‘I have some things to think on, youngling. Can you stay quiet an hour while I walk them about in my head? Then if you are willing to keep me company, I might have need of you in a little while.’

  Stephen settled himself and nodded. ‘Why did you bring the body to Silverside?’

  ‘For good or bad, that is where it belongs. And I thought Lord Keswick might want to see it.’

  ‘You mean Mr Crowther.’

  ‘He may call himself what he will elsewhere, but when he walks this land he is Lord Keswick whether he likes it or no. No more talking now.’

  He lit his pipe and began to draw on it, his eyebrows bunched together and his bruised face cloudy with thought.

  ‘He looks as if he was killed by witchcraft.’

  Crowther looked up at Mrs Westerman. She was standing at the head of the table gazing down into the dead man’s eyes.

  ‘In that case, so do most men,’ he said dryly.

  ‘But not many men are found with their pockets stuffed with mistletoe.’

  They had found the plant bundled into the man’s pockets within moments of being left alone with the body, along with some money and an elaborate pocket-watch. Harriet had liked the look of Casper Grace, but nevertheless, as soon as she saw the tear-drop leaves she had thought of him and wondered. ‘I suppose Casper might have done that on finding the body, as a mark of respect to the dead.’

  ‘Then I wonder he did not close the man’s eyes.’

  Harriet nodded. ‘Do you think he might have killed him? Why then bring the body to us?’

  ‘Mrs Westerman, do stop asking me impossible questions.’ Crowther’s sudden snap of irritation took him by surprise. There had been something in his nephew’s face as he looked at the body that chilled him, something in his refusal to be the bearer of the news to Miss Hurst that had disgusted him. He felt angry in front of the body, harried by questions from the past and present. He thought of a man he had seen in a hospital in Padua. His leg had become black with gangrene, and in the damp heat of the summer he was tormented by flies buzzing and settling on his stump. They had all been grateful when he died. He had a sense of fellow feeling with that patient now which troubled him.

  ‘My apologies.’

  She did not look directly at him. ‘We only have a little time, Crowther. You are right, I may speculate as much as I like – later. For the moment let us only observe.’

  Crowther removed his coat and began to fold up his sleeves, trying to discover his usual calm. ‘The body may conceal any number of hurts within it, Mrs Westerman. If a man falls down dead and another says before he did so he clutched his chest, I would suspect his heart and look for signs of disease there. If our putative witness says his speech became slurred and his movements awkward I would look first for signs of bleeding in the brain.’

  ‘And where there is no witness?’

  ‘I examine all the organs and see what they can tell me. I have told you before, sometimes people simply die, they are dead because they ceased to live. That is not witchcraft, just the usual fate of man. Will you help me remove his coat?’ She did so. He was grateful she had let his spasm of bad temper pass without comment.

  Much of Crowther’s work meant he dealt with small samples, animals or parts of the human body transported to his desk by colleagues interested in his opinion. They came packed in straw and ice or pale and floating in preserving solutions. It still astonished his animal mind how heavy a body becomes when the life has left it, how awkward and unwieldy a thing. It was lucky the coat was not overly tight and could be pulled free of the body without cutting it. He suspected that the rigor was just beginning to pass, and began to speculate on what that might tell him of when the man died. Mrs Westerman held the coat up, then frowned.

  ‘Crowther!’

  She approached, her finger on the collar of the coat. The buff material was stained. It was a small patch, he could have covered it with his thumb, but it was there. Crowther wet the end of his finger and rubbed it into the stain, then put the finger to his mouth for a moment. He nodded then turned round to spit onto the floor.

  ‘Blood.’

  Harriet gathered the coat in her hands and lifted it towards the light. ‘There is so little of it.’

  Crowther had turned back to the body.

  She laid the coat on one of the benches and joined him. The corpse was still lying on its front. Crowther took the head between his hands and gently shifted it, moving it further onto its face so the chin was tucked into the chest.

  The black hair of Mr Hurst was as thick as his daughter’s. Crowther placed his fingers at the place where the spine and skull touched; it was matted and slightly gritty under his touch.

  ‘There is a wound there?’ Harriet asked.

