Robert Goddard - Name To a Face

One of the Martyn brothers stepped into view from the deep shadows of the barn as they climbed out of the car. Harding could not have said with any certainty which of them it was. But Metherell knew. “’Afternoon, Alf,” he called.

“’Af’noon, Mr. Metherell.” Alf strode across the yard to meet them. “You’ve brought your friend with you, I see. Mr… Harding, ain’t it?”

“Well remembered,” said Harding.

“Still worriting about poor Miss Foxton?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“I read in this week’s Cornishman her sister was wanted for the murder of Mr. Tozer. That right?”

“It is.”

“Sorry to hear that. Folk should let tragedies heal themselves, not go after making them worse. But the gift of leaving well alone is a rare one and that’s a fact.”

“Mr. Harding just wanted to check a few points about the accident, Alf,” said Metherell.

“Nothing I can tell you I didn’t tell you last week.”

“It’s the week before the accident I’m interested in,” said Harding.

“Can’t see how I can help you, then. Mr. Metherell here arranged the trip with us. He’s the only one of the passengers that day Fred and me had ever clapped eyes on afore.”

“You’d never met Barney Tozer?”

“No more we had.”

“Or Carol Janes?”

“Her neither.”

“Never dropped into her café in Hugh Town?”

“We’ve got no use for cafés, Mr. Harding. There’s a hob indoors if we want a cup o’ tea.”

“What about Kerry? Did you ever meet her before?”

“That we didn’t.”

“Are you sure you can speak for your brother?”

“I am.” Alf gave Harding a long, deliberative look. “But maybe you ain’t. Fred’s in the house with Josie. We can step inside and ask him if you want him to tell you himself.”

“Actually, I was hoping to ask Josie the same question, so…

“Come away in, then.”

Alf turned and led the way towards the house. Metherell shot Harding a cautioning glance. But Harding had left caution behind. He would learn nothing by treading carefully. “How is Josie, Mr. Martyn?” he enquired as they crossed the yard.

“Blooming is how she is. Just blooming.”

“Good. Though I gather that hasn’t always been the case. She was once very ill, wasn’t she?”

“In her girlhood, yes. A long time ago.”

“Did you know her then?”

They had reached the door. Alf pushed it open and stood back to let them enter. “Oh, I know all the farming families on this island,” he said quietly.

A narrow hall led straight ahead, past the stairs, to the kitchen and a scullery beyond. A door to the left stood open, while the one to the right was closed. Harding glanced through the open doorway into a simply furnished sitting room, sensing more than observing the immutability that was the dominant characteristic of Pregowther Farm and its occupants.

“Fred,” Alf called over Harding’s shoulder. “We’m got visitors.”

Fred’s head bobbed into view round the scullery doorpost. “How do,” he said brightly.

“Hello,” Harding responded, advancing slowly along the hall with Metherell at his shoulder. He heard Alf close the front door behind them. An aroma the sweet side of mustiness disclosed itself around him.

“All well, Fred?” asked Metherell.

“All good, Mr. Metherell.” Fred moved into the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Josie about?”

“Resting upstairs.” A floorboard creaked above them. “But… sounds like she’s coming down.”

Josie appeared above them at the head of the stairs and began a slow descent, her pregnancy looking to Harding even more pronounced than the week before. She smiled down at them. “Hi, Mr. Metherell.”

“’Afternoon, Josie.”

“Hello again,” she said to Harding.

“Hello.”

“This is nice. We don’t get many visitors.” She glanced at Fred. “Put the kettle on, darlin’. We’ll have some tea.”

It was as she turned, leaning heavily on the banisters, that Harding’s eye was caught by a gleam of jewellery on the left breast of her smock-top. He gaped up at it in astonishment. And a fox cub, fashioned from jet and mother-of-pearl, gazed playfully back at him. “That’s a… nice brooch,” he said numbly.

“Yeah.” Josie blushed. “Fred gave it me.”

Harding turned towards Fred. “Where did you buy it?” he asked.

Fred’s mental wrestlings with the question were written on his face. “That’s no business of yours.”

“I think it is, actually.”

“He recognizes it,” said Alf quietly.

“What are you talking about?” asked Metherell. “What’s going on?”

“The brooch belonged to Kerry Foxton,” Harding replied, still staring at Fred.

“No,” said Josie. “It was her…”

“Sister you took it from?” Harding asked, looking back up at her.

“That’s torn it,” said Alf.

“You took that from Hayley?” demanded Metherell, rounding on Alf. “For God’s sake, how could you be so stupid?”

“Fred took it. I didn’t find out until it was too late.”

“But you knew…” Metherell broke off. He had said too much. And the significance of what he had said-the true, terrible meaning of it-was irretrievable. He turned back to face Harding. He seemed to struggle to say something. But no words came.

“You’re all in this together, aren’t you?” Harding gasped. “What in God’s name have you-” There was a movement behind him, fast and swinging; an impact; then oblivion, as complete as it was sudden, as black as it was total.

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.