Island of Bones caw-3

by Imogen Robertson

  Mr Palmer said nothing.

  ‘You went to the archives before you came here, did you not? It was after that visit that you decided to offer this treasure to me.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Gawen. After I saw your name on the writ for Rupert de Beaufoy’s arrest.’

  The old man set down his wine. ‘Your teacher cannot complain if you have learned your lessons well, Mr Palmer.’ He stared at the map in his lap again, moving his hands across old, guessed boundaries, feeling with his fingertips for dragons in uncharted territory. ‘Very well. We shall come to that when we must. Greta escaped to France from the Tower itself. It was his wife who managed the affair, dressing him as a maid and smuggling him out under the noses of the guards. They joined the court of the Pretender. They had managed to get away with some money, but most of that was spent in bribing their way out of the country.’

  ‘Were your predecessors sorry to see him escape, sir?’ Palmer asked.

  A corner of Sir Gawen’s mouth lifted crookedly. ‘Not altogether. He was a liked man among the people. It suited us better to see him skulk off to France in a frock rather than become a martyr. The crowd is fickle. Sometimes it is better to make them laugh at our enemies. Tell ’em he ran off in his wife’s spare petticoats and they are less likely to make a hero of him.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He lived in some want in France. The Pretender and his son spent whatever money our enemies gave them on themselves and left the others to gather trifles. For over twenty years he watched his supposed King fail and flounder, and the Young Pretender become as spoiled and whining a brat as his father had been. Then his wife gave him a son when they had given up all hope of being so blessed. That was in forty-two. And this time his wife took the sword from him. She begged him not to join the Rebellion of forty-five, and as always her wishes were his guide.’

  ‘So his younger brother was sent in his stead?’

  ‘Indeed, with the few followers they still had. They got into the country quietly enough. We had grown a little too secure, having another George on the throne, I fear. Let that be a lesson to you, my boy. There are no such things as peaceful times. Only, when people such as you and I manage our business well, for a period they may appear to be so. We learned where they were. Something delayed them from joining the main force at the appointed time; they dallied longer in their hiding-place than they should have done. We found them in the house of a sympathiser not far from Preston. Swords were drawn, but no blood shed. The followers were transported. De Beaufoy was executed for treason in forty-six when the Rebellion had been driven back into the waters from whence it came.’

  ‘And from whom did you receive the information about where de Beaufoy was in hiding?’

  Again Sir Gawen smiled and stroked the parchment on his lap. ‘It is a very fine map.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘The rumour was he was betrayed by a servant who stole from him, then gave him up to the government.’

  ‘I did not ask, Sir Gawen, what the rumour was.’

  ‘You did not. Very well. We received our information from Sir William Penhaligon, as he then was.’

  ‘Mr Crowther’s father.’

  ‘Indeed. He had come into possession of certain letters that revealed whose house they were sheltering in, so he said, and got that information into hands that could make use of it. Mine. And he was clever about it. He sent a servant with the message, and nothing written down. I can see that rogue before me, more sharply than I can see you, Palmer, in this gloom. A great thick-armed fellow who had ridden through the country without sleep till he reached my door. He had a mouth so full of the barbarous dialect of that place I could hardly understand him. He gave me the name of a house, said Rupert de Beaufoy was thought to be there according to letters intercepted, and added, only, “Sir William Penhaligon sends this message to his King”. Then he was gone again.’

  ‘You did not doubt the message?’

  The old man shook his head very slowly. ‘It was too fine a prize to be ignored. We knew of Sir William a little. He was a clever man and had already made enough friends among my friends. The information was good. We found it was time to bestow a new title in those lands. Sir William wished to purchase further land from the forfeited estates of Lord Greta. We arranged that he received an advantageous price.’

  ‘And the rumour that de Beaufoy was betrayed by a servant?’

  ‘Dropped into an ear or two. Allowed to fly uncorrected.’

  Mr Palmer was silent a few moments. ‘Intercepted. Was it not at the time of the Rebellion that Gutherscale Hall burned?’

