Island of Bones (35 page)

‘Who were the bankers?’

‘The same as your own, Charles. Botts in Cockermouth.’

W
HEN CASPER FOUND
himself again, he was on the high ground. Below him, Great Wood tumbled down towards the lake, and off to the south he could see the narrowing and folding of Borrowdale. He rolled his shoulders and hissed as his bruises stung him. Only when he opened his eyes a second time did he notice Stephen sitting on the thin turf a little way away from him playing with Joe. They seemed to have made themselves some game together. Stephen would place a few stones, one atop the other, then Joe would knock them flat again and caw.

Stephen looked round and smiled, a little nervously.

‘How long you been there, youngling?’ Casper said at last. Sounded like the black witch had shouted herself hoarse. There was no sign of her voice in his mind.

‘A while,’ the boy replied with a shrug. ‘I could not find you at your cabin, so went to see the museum and saw you passing. Then I followed you. Mr Sturgess almost saw you in the Square, but someone ran up to him and started telling him you had gone to Rosthwaite.’

Casper considered the earth in front of him. The black witch had her ways of tricking and fighting with him. Times were, she would get to yelling so hard that he could not say where or what he was for a time. Not often. But it happened.

‘And you followed me all this way?’

‘You go
very
fast! But you did not seem well, so I thought I might . . .’

‘How do I seem now, Master Stephen?’

‘Better.’

Casper lay back on the heather for a moment and looked up into the
heat and haze. ‘There is a girl lost somewhere in these hills. She isn’t at home with her people, which means she’s either dead or she’s trapped. If dead, I must carry her home. If breathing, then she must be found before hunger or thirst take her. She’s smart and she’s strong, but that’s not always enough.’

‘You like her, don’t you, Mr Casper? Mr Askew told me she is thought of as your apprentice. Are you going to teach her about bogles, and witches, and how to fight them?’

‘I might at that.’ He had never thought of it so clearly before, but the girl did have a power, and someone had to take on the job when he died. The thought pleased him before his mind caught the tone of the question.

‘Lad, my learning is not for you. We cannot choose the world and ways into which we are born. You are gentry. I’ll take your help now and thank you for it, but this is not your calling. It might be Agnes’s though, if we can find her.’ Stephen still looked miserable. ‘A mouse might wish to be a king, and times are, I reckon, when a king might wish himself a mouse. But there’s that and there’s the other, and there’s done.’

‘Where might she be?’ Stephen said with a sigh. Joe cawed at him, and he began piling the stones for him again.

Casper hugged his knees to his chest. ‘I know one place she isn’t – that’s in the old mine where someone had tried to drop that German fella.’

‘Austrian,’ Stephen said automatically.

‘The flowers leave a powerful trace, and there was no scent of it on that bugger Swithun’s clothes. I think she might be in one of the old deep places though.’

‘Why?’

Casper shrugged. ‘There was tang. Deep earth, not the stuff that is still filled with growing and dying, but old. Has a tang on it.’

‘Shouldn’t we get help, Casper? Mr Crowther said there are lots of old mines here. If lots of people were looking . . .’

He shook his head and sucked his teeth. ‘If she lives, they might kill
her and bury her more deeply if they know I’m looking. Let them think I’m running from Sturgess and thinking only of revenge for my own beating. That might give us time enough, and mean they leave her where she lies.’ He frowned and looked hard at Stephen. ‘You remember what that lad looks like?’

‘From Portinscale? Yes, naturally.’

‘Naturally, is it? Good enough. You ever see him, you keep back. But watch where he goes. He’s keeping away, but he’s not got the sense to go far, and their job on me is undone.’

‘What were they looking for, Casper?’

‘Something precious, and they’ve come close. Something I reckon might need shifting somewhere a little safer. Come on then, mickle kingling. Might be best if you go back to Silverside now and play at being a good lad. I have a mind to get you to do some serious business for me tonight, and the more polished and polite you are today, the easier it will be to get done. We’ll talk on the way, then I must start searching every hole in these hills.’

