Robert Goddard - Name To a Face

“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.

Fred Martyn was like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He sat slumped at the foot of the stairs, gazing vacantly and hopelessly at Josie’s crumpled figure. Her miraculous recovery from leukaemia seven years before had led only to this: a snapped neck; a lost child; two lives snuffed out. And the future of the whole family had gone with them. The knowledge of that was written on Alf Martyn’s face as he sat at the kitchen table, staring into space. He had broken the shotgun and laid it beside him. Since then, he had not moved.