  ‘Not that I had leisure to think on it at the time, Palmer. But when we were secure again I had the same suspicion.’

  ‘That Lord Greta had ordered that the Hall be burned rather than receive Sir William as a tenant.’

  ‘Perhaps. And that either the arsonist was discovered, or was ordered to make some other threat against Sir William. If so, Greta underestimated Sir William and his determination to hang onto what Greta himself had abandoned.’

  It was strange how quiet this room was, being so close to Whitehall and the hustle and show of the city. A silent ink spot in the centre of all that movement and display.

  ‘Perhaps?’

  Sir Gawen sniffed his wine. ‘All these years, Mr Palmer, and now I find myself transparent. There was a man, much loved by Greta, whom we expected to find with his brother. A Kit Huntsman. He was not there, and we have never had sight of him since.’

  Mr Palmer thought of the skeleton on the island and of the sharp lines of Mr Crowther’s face.

  ‘There is something more,’ Palmer said at last.

  ‘Rupert suffered the traditional fate of a traitor, you know. The King was adamant. Hanged, cut down when alive, disembowelled, then his limbs cut from his trunk. He lived a long while into it.’ The haze in the streets seemed to have thickened. Sir Gawen no longer appeared so eager to look Mr Palmer in the eye.

  ‘We have agreed it is a very fine map, have we not, Sir Gawen?’

  The old man nodded. Palmer wondered whether, if he lived to such an advanced age, the secrets he held would bend his spine as they seemed to have done to Sir Gawen.

  ‘We heard a rumour, a whisper that perhaps the story of the servant was no longer believed, and then. . A man saw a face in the crowd.’

  ‘When?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘The year of Lord Keswick’s murder.’

  ‘What season?’

  ‘That season.’

  Palmer breathed deeply, yet his blood still felt thin and hot in his veins. ‘And no one thought to offer that information to the accusers of Lord Keswick’s oldest son?’

  ‘I did not. I did not. There was too much foul air trapped in the business to open it up. Do not play the child with me, Palmer. Would you expose so much, on so thin a scrap of rumour, to save the neck of a boy like Lucius Adair Penhaligon?’

  Mr Palmer picked up his wine. ‘Perhaps not.’

  His companion nodded emphatically. ‘If you must communicate this to Mr Crowther, have the decency to lie about when the information came to us. Say it was after the trial. We do not wish him an enemy.’

  Mr Palmer drank. ‘Very well. For that I shall ask you one last question. What happened then? What became of Lord Greta’s son?’

  ‘Lord Greta died two years later and three days after his remarkable wife, leaving his son a gentleman of dubious education and limited means. The son was a military man for a while, then made his way playing cards, but he was lost sight of after a scandal some five years ago. A grand game that ruined a young man. He was accused of cheating, and fought a duel though I have no doubt the accusation was accurate. He killed his man, and escaped with the fortune he had swindled. He went by the name of von Lowenstein at that time.’

  ‘Had he other names?’

  Sir Gawen drained his wine. ‘His given one was Grenville de Beaufoy. There were times though when he liked to play the English gentleman of middling rank. Th
en we heard of him styling himself as Mr Sturgess.’

  V.6

  Silverside Hall

  Mrs Briggs took Harriet directly into the drawing room. ‘Oh, I am glad you came, Mrs Westerman! So grateful. I do not know what to do. I thought perhaps your son might get a message to Casper for me, but I am not at all sure what I should say. I had to ask you — what should I say? It is a terrible, terrible slander if I am wrong.’

  ‘Mrs Briggs,’ Harriet said, looking her in the eye, ‘I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about. Is this something to do with the Vizegrafin?’

  Mrs Briggs had collapsed onto one of her sofas, produced a handkerchief and begun to gnaw on it. However, when Harriet finished she looked up swiftly. ‘The Vizegrafin? What might she have to do with it?’

  Harriet sighed and sat down next to her. Mrs Briggs took a deep breath. ‘I may seem an idiot to you, Mrs Westerman, and if I do, I hope you will be kind enough to tell me so, as it would be a great relief.’

