Island of Bones caw-3

by Imogen Robertson

  He got to his feet in one fluid movement and walked quickly away without waiting for an answer, carrying off his anger before it spilled all over her.

  The reception of the party from Silverside was all but passionate. Harriet and Mr Quince found friends on all sides and were ushered to their seats like royalty. Harriet tried to ignore the sight of money changing hands between some of the men, and simply enjoy the warmth. Every word Mr Quince managed to utter was treated as gospel and his occasional attempts at a witticism were greeted with such gales of refined laughter one expected to see a duke in the centre of all this attention rather than a humble tutor. Mrs Briggs and Harriet shone contentedly in his reflected glory and found themselves feted as his supporters and friends.

  In spite of the assiduity of their welcome, Harriet was still able to see enough of the reception Felix and the Vizegrafin received to note it contrasted most markedly with their own. It seemed that the populace of Keswick were suddenly overcome with a terrible clumsiness whenever they came close to Felix. His elbow was jogged repeatedly. He received apologies ranging from the curt to the satirically effusive. Harriet noted his smile becoming rather tight. The Vizegrafin was finding that men and women who a few hours before had found her fascinating were now passing her by with hardly a nod, and those that were forced by the press of people into conversation with her, seemed to be continually finding something far more interesting to look at over her shoulder. Harriet was glad to see them seated at last, and relieved that Felix made his way back from the refreshment table with glasses for himself and his mother only a little lessened by one or two unfortunate spillages.

  Harriet had found herself in crowds that seemed to disapprove of her too often to take great pleasure in this treatment of the Vizegrafin and her son, but she did take a certain pride in the way her countrymen adopted so wholeheartedly the cause of the underdog. She was not surprised to find that, by the time the crowd’s attention was drawn to the north shore of Vicar’s Island where the fireworks were to be let off, the seats of the Vizegrafin and her son were empty.

  Mr Askew, having made sure the more popular members of the Silverside party were comfortable, looked around him with satisfaction. It was a profitable arrangement for him, and he hoped an easy one for his guests. A great number of tables and chairs, rented from every inn in Keswick, had been placed in the area and he had sat at each one to make sure they would provide a noble view of Vicar’s Island. He had paced that shore a dozen times with the gentleman who was providing the fireworks to check that all was well, and was assured it was a perfect spot. He had supervised the placing of the torches and seen them stamped firmly into the ground. Mr Askew had also arranged for a collection of passable musicians, hired from Cockermouth, to provide an accompaniment to the display. As the party from Silverside arrived they were already sawing away at old Handel with all of the delicacy and less of the artistry than the fellers of the oaks of Crow Park had displayed some forty years before. However, the gentry Mr Askew had gathered together seemed to be happy enough with the performance and he found, in the moments he had between greeting newcomers and shooing away local boys from the supper table, great pleasure in composing in his mind a description of the scene for the Westmorland Paquet.

  Stephen, having spent over a year with only his country neighbours for society, was as pleased by the company as he could have been at Versailles. He realised everyone was being kind to Mr Quince, and enjoyed the fact that the good humour spilled over onto himself. He was perhaps patted on the head too often, but two men had already given him shillings and for that, he felt, they could pet him like a toy poodle if they wished. He saw beautiful powdered women about him, and men in tight coats, decorated with enamelled fobs and jewels. It seemed to him a scene of splendour.

  Harriet, her memories of polished London society rather more accurate, saw in the company the simple manners and dress of a provincial crowd, but was pleased to be among them. She had found the brittle brilliance of the capital trying when she was last in Town, though that might have been an effect of her preoccupations whilst there. Here, by the still-darkening shores of the lake, she was disposed to see in every face honesty and prosperity earned, rather than inherited. She knew she was surrounded by a few minor nobility, but the bulk of the crowd behind Mr Askew’s velvet ropes were professional men and their families, traders and farm-owners. She felt, as the wife of a self-made man, that she knew them and their concerns, and was at ease, particularly after Crowther’s sister and nephew removed themselves. It must be bitter for them, so used to ballrooms crammed with ducal crowns, to be snubbed by lawyers and shopkeepers.

  She smiled and let her eyes pick out one character from the crowd, then another: the man with the large wig must be a lawyer, the lady who watched from behind her fan and frowned as he refilled his glass at the punch bowl again, his wife. It was possible she had been introduced to them at Silverside. The red-faced man with large hands who shifted awkwardly from foot to foot was a farmer and surely only one generation away from earth floors, so still not sure in his blood of how to conduct himself at this level of society. She was pondering the fine distinctions made in her country and the silk-like strength of polite conventions when she noticed Mr Quince stiffen at her side, and turned to see what had caught his attention. There was a very beautiful dark-haired girl standing just beyond the ropes — looking, it seemed from her attitude, for someone in the crowd.

  ‘Do you know that lady, Mr Quince?’

  ‘Stephen and I met her today. She accompanied us to the Druidic stones,’ he said, still watching her.

  ‘She seems to be looking for someone, don’t you think? Please, do go and offer your assistance. I am quite content here.’

