Island of Bones

II.3

The views from the Duke of Portland’s launch were impressive even in the haze. Mr Quince was content for Stephen to enjoy them without comment and let his own mind wander. His eye fell on the profile of a young woman seated in the stern, apparently unaccompanied. She was perhaps a little younger than himself, scarcely twenty, yet she held herself very upright. Quince did not see pride in the straightness of her spine, however, only the habit of strict self-control. It interested him and he was inclined to look at her longer than perhaps he should have done. She felt his eyes on her and turned towards him. Her eyes were almost black and set large in a heart-shaped face. Quince was embarrassed to have been caught staring. The wild beauty of the landscape was making him romantic. He turned his attention to where Stephen was engaged in helping the loading of a small cannon on the prow.

Quince thought his charge a sensitive and intelligent boy, but was most impressed by his ability to make friends with whomever came in his way. Even Mr Crowther, who could barely conceal his disdain for his own sister and nephew, was apparently fond of Stephen. It was natural then that in the few minutes that had passed since they began their cruise, Stephen would have become a trusted member of the crew. He was thrusting the charge into the little cannon now under the encouraging eye of one of the oarsmen. Quince was watching him with a smile when he felt a light touch on his sleeve and turned to find the black-eyed beauty leaning towards him.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ Her voice had a heavy German accent which gave her English an oddly precise tone. ‘What are we shooting at?’

He felt a sudden pride at being so accosted, quite out of proportion with the honour, and became a little pink. After all, the only other pleasure-seekers in the boat this early in the day were a young couple who sat so close together, and were so involved in each other’s thoughts and exclamations at the scenery, Quince could only assume they were on their marriage tour. He cleared his throat.

‘We will not shoot at anyone, I am glad to say, madam. I understand the gun is to be fired to test the echoes in the valley. They are said to be remarkable. Every shot is heard a number of times around the lake.’

This answer seemed to satisfy the lady and she began to turn from him again. Quince felt a strong desire to prevent her attention slipping away from him.

‘Do you like the scenery, madam?’ he enquired.

She looked about her as if noticing it for the first time. ‘It is very pretty,’ she said in a rather dull voice, and while Quince was struggling for some further remark, his attention was called by Stephen. He had a slow match ready and, once he was sure Mr Quince was watching, he set it to the charge.

The powder in the pan fizzed yellow and red a moment, then the cannon gave a sharp crack and the smell of gunpowder enveloped them. The launch trembled. The crack was followed by answering roars from the hills on each side, as if it had awoken a tribe of giants on the fells. Quince counted seven distinct reports before the sound folded into a low thunderous growl and died away. The men on the boat looked pleased.

‘Peter, mark this spot,’ one said to the other, with a wink. ‘I’ve never heard it go off as well!’

Stephen seemed to take this as a compliment to himself and beamed at the company. The female of the young couple had given a little yelp as the cannon fired. From the German woman there came no sound at all; she only closed her magnificent eyes briefly and Quince saw her fingers tighten on the bench on which she sat.

Preparing the body for the pots was grisly work. Now and again, Harriet would become aware of what she was about and shudder. She wondered about Crowther’s idea that this man was a creditor of his brother’s. It was to a degree plausible. If his brother had been capable of patricide, might he not have committed another murder? Surely that was more likely than two beings who were capable of killing, existing in such a small community as this. But the dates on the coins that pointed so closely to the 1745 rebellion, and the apparent sympathies of the murdered man, troubled her. Could a man marked out for his loyalty to the exiled Lord Greta be also a creditor of Lucius Adair? Wasn’t it more likely that the man had returned to the region because of some business of his master’s, and wouldn’t that business more likely be with Crowther’s father rather than his brother?

She shook her head as if she could in that way settle the questions into some sort of order, then continued with her task. Crowther, she noticed, looked quite cheerful at his work. She thought uncharitably of cannibals. When the pots were cooking at the intensity Crowther thought correct, Harriet found herself keen to leave the building. The odour had become unpleasant almost at once. The moment he pronounced himself satisfied, the pots stewing gently, she removed her apron and walked into the hazy sunshine, breathing deeply. Crowther followed her with a basin of clean water and a towel over his arm like a valet. He set it down on a bench by the door and with a look, invited her to make use of it.

‘It will take some hours before the bones are clean enough for me to examine,’ he said. ‘But the fire is low and may do its work unsupervised.’ She nodded and put her hands in the water, only stepping aside when her skin was pink with scrubbing. She watched him take her place.

‘Crowther, have you ever wondered how different your life might have been had you offered your sister a home with you?’

