Island of Bones (37 page)

‘Thank you, Mrs Westerman.’ He sighed and straightened his back, then passed his hand over his eyes. ‘I am most impressed by your ability to recognise the watch. I did not observe it.’

Harriet felt a blush warm her cheeks. ‘I was considering a watch as a present to Daniel Clode to mark his engagement to Rachel, and I noticed Felix’s the day we arrived, as I thought it might be just the thing Clode would like.’

The dinner-hour was long passed when they returned to Silverside. Harriet could only comfort herself she had sent word before leaving for Cockermouth that they would not join the rest of the party that evening. Felix was not in the house. The Vizegräfin informed them that her son had decided to experience the delights of the waterfalls at Lodore at
dusk. Crowther retired to the old brewery and disappointed, Harriet made for the comfort of her private sitting room.

On her way upstairs she entered her son’s rooms and found him and Mr Quince going over his Greek translation. Mr Quince still looked unwell but he was, Harriet thought, showing signs of recovery. The fact that he felt himself equal to instructing her son must demonstrate it. Mr Quince smiled, and told her that Stephen had been a delightful companion to him all afternoon, and Harriet closed the door on them wishing them a good night. She was not certain if she was pleased her son had chosen to stay close to home, as she was sure she should be, or slightly disappointed that he had not spent the whole day ranging over the hills with Casper, searching for the missing Agnes. She pushed open the door to her room wondering if it showed a lack of spirit on Stephen’s part, and condemned herself for the thought.

She took a seat at her desk to start a letter to her sister and, having made her pen and twisted her mourning ring, began by asking Rachel for news of her daughter. She wondered if little Anne were sleeping peacefully in the nursery at Thornleigh Hall. To think of her youngest child was like pressing on some fresh bruise in her side. She thought of the look of fierce concentration her daughter so often had as she dreamed, the way her small hands became fists. What sort of mother might
she
make? What sort of wife, what manner of sister to the gentle boy bent over his Greek a little way along the corridor?

Harriet bit her lip. She could not unmake herself, and she could not regret that she had lived a life out of the normal pattern, but she feared what Anne and she might make of each other as the child grew. Harriet was afraid her daughter would become a stranger to her if she lived a conventional existence as a respectable wife and mother, but if she followed Harriet’s path she would risk the censure of society and make herself as vulnerable to harm as an adult as she was now as an infant. Harriet would be forced to watch that happen, and blame herself.

Some hour or so later, Mrs Briggs came to join her in her rooms. Harriet had been trying to write to her sister words that were honest,
but that would not alarm or enrage Rachel unduly. She found herself concentrating on giving an account of their speculations as to the history of Crowther’s father, but the whole was still so confused she more than once dropped her pen mid-sentence and folded her arms. The interruption was welcome therefore, but seeing Mrs Briggs’s face at her door made Harriet realise she had once again deserted the poor woman to the Vizegräfin. Her mind was already full of guilty whisperings about her behaviour and fitness as a mother as she wrote to Rachel, so Harriet felt herself in a holly-patch of discomforting emotions. She was very glad then, to see no sign of reproach on the face of her hostess.

‘Mrs Westerman, am I interrupting you?’

Harriet smiled. ‘You are, and I thank you most sincerely for it. Please, come and talk to me for a while if the household can spare you.’

Mrs Briggs bustled in and took a seat near the desk, looking pleased. ‘Oh I am glad! I have come to escape the card table. I believe the Vizegräfin could play picquet for ten hours in every day. If only she would pick up a book from time to time, it would improve her fortunes and her temperament, I am sure. I was forced to claim a headache, which would make Mr Briggs laugh, for he knows I have hardly had one since he married me. I all but fled my own house this morning to escape her requests for a game.’

‘She does not play well, then, Mrs Briggs?’

‘She does not! I can hardly think she and Mr Crowther are of the same blood at times – he so controlled and she so high-handed in her play. And did you hear that Mr Askew called on you this afternoon? He wishes to see you as soon as he might.’

Harriet nodded. ‘We received his note. I fear I am too exhausted by our ride to pay an evening visit, but we shall call on him in the morning. He probably wishes to renew his requests to Crowther to give a talk on the atmosphere. It does continue so close.’

