‘All beat up, Casper? Coming to see me, are you? Coming to gather my flowers? You useless dog. No help to that girl, were you? And they call you cunning! I’d have helped her, but you are blind and stupid and there’s all there is to it.’
Casper concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. His ribs were sore enough to drive the breath from him every other step.
‘Poor Casper! Felt the fists, have you? Worm, you deserve it. Oh, I love to see you aching and pining. Wish they’d have killed you. You, all respected by the scum of the village, you fraud, you monster. You murderer.’
He was used to it. Ever since he had buried her, Mother Grice chattered and scratched at him. It was like a wound that never quite healed. She grew stronger and happier when he approached the place where her bones rotted, up the track to the old mines where few people ever went, though the path was good. Her bones must have tainted the air and made it taste evil, even to those who didn’t know whose bitterness it was they felt on their lips. The yellow blooms of St John’s Wort flourished there, and though he could gather the leaves and flowers in other spots, they did not seem to have the same potency as these. He was sure she breathed on them specially to bring him back to the place where he had found her little body. This was high-days and holidays for her now, him all bruised and hurting and coming to her weak.
‘Your bitch sister still lives then? Maybe she should come home. Maybe you could call her a witch and have her die in the cold.’
‘Whisht, will you!’ he said, and Joe lifted his beak and cawed unhappily. She laughed like the Devil with a fresh soul. Nothing made her happier than drawing him in to speak. He gritted his teeth and climbed the last few yards to the shade of the old mine and the pool of yellow blooms outside it, then came to a sudden halt. There was something wrong about the opening. Stones had been moved — he could see the scars of them in the soil — and the old logs and fallen branches that usually lay about the place were missing. He stepped to the mouth of the mine. There was a wooden barrier a few yards inside, but in front of it was a pile of what had been missing outside — a rough heap of stones and branches. He approached carefully and bent down, hissing as he did so from the pain in his side, then lifted a rock from the pile and set it aside, then the next. Then became still. For a moment even the witch was silent. Another grave. A man, his head turned to one side and his eyes open. Casper reached forward and touched the skin. Cold.
Grice had got her breath back. ‘Another one of yours, Casper?’ she crowed. ‘Can’t say, can you? What if it was him who beat you? All went a bit dark then, didn’t it? What if you killed him and brought him here? Who is it, Casper? Was he a witch?’
Ignoring the voice Casper continued to remove the stones and branches.
Within minutes of the invitation being made, Stephen found himself standing on the low lawns of the park with Felix bending over him, showing him how to attach a soft leather bracer to his arm. He was beginning to think the incident at the lake was an accident, after all. He reached for the long yew bow.
‘A moment, Stephen,’ Felix said, holding it out of his reach. ‘Remember that an arrow can be as deadly as a musket if used properly. I would not put a gun in your hands without making sure you knew its use first.’
‘I fired a cannon yesterday.’
Felix grinned. ‘Watch what I do. Then you may try.’
He turned sideways to the target, a brave painted cloth on a bound straw backing some thirty feet away. He had removed his jacket in the heat and Stephen could see the muscles of his shoulders bunch as he drew the string of the bow back to his cheek between two fingers of his right hand. The arrow’s shaft was pale as buttermilk, its metal tip resting on the circle of his thumb where Felix’s hand held the shaft of the bow. It looked to Stephen like an animal coiled and ready to escape into the woods, and he remembered suddenly the excitement he had felt running up the steep paths behind Silverside before he had met Casper. Felix’s gaze was fixed on the target at the far end of the lawn. He released the arrow, the string sang a low clear note and Stephen heard the point sigh through the air as if it were tearing the haze apart like frayed silk. With a dull thump the arrow buried itself in the centre of the target.
‘Shot!’ Stephen cried. Felix made a slight bow then bent towards him with a confidential smile.
‘I have hunted boar in the forests near my father’s home. They are dangerous animals when wounded. One must be accurate and deadly with the first shot.’
