Free The Shivering Sands by Victoria Holt Page A

understandable that I should take the wrong turning.
    I came to a door and wondering whether it would lead me back to that part of the house in which I had my room, I opened it. The first thing I noticed about this room was the bell rope and it occurred to me that I should ring this and ask a servant to conduct me to my own room.
    As soon as I stepped into this room I was aware that there was something strange about it. It had what I can only call an air of studied naturalness, the impression being that its occupier had a moment before left it. A book was open on a table. I went over and saw that it was a stamp collection; a riding whip lay on a chair, and on the wall were pictures of soldiers in various uniforms. Over the fireplace hung a painting of a young man. I went to it and stood looking at it for it was a fascinating study. His hair was chestnut brown, his eyes vivid blue; the nose was long and slightly hawk-like and the mouth was curved into a smile. It was one of the most handsome faces I had ever seen. I knew of course who it was. It was the beautiful brother who had died and I had come into the room which had once been his. I was startled for I knew I had no right to be in this holy of holies; yet I found it difficult to take my attention from that face on the canvas up there. The picture was painted so that the eyes seemed to follow you no matter where you were; and as I stepped backwards keeping my gaze on the picture the blue eyes watched me, seeming sad one moment, smiling the next.
    “Ha. Ha.” I heard a high-pitched titter which sent a shiver down my spine. “Are you looking for Beau?”
    I turned round and for a moment I thought it was a little girl standing behind me. Then I saw that she was by no means young. She must have been in her seventies. But she was wearing a pale blue dress of cambric and about her waist was a blue satin sash. Her hair was white but in it she wore two little blue bows, one on either side of her head, the same color as the sash; the frilled skirt would have been more suited to Edith than to this woman.
    “Yes,” she said almost coyly, “you are looking for Beau. I know you are…so don’t deny it.”
    “I am the new music teacher,” I said.
    “I know it. I know everything that goes on in this house. But that doesn’t prove, does it, that you weren’t looking for Beau?”
    I studied her closely; she had a small heart-shaped face and in her youth must have been extremely pretty. She was certainly very feminine and determined to retain that quality; the dress and the bows gave evidence of that. She had light blue eyes that sparkled from her wrinkles with a kind of mischief, and a flat little nose like a kitten’s.
    “I have only just arrived,” I explained. “I was trying to…”
    “Look for Beau,” she finished. “I know you have only just arrived and I wanted to meet you. But you’d heard of Beau, of course. Everybody has heard of Beau.”
    “I wonder whether you would be good enough to introduce yourself.”
    “Of course, of course. How remiss of me.” She giggled. “I thought you might have heard of me…as you’d heard of Beau. I’m Miss Sybil Stacy—William’s sister, and I’ve lived in this house all my life so I’ve seen it all and I know exactly what it’s all about.”
    “That must be very gratifying for you.”
    She looked at me sharply. “You’re a widow,” she said. “So you’re a woman of experience. You were married to that famous man, weren’t you? And he died. That was sad. Death is sad. We have had deaths in this house…”
    Her lips quivered and I thought she was going to weep. She brightened suddenly, as a child will. “But now Napier is back; he is married to Edith; there will be little children. Then it will begin to be better. The children will put everything right.” She looked up at the picture. “Perhaps Beau will go away then.”
    Her face puckered.
    “He’s dead, isn’t he?” I said gently.
    “The dead don’t