‘So it does! And now with all these disturbances and strange storms, the people around us grow most uneasy. If ever there was to be a revolution in England, now is the time. One good preacher and I believe
they would throw us all in the lake to quiet the old gods. And Casper having to hide from Mr Sturgess means he is not there to steady them. The vicar and his daughter do what they can . . . Have you heard of this girl going missing, and the Fowlers? You can feel the unease all over town. Everyone is looking about themselves and wondering.’

Harriet picked up her pen and turned the quill between her fingers. ‘The girl I have heard something of; I saw Casper by the lake this morning and he mentioned it. I know nothing more of her than her name, however – and who are the Fowlers?’

‘You saw Casper, Mrs Westerman? Now, why am I thinking that perhaps you have not found a moment to mention that to Mr Sturgess?’ Harriet could hear the smile in the woman’s voice and felt herself colouring a little so she continued to study the transparent body of her pen as she replied.

‘Miss Scales thinks that Mr Sturgess is very quick to judge. She seems to believe that Mr Sturgess resents the fact that the people here are as likely to consult a cunning-man in their disputes as the magistrate.’

‘Mr Sturgess has been a most pleasant neighbour, and it is a shame this business keeps him from playing cards with the Vizegräfin. I am a great believer in Miss Scales’s judgement, however,’ Mrs Briggs said carefully. Harriet wished she had learned to weigh her words so well.

She stood and crossed to the empty fireplace, suddenly tired of her seat. ‘You mentioned the name Fowler?’

Mrs Briggs turned towards her and nodded. ‘Yes, father and son. It is said they have stopped sleeping in their own beds.’

‘That must be who Casper suspects of beating him and searching the Black Pig. He would not give me their names this morning.’

‘He had his reasons, I’m sure. But the matter of this girl troubles me greatly. She is a sharp young thing; her family are good friends of Casper.’

‘How old is she?’ Harriet asked.

‘Sixteen, I think.’

Harriet was examining a painting above the fireplace. It showed a reworking of the scenery that surrounded them. In the foreground
grazed a pair of the long-horned cattle the local people favoured, observed by a couple in peasant dress lolling on the grass. They were facing the painter rather than the picturesque landscape behind them.

‘Might she not have run away with the younger Fowler?’

Mrs Briggs laughed. ‘I doubt that! I know the young can develop some unfortunate attachments, but Agnes is a smart girl and Swithun and his father are a nasty pair. I’ve tried to offer them the means to support themselves in the past, but always they reward us with complaints and petty thievery . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

Harriet was trying to work out the geography of the painting in front of her; if the small island in the middle distance was in fact the Island of Bones . . . She was suddenly aware that Mrs Briggs was getting to her feet.

‘I shall leave you to your letter, Mrs Westerman. Do ring if you require anything, and Miriam will look after you.’

Harriet was expecting to have a longer conversation with Mrs Briggs, but the little woman seemed to have been invigorated with some new purpose and bustled out of the room with great energy. Harriet wished her good evening, wondered for a moment, then turned back to her letter with a sigh.

When Agnes heard the sound of footsteps in the tunnel beyond the barricade again she was feeling stronger. Her scalp was still sore where Swithun had pulled her head back, her shoulder was bruised and aching and her hands stung and complained whenever she moved them, but she had eaten bread enough to stop the pain in her belly and had water, though she would pay any price she could think of for a bucket to wash her face and her scrapes in. There were two beings outside: she could hear voices; one sounded like Isaac Fowler, Swithun’s father. The other was much lower, whispering, and she could make out none of the words. Fowler sounded as if he was apologising for something. No doubt they saw the gap in the boards and guessed that Swithun had visited her.

‘Put your arm out through the gap. We know your hands are free.’ Fowler’s voice.

‘Why should I?’ There was a pause, whispering.

‘Because if you don’t we will open the barricade and kill you.’ His voice sounded uncomfortable and strange.

‘Who you playing parrot to, Fowler?’

‘Never you mind. Just do as you’re told, girly.’ Those words were his own. ‘You won’t get past us. It’s too narrow, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s counting! Do it now, Agnes. He’ll kill you soon as spit.’