Stephen’s mind was suddenly full of forests, and he imagined himself riding next to Felix and shooting off arrows at wild animals.
‘Was it frightening?’
Felix considered. ‘Yes, but it is an exhilarating sport. I dislike being bored and such hunts are never boring. Maybe I shall take you some day. But first let us teach you what to do.’
Stephen took the slim body of the bow in his hands. It was very smooth. ‘Why did you not win yesterday, sir?’
He frowned. ‘I was distracted. No, stand more straight, bend the elbow a little or you will be flayed alive.’
Mrs Briggs was still enjoying her breakfast when they went back into the house. She marvelled aloud at their energy, having been to St Herbert’s so early, given all the activity of the previous day. The Vizegrafin looked up sharply.
‘You have been to the Island of Bones? Why?’
‘I understood you were eager to see it yourself,’ Crowther said evenly. ‘And to watch the tomb being opened.’
She looked back down to her coffee. ‘Our father used to sit in the library and stare at it, particularly after Mama died. I always wondered what he saw in it, as he never made any effort to improve the place.’
Crowther could almost feel Harriet’s thoughts on that casual speech. He watched his sister drink her coffee and eventually drive Mrs Briggs away from the table with acid remarks about the superiority of a Viennese firework display to those she had observed from her window the previous evening. He hoped that as their hostess left, he might be able to begin with his sister the discussion of the body in the tomb and his suspicions, but Mrs Westerman seemed to feel differently.
‘Perhaps, madam, you missed the sight of the legendary Luck from your window?’ she was saying to Margaret. ‘It was most impressive from the seat we had in Crow Park.’
The Vizegrafin made no answer. Harriet turned in her chair a little to look out of the window to her left and took a delicate sip from her coffee cup. ‘Your father came here while Lord Greta was still master of much of these lands, did he not? Do you know why Lord Greta turned rebellious?’
The Vizegrafin’s gaze flickered up from the table-top and she examined Mrs Westerman. ‘Indeed, I understand my father was acquainted with Lord Greta, though he was a far poorer man at that time. I believe that Lord Greta was a friend of the Pretender during his childhood in France. Greta was also a Catholic, so when he received word that the Rebellion was being planned, he chose to support his friend and his faith.’
‘And he rode from his home at Derwent Water, Gutherscale Hall?’
‘He did. He never returned here again.’
‘What happened exactly?’
The Vizegrafin found, as many had before, that Mrs Westerman could be a persistent questioner. There was no dignified way to remove herself from the conversation, and perhaps thinking of the wrongs of men sixty years ago was more pleasant than thinking of her son’s behaviour and its effect on their reputation in Keswick, so she continued, ‘When the Rebellion failed, he was taken to London to stand trial in Westminster Hall. Most thought the King would spare his life, but when it became clear that his wife and friends’ appeals were not softening the King’s resolve to have him executed, Lady Greta managed to smuggle him out of the Tower. He reached his friends and his younger brother in Paris.’
‘That is a romantic tale.’
The Vizegrafin smiled, and for the first time Harriet saw something more than coquettishness in her eyes. She saw intelligence, and amusement
shimmer briefly there, like quartz lost in a cloudy pool.
‘The trouble with our human lives is they do not conclude neatly where a dramatist would leave off. Is that not so, Mrs Westerman?’
Harriet turned gracefully and set down her coffee cup.
‘I have often thought so,’ she replied. ‘So Lord Greta’s later life was less romantic?’
The Vizegrafin nodded slowly. ‘He had a child in the forties, then found himself called to the Young Pretender’s side in forty-five. His wife reminded him of his debt to her, and for her sake and that of the child he did not go, but instead trusted his brother with his money and the power of his name. Of course, as you know, the second Rebellion went no better in the end than the first. His brother was taken and did not escape the executioner’s axe. It was said the guilt and grief made Lord Greta bitter to his family and he drank them all into poverty.’
Harriet nodded, then tilting her head to one side asked, ‘So how did your father come to own so much of Lord Greta’s former estate?’
