Island of Bones (46 page)

Mrs Westerman’s horse leaped forward and Felix spurred his own in pursuit.

The evening was coming on. Slowly the light was leaching from the air, and its taste began to change in Casper’s mouth. The blooms of the day were closing, and the scents of darker flowers started to tendril out among the shadows. He felt no difference between himself and the trees and rocks around him; he was a part of the turn of the hill, just like the white lady and the black witch. The heavy air shifted with a faint sound: something was coming along the path, someone. He turned his eyes to where the white lady still sat like a mermaid on her stone in the stream. She put her finger to her lips.

It was Swithun. Alone. He looked about himself and ducked inside one of the rough covers, coming out a moment later with a large canvas bag which he began to stuff with his goods. Casper tensed his muscles and as Swithun bent forward to drive his blanket as deep and tight into the bag as he could, Casper swung down from his hiding-place. As his feet touched the ground, Swithun spun round to find the evening air had split open and Casper before him. He cried out and Casper brought his fist up hard under Swithun’s chin. He fell back onto the ground and Casper was on him, sat on his chest and pinning his arms to the earth with his knees. Casper lifted his knife so Swithun could see it, then brought it to his eye. Swithun stopped struggling at once.
His long eyelashes tickled the point of Casper’s blade. He shifted his weight onto Swithun’s right arm. He groaned but so afraid was he of the knife he did not dare move. Casper lowered his face over Swithun’s until he could taste the younger man’s breath. He tasted the fear on it.

‘Where is she?’

Swithun was panting like a fox cornered. ‘I can’t say. He’ll kill me. Please, Casper! I’ll send word. Please. You won’t kill me?’

There were times when the evil that bubbled and stewed in the black witch were of use. Casper let her speak now, through his own throat. His voice became older.

‘I won’t.’ He moved the knife a little so Swithun could feel its point just on the bone of his eye-socket, flicked away a strand of the boy’s hair then returned its tip to the white and pushed just enough with the flat for the pressure to be felt. Swithun whimpered. ‘But I’ll put out your eyes if you don’t tell me, and leave you to wander blind. Imagine the pain of that, Swithun. Think of the dark.’

‘Sturgess’s folly!’ He said it fast; his body was shaking so hard it was as if he were fitting. Casper kept his face close, and blew gently on Swithun’s eye so he blinked and his eyelashes touched the blade.

‘That’s nowt but a little dip for him to sit in. I’ll do your left eye now, see if that makes you more inclined to be truthful.’ He began to press.

‘No!’ Swithun screamed. ‘I swear, it goes further back! He tried to mine! Some fella told him there was more copper there, when he first came. He tried it for three months.’ Casper released the pressure a little and waited for Swithun to calm himself. ‘It’s deep enough; just on from where he’s got all his shells it narrows and goes back. There’s a barrier – she’s behind that. I swear it!’

‘And how come I hear this from you?’

‘He brought in workers. Did it while he was landscaping his garden, like he was some fucking Lord. You were off somewhere.’

Casper thought back, keeping his knife where it was. There had been dark times now and again where he’d hardly notice a season pass,
and come stumbling back to the village thin and hurting. It could be. And he would take no note of an out-comer prettifying his garden.

‘Is she living?’

‘Yes, yes, Casper! I swear! My da said Sturgess tried to do her, but he let go of her arm in time. I took her food, and water. We never wanted to hurt anyone, Casper. But he said we’d hang.’

‘Sturgess? You tried to bargain with him?’

‘He said we’d hang, I say! Over a snuffbox. Everyone knows he’s always looking for the Luck. We had no choice! We didn’t know it would come to this.’

Casper lifted his knife away and straightened, then shifted his weight to take the pressure off Swithun’s injured arm a little.

‘She do that to you?’

‘Yes.’ The voice was small, miserable. There was a smell of piss in the air.

‘You brought her food? Your da helped her live?’

‘Yes, Casper! We did! Swear on the Luck, we did!’

The black witch wanted blood. She always did. She wanted to see the knife go into the eye and watch the jelly of it burst. Casper ignored her. He felt the white lady standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder, and leaned back into her touch.

‘That’s earned you one chance, Swithun. One. Pack your stuff, find your da and then leave here. Don’t do anything else. Whatever you’ve been promised, put it out of your mind. If you run now, you can live. I’ll even keep an eye on your ma and you can send for her later if you want. But you and your da are banished from here. If you’re ever seen here again, you’ll breathe your last in those moments. You hear?’ Swithun nodded. ‘Swear it. Swear on the Luck you tried to take which sees and knows and remembers.’

