VANISHED

On 20 March 1953, the clock in St. Marylebone church struck midday with elegant conviction.

It was a fine bright day: birds chirping, flowers blooming, wind blowing from the coast and all the usual paraphernalia that come with the first day of spring.

At 37 Devonshire Place, the curtains in the big bow window on the first floor were still drawn; only a faint glow from the sunlight that fired up the outside world could permeate the interior of the room.

In the dim light the colours of the furniture, the bed, the carpet, the wallpaper, the curtains themselves, all appeared to be very muted and neutral, paired with a couple of heavy dark wooden pieces that gave the room a sense of austerity.

A lump of heavy covers lay askew on the king-sized poster bed in front of the window; on closer inspection one could note that said lump was actually breathing, occasionally snoring.

The muffled peace of the darkened room was broken shortly after midday, when a rapid succession of knocks on the door, followed by a reproachful female voice and a deep male baritone seemingly bickering, made the lump on the bed stir and toss around with a heavy sigh.

“M’Lord. I’ve had clear instructions from the Lady Catherine that she is not to be disturbed for any reason today, please…”

“Ha! Lady? That’s debatable,” the man retorted with a dry chuckle. “Besides, I don’t give a damn if she can’t hold her wine and has a splitting headache, she will have to sit up and listen to me all the same because this matter is of the outmost urgency. Tippy! Open the door!”

His voice boomed through the oak door and seemed to bounce off every surface in the room.

Tippy Ravenscourt threw the covers off her body; her mouth felt drier than a cotton field and she could feel blood pump furiously in her temples. She kicked herself off the bed, threw a silk robe over her almost naked figure and opened the door, just as the man outside was about to forcefully knock again.

“I heard you the first time, uncle.”

The man dropped his arm as her governess, Mrs Patts, started apologizing immediately.

“I’m so sorry, Madam, I tried to stop him and explain you were not to be disturbed, but -”

Without peeling her eyes away from her uncle, Tippy raised a hand to stop the flow of apologetic words.

“Don’t worry, Mrs Patts, it is not your fault that Lord Fernsborough is in a mood today. Nothing to apologize for, on your part. Could you lay out breakfast in the drawing room, please? You’re welcome to join me, uncle.”

Lord Fernsborough huffed derisively. “I’ve already had breakfast at the proper breakfast time, thank you very much.”

Tippy smiled coldly. “In that case you are welcome to sit with me while I have my breakfast at this improper breakfast time, and explain why you’ve barged into my house on a Sunday morning in such an ungodly and unbecoming way.”

Lord Fernsborough looked his niece up and down, taking in her dishevelled attire and even more dishevelled hair.

“There seems to be a lot of unbecoming going on in this house today.”

She sneered at him and closed the door on him.

She stomped towards the window and drew the curtains, splashed some cold water on her face and quickly got dressed.

When she walked into the drawing room, Tippy found her uncle already seated at the table; a cup of tea had been placed in front of him, and he was eyeing it suspiciously.

“My maid did not bewitch your tea, uncle, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

Tippy’s sharp voice made Lord Fernsborough jump in his seat, much to her amusement.

She sat down opposite him, thanked the maid that poured her coffee and loaded her plate with a generous amount of buttered toast, scrambled eggs and cold ham. She was absolutely starving.

Lord Fernsborough just sat there, still as a statue, watching her every move intently.

He was probably hoping to make her feel uncomfortable, she considered, and for a moment she almost felt sorry for him.

“So,” she broke the silence at least, talking while stuffing her mouth unceremoniously. “Why did you drag me out of bed during the worst hangover of my life, uncle? I will rule out a pleasure call, clearly; so it must be some important family business you need me for that could not wait until tomorrow, I suppose. What is it then?”

Her uncle sighed and for a moment the steel in his eyes seemed to soften: Tippy could see the weight of his 65 years of life crashing down on him all at once. But it was only a moment: just as it came, it went away, and Lord Fernsborough was immediately back to his severe manners. He dug a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and lit one up with a silver lighter that bore the family crest engraved on the front.

He blew out smoke, his eyes looking somewhere past her left shoulder, at something way beyond her reach.

“It’s happened again, Tippy. Same thing as with your mother.”

Tippy looked at him, confusion building up behind her eyes, along with some kind of old dread she didn’t know she still had in her.

“My mother? My mother died when I was 9 years old. She drowned in the Thames, terrible accident… What do you mean with --?”

She never finished her question because the fiery look in her uncle’s eyes made her words wither into nothing before she could speak them.

He was looking directly at her now, and he did not look sane at all.

“Did she? Was it? You were only a child and I know you forgot, but i wasn’t as simple as that. You were the only one there with her, with your mother, when she -- when it happened. I need you to remember, you need to tell me exactly how… My Rebecca is gone, Tippy, she’s gone!”

He raised his voice suddenly and spoke the last words with such anguish Tippy had never seen the likes of, certainly not coming from her cold and severe uncle. He fisted the tablecloth and let out a few terrible sobs before he was able to regain control over himself.

Tippy was not sure how to approach him; they had never seen eye to eye, but she harbored some sort of familiar affection and respect for him nonetheless. Deep down he was a good man after all, and good men were not so common to come by.

At the same time, they had never developed any kind of deep relationship, so that now she could not help but feel like she had witnessed something too private and intimate.

She tried to contain her discomfort, considering it must be only a fraction of what Lord Fernsborough must be feeling.

“Uncle, I do not understand. I’m sorry, I can imagine how distressing it must be for you, but you’ll have to be more clear. What happened to Becky? And how is it related to my mother?”