  He went to his roll of instruments on the table and withdrew one of his scalpels – it sighed out of the leather. ‘There is more blood in his hair. I think there is a wound. I wish the man had worn his hair shorter. I hate to blunt my knife. Will you hold his head steady for me, Mrs Westerman?’

  She put her hands either side of the man’s head again without flinching. She had the pale skin common to most red-heads. The black of her mourning ring stood out against it like coal in snow. Crowther cut away the bloodied clump of hair, gradually uncovering a two-inch square of skin. At its centre was a bloody spot the size of a shilling. He placed his little finger on it, then began to work the tip into the wound. The head shifted and he looked up; Mrs Westerman had turned her head away. He returned his attention to the wound; his finger met no significant resistance. He nodded to himself, then carefully freed his finger before wiping it on his handkerchief.

  Harriet released her grip and he saw her bend over the wound with a look of deep concentration. She then reached behind her neck and touched the same spot on her own skin where the skull hinges on the spine. He thought of all the injuries she must have seen serving with her husband, or those she had seen in his company. It would be unusual indeed if she had ever seen anything so neat.

  ‘Could such a thing have killed him?’ she asked.

  Crowther examined his finger and decided it was as clean as he might make it. ‘The wound appears deep. It could very easily have proved fatal at once.’

  ‘This is not a knife wound.’

  ‘No. Something long and thin. An awl, such as Casper must use for his carving?’

  ‘Or an arrow,’ Harriet said quickly, then looked up at him, her lips slightly parted.

  He closed his eyes briefly. An arrow would indeed produce such a wound. ‘If I am to examine him more fully, we shall need more time than we have at our disposal now, Mrs Westerman. It is time to write to Sturgess, and visit Miss Hurst.’

  ‘I am a little surprised you do not suggest I do so alone, and allow you to continue.’

  ‘I might have done so, had I not been so unreasonably rude to you a few moments ago. Now I feel I have not the credit to send you on such duties alone.’

  III.6

  AS THE CARRIAGE RATTLED down the slope Harriet bit her lip and stared out of the window.

  ‘Speak, Mrs Westerman,’ Crowther said at last.

  ‘What possible motive could Casper Grace have for killing this man? A stranger, a foreigner . . .’

  ‘Perhaps the witches told him to do it.’

  ‘I have spoken to Mrs Briggs and Miss Scales about Casper Grace. He does believe that witches and spirits speak to him, and they are sometimes cruel, but he has been hearing them for over twenty years! They began soon after his father’s death. Why should he do this now? There have been foreigners and strangers enough to provide sacrifice pouring through Keswick every summer.’

  Crowther turned to the view from his side of the phaeton. It did not inspire him. ‘The season is unusual. Perhaps he believes the hills demand a sacrifice to carry off this dry fog. I read in the news-sheet that only last week, the magistrate in Kendal put a man in the stocks who claimed that the end of days was upon us. When the magistrate arrested him, he had already gathered a crowd of acolytes around him.’

  She shook her head. ‘Lucky Kendal to have such a magistrate. But Casper does not seem a fool or a zealot.’

  ‘We do not know the story of his beating. Perhaps this was an act of revenge. To bring the body out of the woods would be an unusual act for a murderer, I concede. However, Casper is eccentric, and the act of killing may fracture a mind already weakened with the chatter of witches. Did not Stephen say that Grace believed that rainstorms protected the stones from the archaeological fervour of Mr Sturgess?’

  ‘He was repeating a story for their entertainment. And he told Stephen that same day that the traditions of blood sacrifice were long over . . .’ She let her sentence trail away.

  Crowther cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Westerman, I know you are not simply thinking of Casper Grace. Let it be said.’ She did not answer him. ‘You are wondering if Felix had anything to do with this death. He knew the man. He described him as a cardsharp. Presumably my nephew owed him money. The death was not accidental. Judging by his pocket-watch, Mr Hurst was not robbed, so it is likely his murder was a personal affair We are aware of only one person in the area who knew him, other than his daughter. And that is Felix.’

  ‘Perhaps his daughter killed him,’ she said, almost sulkily.

  ‘If so, that was quite a piece of theatrics she gave us this morning.’

