Island of Bones (33 page)

‘Indeed, Mr Leathes?’ Crowther said. ‘Are you about to tell me the new factories are all burned up and I am a pauper?’

The man shook his head. ‘No, my lord. You continue to do very well. It would take a great many fires to consume your fortune, and should any such event occur, I would not wait until you happened to visit me to tell you of it.’ The birds in the garden piped and whistled as he spoke, and Harriet found herself thinking of children at play. ‘I was in the process of writing you a note when Dent came in to tell me you were here. I wished to speak to you about your nephew.’

‘What of him?’ said Crowther calmly, and Harriet watched Leathes’ eyes flick up to his client then back down to the tooled leather of his desk.

‘He came to see me some days ago – why, I am afraid I could not quite be sure. It was an awkward sort of interview, but I gained the impression he wished to learn the extent of your fortune and his own expectations.’

‘And how did you answer him?’

‘That I could be of no assistance to him, naturally, and if he wanted any information on the subject he should apply to you directly.’

The two men watched each other carefully for a moment, then appearing satisfied, Crowther nodded. ‘I apologise on my nephew’s behalf if the interview was uncomfortable, Mr Leathes.’

The lawyer smiled. ‘My impression was it was a great deal more uncomfortable for Mr von Bolsenheim. I fear he finds himself at the end of his resources. He asked me in passing as he left if I knew a reputable place, not in the immediate area, where he might get a fair price for his watch. He seemed rather distracted. I was considering suggesting to you it might be wise to make some proper enquiry into the extent of his debts, and perhaps settle some amount on him for the promise of future good behaviour.’

Crowther sighed, crossed his legs and sat back in his chair.

‘Not today, Mr Leathes. Though I shall consider what you say. Some years ago, Mr Briggs found a strongbox at Silverside, and brought it to you, believing it was the property of my father.’

Mr Leathes looked a little wary. ‘Indeed. I wrote to you regarding it.’

‘And I requested that you force the lock, ascertain if there was anything significant contained within and destroy the contents if there was not.’

The canaries chirrupped in the heat. Mr Leathes turned towards the window and leaned back a little in his chair. ‘I believe the phrase you employed, sir, was “dispose of the materials”.’

‘Was it indeed?’ Crowther continued to observe Mr Leathes from under his half-closed eyes. ‘And how did you choose to interpret that phrase?’

Harriet was glad to see that the scrutiny did not appear to discomfort
Mr Leathes. Instead, he reached into his pocket and produced a small brass key with which he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, and bent to retrieve something from it. Then, with an effort, he placed a small iron strongbox on his desk-top.

It was perhaps twenty inches in length, and rectangular, bound with metal bands and riveted. It looked to Harriet like the relic of a much earlier age. They examined it together a moment before Mr Leathes chose to answer Crowther’s question.

‘I am not sure if you recall, my lord, the circumstances of its discovery. Mr Briggs found during his last renovations of your father’s office in Silverside a concealed hiding-place behind the panelling and this within it. He at once had it brought to me, and I wrote to you for instruction.’

‘A safe box within a hiding-place? What could require such security?’ Harriet asked. The box was very dirty and there were marks around the hinges.

Mr Leathes sighed. ‘I cannot say, madam. The lock on this box had already been forced, though I did not discover that until I had received Lord Keswick’s note and tried to open it.’ If he noticed the slight tic in Crowther’s face when he used his title, he gave no sign of it. ‘We lawyers must develop at times an ability to read blindly. I opened the box, and although I saw there were no bonds or papers material to the estate within, I did not feel easy about destroying the box or the contents. I chose instead to interpret your phrase according to my own conscience and stored it in our archives.’

Crowther gave no sign of either annoyance or gratitude, but raised one eyebrow.

‘In your
archives
, Mr Leathes? Yet now when we arrive at your office without warning, we find that you have the box with you. You will forgive me for remarking that this seems rather convenient.’

