The Vanishing Woman Read online

  Gabriel knew he would have to get a move on, as Mrs Jennings lived on the outskirts of the town in an isolated area that even the postman did not like visiting. He cut through a narrow footpath that took him away from the main road, past a neat little warren of cottages that ran for some half a mile before he finally emerged at the top of a wooded hill.

  If it were not for the harsh chill in the air that threatened snow, Gabriel would have enjoyed the walk down a tree-lined road that slithered steeply round to a vast swathe of common land. The field resembled a welcoming green island surrounded on three sides by sparse clumps of trees that might have been thick woodland once. On the other side of the green island, where perhaps there had once also been trees, was the cottage Enid Jennings shared with her two adult children. For a moment, it was impossible for Gabriel to imagine that he might not be welcome there: the cottage looked like a picture postcard of England, exactly the sort of sweet rural abode in which a country schoolmistress ought to live, down to the thatched roof, the ivy creeping across the walls and at the far side of the building a chicken coop where four plump hens promised a rich supply of eggs for tea.

  Gabriel hesitated, pondering the best way to cross the grass, which was drenched and muddy after the night’s rain; then, to his right, he noticed a narrow stone path, partly shielded by trees. He began to walk more briskly, realising that he would soon be visible from the house if he were not so already, as the cover of the trees was very sparse. About two-thirds of the way along, Gabriel passed a dead tree to his left, an incongruous sight, not just because it was virtually hollow but because it stuck out some way from the other trees, encroaching a little on that flat, open green space. Gabriel guessed that it must have been left alone years ago when the land was cleared, perhaps because it had been a fine oak tree that had towered above the others, and it would have been such a pity to cut it down. It would not be missed now, of course, dead, gnarled and twisted, incapable of producing leaves in the most abundant of springs.

  Gabriel could see lights on through the windows since it was such a dark morning and braced himself as he approached the door and knocked. Mrs Jennings threw open the door almost immediately, having evidently had a few minutes’ warning of his approach. She gave him a look of intense suspicion. “Good morning,” she said curtly, as though she could not care less what kind of a morning he was having. “How may I help you?”

  On closer inspection, Gabriel noted that Enid Jennings was quite a handsome woman with strong features that must have been striking once. Her hair was very carefully combed and pinned away from her face, and she wore a choker that looked as though it may have been a wedding present or some expression of love by a long dead husband. The look of bitter disapproval, however, was as much in evidence as it had been the previous evening.

  Gabriel faltered. “Good morning, Mrs Jennings,” he began, resisting the temptation to clear his throat. “I saw you at the lecture yesterday evening—”

  “You could scarcely have avoided that, young man,” she retorted. “I intended to be noticed.”

  Gabriel waited to be let in, but Mrs Jennings stood planted in the doorway, giving him every possible signal that she wanted him to go away without specifically instructing him to get lost. “Well, yes—well, as it happens, someone left a pair of spectacles behind, and I rather wondered if they were yours. I was passing this way and thought I would drop them round.”

  Enid Jennings’ mouth curled down at the corners like a lettuce starting to wither at the back of the larder. “Passing this way, were you? On your way to catechise the frogs, were you, Father? There is absolutely no place beyond this cottage you could be travelling to. There is nothing but marshland for well over a mile before you reach the Wylderlie River, and you do not appear to have a canoe about your person.”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “Father, there were dozens of people in that hall last night,” she continued relentlessly. “Those spectacles could belong to any number of them. If that wretched girl sent you to give me a reprimand, I would warn you to mind your own business.”

  Gabriel threw his cards on the table. “As a matter of fact, Mrs Jennings, Pamela Milton does not know that I have come to visit you this morning. I was appalled by the scene you made yesterday; it did not seem fair to attack a guest of this town so publicly on a matter that really was no one else’s concern. If you had a quarrel with her, surely it would have been better—”

  Enid Jennings gave him the sort of smile that would have sent a schoolchild running for cover. “I’m sorry, Father, but you do not appear to have understood me clearly when I said that this is none of your business. Pamela Milton began this quarrel, not I. She was perfectly happy to attack me publicly in that wretched rag of a journal, and I will never forgive her for that.”

