Nemesis

by Marley, Louise

  “I’ve got bolt cutters too. The well had a gate over it. I thought I might meet another one.”

  “Let’s try something more subtle first, OK?” She stepped up to the nearest monument and began to run her fingers over the surface, checking each protuberance for a hidden mechanism.

  Once he understood what she was up to, he did likewise. He worked from the right; and she worked from the left. After ten minutes, they met in the middle. Here was the largest slab of all; a four foot edifice to a single family. Each name, along with a date, was listed beneath a large swirly ‘V’, which had been engraved on raised stone tile.

  “This is the one,” he said confidently. “The others have the crest but only this one has a ‘V’.”

  “V for Vyne,” she said dismissively.

  “It’s not a ‘V’, it’s an arrow.” He slammed his fist against the stone tile.

  The diamond-shaped panel slid back into the stone. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, from somewhere behind the wall, came the sound of stone grating against stone and the whole slab juddered back into the wall, leaving a two foot gap at either side.

  Bryn snatched the torch from her hand and squeezed his bulk into the tunnel.

  “What happened to ‘ladies first’?” she called after him.

  The only sound that came back was an echo.

  As he had the torch, the light faded rapidly. She felt a squirm of apprehension. Any moment now and she was going to be left alone in the dark.

  Then, just as unexpectedly, he was back - seizing her hand and pulling her into the hole after him. “What are you waiting for? A royal invitation?”

  Like the tunnel they’d left behind, it was not wide enough to walk side-by-side but it did slope upwards. There were no tree roots, because they were walking beneath the lawn where there were no trees. Halfway along, another archway appeared.

  Bryn perfunctorily shone the torch through the gap. “Priest’s hole; going nowhere,” he said, drawing her onwards.

  After another five minutes’ walk steadily uphill, the air became more humid. He still held her hand. She could feel it grow slippery with sweat. The silence was driving her crazy. She realised neither of them had really spoken about the events of the previous day. How could she broach the subject?

  “I’m sorry about Geraint,” she said, to the back of his head.

  He didn’t break his stride. “I knew he was dead. He would have made contact otherwise.” Bryn’s voice was flat, all trace of his former humour erased.

  She remembered the horrible things she had said to him and Siân, at that pub in London. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “Do the police know how he died?” she asked him.

  “His skull was cracked but what did it for him was the broken neck.”

  Pretty much synonymous with being chucked down a well, she thought, but twisted it into a more tactful, “He definitely fell then?”

  There was the briefest hesitation. “Or someone broke it for him.”

  They walked a few more minutes in silence.

  “Why did Geraint come to the castle?”

  This time there was no response, all she could hear was his breathing, laboured because of the lack of fresh air.

  Maybe he hadn’t heard her. “Bryn? Why did - ”

  “He was with Sarah,” came the terse reply.

  “Calahurst is full of bars, pubs and clubs. Why would a couple of teenagers want to visit a neo-Norman castle in the dead of night?”

  Bryn stopped walking. She thought they’d reached the end of the tunnel but instead he slowly swung around to face her. The torch pointed towards the ground, leaving his face in shadow.

  No one knows I’m here, she realised. He could hit me over the head with a rock and no one would be any the wiser.

  “There are a couple of things I haven’t told you,” he said carefully.

  No shit?

  But she kept her mouth firmly shut.

  “You saw where we lived?”

  It took a moment for her to work out what he was talking about. “The caravan at the fairground?”

  “We were two ordinary lads, with no money and big dreams.”

  Where was this conversation heading? She wished she’d left her phone in her pocket and not in her bag. There was no way she’d be able to find her way back through the crypt in the dark, and even if she did, the rope leading back up the well had gone. She was well and truly trapped here with him.

  How could she have been so stupid to get herself in this situation?

  “What do you think we were doing at the castle?” he asked, when she failed to respond.

  Natalie thought she could almost hear the beat of her heart echoing through the airless tunnel. “We?”

  “Think about it, Natalie. If you need a clue … ” He took something from the satchel and held it up.

  The jemmy glinted silver in the torchlight.

  She took a step back, feeling the weight of her fear pressing against her chest.

  And then she made the connection. “You came to the castle to break in? Were you crazy?”

  He dropped the jemmy back into the bag. “You think we should have started with something smaller - say, a bungalow?”

  She felt some of the tension ebb away. “Be serious - please?”

  Bryn sighed. “After you’d left, Sarah told Geraint about the castle and the guy who lived here - a regular pervert who could only get it up with teenage girls. She told him how to get in and where Henry kept his cash - she knew we wouldn’t have been interested in anything else. We wouldn’t have known an antique if it bit us on the arse, even less what to do with it.”

  “Why would Sarah do that?”

  “She told Geraint she needed his help. She told him about your father, what a bastard he was and how your mother was too busy going out on the town to stand up for you. Sarah told us she’d been having sex with an old guy who lived in a castle. He’d taken some kinky photographs of her and she wanted them back. She was getting married and knew if this other guy ever found out what she’d been up to, he’d dump her.”

  “Sarah was getting married? How would you know this? Why would she confide in you?”