  Mr Quince stood at once and bowed to her before making his way through the throng to the place where the lady was. Harriet watched as he addressed her. The woman’s first look was of recognition, then as Mr Quince spoke, her face darkened. After a moment of silence Harriet saw her ask Quince something. He bowed and crossed to where Mr Askew was standing. Again a question was asked, Mr Askew shook his head, then Quince went back to the woman. For Harriet it was like watching a dumbshow and she found it quite entertaining. The lady’s eyes as he approached were again hopeful, then when he spoke, downcast once more. Quince said something further — he seemed to be inviting the young lady to join him. She shook her head and in the same moment turned away from the ropes, and Harriet found Mr Quince returning to her side with a frown on his face. She realised she had not been alone in observing him. Mrs Briggs was taking a seat to Harriet’s right, and as Quince came up to them, she opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Who is that handsome lady, Mr Quince? She is not a native of this place, I think. Will she not join us?’

  ‘Her name is Fraulein Hurst,’ Quince replied. ‘Stephen and I met her today during our explorations of the town. She mentioned that she might attend this evening, but tells me she came here in search of her father. He did not return to their lodgings when expected. Mr Askew informs me that, although bought tickets for the entertainment, Herr Hurst has not been seen here. I asked her to join our party, but she said she would rather return to her lodgings, and insisted on doing so alone.’

  ‘She will be quite safe,’ said Mrs Briggs, and patted the tutor’s arm. ‘The lakeside people make far too many guineas out of these visitors to allow any harm to come to them, young man. Her father has probably found his way into one of the inns of Borrowdale and will spend the night under their roof.’ She added more quietly, ‘They brew very strong down there.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Quince replied, then drew his watch from his pocket. ‘I believe the fireworks will commence shortly. May I fetch any refreshment for you, ladies?’

  The ladies wished for nothing, and all turned their chairs in the direction of the lake and waited.

  Crowther’s work that evening was delicate. It required concentration and care, and he was glad of it. He was content to do this sort of work alone. It
made him grateful his intellectual interests had not turned towards pure scholarship; here in his temporary laboratory, he looked as much a butcher or cook as a baron. He wrestled answers, or more questions, from flesh rather from the immateriality of his own brain, and he took pleasure in the physicality of his work. As he looked into the cooling coppers he thought of his brother, and wondered again with a revulsion that his work never normally engendered, if he were looking at Addie’s first victim. Then he found his thoughts straying to his family and his own youth. His father had been an exacting parent, and Crowther remembered being sent away from the family group in disgrace if he had appeared unscrubbed or with the chemical signatures of his early experiments on his sleeves. What would Sir William think now, to see his son bend over old coppers in the semi-darkness?

  Crowther realised he had become still with thought, and returned to the practicalities before him. The last of the body’s flesh had melted away in the water and heat. Now it was his intention to remake the form of the man. In the silence of the old brew house, in the pools of fluttering light shed by the lanterns, he lifted each bone from the warm water and on the old workbench, remade the skeleton.

  Time passed.

  When the bones were laid out before him, Crowther removed his apron and dried his hands, then began to examine them in detail. The body was that of a mature male. He had guessed as much from the probable height of the corpse and the clothing, but the bones of the pelvis confirmed it. Ilium, ischium and pubis all fully fused; the pubic arch showed the steep incline typical of the male of the species. Next he lifted the skull, letting his fingers travel across it like a blind man trying to trace the features of a friend, then, settling it on his fingertips, he brought it towards himself in the lamplight until he stared into the empty sockets, turning it from left to right. There was no sign of damage, or of damage healed.

  ‘What would you tell us, friend?’ he murmured under his breath, and for a moment touched his free hand to his own thin face. ‘Alas, poor Yorick indeed. .’ As he set the skull down at the head of the table he was momentarily startled by the sound of explosions from the lake and saw the darkness outside the window stained suddenly red and yellow. The fireworks hissed and flashed, their light enough, even at this distance, to colour the pale bones below him. Something cracked in the air and a white phosphorescence fell across the bones, making a new shadow across the ribs.

  Crowther knelt and brought the lamp as close as he dared to the flattened cage. On the underside of the third rib, on the left side, there was something not quite right. He traced his finger along its falling edge and found a nick in the bone, such as might be made by a blade driven into the chest. The mark was suggestive, not conclusive. Crowther was sure the damage was not a result of his own treatment of the relics. He had handled each bone as a craftsman handles gold leaf.

  Moving away from the remains to the pile of clothing remnants, he gently teased the waistcoat flat, then straightened and placed his fingers on his own chest, counting down his own ribs until he reached that which matched the damaged bone on the skeleton. It would be on the left, far enough clear of the button-holes. The shirt was too ragged to be of any use, but the material of the waistcoat had been thicker.