‘No,’ he said shortly, but as he moved his hands through the water he thought of what a check on his studies and travels taking charge of a young girl would have been. He thought of the lecture rooms of Europe where he had gained his knowledge of anatomy while his sister had learned French and country dances. For ten years his clothing had carried the continual scent of preserving liquid and he doubted she would have liked the smell. The places where he had studied and the things he had learned would have been lost to him, and all for the dubious pleasures of driving fortune-hunters away from his unsympathetic sister. Then something reminded him that Mrs Westerman had given up her own life of travel to provide a home for her orphaned sister. He told himself she also had a son to care for, so the circumstances could not be compared, but as he dried his hands, he said: ‘At least, I had not considered it until now. And I do not think I shall do so again.’

Harriet turned towards the lake. ‘I suppose we must prepare for the afternoon’s entertainment. Let us lock the door and pray no one thinks to enquire what is happening in the brew house while they are enjoying their ices and watching the archery competition.’ She was suddenly startled by the sound of a gunshot, and looked about her as the hills seemed to grow alive with the harsh coughs of repeated explosions. Crowther came up to her and pointed towards a small boat in the centre of the lake. A little grey plume, darker than the general haze, hung over it.

‘They are testing the echoes, Mrs Westerman. No need to be alarmed.’

Stephen was still very pleased with his success with the cannon when they reached the shore again, and chattered away as they disembarked. He distracted Quince to the extent that his tutor hardly knew he had turned to offer his hand to the German beauty and was helping her onto the jetty. He tried to think of a way to introduce himself to her in a gentlemanlike manner, but was pre-empted by the boy, who had already put out his hand to the lady, and was looking up at her with a friendly smile.

‘Good morning! Were not the echoes fine? I am Stephen Westerman, of Caveley in Hartswood, Sussex.’

The woman shook his hand. ‘Then you find yourself far from home, but not as far as I. I am Sophia — Sophia Hurst from Vienna. They were good echoes.’

‘You are German!’ Stephen said.

‘Austrian,’ she corrected him gently.

Quince cleared his throat. ‘Are you walking up into town, madam? May we accompany you?’

She nodded, and as they walked away from the jetty, she was treated to a monologue from Stephen of all he knew of Austria. Quince wondered if he should check the boy, but Fraulein Hurst seemed happy to hear the history of her nation retold to her. Just as he was beginning to think Stephen’s account might be becoming tiresome to even the most forgiving listener, he heard a whistle from the woods along the track and saw the boy’s face break into a smile.

‘Mr Casper!’ Stephen shouted. ‘Did you hear the echoes? Is Joe with you?’

Their strange friend sauntered out of the woods to meet them, a pair of dead rabbits slung over his shoulder. Quince had never seen a man move with such careless ease and watched with admiration. Quince always suspected he was in danger of making himself ridiculous, or had just done so. He was reasonably sure such thoughts had never entered the head of Casper Grace, and envied him. Casper nodded, then pointed into the woods behind him where the jackdaw was visible on the path. The bird was turning rotten leaves over with the same air of sceptical interest that Quince saw on Crowther’s face when he was reading; the jackdaw’s bright blue eye and silver flash on the top of his head made the resemblance only stronger. Casper put his hand in his pocket and took out a fistful of corn.

‘Go offer him that, youngling, and he may speak to you.’

Stephen took the corn from him and stepped forward carefully, intent. Apparently Casper only now became aware of the lady and he hesitated. Quince took charge.

‘Fraulein Hurst, this is Casper Grace.’ Casper looked at her for a long moment and Quince thought he saw an expression of concern cross the man’s face. Then Casper seemed to feel that he had looked too long and blushing, began to stow the rabbits in his shoulder pouch.

‘I am glad to meet you, Casper,’ the lady said in her precise way. He looked pleased and scratched the back of his neck.

‘Saw you, Mr Quince, and the young one on the boat. Thought I’d come and meet you. Wondered if you’d like to go up and see the stones, as if you’ve a mind to be guided, I’ve time.’

Now Mr Quince’s eyes seemed to shine. ‘The Druidic stones? Oh yes, I should like that very much indeed. I had hoped to see them as we came into town yesterday, but I missed them, I fear. We were thinking of visiting the museum, but no doubt we may do that on the morrow.’

Sophia tilted her head to one side. ‘Druidic? I do not know this word.’

Quince thought her frown delightful. ‘Of the Druids,’ he explained. ‘The ancient religion of the area.’

She nodded. ‘Of course, foolish of me. We have the same word in my language.’

Casper addressed her. ‘You would be welcome to come too, miss. They can be a comfort and help, the stones. Men have spoken there of serious things since time began, and they keep the wisdom, I reckon. If I have a thought needs cracking, it’s where I go.’

