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 towards 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 towards 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 m
e 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 turned 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.