Island of Bones

PART I
I.1

Tuesday, 1 July 1783, St Herbert’s Island, Derwent Water, Cumberland

‘An extra body? What do you mean, an extra body?’

Mrs Hetty Briggs spoke a little more loudly than she had intended and her voice echoed in the stillness of the ruined chapel. Her steward lowered his head. He could not think of what else to add. They were silent a moment, and the hot wind that had so troubled them this summer shook the trees together. In spite of the warmth, Mrs Briggs shivered. She touched her steward’s sleeve and said more quietly, ‘My apologies, Gribben. You had better show me, I think.’

Turning away from him, she remembered the lady and gentleman who had accompanied her here to this little island, part of her husband’s estate amongst the lakes and hills of Cumberland. They had stood a little apart from her while she spoke to her man, but were now frankly staring at her. The gentleman was the local magistrate, Mr Sturgess, and Mrs Briggs was suddenly very glad indeed that he had decided to come with them. The lady, very beautifully dressed for a trip across the lake and a visit to a ruin, was her house-guest for the summer, the Vizegrafin Margaret von Bolsenheim. Her lips were slightly parted and there was a shimmer in her eye.

‘That is,’ Mrs Briggs added, ‘perhaps you should show us all.’

Mrs Briggs had always considered her ownership of St Herbert’s Island as accidental. It was just another feature of the estate her husband had purchased, like the walled garden behind the main house of Silverside, or the lawns that dropped down in front of it to the lake, and like them she regarded it as purely ornamental. The island was a pleasant spot for a picnic and known for its magnificent views of the surrounding hills. In addition, the ruin of the old chapel added something romantic and picturesque for visitors to the area to discover. It was known that Mrs Briggs had no objection to local people, or travellers from elsewhere, drawing their boats up onto the shingle, therefore many took advantage of her generosity and arrived sketchbooks in hand to sample the scenery. Her one nagging concern about the island had always been that the chapel, disused for a hundred years before Mr Briggs acquired the land, still contained the altar-tomb of Sir Luke de Beaufoy, 1st Earl of Greta, and his wife. There they had lain since the middle of the fifteenth century while the walls decayed around them. On the one hand Mrs Briggs did not think it right that they should be disturbed after resting over three hundred years in one place; on the other she knew the walls of the chapel must give way at some point and when they did, the tomb would be smashed and their bones ground back into the clay. That did not seem fitting either.

She had given the thought voice one evening a few days previously while playing Quadrille at Silverside with the Vizegrafin, the Vizegrafin’s son, and Mr Sturgess. The Vizegrafin declared she had always thought the place absolutely perfect for a summerhouse. ‘So medieval that the local people persist in calling it the Island of Bones,’ she had said, laying down her cards. ‘Let the First Lord Greta and his wife be moved to Crosthwaite Church — far more suitable — then they can call it something nicer. Briggs Island, perhaps,’ she added, and sniggered a little into her cards. Mr Sturgess had supported the Princess wholeheartedly. The Vizegrafin’s son, Felix, had contributed nothing to the conversation but a yawn.

Mrs Briggs had presumed the subject would be forgotten as the cards were laid down, but the following morning Mr Sturgess had called at Silverside to tell them that the vicar of Crosthwaite would be happy to receive the tomb and the bones it contained, and to give Sir Luke and his wife a home on consecrated ground. The Vizegrafin began to draw plans for a summerhouse. Mrs Briggs was still not convinced about the necessity of rebuilding, but at least the nagging guilt about the First Lord Greta’s mortal remains would be removed, and she was hopeful that the Vizegrafin and her son would leave Silverside before she had to commit to constructing any of the gothic wonders that now decorated that noble lady’s sketchpad.

The Vizegrafin moved swiftly towards the tomb, leaving Mrs Briggs to follow her. As she passed, Mrs Briggs noticed spots of colour on her guest’s cheeks. She bore down on the two labourers whose efforts had finally dislodged the cover from the tomb. Thin-faced, mean-looking men, they stood behind the opened tomb like penitents with their heads lowered and their caps in their hands. The Vizegrafin’s dark-blue skirts brushed over the stone flags, stirring last autumn’s dead leaves. She walked with a straight back and a quick even step that had been perfected by a number of expensive dance masters in her youth, so she gave the impression of floating from one place to the next in time to some unseen music. To the men at the tomb, it seemed as if one of the prettier saints had broken free of the stained glass in Crosthwaite Church, but she aged as she approached through the shadows of ruined masonry and overhanging foliage. The young and graceful female became, as she drew closer, a woman something over forty whose dress and deportment were perhaps a little more hopeful than wise.

Mrs Briggs glanced at the effigies of Sir Luke and his wife. Their stone faces had become washed and worn with rain and snow. They looked weary and ready for a warmer bed Their hands were held over their chests in attitudes of prayer. At the lady‘s feet, a greyhound was curled with its alabaster nose tucked into its tail, and its ears flat; at the gentleman’s sat a tiny lion, its mane carved in carefully tumbled locks. It reminded Mrs Briggs of the style Felix von Bolsenheim had of arranging his hair. He had avoided their party, calling his mother morbid, and taken his longbow out to hunt rabbits on the fells instead. The Lady had apple cheeks; the Lord was bearded and had a long nose. Mrs Briggs had recently donated, from the collection at Silverside Hall, a portrait of this gentleman to the new museum in Keswick. She had always felt that the portrait disapproved of her and had been glad to be rid of it, having deserted it in an upper corridor for thirty years. The painted face seemed to her always to be stiff with outrage that his lands were now in the possession of a man who had started life as a clerk.

The Vizegrafin reached the lip of the tomb and looked down into it, then gave a little screech and hastened away. Mrs Briggs approached more carefully and took in the sight with less eagerness and greater calm, Mr Sturgess at her side. There were two wooden coffins within, as had been advertised by the effigies, and though worn and rotten, their structures had held. But across the two coffins lay this extra body, a corpse incongruous even in a tomb. It was curled head to knees, its flesh turned leathery, its clothes faded, its mouth pulled wide open. There was a dry, almost sweet scent to the air. Even Mr Sturgess looked pale and Mrs Briggs so far forgot herself as to bite the side of her thumb. She thought the Vizegrafin noticed and frowned at her.

They were silent a moment. Mrs Briggs could hear the call of the lapwing on the Walla Crag, and the regular beat of the woodsman’s axe in the park on the opposite side of Derwent Water.

‘How very odd,’ she said at last.

‘What are we to do?’ the Vizegrafin questioned, glancing between them. ‘Mr Sturgess, as magistrate here, can you advise us? Who is this man?’

‘I cannot possibly tell you, madam.’ He stepped away, considering. ‘This body may be nearly as ancient as those on whom he lies, or he may have died within five years. Who can say? But perhaps the body might rest at Silverside Hall while some enquiries are made, Mrs Briggs? One of our older residents may remember a man gone missing, though I myself cannot recall any such matter in my time here. If not, then I suppose Crosthwaite Church may give him a Christian burial. I cannot see what else might be done.’

‘Perhaps we should summon my brother Charles,’ the Vizegrafin said quietly, then, as she found the others looking at her: ‘You know he has become quite renowned at ferreting all sorts of information from a body. It might interest him. Will you be so kind as to invite him, Mrs Briggs? And there is a woman, a widow now who seems to involve herself in his interests. You had better invite her too. They might arrive in time for your party if you are willing to go to the expense of an express.’

‘They would be very welcome at Silverside Hall, Vizegrafin.’

‘I understand from the newspapers that my brother lives in Sussex now, and goes by the name of Gabriel Crowther. The woman’s name is Harriet Westerman.’