  ‘Mrs Briggs. .’

  She held up her hand. ‘Yes, yes. I know, I shall start at the beginning. When we were talking last evening in your room, we mentioned the Fowlers, father and son.’

  ‘I remember,’ Harriet said, cupping her chin in her hands.

  ‘I told you I have tried to give them work from time to time, I think? Yes? Well, as it happens, one of those occasions was when we opened the tomb on Saint Herbert’s Island. I had no idea that they might find anything to steal there.’

  ‘The snuff barrel!’

  ‘Precisely, Mrs Westerman.’ She patted Harriet on the knee. ‘If you remember, Mr Sturgess brought it to us.’

  Harriet frowned as she tried to remember. ‘He said they had been fighting, and were taken up before him as the magistrate.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I began to wonder. . and when you said that Casper thought they were the men that beat him. .’

  ‘I am not entirely sure I am following you, Mrs Briggs.’

  ‘My dear girl, who might? I was so worried by what I was thinking I spent the whole night pacing my room and wondering at it.’ She drew breath again. ‘Mr Sturgess has always been passionately interested in the history and antiquities of the area. Such as the Luck.’

  ‘Mr Askew said he made various contributions to the museum.’

  ‘So he did, so he did. He tried to employ Casper to help him, but he is not the sort of man who sends fools after buried treasure. The whole village knows though that Mr Sturgess has a great interest in such things. I had thought that interest had waned, but then with Casper beaten and the Black Pig searched. . Mr Sturgess is normally rather free with his fines and punishments and sending people to the Petty Sessions. I thought he had learned to be more merciful.’

  Harriet bit her lip. ‘I heard a man call Casper the Luck-keeper today.’

  Mrs Briggs nodded quickly. ‘I was here twenty years before anyone let that name slip in front of me. But those Fowlers, suppose they told Sturgess that Casper might have the Luck? They are stupid men, he could have threatened them with the rope or the prison hulks if he said the snuffbox was worth enough. Suppose they traded their necks for that bit of chatter, and then Mr Sturgess sent them off after Casper?’

  ‘It is a grave suspicion, but it would make sense of his determination to have Casper taken up for the murder of Mr Hurst, and Mr Askew.’

  ‘Just so, poor deluded man! To so compromise himself for the sake of a jewel! Oh, I pity him. I wanted to see if your son might warn Casper, and thought perhaps I might write a letter to Mr Sturgess in a friendly way, to suggest his enthusiasm might have overcome his good sense in his search for the heritage of this area.’

  Harriet stood up. ‘How long has Mr Sturgess been resident in the area, Mrs Briggs?’

  Her hostess examined the air above her head. ‘Let me see. . it was when Mr Briggs first invested in the wine business on the continent, rather than simply importing what had already been grown. . so it must be four, no nearly five years ago now.’

  ‘I think it would be best if I pay Mr Sturgess a visit.’

  Mrs Briggs put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Mrs Westerman, must you? He might be so ashamed. He has been such a good neighbour to us. And I might be terribly wrong.’

  ‘I think I shall take Felix with me.’ She began to walk towards the door, when Mrs Briggs’s voice stopped her.

  ‘But what of Mr Askew, Mrs Westerman? And Mr Hurst? Have your enquiries proceeded at all?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Briggs. Some.’

  Agnes made the pile of her treasures as carefully as she might. There were the larger sticks she had found, then piled on top the splinters and sticks she’d managed to pull free from the more rotted joists that held the earth above her. On top of these she had bundled threads. They might not serve to lead her through the tunnels, but she had ripped the seam from her handkerchief and picked it apart with shivering fingers until she had this pile of thin stuff on top of the lighter twigs. In her left hand she held a flint, found and split in the darkness, in her right the arrow, its head pointed down.

  Praying for sparks, she began to strike it down onto the flint.

