The Vanishment

by Jonathan Aycliffe

  The coffin had been built of hardwood. It had cracked and swollen in places, but the body of it was sound. The lid was still screwed down hard. That was the most difficult job, bending down in that dreadful place, with the light of the torch growing dimmer all the time I worked, forcing the screws back with the edge of the spade, which was my only tool. The screws gave reluctantly, as though determined to guard their trust to the very end. Two snapped clean off, the others twisted from the wood a fraction of an inch at a time.

  Even then, it was only with the greatest effort that I could free the lid from the body of the coffin. I had almost no room in which to maneuver, no space to slip the spade between them in an attempt to lever them apart. But I pushed and shoved as well as I could.

  The lid gave with a wrenching sound, and keeping my eyes closed, I pushed it across the coffin and up against the side of the grave. It rested there precariously, propped back by the spade. A terrible stench rose from the coffin, making me choke. I tied a handkerchief around my mouth before continuing. Like someone in a dream, I bent down and opened my eyes. In my right hand, the flashlight was shaking as I looked inside.

  The grave had finished what the sea had begun. The half skull lay twisted to one side. A few strands of dark hair lay on the stained and rotted pillow beneath it. Already half-decomposed by the action of the salt water, the flesh must have fallen from Susannah's bones rapidly. There was no trace of skin anywhere on the naked skull.

  They had covered her in a long shroud. It seemed to be intact, but as I reached out my hand to draw it aside, the cloth, long ago rotted, disintegrated at my touch and uncovered the bones beneath. I shuddered, but I forced myself to go on with what I had started. I had my reasons. Holding my breath, and fighting back my rising horror, I pulled the shreds of fabric away until I had uncovered Susannah's hands.

  It was there on her wrist, as I had expected it to be: a jet bracelet. The carving and initials were identical to those on the bracelet I had been shown earlier that day.

  Still shaking, I continued to pull the winding cloth apart. But there was nothing more to find. Just white bones and dust.

  Chapter 16

  The inquest did not take long. The evidence for identification was presented by Raleigh. I was not asked to say much: merely to reiterate what I had already told the police concerning Sarah's disappearance on the sixteenth of July. I said nothing about why she might have left the house that night, nor was I pressed to express an opinion.

  Sarah's sister, Lorna, had come down from Sheffield to testify. She said Sarah had owned a bracelet like the one found on the body. The family had been on holiday together in Whitby, and Sarah had ordered the bracelet made to her own design in a shop specializing in antique and modern jet ware. I said nothing to challenge Lorna's testimony, but I had never seen Sarah wear such a bracelet.

  The evidence concerning the hair strands and testimony regarding the length of time the remains had been in the water clinched the business of identification. The coroner entered a verdict of death by misadventure.

  My parents-in-law were there. They were coldly polite and left me in no doubt that they disagreed with the verdict. Raleigh told me later that they had been with him the day before, making veiled accusations. He did not seem to like them. I wondered what they might have told him about me. The truth, probably.

  "What about your own parents?" he asked. "I might have thought. ..'

  "They're dead," I told him. "Before Sarah and I met. There was an accident."

  "I'm sorry. It was none of my business."

  Lorna came over to me afterward. She was apologetic and grief-stricken. I think she wanted to use me as a bridge for her feelings about Sarah, as a vehicle for some facile reconciliation. They had never been close, and in recent years Lorna's jealousy of her sister had been like a poison souring everything it touched. I let her vent her guilt, but I refused to let it touch me. I had enough guilt of my own to cope with.

  I wanted to ask her about the bracelet, but in the end decided against it. Things were better left as they were.

  Raleigh saw me to the station.

  "What's wrong?" I asked. "You don't seem well."

  He hesitated before answering, as though making his mind up about something.

  "You'll hear soon enough," he said. "I'm ill. TB. It started about a month ago."

  I looked at him incredulously.

  "TB? People don't get TB anymore."

