The Vanishment Page 9

  As far as possible, however, I avoided venturing outdoors. On several occasions—once near the swings in the park, twice on the High Street, once in the supermarket—I had caught a glimpse of a figure dressed in black, watching us. Each time it had been gone when I looked again, but I did not think I had been mistaken.

  "I don't like it when Mummy goes away," said Rachel one day as she sat beside me, drawing with crayons I had just bought for her.

  "But she'll be back tomorrow," I said. "And Daddy will be home early tonight."

  She shook her head.

  "I don't have a daddy," she said, quite matter-of-factly.

  "Nonsense. You have a very nice daddy."

  She frowned, as though uncertain of something.

  "Well," she said finally, "I didn't before."

  "Before?" I smiled. "What do you mean?"

  "Before I was born," she said. She was still frowning, creasing her eyes as though in an effort to make sense of something, or to remember.

  "I don't understand," I said.

  "Before," she said. "Before I was Rachel. When I lived in a big house."

  "When was this?" I asked. "I thought you'd always lived here."

  "No," she said, shaking her head. Her little face was quite tense, the expression on it wholly serious. I could see that it would hurt if I made fun of her. And for some reason I did not want to, not even gently.

  "Where did you live then?"

  "I told you. In a big old house. Not like this one at all. It had a garden all 'round it. A garden with trees, like in the park. And if you went through the garden, you could see the sea."

  I felt my skin go cold.

  "Rachel," I said, "you're making this up, aren't you?"

  "Don't call me that," she said. "That's not my name."

  "But of course it is," I said. "You've always been Rachel."

  But inside I was feeling terribly afraid.

  She shook her head slowly.

  "No," she said. "I can't remember very well, but I wasn't called Rachel when I lived in the big house."

  "What were you called? Can you remember?"

  "You know," she said. "You know what I was called."

  My breath was tight in my chest. I scarcely dared speak.

  "No," I said. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

  She looked directly at me. She had such big eyes, such haunted eyes.

  "Catherine," she said. "I was called Catherine. And I lived in a big house near the sea. The house had a name, too."

  "Can you remember what it was called?"

  "It was a long name," she said. "I'm not sure. Maybe it was Peter House. Like your name."

  "Peter?"

  I could feel the pool of horror stirring in me. They were still clutching out from their past.

  "Something like that," she said. 'Longer than that."

  "Petherick?" I asked, sick. "Was that it, Rachel? Was it Petherick?"

  A smile lit her face, then a half-frightened look crossed it.

  "Yes," she said, half in a whisper. "That was what we called it. I had a kitten then."

  * * *

  Early the next day I had a call from Raleigh. They had found a body. At the foot of steep cliffs to the west of St. Ives. The body of a woman, long-drowned.

  I scarcely listened. I was tired. All the night before, Rachel had been screaming.

  Chapter 14

  By the time I left for St. Ives, Rachel seemed herself again. I was anxious for her, but I felt there was nothing I could say to Tim about what I knew. If I were to voice my suspicions, he would have little choice but to ask me to leave for good. Far better I stayed there, where I could keep an eye on her. After breakfast I talked with Rachel, explaining that I had to go away, without saying why. I did not refer to our conversation of the previous day: she needed to sleep without dreams.

  I took the midmorning train to Penzance. All the way down I watched through a rain-spattered window as the autumn fields rattled past. I could neither read nor write. All I could think about was Sarah lying disfigured in a cold mortuary, or Sarah floating, faceless, in the vast ocean. All around me people were talking or reading, living their lives in the limbo that lay between departure and arrival. Depending on class and taste, they read The Sun or Hello! or the latest Booker Prize winner. They had left loved ones behind, or would be met by others at the station. I was different. My wife had been washed up on the seashore like just another piece of jetsam. I would never speak to her again.

  Sarah's disappearance had cast me into a limbo of my own. But now I was coming down to earth. At last, I thought, it would all end. I looked out on newly harvested farmlands, at the long, sealike expanse of the sky. Then the sea itself lay on my left, and we were pulling into Penzance. My journey was almost over.

  Raleigh himself was waiting for me at the station. He had changed. Something vital had gone out of him. I thought he looked ill.

  "I've got a car waiting outside," he said. "They're expecting us at the coroner's office."

  "You haven't asked me how I am," I said.

  "I've not time for that. Let’s get this thing over."

  "It is her?" I asked. "You're sure of that?"

  He said nothing, turning and going ahead of me, not even looking to see if I was following. His sergeant had not come with him. I tossed my overnight bag into the back. Raleigh wanted me to stay down for the inquest. He took the wheel and nipped out into the traffic.

  We had been driving for about a minute when he turned to me.

  "Who else could it be?" he asked.

  "I don't understand."

  "Mr. Clare, your wife went missing in July. In the period between then and now, no female bodies have been found in this region. The body at Zawn Quoits is the first. It's not in good condition, and you won't be asked to look at it."

  "Then why have you brought me down?"

  "It's a formality. We are sure it's your wife. If you agree, you'll be given legal charge of her remains, for burial or cremation."

  "I can get Sarah's dental records," I said. "If that would help."

