Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Harriet picked at the lace on her sleeves, making the silver threads catch and drop the light. ‘I do not believe you did entirely dismiss Jocasta’s testimony when you heard it for yourself, Crowther. I think we are here in part because of what she told you. Even if the body had not been found on Saint Herbert’s Island I still think you would have found your way here eventually.’

He smiled, slightly. ‘Perhaps you are right, Mrs Westerman. Though, as always, I have needed you to goad me into doing what needs to be done.’

She shrugged. ‘I am so crowded and confused at this moment, I am not sure if I could say what I think needs to be done. If we manage by some miracle to prove your brother innocent. .’

The thought was left to turn in the candlelight, till Crowther seemed to pluck it from the air between his long fingers and turn it over in his hands.

‘I do not believe in spirits, Mrs Westerman. Neither Addie nor my father have visited me to claim justice or confess, and I have been too long in this world to expect it to reward virtue. The world does not care who lives or dies, or why, but I still think we may search for truth, that such a thing exists. That may be the only right thing to do. What follows, we cannot hope to know.’

Harriet watched the yellow flame on the candle. The air was so still it never wavered. ‘Let me ask you this then. Do you still believe that your brother killed your father?’

He slowly shook his head. ‘No, Mrs Westerman. My family have been guilty of many crimes, but I am very afraid now that Addie was innocent. But he could not convince us, and half London saw him hanged.’

‘I am sorry, Crowther.’

‘That my father was a murderer? Or that my brother was not? That my nephew might be?’

‘For all of it.’

His face remained calm, but Harriet could guess what saying those words had cost him. The story on which his life had been founded, unpleasant as it was, he now suspected a fiction. So here they found themselves, in the darkness of the old fells, and the lies had built and climbed one upon the back of the other like the ranges of hills that struggled upwards to the unseeing sky and the pewter moon.

‘Are you tired, Crowther?’

He turned towards her and looked up from under his hooded eyes. ‘I am always somewhat tired, Mrs Westerman. What have you in mind?’

‘I am thinking on the dedication in the snuffbox, and your sister’s immediate idea we were suggesting your father was instrumental in the betrayal of Lord Greta’s brother in forty-five. If the body in the tomb was the reason your father was murdered, then we must learn more than Mrs Tyers has told you and general gossip. Was he indeed Greta’s man? What business had he at Silverside so pressing he would risk his neck by knocking on your father’s door the day after setting light to Gutherscale? What became of Greta and his family? Whom did they blame for the taking of Rupert be Beaufoy? I am wondering if we might have among our friends in London a gentleman likely to know a great deal about the enemies of the King domestic and foreign, and who has a talent for coming by information he does not have immediately to hand.’

Crowther pressed his fingertips together and smiled. ‘I think I know whom you have in mind. Our friend Mr Palmer probably does have more chance of knowing such things than any other man living.’

‘Then write to him, Crowther.’

‘While I do so, perhaps you can tell me of your investigations into the death of Mr Hurst.’ He paused, looking at her. ‘What is it, Mrs Westerman?’

‘I have found nothing but a little misery and many more questions. And I fear we may have to have more dealings with other lawyers in the morning.’

Crowther sighed as he prepared his pen. ‘Explain, if you please.’

From the collection of Mr Askew, Keswick Museum

Letter to The Gentleman’s Magazine , June 1746

Concerning the fire at Gutherscale Hall, last November

Mr Urban ,

Though the pages of your worthy periodical have been heavy with reflection on the late Rebellion against our King, now the storm is passed it seems fitting to give you some account of the terrible fire of Gutherscale Hall. The destruction of this mighty house acted as a harbinger of the fates of the family that once dwelled between its walls, as within only a sennight of its being consumed by flames, Rupert de Beaufoy, younger brother of the last Lord Greta who now languishes in exile, was taken on his way to join the Rebellion. It seems his location was betrayed by one of his followers, a man much trusted by the Greta family .

All loyal subjects to the King have, however, suffered a great loss in this fire which consumed a home noble for many generations in the space of a single night. How the fatal conflagration began, none can say, for there was no sign of lightning on the night in question. One must suppose some vagrant managed to start a fire there for his warmth, but a spark spread and consumed the whole. The smoke was first noted by labourers ending their day’s work on the opposite side of the lake, and word and assistance was rushed at once to Silverside Hall, residence of Sir William Penhaligon, current owner of these lands and Gutherscale itself. The loss of this fine house is all the more bitter as, having survived its master’s exile and the forfeiture of his lands for thirty years, it had just been purchased from the state by Sir William, who had declared his intention to refurbish this ancient house and make it his own. Alas, it was not to be!

Sir William was at Silverside when word arrived, and at once raced to the scene to do what he could to halt the flames, but it was already beyond the efforts of any man to save it. Sir William’s distress was extreme, and only the appeals of his young daughter clutching at his coat and begging him not to risk his life prevented him from plunging into the fire as if he could extinguish it with his own hands .

At dawn the ancestral home of the Greta family had been reduced to ashes. Would that the Young Pretender had seen this for the omen it proved to be and removed himself at once again to the court of his father in peace, rather than suffer his followers to feel the mighty wrath through Cumberland of the true King of this country .

Yours c W.L .

Friday, 18 July 1783

Harriet eventually found her son by the lake. He was seated on the jetty watching the ruffled silk of the waters, and though he glanced up as he heard her approach he did not come to her until she called. When they had settled on a wrought-iron bench at the edge of the woodland, Harriet realised she was not entirely clear in her own mind what she wanted to say to him. She felt she should prohibit any contact with Casper, but could not bring herself to say the words. Instead she found herself twisting the thin black band of her mourning ring.

In the end it was Stephen who spoke first. ‘Miriam says Mr Sturgess is after Casper for killing Mr Hurst.’

‘He is.’

‘Are you going to tell me to stay away from Casper, Mama?’

Harriet drew breath, then shook her head. ‘I do not know what to tell you, Stephen.’

‘He needs my help.’

Harriet put her arm around his shoulder and pulled him to her. ‘I want to keep you safe, but I do not know how.’ She felt his small hand reach up to take her own, and they looked out across the lawn together. There was a cough behind them: Harriet started and turned. Casper appeared from the shadows as if speech of him had summoned his form out of the woods. Joe sat on his shoulder, his wings lifted slightly.

‘Mr Grace!’ Harriet said.