Island of Bones (30 page)

Harriet wet her lips slightly. ‘He wished to visit your old housekeeper, then I believe it was his intention to call on Mr Askew.’

‘What – Lottie Tyers?’ The Vizegräfin shuddered. ‘I can’t believe that old woman is still living; she seemed ancient when I was a child.’

Mrs Briggs put down the joint. ‘I told you of her on the first day you arrived, Vizegräfin,’ she said very precisely. ‘I thought you might wish to see a woman so intimately associated with your childhood.’

The Vizegräfin shrugged. ‘She was a servant.’

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

Mr Askew was never absolutely punctual about the hour his museum closed. He lived in fear of shutting his door just as some member of the quality, whose name could add further lustre to his visitors’ book, might be pondering a visit. At around a quarter to the hour advertised of five o’clock he would generally appear in the square, looking up and down the street for any ladies or gentlemen who seemed to be at leisure to let them know his museum was still at their disposal, and in their absence he mourned the looks of his town. He could not help feeling that most of the houses which surrounded his museum looked hunched and low. He wished he could white-wash the whole settlement. The same thought came into his mind every night as the clock-chimes faded, regular as the bells. Only some minutes after the hour had struck would he, with a last look about him and a sigh, confess that he had had all the custom likely in the day, and return
to his front door with slow steps and draw it closed. Such were his actions now.

He had his hand on the door when he saw a movement in the shadows of the alley opposite and saw Mr Crowther emerging from the gloom. He started. The man unnerved him at the best of times, and he had seen nothing in Crowther’s behaviour to suggest to him they were likely to become friendly. His manners were cold to the point of incivility. Mrs Westerman seemed a pleasant enough woman; she had praised his fireworks. He had mentioned the fact in his paragraph about the event for the London papers, hoping that the mention of her name and the account of the storm might make the gentlemen in the capital think it worthwhile to set his letter in type. Mr Askew paid her the compliment in his mind of being certain that she would never of her own volition become involved with the sordid business of murder, and was privately convinced Crowther must have some dark power over her to force her to aid him in his investigations. If she had appeared on his doorstep in this way, he would have known what to say, and how to say it. With Mr Crowther before him, Mr Askew felt his tongue stick in his mouth.

‘May I see your museum, Mr Askew?’ Crowther said. Askew opened the door and bowed him in, though the skin on the back of his neck prickled and, given the choice, he would rather have welcomed a devil into his living room. He turned the key in the door behind them, then turned to watch Crowther as he examined the displays. He felt his usual enthusiasm for his little establishment wither like cut grass. He watched Crowther move his gaze from the case of minerals, to the examples of stuffed birds, to the portrait of the Luck, and saw only shabby, provincial attempts at science, at art. He dropped his gaze to the floor, and the dusty toes of his own boots, unwilling any more to see his museum suffer under that cold regard.

‘Mr Askew?’

He looked up like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster.

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Where are the materials relating to my father’s murder?’

It seemed to Mr Askew that he had tied his cravat with too much enthusiasm this morning, though he had not noticed the pressure on his throat before now.

‘Materials?’

Crowther pointed his stick to the alcove where an unfortunate stuffed fox mouldered.

‘There. I see the engravings and notes you have assembled on the unfortunate history of Lord Greta. If I were in your trade I would relate the misery of his successor to these lands about there. Instead I see areas where I can tell by the brightness of the paint that certain items have been removed, and an example of
vulpes vulpes
that does no credit to the museum, the art of the taxidermist, or the works of nature herself. So I ask again, where are the materials relating to my father’s murder?’

Mr Askew swallowed. ‘Small display, merely the facts, my lord, tasteful . . . Taken down at your sister’s request.’

‘You have them here, however?’ Mr Askew nodded and pointed mutely in the direction of his office. ‘May I examine them, Mr Askew, if that would not inconvenience you?’

The civility of the question brightened Mr Askew considerably. He bustled towards the office door and unlocked it with his usual buoyant stride and then invited Mr Crowther to sit in his own chair, at his own table, before leaning into the press and dragging out a packing case in which any number of papers seemed to have been crammed in haste. It occurred to him that the murder of Mr Hurst might not do as much damage to his trade as he had feared. If Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman happened to discover the killer, perhaps the loss of Mr Hurst would not be much of a loss at all, especially if they found that some mysterious foreigner had been responsible. That would be an excellent outcome. Their names would be even more closely linked with the area, and he was in a perfect position to describe events for the press. Perhaps even write a little book on their investigation, to be sold exclusively in the museum. He was aware that people enjoyed reading about such things.

‘As you see, sir,’ he said, pulling a framed engraving free, ‘here is our
portrait of your father, and one of your brother. It was their marks you noticed on the wall.’ He placed them on the blotter in front of Crowther, and was about to place his other papers over them when Crowther held up his hand. He was staring at the two portraits with steady concentration.

