Island of Bones caw-3 Page 7

  She apologised lightly for keeping them from their dinner, and touched the complicated arrangement of her hair by way of explanation. As Harriet stood to make her curtsey, she studied the woman. In her form she was very like Crowther, with the same hooded blue eyes, and high bones in the cheek. She had none of his reserve, however, and as soon as they were seated, began to question Harriet rather thoroughly about her estate, her children and her parents. When she began to make detailed enquiries about the affairs of the family at Thornleigh Hall and the young Lord Sussex, Harriet found she was struggling to answer with any degree of politeness. Twice Mrs Briggs tried to steer the conversation clear of the shoals with some other remark, and twice she was all but ignored by the Vizegrafin. Her eyes were constantly darting between Harriet and Crowther in a way that began to irritate. Felix started to frown and Harriet felt herself examined from all sides; she could sense her fingers tightening on her fan. Having observed the interrogation for some minutes, Crowther sighed audibly, then turned to Mrs Briggs and began to talk to her, listening to her replies with apparent interest.

  When the Vizegrafin noticed this, her eyes narrowed and she asked her brother some question. Crowther replied as briefly as possible, hardly looking at her as he did so, then continued to speak to Mrs Briggs.

  Harriet’s relief when they were summoned to the table was extreme.

  At least at dinner the dishes that appeared before them supplied some conversation, and when the subject of the excellence of the carp taken from the lake at Bassenthwaite had been raised, Harriet went so far as to ask the Vizegrafin whether the taste recalled to her her childhood in the area. The Vizegrafin set down her glass on the table and turned towards her, putting her head on one side.

  ‘Perhaps it does, Mrs Westerman. I am beset by all sorts of strange ghosts of my girlhood in this house.’ She glanced significantly at Crowther as she spoke, but he showed no sign of noticing it.

  ‘A ghostly fish!’ Felix said. ‘A strange ghost indeed.’ He gave a high-pitched giggle and leaned forward to pull more meat from it, doing so a little messily. His mother looked at him critically.

  ‘I wish you could rid yourself of that foolish laugh,’ she snapped. ‘It makes you sound like a schoolgirl.’

  Felix flushed and looked down at his plate.

  When the ladies withdrew, they found a visitor waiting for them by the tea table and Harriet was introduced to Mr Sturgess, the magistrate, who had been one of the party when the tomb was opened. A gentleman who, if not young still appeared vigorous, who dressed elegantly but without ostentation, he stood and made his bows with a steady smile. He wore his clothes well. The chatelaine that bore his watch and seal at his side was gilt and white enamel, but managed to seem at home against the dull sage of his waistcoat, whereas the more gaudy version Felix sported seemed to wheedle for attention. Harriet felt him study her and was glad she had decided on the blue. The Vizegrafin all but skipped to his side.

  ‘Mr Sturgess, what a delight to see you! You have come to look at Mrs Westerman, I suppose.’

  Mr Sturgess smiled at her and bowed, though it seemed the remark surprised him a little, then he turned to Harriet. ‘I have come in hopes of meeting Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther, naturally. It is an honour for us all to have them among us. I am glad there is such a comfortable home as Silverside to welcome them.’

  Mrs Briggs and Harriet were perhaps happier with this statement than the Vizegrafin.

  Harriet took her seat with her usual, open smile, saying, ‘You are the magistrate here, I believe, Mr Sturgess. Have you discovered anything about this strange body in the tomb as yet? Are you here to tell us Crowther and I are no longer required?’

  He took his tea from Mrs Briggs and shook his head. ‘I am indeed magistrate here, though the people are well-behaved enough and seldom trouble me, so my official duties are light. Of the body I can tell you nothing. I had the news spread and bills put up in town, but no one has come forward with any information as yet.’

  ‘A true mystery, then. Perhaps he is indeed an ancient or was a stranger here,’ Harriet said. She noticed Sturgess had grey eyes and a square jaw. There was something of the military in his bearing for all his ease of manner. She thought she might like him.

