. Verlaine. I’m the music teacher, up at Lovat Stacy.”

“Oh aye. I’ve heard of you. How are you liking this part of the country?”

“I find it very beautiful.”

He nodded, well pleased. “Wouldn’t want to leave it,” he said. “Not if you paid me a hundred pounds for doing it.”

I replied that I had no intention of doing so either and added that his garden was looking in good shape.

“Oh yes,” he answered, “it’s looking fine now.”

“Much better than when I last saw it. It’s been dug over since then.”

“Dug over and planted,” he said. “Easy to keep in order now.”

“It must have been a big job. Did you do it all yourself?”

He grinned and whispered: “Well, between you and me, I had a little help. You won’t believe it but one afternoon Mr. Napier came out and gave me a hand.”

I felt ridiculously happy. I was terrified that he had been going to say he had done it himself.

As I rode back the conversation with Sylvia kept recurring to me. The girls, naturally, were interested in everything that went on and because—being in that in-between stage, neither grown-up nor children—they saw through immature eyes, they did not always interpret correctly. Why had Alice written such a story? How far did imagination feed on facts? Was it possible that she had seen someone digging a hole in the copse? Or had Alice imagined it? Perhaps she—or one of the girls—had seen Napier coming back to the house with the gardening tools. That would be enough to fire Alice’s imagination; and because of the ruin in the copse and the light which had been seen there, the place had become one of mystery. Someone digging in the copse? Digging what? The imagination immediately supplied the answer: a grave.

Was this how Alice had worked it out? Did she feel she should make this known, and was she afraid to? She was, I believed, a timid child. I felt certain that her mother had impressed upon her the need for good behavior that they both might keep their places at Lovat Stacy. Allegra was constantly reminding Alice of her inferior position as the housekeeper’s daughter and of the necessity of not making herself troublesome. Unkind Allegra! And yet she, too, was unsure of her position, so I suppose one should not judge her too harshly.

I made up my mind that Alice had seen Napier with the gardening tools, had felt it her duty to put this on record, but was afraid of giving offense, so she wrote a story which was largely imagination, but which did say something of what she felt should be said. Alice wanted to do the right thing which was to tell what she knew; but as it was only a suspicion she dared not mention it openly. That was the answer.

But suppose Edith was buried in the copse. And Roma? Where was Roma? They had to be somewhere.

If someone had dug a grave in the copse, wouldn’t there be some sign of it? The grass would not be properly grown, so surely it should not be difficult to find a patch of newly disturbed earth.

This was becoming not only sinister but gruesome. I remembered Mrs. Lincroft’s somewhat oblique warning. Don’t interfere. Interference could put you into danger.

Edith had been murdered, and if her murderer was aware of my determination to discover him, then I was in danger. But I could not help it. I must find the answer.

Having reached the copse I dismounted and tied my horse to a tree.

I looked about me. How still it was! How eerie! But was that because of its associations? Through the trees I could glimpse the gray ruin and instinctively I moved toward it.

The sun glinted through the trees throwing a shifting pattern on the ground. I thought once more: Surely if the earth had been disturbed recently it would show.

I stared down at the grass which grew patchily.

If one wanted to dig a grave this would be an ideal place to dig it. Here one would be hidden among the trees and perhaps hear the footsteps of anyone approaching. And if one were seen with the spade in one’s hand? “Oh, I have just been digging for someone who is unable to dig for himself…”

“No!” I said and was surprised that I had spoken vehemently and aloud.

As I drew level with the ruins I put out a hand and gingerly touched those stone walls. One day I promised myself when the light shows I’ll come down and see who is playing that little trick.

I went through the gap in the stones where the door had been and stood there looking up at the sky through the damaged roof. My footsteps made a light noise on the broken tiled floor and the sound startled me. Yes, even by daylight I was a little frightened.

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.