Name To a Face (24 page)

Consciousness brought pain, but no vision. At first, he thought he might be blind. The sharpness of the pain, as he moved his head, seemed to confirm it. Then he saw a faint line of light above him somewhere, though how far above he could not tell. The darkness deprived him of all sense of scale. He was lying on a blanket spread on a hard, uneven surface.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, groaning as what felt like the worst headache in the world throbbed through his brain. Then he heard a voice, low and hoarse, from close beside him.

“Tim?”

“Who’s there?” He turned towards the sound.

“It’s me. Hayley.”

“What?”

“I’m here.” Her fingers touched his hand. They were cold and rough. They were not as he remembered them. But it was her. He recognized her voice despite the huskiness. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I’m alive. Where are we?”

“The Martyns’ cellar. Beneath the farmhouse. They brought you down not long ago, cradled in a blanket. They took me by surprise and I was blinded by the light. Before I could do anything, they were gone again. Not that I could have done much. I’m so weak. Weaker all the time.”

“How long have you been here?”

“What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“Four days, then. Since Monday.” She coughed. “I’m sorry. It must stink down here.”

“You’ve been here since Monday?”

“Yes.”

She had not killed Barney Tozer. That was certain now. But the identity of Tozer’s murderer was for the moment unimportant. They were imprisoned in a cold, dank cellar. The Martyns had done with them what they did with all their secrets. They had buried them.

“There’s no way out. The trapdoor is weighed down with a slab of some kind. They heave it into place. The walls and the floor are stone: I’ve gouged at them, I’ve pulled, I’ve prised: nothing gives.”

“Is that light the trapdoor?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have a go at it.”

“You’ll be wasting your time.”

Harding scrambled to his feet, the pounding in his head worsening with every movement. He put his hand to the place behind his left ear that seemed to be the centre of the pain and felt a patch of semi-congealed blood. Then he stepped forward, stumbling against the lowest tread of a flight of steps. He felt his way up, reaching blindly ahead until his fingers touched the wooden trapdoor. There was a wall to his right. Bracing himself between it and the steps, he pushed up against the trapdoor, steadily increasing the pressure until he was at the limit of his strength. The door did not move an inch. He tried again, to no avail, then thumped at it.
“Let us out of here,”
he shouted.

“They’re not listening, Tim,” said Hayley softly.

He ran his hand round the frame of the trapdoor and encountered a cable emerging into the cellar. “There must be a light in here,” he declared in a small surge of optimism.

“But the switch is upstairs,” she responded, almost apologetically.

He patted the pocket where his phone should have been, but it was not there. “They’ve taken my phone,” he said grimly.

“There’s no way out, Tim.”

“There has to be.”

“No. There doesn’t. You just want there to be one. So do I. But there isn’t.”

He inched back down the steps and groped his way along the wall. It was constructed of big, roughly worked boulders, unyielding to the touch, solid and ancient. He came to a corner after twelve feet or so, and another, twelve feet after that. Before he reached the third corner, he trod on the edge of the blanket and knew he was back where he had started, their small, dark world all too swiftly circumscribed.

“Sit down beside me, Tim. Please.”

Reaching forward, he felt her outstretched hand and lowered himself to the floor. She had rolled herself in part of the blanket he had been lying on and was shivering with cold and fatigue. He put his arm round her shoulders. She sighed and rested her head on his chest. The shivering abated.

“I wondered if you’d come for me. It was the hope I was clinging to. And you did come, didn’t you? But it’s done neither of us any good.”

“So much has happened since I last held you like this, Hayley So much I don’t understand.”

“And so much you can’t forgive?”

“I can forgive you for wanting to avenge Kerry. It’s easy.” He kissed her on the forehead. “There. It’s done.”

“Thank you for saving me.”

“I haven’t.”

“I don’t mean here, now, today. I mean when I aborted my oh-so-clever plot to kill Carol and frame Barney for her murder. It was caring about you-you making me care about you-that stopped me. And that stopped me taking revenge on the wrong person. Because Barney didn’t kill Kerry. I know that now. I guess you do too. It was the Martyns who did it. It wasn’t Barney. He’s as innocent as he’s always claimed to be.”

He was going to have to tell her soon that Barney was dead and that, ironically she had been framed for his murder. But he could not bring himself to do so yet. “Why did they kill her, Hayley?”

