‘I must decline,’ Crowther said shortly. ‘I have no specialist knowledge in the area.’
Askew looked a little deflated, making Harriet pity him, however much she wished him away.
‘This part of the country has spent much of its history largely cut off from the world,’ said Sturgess. His voice was rich and light. Too conscious though, Harriet thought, too aware of itself. ‘Many people in the villages are ready to blame witches and bogles, and light needful fires to try and drive off this haze. Will you not help to educate them?’
‘Would such people attend a meeting at the museum?’ Crowther asked.
Sturgess paused, then said frankly, ‘No, I cannot pretend they would.’
‘Well then.’
‘But perhaps the vicar will attend, then he can share the information with his flock,’ Mr Askew said, in a hopeful tone.
‘You cannot persuade a population out of superstition so easily,’ Crowther said, his tone dismissive. ‘The people here will believe in witches and lucks and any parcel of nonsense till it suits them to think otherwise. Neither the vicar nor myself will convince them.’
‘You think the local legends nonsense?’ Sturgess said.
‘I do,’ Crowther replied, meeting the other man’s eye.
Harriet did not like the tone of the exchange, and gave as warm a smile as she could muster to the two gentlemen, saying, ‘Crowther believes that the Italian earthquakes may be in some way to blame for the dry fog, but he is like all natural philosophers, in that he devotes himself to one problem at a time, and for the moment that problem is this poor wretch. I hope you will excuse us.’
Mr Askew seemed comforted and Harriet could see him planning to offer up this opinion around the village even as the words were leaving her mouth. Mr Sturgess bowed to her again and they returned to the sunlight. Harriet was only relieved that neither of them had thought to ask about the fire.
‘You need not trouble yourself to explain me away, madam.’ Crowther’s mouth was firm set. ‘And I am quite capable of dealing with several trains of thought at one time.’
Harriet folded her arms. ‘I am aware of that, Crowther. But I do not think you need to be so uncivil to strangers. Oh, and as I seem to be scolding you, I shall add that whatever his behaviour this morning, I pitied your nephew last night.’
Crowther looked genuinely surprised at that. ‘Did you? Why?’
‘I do not think you were kind to him.’
‘He has no head for wine. He talked a great deal of nonsense to me at the dinner table after you had withdrawn, including his reflections on the fairer sex, none of which made me think well of him. Then he asked me for money.’
‘Poor Felix. I take it you did not give him any.’
‘No, I did not.’
‘He is handsome — perhaps he will marry money if he cannot afford to wait until he inherits your field of rotting pigs.’
Crowther did not reply but placed his scalpel at the corpse’s neck and began to test the resistance the mummified flesh gave to his blade. His mind had obviously turned back to their late visitors. ‘I do not understand why people feel the necessity of quoting Shakespeare at every turn. Have they no words of their own?’
‘You have few enough, sir,’ Harriet replied as she watched his delicate movements. ‘I admire a talent for quotation.’
‘Parroting great writers is no substitute for understanding them.’ Crowther bent low over the body and sighed. ‘A being of above average height. I suspect we will learn nothing further until the flesh is removed, and even then we may discover nothing. This is not good for my vanity, Mrs Westerman. All we may ever know about this man may be learned by the snuffbox that fell from his pocket and your son’s sharp eyes. Let us remove the clothing.’
To mock his own pride, however gently, was as near to an apology for his irritability as Harriet was ever likely to receive from Crowther. She went to the feet of the corpse and, taking another of Crowther’s knives in her own hand, began to cut free the man’s boots. The leather was tough. When she had split it from the calf to the foot she pulled it, very gently, free and set it down on the table to her side, then did the same to the other. There was a moment as she was pulling the second one free that she was afraid she was in danger of separating the man’s joints.
‘Mrs Westerman, I think we must turn the body.’
‘Very well.’ She stepped next to Crowther and they placed their hands along the man’s side and pulled him towards them. The limbs were awkward, but they managed to turn the body without damage. It was an intimacy with the dead that Harriet did not savour. She moved away and washed her hands as Crowther cut and pulled free the remaining cloth. By the time she turned round again, he had managed to untangle the remains of the cloak, and remove the coat. He was building a small pile of buttons and fastenings to one side.
