Island of Bones caw-3

by Imogen Robertson

  Harriet frowned. ‘You think Mr Sturgess a hypocrite?’

  Miss Scales glanced over towards her father’s study rather guiltily. ‘I should make no such charge, but it burns me a little. When Sturgess first arrived in Keswick he sought Casper out! He was in the grips of his fascination with the local history even then, and spoke most respectfully to him in order to find out what he could. That was before he tried to excavate at the stone circle, of course. I believe that when he found he could not ride roughshod over the people in such a matter, it decided him to buy his way into the role of magistrate. Then when he became magistrate and found the people were still as likely to go to Casper as to him for redress against their neighbours he cast himself as a warrior of reason and has sought to condemn him at every turn. Pride. The people of these villages are as good or bad as any, but their respect must be earned. Mr Sturgess seems to think that respect should be his by rights.’

  ‘So you do believe Casper is innocent of this killing?’

  ‘Yes,’ Miss Scales said simply.

  Harriet hesitated. ‘There was mistletoe in the man’s pockets.’

  ‘No doubt Casper put it there, to protect the man’s spirit and stop it wandering.’

  Harriet shook her head. ‘This mix of pagan and Christian confuses me, Miss Scales. I cannot understand it.’

  ‘Dear Mrs Westerman, do not even try! Just know this: belief in these old ways, braided as they are with Christian teachings, lie deep in these hills. And belief makes things powerful, very powerful, and we would all do well to respect that. Do not understand it. Respect it. That is all.’

  It didn’t take Casper long to find the place where Agnes had reburied the poppet. There was a spot between the roots of a rowan where the earth had been turned. He scraped the loose stuff away until he could see the pale straw figure wrapped in rowan leaves and berries. He lifted it out. It was neatly made. Agnes had set harebells in its face as eyes, the same blue as Stella’s. Clumps of raw dark wool had been worked into the straw for hair and it was wearing a folded blue handkerchief as a dress. It had been washed as he instructed, and he could see no trace of blood on it now. He pulled the handkerchief loose and a handful of leaves fell from it. Henbane and rue. He could feel the power on it. He would burn it on his own fire among healing herbs. Agnes would need guiding, but she would be powerful indeed in time.

  Blanche Grice was eavesdropping in his mind. ‘Shame she’s lost then, isn’t it? Shame you most likely went and dropped her in a hole.’

  He ignored her, and looked about him. The sudden rain of last night had caused a dozen little riverlets to run, but the earth in which the poppet had been buried was still dust dry, so she had been here before the waters came. He tried to think about the beating. He was sure that the storm had come while they were still at work on him. Yes, it had scared them. There had been a pause, a consultation with another man, then they had dropped him and gone into his cabin. He looked about him again. He had told Agnes to wait here till dawn. Where would she have hidden when the rain came? He turned round slowly. Perhaps she had gone higher first to try and get sight of the fireworks, though missing them was supposed to be part of her penance. He walked up the slope away from the trees then looked towards the lake, then back down the way he had come. He could see the three cabins that made up his summer home.

  Blanche Grice had started to sing. She made Joe sound like an angel, but Casper smiled. She did that when she wanted to stop him thinking on something. He went back into his memory of the night before, felt the blow to his ribs, the taste of his own blood in his mouth. In the rain, when they seemed to have it in mind to start in on him again, a shape had come through the woods. He had heard a call, then another blow across his head had made him stupid. The next memory he could find was the heat of morning and Stephen’s voice calling him.

  ‘I did her no harm,’ he said aloud. ‘She came to my aid.’

  The witch gave up singing now that the memory had come back to him. ‘Where is she then?’ she said, sulky and slippery.

  ‘I shall find her.’

  He turned back towards his camp, his fire and his duties.

  Mrs Briggs was nothing but welcoming when Harriet arrived in the drawing room finally dressed for dinner, full of apologies and half an hour late.

