Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

‘You have not asked her about the circumstances?’

‘Goodness me, no, Mrs Westerman! But you have not met the lady. If you had done so, you would not ask the question. She can be all twittering and charm when she wishes, but she will put you properly in your corner if you don’t bend to her.’

Harriet rested her chin in her right hand, tapping at the fabric of her dress with her left. ‘Her brother is not known for his social graces either, I am afraid, though he inflicts his company on very few. And this body of yours, Mrs Briggs? Was it at the Vizegrafin’s suggestion that Crowther be summoned to investigate it, or your own notion?’

Mrs Briggs looked into the air. ‘How strange! I suppose it is “my body” in my husband’s absence. Yes, it was the Vizegrafin. All that we have done this summer is due to her. She decided that a summerhouse on the island was a delightful plan. Then she wished to be present when the tomb was opened, then suggested summoning Mr Crowther and yourself. Perhaps she has become bored with Mr Sturgess, our neighbour, driving her about and playing cards five hours in the day. Still, I wish I had had the idea for a summerhouse of some sort before my son Ambrose grew so old and upright, but perhaps his children shall play there.’

Harriet looked at her. ‘You named your son after your first love?’

Mrs Briggs nodded. ‘With Mr Briggs’s happy consent, my dear. They were friends as children and I think Ambrose would have been glad to see his namesake grown up so strong and well-established in life. We do what we can for the memory of our poor dear dead.’

‘And you wish to have the mystery of this extra body in the tomb revealed for the same reason?’

Mrs Briggs spoke slowly. ‘Well, I suppose he was someone’s son. I believe by the clothing the body is that of a man. I do not know what you might be able to find out. He is a long time gone, poor fellow, but these hills have long memories, the hills and the people. I have been here thirty years and am thought of as an out-comer still.’ She clapped her hands on her knees, and became brisk again. ‘You will most likely find nothing at all, but I am easier in my mind knowing an attempt will be made. Then we may say some prayers over the poor forgotten thing, and you may enjoy the air and exercise we offer. Now I must go and dress for dinner, and allow you to do the same. Miriam will have your clothes all laid out by now, and will help you if you need her.’ She stood and bustled out of the room and Harriet smiled after her, then began, with a grimace, to wonder how she should dress to meet the Vizegrafin, doubting if she had anything sufficient to the occasion.

Stephen had run hard up the wooded path to the west of the house and now bent over his knees panting. He was already in love with the lake and the hills, and as he left the house to look at the mountains, he found his mind was teeming so with plans for boating, swimming in the lake and climbing each of the peaks, he had felt a sudden urge to dash about that could not be denied. Mr Quince was already showing himself to be the best sort of tutor for such a trip by remarking as Stephen’s plans tumbled out of him that there was no better way to study geography than walking about in it, and he had always thought mathematics best tackled after a long swim.

Around him, oaks and beeches dressed with their summer foliage swung and stretched in the hazy sky. The birdsong was cacophonous: the bark of a chaffinch, the warbling, reaching trill of a yellow-hammer. The calls crossed and cut under each other. The air was full of the smell of dry earth and the competing breaths of wild flowers.

Stephen caught enough of his wind to look up and saw a jackdaw scratching about on the path in front of him. It was smaller than the crows he saw at Caveley and had very bright blue eyes. The feathers on its head were a little grey, giving the impression of a particularly glossy wig.

‘Good day, crow,’ Stephen said, his general good humour spilling over to the whole animal world.

The jackdaw hopped round in a tight circle before it looked over its shoulder at him.

‘Good day,’ it replied with the same lilt that Stephen had heard from the servants in the house.

Alarmed, the boy took a step back, caught his heel on a branch and fell heavily on his behind in the track, mouth still open. The bird fluttered away a little, looking offended. Stephen’s view was suddenly blocked by a pair of legs in brown wool. A hand was extended to him and he found himself pulled to his feet by a man in labouring clothes. He was the colour of the stained wood floors in the nursery in Caveley, and his beard was whitening in places. It was a round, manly-looking face, and smiling. His hair was curly, and he had a great deal of it.

‘You whole there, youngling?’ the man said. Stephen nodded, trying to catch sight of the bird again. ‘Give you a fright, did he?’

‘I was not frightened.’

The man laughed under his breath then whistled, taking something out of his pocket as he did so. The crow fluttered up to his shoulder and allowed the man to scratch his glossy black neck as he ate from his open palm.

‘It spoke,’ Stephen said at last, suspiciously.

‘He does that, he does,’ the man replied. ‘When he has a mind to. Move slowly and he may let you scratch him as I am doing.’ He bent forward, bringing the jackdaw within Stephen’s reach. The boy reached up with great care and pushed his fingers in between the feathers. He had thought they would be soft, but they felt like polished wood and strong. The bird took on a slightly dreamy expression and opened its beak a little with a low growling sound.

‘What is his name?’

The man tilted his head. ‘I can’t say as I know in crow language, but I call him Joe and he’s willing to answer to that.’

‘Joooe,’ said the jackdaw, bobbing a little. Stephen took his hand away quickly and offered it to the man.

‘My name is Stephen Westerman, and I am very pleased to meet you.’

The man took his hand, giving it a smart downward pull that almost dislocated Stephen’s shoulder and set him stumbling again. ‘Casper Grace, so please you, sir.’ He then sat down on a log that formed a natural bench to the right of the path and took various items from his pockets. The jackdaw remained balanced on his shoulder and for the next few moments boy and bird were united in observing the man as he worked with a knife on a half-whittled piece of wood. Stephen became aware that the forest was full of smaller noises under the calling birds — he could hear leaves brushing together where the wind stirred them like a hand in water; somewhere in the distance, a stream was running; as he moved, the forest floor seemed to shush him. Stephen approached cautiously, keeping one eye on the jackdaw, and sat down carefully at the man’s feet.

‘What are you making?’ he said at last.

Without looking up, Casper reached into his pocket and took something from it which he thrust into Stephen’s hand. The boy found himself looking at a neat little carving of a cross that just fitted into his palm. It splayed out towards its four ends and was smooth to the touch, but detailed with an inner line and circle at its centre. The edge was marked out with little dips as if it were decorated with the shadows of something.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said at last. Casper looked up and sniffed.

‘It is a Luck. The Luck of Gutherscale Hall. You may keep it, though don’t tell Askew. He sells them at his museum in the town and doesn’t like it when I give them away for free. Says I am robbing us both. I made it.’

Stephen turned it over and ran his fingertips along the worked edges. ‘I wish I were so clever.’