Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Drawing in his breath, Stephen began to work at the lock again. This time he slid the knife in at a slightly different angle. It clicked brusquely and the shackle popped outwards. Stephen grinned and looked about him as if he expected the broken barrels to congratulate him, then slid the padlock free and put it in his pocket. The grating swung open. There was a fierce creak and Stephen gritted his teeth. Still nothing. He checked his bag was secure over his shoulder and crawled in among the feathery corpses.

Though Crowther was examining the body of Mr Hurst, it was the mysteries of his own past that went tumbling through his mind that night. His imagination was still filled by the portraits of his father and brother that Mr Askew had so proudly displayed to him. He heard some noise at the back of the house and glanced out of the window. It never became completely dark at this season when the moon was large. He could still see the hunkered mass of St Herbert’s Island, dark on the dull silver of the lake. He thought of what he had learned of his father. Where had that first money come from? Had he managed to steal it somehow from the deserted possessions of Lord Greta? Then this follower of Greta’s, the arsonist, had demanded it back in ’45. Why not simply pay him off? Sir William was a wealthy man by that time. Instead he had killed the messenger and, most likely, found de Beaufoy’s location from him before the murder and parlayed that information into more influence with his King and his government. Then events had caught up with him. When had Greta died? If he had learned that Sir William had betrayed his brother, Crowther could imagine that Lord expending all his last resources in pursuing him. After all, he had preferred to see Gutherscale burn than let it fall into Sir William’s hands. And Adair — well, Adair was as practised as any weak character in believing what he wished. It would have been easy to persuade him to lead his now reclusive father into the open, especially if Adair thought his father’s seclusion was a result of grief rather than fear, and Sir William would never have admitted to his children that he was afraid.

Sighing, Crowther folded back his sleeves and turned to the patient body of Mr Hurst.

The taproom of the Black Pig smelled sour, but Stephen did not think it unpleasant. It was a manly smell. The wide fireplace gaped on one wall like an entrance to a great cave, the pint pots over it glinting jewel-like. Long clay pipes sat in a rack pinned up on the wall by a long piece of slate, covered in initials and chalk-marks. Stephen picked up one of the pipes, put it into his mouth and sucked on it, as he had seen Casper do. The taste was bitter and made the tip of his tongue sting. He set it back on the rack hurriedly.

He stood as near as he could to the centre of the room opposite the street door, and with his back towards the steps to the cellar and game locker, then looked up to count the roofbeams above him. The third. It was very thick and entirely in shadow. He stared at it and sucked his teeth, then gently lifted a stool from its place by one of the tables and set it under the beam. The ceilings were low in these cottages, designed to hunker down among the winds that swept over from Bassenthwaite. Setting his bag on the floor among the sawdust, he clambered up on top of the stool, standing slowly to feel where the legs might wobble on the flags. He was not afraid and was proud to realise he was brave, but then this was Casper’s place, and he was here on his orders. The walls and hanging pots approved. He reached above his head and cupped the beam in his palms, looking straight ahead so as not to lose his balance and trusting his fingers to find the place in the wood.

There was the seam in the deep dark under his left hand. He felt along from it with his right, till his fingers felt the straight line going against the curve of the grain. His arms were beginning to burn, but he didn’t dare lower them and shake the blood back into them for fear of losing the place. He began to pull very gently. The wood sighed, then suddenly gave. For a moment Stephen was afraid he was going to fall over backwards, but the stool stood firm under him. He took the rough panel in his left hand and reached back into the hiding-place with his right. He found it at once: the touch of leather under his fingers. He curled them round and pulled it out. Then: footsteps. Outside, on the road from Keswick. Stephen froze, afraid any movement would attract the attention of the passer-by. He could see right out into the road from where he stood, and should anyone look in from the road as they passed, they would be sure to see him. His white shirt would stand out like a flag in the gloom.

The footsteps came closer, someone walking quickly. Stephen remained absolutely still, the leather pouch still held above his head. The shadow of a man passed through the theatre of the window. Stephen willed him to keep walking and held his breath. The walker disappeared and Stephen heard the footsteps retreat. Not till they had faded completely in the stillness did he dare move again. He lowered the pouch and stuck it into his waistband with his arms tingling painfully. All he wanted now was to be gone. The wooden panel he worked back into its place as well as he could, then he knelt down to get off the stool and moved it back beside the table before he dared take out the pouch again. It was deep brown and stitched into a cross. He smiled. There had been no dragon perhaps, but he had it in his hands, the gift of the fair-folk, the charm of the valley, the Luck of Gutherscale Hall. His fingers touched the fastening. Would it be wrong to look? Casper had not told him not to, but then it did not seem right. It was more honourable, somehow, to hand it to Casper unopened. He lifted the case and tilted it to see what he could of the fastening. It was tied well and the string looked old and dirty. He returned the pouch to his waist, headed back for the cellar and game locker, then out into the night.

The padlock would not click back together again, and he was wondering what to do about it when he heard a door open and whispering. He crept to the shadow of one of the old barrels and peered round it. It was the man Casper had told him to look out for, and his mother. By the light of her candle Stephen could see Swithun’s shirt was torn. It looked like it had blood on it. His mother did not seem happy to see him — she was shaking her head and he had his hands lifted. Then she stepped aside and let him in. Stephen wondered what to do. His first impulse was to run away, but then he could tell Casper nothing about where Swithun might be hiding. He waited. It was not long till Swithun came out again, in a clean shirt this time. Stephen watched as he tried to kiss his mother, but she shut the door in his face. Swithun hesitated and put his hand to his shoulder, then turned away and set out across the fields behind Portinscale. North. Stephen started to breathe again and touched the leather case of the Luck. He was certain it felt warm.

When he returned to Silverside, the light in the brew house was still burning, and the back door unbolted. He tucked the pouch into his pillowcase and fell asleep dreaming of dragons.

It was only two hours later that the landlord of the Black Pig called for his wife. She found him by the game locker scratching his head and holding the padlock to the game locker in his hand.

‘Have we had thieves again, Tom?’ she asked, peering past him to where the birds swung in permanent gloom.

He shook his head. ‘I counted. Nothing gone. Just saw the grate was open, and the lock broke and sat on the flag there.’

‘There’s peculiar.’

‘Not the last of it either,’ the man said. ‘I found this sitting beside it — payment for snapping it, I suppose.’ He opened his hand and showed his wife a rather dirty shilling.