Robert Goddard - Name To a Face

“What was the other time you met?”

“Oh, much duller. She called round at the office. It can’t have been long after we’d met at the Abbey.” Isbister frowned with the effort of recollection. “Yes. No more than a few days. She wanted my… professional opinion on something.”

“What was that?”

“She had a… document… she wanted me to date.”

“Really?” Harding was now having to exert himself not to push too hard for details.

“Eighteenth-century she thought. Could we confirm it? I had Julian Mann-our expert on that kind of thing-cast his eye over it. He pronounced it genuine, I seem to remember. It was a single page of handwriting. But clearly part of something longer.”

“Did you read it?”

“Glanced at it. Oh yes.” A jolt of memory animated Isbister’s expression. “I spotted the name Borlase. They were big cheeses in Penzance back in the eighteenth century. So, that was a promising sign in itself. Then Julian gave it the thumbs-up. Right sort of paper, ink, lettering style. That kind of thing. I assumed Kerry had all of… whatever it was, so I… asked if she wanted us to sell it for her. Antiquarian stuff always attracts a lot of interest. And it looked like there was a local connection too, which was obviously a bonus.”

“But she turned you down?”

“Yes. Just wanted confirmation of the date. Mid-eighteenth-century.”

“Didn’t you think it odd, her having this… document, but not being willing to show you the whole thing?”

“A little, yes, but…” Isbister stared at the night-blanked window for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “You know, I’d forgotten that.”

“What?”

“Well, she asked me to say nothing to Barney about her visit. Said it was all part of a little… surprise she was planning for his birthday. Late August. He was the youngest boy in our year.” Isbister’s gaze became distant and unfocused. “I didn’t socialize with Barney. I hardly ever saw him. So, saying nothing wasn’t difficult. In fact, I… forgot all about it. And Barney never got his present, did he? By late August, Kerry was in hospital… on life support.”

“I wonder what happened to the document.”

“So do I.”

“We’ll probably never know.”

“Probably not, no.”

In truth, though, Harding thought he did know. What it was and what had become of it. A complete version of Francis Gashry’s report on the Shillingstone affair, stolen by Kerry from a descendant of Gashry’s executor, helpfully authenticated by Isbister’s antiquarian expert and then concealed beneath the floorboards at Kerry’s childhood home in Dulwich, safe from whatever risks she feared she was running in Cornwall. As an additional precaution, she had hidden a note of precisely where the report was secreted in a place where only her sister was likely to discover it, just in case she met with an accident-as indeed she did.

“Kerry’s family might have it, I suppose,” Isbister mused. “But they’re all dead, aren’t they? Except Hayley, of course. Perhaps she has it. I wonder…”

“What?”

“If it’s connected in any way… with the theft of the ring from Heartsease.”

“I don’t see how.”

“No. Neither do I. Except that… everything seems to be connected with everything else.” Isbister was beginning to sound positively philosophical. He lowered his voice. “I had lunch earlier this week with Gordon Meek.”

“Who?”

“Gabriel Tozer’s solicitor. He instructed us to auction the contents of Heartsease in accordance with Gabriel’s will. Now the house is to be sold-also by auction. Only then will the estate be wound up. I’d been assuming the proceeds would go to some charity or other. Gabriel obviously didn’t want to benefit his nephews, Barney and Humphrey. Otherwise he’d have just left everything to them. Well, that part’s true enough. But the rest’s a bit more complicated. Gordon was still in a state of shock at the news of Barney’s murder. He said to me-in strictest confidence, you understand-that he couldn’t help wondering if Hayley might have acted differently if she’d known she was going to become a relatively wealthy young woman. I asked him what he meant and, frankly, I was astonished by his answer. Gabriel Tozer specified in a recent alteration to his will that the proceeds of both sales, contents and house, along with his savings, which apparently were considerable, were to go not to various charities, as he let his nephews suppose, but to Hayley Winter, as Gabriel of course believed her to be called, although she wasn’t to be told until after the sales were completed.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Gordon Meek doesn’t get things like that wrong, Mr. Harding. He shouldn’t really have told me. And he’d be horrified to know I’d told you, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it under your hat. But, yes, Hayley was Gabriel Tozer’s heir. She just didn’t know it. And it makes no difference now, anyway, does it? She’s never going to get the chance to spend the money.”

Isbister caught up with Harding as he was leaving the train at Penzance the following morning-a cold, grey morning, with the fug of slumber still clinging to many of the disembarking passengers.

“Are you going straight round to see Humphrey, Mr. Harding?” Isbister asked, grimacing as if his indulgences of the evening and night before had taken their toll.

“Probably not. I’ll leave it till a more civilized hour.”

“Could I offer you a lift somewhere? I’m parked on the quay.”

“No need, thanks. I could do with stretching my legs.”

“In that case…” Isbister drew Harding aside by the elbow, more or less forcing him to stop and listen. “Look, I probably shouldn’t have told you what Gordon Meek said about Gabriel Tozer’s will. But … in vino veritas; there it is. I’d be really grateful if you didn’t mention it to Humphrey, though. Or to anyone else, come to that. Not just to spare me some embarrassment, but to avoid… inflaming the situation. Know what I mean?”

“I shan’t breathe a word.”

Isbister smiled in relief. “Excellent. Good man.”

“Any chance you could do me a favour in return?” Harding asked, sensing an opportunity he would be foolish to let slip.

“Name it.”

“The keys to Heartsease.”

Isbister frowned apprehensively. “I don’t think I can…”

“Look on it as a favour to Barney. He asked you to help me in any way you could, didn’t he?”

“In respect of the auction, yes. But…”

“Everything’s connected with everything else. Remember?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I’d have them back to you within an hour. I just want to… take a look.”

Isbister’s wrestling match with his professional conscience ended in submission. “I’m not going to regret this, am I, Mr. Harding?”

“No. Definitely not.” Harding smiled. “I’ll pick them up later.”

It was pushing close to nine o’clock when Harding reached the Spargo house, still unconscionably early, he suspected, by Darren’s standards. His suspicion was soon vindicated when Darren’s harassed mother answered the door, or, more accurately, opened it: she was on her way out, young child in tow.

“Darren about, Mrs. Spargo?” asked Harding.

“Not up yet. You’d better-”

“I’ll give him a wake-up call.” He dodged past her into the hall and made for the stairs.

“Hold on. You can’t go up there.”

Patently, however, Harding could. He was certainly in no mood to pay close attention to etiquette. Reaching the landing two steps at a time while Mrs. Spargo struggled to reverse back into the house with the child, he spotted only one closed door and made straight for it.