Island of Bones caw-3 Read online

  Charles took a deep breath and stood. Already the crowd was thinning out. The spectacle was over, so the usual day-to-day business resumed.

  A man tapped him on the shoulder. ‘So that makes you Lord Keswick now, sir?’

  Charles turned his blue eyes on him. ‘What?’

  The man looked unsure and glanced over his shoulder to the place where Carmichael and Goffe had been sitting. ‘Fellow up there said you were the brother — the heir to all that money. It’s an ill wind, your lordship.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, that’s some bad blood to inherit.’ There was a gleam in his eye, a certain wet hunger in his lips.

  Charles drew on his gloves, his hands shaking only very slightly. Interesting, the strange effects on the physical body the emotions could have. If he could draw his own blood now, at this moment, what would he find in it, he wondered.

  ‘They were mistaken,’ he said, looking at the man very steadily. The man’s smile faltered and he began under that gaze to look almost afraid.

  ‘My apologies, sir. And forgive my asking. Only natural to be curious, I’m sure you’ll agree. Such a tale.’

  ‘Indeed, and I pity Lord Keswick that he must be associated with it.’

  ‘Of course, sir. My apologies again, sir.’ Charles took a step away, but the man raised his voice. ‘Your name then, sir?’

  Charles paused for a second. ‘My name is Gabriel Crowther,’ he said, and disappeared into the crowd.

  The summer of 1783 was an amazing and portentous one, and full of horrible phenomena; for besides the alarming meteors and thunderstorms that affrighted many counties of this kingdom, the peculiar haze or smoky fog, that prevailed for many weeks in this island and in every part of Europe, and even beyond its limits, was a most extraordinary appearance, unlike anything known within memory of man. By my journal I find that I had noticed this strange occurrence from June 23rd to July 20th inclusive, during which the wind varied to every quarter without making any alterations in the air.

  Gilbert White Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, 1789

  The universities do not teach all things, so a doctor must seek out old wives, gypsies, sorcerers, wandering tribes, old robbers and such outlaws and take lessons from them. . Knowledge is experience.

  Theophrastus von Hohenheim (1493/4-1541), called Paracelsus

  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 mus
eum 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.’

  I.2

  Monday, 7 July 1783, Caveley Park, near Hartswood, Sussex

  Gabriel Crowther rode up to Caveley Park at a furious pace and handed his sweating horse to the stable lad without a word. On being shown into the salon where Mrs Harriet Westerman was at work at her accounts, he took advantage of long friendship by throwing himself down on the sofa at the far end of the room and staring at her carpet with an expression of loathing. If he noticed that Mrs Westerman’s young son and his tutor were in the room and working at their lessons within a few feet of him, he gave no sign of it. Harriet had looked up from her papers long enough to mark him and his manner, but she continued to write as she spoke.

  ‘Mr Quince. It seems Mr Crowther is not in one of his sociable moods. Perhaps you and Stephen may continue this morning’s work in the library.’

  Mr Quince, who resembled nothing so much as an egg that had learned the trick of tying a cravat, stood and gathered his pupil’s books, made his bows and headed for the door at once. Stephen followed him, but reluctantly, looking back at his mother. She noticed and smiled at him. ‘Off you go, young man. And work hard at your sums. I feel the lack of such learning today.’ He sighed noisily, and though his shoulders slumped he followed Mr Quince dutifully enough.

  As Harriet turned back to the pages in front of her she noticed she had smudged the ink of her last entry with her sleeve. ‘How did I become so clumsy with my pen?’ she said, as much to herself as her companion, and tried to dab at the mark with her handkerchief. It seemed to spread. ‘At least when I was in full mourning the marks were not so visible. Now Mrs Heathcote finds a new one to scold me over every week.’ Seeing that Crowther was still intent on her carpet she tucked one of her red locks behind her ear. ‘The most current Advertiser is under the cushion to your right, Crowther.’ She looked back down at the accounts in front of her.

