The Vanishment Page 16

  There was a news broadcast at nine o'clock. The usual things: loud exchanges on the floor of the House of Commons, some trouble concerning the Falkland Islands, a scandal involving an MP. Toward the end, there was a short piece of more immediate interest.

  "A search is still continuing for novelist Peter Clare and a four-year-old girl he is thought to have abducted, Rachel Wigram. Mr. Clare, the author of seven novels and two collections of short stories, is understood to have taken Rachel from the Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford, where the child's parents had been taken following a car crash on Monday. The couple, Tim and Susan Wigram of Brondesbury in London, both died later in hospital. In the meantime, Mr. Clare, who is said to have been a friend of the family, had made arrangements to return with the child to London, where he has a flat.

  "Rachel's grandparents, who had been on holiday in Spain, returned to England yesterday. On trying to make contact with their granddaughter, they found that both she and Mr. Clare had vanished.

  "There are now fears that Rachel has been abducted. The Metropolitan Police revealed last night that Clare, aged forty-six, was convicted of manslaughter in 1970 following the violent death of his daughter, Catherine. He spent five years in prison. In an interview yesterday, Clare's sister-in-law, Lorna Trevor, suggested that he may be suffering from severe depression following the death of his wife, Sarah, who was drowned in an accident in Cornwall earlier this year.

  "Clare is five foot ten with receding gray hair, slimly built, and clean-shaven. Rachel Wigram is four years old and has short blond hair and brown eyes. Anyone seeing them is requested to contact the nearest police station."

  I looked up. Rachel was still in the garden playing unself-consciously with a ball. I made a bowl of cornflakes for her and sprinkled them with white sugar. We would need fresh milk later in the day. It was a nuisance, Tim's parents turning up like that. I had been banking on a couple of weeks at least. It need not make a real difference, of course. I should just have to be circumspect, that was all. Leaving Rachel alone in the house was unthinkable, naturally. If we went shopping, we would just have to go together and take the risk of being spotted. Or perhaps I could leave her in the car briefly while I raced around a supermarket, stocking up on imperishables. Dried milk, cans, pasta, and dried cereal. I had brought plenty of cash with me. There would be no need for visits to banks. But perhaps none of that would be necessary anyway. It might all be over in a day or two, one way or another.

  There was a Safeway just outside Penzance. I left Rachel in the car while I made enough purchases for a fortnight, reasoning that I could always take them back to London with me when this was all over. For good measure, I put about a dozen flashlights and a heap of batteries into my trolley. As far as I could tell, no one paid any particular notice to me as I walked around the shop. Why should they have? They would have been on the lookout for a man with a little girl. That's the way ordinary people's minds work. But who in Penzance would think for a moment that I would turn up on their doorstep?

  There was a newspaper stand at the supermarket entrance. I tossed a few papers into my trolley, intending to read them afterward at my leisure. Only The Sun had me on the front page. A rare honor for a serious novelist. It was my most recent publicity photograph: not a very good likeness, I thought. I wondered who had given it to them.

  I had bought treats for Rachel. How easy it is to please some children. The whiskey I justified to myself not as a treat, but as pure necessity. How could I stay in that awful place without it?

  Rachel wanted to see the sea. We drove along, chanting the words in a silly singsong: "We're off to see the sea, we're off to see the sea." Out of season, the beaches at St. Ives were wet and deserted. I was able to take Rachel along with me, with little fear of discovery. She ran on the sand, picking up seaweed and throwing it into the wind. Out at sea, high waves crested and fell, crested and fell. And a white boat passed near the horizon and vanished into a gray fret. Inland, I could see the slope of the little cemetery in which Susannah Trevorrow had been buried. Buried, but not laid to rest. It was not far from there to Zawn Quoits. A short walk would have taken Rachel and me there, but there was no pathway along the sea's edge.

