Island of Bones caw-3

by Imogen Robertson

  ‘I heard you spoken of as the cunning-man in these parts. That little boy Stephen said. .’

  The mention of his name made Stephen feel suddenly guilty, though he could not say why. He drew up his knees and rested his cheek against them.

  ‘I do no scrying.’ Casper worked his knife hard into the wood, with his brows drawn together. ‘I shall not look into the water and tell you about your life to come.’

  ‘But they say you know herbs. There are herbs for what ails me.’

  Casper’s knife stopped suddenly. ‘There are. Tansy, Pennyroyal if you know what to do with them, but lady, do not ask me. There might be a thing I’ll do for a sick woman with five little ones to feed already, but I shall not do them for you. It’s playing dice with the Devil and can kill you or take you to Hell first. You are young. And if it is the shame you are thinking of, here you are away from the world, you know.’

  Miss Hurst shook her head.

  ‘There’s life there,’ Casper continued deliberately. His bruises made him look very fierce. ‘And it wants to be. Go to Kendal, call yourself a widow then go back home saying you have picked up an English orphan.’

  ‘It is not possible! You say it as if it were simple, but it is not.’

  Casper took up his carving again. ‘It is simple. Man lies with woman then there comes children and the caring of them.’

  ‘I am married.’

  Casper shrugged. ‘Then you are respectable and all is well.’

  ‘My husband will not acknowledge me. He says my father tricked him.’

  Casper looked up at her. ‘You have proof of the wedding?’ She nodded slowly. ‘And the baby is his? He has lain with you?’ She looked up, her mouth open in shock, and Casper laughed gently. ‘No one tricked him into that. Go to the magistrate then where your husband is, or send your father.’

  She started to cry again, and Stephen felt suddenly angry with her. Casper was hurt, and Mr Quince sick, and all she could do was cry. Casper watched her for a while, his knife forgotten in his hand, then patted her awkwardly on her knee. ‘Matter of love, is it? A handsome man. You wish him to come running home from care of you, not fearing the law? If you are free of the child, you think that more like to happen?’

  She took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘You think I am foolish.’

  ‘Foolish as any woman touched by love. And that is a fine fool.’

  She picked up one of the half-burned sticks from the old fireplace and began to draw circles in the earth. ‘I was happy. I was only two months out of the convent. I thought my wedding night. . I thought I would be free. .’ She started to draw long vicious lines through the circles. ‘He owed my father money. I think he thought the ceremony a — how do you say it — a “lark”.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘But my father is clever. It was legal. My husband found he was trapped in the morning and left, cursing us both. I want to explain I had no wish to trick him.’

  ‘Where is your da now?’

  ‘He says he has business, but he did not come home last night and the landlord says there is money owing. Perhaps he has left me too. I hope he will be at the inn when I return. I want him to take me away from here, but he laughs at me.’ She looked up at Casper, her lip trembling again. ‘I could work! I learned music and languages at the convent — I could teach. I should like to. But I have no money now, and with the child. .’

  Casper sniffed. ‘How old are you, lady?’

  There was a long pause. ‘Seventeen.’

  Casper sighed. ‘Speak no more of herbs, but I shall help you if I can. Where is this man, your husband?’

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again, before getting up and saying quickly, ‘Oh, I should not have come. You will not help me!’

  ‘Sit down, lass. And tell me who this man is and where he bides.’

  ‘No, I cannot.’ She shook her head. ‘I shall return to the inn, and if my father is not there. . what shall I do? I must get away somehow. If he cannot help me, perhaps someone else might. I need only a little money.’

  ‘You have an offer of help here, my girl.’

  ‘Perhaps my father has got hold of some money — I could steal it. And if my father is gone then he must see me. .’

  Casper was frowning. ‘These are wild words, girl. The heat is pressing you. Be calm now.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Grace. I thank you for your words, but it is not your help I need.’

  Crowther and Harriet rejoined their oarsman on the lakeside in silence and settled into separate contemplation of the movement of the water. Harriet knew Crowther well enough not to interrogate him. Her own thoughts she allowed to empty until the song the oarsman was singing curled round some corner of her mind and tugged on it.

