Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Harriet released her grip and he saw her bend over the wound with a look of deep concentration. She then reached behind her neck and touched the same spot on her own skin where the skull hinges on the spine. He thought of all the injuries she must have seen serving with her husband, or those she had seen in his company. It would be unusual indeed if she had ever seen anything so neat.

‘Could such a thing have killed him?’ she asked.

Crowther examined his finger and decided it was as clean as he might make it. ‘The wound appears deep. It could very easily have proved fatal at once.’

‘This is not a knife wound.’

‘No. Something long and thin. An awl, such as Casper must use for his carving?’

‘Or an arrow,’ Harriet said quickly, then looked up at him, her lips slightly parted.

He closed his eyes briefly. An arrow would indeed produce such a wound. ‘If I am to examine him more fully, we shall need more time than we have at our disposal now, Mrs Westerman. It is time to write to Sturgess, and visit Miss Hurst.’

‘I am a little surprised you do not suggest I do so alone, and allow you to continue.’

‘I might have done so, had I not been so unreasonably rude to you a few moments ago. Now I feel I have not the credit to send you on such duties alone.’

As the carriage rattled down the slope Harriet bit her lip and stared out of the window.

‘Speak, Mrs Westerman,’ Crowther said at last.

‘What possible motive could Casper Grace have for killing this man? A stranger, a foreigner. .’

‘Perhaps the witches told him to do it.’

‘I have spoken to Mrs Briggs and Miss Scales about Casper Grace. He does believe that witches and spirits speak to him, and they are sometimes cruel, but he has been hearing them for over twenty years! They began soon after his father’s death. Why should he do this now? There have been foreigners and strangers enough to provide sacrifice pouring through Keswick every summer.’

Crowther turned to the view from his side of the phaeton. It did not inspire him. ‘The season is unusual. Perhaps he believes the hills demand a sacrifice to carry off this dry fog. I read in the news-sheet that only last week, the magistrate in Kendal put a man in the stocks who claimed that the end of days was upon us. When the magistrate arrested him, he had already gathered a crowd of acolytes around him.’

She shook her head. ‘Lucky Kendal to have such a magistrate. But Casper does not seem a fool or a zealot.’

‘We do not know the story of his beating. Perhaps this was an act of revenge. To bring the body out of the woods would be an unusual act for a murderer, I concede. However, Casper is eccentric, and the act of killing may fracture a mind already weakened with the chatter of witches. Did not Stephen say that Grace believed that rainstorms protected the stones from the archaeological fervour of Mr Sturgess?’

‘He was repeating a story for their entertainment. And he told Stephen that same day that the traditions of blood sacrifice were long over. .’ She let her sentence trail away.

Crowther cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Westerman, I know you are not simply thinking of Casper Grace. Let it be said.’ She did not answer him. ‘You are wondering if Felix had anything to do with this death. He knew the man. He described him as a cardsharp. Presumably my nephew owed him money. The death was not accidental. Judging by his pocket-watch, Mr Hurst was not robbed, so it is likely his murder was a personal affair We are aware of only one person in the area who knew him, other than his daughter. And that is Felix.’

‘Perhaps his daughter killed him,’ she said, almost sulkily.

‘If so, that was quite a piece of theatrics she gave us this morning.’

‘Many women are accomplished actresses, Crowther. It is a useful skill. Naturally I am wondering about Felix, but I find I cannot speculate freely about these deaths that crowd your family history. How can I say to your face with my usual carelessness that your father or nephew may have murdered?’

‘You need not be so careful on my account, Mrs Westerman.’

She snorted. ‘Nonsense! Your father’s murder and your brother’s execution have haunted you thirty years. We should never have come here. I thought only of escaping my role in Hartswood as the local tragedy for a while. I think you thought only of the same. Now we are caught between old mysteries and new horrors. I cannot build castles of speculation in the air, and expect you to find the evidence to give them foundation here. It is all too close.’

Crowther lowered his chin as he let the truth of what she had said filter through his mind. ‘Perhaps it is time I faced my demons. In their way, they pursue me just as Casper’s do him. I have become too old to outrun them.’

He was speaking almost to himself He felt her hesitate, then she put her hand into her pocket and produced a letter. ‘It is interesting you use that phrase. I received this today. It is Jocasta Bligh’s account of what she saw on the day of your father’s murder.’

‘I have heard it.’

‘I know, Crowther. But I think you should hear it again.’

It was a long hour. But eventually Casper put his pipe back in his pocket and cleared his throat. ‘News will have lapped up all over by now,’ he said.

‘Of the body?’ Stephen asked.

‘Of the body, of my hurts and the Black Pig. Time to take a place in the story.’ He stood carefully with the help of his ash staff. It made Stephen think of Crowther’s polished cane, though he hardly ever saw Crowther put any weight on his stick, and Casper was leaning heavily on his.

‘It is a serious hurt,’ Casper said after a few minutes of silent walking.

‘Your injuries, you mean, Mr Casper?’ Stephen said.

Casper shook his head. ‘They are bad enough. But a man must have a powerful reason to take to robbing or beating me.’ It was said without pride, but rather a concerned curiosity, a serious man thinking through serious matters.

‘Because people are afraid of you?’

Casper smiled, which made him wince. ‘They respect me, just as they respected my father. So they should.’

‘What did they take?’

Casper sniffed. ‘Nothing. But they were looking for something.’

‘But what. .?’

‘Whisht, lad, we’re nearing Portinscale. From here on you say nothing. Walk a few paces behind now, keep silent and keep an eye out. Watch.’

‘What am I watching for?’

‘You’re watching for whatever you see. Now quiet yourself.’

There was something dream-like about the next hour as Casper, with Stephen trailing respectfully behind, made his way through Portinscale, along the road to Keswick and up the hill through the marketplace.

Women began to emerge from their cottages and kitchens, or stopped fussing over their animals or weeding their patches to turn and watch him come. They looked somehow both scared, and happy to see him. Small children joined them from the fields and ran ahead of them like dolphins dancing through the bow wave of a great ship. As they turned into Portinscale, a woman hurried to Stephen’s side and put a cloth wrapped round something that smelled of warm ovens into his hands. Stephen slipped the package into his bag, and smiled at her. She only nodded to him in return, her face serious, then stepped away. When Stephen had walked through the village with Casper the day before, he had seen people smile and raise their hands, give Casper their greetings and turn at once back to their work again. It was not so today. Where the fields ripened between Crosthwaite Church and the town, men laid down their tools and approached the roadside, then, as Casper came close, took off their caps and held them in front of them with their eyes down. It was as if he were a walking church.