Island of Bones

III.2

Having told his mother of his plans while she dressed, Stephen stole into his tutor’s room for a moment and found Mr Quince still asleep, though not at peace. The boy watched with concern as he tossed his head on his pillow a little, and beads of perspiration shone on his pink forehead. Stephen filled the water glass by his tutor’s bed, then sat and watched the young man’s heavy face rocking from side to side as if the whole house were moving with the regular swell of waves on the ocean after a storm. He knew the medical man from town had been called, but he had no more faith in doctors than Mr Crowther. Stephen moved the water glass a little, hoping to place it exactly where Mr Quince might reach. He liked Mr Quince and had been shamed and sorry when Felix pushed him into the lake. He thought of his conversations with the servants and Casper of the day before, and came to a decision. Treasure could wait a little while yet.

He stood, then bent forward to Mr Quince and whispered to him, ‘Do not worry, sir. I shall fetch Casper and he shall mend you,’ then with a sense of purpose that made his steps firm again, he headed out of the room, just remembering not to let the door clap too sharply behind him.

Only when he reached the bottom of the main stairs did he pause to think that he had no idea where Casper might be found. Their meetings so far had been accidental. Luckily Stephen was not a boy to be put off from his purpose as easily as that, and so rather than heading out onto the shores of the lake at once, he instead found his way into the kitchen and scared Cook by appearing out of the thin air at her side like a sudden spirit, shining with zeal.

The physician having been sent away before he could unpack his bleeding bowl, Harriet left Mr Quince to Miriam’s care and set out for the Island with Crowther. Isaiah, one of the Silverside gardeners who offered his services as a boatman, rowed with practised ease and sang softly to himself as they went. Harriet let her mind wander, and found her thoughts turned as ever to the husband she had lost. James would have enjoyed seeing this country, and the regret that he would not, filled up her mind like the water in the lake. She knew she was no longer the broken creature she had been when she had first buried him, and the worst of her grief was, she fervently hoped, behind her — but she still saw him in her mind’s eye every other hour. Sometimes she remembered to be grateful for having met and married him; sometimes she cursed herself for ever having been happy, since it made the current darkness only deeper. Still, she could feel that the change of air was some help, or perhaps it was her interest in the strange body. She could only hope when their business was complete in the north and she returned home, that the darkness would not press so heavily on her.

Only the gentle knock of the prow against the shore woke her to the present. She followed Crowther out of the boat neatly enough to earn a look of commendation from Isaiah, and she drew over her face the mask of a woman not grieving as deliberately as she had buttoned on her gloves in the lobby of Silverside Hall.

‘I’ll wait here for you then,’ Isaiah said, and settled himself on a flat rock near his boat on the little bit of beach. Harriet nodded, and the man produced pipe and tobacco from his pockets while Crowther leaned on his cane and looked about him, saying nothing.

The little chapel was found up an easy path. It was in a sadly dilapidated state.

‘This was the home of a hermit, was it not?’ Harriet asked as the trees closed off their views of the lake.

‘The Island was, yes, many centuries ago. Saint Herbert, friend of Cuthbert, lived here. This chapel is of a much later date, of course. I believe the family of Greta had an establishment here while King Henry was at Agincourt, and the chapel was a part of that construction. Saint Herbert’s original residence has long ago returned to dust.’

Harriet pushed the branches clear of her way and emerged into the clearing. They must, she imagined, be in the very centre of the little island now. Much of the chapel was still intact; its grey walls, however, were heavy with greenery and there was no trace of the doors and windows that must once have completed it. She thought of the skeleton. Here was the same story in stone. The summer home of the ancient Gretas must have stood to the right. One proud wall still tried to raise itself upright from the rubble around it.

‘Mrs Briggs told me that Mr Askew suggested she build new ruins here, rather than a summerhouse. He offered to hire a hermit to live among them for the delight of the pleasure-seekers in town.’ Crowther made no comment and she turned to see him standing in a square of sunlight that had struggled down through the trees. ‘I told her she need only provide you with a place to experiment and they might have a hermit at no charge.’

‘How did she take to that proposal?’

‘She did not know you at that point, so presumed I was only funning.’

Stephen found the nest of woodcutters’ cabins on the far edge of Overside Wood. Beyond it, a crop of new timber reached up the hillside, but he had climbed through old fat oaks to find it, then walked along the edge as Cook had instructed. He had a parcel of cold meats and cheese under his arm, an offering from the servants in the kitchen.