“The reason’s in this cellar with us. Here.” She wrestled something from the pocket of her jeans and pressed it into his palm. “A miniature torch. The Martyns don’t know I’ve got it. Not that it’s done me much good. The battery’s nearly dead. But turn it on. Then you’ll see.”

Harding rotated the tiny barrel of the torch in his hand until he felt the ribbed surface of the switch. He pushed at it. Hayley’s face, hollow-cheeked and big-eyed, was suddenly illuminated. She smiled at him. He stretched forward, holding the torch at arm’s length. The rough-hewn walls revealed themselves in vaguely formed shadows. And there, in the centre of the chamber, he saw an old iron chest, about three feet high, four feet long and two feet wide, with an arched lid, mounted on some kind of platform. He glimpsed engraved lettering on the side of the chest facing him. Then the beam of light faltered. And ceased.

“What is that?” he asked.

“An ossuary chest.”

“A
what?”

“It contains the bones of the Grey Man of Ennor.”

“How d’you know?”

“I drained the battery deciphering the inscription.”

“What does it say?”

“Eduardus Vir Canus Ennoris, MCCCLIV. The Latin version of his name: Edward, the Grey Man of Ennor. And the year of his death in Roman numerals: 1354.”

“No surname?”

“A monk or friar gives up his surname on taking his vows. But we both know who he was, don’t we?”

“I know Kerry was trying to connect the Grey Man of Ennor with Edward the Second. I learned that much from her old editor, Jack Shepherd. How did you find out?”

“Kerry stole the complete version of the Gashry report from Norman Buller, a descendant of Gashry’s executor. She hid it under the floorboards in the drawing room of our old home in Dulwich. Then she hid a sketch plan showing where it was in her recorder. She must have been worried from the start that something would be done to stop her and she wanted me to know why. I found the plan when the Horstelmann Clinic handed her possessions over to me. Then I found the report-where she’d put it. That’s what I needed the torch for. And when I read the section missing from Herbert Shelkin’s copy… I understood.”

“What was in the missing section?”

“Everything Gashry uncovered during his investigation here in the Scillies in February 1736, beginning with the Grey Man legend. He was supposed to have returned to St. Nicholas’s Priory on Tresco after the Black Death and to have died there a few years afterwards. He was buried in the priory church. When the priory was abandoned a century or so later, his bones were removed, placed in that chest and transferred to Old Town Church, here on St. Mary’s. Godfrey Shillingstone had identified him from his earlier researches and Lord Godolphin had authorized Shillingstone to take whatever so-called antiquities he wanted. So, he excavated the nave of Old Town Church, found the ossuary chest and took it back to Penzance, intending to make his name with his discovery in London. But there were people living here who’d sworn to protect the Grey Man’s remains. They followed Shillingstone to Penzance. And they had a valuable ally. Jacob Tozer was a Scillonian by birth. He helped them retrieve the chest, killing Shillingstone in the process and stealing the Shovell ring to put anyone investigating the murder off the scent. But Gashry couldn’t actually prove anything. In the end, he recommended supplying Admiral Shovell’s family with a specially made replica of the ring and, for the rest, letting sleeping dogs lie.”

“And that’s what his boss decided to do.”

“Yes. The incomplete copy of the report aroused Kerry’s curiosity and the complete copy convinced her there was a story in it. When she came down here to do some digging, she heard about Josephine Edwards’s miraculous recovery from terminal leukaemia. She put a photocopy of a newspaper article about that in with the report for me to find. When I arrived on Monday I went to see the Edwardses. They sent me here. Stupidly I thought it might be a coincidence that Josie had married Fred Martyn. By the time I realized it wasn’t, it was too late. They overpowered me
so
easily.”

“They believe the Grey Man’s bones still hold some of his healing power?”

“I guess. That’s why their ancestors were never going to let Shillingstone take the bones to London. They had to be brought back to Scilly at any price. Maybe there’s a folk memory of other miracle cures over the centuries. Maybe Josie’s was just the latest in a long line.”

“You don’t believe a chestful of old bones can conquer terminal diseases.”

“They believe it can. And they have a practical example to back up their belief. That’s all that matters. Josie got better, baffling her doctors. Then Kerry turned up, asking all kinds of questions. The way they must have seen it, she was threatening to do just what Shillingstone did. And just like Shillingstone, she had to be stopped. I don’t know how they were able to sabotage her gear without anyone noticing, but-”

“They weren’t able to, Hayley”

“What d’you mean?”

