Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Casper considered the earth in front of him. The black witch had her ways of tricking and fighting with him. Times were, she would get to yelling so hard that he could not say where or what he was for a time. Not often. But it happened.

‘And you followed me all this way?’

‘You go very fast! But you did not seem well, so I thought I might. .’

‘How do I seem now, Master Stephen?’

‘Better.’

Casper lay back on the heather for a moment and looked up into the heat and haze. ‘There is a girl lost somewhere in these hills. She isn’t at home with her people, which means she’s either dead or she’s trapped. If dead, I must carry her home. If breathing, then she must be found before hunger or thirst take her. She’s smart and she’s strong, but that’s not always enough.’

‘You like her, don’t you, Mr Casper? Mr Askew told me she is thought of as your apprentice. Are you going to teach her about bogles, and witches, and how to fight them?’

‘I might at that.’ He had never thought of it so clearly before, but the girl did have a power, and someone had to take on the job when he died. The thought pleased him before his mind caught the tone of the question.

‘Lad, my learning is not for you. We cannot choose the world and ways into which we are born. You are gentry. I’ll take your help now and thank you for it, but this is not your calling. It might be Agnes’s though, if we can find her.’ Stephen still looked miserable. ‘A mouse might wish to be a king, and times are, I reckon, when a king might wish himself a mouse. But there’s that and there’s the other, and there’s done.’

‘Where might she be?’ Stephen said with a sigh. Joe cawed at him, and he began piling the stones for him again.

Casper hugged his knees to his chest. ‘I know one place she isn’t — that’s in the old mine where someone had tried to drop that German fella.’

‘Austrian,’ Stephen said automatically.

‘The flowers leave a powerful trace, and there was no scent of it on that bugger Swithun’s clothes. I think she might be in one of the old deep places though.’

‘Why?’

Casper shrugged. ‘There was tang. Deep earth, not the stuff that is still filled with growing and dying, but old. Has a tang on it.’

‘Shouldn’t we get help, Casper? Mr Crowther said there are lots of old mines here. If lots of people were looking. .’

He shook his head and sucked his teeth. ‘If she lives, they might kill her and bury her more deeply if they know I’m looking. Let them think I’m running from Sturgess and thinking only of revenge for my own beating. That might give us time enough, and mean they leave her where she lies.’ He frowned and looked hard at Stephen. ‘You remember what that lad looks like?’

‘From Portinscale? Yes, naturally.’

‘Naturally, is it? Good enough. You ever see him, you keep back. But watch where he goes. He’s keeping away, but he’s not got the sense to go far, and their job on me is undone.’

‘What were they looking for, Casper?’

‘Something precious, and they’ve come close. Something I reckon might need shifting somewhere a little safer. Come on then, mickle kingling. Might be best if you go back to Silverside now and play at being a good lad. I have a mind to get you to do some serious business for me tonight, and the more polished and polite you are today, the easier it will be to get done. We’ll talk on the way, then I must start searching every hole in these hills.’

Cockermouth was a proud little town, and Mr White was a proud little man. He attended the lectures in the public rooms whenever they were given, nodded his way through them and felt much wiser at their close, though he rarely remembered much of the argument presented. He could also be counted on to attend any of the public concerts held, in his emerald coat and a cravat he had learned to tie from a series of illustrations. He liked to be thought of as a man of fashion. When the musicians pleased him particularly, he was glad to say it was almost as good as London, which earned him respectful echoing from his neighbours. He himself had never been to London, but the most illustrious client of his firm, whose name he was always glad to bring into the most mundane of conversations, was there for some part of every season. He had once heard that gentleman say that such and such a player had a technique almost equal to the musicians in the capital, and this became Mr White’s benchmark.

Mr White had hopes, he had expectations. His senior partner, Mr Hudson, had become rather broken down in the last few years since his son had been killed while off soldiering. Mr White was quite sure that in a few years more, he would have the firm’s business to himself. He would then marry. He remembered that Miss Hodgekinson had admired the cravat and coat on several occasions. A woman of taste. He would improve his house — he had an eye on the sort of establishment he would like. It was at the bottom of the main street and occupied by Sir Lowther’s law agent, whom he thought of as a model. It spoke of prosperity and propriety and was full of healthy-looking children. In such conjectures was Mr White employed while his senior partner and his clerk were about their own business in the town when he heard the street door open, and still smiling with thoughts of his future and the general neatness of it all, he left his office to see who had need of him.

It was a stranger. A woman, and alone. Mr White was surprised, and that surprise only deepened as he took in the details of the woman’s dress and demeanour. Her riding habit suggested a gentlewoman of some means, yet the skirt was so filthy with the dust of the road one might have thought she had covered ten miles, and at speed. Her face was flushed and strands of her red hair that appeared from under her riding hat appeared to be dampened to her face with sweat. It was alarming. Ladies should always appear cool, fresh, and take trouble to remain so. Miss Hodgekinson would rather die than appear alone, in the offices of a professional man in such a state. The woman had a copy of the Westmorland Paquet in her hand. Mr White had an awful presentiment. Perhaps she was one of these women who had so badly mismanaged her domestic situation she had been forced to flee her husband. Or one of those foolish creatures who, ignoring the wishes of her family and friends, had fallen victim to an adventurer. He began to prepare himself to be avuncular, kind but firm. If she had climbed into her marital bed lawfully, the law said she must stay there. He raised his eyebrows, hoping she would not add to her state of dishevelment by weeping.

‘Good afternoon,’ the woman said, her voice quite strong, but pleasant. ‘Are you Mr Hudson? If so, I would be most grateful for a moment of your time.’

‘Mr Hudson is away from the office this afternoon. . madam. I am his partner here. My name is White — and you are?’

‘How unfortunate,’ the woman said, putting a hand to her damp forehead. Mr White felt a vague frisson of alarm. ‘Perhaps you will be able to assist me. My name is Westerman. I wished to speak to Mr Hudson about this advertisement.’ She held out the newspaper and Mr White took it from her a little gingerly. ‘May I sit down a moment, sir? I have had a long ride, and this heat makes what is usually a pleasure a trial.’

Mr White bowed, which she obviously took as assent, as she dropped onto one of the chairs and began to fan herself with the back of her hand. He looked at the advertisement. He had been told that it had been placed, but in truth he knew little of the matter, only that it was bound up with The Most Illustrious Client, and beyond that Mr Hudson had kept the business very close, and responded not at all to his most studiedly casual questions. It had been an annoyance which he had put from his mind, and now this woman thrust it under his nose again.