Victoria Holt Read online

  “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.

  I had been sitting on the seat looking into the lily pond for some seconds when I was suddenly aware that I was not alone.

  Miss Stacy had been standing by the green shrubs at the far end of the garden, so still, that I had not noticed her; she was wearing a green dress which had seemed like part of the bush. It was an uncanny feeling when I realized that she must have been watching me through those silent seconds.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Verlaine,” she cried gaily. “This is a favorite spot of yours. I know.” She tripped toward me lifting her finger and coyly shaking it at me. I saw the little green bows in her hair—the color of her dress.

  She must have noticed my gaze for she touched them lightly. “Whenever I have a new dress I have my bows made at the same time. I have bows for every dress that way.” A look of satisfaction spread across her face as though she were inviting me to comment on her cleverness. Her movements and her voice were so youthful that it was a shock when she came so close that I could see the smudges of brown on her neck and hands and the wrinkles round the blue eyes. In fact then she seemed older than she actually was.

  “You’ve changed since you came here,” she announced.

  “Oh? Is that possible? In such a short time.”

  She sat beside me. “It’s peaceful here. It’s a lovely little garden, don’t you think? But of course you do. You wouldn’t come here if you didn’t, would you? One gets the impression that one is shut away from the world. But one isn’t, you know.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You would realize that. I think you are very clever, Mrs. Verlaine. I think you know about a lot of things as well as music.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And…I’m glad you came. I have definitely made up my mind to paint your portrait.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Oh but it might be unkind.” She laughed “Some artists are unkind. At least their subjects think they are…because they paint what they see and it could be something the subject might not want seen.”

  “At least I should be interested to discover what you see in me.”

  She nodded. “Not yet though…I have to wait a while.”

  “We have only met once.”

  She began to laugh. “But I’ve seen you many times, Mrs. Verlaine. I’m very interested in you.”

  “How good of you.”

  “Then again it might not be good. It all depends.”

  She clasped her hands like a young girl who is hugging a secret to herself. Here was another member of this household who made me feel uncomfortable.

  “I saw you come in today,” she said. And she nodded several times like a mandarin. “With Napier,” she added.

  I was glad that my skin did not flush and so betray my embarrassment.

  “We met by accident…at the Roman remains,” I said rather hotly and then realized I was foolish to more or less offer an excuse.

  She did her three or four little nods which I gathered were to denote wisdom.

  “You are very interested in these remains, Mrs. Verlaine.”

  “Who wouldn’t be. They are of national interest.”

  She turned to me and regarded me coyly from under those shriveled lids. “But some people in the nation are more interested than others. You will agree with that.”

  “Inevitably.”

  She stood up and clasped her hands together. “I could show you some remains…closer at hand. Would you like to see them?”

  “Remains?” I said.

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “Come,” She held out a hand and I could do nothing but take it. Hers was cold and very soft. I dropped it as soon as I could.

  “Yes,” she said, “we have some remains here. You must see them now that you are becoming so interested in us all.”

  She tripped to the wrought-iron gate and opening it stood there poised like an ancient fairy, her expression conspiratorial. I caught her excitement and asked myself why nothing seemed to be ordinary in this house.

  “Remains,” she murmured as though to herself. “Yes, you could call them remains. Not Roman though this time. Still, there’s no reason why the Stacys shouldn’t have remains if the Romans had them.” She gave her high-pitched titter.

  I passed through the gate; she shut it and was beside me, then she tripped past leading the way and turning to smile at me in her little girl manner.

  She took me through a shrubbery to a part of the garden in which I had never been before. We followed a path and came to a little copse of fir trees—thick, bushy evergreens.

  There was a path through the trees and as she tripped along this and I followed I wondered whether she was more than slightly mad.

  But at last I saw the object of this visit. It looked like a white circular tower; she ran on ahead.

  “Come on, Mrs. Verlaine,” she called. “This is the remains.”

  I hurried after her and I saw that the tower was gutted and that the inside walls were blackened by fire. It was not large—just a circular wall; the roof had been partially destroyed and it was possible to see the sky.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A shell,” she answered in a sepulchral voice. “A burned-out shell.”

  “When was it burned?”

  “Not very long ago.” And she added significantly: “Since Napier came home.”

  “What was it meant to be?”

  “It was a little chapel in the woods…a beautiful little chapel and it was built in honor of Beaumont.”

  “You mean as a sort of memorial?”

  Her eyes lit up. “How clever you are, Mrs. Verlaine. It was a memorial, a memorial to Beau. After he was killed his father built this chapel so that he could come here…or any of us could…and be silent, shut away in the woods where we could think of Beaumont. It stood here for years and then—”

  “It was burned down,” I added.

  She came close to me and whispered: “After Napier came home.”

  “How was it burned?”

  Her eyes blazed suddenly. “Mischief. No…not mischief…wickedness.”

  “You mean someone did it purposely? Why should they? For what purpose?”

  “Because they hated Beau. Because they couldn’t bear that Beau was beautiful and good. That’s why.”

  “Are you suggesting that…” I hesitated and she said slyly: “You should finish, Mrs. Verlaine. Am I suggesting what?”

  “That someone did it on purpose. I can’t see that anyone would want to do that.”

  “But there’s a great deal you can’t see, Mrs. Verlaine. I’d like to tell you…to warn you.”

  “Warn?”

  Again that silly wise nod of hers.

  “Napier burned this down when he came home because we liked to come here and think of Beaumont and he couldn’t bear it. So he got rid of it…just as he got rid of Beaumont.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” I asked almost angrily.

  “I remember it well. One evening…it was just dark. I could smell the fire from my room. I was the first to discover it. I came out of the house and I couldn’t tell at first where the s
mell was coming from. Then I saw…and I ran…I ran to the copse and there was the beautiful chapel…and the sparks flying out…it was terrible. I called everyone, but it was too late to save it. So now it’s just a shell, nothing but a shell.”

  “It must have been a very pleasant place,” I said.

  “Pleasant! It was beautiful. Such a sense of peace and calm. My beautiful Beau was there. He was. That was why Napier could not endure it. That was why he burned it down.”

  “There is no evidence—” I began and stopped myself. I added rather hurriedly: “I have some work to prepare so I suppose I should get on with it.”

  She laughed. “You seem as if you’d like to defend him. I told you you were beginning to take his side.”

  I said coldly: “It is not for me to take sides, Miss Stacy.”

  She laughed again and said: “But we often do things which it is not for us to do, don’t we? You are a widow. In a sense I am too.” Her face looked older suddenly and mournful. “I understand. And he…well, some people are attracted by wickedness.”

  I said crisply: “I really don’t understand, Miss Stacy, and I do think I should be working. Thank you for showing me…the ruin.”

  I turned and walked briskly away. I found her conversation not only distasteful but distinctly uncomfortable.

  ***

  Two days later an even more disturbing event occurred.

  I went along to the schoolroom in search of Edith and as I was about to open the door I heard her voice raised and distressed. I paused and as I did so she cried out: “And if I don’t, you’ll tell. Oh…how can you.”

  It was not only the implication of the words but the agonized tone in which they were spoken that shocked me.

  I hesitated, uncertain what to do. I had no wish to play the eavesdropper. I was a newcomer to this house and perhaps I was overdramatizing a situation. These girls all of them seemed little more than children to me.

  That was a more important moment than I realized at the time. How I wished afterwards that I had been bold and walked into that room. Instead of which I went quietly and hastily away.

  Edith was quarreling with someone in the schoolroom, someone who was threatening her.

  My excuse is that I thought of them as children.