Island of Bones caw-3

by Imogen Robertson

  ‘My goodness! Hail!’ he said, then sneezed.

  The air seemed to chill around them with such rapidity Harriet felt as if she had fallen out of a glasshouse and into an ice cellar. All around them, the crowd had begun to move. Mrs Briggs yelped as a hailstone the size of Stephen’s fist landed on their table and rolled to the ground.

  ‘Mr Quince, if you will give Mrs Briggs your arm, perhaps we should return to the carriage. Stephen! Come here, please.’ As the boy hurried towards her there was a crack and roar that made Harriet start and turn to the lake. A blast of lightning coated the water in white light that made her eyes hurt and she froze, stupefied by the image of the lakes and hills so suddenly revealed in all their folded outlines, then hidden again. She felt Stephen’s hand slip into her own and squeeze it. The touch woke her and she turned to hurry after Mrs Briggs and Mr Quince.

  The hailstones were falling faster now, and as she went towards the carriage as quickly as she could manage in her long skirts, Harriet could hear them rattling the crockery through the exclamations of the crowd. The coachman, Ham, was waiting for them, and managed to get them onto the road before the great press of people clogged it solid. Harriet turned and in repeated flashes of light saw, like a series of engravings, scenes of the breaking-up of the party: the musicians struggling to protect their instruments, the men and women scattering to the protection of the trees, chairs and tables overturned. As the carriage drew them out of sight, the hard rattle of the hail on the roof ceased and for a moment there was silence from the sky. Then the rain began to thunder down, slapping its palms on the roof like judgement, and lightning cracked the sky wide open again. Stephen pressed himself to his mother’s side, watching the world appear and disappear beyond the window.

  Mr Quince was shivering when they returned to the Hall and was sent to bed just as firmly as Stephen was, though he was encouraged to take a large glass of brandy with him. Harriet said goodnight to her hostess, and with her mind still flashing with gunpowder, made her way upstairs.

  She entered her sitting room just as another sheet of lightning rattled the glass — and in the sudden whitening she saw Crowther seated in one of the armchairs facing her. She started and put her hand to her chest.

  ‘Good God! That was like something from The Castle of Otranto,’ she said. ‘I shall expect to be kidnapped by faceless monks at any moment.’

  The rain beat steadily at the windows and she saw Crowther smile in the candlelight. He was holding a single sheet of paper in his hands.

  ‘I am sorry to alarm you, Mrs Westerman. It was an unfortunately timed strike.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She took her seat opposite him. ‘I would not miss the excitement for all the world. I need fear no bogle or ghost if I can stand the sight of you revealed by lightning without a scream.’

  He frowned a little, which amused Harriet, and passed her the note he held. He had his pride, this strange friend of hers, and it pleased her to tease him from time to time. She unfolded the piece of paper and her smile faded quickly.

  Master Charles,

  The man came looking for something and found your father. I saw them leave together for the Island of Bones. The man never came back. I grieve that you find more blood in your history.

  Charlotte Tyers

  ‘Who, Crowther, is Charlotte Tyers?’

  Crowther tented his fingers together. ‘The housekeeper here in my father’s time. She must be in her eighties now, and has a cottage in Portinscale.’

  ‘And do you understand this note?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, other than “Island of Bones”, which is how many of the local people refer to Saint Herbert’s Island because of the tombs in the old chapel. But I am sure you have guessed this for yourself. I think we should pay Mrs Tyers a visit tomorrow, don’t you agree?’ A gust of wind threw another handful of rain against the window. ‘Unless we have all been swept to the bottom of the lake by then. The man was stabbed through the heart, I believe.’

  ‘And this note suggests it was your father, not your brother, who struck the blow.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Indeed it does, Mrs Westerman. It is curious, I have remembered. .’ The thunder rolled round the house again, and he stood up. ‘But no more gothic tales tonight. Even my imagination may be enlivened to a dangerous degree. I will see you in the morning, Mrs Westerman.’ And with that he disappeared into the darkness again.

