Island of Bones (19 page)

Crowther had never been fond of his father. From his childhood Sir William Penhaligon had appeared a dangerous, unpredictable being, best avoided. Crowther had never learned how to please him, realised his father thought him a strange, alien being in his home. They shared no interests, and it seemed at times they hardly shared the same language. Crowther recognised that his father must have had some abilities; after all, Sir William had been born a baronet with nothing but debt to polish his title with, but died a rich man and Lord Keswick. That indicated he had both political and financial skills; however, to Crowther he had appeared nothing but a bully.

When Crowther was much of the age of Stephen Westerman, his father had decided over breakfast that he would teach his younger son to swim. Crowther had tried to run away, but was not quick enough for his father or his father’s servant Ruben Grace. He had been carried to the lake struggling and biting, then bundled into the rowing boat kept tied up at the landing-stage on the edge of the water. Sir William had pulled on the oars till they were some thirty yards from the shore, then ordered his servant to throw his son into the water. Crowther could still remember his own protests, the sense of powerlessness then the grasping cold as he was cast into the lake. The shock of it had stopped his tears at once.

Looking down from their comfortable seat at the wooded islands of Derwent Water more than forty years later, Crowther could see quite clearly the image of the two men in the rowboat. His father’s face red and fleshy, his white full-bottomed wig, the splay of his coat-tails, and Ruben, his thick shoulders, his brown hands. They were watching him, implacable as effigies as he spat out the icy lake and trod water.

Crowther had known well enough how to keep his head above the surface. And now instead of the chill of the lake, he felt angry. His fear had left him. His father had slapped his fat thigh.

‘Good, Charles. Keep your head and you’ll live through most things. Now swim to me and we shall take you in again.’ Crowther could still taste the mix of lakewater, rage and disgust, could still see the hooded eyes of his father as he stretched out a hand.

Crowther had not swum towards him, but rather turned in the water and struck out for the bank at the north edge of his father’s property, certain he would rather drown than get back in the boat. He did not hear the squeak and clunk of the oars in the rowlocks as Sir William and Ruben had given up observing him and instead headed back for the landing-stage.

Crowther had stayed away from the house as long as the cold would let him, then returned by the kitchen door. The housekeeper, Lottie Tyers, who was kinder to him than most, had sat him in front of her fire and fed him, sending a maid to Lady Penhaligon to assure her she still had two sons, but said nothing to him. Crowther had watched the flames in the range until his pale skin began to warm in silence. The incident was never mentioned again.

Crowther realised that Harriet was still watching him quietly.

‘My thoughts are as gothic this morning as they were in the storm, I fear. There were indications on the bones of a blade strike near the heart. There is a corresponding hole in the waistcoat of the corpse.’ Crowther placed his cane on the gravel in front of them, and folded his hands over it.

‘You said as much last night. There is something more?’

He nodded. ‘When I first inherited this cane from my father, it was a swordstick. The blade was broken.’ He felt rather than heard Harriet’s reaction. ‘I do not know what, if anything, we might find on the Island of Bones after so many years, Mrs Westerman, but I should be glad to go and examine the place at once if you are willing. Then later I shall pay a call on Lottie Tyers.’

She was quiet a moment before speaking. ‘I see. Thank you for not waving the broken blade at me during the thunderstorm.’

‘I would have done, were it still in my possession. You will accompany me to the Island then?’

‘Naturally, but first another matter. Mr Quince is ill. He was shivering as he went to his bed last night and this morning is feverish. I have asked that the local physician be consulted. Do you though have any advice?’

He smiled slightly. ‘You know my subjects are dead, as a rule.’

‘Nevertheless . . .’

‘Do not let the physician bleed him. It is as superstitious a practice as witchcraft, and often, I believe, more harmful. Mrs Briggs seems a sensible woman. I would trust in her and her people. What of your son?’

She stood; she was wearing her riding dress of dark green, and smoothed its folds around her. ‘He has disappeared into the hills as his tutor is ill. I understand he intends to hunt for treasure. He shall be safe, don’t you think?’