  He did not answer at once. I noticed that his hands were tight on the wheel, that his knuckles were white. We were driving along the promenade, with the sea on our left, cold and driven.

  "No," he said. "They'd be no help. The face was . . . badly disfigured. The lower jaw is completely gone. And the top . . . Better not think of it."

  But I could not help thinking of it. I had once kissed her, after all. His corpse had been my lover.

  "There was a little hair," he said, "at the back of the skull. We had some strands of your wife's hair that we took from her pillow. I had them compared. The forensic lab says they're satisfied the strands are identical." He paused. "There's just one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "It'll wait," he said. "We're nearly there."

  We turned right onto Lidden Road. Moments later we drew up outside the coroner's office. They were waiting for us. The assistant coroner, a man called Hawkes, greeted us morosely. He shook my hand.

  "This is just a formality, you understand, Mr. Clare. The remains we believe to be your wife's are being kept in the mortuary at West Cornwall Hospital here in Penzance, where they were brought by Coastguard Cliff Rescue. Since they are badly decomposed, we do not expect you to view them. Perhaps Chief Inspector Raleigh has explained. . .."

  His voice trailed away, as though trained to do so. He was a tidy man with watery blue eyes and pale, aching skin. Something beneath the surface threatened to break out. He was a churchgoer, perhaps, or a frequenter of pornographic cinemas. I sensed something furtive and inwardly angry about him.

  "Yes," I said. "He's told me all about it."

  "Good," he muttered, "very good. Now, the inquest itself will be tomorrow. As the chief inspector will have explained, we have decided to hold it in St. Ives rather than here or Camborne. This is in case anyone should wish to visit the spot where your wife is thought to have fallen to her death or the place wh
ere the remains were found, although I have to say that I think neither is very likely."

  He paused.

  "I have some papers I'd like you to sign. Why don't you step inside and sit down while we go through all this?"

  I followed him. Raleigh had gone ahead of us. Photographs of the hair strands were shown to me, together with wooden descriptions of the laboratory analysis that had found them identical. It seemed enough. I declared myself satisfied.

  "There's one thing more," said Hawkes. I saw Raleigh watching me. His face was expressionless.

  Hawkes reached into a drawer and took from it a small white cardboard box. He removed the lid and reached inside.

  "Tell me, Mr. Clare," he said, "do you recognize this?"

  In his hand he held a bracelet. A black bracelet carved with little flowers. I guessed that it was made of jet. It reminded me of something.

  I shook my head.

  "No," I said. "I've never seen it before."

  "You're sure it did not belong to your wife? You never saw her wearing it?"

  "No," I said. "Never." I remembered now. Susannah Trevorrow had worn a bracelet just like this. Her sister, Agnes, had identified it during the inquest.

  Hawkes frowned. Raleigh did not take his eyes off me.

  "Mr. Clare, perhaps you can tell me what your wife's initials were."

  "Her initials? Why, S.C., of course. She didn't have any middle names."

  "And before you were married? What was her maiden name?

  "Trevor. Her name was Sarah Trevor."

  He pushed the bracelet toward me, holding it up so the light caught it obliquely.

  "This bracelet was found on the body at Zawn Quoits," Hawkes said.

  On the side facing me were two initials set in a circle. I did not have to strain to see what they were. S. T.

  Raleigh had reserved a room for me in a hotel at St. Ives. The road along which we drove had been drenched with sunshine when I last saw it. Now the trees dripped with rain and the light was colorless. Raleigh had a short fit of coughing. When it passed, I turned to him. I had been thinking of Hawkes's words, about someone wanting to inspect the place where Sarah's body had been found.

  "How far is it from here to where she was washed up?"

  "Zawn Quoits? Not far. A few minutes' drive. But you'd have to walk the last bit."

  "Could we go there first? I'd like to see it while there's still light."

  He glanced at his watch, then nodded.

  We left the car at a place called Higher Burthallan and set off on foot. The sea air seemed to set off Raleigh's cough again. The sky above us was filled with kittiwakes, driven inland by a storm at sea. There was a stiff breeze and rain that lashed our faces as we walked. A footpath took us down to Hellesveor Cliff, where we struck due west on a narrow path that skirted the shore. On either side of us the land was bleak and open. We passed gray stone outcrops and fields of bracken turning brown. No trees grew here, only gorse and stunted hawthorn bushes. It was not a long walk. A few minutes later Raleigh took my arm, holding me fast.

  “Here," he said. 'These are the Trowan Cliffs. The Zawn Quoits are below."

  I looked down. The sound of waves hitting the shore reminded me of the cliff at Petherick House. It was the same coastline, the same rocks. I shivered at the thought of falling, at the thought of lying, naked and exposed, on such a cold bed. It was a lonely place to be driven to by the tides.

  "The fishermen say the currents would have taken her out, then back again in the storm." Raleigh's voice was unstable, shaken by the wind. He coughed hard, bringing up phlegm. Beneath us, the waves sluiced the rocks.

  "Was she there long?" I asked.

  He shook his head.

  "They found her the day after the storm. Not long."