The Vizegrafin’s face became set again and she straightened her back. ‘The estates were forfeit to the Crown after Lord Greta’s trial in sixteen. My father was in a position to make a number of purchases over the years from those estates. He bought the last of the land in forty-seven when he became Lord Keswick.’
Harriet was still wearing her most engaging smile, and despite the sudden chill in the air was inclined to continue her enquiries; however, just as she opened her mouth to speak again, the door was opened and Miss Scales was announced. They hardly had time to greet each other, when the hall bell clanged again, and there was another voice in the house.
The words were not clear but the voice suggested distress. The door to the breakfast parlour sprang open and Harriet saw in the doorway the beautiful Austrian lady who had been looking for her father the previous evening. She was pale and her hair very loosely arranged. She looked at the company and flushed.
‘Oh, he is not here! I must see him!’
Harriet got to her feet and stepped round the table to take her arm. The young woman’s weight fell into her side almost at once.
‘Fraulein Hurst? I am Harriet Westerman — my son’s tutor told me your name. Is it he you have come to seek? Dear girl, what on earth is the matter?’
Harriet looked into her face; she was quite lovely even with her eyes reddened. Miss Hurst shook her head and tried to hold herself more upright.
‘My father has not returned to the Royal Oak. I went walking early, and was sure I would meet him at breakfast, but the servants say his bed was not slept in. I am most concerned. I must speak to von Bolsenheim.’
‘To Felix?’ Harriet said.
The Vizegrafin’s chair scraped back. ‘As you see, Fraulein, my son is not here, and I do not know in what manner you think he might assist you if he were.’
‘You are the Vizegrafin von Bolsenheim?’
‘My dear girl,’ said Harriet, trying to steer her to a chair, ‘you can barely stand. Do sit down!’
She resisted. ‘Then I shall leave him a note.’
Crowther, apparently unalarmed by the sudden drama, fetched quill and paper from one of the side-tables and set them in front of the young woman — then watched her curiously.
‘Danke, Mein Herr,’ she said under her breath, then sat and began to write. Miss Scales was examining her pocket-watch and frowning.
‘I am surprised no message has been sent to you as yet, Miss Hurst. The morning is almost gone indeed. Is your father a great walker? Might he have become lost on the fells during the storm?’
The girl shook her head without looking up from her hurried writing. ‘He is not fond of walking.’ She folded her note then looked about her as if in hopes of finding some way to seal it. The Vizegrafin put out her jewelled hand.
‘Fraulein, if you wish to leave a note for my son, you may leave it unsealed. He has no secrets from me.’
The girl’s dark eyes flashed, and staring into the Vizegrafin’s face she ripped the note in two and pushed the scraps into her pockets. ‘But I may, I think. I must find my father. Will no one help me?’
Miss Scales put her arm around the young woman’s shoulders. ‘Dear girl, of course we shall help you.’
The Vizegrafin said something in German, and the Fraulein flinched. Crowther had heard the word before, but only in the darkest and dirtiest alleyways of Wittenberg. He turned to his sister.
‘Margaret!’
The Vizegrafin swept from the room. Harriet stared at Crowther, who merely tightened his lips in reply.
The departure of the Vizegrafin had put new breath into the Fraulein’s body. ‘I must go and look for my father! He must be searched for, but I have no money and the landlord says I must leave if the bill cannot be paid today.’
Miss Scales’s hands fluttered into the air. ‘Now dear, do not despair,’ she said, letting one hand fall on the young girl’s shoulder. ‘You shall come to my father’s house — he is the vicar here, you know — and we shall arrange everything from there. Mrs Westerman will tell Mr Felix you called for him, I am sure. Now do you think you might come back to the vicarage with me? I am sure Mrs Briggs would press you to stay, were she here. .’
Harriet interrupted her. ‘Mrs Briggs has just taken the carriage into Keswick. I do believe, Miss Scales, she meant to call on you as she returned.’