There were three cabins, grouped round a number of large stones that had been arranged to serve as benches and fireplace for those who sheltered here. It was simple to see which was the most regularly occupied. Of the three cabins, only one looked neat and solid, and the other two had fallen into disrepair so between them they laid open the manner of their construction. It was like looking at the pictures in some of Mr Crowther’s books where on one page was a picture of an animal whole, then next to it, Figure 2 showed the animal in the same attitude, but with its skin removed, and next to that, the skeleton alone. The hut to the west of the camp was the skeleton. It was no more than several long poles set in a circle, but tilted inwards so their tops met and were tied together in a bundle. Some thinner branches remained weaving through the struts. The second still preserved, laid over these thin branches like slates, shallow strips of turf, though it was fallen in places showing the basketweave below. The third, however, still had its skin whole and complete.

There was something wrong. The hurdle gate of the complete cabin was lying some feet off. Still, Stephen would never have thought to enter the cabin if Joe had not been dancing and cawing in front of it.

Stephen approached cautiously. He could hear no sounds from within.

‘Casper?’

A groan, and an arm appeared in the narrow hoop of light in the entrance to the cabin. Stephen sucked in his breath and stepped back.

‘Here, youngling.’ It was Casper’s voice but dry and faint as fog. Stephen moved forward again and crouched in the entrance. Casper was a low shape in the darkness. The sleeve on the arm that lay in the light was torn, and there were bruises blooming on the wrists.

‘Water.’ The arm lifted slightly off the ground, and in the darkness Stephen made out the shape of a pitcher lying on its side on the earth floor. He scuttled past the prone body and picked it up, then holding it to his chest ran out of the clearing and down the path to the place where it was crossed by a brook, then washed and filled the jug, his heart thumping uncertainly. He returned as quickly as he could without letting any of the water splash free.

As he approached the clearing, he slowed. Casper had dragged himself out of the cabin and was now sitting with his back to Stephen, his legs straight out before him, and his head low on his chest. Stephen stepped beside him and crouched down. The brown hands reached up rather blindly. Stephen guided them around the jug. As Casper lifted it to his mouth and tilted his head back, Stephen gasped. The left side of his face was red and scraped. His left eye was purple and swollen shut. The right gleamed, however, as Stephen drew in his breath.

Casper drank deeply and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Pretty, am I?’

Stephen swallowed. ‘What happened, Mr Casper?’

Casper drank again, then upended the jug over the top of his head. The water beaded on his dark hair, ran over his face like tears and made his shirt cling to him. His nose had bled, crusting his mouth and chin, and there were dark spots all over his shirt. The blood on his mouth began to run in the water, dripping from the corners of his lips.

‘More,’ he said, lifting the jug.

Stephen ran off again, this time with Joe bobbing along beside him, rattling and whistling as if trying to give a full narrative and a fund of good advice.

‘Shush, Joe,’ Stephen said. Then, as he put the water next to Casper and watched him drink again, he felt guilty for slighting the bird, and as Casper panted and drank, he fed the jackdaw crumbs from his pocket.

‘Beaten,’ Casper said at last, as if there had been no interval between Stephen’s question and his answer. ‘Last night before the storm. Knocked me flat, turned everything I own over, then did the damage you see.’

‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘I ain’t dead, so I guess I’ll have to live,’ Casper said, after considering a while. ‘They stole my rabbits though.’

Stephen remembered the parcel from Silverside and set it down by Casper, who undid the string and nodded appreciatively; he broke off a piece of cheese and ate some, feeding the scraps to Joe. ‘From Cook,’ Stephen said. ‘She sends her best greetings. Who beat you, sir?’

‘Just told you it was dark, haven’t I? Though I have a thought.’ Casper began very carefully to roll up his shirt and try to squint down at his side. Then he placed one hand on his flank and winced. ‘There’s a rib gone.’ He let the shirt go and looked at his hands, flexing and curling them and frowning as he did so. ‘Two men. There might have been another in the shadows.’

Joe jumped up onto his master’s thigh and began to work his way slowly up Casper’s leg, his head down and his wings very slightly open, making a low noise in his throat. Casper extended a hand and scratched the back of his black head. ‘Shhh. I’ve said I’ll live, haven’t I? You daft bugger.’

‘What can I do, sir?’

Casper squinted at him as if he had forgotten he was there for a moment. ‘Can you make a fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get one going then, and see if you can find my kettle and set it to boil. I’ll brew myself something that’ll help me mend, though I might need you to go foraging for me. You not expected back at the house?’