‘Tell him to avoid the old mines. These hills are honeycombed with them, and they can be dangerous.’

‘They sound just the place for treasure.’

Crowther let his eyes drift towards the wooded banks above him. ‘Mention I have said they are also just the place for bogles.’

Harriet smiled. ‘I shall tell him so.’ They heard the crunch of gravel under wheels, and she turned to see a man in a black suit with an old-fashioned wig emerge from the carriage. ‘Let us see what the physician has to say. I would be glad if you can attend and look severe when he examines Mr Quince. Then I am at your disposal.’

H
AVING TOLD HIS
mother of his plans while she dressed, Stephen stole into his tutor’s room for a moment and found Mr Quince still asleep, though not at peace. The boy watched with concern as he tossed his head on his pillow a little, and beads of perspiration shone on his pink forehead. Stephen filled the water glass by his tutor’s bed, then sat and watched the young man’s heavy face rocking from side to side as if the whole house were moving with the regular swell of waves on the ocean after a storm. He knew the medical man from town had been called, but he had no more faith in doctors than Mr Crowther.
Stephen moved the water glass a little, hoping to place it exactly where Mr Quince might reach. He liked Mr Quince and had been shamed and sorry when Felix pushed him into the lake. He thought of his conversations with the servants and Casper of the day before, and came to a decision. Treasure could wait a little while yet.

He stood, then bent forward to Mr Quince and whispered to him, ‘Do not worry, sir. I shall fetch Casper and he shall mend you,’ then with a sense of purpose that made his steps firm again, he headed out of the room, just remembering not to let the door clap too sharply behind him.

Only when he reached the bottom of the main stairs did he pause to think that he had no idea where Casper might be found. Their meetings so far had been accidental. Luckily Stephen was not a boy to be put off from his purpose as easily as that, and so rather than heading out onto the shores of the lake at once, he instead found his way into the kitchen and scared Cook by appearing out of the thin air at her side like a sudden spirit, shining with zeal.

The physician having been sent away before he could unpack his bleeding bowl, Harriet left Mr Quince to Miriam’s care and set out for the Island with Crowther. Isaiah, one of the Silverside gardeners who offered his services as a boatman, rowed with practised ease and sang softly to himself as they went. Harriet let her mind wander, and found her thoughts turned as ever to the husband she had lost. James would have enjoyed seeing this country, and the regret that he would not, filled up her mind like the water in the lake. She knew she was no longer the broken creature she had been when she had first buried him, and the worst of her grief was, she fervently hoped, behind her – but she still saw him in her mind’s eye every other hour. Sometimes she remembered to be grateful for having met and married him; sometimes she cursed herself for ever having been happy, since it made the current darkness only deeper. Still, she could feel that the change of air was some help, or perhaps it was her interest in the strange body. She could only hope
when their business was complete in the north and she returned home, that the darkness would not press so heavily on her.

Only the gentle knock of the prow against the shore woke her to the present. She followed Crowther out of the boat neatly enough to earn a look of commendation from Isaiah, and she drew over her face the mask of a woman not grieving as deliberately as she had buttoned on her gloves in the lobby of Silverside Hall.

‘I’ll wait here for you then,’ Isaiah said, and settled himself on a flat rock near his boat on the little bit of beach. Harriet nodded, and the man produced pipe and tobacco from his pockets while Crowther leaned on his cane and looked about him, saying nothing.

The little chapel was found up an easy path. It was in a sadly dilapidated state.

‘This was the home of a hermit, was it not?’ Harriet asked as the trees closed off their views of the lake.

‘The Island was, yes, many centuries ago. Saint Herbert, friend of Cuthbert, lived here. This chapel is of a much later date, of course. I believe the family of Greta had an establishment here while King Henry was at Agincourt, and the chapel was a part of that construction. Saint Herbert’s original residence has long ago returned to dust.’

