Island of Bones caw-3

by Imogen Robertson

  Crowther could see nothing but Addie’s face, the terror of his approaching death consuming him. Crowther began to feel the memory of that evening in the cell creeping towards him like a living thing. He had spent the greater part of his life refusing to think of it; now he could not turn away. The memory suddenly took him, and as if he were living the hours once more, it flooded over him: the smell of the fire in the damp cell, the sound of Addie’s retching, the glint of the coins Crowther left him for the hangman, his own words as he promised he would forgive his elder brother if he could, the snap of the rope.

  When he managed to open his eyes once more, the light had bled from the day and the scents in the air had shifted to juniper and evening-rose, gorse, meadow-sweet. It was very quiet. The lake had taken on the colours of the moon and the high mountains had shifted to dark green silhouettes. A gull crossed the field of his vision in search of moths. He let his father’s cane fall onto the path beside him.

  ‘Oh God, Addie! Who is there to forgive me?’

  Harriet had retired to the library to wait for Crowther. She sat watching the darkness outside the window and wondered where Casper Grace might be hiding himself She had no doubt that he could avoid detection if he wished it, but feared that in his innocence, he might approach the village and be taken before he could be warned that he was being hunted. Perhaps his friends among the people would find their ways to let him know of Sturgess’s intentions. She thought of the conversation she had had with Mr Scales as she left the vicarage. She had noticed how two or three of the low doors in the village bore signs of a cross only hours old. One was made of rowan twigs, tied and nailed. The other two showed light, since they had been carved there — an outline that recalled the elegant shape of the Luck. She mentioned it to Mr Scales as he saw her to the carriage.

  ‘News of this unfortunate gentleman’s demise has spread, Mrs Westerman. The people look to guard themselves.’

  She had smiled. ‘You must be glad to see them turn to Christ at such moments.’ The old vicar opened the gate for her to pass through.

  ‘I am not so naive, madam. They look to the Luck, and as it is lost they draw its shadow on the walls and hope that the memory of it will guard them. It is the fair-folk they ask for protection, though they use the cross to call them. It was the same when the small-pox struck us in fifty-four.’

  ‘It is a foul disease.’

  ‘One episode in our history Mr Askew has seen fit to ignore. It cost me my wife and one of my daughters, and my faith.’

  Harriet came to a sudden halt. ‘Mr Scales?’

  The old vicar smiled at her. ‘I pray every day for its return, and I am grateful that my daughter remains devout. But I can understand why the local people prefer their spirits wilful and cruel; it suggests a better understanding of the way the world treats us. Do not tell the bishop if you meet him, my dear. It would disturb his digestion.’

  He had patted her on the arm and nodded to Ham, then turned back up the path.

  As Crowther entered the room Harriet stirred and looked up at him enquiringly. He did not speak, but instead placed the volume detailing his brother’s trial in front of her and settled into one of the leather armchairs. She took it up and began to read. At some point, Miriam came into the room and placed wine on the table beside Crowther. The night gathered closely about them. Crowther continued to watch the air, and the only sound to be heard was the occasional flick of paper as Harriet turned a page. The moon had dragged itself up and peered in at them across the lake before she set the book down. He finally shifted his head and looked at her. Then without waiting for her to speak, offered up the substance of his conversation with Lottie Tyers.

  Harriet put her chin in her hands. ‘You did not know of this strongbox?’

  ‘No, or at least I knew nothing of it when I sold Silverside and its lands. All papers relating to my father’s property and possessions were to hand, his personal correspondence was in his desk in the study, my mother’s jewels in the strongbox in the wine cellar. There was nothing else to look for. But I did receive a letter from the solicitor in Keswick some years ago informing me that a strongbox had been found, that Mr Briggs believed to be the property of my father.’

  ‘And?’ Harriet said.

  ‘I told them to force it, see there was nothing significant in it and then destroy it,’ he said, staring at the high ceiling above them.