  Harriet Westerman had been a widow for some twenty months now and was beginning to become accustomed to her grief. She had put off her mourning clothes with regret a year after her husband was murdered. Her dresses had continued muted in their tones another six months, but as the spring of 1783 had shown itself in the bright green fuzz on the silver birches, and the hawthorn had begun to star the hedgerows around Hartswood with white, she had felt she was required once more to adopt the colours she had worn as a hopeful wife and mother. It was necessary. Her husband’s success as a Captain in the Royal Navy had earned him a handsome estate. Now it needed to be managed, and Harriet realised that her steward came to her more readily when he did not fear he would be interrupting her grief. She had two children, Stephen and his sister Anne. She wanted them to grow up cheerful and active, and knew that they therefore needed an example of cheerfulness and activity in their mother. Her mourning ring she kept on her left hand alongside her promissory ring. It was small enough to feel like a purely personal indulgence and she tried to check her habit of twisting it to and fro on her finger when alone or in deep thought. The residents of Hartswood, her family and friends, began to congratulate themselves and each other on her apparent recovery.

  In their sympathy and attempts to offer comfort and consolation, her acquaintances had often hurt her. Harriet had never realised quite how dull-witted some people could be. Some had suggested that widowhood would be easier for her to bear as her husband’s duties had often kept him at sea for long periods. It was as if they expected she would forget from time to time that he was dead at all. Others intimated that her husband would be pleased she was still young and handsome enough to attract a man who might take his place. She had managed not to let her temper rise on such occasions, at first because in the desperation of her loss she had hardly heard the words. Later she had found she could bear to keep a resigned smile on her face and her tongue still if she drove her nails into her palm as such people spoke to her. She already had a reputation for unconventional behaviour, and though letting loose her tongue would be a relief, society would begin to distance itself from her if her manners in company were not impeccable, and to some degree her estate, her family and her friends would suffer.

  Such social niceties had never troubled Gabriel Crowther. He visited only two houses in the neighbourhood, Caveley and Thornleigh Hall, home of the young Earl of Sussex, his guardian and his family. There Crowther found people whose company he could tolerate, or even enjoy in moderation, but he would trouble himself with the local gentry no further. He ignored them, and when that was insufficient he was rude. It was an effective strategy that gave him the leisure he required to continue his anatomical studies in peace.

  Harriet completed another column of figures in her firm neat hand, then frowned when they did not add up as she expected and twisted her mourning ring. Crowther had noticed Harriet’s habit of driving her nails into her palm when the local ladies fluttered about her; he had told her sharply not to be foolish. A week later, a matron of Pulborough was unfortunate enough to quote an improving passage on grief to Mrs Westerman in his presence. It was a passage she had been to the trouble of memorising for the poor widow, and she was rather proud of it. When she was done and blinking damply into Harriet’s face, waiting for her reaction, Crowther had put his fingertips together and in a cold drawl began to speak. For anyone other than the families of Thornleigh Hall and Caveley to hear his voice was a novelty, but from between his thin lips there emerged such a devastating critique of her logic, and of the literary quality of the passage, that the matron wished he migh
t be struck dumb again at once, and her husband thought he might have to issue a challenge.

  Mrs Westerman’s sister, Rachel, and the Earl of Sussex’s guardian, Mr Graves, tactfully intervened. Such were their skills, the company could convince itself no insult had been offered and the matron’s husband was allowed to return to his discussion of the current sport. The story of the encounter must have spread, however, for no one was seen pressing improving books and quotations on the widow again, at least not when there was any danger of Mr Crowther overhearing.

  Harriet heard a snort of contempt from the sofa and looked up again. Crowther was reading the page in front of him with arms extended and lip curled.

  ‘I conclude you are reading the letter from Paris about the causes of this strange weather we are suffering under.’

  ‘I am, madam.’ He paused. She remained looking at him. ‘Do you wish to explain your fortunate guess?’

  Harriet raised her eyebrows. ‘It was no guess, Crowther. News of the war with the French you read without feeling, news of the court or the arts you do not read at all, news of death or crime you read with weary disdain. Only an individual offering conclusions you think faulty in the natural sciences could rouse you to anger.’

  Crowther looked back down at the paper in front of him, and said sullenly, ‘I have reason to be angry. This correspondent begins well enough. Listen: “The multitude therefore may be easily supposed to draw strange conclusions when they see the sun of a blood colour shed a melancholy light and cause a most sultry heat”. Very well, and so they may do — but so does this man. To leap from there to “This, however, is nothing more than a very natural effect from a hot sun after a long succession of heavy rain,” is nonsense. Any child knows a damp fog. This summer has nothing of that in it.’