Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

‘I did not. I did not. There was too much foul air trapped in the business to open it up. Do not play the child with me, Palmer. Would you expose so much, on so thin a scrap of rumour, to save the neck of a boy like Lucius Adair Penhaligon?’

Mr Palmer picked up his wine. ‘Perhaps not.’

His companion nodded emphatically. ‘If you must communicate this to Mr Crowther, have the decency to lie about when the information came to us. Say it was after the trial. We do not wish him an enemy.’

Mr Palmer drank. ‘Very well. For that I shall ask you one last question. What happened then? What became of Lord Greta’s son?’

‘Lord Greta died two years later and three days after his remarkable wife, leaving his son a gentleman of dubious education and limited means. The son was a military man for a while, then made his way playing cards, but he was lost sight of after a scandal some five years ago. A grand game that ruined a young man. He was accused of cheating, and fought a duel though I have no doubt the accusation was accurate. He killed his man, and escaped with the fortune he had swindled. He went by the name of von Lowenstein at that time.’

‘Had he other names?’

Sir Gawen drained his wine. ‘His given one was Grenville de Beaufoy. There were times though when he liked to play the English gentleman of middling rank. Then we heard of him styling himself as Mr Sturgess.’

Silverside Hall

Mrs Briggs took Harriet directly into the drawing room. ‘Oh, I am glad you came, Mrs Westerman! So grateful. I do not know what to do. I thought perhaps your son might get a message to Casper for me, but I am not at all sure what I should say. I had to ask you — what should I say? It is a terrible, terrible slander if I am wrong.’

‘Mrs Briggs,’ Harriet said, looking her in the eye, ‘I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about. Is this something to do with the Vizegrafin?’

Mrs Briggs had collapsed onto one of her sofas, produced a handkerchief and begun to gnaw on it. However, when Harriet finished she looked up swiftly. ‘The Vizegrafin? What might she have to do with it?’

Harriet sighed and sat down next to her. Mrs Briggs took a deep breath. ‘I may seem an idiot to you, Mrs Westerman, and if I do, I hope you will be kind enough to tell me so, as it would be a great relief.’

‘Mrs Briggs. .’

She held up her hand. ‘Yes, yes. I know, I shall start at the beginning. When we were talking last evening in your room, we mentioned the Fowlers, father and son.’

‘I remember,’ Harriet said, cupping her chin in her hands.

‘I told you I have tried to give them work from time to time, I think? Yes? Well, as it happens, one of those occasions was when we opened the tomb on Saint Herbert’s Island. I had no idea that they might find anything to steal there.’

‘The snuff barrel!’

‘Precisely, Mrs Westerman.’ She patted Harriet on the knee. ‘If you remember, Mr Sturgess brought it to us.’

Harriet frowned as she tried to remember. ‘He said they had been fighting, and were taken up before him as the magistrate.’

‘Yes, yes. I began to wonder. . and when you said that Casper thought they were the men that beat him. .’

‘I am not entirely sure I am following you, Mrs Briggs.’

‘My dear girl, who might? I was so worried by what I was thinking I spent the whole night pacing my room and wondering at it.’ She drew breath again. ‘Mr Sturgess has always been passionately interested in the history and antiquities of the area. Such as the Luck.’

‘Mr Askew said he made various contributions to the museum.’

‘So he did, so he did. He tried to employ Casper to help him, but he is not the sort of man who sends fools after buried treasure. The whole village knows though that Mr Sturgess has a great interest in such things. I had thought that interest had waned, but then with Casper beaten and the Black Pig searched. . Mr Sturgess is normally rather free with his fines and punishments and sending people to the Petty Sessions. I thought he had learned to be more merciful.’

Harriet bit her lip. ‘I heard a man call Casper the Luck-keeper today.’

Mrs Briggs nodded quickly. ‘I was here twenty years before anyone let that name slip in front of me. But those Fowlers, suppose they told Sturgess that Casper might have the Luck? They are stupid men, he could have threatened them with the rope or the prison hulks if he said the snuffbox was worth enough. Suppose they traded their necks for that bit of chatter, and then Mr Sturgess sent them off after Casper?’

‘It is a grave suspicion, but it would make sense of his determination to have Casper taken up for the murder of Mr Hurst, and Mr Askew.’

‘Just so, poor deluded man! To so compromise himself for the sake of a jewel! Oh, I pity him. I wanted to see if your son might warn Casper, and thought perhaps I might write a letter to Mr Sturgess in a friendly way, to suggest his enthusiasm might have overcome his good sense in his search for the heritage of this area.’

Harriet stood up. ‘How long has Mr Sturgess been resident in the area, Mrs Briggs?’

Her hostess examined the air above her head. ‘Let me see. . it was when Mr Briggs first invested in the wine business on the continent, rather than simply importing what had already been grown. . so it must be four, no nearly five years ago now.’

‘I think it would be best if I pay Mr Sturgess a visit.’

Mrs Briggs put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Mrs Westerman, must you? He might be so ashamed. He has been such a good neighbour to us. And I might be terribly wrong.’

‘I think I shall take Felix with me.’ She began to walk towards the door, when Mrs Briggs’s voice stopped her.

‘But what of Mr Askew, Mrs Westerman? And Mr Hurst? Have your enquiries proceeded at all?’

‘Yes, Mrs Briggs. Some.’

Agnes made the pile of her treasures as carefully as she might. There were the larger sticks she had found, then piled on top the splinters and sticks she’d managed to pull free from the more rotted joists that held the earth above her. On top of these she had bundled threads. They might not serve to lead her through the tunnels, but she had ripped the seam from her handkerchief and picked it apart with shivering fingers until she had this pile of thin stuff on top of the lighter twigs. In her left hand she held a flint, found and split in the darkness, in her right the arrow, its head pointed down.

Praying for sparks, she began to strike it down onto the flint.

When Casper had walked these paths to search the old shafts of Comb Beck, he had had no thought to look for the Fowler men. This afternoon he had found their camp easily enough, and seen enough of it to know they would return to it. A neat site by Masmill Beck, far enough from the path to be hidden. The beck had worked its way well into the slope just here. It had been easy to find slightly higher ground that offered the view he wanted, but where the rocks gave him some cover. What they couldn’t provide he made himself, cutting down a branch from a rowan three yards off. The tree squealed behind his eyes, and he murmured his apologies. The white witch touched its trunk, and he felt it settle. Since Stephen had told him of Swithun’s injury, her voice had become stronger. The black witch, Grice, who had been crowing over his failures till he could hardly know where he was, had slunk back a little. He was calm now, and moved with serious careful intent.

Now he lay behind the rocks, screened by the rowan but with good sight of the Fowler camp. He held his knife in his right hand. If either father or son came alone, he’d be able to subdue him and get sense out of him with no need of it, but if they came together he’d have to kill one quick to catch the other. He had no wish to murder any man but if needed, he’d do it easily. It seemed to him the Black Witch was struggling to have at him, but something prevented her. He flicked his eyes upstream. The white lady was sitting on a rock in the middle of the waters, her hair all glowing and gold. She raised her hand to him and smiled. He knew only he could see her, and her presence gave him comfort. He smiled then turned his eyes back towards the camp.