  ‘Crowther! I wish you had not.’

  ‘I was not aware it might contain evidence to implicate my father in murder,’ he said. ‘If I had known, I would naturally have asked them to preserve it.’ The room was silent for a while at that, then Crowther continued, ‘However, I suspect if my solicitor is anything like his father, he probably did not destroy it.’ Harriet felt herself brighten and tried to hide it, but suspected she was unsuccessful, judging by the slight lifting of the corner of Crowther’s thin mouth. She looked back down at her lap and the book.

  ‘So your brother protested his innocence to the last?’ she said.

  ‘He did.’ Crowther’s smile had disappeared and his skin seemed to have become a little more grey in the candlelight.

  ‘And you were with him the night before his execution?’

  ‘I was.’

  Harriet tried to imagine it for a moment, then shook the thought from her head. ‘Did no one believe him? Not even your sister?’

  ‘She was only a child at the time, but yes, at first she believed him and we did make enquiries about this mysterious man. But it was such a fantastic story. I had never heard of Jocasta’s testimony, of course. I am sure that I would have dismissed it even if I had, even as I did in eighty-one when I spoke to her of it in London. I cannot blame the magistrate whom she says called her a liar. She had been a bored and difficult pupil at the parish school, and it was held against her. There was Adair shut into his room with blood on his hands, and scarring Lottie Tyers in his madness.’

  Harriet picked at the lace on her sleeves, making the silver threads catch and drop the light. ‘I do not believe you did entirely dismiss Jocasta’s testimony when you heard it for yourself, Crowther. I think we are here in part because of what she told you. Even if the body had not been found on Saint Herbert’s Island I still think you would have found your way here eventually.’

  He smiled, slightly. ‘Perhaps you are right, Mrs Westerman. Though, as always, I have needed you to goad me into doing what needs to be done.’

  She shrugged. ‘I am so crowded and confused at this moment, I am not sure if I could say what I think needs to be done. If we manage by some miracle to prove your brother innocent. .’

  The thought was left to turn in the candlelight, till Crowther seemed to pluck it from the air between his long fingers and turn it over in his hands.

  ‘I do not believe in spirits, Mrs Westerman. Neither Addie nor my father have visited me to claim justice or confess, and I have been too long in this world to expect it to reward virtue. The world does not care who lives or dies, or why, but I still think we may search for truth, that such a thing exists. That may be the only right thing to do. What follows, we cannot hope to know.’

  Harriet watched the yellow flame on the candle. The air was so still it never wavered. ‘Let me ask you this then. Do you still believe that your brother killed your father?’

  He slowly shook his head. ‘No, Mrs Westerman. My family have been guilty of many crimes, but I am very afraid now that Addie was innocent. But he could not convince us, and half London saw him hanged.’

  ‘I am sorry, Crowther.’

  ‘That my father was a murderer? Or that my brother was not? That my nephew might be?’

  ‘For all of it.’

  His face remained calm, but Harriet could guess what saying those words had cost him. The story on which his life had been founded, unpleasant as it was, he now suspected a fiction. So here they found themselves, in the darkness of the old fells, and the lies had built and climbed one upon the back of the other like the ranges of hills
that struggled upwards to the unseeing sky and the pewter moon.

  ‘Are you tired, Crowther?’

  He turned towards her and looked up from under his hooded eyes. ‘I am always somewhat tired, Mrs Westerman. What have you in mind?’

  ‘I am thinking on the dedication in the snuffbox, and your sister’s immediate idea we were suggesting your father was instrumental in the betrayal of Lord Greta’s brother in forty-five. If the body in the tomb was the reason your father was murdered, then we must learn more than Mrs Tyers has told you and general gossip. Was he indeed Greta’s man? What business had he at Silverside so pressing he would risk his neck by knocking on your father’s door the day after setting light to Gutherscale? What became of Greta and his family? Whom did they blame for the taking of Rupert be Beaufoy? I am wondering if we might have among our friends in London a gentleman likely to know a great deal about the enemies of the King domestic and foreign, and who has a talent for coming by information he does not have immediately to hand.’

