Island of Bones (8 page)

‘You whole there, youngling?’ the man said. Stephen nodded, trying to catch sight of the bird again. ‘Give you a fright, did he?’

‘I was not frightened.’

The man laughed under his breath then whistled, taking something out of his pocket as he did so. The crow fluttered up to his shoulder and allowed the man to scratch his glossy black neck as he ate from his open palm.

‘It spoke,’ Stephen said at last, suspiciously.

‘He does that, he does,’ the man replied. ‘When he has a mind to.
Move slowly and he may let you scratch him as I am doing.’ He bent forward, bringing the jackdaw within Stephen’s reach. The boy reached up with great care and pushed his fingers in between the feathers. He had thought they would be soft, but they felt like polished wood and strong. The bird took on a slightly dreamy expression and opened its beak a little with a low growling sound.

‘What is his name?’

The man tilted his head. ‘I can’t say as I know in crow language, but I call him Joe and he’s willing to answer to that.’

‘Joooe,’ said the jackdaw, bobbing a little. Stephen took his hand away quickly and offered it to the man.

‘My name is Stephen Westerman, and I am very pleased to meet you.’

The man took his hand, giving it a smart downward pull that almost dislocated Stephen’s shoulder and set him stumbling again. ‘Casper Grace, so please you, sir.’ He then sat down on a log that formed a natural bench to the right of the path and took various items from his pockets. The jackdaw remained balanced on his shoulder and for the next few moments boy and bird were united in observing the man as he worked with a knife on a half-whittled piece of wood. Stephen became aware that the forest was full of smaller noises under the calling birds – he could hear leaves brushing together where the wind stirred them like a hand in water; somewhere in the distance, a stream was running; as he moved, the forest floor seemed to shush him. Stephen approached cautiously, keeping one eye on the jackdaw, and sat down carefully at the man’s feet.

‘What are you making?’ he said at last.

Without looking up, Casper reached into his pocket and took something from it which he thrust into Stephen’s hand. The boy found himself looking at a neat little carving of a cross that just fitted into his palm. It splayed out towards its four ends and was smooth to the touch, but detailed with an inner line and circle at its centre. The edge was marked out with little dips as if it were decorated with the shadows of something.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said at last. Casper looked up and sniffed.

‘It is a Luck. The Luck of Gutherscale Hall. You may keep it, though don’t tell Askew. He sells them at his museum in the town and doesn’t like it when I give them away for free. Says I am robbing us both. I made it.’

Stephen turned it over and ran his fingertips along the worked edges. ‘I wish I were so clever.’

‘Ha! I’d not say I was clever, lad. Not with wood. Herbs, flowers, blessings maybe, but not so as I’d like with wood. Seems as I can only do these carvings of the Luck.’ He held up the one he was working on and blew on it. ‘I tried to do a portrait of Joe once in wood, but it never came right, did it, Joe?’ The bird lifted its wings and clacked its beak. ‘Good thing Askew can sell these to the Lakers or I’d have a thousand of them by now.’

‘Who are the Lakers, Mr Grace?’

‘Call me Casper, youngling. Why, Lakers are people such as yourself who come to see the Lakes hereabout, of course.’

‘They are very fine.’

Casper looked at him with bright eyes. ‘It
is
fine country, ain’t it?’ He shot to his feet and grabbed Stephen’s hand. ‘Come with me.’ He raced up the path again, dragging Stephen behind him as the bird fluttered along between perches beside them. Stephen half-stumbled, half-ran along the path, not sure if he was frightened or delighted. Suddenly the trees fell away behind him and he found himself thrust out onto a rough promontory, where the view of the lake made him gasp.

Casper knelt at his side, one arm round his shoulders. He smelled of woodsmoke and tobacco and sweat. Stephen breathed it in deeply. As Casper spoke, he pointed out the hills with his free hand.

‘Now that monster there is Skiddaw – you can see ships at sea from there! Then there is Latrigg, sheltering under her like a young lamb by her mother. There is Crosthwaite Church, white and shining as a blessing. There Keswick sits and whistles and is busy, and beyond that
rise there are the stones the Druids left to watch us. That forest is Great Wood, and that great rearing is Castlerigg Fell.’ He placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders a moment to spin him round. ‘Now look up! Look up!’ Stephen stretched his throat to peer at the slopes above him. ‘Causey Pike, and Cragg Hill beyond, and down there, where it all narrows, lie Borrowdale and Rosthwaite. If you are caught there when the snow comes, you must kick your heels till the thaw.’