  “She knew we were thieves, she’d seen the stolen goods we’d hidden in the caravan. She needed us to break into the castle for her. She said it would be easy. There were no alarms, no security cameras - because there was nothing worth stealing except for the stuff he kept in the safe - and she knew the combination.”

  “You’re making this up! Sarah wasn’t a thief, and she would never have had sex with Sir Henry. He was her father!”

  Bryn gave a short, humourless laugh. “I don’t think so! The things she told me they did - Christ, and I thought I’d heard it all.”

  “You’re lying!” She was shaking, despite the heat and the sweat pouring off her. “Sir Henry was Sarah’s father,” she repeated, through chattering teeth. “I know he was. After she died, Sir Henry gave my mother money. He let us stay in the Lodge. He paid for me to go to college and for my father to receive the private health care at Rose Court. Why would he do all that?”

  “I expect your dear ma blackmailed him. Hard as they come, that one.”

  “My mother was in love with him!”

  “Did you ever see them kiss? Or show any sign of affection whatsoever?”

  “Well, no but - ”

  “They never married, or moved in together?”

  “My father was in a care home. It would have looked heartless - ”

  “She married that Richard guy quickly enough!”

  “Only because Sir Henry had died. A gun misfired while he was storing it, or cleaning it - I don’t know the details. I always assumed that, because he couldn’t be with the woman he loved, he shot himself. Clare wouldn’t let him go and - ”

  “Listen to yourself! Stop twisting the truth to fit with the story you want. If Henry really loved Magda, he would have done anything to be with her. Unfortunately all he wanted was unlimited
sex with pretty young girls - the younger the better. A meek, empty-headed girl, who would do anything she was told, without question, without even thinking. That’s what Henry Vyne wanted.”

  The description didn’t match either Sarah or herself, but did allowing oneself to be seduced for money make it any better?

  “OK,” she said, “Sir Henry was a dirty old man - but they were only photographs, like the kind you see in the men’s magazines. He would never have taken it further. He wouldn’t have slept with her.”

  Bryn was shaking his head. “It’s classic paedophile behaviour. Befriend the parent, be nice to the kid, build up the level of trust - ”

  “I don’t believe you - ” Her voice cracked and she was forced to break off. She caught a glimpse of the sympathy in his expression. He didn’t understand. How could he?

  All those hours she’d spent in Sir Henry’s library; posing naked as he’d taken photographs of her; against the bookshelves, leant forwards over the desk, sat in his chair with one leg draped over the arm. She didn’t care if his wrinkly, liver-spotted hands ‘accidentally’ brushed against her breasts as he arranged her into the position he wanted. She’d felt sorry for him - because he was a pathetic old man who couldn’t get it up.

  Except apparently he could.

  Her stomach turned over and suddenly she wanted to be really, really sick.

  All those photos Sir Henry had taken of her? What had happened to them? Were they still in that safe in the castle, or in someone else’s personal collection? She’d only wanted to make a bit of money, enough to be able to leave Calahurst and never come back.

  Like Sarah.

  Oh God, what had she done?

  Bryn, unaware of her turmoil, continued to work through his theory. “I’m thinking Henry had to pay Sarah to make sure she kept her mouth shut, that’s how she knew the combination of the safe. She would have seen him take the money out and seen where he kept the photographs. I expect they weren’t the kind of snaps you would want to leave lying around. Were they the kind you’d kill for though?”

  Natalie had a memory of a shoebox overflowing with cash. Her mother had known it was there, so had her father. It was the first thing they’d looked for when they found out she was gone. If Sarah had run away, she’d never have left the money behind. Had they realised the truth about where the money had come from? Sarah had told everyone she’d earned money from selling her stories to women’s magazines, she even had the published stories to prove it. Of course, no one ever queried the amount she said she’d earned.

  “Sarah was seventeen when she died,” Bryn said. “I expect Henry would have lost interest in her as she grew older. Maybe he had another girl already lined up?”

  After Sarah died, Sir Henry had offered her a Saturday job cataloguing his library, offering far more money than the local hairdresser. When Natalie had found out exactly what the work had entailed, she’d dared not tell her mother where she was spending her Saturdays.

  She had been the next girl in line.

  “Stop it,” Natalie couldn’t stand to hear any more. “I only wanted to know who killed my sister. I don’t need to hear all this sordid stuff, OK?”

  He regarded her pityingly. Did he know the truth, about what she’d done? He apparently knew everything else about her.

  “I appreciate it’s painful for you to keep going over the past,” he said, “But how else are we going to get a handle on this?”

  “Why don’t we talk about you?” she retorted. “What happened when you broke into the castle? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” he shrugged. “I was the look out. My cousin and your sister climbed through the library window. She knew the catch was broken and that no alarms were ever set. For a while everything was fine. Then it all went to hell. The lights went on - there was shouting and screaming. My cousin stuck his head through the window and yelled at me to run - so I did. It was the biggest mistake I ever made,” he added bitterly. “Geraint went back for Sarah. I ran back to the fairground and told Da we had to pack up before the police turned up - but they never did. We thought my cousin would join us on the road, but instead … instead … ”

  Bryn’s voice, which had gradually deteriorated into a hoarse whisper, finally gave out. He shook his head helplessly.