  "Don't they? It's happening all the time. There are these new strains, you see. Drug-resistant. All these powerful drugs, they make the bacteria mutate.

  That's what I've got, or so they tell me. Mutated frigging bacteria."

  "But they can treat you, can't they?"

  Raleigh shook his head.

  "That's the problem," he said. "These buggers can resist the strongest drugs they've got. I may not have very long. I wanted to find your wife before things took a turn for the worse. We won't have to meet again."

  "Do you still dream of her?"

  He did not answer at once. I wondered what he felt.

  "Every night. I can see her more clearly every time. As though we're getting closer."

  "You shouldn't talk like this. You're growing morbid."

  "I have reason to." He glanced up.

  "Here," he said, “you'd better go or you'll miss your train."

  “Did they say much about me?"

  "Who?"

  "The Trevors. My loving parents-in-law."

  He hesitated.

  "What you might expect," he said. "It doesn't matter. It makes no difference to anything."

  "You're sure of that?"

  He nodded and said no more.

  "I'm going to Yorkshire," I said. "To see Adderstone."

  "No need now. We've found your wife."

  "I still want to know. About Agnes Trevorrow."

  Raleigh shook his head.

  "Leave it alone. It can't do any good."

  I took his hand.

  "I'll write to you," I said. "Thanks. Thanks for everything."

  "Take care," he answered.

  Over the PA system came an announcement telling passengers my train was about to leave. I could see nontravelers stepping onto the platform and closing doors. People were waving from open windows.

  "I'd like to stay in touch," I said.

  "Yes. Do that. I'll let you know if anything else comes up here."

  I headed for the gate. When I got there, I turned and saw him, still watching me. On an impulse, I walked back a few paces toward him.

  "Does she ever speak?" I asked.

  He looked at me gently and shook his head.

  I looked back again as I prepared to board the train. He was no longer there.

  Susan was waiting up for me when I got home. Tim had gone to a conference in Birmingham. Rachel was in bed.

  "How did it go, Peter? Was it beastly?" Susan was doing her best to keep her feelings in check. She had loved Sarah, possibly more than I had.

  I shrugged.

  "Not really. Just very dull. It didn't seem to have anything to do with Sarah or me."

  "The identification. They didn't make you . . . ?" She shuddered.

  I shook my head.

  "No," I said. "Nothing like that. It was all done by science. Clean and impersonal."

  "That's all right, then, isn't it?" She smiled, then looked away.

  I sat down beside her.

  "Would you like something?" she asked. "A drink or something?"

  "No, thanks. I had a gin on the train. A few gins, actually. But I'm not plastered. Just tired."

  "It's all right. You can be forgiven a few gins on a day like today. I've had a few myself. I wish one of us could have gone with you. You could have done with some moral support."

  "The Trevors were there. Mum and Dad. He had a dark suit on. And a black tie. Lorna was there as well."

  “The awful Lorna? You poor thing."

  "She tried to make friends. She means well, I think
."

  "Don't you believe it." She paused. "Still, it's over now, isn't it?"

  "Over?"

  "Well, this stage of things. The uncertainty. Have you got a date for the funeral?"

  "They're doing all that. The Trevors. I said they could—it's their sort of thing, after all. It's to be in Huddersfield. Some grim municipal cemetery. Victorian angels." I shuddered. I was thinking about the night before. "Will you come with me? To the funeral."

  She nodded.

  "Of course I will. We'll all be there. Leave it to me, Peter; I'll ring 'round tomorrow." She looked at me. Her eyes had filled with unexpected tears. "Oh, Peter. I still can't believe it's true. Not Sarah . . ."

  I put my arm around her, comforting her as best I could. We remained like that for a long time while she cried. I had no tears to add to hers. I had lost mine somewhere along the way.

  Finally, she straightened up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm not being much help."

  I ran my hand down her back.

  "You're more help than you can imagine."

  She glanced at me.

  "By the way, Peter—I forgot to tell you. A parcel arrived for you this morning. It's over there on the sideboard."