  ‘Perhaps so, Mrs Westerman, but just because no one has come to me, it does not mean that they know nothing. The people here are a close-knit and close-mouthed lot. I learn what business of the town I know only when something comes to blows in the public street. Perhaps that is how it should be. It might have been different with a magistrate born in the area, but I am only five years into my life here, so am regarded of very little consequence — unless you need a licence for a new ale-house.’

  Harriet was about to ask more about Mr Sturgess’s history, but he forestalled her, getting to his feet and approaching her chair while the others watched.

  ‘However, I do have something here for you.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a snuff barrel, putting it into her hand before sitting down again. It fitted snugly into Harriet’s palm. As she turned it over with a frown he continued, ‘There was a fight in Portinscale outside the Black Pig last night, and it turns out that that snuffbox was at the heart of it.’ He turned to Mrs Briggs. ‘I am sorry to say, it seems that the two men your steward hired were less than honest. Apparently the snuffbox fell from the clothing of the body as it was moved, and they snatched it up behind your man’s back. The fight was over the division of the spoils.’

  ‘Thieves! How dreadful!’ said the Vizegrafin.

  The magistrate shook his head sadly, but continued speaking to Mrs Briggs. ‘Madam, I hope that as the property is now returned to you, we need proceed no further in the case. You could have them both transported should you wish to prosecute, but though they are difficult men, I do not think them irredeemable.’

  Mrs Briggs patted his sleeve. ‘Quite right, quite right. I am of the same mind. We shall not have them on our property again, but you may tell them I shall carry the matter no further.’

  ‘Wrongdoers should be punished,’ said the Vizegrafin stiffly.

  ‘A little mercy, Vizegrafin,’ Sturgess murmured.

  Mrs Briggs cleared her throat. ‘Let your investigations commence then, Mrs Westerman! I am sure I think you so clever I expect you to give me all the details of the matter from this one object.’

  Harriet turned the snuffbox over in her hands. Ivory and mahogany, she thought. The hinge was in the form of a silver butterfly and on its lid bloomed a single rose in the same metal. She lifted her eyebrows.

  ‘Your poor wretch was a Jacobite, then, Mrs Briggs.’

  The woman almost spilled her tea. ‘Good Lord, Mrs Westerman! I spoke in jest! How can you say so?’

  Harriet shrugged, and felt rather than saw the Vizegrafin stiffen in her chair. She held the box towards her host. ‘When I was a child there was an old gentleman in my father’s parish whom we used to visit. My father felt it was his duty, as there was no Catholic priest in the area to tend to him. He was a Jacobite, still convinced the true King lived on the continent rather than in the Palace, and his home was full of items with these sorts of designs. I mean the rose and the butterfly, madam, and the use of ivory in the construction as well, I imagine, since white was the colour of the cause.’

  Mr Sturgess was looking at her steadily. ‘Bravo, Mrs Westerman.’ Harriet almost blushed.

  Mrs Briggs sipped her tea. ‘I do remember, my dear. I am quite old enough to remember the colours being worn. Of course, the rose. How clever of you to see it so quickly! And of course the last Lord Greta was such a Jacobite. Perhaps you have solved the mystery at a stroke, Mrs Westerman. Herbert’s Island was part of the Greta estate before it was bought by Lord Keswick, and then by ourselves. No doubt this was one of his followers who suffered some injury and was carelessly buried in the heat of the times.’

  ‘I would not call the burial careless, Mrs Briggs, would you?’ Harriet said, leaning back and taking up her fan. The he
at was still oppressive. ‘But perhaps you are right. We shall know more when we examine the body in the morning.’

  The Vizegrafin swung her head round to face Harriet. ‘You assist my brother in these examinations, Mrs Westerman? How horrible.’

  Harriet fluttered the fan. Her sister had painted it the previous year for her, and it had been one of her successes; it showed a wooded glade where a figure of Pan played pipes to an audience of a fox, a crow and a pair of small children whom Rachel had modelled on her nephew and niece.

  ‘I am sorry to say, madam, I have not the skills to “assist” in any practical way. Perhaps you think I am too delicate? I have acted as a nurse in my husband’s commands when it was required. I assure you it is a far more delicate procedure to examine a corpse than hold down a young man while his leg is removed. I take no active part in the autopsies Crowther performs. I am merely present and offer what conjectures I may, suggested by the evidence he discovers.’