‘This cloak was once fine quality cloth,’ he said.
‘The boots are also well made.’
He nodded, lifting the coat into the air. ‘A traveller.’ Something fell through the rotted material on to the earthen floor. Harriet bent down to pick it up — a leather purse with a drawstring on it.
Crowther watched as she shook the contents out onto the table. There were a number of shillings and two sovereigns. ‘The motive for this murder was not robbery then,’ he said.
Harriet looked up from the collection of dark coins; she was examining the dates stamped on each. There was one from 1720, three from the 1730s and the youngest of the collection was from 1743. ‘We know so little, and yet you are ready to call it murder?’
‘Why else would the body be concealed?’
She frowned. ‘There might be several reasons. Crowther, have you formulated a theory already about this death? That is unlike you.’
He hesitated. ‘My brother was often in Cumberland in the forties, avoiding his creditors or trying to persuade more money out of our parents. A man who in the end murdered his father for the bills in his pocket might well have killed another to escape a debt. It would be like Adair to kill, and then in his panic forget to search his victim’s pockets for coin.’
Harriet stared at him as he turned again to his instrument case. His voice was utterly cool.
II.3
The views from the Duke of Portland’s launch were impressive even in the haze. Mr Quince was content for Stephen to enjoy them without comment and let his own mind wander. His eye fell on the profile of a young woman seated in the stern, apparently unaccompanied. She was perhaps a little younger than himself, scarcely twenty, yet she held herself very upright. Quince did not see pride in the straightness of her spine, however, only the habit of strict self-control. It interested him and he was inclined to look at her longer than perhaps he should have done. She felt his eyes on her and turned towards him. Her eyes were almost black and set large in a heart-shaped face. Quince was embarrassed to have been caught staring. The wild beauty of the landscape was making him romantic. He turned his attention to where Stephen was engaged in helping the loading of a small cannon on the prow.
Quince thought his charge a sensitive and intelligent boy, but was most impressed by his ability to make friends with whomever came in his way. Even Mr Crowther, who could barely conceal his disdain for his own sister and nephew, was apparently fond of Stephen. It was natural then that in the few minutes that had passed since they began their cruise, Stephen would have become a trusted member of the crew. He was thrusting the charge into the little cannon now under the encouraging eye of one of the oarsmen. Quince was watching him with a smile when he felt a light touch on his sleeve and turned to find the black-eyed beauty leaning towards him.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Her voice had a heavy German accent which gave her English an oddly precise tone. ‘What are we shooting at?’
He felt a sudden pride at being so accosted, quite out of proportion with the honour, and became a little pink. After all, the only other pleasure-seekers in the boat this early in the day were a young couple w
ho sat so close together, and were so involved in each other’s thoughts and exclamations at the scenery, Quince could only assume they were on their marriage tour. He cleared his throat.
‘We will not shoot at anyone, I am glad to say, madam. I understand the gun is to be fired to test the echoes in the valley. They are said to be remarkable. Every shot is heard a number of times around the lake.’
This answer seemed to satisfy the lady and she began to turn from him again. Quince felt a strong desire to prevent her attention slipping away from him.
‘Do you like the scenery, madam?’ he enquired.
She looked about her as if noticing it for the first time. ‘It is very pretty,’ she said in a rather dull voice, and while Quince was struggling for some further remark, his attention was called by Stephen. He had a slow match ready and, once he was sure Mr Quince was watching, he set it to the charge.
The powder in the pan fizzed yellow and red a moment, then the cannon gave a sharp crack and the smell of gunpowder enveloped them. The launch trembled. The crack was followed by answering roars from the hills on each side, as if it had awoken a tribe of giants on the fells. Quince counted seven distinct reports before the sound folded into a low thunderous growl and died away. The men on the boat looked pleased.
‘Peter, mark this spot,’ one said to the other, with a wink. ‘I’ve never heard it go off as well!’
Stephen seemed to take this as a compliment to himself and beamed at the company. The female of the young couple had given a little yelp as the cannon fired. From the German woman there came no sound at all; she only closed her magnificent eyes briefly and Quince saw her fingers tighten on the bench on which she sat.