“John Metherell helped them.”

“Metherell?”

“Yes. He and the Martyns were left on the boat at the quayside when Barney went to fetch the others. Metherell told me he left the boat as well, to speak to the harbourmaster. But then he also told me the Tozers had no Scillonian connections.”

“That’s not true. Francis Gashry reported that Jacob Tozer was definitely born here, even though he couldn’t prove it because the parish registers for the period had been conveniently destroyed by fire.”

“Exactly. Everything’s
very
convenient. Maybe those registers would show Metherell’s ancestors were Scillonian as well. He’s been deflecting me and leading me on by turns. He pointed me straight to the Josie connection when I contacted him yesterday. He must have reckoned I’d find out about it sooner or later, so decided to short-circuit the process. Then he could guarantee being on hand to stage-manage my meeting with the Martyns. The plan was obviously to bluff it out and convince me you hadn’t been near them. But Josie was wearing Kerry’s fox-cub brooch, so that didn’t work.”

“She liked it as soon as she saw it. Fred took it from me. But how did you know about it?”

“Gary Lawton described it to me. If he hadn’t… they might have been able to fob me off.”

“It would’ve been better for you if they had.”

“Don’t say that, Hayley” He squeezed her hand and she responded, clutching him tightly. “I don’t regret coming after you. Not in any way.”

“I’m sorry for all the lies I told you.” There was a catch in her throat. “Can you really forgive me?”

“I already have.”

“I felt so sure I’d worked it out. I convinced myself I’d proved Barney Tozer was Kerry’s murderer. I was determined to make him pay for what I believed he’d done. And I thought you were just a means to an end. Instead…” Her voice sank to a whisper. “I’ve never been in love before, you see. Never… known what it meant.”

They kissed then, in the closeting darkness. And he gazed into her eyes, or felt he did. Nothing was visible. But everything seemed suddenly clear between them. Clear and simple. And true. “When we get out of here,” he began, “we’ll-”

She pressed her finger to his lips, silencing him. “We’re not getting out of here, Tim. You know that. There’s no need to pretend you don’t for my sake.”

“They can’t keep us here forever.”

“Oh but they can. It’s what they intend to do. They wouldn’t have put us down here, with the ossuary chest, unless they were certain we’d never be able to tell anyone it’s here. Time’s on their side. They’ll have destroyed the Gashry report by now. As for us, they can wait. As long as they need to. Until the world out there has forgotten us. And there’s no more left of us than there is of the Grey Man of Ennor.”

It was true. Every word she had spoken made perfect sense. She and Harding knew too much. They could not be allowed to live. The cellar was their tomb. The damp chill certainty of that closed itself around Harding as he cradled Hayley in the enveloping darkness.

“This is the end for you and me, Tim. I’m sorry. But there it is.”

Time became elastic in the sensory vacuum of the cellar. The slow fading of the thin square of light round the trapdoor signalled the coming of night. Hours drifted like a wide, slow-moving river, imperceptibly but inexorably. Harding and Hayley talked, sharing every secret, till there was nothing left for them to guess about each other. Then Hayley fell asleep, wrapped in the blanket, exhausted by the effort of saying so much, her energy sapped by four days of starvation. And Harding lay with her, listening to her breathing, reasoning his way towards an escape from their prison-but finding none.

His renewed efforts to shift the trapdoor had failed. No sound reached him through it and he suspected no noise he made would carry far. Not that the Martyns would respond even if they heard him. They were playing a long game, as was their nature. The cellar would remain sealed for as long as it needed to be. Then…

He could not think about that. The grisly realities would unfold in due time. No doubt Hayley would die first, leaving Harding alone with her decomposing body. No doubt the end would be as slow and terrible as he imagined.

He tried to think about other things instead, such as who had been behind Tozer’s murder. Only one candidate presented himself, though tantalizingly lacking a motive. It had to be Whybrow, exploiting an opportunity Hayley had created for him. She had never phoned Nathan Gashry. Nathan had been paid-or otherwise obliged-to say she had. And then, perhaps because he had become greedy or had threatened to change his story after discovering he had contributed to a murder plot, he had been eliminated. By the same cool, calm, efficient organization that had supplied a Hayley lookalike to do the deed. Just the sort of organization, in fact, that Whybrow would naturally do business with.