  The morning passed easily. By lunchtime, Rachel was starving again. I would have preferred to eat in a hotel or restaurant, anything rather than go back to Petherick House so soon, but that, of course, was out of the question. We drove back, growing silent as we came within sight of the place. In a few hours it would start to grow dark. Another night would begin.

  After lunch, there was children's television. The electricity was working perfectly again, as though nothing had happened the night before. I checked the fuse box, but all seemed in order. And tonight I would not let go of my flashlight for anything.

  While Rachel laughed at the antics of Duckula I sat in the corner reading. My life had been laid out in the tabloids for the whole country to read. Some of it was flattering, much of it quite the opposite. Not even The Guardian or The Independent had a high opinion of my books. The literary Mafia had their claws out as usual.

  Clare's first novel, Day of Wrath, [wrote The Guardian] was written in prison and published shortly after his release in 1975. It was an attempt to exorcise the inner demons that had led to the brutal killing of his child under the influence of drink. The book made a powerful impact on publication, and Clare became a minor celebrity for a short time. Like John McVicar, he was lionized as an ex-convict turned literary wunderkind. His second book, The House of Dark Visions, did not fulfill the promise of the first, however. In the end, Clare's middle-class origins betrayed him. To many readers, he seemed more a self-indulgent brat who had engineered his own misfortunes and gone on to make literary capital from them, than a hardened criminal from the streets redeemed by education and the imaginative life. His later novels plowed much the same furrow as the first. Dead children, dead wives, guilt, remorse, the torment of the damned condemned to repeat their crimes.

  I had a pretty good idea who'd written that little put-down. He'd been at one of my launches and stuffed himself with canapes without even bothering to pass the time of day with me or my publicity people.

  I put down the last paper, clenching and unclenching my fists. A good thing I'd bought the whiskey—I needed a stiff drink to banish the taste of all that crap from my mouth. Rachel was still watching cartoons. I looked out the window. The mist that we had watched at sea earlier was now moving steadily inland. Petherick House would soon be cut off by more than the dark.

  About four o'clock, we retired to the kitchen. I had put on all the lights by then and restocked the meter with coins. In each of the ground-floor rooms, I had placed a flashlight within easy reach, and I carried two around with me. Rachel had one of her own.

  We laid the table for tea. I had bought tarte tatin, a French apple and caramel pie, that morning. We had it with cream. It was the first time Rachel had ever tasted it: she thought it was the most delicious thing she had ever eaten. There was milk for her and Gunpowder Green tea for me. The house was utterly quiet. Outside, it was pitch-dark.

  “When is Christmas coming?" Rachel asked.

  "Soon," I said, "very soon. You'll have to write a list for Father Christmas."

  "Will we be here for Christmas?"

  I shook my head.

  "I don't think so," I answered.

  "I want to go home for Christmas, otherwise Santa won't know where to find me. And Mummy and Daddy, too."

  "We'll be home, I promise."

  I looked around almost guiltily. What right had I to make promises in this place?

  Suddenly I looked up. I could hear something. Had it begun? But as I listened the sound quickly resolved itself into something quite mundane, though nonetheless unsettling. It was the sound of a car coming down the drive.

  We waited. The car drew to a halt outside the house. A door banged shut. Moments later someone knocked at the front door. I could not believe it. Had I been spotted after all? Had someone
from Tredannack noticed that someone was living at Petherick House, and put two and two together?

  I told Rachel to stay in the kitchen.

  "Stay quiet," I told her.

  "Who is it?"

  "I don't know," I answered. But I was fairly sure it was the police. There was a louder knock at the door.

  I crept into the study, from which I was able to get a clear view of the front without being seen. It was unpleasant, moving through that dark room, unable to light a flashlight. I looked through the window,

  A car with a light on its roof was sitting outside with its engine running. My heart sank until I realized that it was not a police car but a taxi. I felt tremendous relief, followed by renewed anxiety. Who else knew there was someone here? The caller knocked heavily for about ten seconds.

  There was no help for it. I went to the door and opened it.