  ‘No, Mrs Westerman, you have done quite the right thing.’ She said this with a significant glance at the Vizegrafin and Harriet realised that the town’s display of displeasure with Mrs Briggs’s uncomfortable guests had given her courage. ‘You and I shall speak of all these matters after we have dined, I hope. In the meantime I shall say only I am glad that you are here to aid us in these difficult times. Cook is quite happy to hold dinner for such an insignificant time when you are doing so much for us.’

  Harriet thought briefly how pleasant the world would be, were more people in it like Mrs Briggs, and they went into dinner.

  ‘How did Miss Hurst take the news?’ Felix asked, after they had been seated some time.

  ‘Calmly,’ Harriet replied. The thought of the girl being insulted and turned away by the Vizegrafin, then Felix’s refusal to deliver word to Sophia himself made her angry. Felix deserved no news about her. She thought of the flat empty voice in which Miss Hurst had told her of her past; it made her hate all men and Felix in particular.

  ‘Did you know, Felix, that Miss Hurst left the convent in which she had spent most of her life only six months ago, since when her father tried to prostitute her to the men he had gulled into playing cards with him?’ She put some of the game pie onto her plate. ‘She had to fight, and was beaten for her resistance.’

  Harriet felt the movement of one of the footmen behind her, and her glass was filled. She cursed inwardly. She had, in her anger, forgotten about the presence of the servants, and here was Mrs Briggs’s footman in the most subtle of ways reminding her of it himself.

  ‘I did not,’ Felix said. For a moment he sounded almost like Crowther.

  Mrs Briggs began to talk about the danger of chills with a certain determination, and went on to say how glad she was Stephen had fetched a brew from Casper.

  The Vizegrafin was largely silent, till waving away the joint that Mrs Briggs was offering her, she looked at Harriet and demanded, ‘Where is my brother? Is he cutting up the Austrian?’

  Harriet wet her lips slightly. ‘He wished to visit your old housekeeper, then I believe it was his intention to call on Mr Askew.’

  ‘What — Lottie Tyers?’ The Vizegrafin shuddered. ‘I can’t believe that old woman is still living; she seemed ancient when I was a child.’

  Mrs Briggs put down the joint. ‘I told you of her on the first day you arrived, Vizegrafin,’ she said very precisely. ‘I thought you might wish to see a woman so intimately associated with your childhood.’

  The Vizegrafin shrugged. ‘She was a servant.’

  The rest of the meal passed in silence.

  Mr Askew was never absolutely punctual about the hour his museum closed. He lived in fear of shutting his door just as some member of the quality, whose name could add further lustre to his visitors’ book, might be pondering a visit. At around a quarter to the hour advertised of five o’clock he would generally appear in the square, looking up and down the street for any ladies or gentlemen who seemed to be at leisure to let them know his museum was still at their disposal, and in their absence he mourned the looks of his town. He could not help feeling that most of the houses which surrounded his museum looked hunched and low. He wished he could white-wash the whole settlement. The same thought came into his mind every night as the clock-chimes faded, regular as the bells. Only some minutes after the hour had struck would he, with a last look about him and a sigh, confess that he had had all the custom likely in the day, and return to his front door with slow steps and draw it closed. Such were his actions now.

  He had his hand on the door when he saw a movement in the shadows of the alley opposite and saw Mr Crowther emerging from the gloom. He started. Th
e man unnerved him at the best of times, and he had seen nothing in Crowther’s behaviour to suggest to him they were likely to become friendly. His manners were cold to the point of incivility. Mrs Westerman seemed a pleasant enough woman; she had praised his fireworks. He had mentioned the fact in his paragraph about the event for the London papers, hoping that the mention of her name and the account of the storm might make the gentlemen in the capital think it worthwhile to set his letter in type. Mr Askew paid her the compliment in his mind of being certain that she would never of her own volition become involved with the sordid business of murder, and was privately convinced Crowther must have some dark power over her to force her to aid him in his investigations. If she had appeared on his doorstep in this way, he would have known what to say, and how to say it. With Mr Crowther before him, Mr Askew felt his tongue stick in his mouth.

