The Vanishment (12 page)

"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.

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 had 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.

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.

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.