  Crowther pressed his fingertips together and smiled. ‘I think I know whom you have in mind. Our friend Mr Palmer probably does have more chance of knowing such things than any other man living.’

  ‘Then write to him, Crowther.’

  ‘While I do so, perhaps you can tell me of your investigations into the death of Mr Hurst.’ He paused, looking at her. ‘What is it, Mrs Westerman?’

  ‘I have found nothing but a little misery and many more questions. And I fear we may have to have more dealings with other lawyers in the morning.’

  Crowther sighed as he prepared his pen. ‘Explain, if you please.’

  From the collection of Mr Askew, Keswick Museum

  Letter to The Gentleman’s Magazine, June 1746

  Concerning the fire at Gutherscale Hall, last November

  Mr Urban,

  Though the pages of your worthy periodical have been heavy with reflection on the late Rebellion against our King, now the storm is passed it seems fitting to give you some account of the terrible fire of Gutherscale Hall. The destruction of this mighty house acted as a harbinger of the fates of the family that once dwelled between its walls, as within only a sennight of its being consumed by flames, Rupert de Beaufoy, younger brother of the last Lord Greta who now languishes in exile, was taken on his way to join the Rebellion. It seems his location was betrayed by one of his followers, a man much trusted by the Greta family.

  All loyal subjects to the King have, however, suffered a great loss in this fire which consumed a home noble for many generations in the space of a single night. How the fatal conflagration began, none can say, for there was no sign of lightning on the night in question. One must suppose some vagrant managed to start a fire there for his warmth, but a spark spread and consumed the whole. The smoke was first noted by labourers ending their day’s work on the opposite side of the lake, and word and assistance was rushed at once to Silverside Hall, residence of Sir William Penhaligon, current owner of these lands and Gutherscale itself. The loss of this fine house is all the more bitter as, having survived its master’s exile and the forfeiture of his lands for thirty years, it had just been purchased from the state by Sir William, who had declared his intention to refurbish this ancient house and make it his own. Alas, it was not to be!

  Sir William was at Silverside when word arrived, and at once raced to the scene to do what he could to halt the flames, but it was already beyond the efforts of any man to save it. Sir William’s distress was extreme, and only the appeals of his young daughter clutching at his coat and begging him not to risk his life prevented him from plunging into the fire as if he could extinguish it with his own hands.

  At dawn the ancestral home of the Greta family had been reduced to ashes. Would that the Young Pretender had seen this for the omen it proved to be and removed himself at once again to the court of his father in peace, rather than suffer his followers to feel the mighty wrath through Cumberland of the true King of this country.

  Yours c W.L.

  PART IV

  IV.1

  Friday, 18 July 1783

  Harriet eventually found her son by the lake. He was seated on the jetty watching the ruffled silk of the waters, and though he glanced up as he heard her approach he did not come to her until she called. When they had settled on a wrought-iron bench at the edge of the woodland, Harriet realised she was not entirely clear in her own mind what she wanted to say to him. She felt she should prohibit any contact with Casper, but could not bring herself to say the words. Instead she found herself twisting the thin black band of her mourning ring.

  In the end it was Stephen who spoke first. ‘Miriam says Mr Sturgess is after Casper for killing Mr Hurst.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me to stay away from Casper, Mama?’

  Harriet drew breath, then shook her head. ‘I do not know what to tell you, Stephen.’

  ‘He needs my help.’

  Harriet put her arm around his shoulder and pulled him to her. ‘I want to keep you safe, but I do not know how.’ She felt his small hand reach up to take her own, and they looked out across the lawn together. There was a cough behind them: Harriet started and turned. Casper appeared from the shadows as if speech of him had summoned his form out of the woods. Joe sat on his shoulder, his wings lifted slightly.

  ‘Mr Grace!’ Harriet said.

