Island of Bones (21 page)

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.

When Fräulein 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.’

W
HEN 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 Vizegräfin 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 Vizegräfin 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 Vizegräfin 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 Vizegräfin 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.

‘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.