“If you’re not sure, Mr. Harding, not absolutely sure, then…”
“We only have Nathan’s word for it she set up the rendezvous in the first place.”
“And if he was lying, for whatever reason…”
“He can’t own up to it now.”
“Death seals everyone’s lips.”
“My God.” Some of the implications of what they were saying flashed through Harding’s mind. “Could this be true?”
“I think it may be.”
“But if it is…”
“Then, what do we do about it?” She gazed at him intently. “What exactly do we do?”
With so much unknown, they had to learn as much as they could as quickly as they could. Ann volunteered to contact Veronica and pump her for information about Nathan’s activities in recent weeks: where he had been, who he had spoken to, what he had said that might seem more significant now than it had at the time. For his part, Harding could see nothing for it but to chase down the last lead left to him: the identity of the Heartsease thief; which might, just might, be the answer to everything.
Since the call from Whybrow, Harding had kept his phone switched off. He checked for messages as he stood stamping his feet to keep warm while waiting for the next train to Victoria on the wind-lashed platform at West Dulwich station. There was one: from Carol. And it was very different in tone from the last message she had left for him.
Why are you in England, Tim? Tony’s told me what you said, but I don’t believe it any more than he does. If you’re still chasing Hayley, you’re as mad as she is. If not, then what the hell are you up to? Explanation please. I think I’m owed one. What are you trying to do?
It was a reasonable question in its way. But it was not one Harding had any intention of answering. He switched the phone off again, shoved it back into his pocket and squinted down the track. Where was the train?
The sleeper pulled out of Paddington on schedule at ten to midnight. Harding had secured a berth at the last minute. After dumping his bag in his cabin, he headed for the buffet, where nightcaps were being served. He suspected he would need several.
There were half a dozen or so customers ahead of him in the queue. He paid them no attention. But one of them paid him a great deal.
“Mr. Harding,” came a familiar voice. “This is a surprise.”
FORTY
I’ve thought about you a lot these past few days,” said Clive Isbister as they settled with their drinks at an empty table in the buffet car. “I was shocked when I heard Barney had been killed and that Hayley Winter-Foxton, I suppose I should say-was the prime suspect. Then I saw it reported that you were there when it took place. Now… what? You’re going back to Penzance?”
“Carol asked me to pay Humph a visit and tell him exactly how it happened,” Harding replied. It was a passable cover story. “She was too busy sorting everything out to come herself.”
“I can imagine. Well, that’s good of you. But what a coincidence, hey? I’ve been up at an ISVA dinner-Incorporated Society of Valuers and Auctioneers.” Isbister’s flushed complexion and general loquaciousness suggested he had not stinted himself. “So, tell me, how did it happen?”
There was clearly no avoiding an explanation, so Harding embarked on one, omitting any mention of his new-found doubts about Hayley’s responsibility for Tozer’s death-and of Nathan Gashry’s supposed suicide. He was in no mood to bare his soul and felt certain there was nothing to be gained by taking Isbister into his confidence.
“Appalling,” said Isbister when he had finished. “Just appalling.” Which was not, Harding reflected, such a bad summary. “And there’s no question it was Hayley?”
“There wasn’t much room for doubt.” Which was not, of course, the same as saying there was no room at all.
“But shooting him like that, in cold blood. I’d never have thought her capable of such a thing.”
“Neither would I.”
“But you saw it with your own eyes, so there it is.” Isbister stared thoughtfully into his plastic beaker of whisky and soda. “It’s strange. Ironic, you could say. There’s a reunion every decade of my year at Humphry Davy Grammar. Our year, I mean. Barney’s, mine, Ray Trathen’s…”
“And John Metherell’s?”
“Yes, of course. John’s too. You know him?”
“We’ve met.”
This minor revelation induced a puzzled pause on Isbister’s part. Then he pressed on. “Well, the last was in… 1998. Function room at the Queen’s Hotel. I remember standing there, chatting with Barney, and… yes, actually, I think it was John Metherell, now you mention him. Anyway, the do was winding down and Barney said jocularly ‘See you in another ten years, then.’ And John said, ‘God willing.’ To which Barney responded, ‘Don’t worry. I’m indestructible.’ And, you know, in a funny sort of way, I believed him. There was something… granite-like… about him. Good at rugby, you know? Loose-head prop. Get tackled by him and you remembered it. My God, you did.” He winced in tribute to a long-ago collision. “Yes. Indestructible. But he wasn’t, of course. And he won’t be sharing a joke with anyone at the 2008 gathering.”