Quince turned to her with a formal bow. ‘If you are at liberty, Fraulein, we would be very glad of your company.’

She paused before making her decision, but when she did, she smiled. ‘I thank you. My father, with whom I am travelling, today has business elsewhere. I should be happy to come.’ She took his arm, and Quince wished some of his acquaintance might observe him dressed as a gentleman, with this beautiful woman at his side: they might mistake him for a man of consequence. Stephen approached them again, with Joe perched on his shoulder.

‘I am glad you are coming, Fraulein,’ he said, then tugged on Casper’s sleeve. ‘May I have Joe on my shoulder as we go, Mr Casper?’

‘You may,’ he replied, turning on to the track again, ‘though the lazy beggar could just flap his wings.’

Quince glanced at the Fraulein’s profile, though he saw only in her face a slight glimmer of amusement that gleamed in her eyes like reflections in polished marble.

It was further than Quince had guessed; the path was steep and they went slowly in the heat. The tutor estimated they must have walked some two miles from the lakeshore when Casper let them into a cornfield off the Penrith road and he saw the Druidic stones for the first time. He held his breath. They were arranged in a slightly elongated circle some thirty yards in diameter, perhaps fifty hulks of grey granite of varying size. Casper led them between two individuals which seemed to form a sort of gate and into the centre, then watched them as they took in the sight. The ground where the stones had been set was on the top of a smooth rise, and the field around them gently curved like the backbone of a cat that wishes to be stroked. The lake itself was hidden from them; instead they seemed to be at the centre of a wide amphitheatre of hills that hid the horizon like piles of crumpled linen. There were fields and farms visible at their bases, then they climbed and tumbled over each other till they disappeared into the haze of the sky. Behind them Skiddaw slept, softer seen from here. Mr Quince thought of ancient peoples gathering in this place, and wondered if they had lit grand fires between the stones, and what was consumed in their flames, what prayers made, what bargains struck with their gods and each other.

Stephen was not as bloodthirsty as many boys of his age, no matter how much he liked to re-enact the naval battles of his father on the lawns of Caveley Park. His first question, however, was still about whether human sacrifice had taken place there.

‘Maybe, maybe, Master Stephen,’ Casper replied. ‘They say there was a time the cunning-men used to burn maidens here for their gods till one day, such was the love the son of the tribe’s leader had for the girl to be burned, the skies opened up in mercy and the rains put out the fires. So they let her live and no other girls were killed thereafter.’

Mr Quince smiled. ‘Do you believe that, Mr Grace?’

Casper shrugged. ‘There are many stories about the stones, and I am sure they have some power in them, though I hope it was not bought with blood. That was an old story, and here’s a fresh one. I know that one time a year or two back, when that Mr Sturgess wished to excavate this place with gunpowder, there was such a storm on the day he came up here! Such lightning and rain to make this year’s weather look like a summer shower, and it seemed to fall right here.’

‘The excavations were halted then?’

‘They were. And he was told there’d be no more. So I reckon the stones and sky do talk.’

‘I have met Mr Sturgess at Silverside,’ Quince said, frowning.

‘He came with a passion to know of old things and old ways,’ Casper said. ‘Though perhaps he just likes to dig like a badger. He carved out a cave on his own land and had it lined with seashells.’

‘How charming!’ Quince said at the thought, then saw something in Casper’s look that made him blush and drop his eyes.

‘Still, he found some stone axe heads for Mr Askew’s museum, before the rain drove him off and his workers’ pay was stopped,’ Casper finished.

Quince turned to see if Fraulein Hurst was listening. He could not say, since she seemed lost in contemplation of the hills surrounding them.

Stephen spoke. ‘Are you a cunning-man, sir? Miriam at Silverside Hall says you are.’

Casper scratched the back of his neck and Mr Quince began to fear he was finding them wearisome. ‘She may call me what she will. There are some who come to me. Hope I have some influence with them when their animals get sick, or they have a pain in their belly.’

‘And what do you do? Are there really witches still? Can they change shape? Was Joe a witch once — is that why he can talk?’

Quince stepped forward to put a warning hand on Stephen’s shoulder, but Casper sank down on his haunches and looked the boy in the eye.

‘Joe was always what he is. I found him fallen from the nest when he was but a bit of a thing, and he learned his speech from me. I know something of the calendar and of healing, maybe enough of flowers and roots to be thought cunning. Witches there are. Though I think ’em for the most part like that lightning rod stuck up on Crosthwaite Church. There are people that just suck up the magic in the air whether they will it or not, and it can flash out of them. Some know it though, and learn its ways. Some use it to help and heal, some to curse and trouble — and magic does to them as they do to others. Most people carry a bit of rowan with them, stop it flashing at them and theirs. You have yours now in that cross I gave you. Have you kept it?’ Stephen nodded, and Quince noticed the lad’s fist clenching in his coat-pocket. He wondered what his employer would think of her son learning a philosophy of witchcraft when under his care. ‘There, that’s rowan, so you’ll have nothing to fear.’

