"When Agnes entered the room, she saw her sister squatting in the middle of the floor. She was quite mad, or seemed to be. The room had been ripped to shreds. Driven mad with thirst and hunger, Susannah had torn the bedclothes to pieces. She had stripped the paper from the walls. Her own clothes had been shredded. Agnes found her naked, staring through the window. There was . . ." I saw him choke, as though the words had thickened in his mouth. "There was a lot of blood."
"But how had she . . . ? How had she stayed alive on just water?"
"Surely," he said, looking up at me despairingly, "I do not have to spell it out to you? Please don't ask me to do that."
I felt sick. He could only mean one thing.
"What did Agnes do?" I asked.
"When she realized what had happened, she could not bear to go near her sister, not even to put an end to her sufferings. She closed the door and locked it again. Then she found the ladder and climbed to the bedroom window. Susannah was there, staring out at her. Agnes brought slats of wood and nailed them over the window, closing Susannah in. She left her there in the pitch darkness for another month. This time, when she opened the door, Susannah had been dead for some time. My aunt would not talk to me about what followed.
"All I know is that somehow she cleared the room. She disposed of Susannah's body that night, throwing her over the cliff. What Susannah had left of the child was buried somewhere in Petherick House. Agnes could never bring herself to speak to me of what happened after that. As you know, she continued to live at Petherick. I could never understand why. Not even now. I used to visit her there, you see, and I sensed that all was not well in the house. I would not myself have taken up residence there for anything. And yet somehow she continued to live there for sixty-six years, and I think that every day she relived what had happened all those years ago.
"I do not know what she heard or saw in that time, during those long winter nights when the house was in darkness and she had to face her ghosts alone. I shudder to think of it. But I believe it was with her own death that things took a turn for the worse. The ghosts of Susannah and her child are sad creatures. They can frighten, but I do not think they can do real harm.
"That is not the case with Agnes Trevorrow. She took her hatred and her bitterness and her anger to the grave with her. When I took Bryony to the house, it was because I believed the evil had departed with my aunt. But I was mistaken, fatally mistaken. The house had changed. Before, it had been disturbing. But then . . . then it held something positively evil,"
He looked at me compassionately.
"It reached out for my wife. And now it has reached out for yours. I can only say that I am sorry."
He hesitated, as if steeling himself to ask something hard.
"Tell me," he said, "have you seen her since you were in Cornwall?*'
"Seen whom?"
"My aunt. Agnes Trevorrow."
I told him of the glimpses I thought I had caught of a woman in London. And I mentioned the ring that had been sent to me, the doll that had come for Rachel. I said I thought it had somehow been Agnes Trevorrow's doing.
As I spoke I noticed that my host was growing more and more agitated.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I've been thoughtless. All this has upset you. Your daughter warned me you were ill."
"Please," he said. He was gasping now. "Over there . . . on the . . . bedside table. The . .. silver box."
I fetched it for him and watched as, with shaking hands, he removed a tiny pill and slipped it beneath his tongue. Within a few minutes he had calmed down. He closed the box with a snap and passed it back to me. I replaced it on the little table and remained standing, intending to leave.
"Mr. Clare/ he said. "Please listen to me carefully. Go back as quickly as you can to London. Do not under any circumstances allow the child Rachel out of your sight. She is in grave danger, very grave danger. If my aunt—or the creature that has taken her shape—should appear at your friends' house, for the love of God do not let her inside. And see that your friends do not let her in. No matter what she says. Do you understand me? It is most important. For the child's sake."
I nodded. My hands were sweating.
"Now go," he said.
I shook his hand and turned to the door.
Downstairs, Susannah was waiting for me. She had books ready for me to sign.
"Thank you for letting me see him," I said as I scribbled my name on the title pages. "I'm sorry if I've tired him, but there was nothing I could do to prevent it. There were . . . things which had to be said."
I could sense her trying to read my face to extract some sign of what had passed between her father and myself.
"You seem pale," she said. "Have you and Father had a row?"
I shook my head.
"No. We talked, that's all. We talked about Petherick House."
"And Agnes Trevorrow? Did he tell you that the house and his aunt have always been taboo subjects in this family? I've no idea why. I wish someone would tell me what's so special about them. Some ghastly family secret, I suppose."
I looked at her steadily.
"I think it would be better if you left the matter closed."
The seriousness of my manner communicated itself to her, as I had intended it to. We looked at one another for several seconds, then she drew a deep breath.
"I'd better go up," she said. "He's not as well as he looks."
She showed me to the door. I gave her my card and she slipped it into a pocket. As I stepped outside she shook my hand.
"Did he tell you that I was named after Agnes's sister?" she asked.
"I had already guessed," I said. "When you told me your name." I paused. "He told me he has a photograph of Susannah. I think he meant to let me see it. Perhaps you could have a copy made and sent to me. I'll pay you for it, of course."
"I can show you now if you like."
She reached into the neck of her sweater and drew out a large gold locket on a chain.
"Here," she said. "This is her. This is Susannah Trevorrow."
