Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Looking down from their comfortable seat at the wooded islands of Derwent Water more than forty years later, Crowther could see quite clearly the image of the two men in the rowboat. His father’s face red and fleshy, his white full-bottomed wig, the splay of his coat-tails, and Ruben, his thick shoulders, his brown hands. They were watching him, implacable as effigies as he spat out the icy lake and trod water.

Crowther had known well enough how to keep his head above the surface. And now instead of the chill of the lake, he felt angry. His fear had left him. His father had slapped his fat thigh.

‘Good, Charles. Keep your head and you’ll live through most things. Now swim to me and we shall take you in again.’ Crowther could still taste the mix of lakewater, rage and disgust, could still see the hooded eyes of his father as he stretched out a hand.

Crowther had not swum towards him, but rather turned in the water and struck out for the bank at the north edge of his father’s property, certain he would rather drown than get back in the boat. He did not hear the squeak and clunk of the oars in the rowlocks as Sir William and Ruben had given up observing him and instead headed back for the landing-stage.

Crowther had stayed away from the house as long as the cold would let him, then returned by the kitchen door. The housekeeper, Lottie Tyers, who was kinder to him than most, had sat him in front of her fire and fed him, sending a maid to Lady Penhaligon to assure her she still had two sons, but said nothing to him. Crowther had watched the flames in the range until his pale skin began to warm in silence. The incident was never mentioned again.

Crowther realised that Harriet was still watching him quietly.

‘My thoughts are as gothic this morning as they were in the storm, I fear. There were indications on the bones of a blade strike near the heart. There is a corresponding hole in the waistcoat of the corpse.’ Crowther placed his cane on the gravel in front of them, and folded his hands over it.

‘You said as much last night. There is something more?’

He nodded. ‘When I first inherited this cane from my father, it was a swordstick. The blade was broken.’ He felt rather than heard Harriet’s reaction. ‘I do not know what, if anything, we might find on the Island of Bones after so many years, Mrs Westerman, but I should be glad to go and examine the place at once if you are willing. Then later I shall pay a call on Lottie Tyers.’

She was quiet a moment before speaking. ‘I see. Thank you for not waving the broken blade at me during the thunderstorm.’

‘I would have done, were it still in my possession. You will accompany me to the Island then?’

‘Naturally, but first another matter. Mr Quince is ill. He was shivering as he went to his bed last night and this morning is feverish. I have asked that the local physician be consulted. Do you though have any advice?’

He smiled slightly. ‘You know my subjects are dead, as a rule.’

‘Nevertheless. .’

‘Do not let the physician bleed him. It is as superstitious a practice as witchcraft, and often, I believe, more harmful. Mrs Briggs seems a sensible woman. I would trust in her and her people. What of your son?’

She stood; she was wearing her riding dress of dark green, and smoothed its folds around her. ‘He has disappeared into the hills as his tutor is ill. I understand he intends to hunt for treasure. He shall be safe, don’t you think?’

‘Tell him to avoid the old mines. These hills are honeycombed with them, and they can be dangerous.’

‘They sound just the place for treasure.’

Crowther let his eyes drift towards the wooded banks above him. ‘Mention I have said they are also just the place for bogles.’

Harriet smiled. ‘I shall tell him so.’ They heard the crunch of gravel under wheels, and she turned to see a man in a black suit with an old-fashioned wig emerge from the carriage. ‘Let us see what the physician has to say. I would be glad if you can attend and look severe when he examines Mr Quince. Then I am at your disposal.’

Havingtold his mother of his plans while she dressed, Stephen stole into his tutor’s room for a moment and found Mr Quince still asleep, though not at peace. The boy watched with concern as he tossed his head on his pillow a little, and beads of perspiration shone on his pink forehead. Stephen filled the water glass by his tutor’s bed, then sat and watched the young man’s heavy face rocking from side to side as if the whole house were moving with the regular swell of waves on the ocean after a storm. He knew the medical man from town had been called, but he had no more faith in doctors than Mr Crowther. Stephen moved the water glass a little, hoping to place it exactly where Mr Quince might reach. He liked Mr Quince and had been shamed and sorry when Felix pushed him into the lake. He thought of his conversations with the servants and Casper of the day before, and came to a decision. Treasure could wait a little while yet.

He stood, then bent forward to Mr Quince and whispered to him, ‘Do not worry, sir. I shall fetch Casper and he shall mend you,’ then with a sense of purpose that made his steps firm again, he headed out of the room, just remembering not to let the door clap too sharply behind him.

Only when he reached the bottom of the main stairs did he pause to think that he had no idea where Casper might be found. Their meetings so far had been accidental. Luckily Stephen was not a boy to be put off from his purpose as easily as that, and so rather than heading out onto the shores of the lake at once, he instead found his way into the kitchen and scared Cook by appearing out of the thin air at her side like a sudden spirit, shining with zeal.

The physician having been sent away before he could unpack his bleeding bowl, Harriet left Mr Quince to Miriam’s care and set out for the Island with Crowther. Isaiah, one of the Silverside gardeners who offered his services as a boatman, rowed with practised ease and sang softly to himself as they went. Harriet let her mind wander, and found her thoughts turned as ever to the husband she had lost. James would have enjoyed seeing this country, and the regret that he would not, filled up her mind like the water in the lake. She knew she was no longer the broken creature she had been when she had first buried him, and the worst of her grief was, she fervently hoped, behind her — but she still saw him in her mind’s eye every other hour. Sometimes she remembered to be grateful for having met and married him; sometimes she cursed herself for ever having been happy, since it made the current darkness only deeper. Still, she could feel that the change of air was some help, or perhaps it was her interest in the strange body. She could only hope when their business was complete in the north and she returned home, that the darkness would not press so heavily on her.

Only the gentle knock of the prow against the shore woke her to the present. She followed Crowther out of the boat neatly enough to earn a look of commendation from Isaiah, and she drew over her face the mask of a woman not grieving as deliberately as she had buttoned on her gloves in the lobby of Silverside Hall.

‘I’ll wait here for you then,’ Isaiah said, and settled himself on a flat rock near his boat on the little bit of beach. Harriet nodded, and the man produced pipe and tobacco from his pockets while Crowther leaned on his cane and looked about him, saying nothing.

The little chapel was found up an easy path. It was in a sadly dilapidated state.

‘This was the home of a hermit, was it not?’ Harriet asked as the trees closed off their views of the lake.

‘The Island was, yes, many centuries ago. Saint Herbert, friend of Cuthbert, lived here. This chapel is of a much later date, of course. I believe the family of Greta had an establishment here while King Henry was at Agincourt, and the chapel was a part of that construction. Saint Herbert’s original residence has long ago returned to dust.’