Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

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 heat 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.’