‘I swear it.’

Casper sprang up and was swallowed into the woods before Swithun even knew he was free. He rolled over, got to his knees and vomited onto the earth.

C
ROWTHER USED THE HEAD
of his cane to knock at the door of Mr Sturgess’s house. It was a convenient sort of place for a gentleman, with a long drive coming to a pleasant villa that would be perfect for a well-to-do parson and his family. Crowther was surprised, therefore, when the door was opened by the owner himself.

‘Mr Crowther, what do you want?’

‘Your maid’s day off, Mr Sturgess?’

He looked rather flustered by the question, and annoyed. ‘As you say.’

‘There are matters I wish to discuss with you,’ Crowther said. ‘I am beginning to be of the opinion you were right all along, and these crimes must be laid at the feet of Casper Grace.’

Sturgess smiled more pleasantly, opened the door fully and gestured for Crowther to follow him. ‘I am pleased to hear you are willing to see sense. Come in, we can speak in the study.’

Crowther followed him slowly. There were bare places on the walls, like the ghosts of the portraits in Mr Askew’s museum, and a general air of neglect around the place that could not be explained by a maid only absent for one day. The study into which he was shown, however, was completely furnished. There were bookshelves down one wall and an imposing-looking desk with a chair behind it of antique style and almost throne-like pretensions, backed with a heavy dresser. One or two more modern, rather spindly dining chairs sat against the wall. There were a number of portraits. Crowther noticed another door leading to the lawns at the back of the house, and through the window to his left saw a pathway that he assumed circled round to the front. Sturgess had obviously noticed him absorbing the scene.

‘This is where I conduct my official business. Every day at any time someone may be knocking on that door there asking for my assistance in some matter or other.’ So this room is where you keep up appearances
for the populace, Crowther thought, while the rest of the house rots. ‘You wished to discuss Casper Grace, Mr Crowther? I take it, as you are alone, that you have not persuaded Mrs Westerman as yet?’

Crowther allowed himself a slight smile. ‘When a woman takes an idea into her head, Mr Sturgess . . . especially a woman such as Mrs Westerman.’

The other man laughed and opened one of the drawers in his desk, removing a pile of papers that he began to sort into piles in front of him. ‘I pity you! Still, I hear her husband left her nicely off. It might be worth putting up with a woman like that to increase one’s fortune by such a slice.’

Crowther was looking at the items on the mantelpiece. There was a small gold cup amongst them which announced itself as the winner’s prize of the Richmond Toxophilists Association. ‘You are not wearing your chatelaine today, Mr Sturgess. I meant to ask you where you acquired it.’

Mr Sturgess began to sort his papers more slowly. ‘It was made in Paris. I cannot imagine you wearing such a thing, Mr Crowther. Not really fitting with your monkish style, is it?’

‘I thought I saw something similar to it in a portrait of Lord Greta Mr Askew showed me an evening or two ago. I do hope it has not been damaged.’

Sturgess turned his back and opened a drawer in the dresser behind him. ‘Not beyond repair, I am glad to say. Though I was glad to retrieve the missing piece from Askew’s body.’

‘Do you know, Sturgess, you are the only man in Keswick who consistently calls me by the name Crowther? Every other body here slips in the occasional “my lord”, but then you must loathe the idea of a Lord Keswick here even more than I. You are Lord Greta’s son. Mr Hurst recognised you, blackmailed you.’

Sturgess remained with his back to him. ‘Very astute, Crowther. I am. Apparently he saw me first on the morning of his arrival, though I did not note him. He slithered up the path into this room two days
later, claiming acquaintance and discussing a business venture he had in mind and mentioned another interested party. It was quite blatant. Our paths had crossed in Vienna, it seems. Lord knows how he came to this backwater, but once he did I had to dispose of him before he realised I had not the means to outbid Viscount Moreland and that terribly persistent lawyer of his.’

‘The tutor of the man you shot was Mr Hudson’s own son. Now the lawyer holds you responsible for the death of his child in the last war, as well as the boy you shot. How did you know that Mr Askew suspected you?’