Cockermouth was a proud little town, and Mr White was a proud little man. He attended the lectures in the public rooms whenever they were given, nodded his way through them and felt much wiser at their close, though he rarely remembered much of the argument presented. He could also be counted on to attend any of the public concerts held, in his emerald coat and a cravat he had learned to tie from a series of illustrations. He liked to be thought of as a man of fashion. When the musicians pleased him particularly, he was glad to say it was almost as good as London, which earned him respectful echoing from his neighbours. He himself had never been to London, but the most illustrious client of his firm, whose name he was always glad to bring into the most mundane of conversations, was there for some part of every season. He had once heard that gentleman say that such and such a player had a technique almost equal to the musicians in the capital, and this became Mr White’s benchmark.

Mr White had hopes, he had expectations. His senior partner, Mr Hudson, had become rather broken down in the last few years since his son had been killed while off soldiering. Mr White was quite sure that in a few years more, he would have the firm’s business to himself. He would then marry. He remembered that Miss Hodgekinson had admired the cravat and coat on several occasions. A woman of taste. He would improve his house – he had an eye on the sort of establishment he would like. It was at the bottom of the main street and occupied by Sir Lowther’s law agent, whom he thought of as a model. It spoke of prosperity and propriety and was full of healthy-looking children. In such conjectures was Mr White employed while his senior partner and his clerk were about their own business in the town when he heard the street door open, and still smiling with thoughts of his future and the general neatness of it all, he left his office to see who had need of him.

It was a stranger. A woman, and alone. Mr White was surprised, and that surprise only deepened as he took in the details of the woman’s dress and demeanour. Her riding habit suggested a gentlewoman of some means, yet the skirt was so filthy with the dust of the road one might have thought she had covered ten miles, and at speed. Her face was flushed and strands of her red hair that appeared from under her riding hat appeared to be dampened to her face with sweat. It was alarming. Ladies should always appear cool, fresh, and take trouble to remain so. Miss Hodgekinson would rather die than appear alone, in the offices of a professional man in such a state. The woman had a copy of the
Westmorland Paquet
in her hand. Mr White had an awful presentiment. Perhaps she was one of these women who had so badly mismanaged her domestic situation she had been forced to flee her husband. Or one of those foolish creatures who, ignoring the wishes of her family and friends, had fallen victim to an adventurer. He began to prepare himself to be avuncular, kind but firm. If she had climbed into her marital bed lawfully, the law said she must stay there. He raised his eyebrows, hoping she would not add to her state of dishevelment by weeping.

‘Good afternoon,’ the woman said, her voice quite strong, but pleasant. ‘Are you Mr Hudson? If so, I would be most grateful for a moment of your time.’

‘Mr Hudson is away from the office this afternoon . . . madam. I am his partner here. My name is White – and you are?’

‘How unfortunate,’ the woman said, putting a hand to her damp forehead. Mr White felt a vague frisson of alarm. ‘Perhaps you will be able to assist me. My name is Westerman. I wished to speak to Mr Hudson about this advertisement.’ She held out the newspaper and Mr White took it from her a little gingerly. ‘May I sit down a moment, sir? I have had a long ride, and this heat makes what is usually a pleasure a trial.’

Mr White bowed, which she obviously took as assent, as she dropped onto one of the chairs and began to fan herself with the back of her hand. He looked at the advertisement. He had been told that it had been placed, but in truth he knew little of the matter, only that it was bound up with The Most Illustrious Client, and beyond that Mr Hudson had kept the business very close, and responded not at all to his most studiedly casual questions. It had been an annoyance which he had put from his mind, and now this woman thrust it under his nose again.

‘Where have you ridden from, Mrs Westerman?’

‘Keswick.’

Twelve miles in the heat of the day. Perhaps the woman was deranged.

‘Alone?’ He did not try very hard to keep the shock out of his voice.

She shook her head. ‘No. Mr Crowther and I rode together – perhaps I should name him Lord Keswick. Most people seem to here, though he does not care to make use of the title. He has other business in town. Can you tell me anything of this matter, sir? I ask because the gentleman mentioned in the advertisement was found murdered yesterday morning.’