  "This is where Susannah Trevorrow was found, wasn't it?"

  "Yes," he said. He seemed ill at ease. "It makes sense. The currents won't have changed much since her day."

  He turned to me.

  "Have you seen what you came to see?"

  I nodded. I was still trying to imagine what it meant to be naked and alone down there, to be nothing more than a thing the sea had coughed up.

  Chapter 15

  I spent the evening in the Garrack Hotel, where Raleigh had reserved a room for me. My window looked out toward the shore between Clodgy Point and the headland at Porthmeor Beach, with the sea beyond. Trowan Cliffs were just out of sight, a little to the west. Perhaps it was not the best of views that night, perhaps what happened later would not have occurred had I not found myself sitting there in my room, staring at the sea and thinking. Raleigh had gone home to his wife. I had suggested dinner, but he wanted to keep things businesslike, he said. All the same, his company would have helped; I might not have brooded quite so much.

  I went out about one in the morning. By then I knew there was little point in trying to sleep. If someone had stopped me and asked where I was headed, I would have told them I was going for a stroll. As far as I know, that was all there was in my mind at that time. Just a walk to the shore and back. The sea air would clear my head and help me to sleep.

  The weather was still rough, with stiffening squalls that tore across the rooftops and hammered through the narrow, twisting streets. For a few moments I would find myself in shelter, then I would turn a corner and the wind would snap at me again. On any other night, I would have turned and headed back indoors. I passed no one on the street. St. Ives is always a quiet place, and all the more so out of season.

  On the northern edge of the town, a steep hill leads down to Porthmeor Beach. The sands are flanked higher up on the land side by a stretch of sheltered ground with cafes, toilets, and a putting green. Next to that there is a cemetery and a car park. It was only when I saw the graveyard name in the light of a street lamp that I realized where I was.

  According to the papers found by Raleigh, Bamoon Cemetery was where Susannah Trevorrow had been buried. Had I stumbled there by chance, blown to the spot by the wind, or had it been my intention to head there all along?

  I stood for a while, straining in the darkness to make out the jumble of graves behind the fence. It was no good. I would need a flashlight. My first thought was to try a shed in one of the gardens in West Place, just behind me. But then I remembered that the cemetery chapel was divided into two sections and that the building joining them was a store. I might find a flashlight there.

  It proved very easy. The doors to the chapel store faced seaward and were not overlooked. A heavy stone broke the padlock at the second or third blow. I had to fumble about in the darkness for a while, but I found what I was looking for. A large rubber flashlight lay on a shelf among trowels, forks, and gardening gloves. I decided to borrow it for a few minutes in order to look for the grave. It would be a matter of moments to replace it afterward.

  It was as I was leaving that I noticed the spades. The beam of the flashlight fell on them as I lit my way to the door. Had that been in my mind from the start as well? I hesitated for only a moment, then snatched a spade from the stack and went back into the night.

  Even with the help of the flashlight, it was difficult work stumbling about among the tumbled graves. I discovered that the cemetery had been built on three terraces, divided by rough stone walls, and that the ground dropped away steeply between them. The first level consisted of a mixture of graves dating from around the end of the last century to the present day. A rapid tour of the older graves revealed nothing of interest.

  I crossed to the second level and started to work my way up and down. The wind tugged at me, fresh from the sea. The names of the dead flickered in the light of the torch, their chiseled edges worn down by years of exposure. I could not even be sure there had been a headstone or, if there had been, that it still stood.

  But I was not disappointed. The Trevorrows had been wealthy in their way, and Agnes had evidently spent not a little on her sister's monument. It was a marble pillar topped by a draped urn. I could see that it ha
d not been tended in a long time, and that the elements had worn it down. Seaside gravestones are often eaten away by the salt. But the marble of Susannah Trevorrow's resting place had withstood storm and sea spray better than most of the headstones around it. Her name was still legible, and so, too, was the inscription beneath:

  SUSANNAH TREVORROW

  27 February 1865-16 July 1887

  "The sea shall give up its dead"

  I switched off the flashlight and set to work. The grave was grown over with fibrous seaside grass, through which I had to cut my way before reaching the soil beneath. Fortunately, the earth itself was fairly light and sandy on top, and I made good progress. The grave was set far down on the second terrace, out of view from the road, and I was able to conceal the light well enough behind the stone. The spade went deep at every thrust. I dug like someone demented, far into the night. From time to time I thought I heard sounds around me, voices, perhaps, or something running through the thick grass. But I did not look up. It's just the wind, I told myself.

  They had not buried her deep. Perhaps Agnes had wanted it that way. I hardly know. My spade struck the coffin lid in the third hour of digging. I used the flashlight to confirm that what I had reached was wood. Even with the wind, it had seemed a loud sound. I had a madness on me that night. I must have had, otherwise I could not have gone through with it.

  It took me another half hour to clear the soil properly from the lid. There was a grave stench all around me. I stood to my chest now, my feet balancing on the coffin itself. Cutting the grave back on one side of the coffin, I made a space in which I could stand. When I stepped down into it at last, the edge of the grave came level with my shoulders.