Stephen tried to repeat the names quietly as they were spoken. ‘Have you climbed all these hills, sir?’

The man flashed his teeth in a smile. ‘Mostly, mostly. And many times; some plants favour one spot, others another.’

A voice called from the woodland behind them. ‘Stephen! Stephen, where are you?’

‘That is my tutor, Mr Quince,’ the boy offered confidentially. ‘We are here, sir!’

Mr Quince had been engrossed in West’s guidebook when Stephen took off into the woods, and the heat was making him sweat rather profusely by the time he had caught up. He found his charge standing on the outcrop like a ship’s figurehead. A man in working clothes was lying on the rock behind him, enjoying the same view. Stephen turned towards him.

‘This is Casper Grace, Mr Quince. He has been telling me all the names of things.’

Mr Quince patted his forehead with his handkerchief then put his hand out to the man. Casper scrambled to his feet and shook it. ‘Glad to meet you, Grace.’

‘Oh, just Casper. Casper does me fine, sir.’

‘Mr Grace knows the names of
all
the mountains,’ Stephen said, then looked abashed. ‘He told me them, but I fear I have forgotten half already.’

‘Do not reproach yourself too much, my boy. They are such a number, and so all on top of each other I have been puzzling to match them to my book.’ Quince tapped the little volume in his pocket. ‘Perhaps if
you have not been too troublesome, Mr Grace will consent to be our guide from time to time during our stay.’

Casper shrugged. ‘I’m not in the habit of guiding. Lots of folk do that. I have other business most days, and like to be free to do it.’

‘Oh do, please,’ Stephen said, going so far as to lay a hand on Casper’s arm. ‘Then I may see Joe again.’ He paused, wondering if this might seem a slight. ‘And you too, sir.’

‘Who is Joe?’ said Mr Quince, looking about him.

The bird provided the answer himself, hopping forward and crooning his name. Mr Quince was taken aback.

‘Joe talks,’ Stephen said.

‘So I see. Remarkable.’

Casper smiled, then mussed the boy’s hair and spoke. ‘I am not much with company, Master Westerman. I have my days where I must be off and running lonesome.’

‘Like a wolf?’ Stephen looked up at him.

‘Ha! Yes, though my teeth are not so sharp.’ Casper rubbed his chin. ‘I am out on the hills most of most days, and most of the nights too. Let’s say when we meet if I am not too bothered by the witches and weather, I’ll show you some places.’ He looked down at Stephen again. ‘There’s a vixen in Great Wood likes to show off her cubs to her friends, and Joe and me are friends of hers. Fancy seeing that one day, youngling?’ Stephen nodded. ‘We shall then. Good day!’

Before Stephen or Mr Quince were able to draw breath to thank him or make any farewells, Casper had sprung over the edge of the outcrop, and was lost in the woodland below. The bird turned to them and cawed in a familiar sort of way, then fluttered off after him.

Stephen leaned in towards Mr Quince, and his tutor put an arm around his shoulders.

‘What do you think he meant about witches and weather, sir?’

Quince pondered a second. ‘No doubt it is some saying of the area, my boy. Now all this charging around must have made you hungry. Shall we go and see if there is any food to be had at the Hall?’

Stephen nodded and they made their way more slowly back into the woods. ‘Have you heard of the Luck of Gutherscale Hall, sir?’ he asked, after they had gone a little way.

‘I have read something of it in the guides,’ Quince told him. ‘The legend says it was originally a gift from the fairy people to the most powerful family hereabouts – the Greta family.’

‘I should like to know more of that.’ Stephen had realised he was both tired and hungry. It seemed harder going down the hill than running up it had been. ‘Do you believe in fairies, Mr Quince?’

The tutor laughed. ‘Good lord, no! No doubt the cross was brought over by the Crusaders.’

Stephen looked about him as if searching for a glint among the foliage. ‘I would like to find it.’

‘You did say you wanted to search for dragons,’ Mr Quince reminded him, ‘and they are great guardians of treasure in folklore. Perhaps if we find the dragon, we shall find the Luck tucked under its scaly claw.’

The thought was enough to keep Stephen silent the rest of their return down the slope.

