Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

‘Where have you ridden from, Mrs Westerman?’

‘Keswick.’

Twelve miles in the heat of the day. Perhaps the woman was deranged.

‘Alone?’ He did not try very hard to keep the shock out of his voice.

She shook her head. ‘No. Mr Crowther and I rode together — perhaps I should name him Lord Keswick. Most people seem to here, though he does not care to make use of the title. He has other business in town. Can you tell me anything of this matter, sir? I ask because the gentleman mentioned in the advertisement was found murdered yesterday morning.’

There was a click and whirr in Mr White’s head and the realisation struck him like a long-case clock marking the hour. This woman was Mrs Harriet Westerman, whose involvement in matters of murder had made her the subject of great spilling of ink. Miss Hodgekinson had remarked, with her eyes downcast and a pleasing shudder, that the thought of a woman taking an active role in the investigations of such crimes horrified her. He had agreed. He remembered that her husband had been a Naval man. No doubt the sun of the tropics had turned her head, but had she really no family to take her under proper control? He began to think of what Miss Hodgekinson would say when she learned that this woman — he could not really think of her as a lady — had presented herself in his office in such a state and talking of murder. She would find it fascinating.

‘Mr White?’

He was startled to find that Mrs Westerman was examining him with those green eyes, her head on one side, and he was disturbed to see something like amusement in her expression. He returned the paper to her and drew himself as tall as he could — not far, nature is cruel — and put his thumbs into his waistcoat.

‘I could not possibly give you any information on the subject, Mrs Westerman. These are confidential matters. .’ Harriet began to protest, but he put up his hand. ‘Confidential affairs that concern a client of ours, a most illustrious client.’ He smiled down at her, soothingly. One could be kind. ‘I am certain that those affairs can have no bearing on any unfortunate accident met with by MrWurst.’

Mrs Westerman studied him for a moment, then stood up sharply. Mr White found he was now forced to look up a little, rather than down. His smile disappeared.

‘Hurst, Mr White, Hurst. And it was no accident. Very well. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell your partner of my visit. I am staying at Silverside Hall.’ Mr White had been pleased to exchange ‘Good days’ with Mrs Briggs on several occasions. What could that good woman be thinking, to have such a creature in her home? ‘At least then Mr Hudson and your client will be aware that any further advertisements will be as unsuccessful as this one.’ She turned on her heel and was gone, taking the dust and blood with her.

Agnes could not say if she slept or woke. She had found enough of a nail coming through the wood to pick apart the rope on her wrists, though when she did, the flood of pain and cramp in her hands had been so bad, she almost wished she had left them tied. Even with them free she could make no impression on the barricade. She had found a piece of slate in the gloom and had tried to drive the new nails back out, but they had only bent over. She pulled at every join and seam, and filled her palms with vicious little splinters; she screamed herself hoarse and heard nothing but faint bird calls and the turnings of the wind in reply. At last she had crawled back down the tunnel to collect her blanket and bottle, and returned with them to the barricade to make her camp there. She wanted nothing more than to drain the water that was left, but when she shook the bottle next to her ear, it sounded like there was little enough. She was hungry, it gnawed at her. So for a little while she let herself have a cry, and let that turn into a sort of sleep and dreaming.

A footstep, now she was awake. She threw herself against the barricade and drummed on it with her fists and shouted. Silence, then a voice.

‘Agnes?’

‘Swithun! You dog! You son of a bitch, you let me out of here, right now! Right this minute! I’m going to pull out your eyeballs and feed them to your pig, you bastard.’

‘Shush now, Agnes. Don’t take on so. You ain’t dead, are you?’

‘Much thanks to you! You let me out!’

‘If you don’t hush up, girl, I’m just going to go away again. Now quiet.’

Agnes bit her lip and for a while everything went silent. She felt herself begin to tremble. The idea that he might have just gone again was more horrible than her anger.

‘Swithun?’ She heard his feet shifting outside, and the sounds of him sitting down. It seemed as if he was leaning against the barricade.

‘It weren’t my idea, Agnes. I never meant you harm, though you’ve never been nice to me.’

She sighed and sat down on the earth floor, leaning against the wooden planks herself. There was light and home and air on the other side, where he was looking and sounding all pitying of himself In front of her only damp and dark. ‘Why should I be? I know you are like your da. Nothing but nasty from you every day I’ve known you. Folks are looking for me, Swithun. They’ll find me, too — then if you think people hated you and yours before. .’

He was quiet a while. ‘They are looking in the wrong place. You normally do your wanderings down into Borrowdale, along that shore — everyone knows that.’ It was true. The thought of her father and friends walking her roads, fearing for her, made her eyes hot. She was working so hard on not crying at the thought that she hardly heard him say, ‘Good that they are. You’d be dead, otherwise.’

‘What’s your meaning, Swithun?’ She heard a rattle; he was picking up pebbles and throwing them at the wall.

‘Me and my da have a thing to do, and when we’re done we are going to be rich. Soon as we have the money we’ll be out of this stinking hole and away. When we’re clear we’ll send word where you are. That was my idea. He just wanted me and Da to kill you dead, and he said if anyone came sniffing round here before it’s done, I’m to hit you over the head with a rock.’

She scrambled up onto her knees and tried to look through the chink between the boards behind her. ‘Who said, Swithun? What you playing at?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘Was it your da you were with? Beating on Casper?’ Silence. ‘Did you kill him?’

The answer came quick. ‘No, no. He’s powerful angry though. But Sturgess is chasing him for killing that German fella, so he’s gone away.’

‘What German?’

Silence. Then, ‘Laker’s been killed. His girl’s at the vicarage. She’s pretty, not as pretty as you though, Agnes.’

‘Was that your work?’

He sounded shocked when he replied. ‘No! I’d never! No business of ours. Maybe Casper did for him. I saw him out walking with the daughter. Maybe he’s going to marry her and go off and be a gentleman.’ He sniggered. ‘Your da said he’s going to that witch woman in Rosthwaite for a finding spell, as Casper’s gone. Though everyone knows she’s half daft. Casper didn’t go before he scared my ma to death though.’

‘That’s no hardship,’ she said bitterly. ‘Your ma’s a bully and coward just like you are, and your dad.’ She heard the noise of him scrambling to his feet again.

‘Don’t be like that, Agnes! Didn’t mean you any harm! What you have to come charging in for anyway? I told you he said to us to stove your head in. It was only because we told him you were Casper’s ’prentice he let you live. Then he said to put you in here and seal it up. Said he might have a use for you. Said we’d be able to send word when we were paid, and I will, Agnes. I promise. I like you.’ His voice had become wheedling and soft.