‘We said we would speak today about the burial of your poor ghost, though I thought we had arranged to meet here. My mistake, I am sure. Well, his grave is almost ready and may he rest more comfortably there. I should have remembered, but then I would have missed the pleasure of a jog along the lake.’
Miss Hurst stood up a little shakily.
‘Oh my dear, do come back to the vicarage with me. Then you shall be closer to the village when news of your father arrives, and we may rouse up some fellows to go and search for him.’
Crowther reached into his pocket and Harriet heard the thin crinkle of paper. ‘I shall speak to my nephew, Fraulein.’ He crossed the room and placed something in Miss Scales’s free hand. ‘If you would be so kind, Miss Scales, perhaps you could have that conveyed to the landlord at the Oak and tell him should any other payment be required, he may address himself to me.’
Miss Scales glanced at what he had given her and went a little pink. ‘Yes, of course, Mr Crowther. Now my dear, you saw my little trap outside as you came in? Let us gather you into it and you may spend the last of the morning with me, for I am sure we shall find your father before it is fully passed.’
Miss Scales carried off the young woman very swiftly, leaving Harriet and Crowther to stare at one another over the coffee cups.
‘What did your sister call that young woman, Crowther?’
‘A whore,’ he replied shortly, and examined his fingernails.
Harriet considered. ‘She did not look like a whore to me. And I rather liked her spirit, tearing up that note.’ She could not help noticing that Crowther winced slightly when she said the word. ‘Do you think she looked like a whore, Crowther?’
He frowned at her and she smiled, a reasonably convincing simulacrum of innocence. ‘I could not possibly judge, madam,’ he said, then hurried on as she opened her mouth again to continue the topic. ‘However, the relations of my sister and nephew with this young woman are no concern of mine.’
‘You made it your concern when you handed over that money. For a man who seems to despise his fellow creatures, at times you can be oddly generous.’
‘More often than not I find money a convenient way of buying peace. Now will you come and speak to Margaret with me, and when we have taxed her memory perhaps we can consult Mrs Tyers.’
It was Harriet’s turn to frown. ‘You wish me to be present while you speak to her, Crowther? I would have thought, given the delicacy of the matter, you would have preferred to speak to her alone.’
‘You presumed wrongly, madam. If you have finished your coffee. .’
Harriet put the cup to
her lips again, then wrinkled her nose. ‘Quite cold!’
The Vizegrafin was surprised to see them enter the library and walk towards her with such firm steps. At first she ignored Harriet and turned to Crowther.
‘You have no intention of lecturing me, I hope, Brother?’
Harriet squinted up at the bookshelves on the upper levels and walked behind the Vizegrafin’s chair.
‘You are right to be concerned, madam,’ she said. ‘He has lectured me any number of times, and as you see, it does me no good. However, I have yet to call a lady a whore at the breakfast-table.’
The Vizegrafin reflected on her jewelled hands lying in her lap. ‘Your grasp of the German vernacular is impressive, Mrs Westerman. Did your sailor husband teach you the word?’
‘No, I speak only a little German. Though I think Miss Scales understood the word, or at least its import, by her expression when you spoke. What a great many books! I was proud of my library at Caveley till I came here. Were you bookish as a child?’
‘I learned what was befitting to my role.’
‘Enough,’ Crowther said. ‘I neither know nor care what your association is with that young woman. .’
The Vizegrafin clasped her hands together so her rings clicked. ‘I have no association with Fraulein Hurst. I believe her father knew my son a little in Vienna. They are not the sort of people with whom I would associate.’
Crowther tapped his cane firmly enough on the carpet to make both ladies start. ‘Margaret, I wish you to tell me something of my father. Can you manage to do that without making yourself ridiculous?’
The Vizegrafin shot out of her seat. ‘I make myself ridiculous! You dare say such a thing to me, Gabriel, when every paper in Europe has written of your exploits in the company of this woman! Why did you not remain in hiding? Stay under your rock with your knives and your little experiments? My father made you rich, and you sold everything he had worked for before his body was cold, and slunk away. I can tell you this of my father: he was a better man than you shall ever be.’
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