Imogen Robertson: Island of Bones

‘There are poems to that effect in the latest number of The Gentleman’s Magazine . What of your brother?’

‘The vicar suggests a plaque in the chapel stating him innocent and commending his soul to God. That must suffice, I fear. Kit Huntsman’s memorial stone will state he was murdered, but it will maintain a tactful silence as to who murdered him.’

‘We could never, in truth, prove-’

‘No, Mrs Westerman, but we do know. The rumours picked up by Mr Palmer’s friends and the ghost stories of a deceased pig farmer are enough to convince me. Lord Greta murdered my father. However, it would have been satisfying to hear from Sturgess’s own lips that his father murdered mine before you shot him.’

‘My apologies, Crowther,’ she said dryly. He smiled at her and she was glad of it.

‘I notice that in all your dealings with the authorities,’ he continued, ‘that neither you, nor your son, nor Miss Hurst have mentioned the Luck. That is strange.’

‘It seemed unnecessary. The gentry consider that Sturgess was turned mad by a fairytale. Let them think so. Casper has it once more.’

‘And what has he done with it?’

She looked back towards St Herbert’s Island. ‘Mrs Briggs has abandoned her plan for a summerhouse again. Though the Gretas’ bones will still have a home in Crosthwaite, their tomb will now remain on Saint Herbert’s. The ruins are to be shored up and left as they are for the amusement of the Lakers. I have no doubt that Casper will make his way over to the island some quiet night and bury it there again.’

Crowther sighed. ‘I asked Lottie how Kit Huntsman knew that my father had taken the Luck.’

‘And?’

‘Kit was the servant who rowed Greta out to the Island the morning he left to join the Rebellion. If my father saw them, Lottie guesses that they saw my father. She heard Sir William telling Kit in forty-five that he had only moved the Luck into the tomb for safekeeping, that day Kit came to confront him after burning Gutherscale. She knew it was long gone by then, of course, and fearing for my father, ran to fetch Ruben. He must then have discovered my father’s crime, and the Black Pig was the price of his silence.’

Crowther thought of his father and the Jacobite opening the lid of the tomb, the Jacobite leaning in for the prize and finding instead a blade through his back, his body spinning away with the blow and the thin end of the blade snapping against the stone; then Ruben’s arrival and the bundling away of the body among the ancient bones. His shoulder stung him.

High in the bright air above them a buzzard climbed the currents and called to the crags, Harriet watched it for a moment, wondering what it saw. ‘So do the people believe that the cross in still covered in jewels, Crowther? Would they still have faith in its power, do you think, if they realised the precious stones were gone long ago?’

‘Lottie told me that she supposes most still believe it is as it was, but they all know it is only fairy-wealth and so no good would ever come from trying to buy your way into the world with it. Apparently only gentry would be foolish enough to think otherwise.’

Harriet laughed quietly. ‘And its magic? She still believes in it?’

‘She said the Luck lost only its jewels, not its power, and asked me if we cut the lace from your cuffs and dressed you in plain stuff, would you, Mrs Westerman, not remain a remarkable and lovely woman?’ Harriet felt herself flush. Crowther continued quietly, ‘She told me it was not my father’s fault. That the Luck wished to remain here, and called to him to avoid being removed by Greta or his followers, then paid him in evil coin.’

Harriet considered this in silence until movement on the path from Portinscale caught her eye, and she stood up swiftly. A woman in a brightly coloured skirt was moving up the hill towards them, a boy something over Stephen’s age with her, and a terrier chasing around her as she walked.

Crowther could not turn so easily with his shoulder stiff. ‘Who is it, Mrs Westerman?’

‘Oh Crowther, it is Jocasta Bligh!’ Harriet said, getting to her feet and waving. ‘Casper’s sister has come to him!’ A stab of sadness struck her and she dropped her hand. She loved her sister too, not well always, perhaps. But sincerely.

‘Harry!’

She looked up again: just rounding the corner she saw a man and woman arm-in-arm. Her heart soared. It was Rachel — she had come, and with her fiance Daniel Clode at her side. They led a sturdy-limbed toddler by the hand.

‘Oh, Anne!’ Harriet cried, and Crowther watched her as she ran down the slope towards her daughter. He saw her swing her child into the air then kiss her sister.

Whatever their disagreements, it seemed they were forgotten for the moment. Clode’s warm voice carried up the path towards him. ‘We are all come,’ the young man was saying. ‘We thought a show of force from Thornleigh Hall might be of use to you all. Graves, Jonathan and Susan, Mrs Service — the whole circus, all waving the family crest around like a good luck charm! The others are arranging our accommodation at the Oak, and Susan has already agreed to play at the re-opening of the museum. We had to come at once though and embrace you, Harry! Where is Mr Crowther? Is he up and about yet? Oh, I see him! Good-day sir. Is that Mrs Briggs at the door? Mrs Briggs! Delighted to make your acquaintance! No, we could not possibly dine with you here, our numbers are even more than you see. .’

Crowther sighed. He used his father’s cane to push himself to his feet, and turned to meet them.

Casper was sitting with the white lady on the slope above the Hall, sucking on his pipe and waiting for Agnes. The Luck was still in his waistband, but he could see it also between the white lady’s hands. Only when she held it, it was lit with jewels again. The black witch was still in his mind, still hissing, but she was quiet for now.

The white lady shifted her long blond hair away from her face and pointed down the slope. Frowning, Casper turned to look. Far below them on the path to Silverside, he saw a movement of coloured skirts between the trees: a woman, with a boy and dog at her side leading a party of gentlefolk up the slope. He turned questioningly to the white lady, a broad smile already on his face. ‘Is it. .?’ he asked. She nodded. Casper jumped to his feet and began to run down the hill like a boy, with Joe flapping behind him. ‘Jocasta!’ he yelled as he went, and he heard his bird echoing him, and the white lady laughing.