Preparing the body for the pots was grisly work. Now and again, Harriet would become aware of what she was about and shudder. She wondered about Crowther’s idea that this man was a creditor of his brother’s. It was to a degree plausible. If his brother had been capable of patricide, might he not have committed another murder? Surely that was more likely than two beings who were capable of killing, existing in such a small community as this. But the dates on the coins that pointed so closely to the 1745 rebellion, and the apparent sympathies of the murdered man, troubled her. Could a man marked out for his loyalty to the exiled Lord Greta be also a creditor of Lucius Adair? Wasn’t it more likely that the man had returned to the region because of some business of his master’s, and wouldn’t that business more likely be with Crowther’s father rather than his brother?
She shook her head as if she could in that way settle the questions into some sort of order, then continued with her task. Crowther, she noticed, looked quite cheerful at his work. She thought uncharitably of cannibals. When the pots were cooking at the intensity Crowther thought correct, Harriet found herself keen to leave the building. The odour had become unpleasant almost at once. The moment he pronounced himself satisfied, the pots stewing gently, she removed her apron and walked into the hazy sunshine, breathing deeply. Crowther followed her with a basin of clean water and a towel over his arm like a valet. He set it down on a bench by the door and with a look, invited her to make use of it.
‘It will take some hours before the bones are clean enough for me to examine,’ he said. ‘But the fire is low and may do its work unsupervised.’ She nodded and put her hands in the water, only stepping aside when her skin was pink with scrubbing. She watched him take her place.
‘Crowther, have you ever wondered how different your life might have been had you offered your sister a home with you?’
‘No,’ he said shortly, but as he moved his hands through the water he thought of what a check on his studies and travels taking charge of a young girl would have been. He thought of the lecture rooms of Europe where he had gained his knowledge of anatomy while his sister had learned French and country dances. For ten years his clothing had carried the continual scent of preserving liquid and he doubted she would have liked the smell. The places where he had studied and the things he had learned would have been lost to him, and all for the dubious pleasures of driving fortune-hunters away from his unsympathetic sister. Then something reminded him that Mrs Westerman had given up her own life of travel to provide a home for her orphaned sister. He told himself she also had a son to care for, so the circumstances could not be compared, but as he dried his hands, he said: ‘At least, I had not considered it until now. And I do not think I shall do so again.’
Harriet turned towards the lake. ‘I suppose we must prepare for the afternoon’s entertainment. Let us lock the door and pray no one thinks to enquire what is happening in the brew house while they are enjoying their ices and watching the archery competition.’ She was suddenly startled by the sound of a gunshot, and looked about her as the hills seemed to grow alive with the harsh coughs of repeated explosions. Crowther came up to her and pointed towards a small boat in the centre of the lake. A little grey plume, darker than the general haze, hung over it.
‘They are testing the echoes, Mrs Westerman. No need to be alarmed.’
Stephen was still very pleased with his success with the cannon when they reached the shore again, and chattered away as they disembarked. He distracted Quince to the extent that his tutor hardly knew he had turned to offer his hand to the German beauty and was helping her onto the jetty. He tried to think of a way to introduce himself to her in a gentlemanlike manner, but was pre-empted by the boy, who had already put out his hand to the lady, and was looking up at her with a friendly smile.
‘Good morning! Were not the echoes fine? I am Stephen Westerman, of Caveley in Hartswood, Sussex.’
The woman shook his hand. ‘Then you find yourself far from home, but not as far as I. I am Sophia — Sophia Hurst from Vienna. They were good echoes.’
‘You are German!’ Stephen said.
‘Austrian,’ she corrected him gently.
Quince cleared his throat. ‘Are you walking up into town, madam? May we accompany you?’
She nodded, and as they walked away from the jetty, she was treated to a monologue from Stephen of all he knew of Austria. Quince wondered if he should check the boy, but Fraulein Hurst seemed happy to hear the history of her nation retold to her. Just as he was beginning to think Stephen’s account might be becoming tiresome to even the most forgiving listener, he heard a whistle from the woods along the track and saw the boy’s face break into a smile.