After a significant pause, Crowther let his hand drop. ‘They are faithful likenesses,’ he said, then looking up again added, ‘What else have you there, Mr Askew?’ Askew put down the volume that was in his hand delicately on top of the 1st Baron’s portrait. Crowther examined the first page.
A collection of the most remarkable and interesting trials with the defence and behaviour of the criminals before and after condemnation
. Mr Askew coughed slightly, then turned the pages till he reached the relevant section. The words swam rather in front of Crowther’s eyes. Mr Askew, however, was beginning to brighten. Mr Crowther had not come to insult him, or his museum. Indeed, he seemed to be seeking his help. Mr Askew was glad to offer it. Mr Askew only wished he could do more. Mr Askew began to say so.

‘I think it vital that little establishments such as my own gather together materials relating to the history, the geography and the personalities in a place such as this. I am sure many guineas have been spread around this town because of our humble display on the Luck of Gutherscale Hall, for instance, which perhaps you noticed; and to those whose interest is more scholarly, we may offer materials to aid them in their own researches. Again I mention our display on the Luck. Mr Sturgess is an enthusiast for the legends of this area and has read every reference I could gather on the fall of Lord Greta.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Oh yes. For an out-comer he has gathered a quantity of information. Indeed, I hope his business will allow him to visit me soon, as I have just taken possession of a rather good likeness of the last Lord Greta, superior to that already in my museum and am keen to share it with him.’ He delved back into the press and emerged with a neatly rolled paper which he unravelled and held aloft.

Crowther glanced up briefly. ‘Very fine.’

‘I am
so
glad you agree, sir. Yes, this likeness was taken in Lord
Greta’s last years in exile in France. They say he was quite poor by that time, though of course the artist has still discovered that aristocratic nature which remained to the last. A fine eye for detail is what an artist requires . . . How very strange!’

‘What is strange?’ Crowther asked, without looking up.

‘Oh, nothing – nothing at all,’ Askew said hurriedly. ‘Have you found anything of interest in the volume, my lord?’

Crowther lifted it by one corner. ‘May I take it away with me, Mr Askew? I shall return it tomorrow.’ Mr Askew bowed his consent and Crowther slipped the book into his coat-pocket and stood. Mr Askew watched him; he was staring again at the portraits of his father and brother, but Askew could see no sign of great emotion on his face, only those of quiet study. Then Crowther nodded once, as if to his own thoughts, and with a final bow left the room and the museum to its proprietor’s sole care.

She had been too late to see Stephen before dinner. The extent of Harriet’s information came from Miriam. Her son had been at home for the greater part of the afternoon and had been working at whatever tasks Mr Quince had been fit enough to give him. She had sent word that she looked forward to seeing him in the evening, but by the time she had said all she thought proper to Mrs Briggs, the sky had finally grown dark. She approached her son’s room on tiptoe. His papers were arranged neatly on the desk of the little room between Mr Quince’s closet and his own. She looked at them idly, grateful for the peace. There were phrases in Latin on one sheet, in Greek on another, and rows of calculations on the next. Her own education had been a patchwork of occasional tutors and she had been encouraged to spend more time on needlework than mathematics. She sighed now, thinking of it; she would have made fewer mistakes in her first seasons at Caveley if the rows of figures in the account books had not been such a mystery at first, but at least she had not disgraced herself at the country dances. No doubt the local gentry would have been happier if she had limited herself to quadrilles. There was money enough to hire a steward now,
but she had grown to enjoy feeling the condition of her home and lands through those estate books, and they had become almost friends in the months of her widowhood. Another eccentricity for her neighbours to puzzle over. Though she would never be able to keep her papers as neat as her son did. It was the habit of a sailor’s son.

The door to his room was slightly ajar; she crossed to it and pushed it open gently so the light of her candle spilled over Stephen’s bed. He lay very still, and for a few moments she did no more than watch him. His face was turned away, but she could see the gentle rise and fall of his breath under the sheets. She bit her lip, and told herself now was not the time to talk to him of serious matters. They would keep until morning, but if she turned away for her own sake or his she could not say. She did not know that Stephen’s eyes were wide open in the dark.

Crowther began his walk back to Silverside Hall thinking of the portraits. He knew the original paintings. His sister had taken them from the house, and still had them, he supposed, in her possession. He had seen neither face since 1751. They looked better men in the pictures than in his memory. It was only with great effort that he could conjure any image of his brother other than in the cell in the Tower the night before his execution. With a painful clarity he could see Adair on his knees and weeping. He tried to think calmly of the body on the Island and consider Harriet’s suggestions. Had his father been afraid of something before he died? Had the dead Jacobite come to haunt him in some way?

Slowly, the story his brother had told him began to seem plausible, when before it had seemed ridiculous. The man paying him for a moment alone with his father. Adair arranging to talk to his father away from the house, then sending the other man in his stead. Becoming concerned when his father did not return. Discovering his body, pulling out the knife and stumbling back to Silverside half-mad with guilt and grief.

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.’