It seemed Mr Leathes was beginning now to find his seat a little uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘I said we lawyers read blindly, but perhaps I might have gained some
impression
of the contents, and when I heard you were coming to investigate the discovery of the skeleton on the Island of Bones . . .’ He tailed off.

Harriet smiled to herself. ‘You had the box brought to you. And Felix’s visit provided you with the necessary pretext to ask Crowther here,’ she said. ‘On his coming to you, you thought no doubt to introduce the subject of the strongbox. But we have pre-empted you.’

Mr Leathes looked a little sheepish and he held up his hands. ‘You have discovered me, Mrs Westerman.’

Crowther lifted the lid, saying briskly, ‘You have done very well, I think, Mr Leathes, to be so nice in your interpretation.’ The solicitor closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his mouth as Crowther put his hand into the box and pulled out a single sheet, much yellowed with age. He unfolded it and then handed it to Harriet. ‘Mrs Westerman, would you be so kind. Your eyes are so much sharper than mine.’

Harriet knew very well that Crowther’s eyesight was at least as good as her own, but took the paper without demur and studied it. It was a short letter, and reading it, she breathed in sharply.

After a moment or two Crowther’s voice broke in on her. ‘Mrs Westerman?’

‘Yes, yes. It is dated fifteenth May 1750, which places it a few months after your mother’s death, does it not?’

‘Yes, Mrs Westerman, but if you would be so kind . . .’

Harriet brushed a curl from her cheek and started to read.

The birds outside seemed to sense some change in the air and whistled even more stridently than before.

‘Who is Robert O’Brien, Crowther?’ Harriet said at last.

He closed his eyes and put his long fingertips to his forehead. ‘My mother’s nephew through her older brother’s marriage. My mother came from a Catholic family in Ireland.’

‘Jacobites?’ Harriet asked.

‘It is possible they had such sympathies,’ Crowther replied after a pause. ‘It was O’Brien who provided a family for my sister after my father was murdered. She was sent to Ireland direct from her boarding school.’

Mr Leathes watched them. Mr Crowther had his fingertips together and was examining them closely. Mrs Westerman was tapping her foot on the Turkish rug.

‘So it seems my father had reason to fear, and Lottie was right,’ Crowther said slowly. ‘I wonder why he kept the letter about him?’

‘Perhaps he had a thought that if anything did occur . . .’ Harriet said, then saw Crowther flinch and hurried on, ‘Our friend in London might well be able to put some flesh on these bones, though we cannot hear from him for several days.’ She looked at the solicitor again, who was trying, not unsuccessfully, to give the impression of having been struck suddenly deaf. ‘Mr Leathes, is there anything you can tell us about Sir William’s affairs in the forties? Or what his behaviour was in the period before his death? You must have records of those times.’

If Mr Leathes thought it strange this question came from Harriet rather than Crowther himself, he was too well-mannered to show it.

‘We do, of course, Mrs Westerman, have in our archives copies of all communications between this office and Silverside from the time Sir William first settled here in my grandfather’s time until the present day. But perhaps, if you wish it, I may take you to a better, living oracle. My father Thomas dealt with Lord Keswick for many years. He retired from practice some ten years ago, but his memory is still sharp.’ Mr Leathes consulted his pocket-watch. ‘If you are at liberty, I should be very glad to invite you to pay a morning call at my home and meet him. The box Mr Dent can take to Silverside, and it will be there for you to examine at your leisure.’

Crowther actually smiled at the other man. ‘I would be glad to see your father again.’

‘He will be happy to see you too, sir. He speaks fondly of you still.’

Neither gentleman noticed Harriet raise her eyebrows at that.