  “Mrs Jennings, it is very dangerous to—”

  “Tell the little minx—I know perfectly well she sent you—tell the little minx that I may not write for publication, but I know how to write a letter, and I know to whom to write, so she had better enjoy her good fortune while she has it.”

  With that, she closed the door in his face, loudly enough to make her contempt for him as clear as possible without going so far as to slam the door shut. Gabriel had had a few doors slammed in his face and tried to be as stoical as possible as he turned his back, metaphorically shook the dust from his feet and began to walk back along the path. He had just passed the dead tree when he heard footsteps hurrying behind him and turned around to see Douglas Jennings attempting to catch up with him. Douglas had obviously been in the process of getting ready to go out to work when he had overheard the argument and dashed towards Gabriel, doing up the flapping front of his coat as he moved along.

  “Father! Wait a moment!” he called, but he scarcely needed to. Gabriel stopped in his tracks and waited for the young man to catch up. “Sent you off with a flea in your ear, did she?”

  Gabriel felt suddenly embarrassed and shrugged his shoulders as though he had barely noticed. “It’s quite all right; it was wrong of me to intrude. I was just a little concerned about the altercation last night. It seemed wrong to walk away without attempting to patch things up. I think I’d better leave the diplomacy to someone else.”

  “Don’t worry too much about it, Father,” said Douglas, falling into step beside him. “I’m afraid those two ladies have never got on and never will. My mother expelled Pamela from her school years ago, and neither has ever forgotten it.”

  “Oh? Whatever for?” Gabriel could easily imagine a girl with Pamela’s temperament rubbing a schoolmistress the wrong way once too often, but getting expelled from school took some effort even with Enid Jennings in charge.

  “Haven’t a clue, I’m afraid. Look here, I’m frightfully sorry Mother was so rude to you. It’s nothing personal; she’s like that with everyone. And I’m very sorry that she made such a spectacle of herself yesterday. I was going to go and see Pamela after I’d finished at the office today to apologise myself.”

  “Awfully decent of you. You have known Pamela a long time?”

  “Almost all my life. Well, everyone knows everyone hereabouts.” Douglas paused for a moment and looked over his shoulder out of what appeared to be a nervous habit. “She’s older than me, of course, and boys don’t really play with girls, and certainly not older girls, but she was always a character. I suppose she’s what you might call a difficult customer, but she was very kind to my sister in a maternal sort of way, and we always try to meet when Pamela visits. Secretly, of course.”

  They were climbing the hill, which seemed very much steeper on the way up, and Gabriel found himself struggling to keep up with the younger, taller man, who was taking the incline with vast strides. “It seems a pity that a feud should have lasted so long,” he commented. “They ought to be able to look back on it and laugh by now.”

  Douglas sighed. “My mother is very little inclined to look back and laugh at anything, unfortunately. She has rather a tend
ency to bear a grudge. The sad thing is, whatever it was that Pamela was expelled for all those years ago, it may not have even been important. She’s quite a good girl really, always was, as I recall, but wilful women do tend to clash, and my mother certainly met her match with Pamela Milton. I have always thought, if she were a man, she would have made a very fine barrister.” Douglas looked sidelong at Gabriel, mistaking his breathlessness for despondency. “Don’t give it another thought, Father. I’ll patch things up with Pammy. Mother’s going off this morning to visit her sister and won’t be back until later tomorrow. I might try to persuade Pamela to come over for dinner. Agnes was hoping to see her if Mother went away.”

  “Does your mother go away often?”

  “Oh yes, thank goodness. Her sister has a rather nice little place in Tytheminster. She’s a war widow like my mother, but she has no children, so she’s always been rather lonely.”

