“Only on Fridays. What’s your excuse?”
“Do I need one?”
“Certainly not. In fact, why don’t I stand you a drink? Least I can do in the circumstances.”
“All right. Thanks.” Trathen ordered a pint of bitter for himself and another double Scotch for Harding. “Which circumstances did you have in mind?”
“Well, you were there when Barney Tozer got what was coming to him.” Trathen lit a cigarette while his pint was being pulled. Studying him as he did so, Harding wondered just how much comfort he would ultimately derive from Tozer’s death. Blaming his misfortunes on the local-boy-made-good was one thing; carping endlessly about the supposed misdeeds of a dead man quite another. “Cheers,” said Trathen, taking a large gulp of beer. “What brings you back here, then?”
“I had to see Humph.”
“Ah. The grieving brother. Bad luck.” Trathen smacked his lips. “So, Hayley Winter was actually Hayley Foxton, set on avenging her sister, and now she’s been and gone and done it.”
“Is that what they say in the papers?”
“The ones I read, yeah.”
“Must be true, then.”
“Are you trying to imply it isn’t?”
“Why would I do that? I was only there when it happened. How should I know?”
Trathen frowned. He nodded at Harding’s drink. “How many of those have you had?”
“Several too few.”
“Blimey. Sounds like it could be a lively lunchtime here.”
“Tell me, Ray,” said Harding, aware that the whiskies were already affecting him, but disinclined to hold back, “what story do you think Kerry was really working on when she came down here in the summer of ’ ninety-nine?”
“You know what I think.”
“The shady secrets of Barney’s business empire, right?”
“Right. On the money.” Trathen smiled at his own pun.
“There’s no chance you could have got that wrong?”
“She had Barney lined up for an exposé. That’s the way I see it. He found out and decided to shut her up. Permanently. He was smart enough to make sure the law couldn’t touch him. But her twin sister in full avenging-angel mode was something he hadn’t bargained for.” Trathen slapped his hand down on the bar. “Bang.”
“Ever heard of the Grey Man of Ennor?”
“Who?”
“Semi-legendary Scilly Islander from the fourteenth century. Supposed to have wandered the West Country curing people of the Black Death.”
“Bloody hell. Get off with the Nine Maidens, did he? Stony-faced bunch, but biddable, so they tell me.” Trathen’s chortlings ended in a quaff of beer. He gave Harding a straight look. “What are you on about?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. But if Kerry was investigating Starburst International, I’m pretty sure she was investigating something else as well.”
“This medieval healer?”
“Yes. Strange as it may seem.”
“Oh, it seems strange, all right. She was a journalist, y’know. Not a bloody historian.”
“She was interested in the Association story.”
“Yeah, but that’s bang up-to-date by comparison with the fourteenth century. And there’s a wreck to explore. As she made the fatal mistake of doing. Not to mention divers to interview about the treasure hunt back in the sixties, if she’d had a mind to. Who was she going to interview about the… what was he called?”
“Grey Man of Ennor.”
“I take it the old boy’s not still around?”
Harding smiled thinly. “I doubt it.”
“There you are, then. Total non-starter.”
“Kerry never mentioned him to you?”
“Not as I recall. And I reckon I would. Besides, she’d have known better than to ask me about something like that-just supposing, for the sake of argument, she was remotely interested.”
“Who would she ask, then?”
Trathen pondered for a moment, then said, “John Metherell, maybe. She knew him. He lives on the Scillies. And he’s a historian-of sorts.”
Trathen was an amused witness when, a few minutes later, Harding phoned Metherell. His call was a surprise, naturally, and Metherell wanted to ask all the obvious questions about Barney Tozer’s death, as well as Hayley Foxton’s responsibility for it, before he could be induced to focus on the arcane issue of the Grey Man of Ennor.
“I’ve never heard of him. But then I’m no medievalist. Working on the Association story’s given me tunnel vision where the past’s concerned. I certainly don’t remember Kerry asking me anything about the fourteenth century or the Black Death… or the Old Man of Ennor.”
“Grey. Not old. Necessarily.”
“Sorry?”
“Never mind.”
“Crosbie Hicks would’ve been the person to ask. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about Scillonian history. Used to write a piece in The Cornishman every month or so. Might have written about your fellow. Yes, he might well have done. That sort of thing would’ve been right up his street.”
“Would’ve been?”
“Sadly, he died a couple of years ago.”
“But he was alive in 1999?”
“Oh yes. Very much so. In fact-” Metherell broke off, seemingly struck by a thought. “Now, that’s odd.”
“What is?”
“Well, you’ve jogged my memory. Crosbie Hicks. I met him once with Kerry Here in Hugh Town. Nothing unusual about that. It’s a small place. You meet everybody sooner or later. But-”
“Hold on. Were you with Kerry? Or was she with Hicks?”
“I was with Kerry. We bumped into old Crosbie coming out of the post office and chatted for a few moments. Well…”
“What?”