Quince cleared his throat. ‘Stephen, it is said to be impossible to count the stones twice and get the same number. Will you try it?’

Stephen looked a little surly for a moment, as if he might resist so obvious an attempt to separate him from Casper, but the challenge was an interesting one, so he walked to the edge of the circle and patted one of the blocks, then moved onto the next, allowing his elders to return to a contemplation of the view.

‘I think you have no belief in witches then, sir?’ Casper said to the tutor.

‘No,’ Quince replied, ‘but if I had lived my life among these hills and alongside these stones, I might.’

‘Vicar tries to beat it out of us,’ Casper shrugged, ‘but his God seems like a child to me at times.’

Quince found his mind’s eye filling with ancient fires again. He noticed Casper’s hands, callused working hands, then looked at his own, white and clumsy. The two men watched Stephen on the other side of the circle pause for a moment, then continue in his count. Fraulein Hurst was turned away towards the road, deep in thought. Quince fumbled for his watch and cleared his throat.

‘Fascinating. I fear the hour is more advanced than I thought, Mrs Briggs is having her summer party at Silverside this afternoon, so we should return.’

This seemed to wake Miss Hurst. ‘You are staying at Silverside?’

‘We are, madam. Perhaps we shall see you among the guests?’ She shook her head. ‘Or perhaps at the fireworks display in the evening?’

‘I hope so,’ she said, and lowered her eyes.

‘Will you be coming to see the display, Mr Grace?’

Stephen was near enough to hear this exchange, and was caught mid-count by the mention of fireworks.

‘Oh, I had forgotten the fireworks!’ He then turned back to the stones and put his hand to his head. ‘Oh Lord, I have lost count.’

Casper was squinting into the haze. ‘No. Joe and I don’t like the bangs and crashes so much. I’ll head down into Borrowdale till they’re done.’

As the little party passed into Keswick, Casper bowed to them awkwardly then turned to head back out of the town. Then he hesitated and returned to them with a swift step and pulled another of his carvings of the Luck out of his pocket. Taking the Fraulein’s hand, he pressed it into her palm.

‘Here you are, ma’am. A little Luck for you.’ Then he began to move away again with his shoulders hunched.

Quince smiled, tutting a little. ‘Mr Askew will be angry with him for giving away his wares again.’

A look of sudden realisation crossed Stephen’s face and he trotted up the track after Casper, ignoring the tutor’s exasperated sigh.

‘What is it, youngling?’ Casper asked as the boy came panting up to him. He looked fierce, and Stephen was suddenly afraid of him, and backed off a step.

‘I only wanted to say you have no need to worry about Mr Askew because I have asked my mama, and I am to buy a cross from the museum for my Aunt Rachel, and for my little sister Anne too, so you gave one away, but sold two, do you see?’

Casper’s face lightened and he dropped his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. ‘That’s a kindness to me, and one to your aunt, and one to your sister. So there’s one kindness become three. How old is your sister?’

‘Three and a half, Mr Casper. So I think it safe to give it to her. She has stopped chewing things so much, though she is not careful with her toys.’

‘I had a sister once, used to say the same of me.’

‘What happened to her?’

Casper blinked rapidly a few times. ‘She was always walking, and one day she walked away. She wished me luck, and said she was sorry to leave me, but the valley had drawn tight and felt to throttle her. Well, bless her wherever she might be. Sure she says the same to me. So there’s more kindness for the pile.’ He sniffed and settled his bag across his shoulder again. ‘I’ve got to go, youngling. There is smoke in the air, and whispering, and I’ve a mind to be ownsome.’

Stephen stepped aside and Casper set off up the path again, murmuring under his breath. He turned to see Fraulein Hurst and Mr Quince still bent over the little carving. Sophia was smiling at it.

‘Oh, that is kind. I asked my father to buy me one at the museum, but he would not.’

‘How much better to have it as a gift, then, from its maker,’ Quince said.

As Stephen approached Sophia asked him, ‘So do you think Mr Casper is a cunning-man, Master Westerman?’

Stephen considered. ‘I am not sure what he is, Miss Hurst. But I think he is very clever.’

She looked again at the cross in her hand. ‘Yes, I think he is too.’ She drew in her breath and turned to Mr Quince. ‘Sir, I wonder if you could do me a great kindness.’