Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

This answer seemed to satisfy the lady and she began to turn from him again. Quince felt a strong desire to prevent her attention slipping away from him.

‘Do you like the scenery, madam?’ he enquired.

She looked about her as if noticing it for the first time. ‘It is very pretty,’ she said in a rather dull voice, and while Quince was struggling for some further remark, his attention was called by Stephen. He had a slow match ready and, once he was sure Mr Quince was watching, he set it to the charge.

The powder in the pan fizzed yellow and red a moment, then the cannon gave a sharp crack and the smell of gunpowder enveloped them. The launch trembled. The crack was followed by answering roars from the hills on each side, as if it had awoken a tribe of giants on the fells. Quince counted seven distinct reports before the sound folded into a low thunderous growl and died away. The men on the boat looked pleased.

‘Peter, mark this spot,’ one said to the other, with a wink. ‘I’ve never heard it go off as well!’

Stephen seemed to take this as a compliment to himself and beamed at the company. The female of the young couple had given a little yelp as the cannon fired. From the German woman there came no sound at all; she only closed her magnificent eyes briefly and Quince saw her fingers tighten on the bench on which she sat.

Preparing the body for the pots was grisly work. Now and again, Harriet would become aware of what she was about and shudder. She wondered about Crowther’s idea that this man was a creditor of his brother’s. It was to a degree plausible. If his brother had been capable of patricide, might he not have committed another murder? Surely that was more likely than two beings who were capable of killing, existing in such a small community as this. But the dates on the coins that pointed so closely to the 1745 rebellion, and the apparent sympathies of the murdered man, troubled her. Could a man marked out for his loyalty to the exiled Lord Greta be also a creditor of Lucius Adair? Wasn’t it more likely that the man had returned to the region because of some business of his master’s, and wouldn’t that business more likely be with Crowther’s father rather than his brother?

She shook her head as if she could in that way settle the questions into some sort of order, then continued with her task. Crowther, she noticed, looked quite cheerful at his work. She thought uncharitably of cannibals. When the pots were cooking at the intensity Crowther thought correct, Harriet found herself keen to leave the building. The odour had become unpleasant almost at once. The moment he pronounced himself satisfied, the pots stewing gently, she removed her apron and walked into the hazy sunshine, breathing deeply. Crowther followed her with a basin of clean water and a towel over his arm like a valet. He set it down on a bench by the door and with a look, invited her to make use of it.

‘It will take some hours before the bones are clean enough for me to examine,’ he said. ‘But the fire is low and may do its work unsupervised.’ She nodded and put her hands in the water, only stepping aside when her skin was pink with scrubbing. She watched him take her place.

‘Crowther, have you ever wondered how different your life might have been had you offered your sister a home with you?’

‘No,’ he said shortly, but as he moved his hands through the water he thought of what a check on his studies and travels taking charge of a young girl would have been. He thought of the lecture rooms of Europe where he had gained his knowledge of anatomy while his sister had learned French and country dances. For ten years his clothing had carried the continual scent of preserving liquid and he doubted she would have liked the smell. The places where he had studied and the things he had learned would have been lost to him, and all for the dubious pleasures of driving fortune-hunters away from his unsympathetic sister. Then something reminded him that Mrs Westerman had given up her own life of travel to provide a home for her orphaned sister. He told himself she also had a son to care for, so the circumstances could not be compared, but as he dried his hands, he said: ‘At least, I had not considered it until now. And I do not think I shall do so again.’

Harriet turned towards the lake. ‘I suppose we must prepare for the afternoon’s entertainment. Let us lock the door and pray no one thinks to enquire what is happening in the brew house while they are enjoying their ices and watching the archery competition.’ She was suddenly startled by the sound of a gunshot, and looked about her as the hills seemed to grow alive with the harsh coughs of repeated explosions. Crowther came up to her and pointed towards a small boat in the centre of the lake. A little grey plume, darker than the general haze, hung over it.

‘They are testing the echoes, Mrs Westerman. No need to be alarmed.’

Stephen was still very pleased with his success with the cannon when they reached the shore again, and chattered away as they disembarked. He distracted Quince to the extent that his tutor hardly knew he had turned to offer his hand to the German beauty and was helping her onto the jetty. He tried to think of a way to introduce himself to her in a gentlemanlike manner, but was pre-empted by the boy, who had already put out his hand to the lady, and was looking up at her with a friendly smile.

‘Good morning! Were not the echoes fine? I am Stephen Westerman, of Caveley in Hartswood, Sussex.’

The woman shook his hand. ‘Then you find yourself far from home, but not as far as I. I am Sophia — Sophia Hurst from Vienna. They were good echoes.’

‘You are German!’ Stephen said.

‘Austrian,’ she corrected him gently.

Quince cleared his throat. ‘Are you walking up into town, madam? May we accompany you?’

She nodded, and as they walked away from the jetty, she was treated to a monologue from Stephen of all he knew of Austria. Quince wondered if he should check the boy, but Fraulein Hurst seemed happy to hear the history of her nation retold to her. Just as he was beginning to think Stephen’s account might be becoming tiresome to even the most forgiving listener, he heard a whistle from the woods along the track and saw the boy’s face break into a smile.

‘Mr Casper!’ Stephen shouted. ‘Did you hear the echoes? Is Joe with you?’

Their strange friend sauntered out of the woods to meet them, a pair of dead rabbits slung over his shoulder. Quince had never seen a man move with such careless ease and watched with admiration. Quince always suspected he was in danger of making himself ridiculous, or had just done so. He was reasonably sure such thoughts had never entered the head of Casper Grace, and envied him. Casper nodded, then pointed into the woods behind him where the jackdaw was visible on the path. The bird was turning rotten leaves over with the same air of sceptical interest that Quince saw on Crowther’s face when he was reading; the jackdaw’s bright blue eye and silver flash on the top of his head made the resemblance only stronger. Casper put his hand in his pocket and took out a fistful of corn.

‘Go offer him that, youngling, and he may speak to you.’

Stephen took the corn from him and stepped forward carefully, intent. Apparently Casper only now became aware of the lady and he hesitated. Quince took charge.

‘Fraulein Hurst, this is Casper Grace.’ Casper looked at her for a long moment and Quince thought he saw an expression of concern cross the man’s face. Then Casper seemed to feel that he had looked too long and blushing, began to stow the rabbits in his shoulder pouch.

‘I am glad to meet you, Casper,’ the lady said in her precise way. He looked pleased and scratched the back of his neck.