  Sturgess looked serious. ‘I am sure your contributions are invaluable, Mrs Westerman. Mr Crowther is lucky to have you.’ The Vizegrafin sniffed, and Harriet was relieved to see Mrs Briggs looking rather amused.

  Before anything further could be said, Crowther and his nephew came into the room. Harriet noticed that Crowther was looking bored, and Felix rather deflated. She suspected he had ignored her advice and chattered over his wine. It seemed unlikely they would bring any great cheer to the group so she was pleased when they were almost immediately joined by Stephen and his tutor, summoned from their own amusements to spend a little of the evening with the company. After the various introductions and explanations required by the gathering of the party, Mr Quince took a chair a little removed from the rest of them, produced his guidebook from his pocket and began to read. Stephen, however, began at once to tell them of his adventures in the wood and the talking jackdaw. He turned to Crowther.

  ‘Can all birds speak, sir? Do they have throats as we do? Mr Quince said he did not know.’

  Crowther looked steadily at him and brought his fingertips together. ‘What do you think, Stephen?’ The boy bit his lip. It was also a habit Harriet had when she was thinking. Crowther wondered if her son had mimicked her, as one generation of birds mimics the songs of its forebears.

  ‘I think if all birds could talk, I should have met one before now. And the crows near our house sound a little like people at times, do they not? So perhaps they are more like us than sparrows or jays.’

  Crowther nodded. ‘That seems a sensible speculation, though of course you would have to make careful experiment to support your theory.’

  A look of wary concern crossed Stephen’s face. ‘But not on Joe, sir? He is a nice bird and I would not like to see him hurt.’

  ‘We shall not steal and cut up someone’s pet, Stephen.’ Crowther lifted his chin to look across at Mr Quince. ‘I can recommend a book or two about the anatomy of the throat to your tutor, if it would interest you. And I believe there are some interesting works on birds in the library here. My own experiments in anatomy began with the study of the canaries of a neighbour here — my father’s solicitor, then my own — a Mr Leathes.’

  Mrs Briggs clasped her hands. ‘He looked after all our business at Silverside until he passed the practice to his son. He has his aviary still.’

  As the conversation continued, touching the various persons still living on the lake shores that Crowther and his sister had known in their youth, Felix seemed to sink further into his chair, and Harriet thought she saw a jealous glint in his eye. She suspected Crowther had not offered to lend him any books.

  Stephen smiled and reached into his pocket. ‘I am glad you shan’t cut up poor Joe. It would seem unfair when all he has done is learn to say “good day”. Mr Grace gave me this too.’ He produced the carving of the Luck and handed it to Crowther.

  ‘Very pretty,’ he said simply, and passed it to Mrs Briggs.

  ‘Oh yes. These are the ones that Mr Askew sells in his museum.’ She looked up at Harriet. ‘The Lost Luck. Well, Luck left the Gretas certainly. The last Lord Greta lived out his life in exile, and his younger brother was taken in 1745 and executed for treason the following year. An unfortunate family. These hills are so magnificent, but we have made all sorts of bloody histories between them.’ She suddenly remembered her audience and looked up very pink. The Vizegrafin was staring at her with horror; even Mr Sturgess looked uncertain.

  ‘Very true, madam,’ Crowther said.

  No one seemed quite sure how to continue the conversation, but Stephen spoke, unaware of the strained silence in the room. He had picked up the snuffbox and was examining the inside of the lid with his eyes screwed tight. ‘What little writing!’

  Harriet turned to him. ‘Where, Stephen? What does it say?’

  ‘Semper fideles. Greta,’ he said slowly as he read. ‘That means always loyal, does it not?’

  Mrs Briggs put her hand to her mouth. ‘Why, Mrs Westerman — it is much as we thought! A follower of Lord Greta’s from 1715 — this proves it. How interesting!’

  ‘There is a date here, too, Mama.’ Stephen held it out to his mother. ‘It says 1742.’