C
ASPER WAS QUITE
confident he could avoid any hireling of Mr Sturgess as long as he chose, but he came the back way into Portinscale and let himself into the yard of Mrs Fowler’s place quietly nevertheless. The Fowler family had always been a weariness to their neighbours. The grandfather of the family had drunk away any reputation the family had had, and they had been a charge on the parish ever since. Casper could remember the grandfather from his youth, a foul-tempered old man who would beg on market days and say he was too sick to work the rest. His wife carried ill humour with her the way other women carried their baskets. Her children she made work the little piece of land they had until they were old enough to dodge her blows and flee. There was always someone in the village soft enough to feed her offspring, but as soon as they had their fill they went back to their wild and vindictive games. A sheep went straying, and the Fowlers would be eating mutton; a trader found his take short or a laker their pocket empty
and the Fowlers would be drunk. But they were just smart enough to make sure their crimes were not easily discoverable and their victims without the resources to prosecute. They were loud about their enemies and in their own righteous defence, and continual in their complaints.

The grandfather had one son who stayed in the village, Isaac – and who was just like himself – then the old devil slunk into his grave. Isaac had found a simple-minded woman to marry, and soon mocked and bullied her into a sullen and bitter drudge. Swithun was their only surviving child, and at nineteen, looked to follow his father and grandfather in his ways, but Casper would have thought both Isaac and Swithun too much a pair of cowards to try and rob
him
. Petty thieving, certainly, but to attack the cunning-man? Still, it was Swithun who was in the field looking away when Casper passed, his mother who had her eyes all over, and Isaac earned the occasional shilling in the stables of the Royal Oak.

Casper ducked under the lintel of the back door and walked into the cottage. Swithun’s mother was sat, bent over the fire – Casper could smell rabbit cooking. She twisted round as he entered and her face went from a grin to a flat mask in the moment of seeing him.

‘Mother Fowler. Where’s your boy and your husband?’

The woman rocked back from her pot and wrapped her hands in the brown wool of her skirts. She shook her head. Casper took a solid step forward and she hissed, ‘Don’t know, Casper, swear it.’

Her eyes flinched all around the room, and her face was red and sweating. Joe stretched his wings and gave a low caw like a pipe drone when the bag is old. Her eyes became wide.

‘They didn’t do it! They wouldn’t! They didn’t tell me!’ The last came up almost as a shriek. ‘They’s gone.’

The black witch was enjoying herself. Fear always fed her and made her loud. She badgered at Casper to hurt the woman, kick the stool out from under her and see her head smack against the cobbles. Mrs Fowler must have seen some of it in Casper’s eyes, for she whimpered again and looked as if she would clamber up the wide chimney if she could.

‘Swithun came back first though, didn’t he?’ Casper said in a low growl. ‘Came back, as if he could tend to the pig and do his chores and no bill to pay? Gave you my rabbits to turn to sludge in your pot? And your man shovelling shit in the Royal Oak. Then they ran when they saw me going up to the circle.’

‘Their clothes were wet through! They had to come home,’ she yelped. Joe cawed again and she could hardly speak fast enough. ‘I sent them away when I seen youse.’

‘Where are they? Give them here.’

She looked about her as if she thought the devils might come and take her for the fires at once. ‘Who, what, Casper?’

‘The clothes, woman!’

She scuttled away from the fire, keeping so low she was almost on all fours, and snatched up a couple of shirts and two pairs of breeches from the drying rack and thrust them at him.

Casper turned them slowly in his hands, lifted up the fabric to his face and breathed. Fowler was no better as a laundress than a cook: there were stains on the shirt, fresh on the sleeves.

He felt a touch on his leg, and looked down to see the woman crouching on the flags at his feet. ‘Don’t hurt him, Casper – not Swithun. Swithun’s my only boy. He’ll pay you back, he’ll do penance.’

The black witch was talking so loud behind his ears he could hardly hear the begging.
‘Kick her, kick her in the belly, you bastard, while she’s there and begging for it
.’

‘What good has penance ever done you and yours? Time and time over?’ He had to shout over the voice of the black witch. The Fowler woman covered her head with her hands.