  From the collection of Mr Askew, Keswick Museum

  Letter to The Gentleman’s Magazine, July 1752

  Mr Urban,

  As one of your correspondents expressed themselves curious as to the life and character of the late Sir William Penhaligon, 1st Baron of Keswick, and as none of his remaining family has come forward to furnish those details, I send to you these notes and observations on the history of this unfortunate gentleman, and while one may not presume to probe the secrets of another mind, they may be relied on as the witness of a near neighbour of many years’ acquaintance.

  Sir William was born in 1683, the only surviving son of a baronet who had more pride in his position in society, and a greater love of show than his property could bear. I have heard Sir William remark more than once, that the very spoons and knives in his father’s house were found to be mortgaged on his parent’s death. There was little that could be saved from the estate, but what remained included a small house on the banks of Derwent Water called Silverside, perhaps preserved because Sir William’s father had all but forgotten it. Sir William took up residence there in 1712, and for some time busied himself with a study of the minerals of the area, and made an attempt to repair his fortunes by severe retrenchment. This gentlemanly scholarship became the well-spring of all Sir William’s fortunes. He was often out on the hills, and told his neighbours he witnessed in 1715 the last Lord Greta make his preparations to ride out from Gutherscale Hall to rebellion, ignominy and exile. Some little while after Greta and his family left these shores for ever, Sir William was able after years of stringent economy to buy from the government a small piece of land on which he discovered the last copper deposits in the area. His cottage was rebuilt as Silverside Hall and was ready to receive his bride, the Honourable Julia O’Brien, in 1724. His charming wife was an ornament to the area, he was made a proud father two years later, and all his enterprises seemed blessed.

  How unlucky, however, is the man who outlives his most successful and happy years! In ’44 Sir William purchased the land on which stood Gutherscale Hall itself, and convinced he was now the true inheritor of the lands of the ancient Greta line, declared he would take his family to that ancient Hall and make it their own. However, the tragic fire of ’45 which rendered that great house a ruin, intervened, and Sir William’s frustration was extreme. Not even the title of Lord Keswick could mitigate his disappointment. Nor were his family able to lighten his burden. His eldest son began to develop an unsavoury reputation as a gamer and libertine, and his younger brother was thought of as an awkward and eccentric child. His lovely wife, Lady Julia, began to spend more time in Town, and after her death, Lord Keswick became a complete recluse, his solitude alleviated only by the presence of his young daughter till she too left his once-happy home for her schooling. His death at the hand of his eldest and favourite son made a tragic finale to his history. One can only hope that in his last moments he was ignorant of whose hand had dealt the fatal blow. His second son sold the estate entire to a Mr Briggs and now is thought to travel incognito on the continent. His daughter has made a home with her mother’s relatives in Ireland. Thus we see that though ambition can make a man, it can also poison our happiness with frustration at the last.

  Yours c W. L.

  PART III

  III.1

  Thursday, 17 July 1783

  At some point in the night the storm ceased as abruptly as it had started. When Harriet awoke to the light rap of the maid on her door she felt a lightness, expecting that the storm must have broken the heat of the weather, and the day would
content itself now with a more pleasant temperature.

  ‘Good morning, Miriam,’ she said, pulling herself up onto her elbow. ‘You have learned I am an early riser then.’

  The maid set a cup of tea by Harriet’s bed and began to tidy the room. ‘That didn’t take long, madam. I shan’t go to any of the others for a while yet, but I thought I might take the chance you were wakeful. It’s still hot and close, madam. The lawns are steaming.’ She folded Harriet’s stockings over her arm and smoothed them. ‘I did glance in at poor Mr Quince. He’s sleeping, but I didn’t like the look of him.’

  Harriet sat up and put her hand to her forehead. ‘I shall look in on him directly. I should not have encouraged him to go to the fireworks after that soaking.’

  Miriam shrugged, and unhooking Harriet’s dressing gown from the back of the closet door, she brought it over to her. ‘You weren’t to know, madam.’

  Harriet slipped it over her shoulders, enjoying the brief coolness of the fabric. ‘Did the storm cause much damage?’

