I was unable to control my expression. I was exposed. It had been bound to happen sooner or later. Pietro was too well known; and in her circles so was Roma. Someone would one day be bound to link me up.

He must have noticed my expression of fear for he said quickly: “Perhaps I am mistaken…”

“My sister…is dead,” I heard myself stammer.

Mrs. Rendall said: “How very sad!” She turned to Mr. Wilmot. “Mrs. Verlaine’s father was a professor. It is sad that her only sister died…not very long ago, I believe.”

Mr. Wilmot came gallantly and magnificently to the rescue. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Verlaine, for introducing a subject which must be painful.”

I did not speak, but I think my eyes must have expressed my gratitude.

“Mr. Wilmot is very interested in our little village,” said Mrs. Rendall archly.

“Oh yes,” said our new curate, “I find the Roman remains quite fascinating.”

“They are, I believe, one of the reasons why you decided to come here.”

He smiled charmingly. “They are just an added attraction.” He turned to me: “I am an amateur archaeologist, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I swallowed and said: “How very interesting.”

“At one time I intended to make it my profession. Then…rather later than usual…I decided to go into the Church.”

“How very fortunate for us,” boomed Mrs. Rendall. “I do wish you could persuade Sylvia to show a little interest in our remains, Mr. Wilmot.”

“I can try,” he said smiling.

The vicar said: “Ah…very interesting!” and I could see he was pleased, for now that the curate showed an interest in the Roman remains Mrs. Rendall had discovered how fascinating they were.

“I don’t think our lessons are going to overlap,” I said, bringing the conversation to the subject we had come to discuss.

“I’m sure they won’t.”

I was immediately conscious of his interest and I was not surprised. He must wonder why I was so anxious that he should not betray the fact that I was Roma’s sister.


* * *

I had given Sylvia her music lesson and was crossing the vicarage garden on my way back to Lovat Stacy when I heard my name called, and there was Mr. Wilmot running after me, smiling his engaging smile.

“I’ve set the girls some work,” he said. “I had to speak to you.”

“About my sister?”

He nodded. “I only met her once or twice. She mentioned you then. She was worried about you because of your marriage. She thought it wouldn’t be good for your career.”

“Thank you for keeping silent,” I said.

His puzzled gaze met mine. “They don’t know of the relationship obviously.”

I shook my head. “Let me explain. You know my sister…disappeared.”

“Yes. It’s one of the reasons why I could not resist taking the opportunity—when it arose—of coming here. That…and the finds. And you?”

“I came here to teach the girls the piano and to try to find out what has become of my sister.”

“And decided to keep the relationship secret?”

“Perhaps it was silly of me, but I was afraid they wouldn’t have me if they knew. Roma had come here though they didn’t want her and her party. And then she brought unpleasant publicity here by disappearing. I wanted to find out what had happened to my sister…so I came here.”

He gave a deep sigh. “How thankful I am that you stopped me in time. You know I might have mentioned it if I’d heard your name before meeting you.”

“Yes. It’s difficult to remain anonymous after having been married to a famous man.”

He nodded. “It’s very…intriguing.”

“It’s horribly mystifying. And now Edith has disappeared too.”

“Oh, that unfortunate affair. She’s run away from her husband, I hear.”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that she disappeared and Roma disappeared.”

He looked at me shrewdly. “I understand your feelings. I wonder if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“At least someone knows who I am…” I began.

“You can be sure no one else will learn through me.”

“I’m grateful.”

He smiled. “I saw the panic in your face. We must have a talk about this. As an archaeologist…strictly amateur…I might be of use. Incidentally I’m fond of music. I play the organ.”

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 toward 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.”