  When Casper had walked these paths to search the old shafts of Comb Beck, he had had no thought to look for the Fowler men. This afternoon he had found their camp easily enough, and seen enough of it to know they would return to it. A neat site by Masmill Beck, far enough from the path to be hidden. The beck had worked its way well into the slope just here. It had been easy to find slightly higher ground that offered the view he wanted, but where the rocks gave him some cover. What they couldn’t provide he made himself, cutting down a branch from a rowan three yards off. The tree squealed behind his eyes, and he murmured his apologies. The white witch touched its trunk, and he felt it settle. Since Stephen had told him of Swithun’s injury, her voice had become stronger. The black witch, Grice, who had been crowing over his failures till he could hardly know where he was, had slunk back a little. He was calm now, and moved with serious careful intent.

  Now he lay behind the rocks, screened by the rowan but with good sight of the Fowler camp. He held his knife in his right hand. If either father or son came alone, he’d be able to subdue him and get sense out of him with no need of it, but if they came together he’d have to kill one quick to catch the other. He had no wish to murder any man but if needed, he’d do it easily. It seemed to him the Black Witch was struggling to have at him, but something prevented her. He flicked his eyes upstream. The white lady was sitting on a rock in the middle of the waters, her hair all glowing and gold. She raised her hand to him and smiled. He knew only he could see her, and her presence gave him comfort. He smiled then turned his eyes back towards the camp.

  Agnes’s eyes were wet with tears. She’d seen sparks jump, but they would not catch. For a moment she rested, then neatened the pile of threads and began again, striking metal and stone with a chant in her head of ‘this time, this time.’

  When the threads started to glow, she gazed at them stupidly a second then dropped the arrow and blew on them as gently as she could. One of the twigs began to catch. The thin light beyond the barricade was lessening. She began to tremble. What if all the light went before the smoke from her fire made it out of the tunnel’s mouth? She tended the fire and cooed to it like a mother with a child. Then looked up to see the first smoke pulled through the gap in the barrier.

  Harriet had taken Mrs Briggs’s best saddle-horse and Felix rode beside her on his own mount. He had grown sulky finding Mrs Westerman had no intention of explaining to him what they were about. She simply ignored his questions as if they had no more sense to them than the calls of the birds. As they reached Portinscale, Mrs Westerman suddenly reined in her horse and bent low in the saddle to speak to a woman with a basket on her hip.

  ‘Miriam! Have you been in town? Have you seen any sign of Mr Crowther?’

  The servant looked up with a smile. ‘Yes, madam. I saw him not ten minutes ago a way ahead of me. He turned up into Mr
Sturgess’s house.’

  Mrs Westerman’s horse leaped forward and Felix spurred his own in pursuit.

  The evening was coming on. Slowly the light was leaching from the air, and its taste began to change in Casper’s mouth. The blooms of the day were closing, and the scents of darker flowers started to tendril out among the shadows. He felt no difference between himself and the trees and rocks around him; he was a part of the turn of the hill, just like the white lady and the black witch. The heavy air shifted with a faint sound: something was coming along the path, someone. He turned his eyes to where the white lady still sat like a mermaid on her stone in the stream. She put her finger to her lips.

  It was Swithun. Alone. He looked about himself and ducked inside one of the rough covers, coming out a moment later with a large canvas bag which he began to stuff with his goods. Casper tensed his muscles and as Swithun bent forward to drive his blanket as deep and tight into the bag as he could, Casper swung down from his hiding-place. As his feet touched the ground, Swithun spun round to find the evening air had split open and Casper before him. He cried out and Casper brought his fist up hard under Swithun’s chin. He fell back onto the ground and Casper was on him, sat on his chest and pinning his arms to the earth with his knees. Casper lifted his knife so Swithun could see it, then brought it to his eye. Swithun stopped struggling at once. His long eyelashes tickled the point of Casper’s blade. He shifted his weight onto Swithun’s right arm. He groaned but so afraid was he of the knife he did not dare move. Casper lowered his face over Swithun’s until he could taste the younger man’s breath. He tasted the fear on it.