  Harriet took the box from him and turned it over in her hand. The writing was indeed tiny. She wondered if her eyes were growing old. ‘So we have not quite solved the mystery as yet, Mrs Briggs. Tell me, Crowther, who owned Saint Herbert’s Island in the forties?’

  Crowther cleared his throat and put his fingertips together. ‘In 1742? The island was owned at that time by my father, Sir William Penhaligon, later made First Baron Keswick. He made a number of purchases after Lord Greta’s lands were forfeited. He bought Saint Herbert’s at the same time as he bought the land on which to rebuild this house and create the gardens — 1720 or thereabouts.’

  Mrs Briggs looked surprised. ‘Perhaps the dead man was a follower of Lord Greta’s brother then, who came over in 1745. But Lord Greta’s brother was taken at Preston — not near here. What would one of the family’s followers be doing in these parts at that time?’

  For the moment, no one had any reply to offer her.

  From the collection of Mr Askew, Keswick Museum

  From the English Post, 12 July 1712

  Some remarks on the Luck of Gutherscale Hall

  Sir,

  On a recent journey to the North of England, I had the honour of being received in the ancient and beautiful seat of Edmund de Beaufoy, 7th Earl of Greta, namely Gutherscale Hall on the shores of Keswick Lake. The Hall is based round the ancient pele tower which offers a delightful prospect over his wild lands, so long held and defended by this noble family, though in the current Lord’s father’s time the Hall was much extended to create a number of generously-sized apartments befitting the standing of the Greta name. At that time, and through the kindness of my host, I had the pleasure of seeing there the fabled Luck of Gutherscale Hall. I made some notes as to the folklore surrounding this remarkable item and its appearance which I am happy now to share with my fellow readers of your excellent magazine, should you find room to print them.

  The Luck is kept in the Hall in a strongbox made on purpose and to which only Lord Greta owns the key. On viewing it, one can readily see why such a precaution is necessary. The Luck is a cross roughly the size of a grown man’s hand spread wide, and fashioned of gold. Its surface is studded with a number of fine gemstones, including a large ruby in its centre, four considerable diamonds inter alia, and its edges are studded with good quality pearls. Though one hesitates to assert a definitive opinion I would hazard it is Byzantine in origin. When I offered this opinion to Lord Greta he was happy to inform me that the local legend claims that the cross was presented to an ancestor of the Greta family by none other than the fair-folk when he disturbed their celebrations in the local stone circle! Legend further informs us he was warned that, if the Luck ever left the ownership of the family, disaster would follow. The current Lord does not seem of a superstitious character, though he laughingly told your corresp
ondent that many of the local people still regard the cross with great reverence as a gift of the fairies, given to celebrate their acceptance of Christ as their Lord, and he means to keep it under close guard rather than earn their wrath.

  Yours c M.C.

  PART II

  II.1

  Wednesday, 16 July 1783

  Ever since her husband had died Harriet had woken early; it was no different here. For a while she tried to climb back into her dreams but they were lost to her. The house was still. She rose, finished her letter to Rachel, then decided to walk. The mention of the ancient family of Greta the previous evening had intrigued her, so she dressed as simply as she could and leaving Silverside still sleeping behind her, set out along the path that she thought would lead her towards their ancestral home, Gutherscale Hall.

  The carriage road that had once run along the hillside above Silverside Hall, then fallen past Gutherscale Hall before more sedately following the lakeshore towards Grange and the jaws of Borrowdale, had become impassable within ten years of Lord Greta’s exile in 1716. Where a road was not in regular use, the weather and winds would soon shake it from carriageway to bridleway to path within a few years. The footpath which Harriet took led more directly from the lawns of Silverside and followed the line of the lake through a cool woodland of birch and beech. Derwent Water appeared through the trees to her left, silken and dark grey, and on her right the ground rose, the moss and leaf-mould-covered ground studded with holly.

  The morning had brought no freshening of the air with it but Harriet was soothed by the water and wood around her. Mrs Briggs had told her that although Crowther’s father had sold the timber on his land, she and her husband had been less inclined to clear, and since they had bought the land the hillsides had redressed themselves in rowan and ash.