Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

He had his hand on the door when he saw a movement in the shadows of the alley opposite and saw Mr Crowther emerging from the gloom. He started. The man unnerved him at the best of times, and he had seen nothing in Crowther’s behaviour to suggest to him they were likely to become friendly. His manners were cold to the point of incivility. Mrs Westerman seemed a pleasant enough woman; she had praised his fireworks. He had mentioned the fact in his paragraph about the event for the London papers, hoping that the mention of her name and the account of the storm might make the gentlemen in the capital think it worthwhile to set his letter in type. Mr Askew paid her the compliment in his mind of being certain that she would never of her own volition become involved with the sordid business of murder, and was privately convinced Crowther must have some dark power over her to force her to aid him in his investigations. If she had appeared on his doorstep in this way, he would have known what to say, and how to say it. With Mr Crowther before him, Mr Askew felt his tongue stick in his mouth.

‘May I see your museum, Mr Askew?’ Crowther said. Askew opened the door and bowed him in, though the skin on the back of his neck prickled and, given the choice, he would rather have welcomed a devil into his living room. He turned the key in the door behind them, then turned to watch Crowther as he examined the displays. He felt his usual enthusiasm for his little establishment wither like cut grass. He watched Crowther move his gaze from the case of minerals, to the examples of stuffed birds, to the portrait of the Luck, and saw only shabby, provincial attempts at science, at art. He dropped his gaze to the floor, and the dusty toes of his own boots, unwilling any more to see his museum suffer under that cold regard.

‘Mr Askew?’

He looked up like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster.

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Where are the materials relating to my father’s murder?’

It seemed to Mr Askew that he had tied his cravat with too much enthusiasm this morning, though he had not noticed the pressure on his throat before now.

‘Materials?’

Crowther pointed his stick to the alcove where an unfortunate stuffed fox mouldered.

‘There. I see the engravings and notes you have assembled on the unfortunate history of Lord Greta. If I were in your trade I would relate the misery of his successor to these lands about there. Instead I see areas where I can tell by the brightness of the paint that certain items have been removed, and an example of vulpes vulpes that does no credit to the museum, the art of the taxidermist, or the works of nature herself. So I ask again, where are the materials relating to my father’s murder?’

Mr Askew swallowed. ‘Small display, merely the facts, my lord, tasteful. . Taken down at your sister’s request.’

‘You have them here, however?’ Mr Askew nodded and pointed mutely in the direction of his office. ‘May I examine them, Mr Askew, if that would not inconvenience you?’

The civility of the question brightened Mr Askew considerably. He bustled towards the office door and unlocked it with his usual buoyant stride and then invited Mr Crowther to sit in his own chair, at his own table, before leaning into the press and dragging out a packing case in which any number of papers seemed to have been crammed in haste. It occurred to him that the murder of Mr Hurst might not do as much damage to his trade as he had feared. If Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman happened to discover the killer, perhaps the loss of Mr Hurst would not be much of a loss at all, especially if they found that some mysterious foreigner had been responsible. That would be an excellent outcome. Their names would be even more closely linked with the area, and he was in a perfect position to describe events for the press. Perhaps even write a little book on their investigation, to be sold exclusively in the museum. He was aware that people enjoyed reading about such things.

‘As you see, sir,’ he said, pulling a framed engraving free, ‘here is our portrait of your father, and one of your brother. It was their marks you noticed on the wall.’ He placed them on the blotter in front of Crowther, and was about to place his other papers over them when Crowther held up his hand. He was staring at the two portraits with steady concentration.

After a significant pause, Crowther let his hand drop. ‘They are faithful likenesses,’ he said, then looking up again added, ‘What else have you there, Mr Askew?’ Askew put down the volume that was in his hand delicately on top of the 1st Baron’s portrait. Crowther examined the first page. A collection of the most remarkable and interesting trials with the defence and behaviour of the criminals before and after condemnation . Mr Askew coughed slightly, then turned the pages till he reached the relevant section. The words swam rather in front of Crowther’s eyes. Mr Askew, however, was beginning to brighten. Mr Crowther had not come to insult him, or his museum. Indeed, he seemed to be seeking his help. Mr Askew was glad to offer it. Mr Askew only wished he could do more. Mr Askew began to say so.

‘I think it vital that little establishments such as my own gather together materials relating to the history, the geography and the personalities in a place such as this. I am sure many guineas have been spread around this town because of our humble display on the Luck of Gutherscale Hall, for instance, which perhaps you noticed; and to those whose interest is more scholarly, we may offer materials to aid them in their own researches. Again I mention our display on the Luck. Mr Sturgess is an enthusiast for the legends of this area and has read every reference I could gather on the fall of Lord Greta.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Oh yes. For an out-comer he has gathered a quantity of information. Indeed, I hope his business will allow him to visit me soon, as I have just taken possession of a rather good likeness of the last Lord Greta, superior to that already in my museum and am keen to share it with him.’ He delved back into the press and emerged with a neatly rolled paper which he unravelled and held aloft.

Crowther glanced up briefly. ‘Very fine.’

‘I am so glad you agree, sir. Yes, this likeness was taken in Lord Greta’s last years in exile in France. They say he was quite poor by that time, though of course the artist has still discovered that aristocratic nature which remained to the last. A fine eye for detail is what an artist requires. . How very strange!’

‘What is strange?’ Crowther asked, without looking up.

‘Oh, nothing — nothing at all,’ Askew said hurriedly. ‘Have you found anything of interest in the volume, my lord?’

Crowther lifted it by one corner. ‘May I take it away with me, Mr Askew? I shall return it tomorrow.’ Mr Askew bowed his consent and Crowther slipped the book into his coat-pocket and stood. Mr Askew watched him; he was staring again at the portraits of his father and brother, but Askew could see no sign of great emotion on his face, only those of quiet study. Then Crowther nodded once, as if to his own thoughts, and with a final bow left the room and the museum to its proprietor’s sole care.

She had been too late to see Stephen before dinner. The extent of Harriet’s information came from Miriam. Her son had been at home for the greater part of the afternoon and had been working at whatever tasks Mr Quince had been fit enough to give him. She had sent word that she looked forward to seeing him in the evening, but by the time she had said all she thought proper to Mrs Briggs, the sky had finally grown dark. She approached her son’s room on tiptoe. His papers were arranged neatly on the desk of the little room between Mr Quince’s closet and his own. She looked at them idly, grateful for the peace. There were phrases in Latin on one sheet, in Greek on another, and rows of calculations on the next. Her own education had been a patchwork of occasional tutors and she had been encouraged to spend more time on needlework than mathematics. She sighed now, thinking of it; she would have made fewer mistakes in her first seasons at Caveley if the rows of figures in the account books had not been such a mystery at first, but at least she had not disgraced herself at the country dances. No doubt the local gentry would have been happier if she had limited herself to quadrilles. There was money enough to hire a steward now, but she had grown to enjoy feeling the condition of her home and lands through those estate books, and they had become almost friends in the months of her widowhood. Another eccentricity for her neighbours to puzzle over. Though she would never be able to keep her papers as neat as her son did. It was the habit of a sailor’s son.