She prized the locket open with a thumbnail. It was an old locket, chased with fine lines of silver. I bent forward to look at the photograph. As I did so I suddenly felt as though the whole world had stopped moving.
The photograph in the locket was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young woman with her hair arranged in an old-fashioned style. I knew her face already, I had seen it a million times. It was my wife, Sarah.
Chapter 19
Sarah's funeral took place on a wet Monday afternoon the following week. All our old friends were there, many of them people I had not seen or heard from in years. We formed a distinct group from Sarah's family, who occupied one side of the chapel and one side of the grave, as though to signify some sort of perpetual enmity. I knew I would not see the Trevors again, yet I felt genuine sympathy for them and wanted to tell them how much Sarah had meant to me.
The cemetery was the indifferent municipal place I had expected it to be, but there were trees that gave it a softer, churchyard air. All through the burial, there was a crunching sound as people moved from foot to foot on the gravel paths. The sky was the color of slate. A bird moved quietly through it, circling above our heads again and again.
Raleigh was there, a little apart from the rest of us, neither family nor friend. I spoke to him afterward. His condition had deteriorated even in the short interval since the inquest.
"I'm to go into hospital soon," he said. "Things are taking a turn for the worse."
I did not want to give him false reassurances. People had done that with me when Sarah first went missing. "She'll turn up, you'll see." He knew he was dying. Whatever I told him would make no difference,
"I went to see Adderstone," I said.
"And did he have anything to say?"
I told him all I knew. He was silent for a while. The other mourners had reached the gate and were getting into their cars. I could see faces turned in our direction. A light rain had started to fa
ll across the graves. "She was Sarah's double," I said. "Susannah Trevorrow and Sarah were identical. I was shown her photograph." I paused. "I think it's Susannah you see in your dreams," I continued, "not Sarah."
"Does it make any difference?"
"Perhaps," I said. "I'm wondering whose body was found on Zawn Quoits." It made no difference that I had found Susannah Trevorrow's remains in her coffin. When nothing added up, what did reason matter?
"I can't swallow that," he said.
"A few months ago I would have swallowed none of this."
We walked in silence to the gate. As we reached it I looked back. Workmen had started to cover Sarah's coffin with wet soil. Just behind them, a figure in black was standing, watching me. The gravediggers seemed unaware of her.
She was holding a doll in her arms, holding it up so that I could see.
* * *
We drove straight back to London after a short reception at my in-laws' house. It had been a stilted affair punctuated by stony glances and hushed conversations. Rachel was waiting up for us. She had been looked after by a close friend, Jennifer, whom Tim had briefed about keeping the door closed to any strangers. He and I had talked about Agnes Trevorrow and the possibility that she might turn up in search of Rachel, and he had taken the matter seriously. Susan still knew nothing other than what I had told her.
Tim and Susan were both busy with work they had put to one side for the funeral. I volunteered to put Rachel to bed. She had already been bathed and dressed in her pajamas. I tucked her in and read her favorite story: Six Dinner Sid, the tale of an enterprising cat who manages to fit in daily meals at six different households in the same street until a sudden cough leads to repeated visits to the vet and exposure.
When the story was finished, I turned down the light and started for the door. Rachel called me back.
"Why did Mummy tell me Auntie Sarah was dead?" she asked.
"Because she is, dear. We were all at her funeral today."
Rachel shook her head.
"No," she said. "That can't be true."
I looked at her. Her small face was fixed in an expression of intense perplexity.
"Why do you think that?"
She looked at me almost as if she knew what was going through my head.
"Because she was here last night. In my room. She spoke to me. She said she wanted me to go with her."
I shivered. My back was to the door. I wanted to look around.
"Did she say where to?"
"Oh, yes. She said I was to go back with her to the house I was in before. She said we would go together. I asked if I could have a kitten. She said I could."
That night I dreamed the last dream. I reached the top story of the house. In front of me the door of Susannah's bedroom was half-open. I did not want to go inside, but I felt a force compelling me, pressing me forward until I was only inches from the doorway. There was someone inside. I could hear a sound of weeping, a child sobbing bitterly.
I stepped inside. An oil lamp was lit on the mantelpiece, filling the room with light and shadows. A small child in a long white dress was standing beside the bed, her back turned to me. I felt my hair stand on end as though a spider had walked over my skin. All the time I wanted to run, but I could not. The child started to turn. It felt as though cobwebs were touching my face. She began to turn, and I felt more frightened than I had ever felt in my life. She turned, and as she did so I woke with a start, snarling and yelping loudly enough to wake the entire household.
I reached out my hand to turn on the light. As I did so I realized with a stab of absolute dread that I was not in Tim and Susan's house. I was in my old bedroom in Petherick House. And there was something bumping in the next room.
I do not know how to explain what I have just written. Please try to understand. I was not asleep—I had just woken abruptly, and I was wide-awake. I was not dreaming. Somehow, I was fully conscious and fully aware of my surroundings. The room I was in was the bedroom in Petherick House, the one in which Sarah and I had slept. Nothing had changed since I had last been there. The sound of bumping continued without pause.