  ‘May I see your museum, Mr Askew?’ Crowther said. Askew opened the door and bowed him in, though the skin on the back of his neck prickled and, given the choice, he would rather have welcomed a devil into his living room. He turned the key in the door behind them, then turned to watch Crowther as he examined the displays. He felt his usual enthusiasm for his little establishment wither like cut grass. He watched Crowther move his gaze from the case of minerals, to the examples of stuffed birds, to the portrait of the Luck, and saw only shabby, provincial attempts at science, at art. He dropped his gaze to the floor, and the dusty toes of his own boots, unwilling any more to see his museum suffer under that cold regard.

  ‘Mr Askew?’

  He looked up like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘Where are the materials relating to my father’s murder?’

  It seemed to Mr Askew that he had tied his cravat with too much enthusiasm this morning, though he had not noticed the pressure on his throat before now.

  ‘Materials?’

  Crowther pointed his stick to the alcove where an unfortunate stuffed fox mouldered.

  ‘There. I see the engravings and notes you have assembled on the unfortunate history of Lord Greta. If I were in your trade I would relate the misery of his successor to these lands about there. Instead I see areas where I can tell by the brightness of the paint that certain items have been removed, and an example of vulpes vulpes that does no credit to the museum, the art of the taxidermist, or the works of nature herself. So I ask again, where are the materials relating to my father’s murder?’

  Mr Askew swallowed. ‘Small display, merely the facts, my lord, tasteful. . Taken down at your sister’s request.’

  ‘You have them here, however?’ Mr Askew nodded and pointed mutely in the direction of his office. ‘May I examine them, Mr Askew, if that would not inconvenience you?’

  The civility of the question brightened Mr Askew considerably. He bustled towards the office door and unlocked it with his usual buoyant stride and then invited Mr Crowther to sit in his own chair, at his own table, before leaning into the press and dragging out a packing case in which any number of papers seemed to have been crammed in haste. It occurred to him that the murder of Mr Hurst might not do as much damage to his trade as he had feared. If Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman happened to discover the killer, perhaps the loss of Mr Hurst would not be much of a loss at all, especially if they found that some mysterious foreigner had been responsible. That would be an excellent outcome. Their names would be even more closely linked with the area, and he was in a perfect position to describe events for the press. Perhaps even write a little book on their investigation, to be sold exclusively in the museum. He was aware that people enjoyed reading about such things.

  ‘As you see, sir,’ he said, pulling a framed engraving free, ‘here is our portrait of your father, and one of your brother. It was their marks you noticed on the wall.’ He placed them on the blotter in front of Crowther, and was about to place his other papers over them when Crowther held up his hand. He was staring at the two portraits with steady concentration.

  After a significant pause, Crowther let his hand drop. ‘They are faithful likenesses,’ he said, then looking up again added, ‘What else have you there, Mr Askew?’ Askew put down the volume that was in his hand delicately on top of the 1st Baron’s portrait. Crowther examined the first page. A collection of the most remarkable and interesting trials with the defence and behaviour of the criminals before and after condemnation. Mr Askew coughed slightly, then turned the pages till he reached the relevant section. The words swam rather in front of Crowther’s eyes. Mr Askew, however, was beginning to brighten. Mr Crowther had not come to insult him, or his museum. Indeed, he seemed to be seeking his help. Mr Askew was glad to offer it. Mr Askew only wished he could do more. Mr Askew began to say so.