Harriet pushed the branches clear of her way and emerged into the clearing. They must, she imagined, be in the very centre of the little island now. Much of the chapel was still intact; its grey walls, however, were heavy with greenery and there was no trace of the doors and windows that must once have completed it. She thought of the skeleton. Here was the same story in stone. The summer home of the ancient Gretas must have stood to the right. One proud wall still tried to raise itself upright from the rubble around it.

‘Mrs Briggs told me that Mr Askew suggested she build new ruins here, rather than a summerhouse. He offered to hire a hermit to live among them for the delight of the pleasure-seekers in town.’ Crowther made no comment and she turned to see him standing in a square of sunlight that had struggled down through the trees. ‘I told her she need
only provide you with a place to experiment and they might have a hermit at no charge.’

‘How did she take to that proposal?’

‘She did not know you at that point, so presumed I was only funning.’

Stephen found the nest of woodcutters’ cabins on the far edge of Overside Wood. Beyond it, a crop of new timber reached up the hillside, but he had climbed through old fat oaks to find it, then walked along the edge as Cook had instructed. He had a parcel of cold meats and cheese under his arm, an offering from the servants in the kitchen.

There were three cabins, grouped round a number of large stones that had been arranged to serve as benches and fireplace for those who sheltered here. It was simple to see which was the most regularly occupied. Of the three cabins, only one looked neat and solid, and the other two had fallen into disrepair so between them they laid open the manner of their construction. It was like looking at the pictures in some of Mr Crowther’s books where on one page was a picture of an animal whole, then next to it, Figure 2 showed the animal in the same attitude, but with its skin removed, and next to that, the skeleton alone. The hut to the west of the camp was the skeleton. It was no more than several long poles set in a circle, but tilted inwards so their tops met and were tied together in a bundle. Some thinner branches remained weaving through the struts. The second still preserved, laid over these thin branches like slates, shallow strips of turf, though it was fallen in places showing the basketweave below. The third, however, still had its skin whole and complete.

There was something wrong. The hurdle gate of the complete cabin was lying some feet off. Still, Stephen would never have thought to enter the cabin if Joe had not been dancing and cawing in front of it.

Stephen approached cautiously. He could hear no sounds from within.

‘Casper?’

A groan, and an arm appeared in the narrow hoop of light in the entrance to the cabin. Stephen sucked in his breath and stepped back.

‘Here, youngling.’ It was Casper’s voice but dry and faint as fog. Stephen moved forward again and crouched in the entrance. Casper was a low shape in the darkness. The sleeve on the arm that lay in the light was torn, and there were bruises blooming on the wrists.

‘Water.’ The arm lifted slightly off the ground, and in the darkness Stephen made out the shape of a pitcher lying on its side on the earth floor. He scuttled past the prone body and picked it up, then holding it to his chest ran out of the clearing and down the path to the place where it was crossed by a brook, then washed and filled the jug, his heart thumping uncertainly. He returned as quickly as he could without letting any of the water splash free.

As he approached the clearing, he slowed. Casper had dragged himself out of the cabin and was now sitting with his back to Stephen, his legs straight out before him, and his head low on his chest. Stephen stepped beside him and crouched down. The brown hands reached up rather blindly. Stephen guided them around the jug. As Casper lifted it to his mouth and tilted his head back, Stephen gasped. The left side of his face was red and scraped. His left eye was purple and swollen shut. The right gleamed, however, as Stephen drew in his breath.

Casper drank deeply and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Pretty, am I?’

Stephen swallowed. ‘What happened, Mr Casper?’

Casper drank again, then upended the jug over the top of his head. The water beaded on his dark hair, ran over his face like tears and made his shirt cling to him. His nose had bled, crusting his mouth and chin, and there were dark spots all over his shirt. The blood on his mouth began to run in the water, dripping from the corners of his lips.

‘More,’ he said, lifting the jug.

Stephen ran off again, this time with Joe bobbing along beside him, rattling and whistling as if trying to give a full narrative and a fund of good advice.

‘Shush, Joe,’ Stephen said. Then, as he put the water next to Casper
and watched him drink again, he felt guilty for slighting the bird, and as Casper panted and drank, he fed the jackdaw crumbs from his pocket.