There was a click and whirr in Mr White’s head and the realisation struck him like a long-case clock marking the hour. This woman was Mrs Harriet Westerman, whose involvement in matters of murder had made her the subject of great spilling of ink. Miss Hodgekinson had
remarked, with her eyes downcast and a pleasing shudder, that the thought of a woman taking an active role in the investigations of such crimes horrified her. He had agreed. He remembered that her husband had been a Naval man. No doubt the sun of the tropics had turned her head, but had she really no family to take her under proper control? He began to think of what Miss Hodgekinson would say when she learned that this woman – he could not really think of her as a lady – had presented herself in his office in such a state and talking of murder. She would find it fascinating.

‘Mr White?’

He was startled to find that Mrs Westerman was examining him with those green eyes, her head on one side, and he was disturbed to see something like amusement in her expression. He returned the paper to her and drew himself as tall as he could – not far, nature is cruel – and put his thumbs into his waistcoat.

‘I could not possibly give you any information on the subject, Mrs Westerman. These are confidential matters . . .’ Harriet began to protest, but he put up his hand. ‘Confidential affairs that concern a client of ours, a most illustrious client.’ He smiled down at her, soothingly. One could be kind. ‘I am certain that those affairs can have no bearing on any unfortunate accident met with by MrWurst.’

Mrs Westerman studied him for a moment, then stood up sharply. Mr White found he was now forced to look up a little, rather than down. His smile disappeared.

‘Hurst, Mr White, Hurst. And it was no accident. Very well. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell your partner of my visit. I am staying at Silverside Hall.’ Mr White had been pleased to exchange ‘Good days’ with Mrs Briggs on several occasions. What could that good woman be thinking, to have such a creature in her home? ‘At least then Mr Hudson and your client will be aware that any further advertisements will be as unsuccessful as this one.’ She turned on her heel and was gone, taking the dust and blood with her.

A
GNES COULD NOT
say if she slept or woke. She had found enough of a nail coming through the wood to pick apart the rope on her wrists, though when she did, the flood of pain and cramp in her hands had been so bad, she almost wished she had left them tied. Even with them free she could make no impression on the barricade. She had found a piece of slate in the gloom and had tried to drive the new nails back out, but they had only bent over. She pulled at every join and seam, and filled her palms with vicious little splinters; she screamed herself hoarse and heard nothing but faint bird calls and the turnings of the wind in reply. At last she had crawled back down the tunnel to collect her blanket and bottle, and returned with them to the barricade to make her camp there. She wanted nothing more than to drain the water that was left, but when she shook the bottle next to her ear, it sounded like there was little enough. She was hungry, it gnawed at her. So for a little while she let herself have a cry, and let that turn into a sort of sleep and dreaming.

A footstep, now she was awake. She threw herself against the barricade and drummed on it with her fists and shouted. Silence, then a voice.

‘Agnes?’

‘Swithun! You dog! You son of a bitch, you let me out of here, right now! Right this minute! I’m going to pull out your eyeballs and feed them to your pig, you bastard.’

‘Shush now, Agnes. Don’t take on so. You ain’t dead, are you?’

‘Much thanks to you! You let me out!’

‘If you don’t hush up, girl, I’m just going to go away again. Now quiet.’

Agnes bit her lip and for a while everything went silent. She felt herself begin to tremble. The idea that he might have just gone again was more horrible than her anger.

‘Swithun?’ She heard his feet shifting outside, and the sounds of him sitting down. It seemed as if he was leaning against the barricade.

‘It weren’t my idea, Agnes. I never meant you harm, though you’ve never been nice to me.’

She sighed and sat down on the earth floor, leaning against the wooden planks herself. There was light and home and air on the other side, where he was looking and sounding all pitying of himself In front of her only damp and dark. ‘Why should I be? I know you are like your da. Nothing but nasty from you every day I’ve known you. Folks are looking for me, Swithun. They’ll find me, too – then if you think people hated you and yours before . . .’

He was quiet a while. ‘They are looking in the wrong place. You normally do your wanderings down into Borrowdale, along that shore – everyone knows that.’ It was true. The thought of her father and friends walking her roads, fearing for her, made her eyes hot. She was working so hard on not crying at the thought that she hardly heard him say, ‘Good that they are. You’d be dead, otherwise.’