  ‘What are you singing, Isaiah?’

  ‘Sorry, madam. It is a habit I fall into when I row.’

  She smiled at him. ‘If you would be happy to sing out, I should be glad to give you audience.’

  The man nodded and cleared his throat, then in a deep bass that seemed to sing in the wood of the boat, began:

  ‘And when James came back to his country

  And Greta answered his call

  The light folk fancied the German King

  And must have set their standard for him

  For the Luck left Greta’s Castle then

  And fortune abandoned them all.’

  It was a merry tune for such dark matter. Other verses followed detailing Lord Greta’s escape, and there was a coda that covered his brother’s execution in 1746, but at the conclusion Harriet was still frowning over the first verse. She smiled and patted her hands together as the man finished. He nodded shyly and looked to his oars.

  ‘So the Luck is lost then?’ she said.

  ‘Some say Lord Greta dropped it in the lake when he was crossing to meet his men in Keswick, though I don’t believe that. Reckon some bright spark thought that story up so he could get pleasure-seekers leaning out of his boat to look for gleams in the muck.’

  ‘Why don’t you believe it?’

  The man paused in his rowing to point behind him, south along the shore from Silverside Hall. ‘He would ride from there, where the Hall was. Why trouble to cross the lake if you had horse and baggage with you? He’d have just ridden round the top through Portinscale, same as they do every day since from Silverside.’

  Harriet leaned forward and put her chin in her hand. ‘Did you ever meet anyone who claimed to have seen the Luck, Isaiah?’

  ‘Oh aye, madam. There was a woman used to care for me when I was a bairn who served in Gutherscale Hall. She’d seen it — rubbed it clean, she said. Used to love talking on that, she did, and on the love Lord Greta had for his land. Must have tore him up to leave it so.’

  Harriet searched in the woodland opposite for any sign of the Hall. Isaiah saw what she was about. ‘Have you seen the ruins yet, madam?’

  She nodded. ‘I visited yesterday morning. There is not much of Lord Greta’s home left.’

  ‘It was all cleaned out by the Crown in the year 1716, then when Lord Keswick, Sir William he was then, bought it we thought he’d be in there, but after the fire he let it rot. Daft to rebuild when he had a house. Careful with his money, he was.’ As he mentioned the 1st Baron his eyes flicked carefully towards Crowther, but the latter gave no sign he had heard his father named.

  ‘I thought I saw some signs of fire there.’

  ‘Aye, that was the winter of forty-five. Lit up the sky, it did. You’d remember that, my lord?’

  ‘I was not at home,’ Crowther said, then fell into silence again.

  ‘How did it happen, Isaiah?’

  ‘It was a cold evening, some fool lit a fire there, I suppose to sleep by, and got more warmth than he wished for.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Harriet said, letting her mind drift again.

  ‘Glad to oblige, madam,’ he replied, and pulled on the oars with new vigour. Crowther kept his eyes on the haze-clouded hills and did not speak again.

&nb
sp; When Fraulein Hurst had left the clearing, Casper called Stephen down to join him without turning his head.

  ‘How did you know I was there?’ Stephen asked, as he slid down the last of the slope.

  ‘Joe was sitting on that holly and staring down at you the whole time.’

  Stephen turned and saw the grey-headed bird sunning himself just where he had emerged from the undergrowth.

  ‘He didn’t say anything.’

  ‘He’s a wise bird.’ Casper examined the herbs that Stephen had gathered then began nipping the buds from some and dropping them into the kettle over his fire. ‘My thanks for this, youngling.’

  ‘Mr Quince is ill. Will you help him? Mr Crowther sent the physician away.’

  Casper looked at him. ‘Your tutor is a young fellow — he might be better for not being meddled with. Nature weaves its ways. What manner of sick is he?’

  ‘He fell into the lake yesterday. That is, Felix pushed him. He was shivering last night and this morning he is all hot and sweaty and rolls his head about.’

  Casper began to pick through the herbs Stephen had gathered again. ‘Have you a handkerchief, lad? A clean one, mind.’

