Name To a Face

FORTY-SEVEN

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.