  Natalie finished the sentence for him, although it was hardly necessary.

  “Instead, you never saw him again.”

  45

  Was it better to know for certain your loved one had died, no matter how appalling the circumstances, or to never know - and to live in hope that one day they would return?

  For Natalie, finding Sarah’s body had been worse than the reality that she was dead. Worse, because it had been the last time she had seen her, and was therefore the last memory she had.

  Unable to find the words to comfort Bryn, she reached out to him, but he had already turned away, moving on up the tunnel and into the darkness.

  She hurried after him, fearful of being left alone, but after only a matter of seconds he came to an abrupt halt and she walked straight into the back of him.

  “We’ve come to a dead end,” he said, talking over her apology.

  “Are you sure?”

  He leant back against the wall, shining the torch in front of him so she could see for herself. Instead of bricks or stone there was a solid wooden panel blocking their way.

  “Do you think it slides?” she suggested, thinking of the panelled walls of the castle’s entrance.

  He handed her the torch over his shoulder, and then felt around the edge of the wood with his fingers. “It’s been deliberately blocked off.” He placed the palms of his hands against the wood and pushed. As nothing happened he pushed harder, and then used his shoulder. “It may have been bolted into place. Fuck - we’re never going to get out.”

  “Geraint managed to get through.” Why had she said that?

  “Fifteen sodding years ago.” He heaved again at the panel and a gap of about an inch unexpectedly appeared on one side. “You’ll have to help me. I think this is some kind of furniture - a bookcase or a dresser. It’s been put here to deliberately hide the entrance.”

  Or to keep someone imprisoned.

  Sweat was beading his forehead. “Are you claustrophobic?” she asked.

  “No, just extremely pissed off.” He squashed himself into the corner, indicating a very small space beside him for her to stand. “Shut up and push.”

  She stuck her shoulder against the wood. This was so not going to work - but what alternative was there? Back through the crypt and into the well shaft? Where the police were waiting? Would that be such a bad thing? OK, so they’d trampled all over a crime scene but they weren’t criminals. They had nothing to hide.

  Well, she hadn’t.

  Bryn had his shoulder to the wooden panel and was ready to heave against it. He stood directly behind her. His chest was almost, but not quite, touching her back. She could feel his breath, warm on the back of her neck. It gave her a very strange sensation. Almost like -

  “What are you waiting for?” he grumbled.

  Resentfully, she slammed her shoulder against the wooden panel, digging her heels into the stone floor and trying to get a grip, which was damn near impossible in her smooth-soled ballet flats. Bryn was cursing again, this time in English. Maybe the Welsh didn’t have enough swear words?

  Incredibly, the bookcase, or whatever it was, moved a few inches.

  Natalie suddenly remembered which room in the castle had heavy bookcases. “Um … Bryn?”

  He didn’t hear. His eyes were closed and every muscle was straining with effort.

  “Bryn?” she said again, turning around, her fingers lightly touching his chest to get his attention.

  Startled, his eyes flew open. Beautiful green eyes, inches from her own. Whatever she had been about to say, it went straight out of her head on a tidal wave of lust. There was a thick streak of dirt across his cheekbone. Without thinking, she licked he
r thumb and wiped the dirt away. He caught hold of her hand, but then didn’t let go, as though uncertain as to what he should do next.

  “Natalie, I … ” She saw his lips move to form the next word but the sound was drowned out by a massive explosion.

  For a second she thought the roof had collapsed. As his arms moved protectively around her, holding her tight and dragging her back against the wall of the tunnel, she braced herself for the impact and the pain that was to come, assuming each second was her last, and hoping it was. For she had no wish to die in prolonged agony, as poor Geraint must have done, waiting for a rescue that would never come.

  But time moved on and silence settled around them. Natalie opened her eyes. It was still dark. The only light came from the torch which lay on the ground where she’d dropped it. The wooden panel had gone, revealing yet another dark chasm beyond, partly obscured with a thick haze of dust, which was taking time to disperse.

  Bryn lifted her bodily out of the way and scooped up the torch, pointing it through the gap. His hair was almost white with dust, along with much of the rest of him, apart from a large chunk of his chest where he’d held her to protect her from the sharp, splinters of glass, which now littered the floor around them and had become embedded in the thick wool of his sweater.

  He was already shaking them off. “We did it!” he said, turning to give her the biggest grin. “We’ve found the way out!”

  Was he blind? “It’s only another bloody vault.”

  He wasn’t listening. Instead he was clambering over the wrecked remains of a heavy wooden cabinet and into the darkness beyond.

  It was the cabinet which had been blocking the entrance to the tunnel. No wonder they hadn’t been able to shift it. The torch, dimmer now, revealed broken wood amongst the glass and dark-brown liquid pooling on the stone floor. There were same stone walls as the crypt, the same low, arched ceiling; the only difference was a horrible smell, sweet and cloying, like a rotted Christmas pudding.

  “Not the library,” he said.

  Natalie, following him through, recognised the nauseating smell. “It’s a wine cellar … ”