  Stephen nodded and produced it, then watched as Casper laid it flat on the ground and began to drop buds and leaves from the various plants onto the linen.

  ‘You’ll take this to Miriam. Tell her to steep it in hot water, not boiling, a pint or so, and give him a glass of it.’ As he spoke he folded the corners of the handkerchief together, then tied them to make a neat package.

  Stephen put his hand out to take it, but Casper twitched it away from him. ‘Most people pay for my services, youngling. Far as I can see, the food was from Cook. What do you have for me?’

  The boy looked at the ground. His store of coins, such as it was, he had already spent in his mind on little crosses from the museum. Suddenly his face brightened.

  ‘Your sister, Jocasta Bligh, lives near St Martin’s Lane in London. In her own room. She tells fortunes with cards, has patchwork skirts with lots of colours. She has a little dog called Boyo, and takes care of a boy called Sam. I am sorry I did not say so before — I forgot. And I only knew she was your sister yesterday.’

  Casper’s eye became bright and a slow smile opened his face. ‘Now there’s payment that binds me to you and yours, youngling.’ He dropped the package into Stephen’s hands, then rested one fist on the boy’s shoulder. ‘There’s payment, indeed. Now tell me every word you can of her while I let this brew work on me.’

  III.4

  When the little boat had deposited them once again on the lawns of Silverside, Harriet and Crowther climbed the gentle rise together, but instead of re-entering the house returned to the gravel walk to its south and took a seat in the shade.

  ‘Will you not speak to Mrs Tyers before you talk to your sister, Crowther? Find out how she knows of your father going to the Island with a stranger?’

  Crowther spun his cane in the gravel in front of them. ‘I have not been a good brother, Mrs Westerman. I perhaps do not regret that as I should, but I do acknowledge it. I think it is my duty to inform Margaret of the note and what we have found before I go to discuss such matters with our former servants.’

  Harriet was about to say something more when there was a rattle at the garden gate and Stephen was dashing up the path towards them with his face pink.

  ‘Mama! I have been to see Casper! He was so happy to hear of Mrs Bligh. He has given me some herbs for Miriam to make tea with for Mr Quince. I had to gather them myself because some men attacked him last night and he is injured, but I got all the right ones.’

  This all came in such a rush, Harriet found herself struggling to take in the information offered. ‘Mr Grace was hurt? Did he know the men? Will he speak to Mr Sturgess?’

  Stephen came to stand before her and let her take his hands between her own, shaking his head. ‘I asked. He said it would be a poor thing if a cunning-man had to go to a magistrate.’

  Crowther put out his hand. ‘What are these herbs?’ Stephen handed the handkerchief to him, looking a little suspicious. Crowther carefully untied it and picked through what was there before retying the corners and handing it back to the boy.

  ‘Well?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘I can see nothing in there that will do him any harm, and I have no doubt it will do him more good than anything that physician from the town can provide. I begin to have a respect for Mr Grace and his skills.’

  Stephen made for the kitchens before Crowther could withdraw this rather limited assent. As his steps faded, Harriet asked, ‘Crowther, do you think your father capable of murder?’

  Crowther pictured Sir William in his study puffed up like a toad and roaring at one of his tenants.

  ‘I think any man capable, though I never saw him washing blood from his hands. Yes, I think it possible. But I wish to know if my sister remembers something that I do not. I must tell her what we have found and see what memories are stirred.’

  ‘Did you know Ruben Grace then, Crowther? What sort of man was he? Did you know him as a cunning-man? Stephen is very taken with his son, and we know his daughter to be a woman of talents.’

  At the mention of Jocasta Bligh, Crowther began to spin his cane in his hands. ‘I wonder why she never mentioned who her father was when we met in London. Perhaps she was waiting for me to question her further. I should have done. I simply let her tell me her story and watched Sam feed the dog scraps. Yes, I did know Ruben. My father trusted him and I was surprised when I heard from my mother that he was no longer steward at Silverside and had become owner of the Black Pig. My father and he were allies in the household in my youth. The housekeeper, Lottie Tyers, though she served my father before his marriage, was more of my mother’s party.’