‘Ah, that might explain it. Fathers and sons. I understand it is often a close bond. Yes, poor old Askew. I saw him yesterday morning. I was asking after Casper’s hideouts and the man could hardly look at me. I realised he knew something. I visited again in the evening to find out what it was, all friendly concern, and he was relieved to tell me he had recognised my chatelaine. I told him I had bought it at auction in Paris, having been told that it once belonged to Lord Greta. I told him it led to my first interest in this area. A neat romantic tale. We were getting along famously until I throttled him. He put up a good fight though. Just not quite good enough. I rather liked him, you know. He was a friend of sorts.’ There was a click, and in a terrible instant Crowther realised what Sturgess was about. He sprang forward, but Sturgess had already turned round and was aiming the pistol squarely at Crowther’s chest.

‘Now, now Mr Crowther!’ Crowther stopped, still too far away to reach him. He felt the ball of silver on his father’s cane. If he could throw it hard enough at Sturgess in the instant he fired . . . ‘Your father, Mr Crowther, was a murderous dog. He bought our land cheap and raped it. He would have had the Hall too if Kit Huntsman had not put a torch to it rather than see it so defiled. That act of bravery cost him his life, didn’t it? Then Sir William sent my uncle to the executioner and let my father think for years that Kit had turned traitor. Your fortune should have been mine, Crowther. But as I cannot have that, I shall
take your life. Kit was one of my father’s favourites. I remember him a little.’

‘Wait!’

‘Goodbye, Mr Crowther.’ His finger twitched on the trigger.

Crowther threw himself forward, already knowing he was too slow. Just then, something to the left caught Sturgess’s eye out of the window and his face looked a little uncertain. Even as the powder burned in the pan the muzzle drifted in the same direction. Nevertheless, Crowther felt the force of the bullet strike him like a club and he fell back into darkness.

Casper saw the smoke as soon as he cleared the wall into Sturgess’s private grounds. It curled weakly into the dusk from a carved grotto set into the side of the hill. He went running for it, not sparing the breath yet to call her name. The entrance to the grotto had been lined with shells, and a little fountain dropped a stream of water into the wide mouth of a granite fish. The smoke was thick.

‘Agnes!’ He paused, listening.

‘Casper! I am here!’ Weak and a way back.

He thrust his handkerchief into the fish’s mouth and bound it sopping over his nose and mouth. Here was where the grotto turned into a tunnel. The smoke was powerful thick; in the darkness in front of him he saw the barricade, the base of it red and smouldering. He ran back then turned and threw himself at it. Where the wood had begun to char, it gave way. He could see a figure on the far side.

‘Stamp out what flames you can, girl! I’m coming again.’

This time he let fly just to the right of where he had made a gap. A board cracked and fell away. He scrambled to his feet and pulled another of the glowing planks aside. Agnes fell out at once towards him, coughing and spluttering. He gathered her in his arms and made for the air.

To Agnes the evening had never smelled so sweet. She was still coughing and weeping with the smoke, but she was laughing too. Casper looked like a highwayman with his kerchief over his face, and it was
funny to be carried as if you weighed no more than air. She was still giggling and gasping as she was set down on the grass and Casper beat the embers out that had clung to her skirts.

There was a shout from the house, and as they turned there they saw a flash of light in the window of Sturgess’s office and heard the crack of a gunshot. Casper hesitated. Agnes struck him on the leg with the back of her hand as she crouched retching on the turf.

‘Go on, Casper! Go on!’

Harriet hardly slowed her horse to dismount, leaping from her saddle with a grace Felix envied. He sniffed and looked into the shadows at the far side of the house. ‘Is that smoke? I think something might be on fire.’

Mrs Westerman was hammering at the door with her fist. There was a sudden crack inside the house, and Felix slithered down from his own horse.

‘Felix, break this door down.’

‘Madam, I—’

‘
Now
, Felix!’

Casper reached the window to see Sturgess standing over Crowther’s body. He was reloading his pistol. Casper put his shoulder up to protect his eyes, smashed through the glass and stumbled into the room. Sturgess span round and lifted his elbow as Casper reached him, catching Casper in the throat but dropping the pistol. Casper fell back. There was a bang at the front door, voices calling for Sturgess, Mrs Westerman shouting for Crowther. Even as Casper heard the front door give way, he watched Sturgess run out of the side door. He rolled onto his knees, choking from the blow to his throat and crawled over to where Crowther lay. It looked bad, the blood was running hard. Crowther’s eyes were half-open and he was breathing heavily.