“It was obvious they knew each other. Again, nothing unusual about that. Crosbie could easily have been a regular customer at Carol’s café. But I remember Kerry thanked him for some help he’d given her. So I acted affronted and said, ‘You’ve been double-checking what I’ve told you about the wreck of the Association with Crosbie, haven’t you?’ And Crosbie said, ‘Don’t worry, John. Kerry’s asked me nothing about the Association. I’ve been helping her with an entirely unrelated matter’ Well, that could have been your Black Death legend, I suppose.”
“Yes,” said Harding thoughtfully. “It could.”
“Unfortunately, it’s too late to ask either of them now. So, we’ll never know for sure.”
FORTY-FOUR
T oo late. Metherell’s description applied to everything Harding had done or tried to do since returning to Penzance. The dead held their secrets too close for the living to unlock. Mere stubbornness had prompted his latest and surely last recourse: a trawl through the public library’s microfilmed back copies of The Cornishman, in search of some vital clue buried in the roughly monthly offerings of Crosbie Hicks on subjects plucked from Scillonian history.
He had begun with editions from two years prior to the accident and was working his way slowly towards the summer of 1999. So far, Hicks had written about ancient burial mounds, King Arthur, the tin trade, rising sea levels, the Godolphins, Augustus Smith, the daffodil industry, lighthouses, dialect, place names, even the wreck of the Association. But none of what he had written seemed to come close to the “unrelated matter” he had helped Kerry with. And now, as Harding reached the spring of 1999, he began to fear he would come away empty-handed once more.
Hicks’s articles appeared, when they did, at the foot of the page of The Cornishman devoted each week to specifically Scillonian news. This seldom amounted to anything momentous and Harding had slipped into a pattern of checking at a glance to see if there was a contribution from Hicks that week before scrolling on to the next. He had, in fact, already done so with the Thursday, 29 April edition when some combination of words in one of the headlines belatedly registered in his mind. He scrolled back. And there it was. Charity Walk to Become Celebration of Miracle Cure.
The art
icle had not been written by Crosbie Hicks. Yet there, in the phrase miracle cure, was the connection with the Grey Man of Ennor Harding had been searching for, the connection that was also a clue.
CHARITY WALK TO BECOME
CELEBRATION OF MIRACLE CURE
The campaign to pay for a fourteen-year-old St. Mary’s girl to receive treatment in the United States for a rare form of leukaemia has ended in her complete and unexpected recovery.
A sponsored walk round the coast of St. Mary’s to raise some of the money that would have been needed was planned for Bank Holiday Monday 31 May. The walk will still go ahead but will now be a celebration of the all-clear Josephine Edwards recently received from her consultant at Treliske Hospital. Her parents, David and Christine Edwards, of Guinea-Money Farm, St. Mary’s, said they were “amazed and overjoyed” when they were informed that exhaustive tests had confirmed the reason for the sudden disappearance of Josephine’s symptoms was that she was now free of the disease.
“We were told a bone-marrow transplant wouldn’t be effective for Josephine’s particular type of leukaemia,” Mrs. Edwards added, “and that her only hope was a revolutionary treatment being pioneered at a hospital in Colorado. There was no way we could afford to send her there and we’re hugely grateful to everyone who offered to take part in fund-raising, including the walk round the island. The doctors can’t explain what’s happened. They’ve never known anything like this before. It’s not just a remission. It’s a total cure. In fact, it’s a miracle. We’re over the moon.”
Harding went out into the street to call Metherell. His phone rang almost as soon as he switched it on. His first thought was that Metherell had called him, perhaps having remembered something more about Crosbie Hicks. Accordingly, he answered without checking the number. And found himself talking to Carol.
“Ah, at last. Mind telling me where you are, Tim?”
“Penzance.”
“Why have you gone back there? What the hell are you trying to do?”
“Tie up some loose ends.”
“Oh yeah? And have you tied up any?”
“For a start, I’ve learnt Humph stole the ring from Heartsease.”
“Really? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s the sort of thing he would do, just to spite Barney.”
“He thinks you’re spiting him, by holding the funeral in Monaco.”
“He flatters himself. I don’t care what he says, thinks or does. The ring means nothing to me. You must know that. Which is another reason why I just don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Have you heard that Nathan Gashry’s dead?”
“Yes. Suicide, apparently. Good riddance.”
“Is that all you have to say about it?”
“What else is there to say? I never even met the man. But he sounds a nasty piece of work.”
“For God’s sake, Carol, don’t you see? There’s something going on here you’re missing.”
“And what might that be?”
“Do you remember Josephine Edwards?”
“Who?”
“A young girl on St. Mary’s who made a miraculous recovery from leukaemia back in 1999. Just before Kerry went to stay with you.”
“Leukaemia? What are you talking about?”
“Josephine Edwards,” Harding insistently repeated. “Do you remember?”
“No. Of course I don’t.”
“It must have been big news at the time, Carol. Your customers would have discussed it. A lot of them would have known her. Or taken part in the walk round the island intended to raise money for her treatment. Isn’t any of this even vaguely familiar?”
There was a brief interval of silence. Then Carol said, “All right. I do remember. For what it’s worth. Yeah. I put a poster up in the café and I signed up for the walk. You’re right. She got better spontaneously. Happy ending all round. What about it?”
