Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

With my sincere regards ,

Robert O’Brien, Killarney House.’

The birds outside seemed to sense some change in the air and whistled even more stridently than before.

‘Who is Robert O’Brien, Crowther?’ Harriet said at last.

He closed his eyes and put his long fingertips to his forehead. ‘My mother’s nephew through her older brother’s marriage. My mother came from a Catholic family in Ireland.’

‘Jacobites?’ Harriet asked.

‘It is possible they had such sympathies,’ Crowther replied after a pause. ‘It was O’Brien who provided a family for my sister after my father was murdered. She was sent to Ireland direct from her boarding school.’

Mr Leathes watched them. Mr Crowther had his fingertips together and was examining them closely. Mrs Westerman was tapping her foot on the Turkish rug.

‘So it seems my father had reason to fear, and Lottie was right,’ Crowther said slowly. ‘I wonder why he kept the letter about him?’

‘Perhaps he had a thought that if anything did occur. .’ Harriet said, then saw Crowther flinch and hurried on, ‘Our friend in London might well be able to put some flesh on these bones, though we cannot hear from him for several days.’ She looked at the solicitor again, who was trying, not unsuccessfully, to give the impression of having been struck suddenly deaf. ‘Mr Leathes, is there anything you can tell us about Sir William’s affairs in the forties? Or what his behaviour was in the period before his death? You must have records of those times.’

If Mr Leathes thought it strange this question came from Harriet rather than Crowther himself, he was too well-mannered to show it.

‘We do, of course, Mrs Westerman, have in our archives copies of all communications between this office and Silverside from the time Sir William first settled here in my grandfather’s time until the present day. But perhaps, if you wish it, I may take you to a better, living oracle. My father Thomas dealt with Lord Keswick for many years. He retired from practice some ten years ago, but his memory is still sharp.’ Mr Leathes consulted his pocket-watch. ‘If you are at liberty, I should be very glad to invite you to pay a morning call at my home and meet him. The box Mr Dent can take to Silverside, and it will be there for you to examine at your leisure.’

Crowther actually smiled at the other man. ‘I would be glad to see your father again.’

‘He will be happy to see you too, sir. He speaks fondly of you still.’

Neither gentleman noticed Harriet raise her eyebrows at that.

Casper was quite confident he could avoid any hireling of Mr Sturgess as long as he chose, but he came the back way into Portinscale and let himself into the yard of Mrs Fowler’s place quietly nevertheless. The Fowler family had always been a weariness to their neighbours. The grandfather of the family had drunk away any reputation the family had had, and they had been a charge on the parish ever since. Casper could remember the grandfather from his youth, a foul-tempered old man who would beg on market days and say he was too sick to work the rest. His wife carried ill humour with her the way other women carried their baskets. Her children she made work the little piece of land they had until they were old enough to dodge her blows and flee. There was always someone in the village soft enough to feed her offspring, but as soon as they had their fill they went back to their wild and vindictive games. A sheep went straying, and the Fowlers would be eating mutton; a trader found his take short or a laker their pocket empty and the Fowlers would be drunk. But they were just smart enough to make sure their crimes were not easily discoverable and their victims without the resources to prosecute. They were loud about their enemies and in their own righteous defence, and continual in their complaints.

The grandfather had one son who stayed in the village, Isaac — and who was just like himself — then the old devil slunk into his grave. Isaac had found a simple-minded woman to marry, and soon mocked and bullied her into a sullen and bitter drudge. Swithun was their only surviving child, and at nineteen, looked to follow his father and grandfather in his ways, but Casper would have thought both Isaac and Swithun too much a pair of cowards to try and rob him . Petty thieving, certainly, but to attack the cunning-man? Still, it was Swithun who was in the field looking away when Casper passed, his mother who had her eyes all over, and Isaac earned the occasional shilling in the stables of the Royal Oak.

Casper ducked under the lintel of the back door and walked into the cottage. Swithun’s mother was sat, bent over the fire — Casper could smell rabbit cooking. She twisted round as he entered and her face went from a grin to a flat mask in the moment of seeing him.

‘Mother Fowler. Where’s your boy and your husband?’

The woman rocked back from her pot and wrapped her hands in the brown wool of her skirts. She shook her head. Casper took a solid step forward and she hissed, ‘Don’t know, Casper, swear it.’

Her eyes flinched all around the room, and her face was red and sweating. Joe stretched his wings and gave a low caw like a pipe drone when the bag is old. Her eyes became wide.

‘They didn’t do it! They wouldn’t! They didn’t tell me!’ The last came up almost as a shriek. ‘They’s gone.’

The black witch was enjoying herself. Fear always fed her and made her loud. She badgered at Casper to hurt the woman, kick the stool out from under her and see her head smack against the cobbles. Mrs Fowler must have seen some of it in Casper’s eyes, for she whimpered again and looked as if she would clamber up the wide chimney if she could.

‘Swithun came back first though, didn’t he?’ Casper said in a low growl. ‘Came back, as if he could tend to the pig and do his chores and no bill to pay? Gave you my rabbits to turn to sludge in your pot? And your man shovelling shit in the Royal Oak. Then they ran when they saw me going up to the circle.’

‘Their clothes were wet through! They had to come home,’ she yelped. Joe cawed again and she could hardly speak fast enough. ‘I sent them away when I seen youse.’

‘Where are they? Give them here.’

She looked about her as if she thought the devils might come and take her for the fires at once. ‘Who, what, Casper?’

‘The clothes, woman!’

She scuttled away from the fire, keeping so low she was almost on all fours, and snatched up a couple of shirts and two pairs of breeches from the drying rack and thrust them at him.

Casper turned them slowly in his hands, lifted up the fabric to his face and breathed. Fowler was no better as a laundress than a cook: there were stains on the shirt, fresh on the sleeves.

He felt a touch on his leg, and looked down to see the woman crouching on the flags at his feet. ‘Don’t hurt him, Casper — not Swithun. Swithun’s my only boy. He’ll pay you back, he’ll do penance.’

The black witch was talking so loud behind his ears he could hardly hear the begging. ‘Kick her, kick her in the belly, you bastard, while she’s there and begging for it .’

‘What good has penance ever done you and yours? Time and time over?’ He had to shout over the voice of the black witch. The Fowler woman covered her head with her hands.

‘He got in a fight with his da at the Pig, then they said they had to go out. He came back unhappy — he didn’t mean it! Nothing like this, please Casper, he’s my boy, he’s my boy! Don’t curse him!’

Joe flapped and stamped on Casper’s shoulder and the witch shouted and carolled. Casper couldn’t take the noise of it any more. He threw the clothes to the floor and walked out the way he came with the crying and pleading shaking the air behind him.