She hesitated, but there was just enough panic in the man’s voice to make her believe him, so she stuck one hand through and felt at once a rough hand grip her round the wrist and pull her up against the barricade. He was pulling hard enough on her arm to bring the side of her face to the wood, her cheek pressed to the gap, but she could see nothing but shadows. Something pointed and metal touched her face and she heard a creaking stretch. She gritted her teeth.

‘He wants to know where it is. Who is guarding it now?’

‘Why should I say? You’ll just kill me anyway.’

Fowler answered quickly. ‘No, Agnes. He’s said he shan’t.’ One of his hands was still pulling hard on her wrist, but she felt, strangely, the touch of his other hand on her upper arm. He was patting her. The strange metal point traced the line of her cheekbone. She could feel it now at the corner of her eye.

‘Why does he want it? It’s ours.’

The patting on her arm increased and she heard that stretching noise again. ‘He says it’s
his
, Agnes, and he wants it back.’

‘All right! Just make him move that thing off me – I can’t think straight!’

There was a pause, the arrow moved up to her temple, shivering, then she felt the pressure behind it unwind and the cold touch left her forehead. She trembled. She had to say something.

‘That German lady. Casper said it’s not safe to keep it here. He’s asked her to take it away a while. She’ll send it back when it’s safe.’

A whisper, then Fowler’s voice again. ‘How could he know? Why her? Why would he tell her?’

She had had time to think on that. ‘He knows things! He feels things coming, you know that. He’s always been a step ahead of you, Fowler. He came to my father’s place to tell me. And he likes her. They went to the Druid stones together, we all saw that. He felt their trust of her, he said.’

There was a long pause. She could almost hear her words being weighed to see if there was truth in them. There was a weakness there. Fowler might believe Casper knew something threatening was in the wind, but would the other man? Silence. She felt herself relax a fraction, then that cold tip was on her temple again and, hearing the rapid drawing of the bow, she whimpered. The grip on her hand was suddenly released and she threw herself to the ground. There was a sharp song from the bow and a whistling noise, then she heard a thud as the arrow shot into darkness beyond the barricade.

Isaac’s voice was high and keening like his son’s. ‘You said! She told you! Why did you do that?’

There was the sound of a blow, and she heard Fowler grunt. Then a low curse. One set of footsteps quick into the darkness, followed by the scuttle of Fowler’s feet, and his whining complaints fading up the tunnel. Agnes breathed in and at once felt her stomach clench. She stumbled into the far corner to vomit up what little there was in it, then crawled back to the barricade and lay there panting. She hoped she had done the right thing. She had thought of everyone she knew in the village, but they all seemed too vulnerable, too open. The German girl Swithun had mentioned was at the vicarage, he said, surrounded by the protection of the gentry. Swithun and his father couldn’t get close to her. The story of her taking it away made sense, and everyone had seen Casper being friendly towards the girl. Still, Agnes was afraid she had set something bad on her and was scared. She felt fat tears gather behind her eyes and all of a sudden she was shaking so hard her teeth rattled. She gathered the blanket around her
and rocked back and forth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the dark. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to die.’

Harriet was not absolutely satisfied with her letter, but she folded and sealed it in any case. On her way downstairs to the post tray in the hall she heard raised voices coming from the library. The door was closed, and although she could not hear the words distinctly, she thought those arguing were Felix and the Vizegräfin. The door swung open and she stepped into the shadows of the dining room a moment, then peered round. It was indeed Felix. He was in the drawing-room doorway, apparently delivering his parting shot to whoever was within.

‘I have made my decision, Mother. ‘We have been very wrong.’

The Vizegräfin now joined him in the light. ‘Felix, listen to me! You shall be ruined! There is no proof – how could there be?’ She placed her hand on her son’s arm. He lifted it to his lips, then let it fall.

‘You cannot dissuade me.’

For a moment the Vizegräfin looked up at him, her bottom lip quivering, then she covered her face in her hands and ran up the stairs, her shoulders shaking. Felix watched her go, then crossed the hall into the billiard room. Harriet emerged from the shadows, dropped her letter onto the salver in the hall, then returned slowly up the stairs.