  ‘Not to us. Hail broke a couple of panes of glass in town, and the butcher’s boy had a job of it to make it up to us this morning, the path was so covered in branches torn down. Though, he had such a story!’ The girl paused, looking at Harriet uncertainly.

  ‘Do tell me, Miriam.’

  The maid perched briefly on the edge of the bed. ‘Seems the Black Pig was broken into last evening. Looks like mischief mostly. Tom and his wife were shut into their room, but that’s where they keep the money, under their bed, so there’s luck, but furniture was thrown about, and all the pewter from the mantel chucked to the floor. Lucky for them the storm was so lively, or Tom would have heard them and been down there with his cudgel! They didn’t know a thing of it until daybreak and they found their door jammed. Tom had to climb out of the back window.’ She suddenly became conscious of her seat on Harriet’s bed, and stood quickly. ‘But I must be off, Mrs Westerman.’

  ‘One moment, Miriam.’ Harriet held up her hand. ‘How many servants are there at Silverside?’

  The maid paused at the door. ‘Nine in the house, madam. But if you are wondering who put that note under Mr Crowther’s door yesterday, it was me. Charlotte Tyers is my godmother. She placed the paper in my hand and asked me to get it to the baron quietly, and so I did. Do you need any help to dress?’ Harriet shook her head. ‘Then I’ll wish you good morning, madam.’

  Crowther was not, by inclination, an early riser. From his youth he had felt most comfortable in the hours of darkness, letting his mind wander undisturbed among its own peculiar pathways of experience and observation, with no other guide than the silence of his work room and the flutter of candlelight. It was a habit his few friends knew well. One evening earlier in the year Crowther had been walking with Mrs Westerman in the walled garden behind her house at Caveley. He had been explaining to her some detail of his work as the evening began to fold around them, when he had noticed her smiling in the gloom. Suspecting her attention had wandered away from the topic under discussion he had asked her, rather sharply, what she was grinning at.

  She had plucked a fragile-looking bloom from a pale-green climbing plant on the wall behind her and handed it to him. Around a yellow eye its white petals were open like a pin-wheel and its scent was delicate.

  ‘Night-flowering Jasmine, Crowther,’ she said. ‘I happened to notice it while you were speaking. During the day it is tight closed, then when it grows dark it begins to bloom, as you do.’ She moved on along the gravel. ‘As far as you are able.’

  Crowther had made no reply, but placed the flower in his waistcoat pocket and the conversation had drifted on its own way. Later that night though, as he prepared his work back in the shades of his own establishment, he had found the flower again, and placed it in the drawer of his desk amongst his papers before he opened his notebook and picked up his pen.

  He was prepared therefore for Mrs Westerman’s surprise when, on the morning after the firework display, he ventured into the gardens to find her before breakfast. Harriet was sitting on a low wrought-iron bench which offered a fine prospect over the lake, reading a letter. The tables and chairs from the entertainment had been cleared away to leave the view uninterrupted once more. As Crowther’s footsteps shifted the gravel, she looked over to him, and after raising her eyebrows and rather pointedly consulting her pocket-watch as he approached, her smile faded and a look of concern crossed her face. He realised he probably looked as tired and sick of his own thoughts as he felt. He took a seat beside her and for a moment watched the flat mirror of the lake, the cultivated shore opposite and the fierce crags of stone rising above them, holding the water and people below it in their appointed places. It was a view his father had spent many hours admiring, contemplating the land he had made his own, the land Crowther had sold as quickly as he might.

  Crowther had never been fond of his father. From his childhood Sir William Penhaligon had appeared a dangerous, unpredictable being, best avoided. Crowther had never learned how to please him, realised his father thought him a strange, alien being in his home. They shared no interests, and it seemed at times they hardly shared the same language. Crowther recognised that his father must have had some abilities; after all, Sir William had been born a baronet with nothing but debt to polish his title with, but died a rich man and Lord Keswick. That indicated he had both political and financial skills; however, to Crowther he had appeared nothing but a bully.

