Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

The door to his room was slightly ajar; she crossed to it and pushed it open gently so the light of her candle spilled over Stephen’s bed. He lay very still, and for a few moments she did no more than watch him. His face was turned away, but she could see the gentle rise and fall of his breath under the sheets. She bit her lip, and told herself now was not the time to talk to him of serious matters. They would keep until morning, but if she turned away for her own sake or his she could not say. She did not know that Stephen’s eyes were wide open in the dark.

Crowther began his walk back to Silverside Hall thinking of the portraits. He knew the original paintings. His sister had taken them from the house, and still had them, he supposed, in her possession. He had seen neither face since 1751. They looked better men in the pictures than in his memory. It was only with great effort that he could conjure any image of his brother other than in the cell in the Tower the night before his execution. With a painful clarity he could see Adair on his knees and weeping. He tried to think calmly of the body on the Island and consider Harriet’s suggestions. Had his father been afraid of something before he died? Had the dead Jacobite come to haunt him in some way?

Slowly, the story his brother had told him began to seem plausible, when before it had seemed ridiculous. The man paying him for a moment alone with his father. Adair arranging to talk to his father away from the house, then sending the other man in his stead. Becoming concerned when his father did not return. Discovering his body, pulling out the knife and stumbling back to Silverside half-mad with guilt and grief.

Crowther could see nothing but Addie’s face, the terror of his approaching death consuming him. Crowther began to feel the memory of that evening in the cell creeping towards him like a living thing. He had spent the greater part of his life refusing to think of it; now he could not turn away. The memory suddenly took him, and as if he were living the hours once more, it flooded over him: the smell of the fire in the damp cell, the sound of Addie’s retching, the glint of the coins Crowther left him for the hangman, his own words as he promised he would forgive his elder brother if he could, the snap of the rope.

When he managed to open his eyes once more, the light had bled from the day and the scents in the air had shifted to juniper and evening-rose, gorse, meadow-sweet. It was very quiet. The lake had taken on the colours of the moon and the high mountains had shifted to dark green silhouettes. A gull crossed the field of his vision in search of moths. He let his father’s cane fall onto the path beside him.

‘Oh God, Addie! Who is there to forgive me?’

Harriet had retired to the library to wait for Crowther. She sat watching the darkness outside the window and wondered where Casper Grace might be hiding himself She had no doubt that he could avoid detection if he wished it, but feared that in his innocence, he might approach the village and be taken before he could be warned that he was being hunted. Perhaps his friends among the people would find their ways to let him know of Sturgess’s intentions. She thought of the conversation she had had with Mr Scales as she left the vicarage. She had noticed how two or three of the low doors in the village bore signs of a cross only hours old. One was made of rowan twigs, tied and nailed. The other two showed light, since they had been carved there — an outline that recalled the elegant shape of the Luck. She mentioned it to Mr Scales as he saw her to the carriage.

‘News of this unfortunate gentleman’s demise has spread, Mrs Westerman. The people look to guard themselves.’

She had smiled. ‘You must be glad to see them turn to Christ at such moments.’ The old vicar opened the gate for her to pass through.

‘I am not so naive, madam. They look to the Luck, and as it is lost they draw its shadow on the walls and hope that the memory of it will guard them. It is the fair-folk they ask for protection, though they use the cross to call them. It was the same when the small-pox struck us in fifty-four.’

‘It is a foul disease.’

‘One episode in our history Mr Askew has seen fit to ignore. It cost me my wife and one of my daughters, and my faith.’

Harriet came to a sudden halt. ‘Mr Scales?’

The old vicar smiled at her. ‘I pray every day for its return, and I am grateful that my daughter remains devout. But I can understand why the local people prefer their spirits wilful and cruel; it suggests a better understanding of the way the world treats us. Do not tell the bishop if you meet him, my dear. It would disturb his digestion.’

He had patted her on the arm and nodded to Ham, then turned back up the path.

As Crowther entered the room Harriet stirred and looked up at him enquiringly. He did not speak, but instead placed the volume detailing his brother’s trial in front of her and settled into one of the leather armchairs. She took it up and began to read. At some point, Miriam came into the room and placed wine on the table beside Crowther. The night gathered closely about them. Crowther continued to watch the air, and the only sound to be heard was the occasional flick of paper as Harriet turned a page. The moon had dragged itself up and peered in at them across the lake before she set the book down. He finally shifted his head and looked at her. Then without waiting for her to speak, offered up the substance of his conversation with Lottie Tyers.

Harriet put her chin in her hands. ‘You did not know of this strongbox?’

‘No, or at least I knew nothing of it when I sold Silverside and its lands. All papers relating to my father’s property and possessions were to hand, his personal correspondence was in his desk in the study, my mother’s jewels in the strongbox in the wine cellar. There was nothing else to look for. But I did receive a letter from the solicitor in Keswick some years ago informing me that a strongbox had been found, that Mr Briggs believed to be the property of my father.’

‘And?’ Harriet said.

‘I told them to force it, see there was nothing significant in it and then destroy it,’ he said, staring at the high ceiling above them.

‘Crowther! I wish you had not.’

‘I was not aware it might contain evidence to implicate my father in murder,’ he said. ‘If I had known, I would naturally have asked them to preserve it.’ The room was silent for a while at that, then Crowther continued, ‘However, I suspect if my solicitor is anything like his father, he probably did not destroy it.’ Harriet felt herself brighten and tried to hide it, but suspected she was unsuccessful, judging by the slight lifting of the corner of Crowther’s thin mouth. She looked back down at her lap and the book.

‘So your brother protested his innocence to the last?’ she said.

‘He did.’ Crowther’s smile had disappeared and his skin seemed to have become a little more grey in the candlelight.

‘And you were with him the night before his execution?’

‘I was.’

Harriet tried to imagine it for a moment, then shook the thought from her head. ‘Did no one believe him? Not even your sister?’

‘She was only a child at the time, but yes, at first she believed him and we did make enquiries about this mysterious man. But it was such a fantastic story. I had never heard of Jocasta’s testimony, of course. I am sure that I would have dismissed it even if I had, even as I did in eighty-one when I spoke to her of it in London. I cannot blame the magistrate whom she says called her a liar. She had been a bored and difficult pupil at the parish school, and it was held against her. There was Adair shut into his room with blood on his hands, and scarring Lottie Tyers in his madness.’