  ‘Didn’t mean to alarm you, Mrs Westerman,’ Casper said, ‘but I’d be glad of some speech with you.’

  ‘Morning, Casper.’

  ‘Good day, youngling.’

  Harriet took her arm from round her son. Casper’s bruises were rainbows of purple and yellow, and his features more drawn than when she had seen him standing by Mr Hurst’s body. ‘You are welcome to sit with us. You look weary.’

  He shook his head. ‘Best I’m not seen from the house. Let me tell you a thing or two and then I’ll go about my business.’ Harriet waited, and he watched her for a moment before apparently coming to some decision in his own mind. ‘There’s a girl gone missing from the village. Agnes Kerrick is her name. I think she was taken by the men that beat me, since she came upon it. I mean to find them, and her.’

  ‘Do you know who they were?’

  Casper nodded. ‘I’ve got an idea of two of them. I had a prowl around last night and they ain’t sleeping in their own beds no more, but I think I can rattle some words out of the mother.’

  ‘Do you think they have harmed this girl, then? Can you tell me their names?’

  ‘If they have, I shall know it. As to naming them, I’ll keep that to myself for now. I know these folk, and have my ways. I must ask your trust.’

  Harriet sighed, but eventually nodded and said quietly, ‘Do you think the attack on you is connected with the murder of Mr Hurst?’

  ‘Can’t make sense of that,’ Casper said, scratching hard at the back of his neck. ‘The placing of that body is a pebble in my shoe. It was done by someone who knew it as a secret place, but did not know it as a place of mine. The people here know I have reason to go there often enough. The men I have my eye on for my beating know that well as anyone.’

  ‘So who. .?’

  ‘Gentry.’

  Harriet was quiet for a while.

  Casper sniffed. ‘I’m sure the men that beat on me made all the ruckus at the Black Pig too.’

  ‘From what Miriam said, it sounded as if they were looking for something,’ Harriet told him. ‘But what? Did they mean to steal money from you?’

  Casper looked out on the lake. ‘How is Miss Hurst bearing up?’

  Harriet told him what she could of the interview with her son listening, and of the notice in the paper. ‘Can you see any join here, Casper?’

  ‘Can’t say I do. Can’t say it, unless this season has made all men mad and there’s blood boiling all over. If I learn anything that touches on him, I’ll get word to you. But I’ve got to find Agnes. That’s my first thought. You look for traces of her where you go, and I’l
l stretch my ears to the wind for any word of your business.’ He made to leave but Harriet put out her hand and rested it on his arm. He flinched as she did so, and she felt the tight strength of his muscles under her white fingers.

  ‘The Island of Bones, Casper — the skeleton. What do you know of that? Did your father ever mention-’

  ‘Nothing. But this I’ll say. In forty-six, Sir William set my da up with enough money to buy the Black Pig. And he was not a man who parted with his money easily.’

  Harriet released him and bit her lip.

  ‘What can I do, Casper?’ Stephen said. ‘Shall I come with you?’

  Harriet felt Casper’s eyes flick to her and back to her son.

  ‘Not now. Come to the cabin in an hour, and we may have words.’ He pulled something from his satchel. ‘And here’s fresh for your Mr Quince. How is he?’

  ‘A little better,’ Stephen said quietly.

  Casper ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Mind your ma, lad.’ Then he touched his forehead to Harriet and was gone. The trees swallowed him like light.

  Harriet realised her son was looking at her. ‘Just please be careful, Stephen,’ she said softly.

  Crowther was examining the third of the dozen arrows in his nephew’s quiver when he heard the door open and saw Felix in front of him. For a second they simply stared at each other, then Crowther placed the arrow on the baize of the billiard table to his right and picked up the next.

  ‘May I ask what you are doing, sir?’

  ‘I am examining your arrows, Felix, for any sign of the blood or brain matter of Mr Hurst. I would have done so last night, but feared there would be insufficient light.’