  When Crowther was much of the age of Stephen Westerman, his father had decided over breakfast that he would teach his younger son to swim. Crowther had tried to run away, but was not quick enough for his father or his father’s servant Ruben Grace. He had been carried to the lake struggling and biting, then bundled into the rowing boat kept tied up at the landing-stage on the edge of the water. Sir William had pulled on the oars till they were some thirty yards from the shore, then ordered his servant to throw his son into the water. Crowther could still remember his own protests, the sense of powerlessness then the grasping cold as he was cast into the lake. The shock of it had stopped his tears at once.

  Looking down from their comfortable seat at the wooded islands of Derwent Water more than forty years later, Crowther could see quite clearly the image of the two men in the rowboat. His father’s face red and fleshy, his white full-bottomed wig, the splay of his coat-tails, and Ruben, his thick shoulders, his brown hands. They were watching him, implacable as effigies as he spat out the icy lake and trod water.

  Crowther had known well enough how to keep his head above the surface. And now instead of the chill of the lake, he felt angry. His fear had left him. His father had slapped his fat thigh.

  ‘Good, Charles. Keep your head and you’ll live through most things. Now swim to me and we shall take you in again.’ Crowther could still taste the mix of lakewater, rage and disgust, could still see the hooded eyes of his father as he stretched out a hand.

  Crowther had not swum towards him, but rather turned in the water and struck out for the bank at the north edge of his father’s property, certain he would rather drown than get back in the boat. He did not hear the squeak and clunk of the oars in the rowlocks as Sir William and Ruben had given up observing him and instead headed back for the landing-stage.

  Crowther had stayed away from the house as long as the cold would let him, then returned by the kitchen door. The housekeeper, Lottie Tyers, who was kinder to him than most, had sat him in front of her fire and fed him, sending a maid to Lady Penhaligon to assure her she still had two sons, but said nothing to him. Crowther had watched the flames in the range until his pale skin began to warm in silence. The incident was never mentioned again.

  Crowther realised that Harriet was still watching him quietly.

  ‘My thoughts are as gothic this morning as they were in the storm, I fear. There were indications on the bones of a blade strike near the heart. There is a corresponding hole in the waistcoat of the corpse.’ Crowther placed his cane on the gravel in front of
them, and folded his hands over it.

  ‘You said as much last night. There is something more?’

  He nodded. ‘When I first inherited this cane from my father, it was a swordstick. The blade was broken.’ He felt rather than heard Harriet’s reaction. ‘I do not know what, if anything, we might find on the Island of Bones after so many years, Mrs Westerman, but I should be glad to go and examine the place at once if you are willing. Then later I shall pay a call on Lottie Tyers.’

  She was quiet a moment before speaking. ‘I see. Thank you for not waving the broken blade at me during the thunderstorm.’

  ‘I would have done, were it still in my possession. You will accompany me to the Island then?’

  ‘Naturally, but first another matter. Mr Quince is ill. He was shivering as he went to his bed last night and this morning is feverish. I have asked that the local physician be consulted. Do you though have any advice?’

  He smiled slightly. ‘You know my subjects are dead, as a rule.’

  ‘Nevertheless. .’

  ‘Do not let the physician bleed him. It is as superstitious a practice as witchcraft, and often, I believe, more harmful. Mrs Briggs seems a sensible woman. I would trust in her and her people. What of your son?’

  She stood; she was wearing her riding dress of dark green, and smoothed its folds around her. ‘He has disappeared into the hills as his tutor is ill. I understand he intends to hunt for treasure. He shall be safe, don’t you think?’

  ‘Tell him to avoid the old mines. These hills are honeycombed with them, and they can be dangerous.’

  ‘They sound just the place for treasure.’

  Crowther let his eyes drift towards the wooded banks above him. ‘Mention I have said they are also just the place for bogles.’

  Harriet smiled. ‘I shall tell him so.’ They heard the crunch of gravel under wheels, and she turned to see a man in a black suit with an old-fashioned wig emerge from the carriage. ‘Let us see what the physician has to say. I would be glad if you can attend and look severe when he examines Mr Quince. Then I am at your disposal.’