‘Mr Casper!’ Stephen shouted. ‘Did you hear the echoes? Is Joe with you?’
Their strange friend sauntered out of the woods to meet them, a pair of dead rabbits slung over his shoulder. Quince had never seen a man move with such careless ease and watched with admiration. Quince always suspected he was in danger of making himself ridiculous, or had just done so. He was reasonably sure such thoughts had never entered the head of Casper Grace, and envied him. Casper nodded, then pointed into the woods behind him where the jackdaw was visible on the path. The bird was turning rotten leaves over with the same air of sceptical interest that Quince saw on Crowther’s face when he was reading; the jackdaw’s bright blue eye and silver flash on the top of his head made the resemblance only stronger. Casper put his hand in his pocket and took out a fistful of corn.
‘Go offer him that, youngling, and he may speak to you.’
Stephen took the corn from him and stepped forward carefully, intent. Apparently Casper only now became aware of the lady and he hesitated. Quince took charge.
‘Fraulein Hurst, this is Casper Grace.’ Casper looked at her for a long moment and Quince thought he saw an expression of concern cross the man’s face. Then Casper seemed to feel that he had looked too long and blushing, began to stow the rabbits in his shoulder pouch.
‘I am glad to meet you, Casper,’ the lady said in her precise way. He looked pleased and scratched the back of his neck.
‘Saw you, Mr Quince, and the young one on the boat. Thought I’d come and meet you. Wondered if you’d like to go up and see the stones, as if you’ve a mind to be guided, I’ve time.’
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Now Mr Quince’s eyes seemed to shine. ‘The Druidic stones? Oh yes, I should like that very much indeed. I had hoped to see them as we came into town yesterday, but I missed them, I fear. We were thinking of visiting the museum, but no doubt we may do that on the morrow.’
Sophia tilted her head to one side. ‘Druidic? I do not know this word.’
Quince thought her frown delightful. ‘Of the Druids,’ he explained. ‘The ancient religion of the area.’
She nodded. ‘Of course, foolish of me. We have the same word in my language.’
Casper addressed her. ‘You would be welcome to come too, miss. They can be a comfort and help, the stones. Men have spoken there of serious things since time began, and they keep the wisdom, I reckon. If I have a thought needs cracking, it’s where I go.’
Quince turned to her with a formal bow. ‘If you are at liberty, Fraulein, we would be very glad of your company.’
She paused before making her decision, but when she did, she smiled. ‘I thank you. My father, with whom I am travelling, today has business elsewhere. I should be happy to come.’ She took his arm, and Quince wished some of his acquaintance might observe him dressed as a gentleman, with this beautiful woman at his side: they might mistake him for a man of consequence. Stephen approached them again, with Joe perched on his shoulder.
‘I am glad you are coming, Fraulein,’ he said, then tugged on Casper’s sleeve. ‘May I have Joe on my shoulder as we go, Mr Casper?’
‘You may,’ he replied, turning on to the track again, ‘though the lazy beggar could just flap his wings.’
Quince glanced at the Fraulein’s profile, though he saw only in her face a slight glimmer of amusement that gleamed in her eyes like reflections in polished marble.
It was further than Quince had guessed; the path was steep and they went slowly in the heat. The tutor estimated they must have walked some two miles from the lakeshore when Casper let them into a cornfield off the Penrith road and he saw the Druidic stones for the first time. He held his breath. They were arranged in a slightly elongated circle some thirty yards in diameter, perhaps fifty hulks of grey granite of varying size. Casper led them between two individuals which seemed to form a sort of gate and into the centre, then watched them as they took in the sight. The ground where the stones had been set was on the top of a smooth rise, and the field around them gently curved like the backbone of a cat that wishes to be stroked. The lake itself was hidden from them; instead they seemed to be at the centre of a wide amphitheatre of hills that hid the horizon like piles of crumpled linen. There were fields and farms visible at their bases, then they climbed and tumbled over each other till they disappeared into the haze of the sky. Behind them Skiddaw slept, softer seen from here. Mr Quince thought of ancient peoples gathering in this place, and wondered if they had lit grand fires between the stones, and what was consumed in their flames, what prayers made, what bargains struck with their gods and each other.
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