Lord Fernsborough drew in a shaky breath and stubbed the cigarette out on the saucer, next to the fully untouched teacup.

“Tippy. It’s a very long story and it’s going to sound absolutely bogus. All I ask is that you listen to it in full before drawing any hasty conclusions about my possibly deteriorating mental state. If your father were here... Oh, never mind that. Andrew is dead, god rest his soul. Now the task of explaining the impossible falls to me. Very well.”

“Twenty years ago, on a warm spring Sunday much like this one, your mother decided to take you to Greenwich for the day. You went alone, the two of you: your father was away with me to attend some rather urgent business in the country, but your mother preferred to stay in London. Penelope had never been too fond of the country. Anyway, while you were in Greenwich nobody really knows what happened. All we know is that you were found sometime in the afternoon, wandering alone through the college fields, scared to death. Two policemen brought you home to Mrs Patts, where your father found you the following day. There was no trace of your mother at all: she seemed quite literally to have vanished into thin air. Your father tried to ask you some questions, get some answers out of you, understand what had happened -- as I presume the police did too, but it was clear that you remembered nothing. Nothing at all, as tough you had completely erased that day from your memory. You kept asking for your mum and crying in your sleep.

We searched everywhere for months; we contacted everyone that knew her even remotely, we looked into every possible hint, but it was all in vain. It was as though Penelope Ravenscourt had never existed.

We had to say something, we had to explain her disappearance somehow. And so we adopted the drowning incident story: it could be plausible enough, and at least it was something that could be understood and eventually accepted, as painful as it was. Above all, your father was worried about you: you had become so secluded and silent, you retreated into yourself completely and hardly spoke to anyone.

We had a small private service and buried an empty coffin. Slowly, you seemed to accept this explanation and move on. You stopped talking about your mother, mostly. In the end I think you even forgot that you were there the day she disappeared.”

Tippy nodded, her eyes round and her skin pale.

“I -- I had no idea. No idea about… anything.”

She looked down at her hands folded on the table, as though she were seeing them for the first time. She could hardly believe what she had just heard; she was especially shocked at how much her mind seemed to have removed, to protect her, probably.

After a few minutes of silence, she found her voice again. “Why has nobody ever told me anything about all this? I haven’t been a child for quite some time. My father… why did he never speak of any of this?”

Lord Fernsborough sighed.

“There was no cause to, Tippy. No reason to dig up this old and painful mystery. We figured it would only upset you for nothing. Your father was very protective of you. He loved you very much. He just didn’t want to hurt you with ghosts from the past.”

Tippy dragged her hand on her face, finding her cheeks wet with tears she didn’t know she had shed.

“And why are you telling me now, uncle?”

Another deep sigh on Lord Fernsborough’s part; looking at him, one would never had guessed there was so much breath inside his lungs.

“Because -- Because I need your help. Two nights ago, Rebecca left to go and stay at her friend Margareth Posey’s country house. We heard nothing from her, until yesterday afternoon. Margareth called us: she was worried, because Rebecca never showed up, nor did she telephone or send any kind of message.

“Oh my god…” Tippy whispered, horror creeping up her spine. “Why did she wait so long? If Becky had left the previous night…”

“From what Margareth told me, I understand they had agreed Becky should join her Saturday morning. I don’t know why she left earlier, maybe she wanted to surprise her friend…”

Lord Fernsborough’s voice broke on the last words, and Tippy could see that he was close to tears. Pity for his was being joined by sincere worry for her cousin: she remembered when Becky was born, a tiny and fragile creature with a very distinct talent for screaming. They had spent a few summer afternoons playing together in the garden; even though she was a few years younger, Becky had always been the most interested in the world of the two. While Tippy was always lost in her own world, Becky had shown very early on a penchant for understanding the universe of adults, which she was eager and impatient to enter.

After childhood they had sort of lost touch. Tippy was not sure if her cousin was still as wilful and independent as she had been back then. Either way, she clung to the hope of there being a perfectly good and innocent reason for her disappearance.

“Uncle, there must be an explanation… Is this Margareth’s house far? Perhaps she stopped along the way and -- and got sidetracked somehow.”

Even as she was saying it, she realised how weak it sounded.

“Did she go alone?”

Her uncle shook his head and tried to cough away the evident knot in his throat.

“From our home to Guilders Hall it’s only two hours’ drive on very good road. Not much reason to stop along the way. She wanted to go alone, but of course I would not let her: she has never driven alone for much longer than 10 miles. No, in the end I sent her with our driver, Giles. He was supposed to drive her there, then spend the night at his sister’s cottage along the way, and come back on Saturday morning. Becky would come back to London with Margareth on Monday. Oh, I should have…”

He produced a monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket and loudly blew his nose.

Tippy patiently have him a moment before she spoke again.

“And Giles…?”

Lord Fernsborough slowly looked up at her; his eyes looked empty and disconnected.

“Oh, we found Giles. Halfway down the road, still sitting in the car.He had exhausted the engine by just leaving it running. Shock, you see. Other than that, he seems to be fine. We brought him home, made him rest. He was feeling much better this morning, but of course he does not remember anything at all. And no trace of Becky anywhere. She just … she just vanished, just like that. Vanished into thin air. You see why I came to you? It is exactly what happened to your mother all over again. I don’t know how it’s possible, but facts speak for themselves.

I need your help, Tippy. I need you to remember.”

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Stay tuned for part 2, coming next week.

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Thank you,

Vera F.