  They both fell silent for a while. Stephen had re-emerged and was playing a few feet away from them. It seemed he had fashioned an area of the gravel into a battlefield, and now an army of slate splinters were ranged against granite enemies. He was singing softly under his breath the same song they had heard from the boatman during the morning. ‘When James came back to his country. .’

  Harriet put her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her palm. ‘How might we continue, Crowther? If we can put a name to this man by whatever means, this body in the tomb, then all well and good — at least his grave may be marked. But if you remain convinced your father was his murderer, what further steps can we take? Will you read a proclamation in the town square condemning him?’ Crowther said nothing. ‘Whatever happened, it happened long ago — and nothing now will be helped or hurt by our exposing these secrets to the air.’

  Crowther listened to Stephen’s song and wondered again why he had come here. A hot wind stirred the lake below them, and there was an answering sigh in the wooded slopes above the garden. If his father were a murderer, there could be no trial. Might the victim still have children living? Could the truth not help seal some wound left long open? More likely it would only expose the rot to the air.

  Harriet spoke again. ‘Perhaps we should let the dead bury the dead.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘That is not your usual attitude in these matters. What of your reputation as a “warrior for truth and justice”?’

  ‘These are not usual circumstances. But perhaps there are those now living who should know the truth.’

  It still surprised him how often Mrs Westerman’s thoughts formed the mirror of his own, but if any further reply occurred to Crowther, he had no opportunity to make it as the gravel on the path announced another footstep. There were two, in fact, since the Vizegrafin was walking arm-in-arm with her son. She was holding him very close to her side and speaking rapidly to him. From the expression on his face, the topic of conversation was not a pleasant one. Her normally fine features were distorted by anger and Felix’s head was downcast, his dark hair falling over his face as if he were trying to hide from her words. The Vizegrafin was speaking to him in rapid French, so Harriet could
make out none of the matter, but she was transfixed by the vicious expression on the woman’s face. She stood therefore, to make their presence known, slightly later than she should have done. Becoming aware of them, the Vizegrafin turned and aimed at Crowther and Harriet the same look of angry contempt she had just fixed on her son.

  Harriet made a curtsey and wished the pair good morning as though she had seen nothing, and heard Crowther get to his feet beside her.

  It was Felix who recovered first. Gently detaching himself from his mother’s grip, he bowed to them both.

  ‘I am glad to see you,’ he said. I am sure of that, Harriet thought to herself. ‘Mrs Westerman, after my poor show at the competition I am planning to spend the morning practising with my longbow in the lower gardens.’ Without turning round, Harriet knew that the little group around her now had her son’s complete attention. ‘I was wondering if Stephen might wish to join me. I understand Mr Quince is indisposed. I am sorry my carelessness deprived your son of his guardianship. Perhaps I might supply. .’ Harriet was pleased to see him blush over these last words.

  There was a flurry of movement and Stephen appeared at her side, eyes wide with appeal.

  ‘Oh, may I, Mama? There are targets and everything! I was not allowed to yesterday and I watched very carefully. Oh, please, may I?’

  Harriet looked down at her son and felt her heart jump. It was a terrible thing to be a tyrant, a dictator — even a kind one. The responsibility made her afraid every time she looked at the boy. Hers was all the power, all the freedom. Again the loss of her husband stung her. ‘You may, Stephen. Thank you, Felix.’

  The young man smiled and Harriet again saw something of the charm of the boy. The Vizegrafin looked more herself again, bored rather than angry. Harriet wondered if it were possible the other woman had ever felt for her son what she felt for Stephen, if it were possible she herself would ever whisper into Stephen’s ear with such an expression of poisonous disgust.

  There was another herb that Casper wished to make use of, but he knew it grew most powerfully in a place he was unwilling to send the boy, so when he felt he had strength enough, he stripped a length of ash for support and began the trek towards the hollowed slopes of the old mine-working up Swineside from Ullock, with Joe flapping behind him. Almost at once, the black witch started laughing.