It must have been about money, of course. Everything in Whybrow’s world was about money. But that was a commodity so far removed from Harding’s present predicament that it seemed colossally absurd for Barney Tozer to have been murdered in pursuit of it. Similarly, Hayley had actually been moved to laughter by Harding’s revelation that she was Gabriel Tozer’s heir. “It won’t do me much good now, will it?” she had responded. And Harding had laughed with her at the irony of it all.

But their laughter had not lasted long. If Hayley was right, as Harding knew she was, the Martyns meant to starve them to death. There was no need to harm them directly. That, the brothers must have reasoned, had been their mistake in dealing with Kerry. This time, they would let nature take its slow but certain course. This time, they would ensure their secret could never be uncovered.

Only when Harding woke did he realize he had been asleep, the whirlings of his thoughts having finally worn themselves out. The square of light was back, pale and tantalizing. Morning had come. His head ached less, but the pressure in his bowel and bladder reminded him, though he needed no reminding, that his confinement with Hayley would force them to share every intimacy, until-and including-the end. She stirred beside him. He moved, easing the pain in his back and shoulders. The chill of the cellar had settled on him like a dew. In the fetid, earthy air, there was a primal reek. The past had drawn closer in the night, preparing to claim them. Everything he had ever known felt like a dream he was rapidly forgetting. In its place there was nothing. Except Hayley And the rest of their time together.

“You’re really here,” she said in a gravelly murmur, touching his cheek with her icily cold fingers. “I thought for a moment… I’d made you up.”

“No. I’m really here.”

“Don’t leave me.” She was not yet fully awake. But the fuddled sentiment sounded to Harding like a plea he had to answer.

“I won’t,” he said, kissing her softly. “I won’t ever leave you now.”

More time passed, invisibly and unmeasurably. Hayley was quieter and weaker than the day before, her voice a whisper, her movements slight. Harding’s efforts to sustain a conversation of any length were in vain. Her powers of concentration were sapped, her thoughts unfocused. She did not tell him he was wasting his time, as she previously had, when he heaved at the trapdoor. She did not tell him much at all. Apart from how happy she was that he was there with her. “Nothing’s better alone,” she said to him at one point. “I know that now.”

She was asleep when it happened. At first, Harding thought the sound had been made by a mouse or some other tiny creature. Then he realized it was coming from above: a scraping, grinding rumble. It stopped and started again several times, ending in a heavy thud and a patter of dust from the trapdoor, the square of light suddenly brighter.

Harding made a lunge for the door, sensing a chance of escape. Before he even reached the steps, however, his prayers were answered. The door creaked open. Light flooded in, dazzling him. He had to shade his eyes to look up. And there he saw Metherell, gazing down at him.

“Come on,” Metherell called. “We’re letting you go.”

Harding did not pause to query what was happening. This was a chance he had abandoned hope of. He turned back to Hayley seeing her sallow, hollow-eyed face clearly for the first time since their incarceration. The noise had woken her, but she had not moved.

“Wha… What’s going on?” she mumbled, squinting at him in the grey light that now filled the cellar, revealing its rough-stoned walls and floor-and the ossuary chest, planted like some dark, crouching beast on a plinth in the centre of the chamber.

“We’re getting out,” said Harding, pulling Hayley to her feet as gently as he could, though the urge to drag her up the steps before the door was slammed shut again was strong. She felt so light and frail he suspected he could easily carry her if necessary. But there was no need. She was trembling and breathing shallowly but she was soon upright. He helped her up the steps, one at a time.

They emerged into the cramped space beneath the stairs, with the trapdoor hooked back against the wall. Metherell retreated into the hall, stepping over a thick granite slab the size of a large paving-stone as he did so. Harding guessed it was what he had heard being pulled clear. Beyond that, guesswork failed him. They were free. For the moment, he did not really care why.

They followed Metherell into the hall, Hayley leaning heavily on Harding’s arm. She stumbled as they negotiated the slab, but he was there to steady her. “It’s all right,” he said, as much for his own benefit as hers. “It’s
all right.
”

But was it? He could not be absolutely sure. Metherell had moved into the kitchen. They turned in that direction and saw Josie standing beside him, wide-eyed and staring. There was no sign of the Martyns.

“Alf and Fred are at the boatyard,” said Metherell, reading Harding’s mind. “I’ll drive you to the airport. I’ve booked you on the four o’clock flight to Penzance.”

Harding stared at him, seeking reassurance that their release was genuine. “You two set this up between you?”

“Josie phoned me as soon as the coast was clear.”

