“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 itas 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 parrotlike 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 grownups, 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 towards 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 grey ruin and instinctively I moved towards 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 grey 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 backwards 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.
9
Godfrey Wilmot was constantly seeking to be alone with me. This was not easy, for Mrs. Rendall contrived to see that we did not have many opportunities.
Perhaps I should admit to a certain mischievous pleasure in teasing her, hoping it would help to lighten the heavy mood which had settled upon me. I was trying to thrust all thoughts of Napier from my mind and the company of Godfrey helped me to do this more than anything else. There was his knowledge of my identity; there was his love of music and his deep interest in that subject which had enthralled my sister and my parents and had in a way been responsible for their deaths. There was comfort, too, in feeling my friendship growing for a charming man who was open and frank and free of those complexes which while they seemed to cast some sort of spell upon me, could make me uneasy and extremely apprehensive.
Certainly I made no attempt to avoid Godfrey and we used to laugh together about Mrs. Rendall’s attitude and plan how to frustrate her endeavors to prevent our being alone together.
Sometimes we met in the church where Godfrey went to practice the organ. I would slip in while he was playing and this was what I did on the day after my uncomfortable encounter with Napier in the copse.
The church was a beautiful example of fourteenth-century architecture with its grey stone tower and lichen-covered walls. I stood at the door listening to the full tones of the organ and was deeply moved for Godfrey had a masterly touch. I did not want to disturb him so I stood very still while I gazed about me at the stained-glass windows—the one dedicated to Beau; the Stacy pew; the list of vicars engraved on the wall from the first in 1347 to Arthur Rendall in the year 1880. The musty damp smell of age was more apparent when the church was empty, and I imagined generations of Stacys coming here to worship. I thought of Beau and Napier being baptized at the font, of Sybil, dreaming of coming to this altar to her bridegroom. As the music came to its triumphant finale I went over to the organ.
“I’m glad you came,” h
e said. “I was beginning to be a little worried about you.”
“Worried about me? Why?”
“The idea suddenly came to me. You could be putting yourself into danger.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s the news about Mrs. Stacy. When we thought she had gone off with her lover, looking for your sister seemed a reasonably safe project. But if these two disappearances are linked it appears that someone must be responsible for them. You can’t make two people disappear very well without killing them. It struck me that we have a dangerous murderer in our midst. He wouldn’t be very pleased with someone who probed into his affairs would he? And it may be that when he isn’t pleased with people he ... eliminates them.”
“So you’ve marked me down for the next victim?”
“God forbid! But shouldn’t you be careful?”
“I see what you mean. Have you anyone in mind?”
“Oh yes.”
“Who?”
“The husband, of course.”
“Isn’t that too obvious?”
“Good heavens, this isn’t a puzzle. It’s real life. Who would want to be rid of Mrs. Stacy except her husband?”
“There could be others.”
“Think of the reasons. I understand she was an heiress. He gets her money. And he wasn’t very eager to marry her in the first place.”
“He had the money already so why bother to murder her?”
“He was heartily sick of her.”
“I don’t like this conversation. It’s ... uncharitable. We have no right to continue with it.”
“But we must be practical.”
“If being practical means maligning innocent people...”
“But how do you know he is innocent?”
“Shouldn’t one presume a man to be innocent until he is proved guilty?”
“You’re talking about British justice. We’re not judges ... just amateur sleuths. We have to look at all possibilities.”
“In that case I might suggest that you are guilty, and you me.”
“I might. But where are the motives?”