Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

‘Mrs Westerman, am I interrupting you?’

Harriet smiled. ‘You are, and I thank you most sincerely for it. Please, come and talk to me for a while if the household can spare you.’

Mrs Briggs bustled in and took a seat near the desk, looking pleased. ‘Oh I am glad! I have come to escape the card table. I believe the Vizegrafin could play picquet for ten hours in every day. If only she would pick up a book from time to time, it would improve her fortunes and her temperament, I am sure. I was forced to claim a headache, which would make Mr Briggs laugh, for he knows I have hardly had one since he married me. I all but fled my own house this morning to escape her requests for a game.’

‘She does not play well, then, Mrs Briggs?’

‘She does not! I can hardly think she and Mr Crowther are of the same blood at times — he so controlled and she so high-handed in her play. And did you hear that Mr Askew called on you this afternoon? He wishes to see you as soon as he might.’

Harriet nodded. ‘We received his note. I fear I am too exhausted by our ride to pay an evening visit, but we shall call on him in the morning. He probably wishes to renew his requests to Crowther to give a talk on the atmosphere. It does continue so close.’

‘So it does! And now with all these disturbances and strange storms, the people around us grow most uneasy. If ever there was to be a revolution in England, now is the time. One good preacher and I believe they would throw us all in the lake to quiet the old gods. And Casper having to hide from Mr Sturgess means he is not there to steady them. The vicar and his daughter do what they can. . Have you heard of this girl going missing, and the Fowlers? You can feel the unease all over town. Everyone is looking about themselves and wondering.’

Harriet picked up her pen and turned the quill between her fingers. ‘The girl I have heard something of; I saw Casper by the lake this morning and he mentioned it. I know nothing more of her than her name, however — and who are the Fowlers?’

‘You saw Casper, Mrs Westerman? Now, why am I thinking that perhaps you have not found a moment to mention that to Mr Sturgess?’ Harriet could hear the smile in the woman’s voice and felt herself colouring a little so she continued to study the transparent body of her pen as she replied.

‘Miss Scales thinks that Mr Sturgess is very quick to judge. She seems to believe that Mr Sturgess resents the fact that the people here are as likely to consult a cunning-man in their disputes as the magistrate.’

‘Mr Sturgess has been a most pleasant neighbour, and it is a shame this business keeps him from playing cards with the Vizegrafin. I am a great believer in Miss Scales’s judgement, however,’ Mrs Briggs said carefully. Harriet wished she had learned to weigh her words so well.

She stood and crossed to the empty fireplace, suddenly tired of her seat. ‘You mentioned the name Fowler?’

Mrs Briggs turned towards her and nodded. ‘Yes, father and son. It is said they have stopped sleeping in their own beds.’

‘That must be who Casper suspects of beating him and searching the Black Pig. He would not give me their names this morning.’

‘He had his reasons, I’m sure. But the matter of this girl troubles me greatly. She is a sharp young thing; her family are good friends of Casper.’

‘How old is she?’ Harriet asked.

‘Sixteen, I think.’

Harriet was examining a painting above the fireplace. It showed a reworking of the scenery that surrounded them. In the foreground grazed a pair of the long-horned cattle the local people favoured, observed by a couple in peasant dress lolling on the grass. They were facing the painter rather than the picturesque landscape behind them.

‘Might she not have run away with the younger Fowler?’

Mrs Briggs laughed. ‘I doubt that! I know the young can develop some unfortunate attachments, but Agnes is a smart girl and Swithun and his father are a nasty pair. I’ve tried to offer them the means to support themselves in the past, but always they reward us with complaints and petty thievery. .’ Her voice tailed off.

Harriet was trying to work out the geography of the painting in front of her; if the small island in the middle distance was in fact the Island of Bones. . She was suddenly aware that Mrs Briggs was getting to her feet.

‘I shall leave you to your letter, Mrs Westerman. Do ring if you require anything, and Miriam will look after you.’

Harriet was expecting to have a longer conversation with Mrs Briggs, but the little woman seemed to have been invigorated with some new purpose and bustled out of the room with great energy. Harriet wished her good evening, wondered for a moment, then turned back to her letter with a sigh.

When Agnes heard the sound of footsteps in the tunnel beyond the barricade again she was feeling stronger. Her scalp was still sore where Swithun had pulled her head back, her shoulder was bruised and aching and her hands stung and complained whenever she moved them, but she had eaten bread enough to stop the pain in her belly and had water, though she would pay any price she could think of for a bucket to wash her face and her scrapes in. There were two beings outside: she could hear voices; one sounded like Isaac Fowler, Swithun’s father. The other was much lower, whispering, and she could make out none of the words. Fowler sounded as if he was apologising for something. No doubt they saw the gap in the boards and guessed that Swithun had visited her.

‘Put your arm out through the gap. We know your hands are free.’ Fowler’s voice.

‘Why should I?’ There was a pause, whispering.

‘Because if you don’t we will open the barricade and kill you.’ His voice sounded uncomfortable and strange.

‘Who you playing parrot to, Fowler?’

‘Never you mind. Just do as you’re told, girly.’ Those words were his own. ‘You won’t get past us. It’s too narrow, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s counting! Do it now, Agnes. He’ll kill you soon as spit.’

She hesitated, but there was just enough panic in the man’s voice to make her believe him, so she stuck one hand through and felt at once a rough hand grip her round the wrist and pull her up against the barricade. He was pulling hard enough on her arm to bring the side of her face to the wood, her cheek pressed to the gap, but she could see nothing but shadows. Something pointed and metal touched her face and she heard a creaking stretch. She gritted her teeth.

‘He wants to know where it is. Who is guarding it now?’

‘Why should I say? You’ll just kill me anyway.’

Fowler answered quickly. ‘No, Agnes. He’s said he shan’t.’ One of his hands was still pulling hard on her wrist, but she felt, strangely, the touch of his other hand on her upper arm. He was patting her. The strange metal point traced the line of her cheekbone. She could feel it now at the corner of her eye.

‘Why does he want it? It’s ours.’

The patting on her arm increased and she heard that stretching noise again. ‘He says it’s his , Agnes, and he wants it back.’

‘All right! Just make him move that thing off me — I can’t think straight!’

There was a pause, the arrow moved up to her temple, shivering, then she felt the pressure behind it unwind and the cold touch left her forehead. She trembled. She had to say something.

‘That German lady. Casper said it’s not safe to keep it here. He’s asked her to take it away a while. She’ll send it back when it’s safe.’

A whisper, then Fowler’s voice again. ‘How could he know? Why her? Why would he tell her?’

She had had time to think on that. ‘He knows things! He feels things coming, you know that. He’s always been a step ahead of you, Fowler. He came to my father’s place to tell me. And he likes her. They went to the Druid stones together, we all saw that. He felt their trust of her, he said.’