“Sorry,” said Josie. “Didn’t mean… all this stuff to happen.”

“We can leave now,” said Metherell, glancing at his watch. “We
should
leave now.”

“Why… are you letting us go?” asked Hayley her voice weak and husky.

“You probably won’t believe it,” said Metherell, “but I didn’t find out they’d sabotaged Kerry’s gear until afterwards. She discovered their secret by befriending Josie and quizzing her about how she’d been cured. Alf and Fred’s mother was still alive then. She told the Edwardses to send Josie here so she could… touch the royal bones. Kerry thought it was a great story. But I knew it would end in the ossuary chest leaving here. So did Alf. I tried to persuade Kerry not to write the story up. She wouldn’t listen. Alf realized… something more than persuasion was needed. He actually only intended to frighten her. So he said, anyway. I went along with it after the event because, well… a miracle is a miracle. The chest should stay here. The secret should be kept. But I can’t force you not to say anything about it. I can only beg you not to.”

“You were willing to let Hayley die down there,” Harding protested, his anger reasserting itself.

“I thought she’d murdered Barney Tozer. When Alf told me yesterday what they’d done with her, I…” Metherell’s gaze fell to the floor. “I decided I could live with it. It seemed… like some kind of justice. But you as well? That was going too far. And you made me doubt Hayley really had murdered Barney.”

“I never wanted to hurt you,” said Josie. She patted her stomach. “I can’t bring a littl’un into the world with you two on my conscience. Alf said all sorts and Fred agreed, like he always does. But it was wrong. I should have stood up to them. Well, I’m starting now. It’s best you leave. What you do-the police and such-is up to you.”

“We won’t go to the police,” said Hayley

Harding glanced round at her in surprise. “What?”

“I want an end to this. Nothing will bring Kerry back.” She looked imploringly at him. “Please, Tim. Promise. No police. No more digging. We know the truth. That’s enough. Let’s leave it there.”

It seemed to Harding that something more-something bigger-was actually being asked of him. It was as if in forgiving the Martyns Hayley hoped to claim her own share of forgiveness. And he could not deny her that. “All right,” he said. “It ends here.”

“Thank you,” murmured Metherell.

“You’re good people,” said Josie. “I’m that sorry. I really am.”

“But I want the brooch,” said Hayley. “My sister’s brooch.”

Josie flushed. “It’s upstairs. I’ll get it.”

She hurried past them, avoiding their gaze, and headed up the stairs.

“The Martyns have been keepers of the chest for generations,” said Metherell, breaking the silence as they waited for Josie to return. “I’m grateful to you for letting them go on keeping it. It’s… as it should be. They’d have died rather than give it up.”

“Hayley needs an alibi for Monday,” said Harding, the demands of the world they were about to return to emerging in his thoughts. “You’ll supply one?”

“Of course. And I’ll make the Martyns understand that-”

There were noises from the yard: a revving engine; a crunch of tyres. Metherell’s face lost most of its colour. He shot Harding a frightened glance.

“Oh God. We’ve left it too late.”

The front door was flung open even as Harding turned towards it. Alf Martyn stood on the threshold, glaring in at them. Fred loomed up behind him.

“I knew you were up to summut,” said Alf, looking straight at Metherell. “You shouldn’t have interfered.”

“They’ve agreed to say nothing, Alf,” Metherell pleaded. “There’s no reason to harm them.”

“They can’t leave, knowing what they know.”

“But we
are
leaving,” Harding declared, grasping Hayley by the shoulders and moving towards the door.

“No,” said Alf. His left arm swung out from behind him. Harding flinched as he saw what he was holding: a shotgun. The stock slapped into Alf’s waiting right palm. The barrel was already locked. His finger curled around the trigger. “You can’t leave.”

“Stop,”
shouted Josie from the head of the stairs. “Don’t shoot, Alf. For God’s sake.”

“Stay out of this.”

“No.” She started down the stairs. “It’s my-”

She must have lost her footing. Or tripped. Suddenly, she was falling. Harding saw her rolling, bumping figure as a blur through the banisters. And he saw Fred dodging past his brother, running to intercept. But he was not fast enough. Josie hit the floor with a thump. Fred stopped in mid-stride. And stared, as they all stared, at Josie’s face, twisted towards them by the unnatural angle of her neck, her eyes wide and sightless, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

There was silence. A frozen moment of horror. Then Fred’s wail of anguish began. And did not end.