“Did Kerry take an interest in the story?”
“It happened before she came down.”
“But people must still have been talking about it. You must have mentioned it to her.”
“Probably, yeah. What about it?”
“Did she seem interested?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Try.”
“This is crazy Tim. You’re-”
“Did she seem interested?”
Another silence. Then: “Maybe. Maybe not. I genuinely can’t remember. And I really don’t see why it should matter. For Christ’s sake, Tim, what are you-”
He ended the call there and then. And rang Metherell immediately. “Why does it matter?” he murmured under his breath as he listened to the dialling tone. “I don’t know, Carol. But it does. I’m certain of that.”
“Hello?”
“Mr. Metherell. It’s Harding again.”
“Ah, Mr. Harding. Found what you’re looking for yet?”
“I may have. Do you remember a local girl called Josephine Edwards, who made a miraculous recovery from leukaemia? The case got a bit of publicity at the time. This was seven years ago, just before Kerry’s accident.”
“Of course I remember. It was a remarkable thing. But I don’t-”
“Do you know if she’s still living on the island? She was fourteen then, so she’d be-what?-twenty-one now.”
“Certainly she’s still living here. In fact, you met her yourself last week.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Josephine Edwards is Josie Martyn now.”
FORTY-FIVE
Harding spotted Metherell’s white Honda parked behind the terminal building as the helicopter descended towards St. Mary’s Airport. It was the last flight of the day, so Harding would not be able to return to the mainland until the following morning. Metherell had offered him a bed for the night, which he had naturally accepted, but he was in truth thinking no further ahead than that afternoon. He was close to the answer now. He could almost touch it.
The Isles of Scilly’s famed subtropical splendour was no more in evidence than it had been the week before. The cloud was low, the wind biting. Metherell did not get out of his car as Harding approached, merely raising his hand in greeting.
“And so, here we are again,” he said as Harding climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. “My wife thinks I’m mad to be indulging your whims like this, you know.”
“They’re more than whims. But I’m certainly grateful for your help. And sorry if I’ve caused any domestic friction.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just put me in the picture.”
Harding did his level best to assemble his surmises and suspicions into a coherent account as they sat watching the helicopter loading for its immediate return to Penzance. The missing segment of the Gashry report; Kerry’s interest in the Grey Man of Ennor; Josephine Edwards’s miraculous recovery from terminal leukaemia; her marriage to Fred Martyn; and Kerry’s fatal diving accident: they were linked, he felt certain. There was a hidden truth that bound them together. Whether he had persuaded Metherell of that, however, he rather doubted. As the tone of the other man’s response seemed to confirm.
“What does all this really amount to, Mr. Harding? I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”
“I can’t tell you exactly what it adds up to. But it adds up to something. You told me yourself the Martyn family has lived on this island since the Middle Ages.”
“According to Crosbie Hicks, yes. Since the fourteenth century as I recall. Which you’ll immediately point out to me is the Grey Man of Ennor’s century.”
“So it is.”
“But what of it?”
“Barney Tozer talked to me just before he died about the sequence of events on the day of the accident. Mind if I check it with you?”
Metherell shrugged. “Why not?”
“Barney flew over with Ray Trathen the day before. He spent the night at your house and you drove down to the quay together the following morning with the diving suits and gear he and Kerry were going to use.
Right so far?”
“Yes.”
“You and Barney loaded the stuff onto the Jonquil, then he walked back into town to fetch Kerry and Carol. You stayed on the boat with the Martyns. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Were you on board the whole time you were waiting for Barney to come back?”
“Sorry?”
“Did you stay on the boat until Barney returned with the girls-and Ray Trathen, who they met on the way?”
“I…” Metherell frowned as he struggled to remember.
“Well, did you?”
“No. Since you ask, I didn’t. The harbourmaster wanted to confirm we had proper written permission from the salvors to dive to the wreck. I went to show him the paperwork. I can’t have been off the boat more than five minutes, but-”
“You were off it.”
“Yes. So?”
“Well, you obviously didn’t take the diving gear with you.”
“Of course I didn’t.” Metherell looked round sharply at Harding. “What are you suggesting?”
“The gear stayed aboard. With the Martyns. If they’d wanted to tamper with it…”
“Why in God’s name would they want to do that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure they did. But… I just have this… feeling that…”
“I spoke to Christine Edwards before coming to pick you up, Mr. Harding. She remembered the accident, of course. It was big news at the time. Much bigger than her daughter’s triumph over leukaemia. She was quite adamant on one point. Kerry Foxton had never contacted them. Which I’m guessing you’d have expected her to, if she made the same connection you seem to be making between Josie’s defiance of the medical odds and the Grey Man of Ennor.”
“You believe her?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“No reason, I suppose.”
“Exactly.”
“Nevertheless…”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Harding. Let’s go and see the Martyns now. See if you think Josie’s lying when she tells us she never met Kerry Foxton. Or if Fred and Alf are holding something back. My bet is you’ll sense what I sense: there’s nothing to this. You’ve put two and two together and made five. Actually, a lot more than five. So, how about it? Isn’t it time to put up or shut up?”
Name To a Face Page 25