  “It’s good of your mother to go such a distance to visit her.”

  “Oh, it’s not far at all, or I doubt Mother would take the trouble, frankly.”

  Gabriel ignored the criticism. “Please forgive my ignorance. I’m afraid I have not explored the surrounding area as much as I should have done. Life has been rather busy since my arrival.”

  Douglas smiled. “Well, take my advice, Father. When you have a free day, treat yourself to a little trip to Tytheminster. It’s only three stops on the train, and the tracks almost follow the river down to the coast. Splendid views in fine weather.”

  “Thank you.” They had lapsed into the English habit of talking about the weather and travel to end an awkward conversation, but Douglas was clearly in a hurry to get to his office, and it was quicker at this point to turn left and cut into town farther along than to follow Gabriel back to the main road near the church. “Well, I had better let you get on. Good to talk to you.”

  “And you, Father. Good day.”

  Gabriel paused, watching as Douglas Jennings strode briskly away in the direction of petty crime, wills and boundary disputes. Feeling rather deflated in spite of Douglas’ reassurance, Gabriel went about his own business, the nagging feeling of foreboding chasing him all day like a shadow at his heels.

  3

  Agnes Jennings stood at the kitchen window, washing up the plates from lunch. She told herself she had no business feeling so glum, but she had barely been able to bring herself to start clearing up in the first place, and it was only the fear of her mother returning to a dirty house that had prompted her to fill the sink with water and get on with the job. She ought to be in better spirits than this; she had enjoyed such a hearty lunch with Pamela and Douglas and little Charlotte, who was so mature these days that it was easy sometimes to forget that she was only a child.

  Agnes would have liked to have said that it was just like old times, except that Pamela had never come to the house when she had lived in the town, for obvious reasons. It was easy to forget that they had not been friends as children, as the age gap between them was such that their childhoods had never really overlapped. Agnes’ friendship with Pamela dated back to her own adolescence, the age at which a girl becomes aware that she is growing up and looks to an older female for guidance and reassurance. The world of womanhood could be difficult enough for any child to navigate, but through the eyes of an immature girl fraught with insecurities, the process of growing up had been terrifying. Since she would never have turned to her mother for anything beyond the basic needs of life, Agnes had turned to Pamela, stifling the nagging sense that Pamela’s friendship was motivated by feelings of pity for her.

  It had not mattered. Pamela was different from the other girls, and best of all, Agnes’ mother disapproved of her; since the enemy of one’s enemy tends to become a friend, there was little to stop the friendship from growing and blossoming over the years that followed. Agnes fondly remembered counting the days to the end of term, when Pamela would arrive home from the dreaming spires of Oxford, and she could go round to Pamela’s house to chat and to listen to gramophone records.

  “She’s a bad influence!” Agnes could still hear her mother declaring in those shrill, bitter tones—the most intoxicating words a girl could possibly hear about a friend. “You know she’s a Jewess, don’t you?”

  “But she comes to church! We see her with her mother every Sunday.”

  Mother had rolled her eyes at the girl’s ignorance. “What on earth has that to do with it? It’s all in the blood. Grandfather, in her case. But don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? The features are all there, and her colour . . .”

  Agnes slammed her fist against the draining board. This was ludicrous; she felt furious with herself for wallowing in self-pity. It was true that Douglas had disappeared off to his local with a chum immediately after they had finished eating, conveniently leaving her to deal with the tidying up, but Pamela had offered repeatedly to help, and she had refused, saying it was quite all right and she could manage. Agnes was too embarrassed to admit to Pamela that she was refusing her offer of help only because she could not risk having her friend in the house when her mother got home, which could be any time after three o’clock.

