Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Casper made for the woodsmen’s cabins above Silverside, flinching as the fireworks rattled behind him. He was satisfied that the night in the open would be punishment enough for Agnes, but he still felt angry, and the explosions on the lakeside made the witches shriek till he could hardly follow the thread of his own thoughts. He wondered where she had got the idea of the poppet from. It was a strong notion — he could feel the tang of magic on it. Agnes was a clever girl, but she’d become a dangerous one if she got into the habit of such tricks.

Casper had only once in the last twenty years named a witch in these hills. She was an old woman, Blanche Grice, grown powerful and used to her power while he was still gaining and measuring the strength of his own. When she cursed a young woman in Pontiscale one winter and made her miscarry, he had gone up against her at last. It had been a bitter thing, but much as she played the innocent, he knew he had been right. She was spurned on his word so left her home, setting out on the Kendal Road, and had not been seen since. Some said she had changed herself into a hare and now stayed that way most of the time. Casper knew better. She had crawled into the old mines on the flank of Ullock Moss and let her body die there, ready instead to live in Casper’s mind, chattering at him and cursing. He found her body in the spring and buried it himself, but though he had red threads tied round his wrists, she still crawled into his skull somehow and had been there ever since. She was loud now, yelling delightedly at the explosions from the lakeside, trying to twitch him round so she could see them through his eyes. He was striving to quiet her as he approached the clearing where his cabin waited, so did not mark the nervous twittings and cawing from Joe — and the blow that felled him came like thunder from a clear sky.

The applause for the fireworks and their glorious finale was still rippling around a beaming Mr Askew when the first fat drops fell. Harriet looked up, then hissed as something stung her arm. She turned towards Mr Quince, who looked as bemused as she did herself, then with a crack something fell into Harriet’s glass of punch on the table between them and splashed the liquor onto the tablecloth. Mr Quince picked up the glass and looked into it.

‘My goodness! Hail!’ he said, then sneezed.

The air seemed to chill around them with such rapidity Harriet felt as if she had fallen out of a glasshouse and into an ice cellar. All around them, the crowd had begun to move. Mrs Briggs yelped as a hailstone the size of Stephen’s fist landed on their table and rolled to the ground.

‘Mr Quince, if you will give Mrs Briggs your arm, perhaps we should return to the carriage. Stephen! Come here, please.’ As the boy hurried towards her there was a crack and roar that made Harriet start and turn to the lake. A blast of lightning coated the water in white light that made her eyes hurt and she froze, stupefied by the image of the lakes and hills so suddenly revealed in all their folded outlines, then hidden again. She felt Stephen’s hand slip into her own and squeeze it. The touch woke her and she turned to hurry after Mrs Briggs and Mr Quince.

The hailstones were falling faster now, and as she went towards the carriage as quickly as she could manage in her long skirts, Harriet could hear them rattling the crockery through the exclamations of the crowd. The coachman, Ham, was waiting for them, and managed to get them onto the road before the great press of people clogged it solid. Harriet turned and in repeated flashes of light saw, like a series of engravings, scenes of the breaking-up of the party: the musicians struggling to protect their instruments, the men and women scattering to the protection of the trees, chairs and tables overturned. As the carriage drew them out of sight, the hard rattle of the hail on the roof ceased and for a moment there was silence from the sky. Then the rain began to thunder down, slapping its palms on the roof like judgement, and lightning cracked the sky wide open again. Stephen pressed himself to his mother’s side, watching the world appear and disappear beyond the window.

Mr Quince was shivering when they returned to the Hall and was sent to bed just as firmly as Stephen was, though he was encouraged to take a large glass of brandy with him. Harriet said goodnight to her hostess, and with her mind still flashing with gunpowder, made her way upstairs.

She entered her sitting room just as another sheet of lightning rattled the glass — and in the sudden whitening she saw Crowther seated in one of the armchairs facing her. She started and put her hand to her chest.

‘Good God! That was like something from The Castle of Otranto ,’ she said. ‘I shall expect to be kidnapped by faceless monks at any moment.’

The rain beat steadily at the windows and she saw Crowther smile in the candlelight. He was holding a single sheet of paper in his hands.

‘I am sorry to alarm you, Mrs Westerman. It was an unfortunately timed strike.’

‘Not at all.’ She took her seat opposite him. ‘I would not miss the excitement for all the world. I need fear no bogle or ghost if I can stand the sight of you revealed by lightning without a scream.’

He frowned a little, which amused Harriet, and passed her the note he held. He had his pride, this strange friend of hers, and it pleased her to tease him from time to time. She unfolded the piece of paper and her smile faded quickly.

Master Charles ,

The man came looking for something and found your father. I saw them leave together for the Island of Bones. The man never came back. I grieve that you find more blood in your history .

Charlotte Tyers

‘Who, Crowther, is Charlotte Tyers?’

Crowther tented his fingers together. ‘The housekeeper here in my father’s time. She must be in her eighties now, and has a cottage in Portinscale.’

‘And do you understand this note?’

He shook his head. ‘No, other than “Island of Bones”, which is how many of the local people refer to Saint Herbert’s Island because of the tombs in the old chapel. But I am sure you have guessed this for yourself. I think we should pay Mrs Tyers a visit tomorrow, don’t you agree?’ A gust of wind threw another handful of rain against the window. ‘Unless we have all been swept to the bottom of the lake by then. The man was stabbed through the heart, I believe.’

‘And this note suggests it was your father, not your brother, who struck the blow.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Indeed it does, Mrs Westerman. It is curious, I have remembered. .’ The thunder rolled round the house again, and he stood up. ‘But no more gothic tales tonight. Even my imagination may be enlivened to a dangerous degree. I will see you in the morning, Mrs Westerman.’ And with that he disappeared into the darkness again.

From the collection of Mr Askew, Keswick Museum

Letter to The Gentleman’s Magazine , July 1752

Mr Urban ,

As one of your correspondents expressed themselves curious as to the life and character of the late Sir William Penhaligon, 1st Baron of Keswick, and as none of his remaining family has come forward to furnish those details, I send to you these notes and observations on the history of this unfortunate gentleman, and while one may not presume to probe the secrets of another mind, they may be relied on as the witness of a near neighbour of many years’ acquaintance .

Sir William was born in 1683, the only surviving son of a baronet who had more pride in his position in society, and a greater love of show than his property could bear. I have heard Sir William remark more than once, that the very spoons and knives in his father’s house were found to be mortgaged on his parent’s death. There was little that could be saved from the estate, but what remained included a small house on the banks of Derwent Water called Silverside, perhaps preserved because Sir William’s father had all but forgotten it. Sir William took up residence there in 1712, and for some time busied himself with a study of the minerals of the area, and made an attempt to repair his fortunes by severe retrenchment. This gentlemanly scholarship became the well-spring of all Sir William’s fortunes. He was often out on the hills, and told his neighbours he witnessed in 1715 the last Lord Greta make his preparations to ride out from Gutherscale Hall to rebellion, ignominy and exile. Some little while after Greta and his family left these shores for ever, Sir William was able after years of stringent economy to buy from the government a small piece of land on which he discovered the last copper deposits in the area. His cottage was rebuilt as Silverside Hall and was ready to receive his bride, the Honourable Julia O’Brien, in 1724. His charming wife was an ornament to the area, he was made a proud father two years later, and all his enterprises seemed blessed .