I looked at the window. I knew from the past how small it was. There was no escape that way. But why should I feel this sense of doom simply because someone else had decided to look at an empty disused cottage?
I was too fanciful perhaps; but it seemed to me that Roma was in this place…warning me.
I crouched against the wall listening. My sudden fear was the result of an over-fevered imagination. It was because Roma had been here, because her spirit still seemed to linger as those who have violently hurried from life are said to linger. Yes, it was the spirit of Roma warning: Danger.
And then I heard the creak of a board, a step on the stair. Someone was coming up to the bedroom. I decided I would go boldly to meet whoever it was, so I thrust my trembling hands into the pockets of my coat and stepped through the bedroom and the box room.
As I did so the heavy door was cautiously pushed open. Napier stood before me. He seemed to loom over me; he seemed so big in this little place; and my heart beat too fast. He smiled, fully aware of my fear, I knew.
“I saw you come into the cottage,” he said. “I wondered what you could find of interest here.” As I did not answer he went on: “You look surprised to see me.”
“I am.” I was struggling for my self-control, angrily demanding of myself why I was being so stupid—and more foolish still to betray it. The man was a bully, I thought; and what he enjoyed doing was frightening people. That was why he had come quietly into the cottage, had crept stealthily up the stairs.
“Did you think you were the only one interested in our Treasures of the Past?” He spoke those words as though they had capitals—as though he knew the ghost of Roma was in this place and mocked it.
“Far from it. I know that many people are interested.”
“But not the Stacys. Did you know that in the first place my father tried to prevent the work being carried out?”
“And couldn’t he?”
“He was over-persuaded. And so…in the name of culture…the Philistines gave way.”
“How fortunate for posterity that he was persuaded.”
His eyes glinted a little. “The triumph of knowledge over ignorance,” he said.
“Precisely.”
I made as though to step past him toward that heavy door; and although he did not exactly bar my way he did not move so that I should have had to brush past him to reach it. So I hesitated, not wishing to betray my desire to escape.
“What made you come here?” he asked.
“Curiosity, I suppose.”
“Are you a very inquisitive person, Mrs. Verlaine?”
“As inquisitive as most people, I daresay.”
“I often think,” he went on, “that the inquisitive are a little maligned. After all, it is really a virtue to be interested in one’s fellow men. Do you agree?”
“Virtues if carried to excess can become vices.”
“I am sure you are right. Did you know that one of the archaeologists lived in this cottage?”
“Oh?” I said.
“The one who disappeared.”
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t accept the view that some Roman god rose in his fury and wiped her off the face of the earth. Do you?”
He moved a step nearer to me. “You remind me of that archaeologist.”
He kept his eyes on my face, and for one moment I thought: He knows. He knows why I have come here. It would be easy to have discovered that I was Roma’s sister, Pietro Verlaine’s wife…It could even have been mentioned in the press. Perhaps he knew that I had come to discover what lay behind Roma’s disappearance. Perhaps…
The wild thoughts that come to one in a lonely cottage when alone with a man…a man who killed his brother…
I said feebly: “I remind you…of her?”
“You don’t look like her. She was not a beautiful woman.” I flushed. “I did not mean, of course…” He lifted his hands feigning embarrassment. He was telling me that I had jumped to the conclusion of thinking he was telling me I was beautiful. How he liked to humiliate! “She had a look of dedication. So sure that she was right.”
“I see, and I too have this look?”
“I did not say that, Mrs. Verlaine. I merely said that you reminded me of the poor unfortunate lady.”
“You knew her well?”
“The dedication was obvious. One did not need to be on familiar terms with her to be aware of it.”
I said recklessly: “What happened to her?”
“You are asking for my theory?”
“If you have nothing better to offer.”
“But why should you imagine I should have more than a theory to offer?”
“You have met her. You saw her. Perhaps you have some notion of the sort of woman she was…”
“Or is,” he said. “No need to speak of her in the past tense. We cannot be sure that she is dead. I’m inclined to think she went off on some project. But it is a mystery. Perhaps it will always be a mystery. There are many unsolved mysteries in the world, Mrs. Verlaine. And this one…perhaps it’s a warning to let the past alone.”
“One which every archaeologist will, I am sure, ignore.”
“I can tell by your tone that you thoroughly approve. So you think it is good to probe into the past?”
“Surely you admit that archaeologists are doing valuable work?”
He smiled at me, that slow maddening smile which I was beginning to hate.
“So you don’t,” I said heatedly.
“I did not say so. I was not in fact thinking of archaeologists. You have become obsessed by this young woman. I merely said do you think it is good to probe the past? Pasts are something we all have. They are not the prerogative of these scrabblers in the dust.”
“Our personal pasts are our own concern, I think. It is only the historic past which should be revealed.”
“A fine distinction—for who made the historic past but the individuals? I was being impertinent—a not unusual habit of mine—and was suggesting that you, like myself, would doubtless prefer to forget the past. Ah, you find me…indelicate. I should not have said that. One does not say such things in polite society. It is ‘What a fine day today, Mrs. Verlaine? The wind is not so cold as it was yesterday.’ Then we discuss the weather of the last few weeks and pass on pleasantly unruffled, and we might just as well never have spoken. So you object to bluntness.”
“You leap to conclusions, do you not? As for bluntness I find that those who pride themselves on being frank usually apply the term to their own plain speaking. They often have another for other people’s—rudeness.”
He laughed—little lights shooting up in his eyes. “I will prove to you that that is not the case with me. I will speak plainly about myself. What have you heard of me, Mrs. Verlaine? I know. I murdered my brother. That’s what you have heard.”
“I have heard there was an accident.”
“That is what is commonly known as being couched in diplomatic terms.”
“I was not attempting to be diplomatic. I was merely speaking frankly. I had heard that there was a fatal accident. I know that these occur.”
He lifted his shoulders and put his head on one side.
“And,” I said, “although they are deeply deplored, they should be forgotten.”
“This was no ordinary accident Mrs. Verlaine. The death of the heir of the house—handsome, charming, well beloved. Shot dead by his brother—who became the heir to the house and was neither handsome, charming, nor well beloved.”
“Perhaps he could have become so…had he tried.”
He laughed and I heard the terrible bitterness in the laughter, and my opinion of him changed a little in that moment. He was cruel, he was sadistic, because he was taking his revenge on a world which had treated him so badly. I was actually sorry for the man.
I said, rather gently I supposed: “No one should be blamed for what was done accidentally.”