  ‘I think it vital that little establishments such as my own gather together materials relating to the history, the geography and the personalities in a place such as this. I am sure many guineas have been spread around this town because of our humble display on the Luck of Gutherscale Hall, for instance, which perhaps you noticed; and to those whose interest is more scholarly, we may offer materials to aid them in their own researches. Again I mention our display on the Luck. Mr Sturgess is an enthusiast for the legends of this area and has read every reference I could gather on the fall of Lord Greta.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Oh yes. For an out-comer he has gathered a quantity of information. Indeed, I hope his business will allow him to visit me soon, as I have just taken possession of a rather good likeness of the last Lord Greta, superior to that already in my museum and am keen to share it with him.’ He delved back into the press and emerged with a neatly rolled paper which he unravelled and held aloft.

  Crowther glanced up briefly. ‘Very fine.’

  ‘I am so glad you agree, sir. Yes, this likeness was taken in Lord Greta’s last years in exile in France. They say he was quite poor by that time, though of course the artist has still discovered that aristocratic nature which remained to the last. A fine eye for detail is what an artist requires. . How very strange!’

  ‘What is strange?’ Crowther asked, without looking up.

  ‘Oh, nothing — nothing at all,’ Askew said hurriedly. ‘Have you found anything of interest in the volume, my lord?’

  Crowther lifted it by one corner. ‘May I take it away with me, Mr Askew? I shall return it tomorrow.’ Mr Askew bowed his consent and Crowther slipped the book into his coat-pocket and stood. Mr Askew watched him; he was staring again at the portraits of his father and brother, but Askew could see no sign of great emotion on his face, only those of quiet study. Then Crowther nodded once, as if to his own thoughts, and with a final bow left the room and the museum to its proprietor’s sole care.

  She had been too late to see Stephen before dinner. The extent of Harriet’s information came from Miriam. Her son had been at home for the greater part of the afternoon and had been working at whatever tasks Mr Quince had been fit enough to give him. She had sent word that she looked forward to seeing him in the evening, but by the time she had said all she thought proper to Mrs Briggs, the sky had finally grown dark. She approached her son’s room on tiptoe. His papers were arranged neatly on the desk of the little room between Mr Quince’s closet and his own. She looked at them idly, grateful for the peace. There were phrases in Latin on one sheet, in Greek on another, and rows of calculations on the next. Her own education had been a patchwork of occasional tutors and she had been encouraged to spend more time on needlework than mathematics. She sighed now, thinking of it; she would have made fewer mistakes in her first seasons at Caveley if the rows of figures in the account books had not been such a mystery at first, but at least she had not disgraced herself at the country dances. No doubt the local gentry would have been happier if she had limited herself to quadrilles. There was money enough to hire a steward now, but she had grown to enjoy feeling the condition of her home and lands through those estate books, and they had become almost friends in the months of her wido
whood. Another eccentricity for her neighbours to puzzle over. Though she would never be able to keep her papers as neat as her son did. It was the habit of a sailor’s son.

  The door to his room was slightly ajar; she crossed to it and pushed it open gently so the light of her candle spilled over Stephen’s bed. He lay very still, and for a few moments she did no more than watch him. His face was turned away, but she could see the gentle rise and fall of his breath under the sheets. She bit her lip, and told herself now was not the time to talk to him of serious matters. They would keep until morning, but if she turned away for her own sake or his she could not say. She did not know that Stephen’s eyes were wide open in the dark.

  Crowther began his walk back to Silverside Hall thinking of the portraits. He knew the original paintings. His sister had taken them from the house, and still had them, he supposed, in her possession. He had seen neither face since 1751. They looked better men in the pictures than in his memory. It was only with great effort that he could conjure any image of his brother other than in the cell in the Tower the night before his execution. With a painful clarity he could see Adair on his knees and weeping. He tried to think calmly of the body on the Island and consider Harriet’s suggestions. Had his father been afraid of something before he died? Had the dead Jacobite come to haunt him in some way?

  Slowly, the story his brother had told him began to seem plausible, when before it had seemed ridiculous. The man paying him for a moment alone with his father. Adair arranging to talk to his father away from the house, then sending the other man in his stead. Becoming concerned when his father did not return. Discovering his body, pulling out the knife and stumbling back to Silverside half-mad with guilt and grief.