  "Any idea where from?" I asked, getting to my feet. I had not been expecting anything.

  Susan shrugged.

  "I didn't look."

  I crossed to the table and picked up the package, a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper, about two feet long and ten inches wide. The postmark was too blurred to read. There was no sender's name, just my own, written in careful longhand.

  The wrapping came off easily. Inside was a stout cardboard box. It held two objects, each wrapped in brown paper. The first seemed to be a tiny box; it had my name written clearly on the outside. The second, much larger, bore Rachel's name. I looked carefully, but there was no sign of a note or card.

  "There's something here for Rachel," I said, lifting the large object from the box and handing it to Susan.

  While she unwrapped it I tore the paper from the small box in my hand. Inside was a small velvet box, the sort used by jewelers. I could not say whether or not it was familiar, I had seen so many like it. It felt very light. Lifting the small brass clasp, I opened it.

  Inside was a ring. A platinum wedding ring. I recognized it without difficulty.

  "What is it, Peter?" I heard Susan ask. Her voice sounded far away.

  "Sarah's ring," I said quietly. "Her wedding ring."

  "It must have been left behind in Cornwall."

  "Yes, it must," I lied. I dosed the box. The ring had not been left at Petherick House. It had been on Sarah's finger the night of her disappearance, I was certain of it. She had never been known to take it off, not even in a quarrel. I glanced at the box again, feeling the old fear tighten around my heart.

  "I don't understand," said Susan. "Why would anyone send this to Rachel?"

  I looked up. Susan was holding a doll in her hands. It was a Victorian boy doll, one of those grotesque things with a grown-up's head, dressed in a sailor suit. At first appraisal, it did not seem to be a replica.

  Something about the doll made me uneasy. Its little eyes stared at me with an almost malevolent intelligence. The face seemed old, not at all childlike. It filled me with revulsion to think of Rachel playing with such a toy: caressing it, introducing it to all her other dolls.

  "I can't think who can have sent it," Susan said.

  Nor could I. At least. . .

  "Maybe a relative . . ." I ventured lamely.

  Susan shook her head.

  "It's not her birthday or anything. If it came with Sarah's ring . . ." She hesitated. "Perhaps there was someone you met in Cornwall, someone you mentioned Rachel to. What about this policeman—what was his name?"

  "No," I said. "That isn't likely. We met almost no one. And Raleigh would have given them to me when I was down."

  "What do you think I should do with it?"

  I did not answer her right away. The doll seemed to look at me as though it could see and think, as though there was purpose behind those glass eyes.

  "I don't think you should give it to Rachel," I said finally. I paused. "I think . . . I think it might be best to burn it."

  Susan looked at me, shocked.

  "Burn it? I don't understand. It's quite a lovely doll. An antique. And possibly quite valuable. Why on earth should I burn it?"

  "I can't explain. I'm not even sure myself. But I don't think you should give it to Rachel. At least not until . . ." I hesitated. "Not until we know for sure who sent it."

  Susan nodded. I could see she did not understand. But tonight I was excused, tonight even my wildest behavior would be put down to the strain of the inquest.

  "I think I'll go to bed," I said. "I'm overwrought."

  "Yes. You're not yourself. I'll come up with you, I have to be up early in the morning."

  We climbed the stairs together, going quietly to avoid waking Rachel. At the door of my room, I turned to say good night.

  "Peter, if it would help . . ." I saw her looking at me anxiously. "Tim's away, he needn't know. . . ." Her voice trailed away.

  "You're offering to sleep with me?"

  She nodded.

  "If it would help. If it would comfort you."

  I could not answer straightaway. It had been a long time since our brief affair.

  "Yes," I said. "It would comfort me. But better not. I don't think you'd like yourself very much in the morning. You're happy with Tim. Don't spoil it. Not for me."

  "You're sure?"

  "No, of course I'm not sure. Go to bed. We could both do with some sleep."

  She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. I felt her burning there for a long time afterward.

