Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Harriet felt unsure if she could speak. ‘The son of Lord Greta is here ?’

Mr Hudson raised his hands. ‘We must assume so, or at the very least we must think that he has been here very recently.’

Crowther raised his eyebrows. ‘Given the unfortunate demise of Mr Askew, I think we may assume he was also here last night. Do we know what age he is, Mr Hudson?’

‘He was born shortly before the rebellion of forty-five.’

‘In his late thirties, then. Any description of his person?’

‘A gentleman speaking English, German and French like a native. Medium height.’

Harriet cast up her hands in frustration. ‘I saw a dozen men of that age and height at the garden party at Silverside, all with a quiver of arrows at their side, and as many such at the fireworks, though I cannot answer for their linguistic abilities. No limp, sir? No disfiguring mark? Has he a wife, children?’

Mr Hudson shook his head. ‘No duelling scars or obvious injuries I know of, madam. Though he may have acquired them, and a wife and children in five years of travel.’

‘Do not despair, Mrs Westerman,’ Crowther said quietly. ‘There are only two good inns in town. We shall ask there if any of the gentry have been in residence since — when did you receive that letter, Mr Hudson?’

‘In the morning of the twelfth of July.’

‘Since before the eleventh then, who remain in residence or have left this morning and are of a suitable age. There can be relatively few.’

‘Why did he not leave at once, having killed Mr Hurst? Why wait longer?’

Crowther did not waste his breath with a reply. ‘Mrs Westerman, as you have already an acquaintance with Mr Postlethwaite, perhaps you might enquire at the Royal Oak. Mr Hudson, if you might make a similar call on the proprietor of the Queen’s Head. I should like to spend a little more time with the body of Mr Askew.’

‘And you will think on that portrait, Crowther?’

‘Naturally, Mrs Westerman.’

When Harriet returned to the museum, frustrated and disappointed, she found the main part of the museum being swept. The body had been removed — Harriet guessed that Mr Askew’s office had become his mortuary. The girl who had offered to keep watch over the body was completing her labours and her friend was arranging the fallen rock samples on Mr Askew’s counter. The girl looked up as she came in and nodded to her.

‘Lord Keswick is in the back room, Mrs Westerman.’

Harriet began to unbutton her gloves. ‘Stella, have you ever heard the stories of the ghost of Lord Greta walking the hills in times of trouble?’

She smiled. ‘That was just old Farmer Willocks used to say that, madam, when he came into town for the market. He always had a story for the fire, and that was just one of them. He used to say the Northern Lights celebrated on the day Lord Greta escaped from custody, and that there was a witch in Thornthwaite Forest could turn herself into a hare, and he had a story of some bogle or other for every month in the year.’ She chuckled and started the broom moving again, the glass cracking like ice in the pail on winter mornings.

‘Did you hear the story? Is he living?’

‘No, bless you, madam. There aren’t that many like Lottie Tyers, who are too stubborn to die. We shared out the arvel bread for Willocks when I was right small. Twelve years ago, maybe. But I heard the story. It was the time of. .’ she dropped her voice a little, ‘when the First Baron was murdered. Willocks said he was out in the evening seeing to his pigs, and he saw the ghost of Lord Greta on a black horse crossing Pow Beck. Then next day he heard there had been horrible murder done at Silverside Hall, so he reckoned he’d seen a bogle sent as a sign.’

‘Where is Pow Beck? And how did he know it was Lord Greta?’

Stella snorted. ‘Said he knew him by his bearing. And Pow Beck lies along the way to Braithwaite. I thought his other bogle stories were better, but he told the story of the ghost of Lord Greta enough times for it to drift around after we buried him.’

‘You don’t sound as if you believed him?’

It was the young man who replied. ‘If Lord Greta’s ghost came in times of trouble, he’d have been seen when the small-pox came. And if he came in times of murder, then he’d be outside the window now, wouldn’t he?’ His voice lowered a little as he finished, and Harriet found herself looking towards the shutter.

‘Mrs Westerman?’ She jumped a little and turned to see Crowther in the doorway to the office. Stella set to work again with the broom and the young man busied himself with the rocks. ‘Perhaps you might join me?’

She followed him into the office trying not to blush, and as the door closed behind them, she asked, ‘Did you hear any of that, Crowther?’

He nodded. ‘Any news of significance from the Royal Oak?’

‘Three gentlemen are currently in residence. Of these, two are of an age and have been here ten days or more. The first was having lunch when I arrived and was extremely surprised to be engaged in light conversation by a respectable widow. His name is Bloodworth, which gave me hope for a moment, but if he is a murderer, then I abandon all hope of ever knowing my fellow man. Charming, handsome, but I would swear him innocent. The second left this morning, a family man travelling with his two young daughters.’

Crowther looked up with his eyebrows raised, but Harriet shook her head. ‘He was a man of enormous girth who, Mr Postlethwaite said, had to rest on his way up the stairs to his chamber. The thought of him dragging Mr Hurst’s body into a cave and covering it with stones is impossible. Have you had word from Mr Hudson?’

‘He left before you arrived, Mrs Westerman, but his information was much as your own. He is determined to widen his search and has taken horse for Kendal in hopes of finding his nemesis there.’

She looked at the body of the museum owner, lying across his own desk. ‘Poor Mr Askew. Did he have any family?’

‘His maid tells me there is a married sister in Cockermouth.’

‘And have you learned anything more from his body?’

He nodded and indicated Mr Askew’s left hand. She went to it and took the cold fingers between her own. The locking of the body was just beginning to pass; the muscles were still tensed, but she could open them just enough to observe the flesh of the palm. The skin was torn at the base of the fingers, though there was no sign of blood.

‘I see it, Crowther. But I cannot pretend to understand.’

He looked at her as she cradled the dead hand. ‘Those injuries can only, I believe, have been caused after death, since such abrasions should bleed. I believe some jagged object was torn from the hand when it was already clenched in death.’

She straightened, her green eyes clean and dancing. ‘The struggle! Mr Askew had something in his hand that his killer feared might identify him?’

‘That is my speculation, Mrs Westerman.’

‘Then at some time in the night he realised it was missing and came back to collect it.’

‘It was fortunate,’ he said rather dryly, ‘that the murderer kept the key to the front door.’

Stephen found Casper by his old camp. He had not expected to see the man himself there, but rather hoped to leave some secret signal for him that his mission of the previous night had been successful. He had not thought what that signal might be, and was standing by the firestone feeling rather lost when he suddenly found Casper at his side. He looked ill to Stephen’s eyes. The bruises on his face were blossoming against the pale of his undamaged skin, and his eyes had the haunted air of a man who has slept little. Joe hopped down from his shoulder and hunched in the sun.