  In the darkness and mist, I did not recognize her for a moment. Then she stepped forward into the light from the hall. It was Susannah—Susannah Adderstone.

  Chapter 27

  She paid the taxi. As he drove off into the mist she turned and came back to the door, where I was still standing. Not a word had passed between us.

  "I thought I'd find you here," she said.

  "You know, then?"

  She nodded gravely.

  "I heard about it on the news yesterday. Father and I talked about you all last night. He was against my coming down, but I insisted. He says it's out of his hands now. I made him tell me all he knew. About what really happened here."

  "And you still wanted to come, knowing that?"

  She hesitated.

  "Yes. You don't mind, do you?"

  "Mind? It's not for me to mind. This is your house. Your father's, anyway."

  I noticed that she had brought a small case.

  "Let me take that for you. We can't stand here talking; it's freezing."

  She stepped into the hallway, into the light. For the second time I was shocked by how beautiful she was. As she came in she glanced around at everything, as though reassuring herself that it was all real. I closed the door and helped her off with her coat.

  "Let's go to the kitchen," I said. "I've just been having tea there with Rachel."

  "How is the little girl?" asked Susannah.

  "How did you expect her to be? Beaten up, maybe? Dead?"

  "No, of course not, I. . ." She reddened.

  "That's quite all right. Whatever the papers say. I'm not a murderer."

  "I never thought you were." She paused. "Does Rachel . . . ? Have you told her about her parents yet?"

  I shook my head.

  "No, not yet," I replied. "There's all this to go through first."

  "That's why I came, Peter. To tell you it's not too late to pull out of . . . whatever it is you think you're doing here. Rachel's safe. I can tell the police I sent you the keys to this place, that you told me you wanted to bring her down here for a break after the accident. They've no reason not to believe you."

  Such blinding stupidity. As if I had come all the way here to leave this thing unfinished.

  "It isn't possible," I said. 'Something has started here; I have to finish it. Rachel knows what's happening; in some ways she knows more than anyone. Her memory is coming back. The house is acting on her, reawakening Catherine in her."

  Susannah looked frightened.

  "Perhaps you should leave," I said. "It's not too late. I can drive you back to Penzance."

  She shook her head.

  "I'm part of this thing, too," she said. With a smile, she took a step toward the kitchen. "Come on, it's time I met Rachel."

  I followed her. The moment I stepped through the door, I knew something was wrong. Susannah looked at me, puzzled. The smile had faded. The table was still laid for tea. The pot of tea and the half-drunk glass of milk were still there. But Rachel had vanished.

  Susannah was the first to notice that the backdoor was tying ajar. I thrust a flashlight into her hand and led the way into the darkness outside. It was bitterly cold; any warmth there had been in the air had been sucked from it by the mist. Even with the flashlight, I could see only a few feet in any direction.

  "Rachel!" I shouted. "Where are you? Can you hear me?"

  There was no answer. I looked around. The lights of the house had already disappeared into the mist somewhere behind us. Or was it to the side? I was already growing disoriented.

  "Peter, she may not be out here at all." Susannah was still close to me.

  "The door was open," I said. "And we would have seen her if she'd come down the passage from the kitchen. You would have seen her—you were facing that way. She has to be out here."

  "But surely she wouldn't have gone far. Not in this."

  "She's four years old, Susannah. There's no knowing what she may do. Once she got into the mist, she would have lost her way in seconds. She could be anywhere."

  As I said the words I heard a sound that made my heart shrivel. Waves slapping a cliff face, waves coming in fast. If Rachel were to walk that way, she could miss the cliff edge in the mist and crash to her death. I resumed shouting with all my strength.

  "Rachel! Are you out there? Answer me!"

  But the only sound that came back to me was the crashing of waves.

  "Stay beside me," I said. "We can't afford to get separated from each other."

  I saw Susannah halt.