Stephen shook his head. ‘Mr Quince is ill, so I am free. Should I not get help?’

‘You are help.’

Stephen set to work.

The tomb had been left open, and its proper occupants removed to their new resting-place in Crosthwaite Church. Their effigies would follow them there shortly. For the present they still leaned against one of the far walls, watching them. The base of the tomb was carved with biblical scenes, though between the Ark and Jonah’s whale Harriet noticed a number of other faces, local grotesques, ghosts and witches the carvers had formed from life. Harriet walked up to it and ran her gloved hand over the stonework.

‘I presume this place had been abandoned before you were born, Crowther. Did you ever come here as a child?’

‘Long before, Mrs Westerman. I came here from time to time. I think my brother used it as a place to meet whatever girl in the town he had managed to seduce. I came only during the day. He came and went by night.’

He began to turn his cane between his hands, staring at the ground as the tip dug itself into the rotted leaf matter which was scattered over the floor. ‘I do not know why I wished to come here.’

‘A little peace perhaps.’ She ran her hand over the strange stone faces. ‘You have found yourself caught amongst all your old family ties like a fish in a net. You must talk to an old woman who knows the misery of your childhood, you must discuss with your estranged sister the possibility that your father was a murderer. I think that was the implication of the note, and your remarks about your father’s swordstick. You must also contemplate the possibility that all your riches will be spent after your death on the card tables of Europe by your nephew.’ She looked up at Crowther. He was studying the pattern of shade on the floor of the chancel. ‘I am only surprised, Crowther, that you have made this temporary escape. I half-expected you to leave Silverside this morning.’

She waited.

‘Ha!’ he said. She felt her jaw tense, thinking she had over-stepped the limits of their friendship in speaking so frankly, then realised he was not speaking to her at all. Instead, he thrust his cane towards her and, with the air of a pointer spotting game, fell to his knees then produced a knife from his pocket and began to work at a gap between two flagstones some feet in front of her.

‘I need my tweezers. I should have brought my instruments with me.’

He rocked back, frowning. Harriet set down his cane and reached into her red hair. She pulled something loose and handed it to him. A silver hairclip, on a steel base, hinged and sprung, tapering to a fine point. He tried it; the two fine points closed neatly and firmly.

‘Excellent,’ he said, and bent forward again. The ornament did its work, the flat points coming together with a satisfying click, and he pulled something free. He dropped it into his palm, handing the clip to Mrs Westerman, and as she wiped it on her glove then with practised fingers worked it back into her hair, he examined his find in the thin light that fell across them from the high overgrown windows, turning it in the whispering shadows of the vines. She knew better than to ask what he was about, instead watching patiently till he turned towards her and lifted his palm. Across it lay an ugly shard of metal roughly the length of Harriet’s thumb. One side worked, the other was rough.

‘Is that the sword tip? How on earth did you find it?’

He stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. ‘Luck, largely, I am grieved to say. If the man had been killed anywhere other than in this church, then it would be as simple to roll his body into the lake. If the shard survived here through forty years, it most likely must have worked its way between the flagstones. Then as you were speaking, the shadows moved and the shape caught my eye.’

‘Lucky indeed.’

‘I had the advantage of knowing exactly what I was looking for.’

‘You seem well content for a man who has just proved his father guilty of murder,’ she said.

‘I have done no such thing, Mrs Westerman,’ he said impatiently. ‘I have shown that the man in the tomb was most likely killed with a thin blade. I have also shown that my father’s swordstick was broken here. That is all. It may still be this man was a victim of Adair.’

‘But Mrs Tyers’s note, Crowther! And why should a man pursuing Adair for debt be carrying a snuffbox — a gift from Lord Greta — as he did so?’

‘My brother was always in want of money. Suppose he knew something of my father’s business and thought he could sell the information to the former owner of these lands, or his agents.’

‘You normally accuse me of wild supposition.’

‘The habit must be catching.’

‘Could your brother have stolen the cane, then?’

Crowther hesitated. ‘It is unlikely. The cane rarely left my father’s side, Mrs Westerman. It was a wedding present from my mother, and he valued it above all things.’

She turned to look at it. The silver bundle of foliage at the head of the cane glowed in the weak and creeping light like an icon placed for the believers to worship. Her mouth was a little dry. His only inheritance; for all these years, Crowther had been leaning his slight weight on an instrument of murder.

‘We must speak to the Vizegrafin,’ she said at last.