Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

‘But perhaps the vicar will attend, then he can share the information with his flock,’ Mr Askew said, in a hopeful tone.

‘You cannot persuade a population out of superstition so easily,’ Crowther said, his tone dismissive. ‘The people here will believe in witches and lucks and any parcel of nonsense till it suits them to think otherwise. Neither the vicar nor myself will convince them.’

‘You think the local legends nonsense?’ Sturgess said.

‘I do,’ Crowther replied, meeting the other man’s eye.

Harriet did not like the tone of the exchange, and gave as warm a smile as she could muster to the two gentlemen, saying, ‘Crowther believes that the Italian earthquakes may be in some way to blame for the dry fog, but he is like all natural philosophers, in that he devotes himself to one problem at a time, and for the moment that problem is this poor wretch. I hope you will excuse us.’

Mr Askew seemed comforted and Harriet could see him planning to offer up this opinion around the village even as the words were leaving her mouth. Mr Sturgess bowed to her again and they returned to the sunlight. Harriet was only relieved that neither of them had thought to ask about the fire.

‘You need not trouble yourself to explain me away, madam.’ Crowther’s mouth was firm set. ‘And I am quite capable of dealing with several trains of thought at one time.’

Harriet folded her arms. ‘I am aware of that, Crowther. But I do not think you need to be so uncivil to strangers. Oh, and as I seem to be scolding you, I shall add that whatever his behaviour this morning, I pitied your nephew last night.’

Crowther looked genuinely surprised at that. ‘Did you? Why?’

‘I do not think you were kind to him.’

‘He has no head for wine. He talked a great deal of nonsense to me at the dinner table after you had withdrawn, including his reflections on the fairer sex, none of which made me think well of him. Then he asked me for money.’

‘Poor Felix. I take it you did not give him any.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘He is handsome — perhaps he will marry money if he cannot afford to wait until he inherits your field of rotting pigs.’

Crowther did not reply but placed his scalpel at the corpse’s neck and began to test the resistance the mummified flesh gave to his blade. His mind had obviously turned back to their late visitors. ‘I do not understand why people feel the necessity of quoting Shakespeare at every turn. Have they no words of their own?’

‘You have few enough, sir,’ Harriet replied as she watched his delicate movements. ‘I admire a talent for quotation.’

‘Parroting great writers is no substitute for understanding them.’ Crowther bent low over the body and sighed. ‘A being of above average height. I suspect we will learn nothing further until the flesh is removed, and even then we may discover nothing. This is not good for my vanity, Mrs Westerman. All we may ever know about this man may be learned by the snuffbox that fell from his pocket and your son’s sharp eyes. Let us remove the clothing.’

To mock his own pride, however gently, was as near to an apology for his irritability as Harriet was ever likely to receive from Crowther. She went to the feet of the corpse and, taking another of Crowther’s knives in her own hand, began to cut free the man’s boots. The leather was tough. When she had split it from the calf to the foot she pulled it, very gently, free and set it down on the table to her side, then did the same to the other. There was a moment as she was pulling the second one free that she was afraid she was in danger of separating the man’s joints.

‘Mrs Westerman, I think we must turn the body.’

‘Very well.’ She stepped next to Crowther and they placed their hands along the man’s side and pulled him towards them. The limbs were awkward, but they managed to turn the body without damage. It was an intimacy with the dead that Harriet did not savour. She moved away and washed her hands as Crowther cut and pulled free the remaining cloth. By the time she turned round again, he had managed to untangle the remains of the cloak, and remove the coat. He was building a small pile of buttons and fastenings to one side.

‘This cloak was once fine quality cloth,’ he said.

‘The boots are also well made.’

He nodded, lifting the coat into the air. ‘A traveller.’ Something fell through the rotted material on to the earthen floor. Harriet bent down to pick it up — a leather purse with a drawstring on it.

Crowther watched as she shook the contents out onto the table. There were a number of shillings and two sovereigns. ‘The motive for this murder was not robbery then,’ he said.

Harriet looked up from the collection of dark coins; she was examining the dates stamped on each. There was one from 1720, three from the 1730s and the youngest of the collection was from 1743. ‘We know so little, and yet you are ready to call it murder?’

‘Why else would the body be concealed?’

She frowned. ‘There might be several reasons. Crowther, have you formulated a theory already about this death? That is unlike you.’

He hesitated. ‘My brother was often in Cumberland in the forties, avoiding his creditors or trying to persuade more money out of our parents. A man who in the end murdered his father for the bills in his pocket might well have killed another to escape a debt. It would be like Adair to kill, and then in his panic forget to search his victim’s pockets for coin.’

Harriet stared at him as he turned again to his instrument case. His voice was utterly cool.

The views from the Duke of Portland’s launch were impressive even in the haze. Mr Quince was content for Stephen to enjoy them without comment and let his own mind wander. His eye fell on the profile of a young woman seated in the stern, apparently unaccompanied. She was perhaps a little younger than himself, scarcely twenty, yet she held herself very upright. Quince did not see pride in the straightness of her spine, however, only the habit of strict self-control. It interested him and he was inclined to look at her longer than perhaps he should have done. She felt his eyes on her and turned towards him. Her eyes were almost black and set large in a heart-shaped face. Quince was embarrassed to have been caught staring. The wild beauty of the landscape was making him romantic. He turned his attention to where Stephen was engaged in helping the loading of a small cannon on the prow.

Quince thought his charge a sensitive and intelligent boy, but was most impressed by his ability to make friends with whomever came in his way. Even Mr Crowther, who could barely conceal his disdain for his own sister and nephew, was apparently fond of Stephen. It was natural then that in the few minutes that had passed since they began their cruise, Stephen would have become a trusted member of the crew. He was thrusting the charge into the little cannon now under the encouraging eye of one of the oarsmen. Quince was watching him with a smile when he felt a light touch on his sleeve and turned to find the black-eyed beauty leaning towards him.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ Her voice had a heavy German accent which gave her English an oddly precise tone. ‘What are we shooting at?’

He felt a sudden pride at being so accosted, quite out of proportion with the honour, and became a little pink. After all, the only other pleasure-seekers in the boat this early in the day were a young couple who sat so close together, and were so involved in each other’s thoughts and exclamations at the scenery, Quince could only assume they were on their marriage tour. He cleared his throat.

‘We will not shoot at anyone, I am glad to say, madam. I understand the gun is to be fired to test the echoes in the valley. They are said to be remarkable. Every shot is heard a number of times around the lake.’