  He bent low, inhaling the gravesmoke that hung around the clothes. Perhaps. The threads here were cut rather than thinned with age, but the blade, if blade it was, must have been very narrow. He lifted the waistcoat to his eye and shifted to let as much light fall on it as it might. Baron, butcher, now he seemed a tailor. A hole indeed, and another, possibly, to match on the back panel of cloth. There was no particular staining he could see, but the fabric was dark. He teased it with his fingertip. There was another flash outside, a sound like heavy rain, and the light in the room shifted into the deep reds of blood in darkness.

  Stephen flinched when the explosions began. The man Mr Askew had hired provided a brave show. Stephen could see the workers moving along the shore, shadows in front of the blaze of light they controlled, like minions at work in Vulcan’s forge. He would ask Mr Quince tomorrow about gunpowder. For a moment his ambition to be a ship’s Captain like his father wavered, as he thought of himself grinding powders to make all these rainbows of noise and light. He glanced towards where his mother was sitting, her face bathed white, red and green, and he could see the red of her hair light up as if the glowing sparks had fallen on her and were burning coldly among her curls.

  There was a pause and the crowd began to applaud, then Stephen saw another shadow, moving towards the centre of the wooden platform from whence the fireworks flew, torch in hand. The crowd saw him too and the applause fell away. Suddenly a breath of white fire ran up from the place where the man had touched his torch, drawing the outline of a cross on the darkness behind it. Catherine wheels caught all round its edges, spewing white sparks in tight circles. Then within the shape, fires of other colours caught till it seemed alive with angry jewels of red and green. The crowd gasped, and Stephen closed his hand round the little rowan Luck in his pocket.

  Crowther put out the lantern that swung above the skeleton and, content that the place was secure, he left the brewery and locked the door behind him before beginning to climb up the steep lawn to the main house. It was still so warm he barely needed the coat that hung over his shoulders, and the moon was bright enough he could have made his way along the gravel path without the light he carried. He looked up at the house above him, showing palely against the wooded hillside. Most of the windows in the upper storeys were dark, but the one that gave onto what had been his mother’s room had a candle showing on the sill. He caught a movement in the shadow above it. His sister, watching him, he presumed, as he so often had been used to watch his neighbours from his house in Hartswood. She must have returned early from the fireworks. He guessed the reason. He would have to speak to her in the morning and ask her what she could remember of Addie’s visits home, but not until he had allowed Mrs Westerman to pick through his thoughts. Margaret seemed to have survived the disgrace of their youth. Had she loved their father? Had she found something in the baron he had not, or seen something?

  Crowther had left home in 1741 first for a repellent boarding school for sons of rich men in Lincolnshire, then for Cambridge, returning rarely and reluctantly. His mother he had been glad to see in Town, but although she at times made some effort to understand her second son in the years before her death, she reached across a gulf that could not be spanned, and he remained a mystery to her, so cold and inward. His intellectual pursuits meant nothing to her. She seemed always to be surrounded by light and noise, even in her isolated home in Silverside. Lady Keswick had been a joyful, rather impulsive character always ready to be amused. She teased Sir William, and her dour husband had seemed to dote on her as a result; Addie had always made her laugh, and Margaret she could dress up in costumes that were copies of her own and parade with her as some women did with little black slave boys in a parody of exotic dress. She had loved him too, he supposed, but his strongest memory of her was the sound of her laughter coming from some other room in the house, from some place where he was not.

  Casper made for the woodsmen’s cabins above Silverside, flinching as the fireworks rattled behind him. He was satisfied that the night in the open would be punishment enough for Agnes, but he still felt angry, and the explosions on the lakeside made the witches shriek till he could hardly follow the thread of his own thoughts. He wondered where she had got the idea of the poppet from. It was a strong notion — he could feel the tang of magic on it. Agnes was a clever girl, but she’d become a dangerous one if she got into the habit of such tricks.

  Casper had only once in the last twenty years named a witch in these hills. She was an old woman, Blanche Grice, grown powerful and used to her power while he was still gaining and measuring the strength of his own. When she cursed a young woman in Pontiscale one winter and made her miscarry, he had gone up against her at last. It had been a bitter thing, but much as she played the innocent,
he knew he had been right. She was spurned on his word so left her home, setting out on the Kendal Road, and had not been seen since. Some said she had changed herself into a hare and now stayed that way most of the time. Casper knew better. She had crawled into the old mines on the flank of Ullock Moss and let her body die there, ready instead to live in Casper’s mind, chattering at him and cursing. He found her body in the spring and buried it himself, but though he had red threads tied round his wrists, she still crawled into his skull somehow and had been there ever since. She was loud now, yelling delightedly at the explosions from the lakeside, trying to twitch him round so she could see them through his eyes. He was striving to quiet her as he approached the clearing where his cabin waited, so did not mark the nervous twittings and cawing from Joe — and the blow that felled him came like thunder from a clear sky.

  The applause for the fireworks and their glorious finale was still rippling around a beaming Mr Askew when the first fat drops fell. Harriet looked up, then hissed as something stung her arm. She turned towards Mr Quince, who looked as bemused as she did herself, then with a crack something fell into Harriet’s glass of punch on the table between them and splashed the liquor onto the tablecloth. Mr Quince picked up the glass and looked into it.