  It was the shame of it, the humiliation of having to be secretive about inviting a friend to the house for lunch! The outrage of still feeling frightened enough of her own mother to go to such efforts to hide things from her! Agnes was a grown woman, a schoolmistress no less. She had an income of her own, but here she was, still living with a mother for whom she had never felt the slightest affection or loyalty. Agnes put the last of the plates on the draining board and filled the kettle with water. She glanced at the clock. It was later than she had realised—nearly four o’clock, the time at which she would normally be turning the lights on, as it grew dark so early at this time of year, but it had been such a dreary day that she had had the kitchen light on since late morning.

  Not for much longer, Agnes consoled herself, drying the crockery and shoving it into the cupboard with as much haste as she could risk without breaking anything. Everything was about to change; she simply had to pluck up the courage. Precisely how frightening could an old lady be, even her mother? What was the worst she could do to her now that she was an adult and had a modicum of protection from the law? Agnes looked across the grass and felt her heart sink at the sight of her mother walking slowly but determinedly down the path, disappearing from time to time behind a tree. Agnes watched with the steadiness of a sniper peering at a hostile figure through his gun sights. Then the sound of the kettle whistling made her jump, and she moved quickly to the stove to switch off the gas and fill the teapot.

  When she returned to the window, she could not see her mother at all; then she felt her heart starting to race. The path was empty. There was no sign of anyone walking along it or even any sign that anyone had ever walked that way. Agnes clasped the edge of the sink to steady herself, letting out a breathless whimper nobody heard.

  An hour later, Douglas returned to the house, pleasantly filled with beer and warmed by a happy afternoon of good company. He should not have delayed his return home until after dark; it always made the last part of his journey so much more irksome. But it had been such gloomy weather anyway that he had found himself lingering near the roaring fire at The Old Bell, keeping his back to the ever-darkening street on the other side of the steamed-up windows.

  It really was time and gone time for him to get a place of his own. Douglas told himself as much every single time he reached the point in his journey home where the pavements and the habitations of the town gave way to raw, uncultivated countryside that only William Wordsworth could have appreciated. It was not his first plan to hang around in this little town once he was fully qualified; Bath or Salisbury would be the obvious places to go, but even if he stayed, he ought at least to look for a bachelor pad a little closer to civilisation. One of those houses on the terrace near the school would suit him perfectly.

  Douglas’ good spirits disintegrated almost immediately as he came into v
iew of the house in the distance and were replaced by a cold, creeping sense of dread. He always carried a torch with him when he knew he might be back after dark, as there was no lighting around the house on account of its isolated location, but he did not need to be able to see much to know instinctively that something was amiss. Looking through the pitch darkness across the grass, he could see the distant light from the kitchen window, which should have been welcoming, but he sensed that the house was empty, and it should not have been at that time of day. It was partly the fact that there was no light coming from any other window but mostly just the raw gut feeling of a trained soldier that all was not as it should be.

  Douglas swallowed a wave of anxiety, shone his torch along the path and began to walk towards the house. He had never been of a nervous disposition as a boy, but there was nothing like a brief, disastrous military career and a troubled conscience to leave a man with an exaggerated sense of danger; he felt childishly unsettled by the shadows created by the powerful beam of light and the usually familiar noises of a December night. There was a creaking of bare branches all around, the sound of his own footsteps crunching twigs and grit as he walked; there was a whispering of the wind, always magnified in this spot because of the tunnel effect created by the lie of the land. He knew he was being foolish. The kitchen light was the only one switched on because Agnes had not yet left the kitchen, poor girl. Nothing more. Nothing worse than that.

  Then Douglas heard a moaning noise; a soft, eerie wail clearly not produced by an animal, which began very softly only to crescendo as he drew nearer the source. He looked about him for some means to protect himself, reached out wildly and snapped a branch from a nearby tree. His army training told him it was not much of a weapon, but it was as long as a walking cane and thick enough not to break easily if he had to use it to fight off an attacker. Douglas stepped cautiously towards the sound, feeling the soft grass under his shoes as he left the path.