“Have the police asked you any questions?” Harding enquired, hoping Isbister could be lured away from maudlin reminiscences of his schooldays.
“Not as such. They came to me for the keys to Heartsease, that’s all. Wanted to search the basement flat on the off chance of turning up some clue to Hayley’s whereabouts. Is she still on the run?”
“As far as I know.”
“Well, they obviously didn’t find anything, then. Where do you think she’s gone?”
“No idea.”
“There’s no mistake, is there? She’s Kerry Foxton’s sister? I mean, I know there’s a resemblance, but-”
“She’s definitely her sister.”
“Right.” Isbister nodded. “I bumped into Ray Trathen in Market Jew Street yesterday, you know.” He glanced at his watch. “Day before yesterday, I should say. He was full of it, as you can imagine. ‘Told you Barney was up to no good,’ he crowed. ‘Now he’s got his just deserts.’ He was drunk, of course. Well, not sober, anyway. But I didn’t like the pleasure he took from Barney’s death. Or the conclusions he drew. The fact that Hayley evidently believes Barney murdered Kerry doesn’t prove he did.”
“No. It doesn’t, does it?”
“Barney sailed close to the wind, no question about it. Always did. He was running scams even at school. Started selling Kit-Kats of dubious origin and graduated to reefers. I daresay Ray’s right about Starburst International being a dodgy outfit. But the one thing Barney never had was a vicious streak. He wasn’t a bully. He was actually a very generous man. He basically wanted everyone to have a good time, preferably in a way that turned him a useful profit. A wheeler-dealer. A barrow boy. A rogue. But a murderer? Especially of an attractive girl like Kerry? Never. It just… wasn’t in his character.”
“Did you know Kerry?” Isbister’s second reference to Kerry’s looks had finally caught up with Harding.
“Not really. I met her a couple of times. Once in the Abbey Hotel restaurant. She was dining there with Barney the night my wife and I were celebrating our anniversary. They… joined us for drinks beforehand. We… chatted… about this and that. I remember Janet-my wife-complaining over dinner that I’d been ogling Kerry. Perhaps it was true. Kerry was very attractive, of course. But she had this… extra something as well. Glamour. Charisma. I don’t know what you’d call it. The wow factor, I suppose. Yes. That’s what she had. In spades.”
“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 no
w 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.”
FORTY-ONE
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.
“Come back here,” he heard Mrs. Spargo shriek as he flung the door open.
Thin curtains were pulled across the window, admitting an ooze of grey light to the small, cramped bedroom. The bed covered most of the floor space. A shape stirred and groaned beneath the blankets. Harding moved past it and yanked the curtains apart, then opened the window wide in a squeal of swollen wood and a rush of cold air. “Rise and shine, Darren,” he shouted, turning back to the bed.
“Fucking hell,” came an answering moan. “What’s going on?”
“Ventilation, to start with. It smells like the camel house at the zoo in here.”
“Fuck,” slurred
Darren, blearily focusing on his visitor. “What… what are you doing here?”
“I’m phoning the police if you don’t leave right now.” Mrs. Spargo glared in at Harding from the landing, doing her best to look and sound intimidating while the young child gaped open-mouthed through the banisters from halfway up the stairs.
“Do you want your mother to phone the police, Darren?” Harding countered. “There are a few things I want to discuss with you they might find very interesting.”
“Shit.” Darren pushed himself up on his elbows, revealing a scrawny torso. He squinted first at Harding, then his mother. A moment of woozy deliberation was followed by a scowl of resignation. “It’s OK, Ma. Mr. H and me… need to have a chat, that’s all. You… carry on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine. You can… leave us to it.”
Mrs. Spargo cast Harding a wary look, muttered something inaudible, then retreated down the stairs, dragging the child with her and glancing back suspiciously as she went. “Who’s that man?” the child asked, her high-pitched voice carrying up to the bedroom. But Mrs. Spargo’s reply did not carry. The front door closed behind them with a clunk. Silence descended on chez Spargo. Darren slumped back on his pillow.
“What d’you want, man?”
“I thought we’d take up that conversation we were having on Monday where we left off.”
“Forget it. Hayley plugging Barney Tozer cancelled all bets. I’m not interested.”
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