I lay for a long time, listening to the bumping noise and trying to reason with myself. I knew it was impossible for me to be where I was, but I could not doubt the evidence of my senses. The bumping would not stop. Cautiously, I sat up in the bed. I could see my shadow cast on the opposite wall. My heart was beating rapidly, quite out of time with the bumping next door.
I do not know how long I lay like that, sweating, shivering, unable to move a muscle. The bumping went on and on. In the end, I knew there was nothing for it. I could not just lie there, doing nothing, waiting for whatever was in the house to come for me. I pulled back the sheets and eased myself to the floor. A step at a time, I walked to the door. Holding my breath hard, I opened it. A woman was standing on the landing, watching me.
It must have been only seconds, but it seemed as though minutes passed before I realized that it was Susan. A moment later Tim appeared behind her. I looked around quickly. The room in which I was standing was my bedroom in their house.
"Peter, what's wrong? You look ghastly."
"I'm all . . . I'm all right."
"We heard you crying out," said Tim. "Did you have a nightmare?"
I nodded, finding words hard.
"Can I get you something? A drink maybe?"
I shook my head.
"No, I'm fine, really. I'm over it now. A bad dream, that's all. I hope I haven't woken Rachel."
"I'll look in on her," Susan said. "But are you sure you're all right, Peter? You don't look it. I think Tim's right, you should have a brandy or something."
"Really," I said, "I'm fine." I could still hear the bumping sound somewhere in my brain. Perhaps I was going mad after all. "It's the strain after the funeral and everything," I said. "But I'll be all right. I'll stay up for a bit, if you don't mind. I think a stiff drink might do me good after all."
To be honest, I was frightened to return to bed. I stayed in the kitchen all night, listening for sounds that did not come. When dawn came, I went back to bed and slept soundly for several hours. I had no more dreams that night. And when I woke, I was still in London.
Chapter 20
Later that morning, I had coffee with Susan in the kitchen. Rachel had been left at the playgroup she sometimes attended. I noticed that Susan seemed awkward with me. There were long silences. Finally, I asked her what was wrong.
She took a long time to answer, sipping her coffee and putting the cup back on the table several times before she spoke.
"Tim told me everything last night," she began, as though pushing something ugly into the open. "About Sarah's disappearance. The Trevorrow woman." She shuddered and looked at me angrily. Her unbelief had been transformed overnight into harrowing fear. Whatever terrors her skepticism had been holding in check had woken up now and were walking openly through her mind.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you give me a chance to do something, to make up my own mind?
Jesus, anything could have happened to Rachel. That doll—she sent that, didn't she? That's why you burned it."
"I'm sorry . . . I. . ."
"Don't tell me about being sorry, because I don't want to know. I thought you loved Rachel, Peter, I thought you cared for her. Tim and I trusted you with her, we never questioned having you with her. But you actually came to live here, knowing all that had been going on. Are you completely mad?"
"I had no reason to think anything would happen here. And when they found Sarah's body . . . I thought it was over, Susie, I really thought it had ended."
"And has it?"
I hesitated.
"I. . . No, I don't think so. I don't understand what's going on, but I don't think she's done with me yet."
"And Rachel—has this woman done with her?"
"I don't think Rachel's involved. She—"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Peter. You must think I'm stupid. These nightmares she's be
en having, the screaming fits, all that talk about not wanting to go back someplace she lived in before this. She told me herself about the doll, she said it had belonged to her in another life." Susan paused. She was shaking like a leaf. "She's the little girl, isn't she? She's come back in my daughter. That's the truth, isn't it?"
I said nothing.
"Well, you aren't going to deny it, are you?"
"No."
She looked at me hard. I could feel her anger.
"Do you know, Peter, I don't think it could have been worse if I'd come home and found you with your hand in her knickers."
"That isn't fair," I said. "You know it isn't. I've done everything possible to protect Rachel. I destroyed the doll. I warned you against leaving Rachel alone. I kept a close eye on her when I was here. What more could I do? I'm as much out of my depth in this thing as you are."
"Nevertheless, you came here without thinking of the consequences." She let her gaze drift away. "Peter, I think you'd better leave. Go back to your own flat. This was only to be a limited stay anyway."
"All right. If that's what you'd like."
"Yes, it's what I'd like."
"I'm sorry, Susie. I don't mind going. I know I've stayed longer than I should have. I'll get my things now. Maybe you and Tim can come over for supper in a day or two and we can talk things over then."
I got up and went to the door.
"Peter."
Susan was still sitting at the table. I turned.
"I'm sorry, too," she said. "About Sarah. About whatever this thing is you've got yourself mixed up in. It's just that . . . I don't want anything to do with it. And I want to keep Rachel safe."
"I know you do. I want to see she's safe as well."
I did not tell her what Rachel had said to me the night before.
I saw little of Tim and Susan over the next few weeks, and Rachel only once. Time was heavy once more. The days passed slowly. Winter settled on the city and on me. There were no more dreams, or at least I did not wake remembering any. I do not think I dreamed at all. Sometimes I would wake at night, thinking there were voices in the flat, but when I looked, it was always empty.
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