  "Peter." Her voice was strained, awkward. "I want you to tell me the truth. Has something already happened to Rachel? Has there already been an accident? Because, if there has, this is just a charade, and I don't want anything more to do with it."

  I could not see her. When I spoke, I did so in the direction of the light she was holding.

  "You saw the milk on the table. And you know it hadn't been put there for your benefit."

  "I'm not saying she was never here. Just that . . . something may have happened, something you didn't intend. Like before . . ."

  If she had not been hidden, I might have struck her. But it was only a voice, I told myself, only a voice. I turned and walked on into the mist. Susannah could look after herself.

  As I started walking I heard a sound. A child's voice. It was Rachel, calling from quite near at hand.

  "Rachel? Stay where you are! Do you hear me? Don't move. Just keep calling. Do you understand?"

  "Yes." She sounded very frightened.

  "Keep calling, and I'll come and get you. I'm not far away."

  Rachel was an intelligent child. She did exactly as I told her. It took about ten minutes to grope my way to her through the mist. Time and again I thought I had her, only to find that something had distorted her voice or given me a false sense of the direction from which it was coming. And then, suddenly, there she was, standing shivering on the grass in front of me.

  I picked her up in my arms and held her dose for a long time. Just as I set her down I heard a voice behind me.

  "I'm sorry, Peter. It was wrong of me not to believe you."

  Susannah must have followed the light of my flashlight. Her own was switched off. Now she turned it back on again.

  I introduced her to Rachel.

  "This is Susannah," I said. "That's who came to the door earlier. She's come to stay for a few days. Her daddy owns Petherick House."

  Rachel seemed unimpressed.

  "I'm cold," she said.

  "We're all cold, love. It's freezing out here. Let's get back to the house."

  But that was easier to say than to do. Petherick House had been swallowed up entirely by the mist, and I had no idea which direction it lay in. The sound of waves was the only guide we had to the location of anything. We could try walking away from it, but that might as easily send us right on past the house as into it. One thing was certain: we could not spend the night outside. None of us was dressed for it. There was a real danger that we would all die from exposure.

  I do not know how long we stumbled about there. All I can remember is the mist writhing th
rough the dark while all the time I grew colder and weaker. I could feel Rachel shivering against me as I held her in my arms, trying to press some warmth into her. The batteries of our flashlights were rapidly losing their first strength. Not that they helped a great deal anyway. What little they showed of the terrain across which we were walking was of absolutely no use in establishing our position.

  Susannah was the first to catch sight of the light.

  "Look!"

  I saw her pointing up at what we knew could only be a light from the house. The next moment it was wiped from sight by a great hand of mist. And then the mist moved on, and we could see the light as clearly as before. With a cry of triumph, I started for it. Susannah followed.

  As we neared the house—which had not, after all, been very far away—other lights became visible. At the last moment a bank of mist rolled away, uncovering the entire rear of the building. It was only then that I realized that the light we had been following had not been, as I had thought, a downstairs light, but one in an upstairs room. In a room in the top floor, to be precise. Susannah Trevorrow's bedroom, to be more precise again.

  As our feet touched the gravel path that circled the house, the light flickered and went out.

  It took us a long time to get warm again. While Susannah watched Rachel in the kitchen I ventured upstairs alone to fetch some quilts. It was silent up there. Silent and dark.

  As I was taking the quilt from my bed, I glanced across the room. Rachel's bed had been made up first thing that morning. But something seemed odd about it. I went across and looked down.

  On the pillow lay a doll. A doll in a sailor suit, identical to the one I had burned in London. It almost seemed to glare at me as I picked it up and shoved it under my own bed.

  Downstairs again, I made hot soup and poured it into mugs for us to hold. Bit by bit, we thawed out. Seeing one of the whiskey bottles, Susannah suggested hot toddies. I found some sugar and powdered cinnamon I had bought to put on hot chocolate for Rachel. The toddies—large ones for Susannah and myself, a much smaller one for Rachel—warmed us from top to bottom.