  It must have been around three or four o'clock when a noise woke me. I pulled myself up on the pillow and strained to see in the darkness. The room was very cold. I sensed more than saw that the door was open.

  Had Susan decided to comfort me after all? I reached out my hand and switched on the light.

  Rachel was standing in the doorway. She was wearing her red pajamas and the huge Mickey Mouse slippers Tim had bought her for Christmas. Her hair was tousled, and her eyes were full of sleep. In her arms she cradled the doll that had been posted to her.

  "Why did you hide Mr. Belkins?" she asked.

  I looked at her, not knowing what to do or say.

  "I found him downstairs," she said. "I had a dream and I found him when I woke up. Nobody told me he was here."

  "He isn't yours," I said. "He belongs to another little girl. I have to give him to her tomorrow."

  She shook her head and clutched the doll more tightly.

  "Oh, yes, he is mine. Mr. Belkins has always been mine."

  "Why do you call him that?" I asked. "I didn't think he had a name."

  She nodded emphatically.

  "Yes, he does have a name. He's Mr. Belkins. I called him that before, and now I'm calling him that again."

  "Before?" It was a question I knew I should not have asked.

  "He was my doll before," she said. "When I lived at Petherick with Mummy and Aunt Agnes."

  Chapter 17

  By the next morning, Rachel seemed to have forgotten all about the doll or her appearance in my room. I had taken her back to bed and, once she was sleeping, removed Mr. Belkins from the room. Downstairs, I had crushed the doll's porcelain head and body and burned its clothes. The smell had lingered in the living room for a long time afterward.

  Susan had finished her series and was free to look after Rachel again. I said I planned to go to York for the day, to visit some bookshops. Before I left, Susan took me aside.

  "Peter, what happened to the doll?"

  "I destroyed it."

  She looked shocked.

  "That was going a bit far, wasn't it?"

  "Trust me, Susan. I did the right thing. It's for Rachel's good, for her safety. You know h
ow important that is to me. I want you to keep a close eye on her while I'm away."

  "Peter, you're frightening me. What is it? What's going on?"

  I hesitated for a moment.

  "I can't tell you now," I said, "really I can't. But you must promise not to let her out of your sight."

  I know Susan wanted to ask me more, but there was nothing I could tell her. I kissed Rachel good-bye and took a cab to King's Cross.

  Richard Adderstone lived in Helmsley, a pretty town in the Hambleton Hills, near Rievaulx Abbey. I hired a car in York and was in Helmsley shortly after two o'clock. I had not telephoned beforehand, fearing that Adderstone might prefer not to see a visitor who wanted to talk about Petherick House. It meant taking the risk of not finding him at home when I called, but the advantage of surprise that it gave me was too valuable to lose.

  In the Black Swan they directed me to a Georgian house just off the market square. On a low metal gate the name of the house had been written in wrought-iron letters: St. Ives. I knew I had come to the right place.

  A young woman answered the door. She was pretty, with long blond hair tied loosely at the back. I guessed her to be around twenty-five. She wore riding breeches and a tight-fitting cashmere jumper. I had not expected anyone so lovely to come to the door, and it quite destroyed the confidence I had been building up for the visit.

  "Excuse me," I said. "I . . . I'm looking for a Mr. Adderstone. Richard Adderstone. This is his house, isn't it?"

  She looked at me uncertainly. I could read the look on her face perfectly easily: a stranger meant someone from outside Helmsley, and outsiders would usually write or phone beforehand.

  "I'm sorry. Mister . . ."

  "Clare. Peter Clare. I've come up from London in the hope of finding him at home. It's not inconvenient, I trust?"

  "Well, it could be. Richard Adderstone is my father. He . . . He hasn’t been very well lately, and the doctor advises few visitors. Friends from the town call in from time to time. But you say you've come all the way from London?"

  I nodded.

  "It's really quite important," I said. "I'm sorry, I know I should have telephoned first. It's just that. . ." My voice trailed away. What excuse could I have offered, after all?