H
ARRIET FOUND HER
way into the drawing room with the help of one of the maids, a little nervous since she was later than she should have been. She had gone first to her son and his tutor’s apartments to see them safe and already eating their meal informally in their own rooms. Then she had delayed too long trying to get her curls in order and deciding between a dress of navy with gold trim which she felt rather too grand, and a simpler gown in grey that made her feel a hundred years old. However, when she was shown into the light and spacious room, she found she was among the first of the house’s inhabitants to arrive. A young man sprang up from the couch on which he was
reclining and bowed, clicking his heels together, then he came forward to take her hand.

Her first impression was of youth. She noted the carelessly arranged and unpowdered hair of the man, and the blue eyes. He was slender and long-limbed and she wondered if Crowther would have looked something like this in his early years.

‘Mrs Westerman! I am pleased to see you. I am Felix von Bolsenheim, at your service, ma’am.’

She let him take her hand with a smile. ‘I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Mein Herr.’

‘Oh please, just call me Felix, Mrs Westerman, rather than mangle your tongue.’

‘I would have thought you an Englishman, Felix. Were you at school here?’

He grinned up at her, holding her hand a little longer than necessary and Harriet wondered if the child intended to flirt with her. ‘I was indeed. French I learned from my tutors, and my father’s native tongue I learned from the servants, on horseback or in gaming hells. I do remarkably well in Vienna as a result.’

He did have some charm. He stood back from her and performed a slow turn.

‘Do not keep me in suspense, madam. I have been at such trouble with my appearance this afternoon. What do you think my esteemed uncle will make of me? Knowing him as well as you do, you must be able to give me some hint.’

Harriet had known for a little while of the existence of Crowther’s sister and nephew, but until now she had never pictured him as part of a family group. So cut off as Crowther was from the general run of society it seemed impossible to imagine him with the same ties and blood loyalties as other people.

‘It would foolish of anyone to claim to know the secrets of another person’s mind. Especially Crowther’s,’ she said. ‘In truth, I must tell you I only learned of his given name this morning.’

Felix shook his head at her. ‘Yet you travel the country with him and bring murderers to justice by his side! Madam, how remarkable.’

‘I am a rich widow, Felix. I may do as I like.’

Harriet at once wished she had not used such a tone. She might be sharing the house with this handsome young man for some weeks to come. Rachel would have put her head in her hands on hearing such a phrase in her sister’s mouth. Harriet had wished to sound at ease with herself, but felt she had made herself already not quite respectable.

Harriet had enjoyed an unusual life long before she met Crowther. After her marriage she had travelled the world with her husband and flourished in the variety and challenges such a life entailed. It had made her something of an oddity when motherhood and the need to provide a home for her unmarried sister had forced her into remaining at Caveley. The walls had closed in on her and she found herself continually failing to meet the expectations of country society. She had been thought rather too free in her speech and fixed in her opinions. Then she found herself involved in murder. Those events had given her a degree of fame and she had made some powerful friends, but she could see that for many men and women of her class, her actions had confirmed her as an oddity, rather like the lizard with two heads which the Pulborough apothecary, Gladwell, kept in his parlour. Now here, when the knowledge of the reputation that went before her should make her most circumspect, she was talking like a woman who revelled in her dubious fame. She was angry with herself. Felix, however, was, to all appearances, enchanted.

‘Oh, capital! I cannot agree with you more, Mrs Westerman. Always do what you will and leave the Devil standing in your dust.’ Harriet opened her mouth in hopes she might somehow smooth out what she had said, but the young man did not give her the chance to speak. ‘But please, before my uncle arrives, give me the benefit of your wisdom. What will he think of me? His reputation is rather fearsome, I understand.’

Harriet sighed, and this time considered a little before she spoke. ‘Felix, Crowther is not cruel. He will not mock you. But if you wish
a serious opinion, it is this. Unless you are dead, or have some interesting remark to make on scientific subjects, I think it likely that Crowther will not notice you at all.’ Felix’s fire left him and he looked younger than before. Harriet smiled. ‘Do not be downcast, sir, but be comforted in this. Crowther will not judge you either. If you do not irritate him, he will probably learn to like you. I have seen him make a number of unlikely alliances in the past, and he should be disposed to think well of you, given your close relation. If he thinks well of you, you could not wish for a better friend. I only mean you should not try to charm him. Be yourself, be frank and do not chatter is my advice.’