“I did tell you,” said Alice mildly reproachful. “In any case we can’t keep Miss Clent waiting.”

So they left us to discuss the possibility of Godfrey’s theory regarding the mosaic.


* * *

“Alice has written a story about the mosaic,” Allegra announced. “It’s really a good one.”

“That’s very creditable,” I said. “You must show me this one, Alice.”

“I want to wait until I’m really satisfied.”

“But you showed Allegra and Sylvia.”

“I just see the effect on them. Besides they’re only children…well they aren’t much more. Grown-ups would be more critical, wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t see why they should be.”

“Oh yes, of course they would. They are experienced of the world, whereas we have so much to learn.”

“So you won’t show me this story?”

“I will one day…when I’ve perfected it.”

“It’s about the man in the quicksand,” said Allegra.

Alice sighed and looked at Allegra who shrugged her shoulders sullenly.

“I thought you were proud of it,” she said.

Alice ignored her and turned to me. “It’s about the Romans,” she said. “If anyone did anything wrong they used to put them in this quicksand and it very slowly swallowed them right up. It was slow. That was why they used it. Some quicksands swallow things up quickly…that’s why they call them quicksands. But these were slow sands…it makes it last longer and is more of a punishment. They move and grip…you see…and the victim can’t get away. So the Romans put their criminals into these sands. It was a good punishment. And there was a man in my story who had to make a mosaic of the sands and himself being swallowed up in them…before it happened to him. You see that was what was called refined torture. It was worse than just putting him in and letting him go down…because all the time he was making the mosaic he knew what was going to happen to him. And because he felt all that he made a wonderful mosaic…better than anyone could if they hadn’t been so personally involved.”

“Alice what ideas you get!”

“You think it’s a good thing, don’t you?” she asked anxiously.

“It is, provided you don’t let your imagination run riot. You should let it dwell on pleasant things.”

“Oh,” said Alice, “I see. But one has to be truthful, doesn’t one, Mrs. Verlaine. I mean one mustn’t shut one’s eyes to truth.”

“No certainly not but…”

“I was only thinking that why did they make those pictures on the mosaic if they were thinking of pleasant things? I can’t believe it’s very pleasant being caught in the shivering sands. That’s what I’m calling my story. The Shivering Sands. It made me shiver when I wrote it. And the girls did, too, when I read it to them. But I will try to let my imagination work on pleasant things.”


* * *

When I came out of my room I ran straight into Sybil who seemed to have been lurking outside waiting for me.

“Ah, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said, as though I was the last person she expected to see coming out of my own room. “How nice to see you! It seems a long time since I last did. But then you have been so busy.”

“There are the lessons,” I replied vaguely.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that.” She was looking into my room with excited prying eyes. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“Would you care to come into my room?”

“That would be nice.”

She tiptoed in as though we were partners in a conspiracy and looked all round the room. “Pleasant,” she commented “Very pleasant. I think you’ve been quite happy here, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said. “You’d be sorry to go.”

“Yes I should…if I were going.”

“I saw you with the curate. I suppose some would say he was a very handsome young man.”

“I suppose some would.”

“And you, Mrs. Verlaine?” Her archness made me feel uncomfortable.

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”

“I hear he’ll soon be going to a very fine living. Well, it was to be expected. He has the right connections. He’ll get on. A suitable wife is just what he needs.”

A flicker of irritation crossed my face and she may have noticed it for she said: “I’ve taken a fancy to you. I shouldn’t want you to go away. You seem to have become part of the place.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course everyone here is part of the place. Even people like Edith—who hadn’t much personality, poor girl—she had her effect, didn’t she? And a big one too. Poor child!”

I wished that I had not asked her in. I could have made my escape easily from the corridor.

“And of course,” she went on, “it was your playing that startled William and made him so ill.”

I said with some exasperation: “I’ve already told you that I was only playing what I was given to play.”

Her eyes brightened suddenly—glinting points of blue light embedded in the wrinkles.

“Oh yes…but who gave you that particular piece do you think, Mrs. Verlaine?”

I said: “I wish I knew.”

She had become so alert that I knew she was about to disclose what she had come to tell me.

“I remember the day she died…”

“Who?” I asked.

“Isabella. She played all the day. It was a new piece. She had just found the piano arrangement of it. Danse Macabre.” She began to hum it off-key which made the melody sound supernatural. “The Dance of Death…” she mused. “And all the time she was playing it she was thinking of death. Then she took the gun and went into the woods. That was why he couldn’t bear to hear it played. He would never have put that piece in for you to play, would he?”

“Someone did.”

“I wonder who?”

She began to laugh and I said: “Do you know?”

She did her mandarin’s nod. “Oh yes, Mrs. Verlaine, I know.”

“It was someone who wanted to upset Sir William…to shock him. And he a sick man!”

“Why not?” she said. “Why should he pretend to be so virtuous? He wasn’t. I can tell you that. So why shouldn’t he be shocked?”

“But it might have killed him. He’s not to be upset.”

“You thought it was Napier. They quarreled and he threatened Napier that he’d send him off again. Imagine it. There’d be no excitement here then. Why should Napier have to go? Why should Sir William pretend to be so good? There was a time…”

“Miss Stacy,” I said, “did you put that piece of music among the selection I was to play?”

She hunched her shoulders like a child and nodded.

“So, you see,” she said, “you shouldn’t think too badly of Napier, should you?”

She was mad, I thought, dangerously mad. But I was glad then that she had come to my room. At least he was not guilty of that.


* * *

The mosaic was constantly in my mind and I could not rid myself of the idea that we had discovered something of importance. I went back again to the remains, and wandered about thinking of Roma, trying to remember what she had told me. One morning I met Napier there.

“You’ve started coming here again,” he said. “I guessed I’d meet you sometime.”

“You have seen me then?”

“Often.”

“When I was unaware of it? It is a little alarming to be watched when one is not conscious of it.”

“It shouldn’t be,” he countered, “if you have nothing to hide.”

“How many of us are as virtuous as that?”

“It’s not necessarily a matter of virtue. For instance one might be engaged on a very creditable undertaking which required…anonymity, in which case it would be alarming to be secretly observed.”

“Such as…”

“Such as coming to a place incognito to solve the mysterious disappearance of a sister.”

I caught my breath and said: “You know!”

“It was not so difficult to discover.”

“How long have you known?”

“Very soon after you came.”

“But…”

He laughed. “As I said it was very easy. I wanted to know so much about you, and as you had a famous husband that simplified matters considerably. A famous husband, a sister who was well known in certain circles. Oh come, you must admit it was not a very difficult proposition.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It would have made you uneasy, and I would rather you had told me who you were.”

“But I should never have been allowed to come had I told.”

“Told me,” he said. “Not others.”

“Well what are you going to do about it?”

“Precisely what I have been doing.”

“You are annoyed with me?”

“Why should I be so suddenly when I have known all along.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“I’m admiring you.”

“For what?”

“For coming down here…for caring enough for your sister to put yourself in danger.”

“Danger! What danger should I be in?”

“People who try to discover what became of one who was possibly a murderer’s victim often are.”

“Who said she was murdered?”

“I said ‘possibly.’ You can’t say that she was not.”

“Roma was the last person anyone would want to murder.”

“Most murderer’s victims are believed to be that. But how do you know what secrets she had? You could not know everything in her life.”

“In fact I knew very little.”

“So there you are. You may have rushed boldly into danger, and that is what I admire you for…and other things as well, of course.”

He had taken a step closer to me, gazing at me with an intense longing, and I felt excited and eager to comfort him.

“It has occurred to you,” he went on, “that there are two disappearances…and two is one too many for this to be accidental.”