  ‘Many women are accomplished actresses, Crowther. It is a useful skill. Naturally I am wondering about Felix, but I find I cannot speculate freely about these deaths that crowd your family history. How can I say to your face with my usual carelessness that your father or nephew may have murdered?’

  ‘You need not be so careful on my account, Mrs Westerman.’

  She snorted. ‘Nonsense! Your father’s murder and your brother’s execution have haunted you thirty years. We should never have come here. I thought only of escaping my role in Hartswood as the local tragedy for a while. I think you thought only of the same. Now we are caught between old mysteries and new horrors. I cannot build castles of speculation in the air, and expect you to find the evidence to give them foundation here. It is all too close.’

  Crowther lowered his chin as he let the truth of what she had said filter through his mind. ‘Perhaps it is time I faced my demons. In their way, they pursue me just as Casper’s do him. I have become too old to outrun them.’

  He was speaking almost to himself He felt her hesitate, then she put her hand into her pocket and produced a letter. ‘It is interesting you use that phrase. I received this today. It is Jocasta Bligh’s account of what she saw on the day of your father’s murder.’

  ‘I have heard it.’

  ‘I know, Crowther. But I think you should hear it again.’

  It was a long hour. But eventually Casper put his pipe back in his pocket and cleared his throat. ‘News will have lapped up all over by now,’ he said.

  ‘Of the body?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Of the body, of my hurts and the Black Pig. Time to take a place in the story.’ He stood carefully with the help of his ash staff. It made Stephen think of Crowther’s polished cane, though he hardly ever saw Crowther put any weight on his stick, and Casper was leaning heavily on his.

  ‘It is a serious hurt,’ Casper said after a few minutes of silent walking.

  ‘Your injuries, you mean, Mr Casper?’ Stephen said.

  Casper shook his head. ‘They are bad enough. But a man must have a powerful reason to take to robbing or beating me.’ It was said without pride, but rather a concerned curiosity, a serious man thinking through serious matters.

  ‘Because people are afraid of you?’

  Casper smiled, which made him wince. ‘They respect me, just as they respected my father. So they should.’

  ‘What did they take?’

  Casper sniffed. ‘Nothing. But they were looking for something.’

  ‘But what . . .?’

  ‘Whisht, lad, we’re nearing Portinscale. From here on you say nothing. Walk a few paces behind now, keep silent and keep an eye out. Watch.’

  ‘What am I watching for?’

  ‘You’re watching for whatever you see. Now quiet yourself.’

  There was something dream-like about the next hour as Casper, with Stephen trailing respectfully behind, made his way through Portinscale, along the road to Keswick and up the hill through the marketplace.

  Women began to emerge from their cottages and kitchens, or stopped fussing over their animals or weeding their patches to turn and watch him come. They looked somehow both scared, and happy to see him. Small children joined them from the fields and ran ahead of them like dolphins dancing through the bow wave of a great ship. As they turned into Portinscale, a woman hurried to Stephen’s side and put a cloth wrapped round something that smelled of warm ovens into his hands. Stephen slipped the package into his bag, and smiled at her. She only nodded to him in return, her face serious, then stepped away. When Stephen had walked through the village with Casper the day before, he had seen people smile and raise their hands, give Casper their greetings and turn at once back to their work again. It was not so today. Where the fields ripened between Crosthwaite Church and the town, men laid down their tools and approached the roadside, then, as Casper came close, took off their caps and held them in front of them with their eyes down. It was as if he were a walking church.

  The children must have carried the news of their coming in front of them. Before they reached Keswick itself, Stephen had begun to feel as if he were following a parade. The doors of the cottages opened. Fires and animals were abandoned for a little while as men and women emerged to respectfully observe Casper pass. Stephen’s eyes darted about, trying to catch each expression as he passed. Another woman trotted up to him; the flesh of her face was heavy and her hair was thin and greasy. She gave him a narrow package of paper and string. He smelled the tang of hard cheese, nodded his thanks and put it with the loaf.

  In Keswick his bag became so heavy the strap was starting to cut into his shoulder. At the bottom of the village he looked up to see Mr Askew in his smart waistcoat emerge from the museum and watch them approach from the top of his neatly swept steps. As they drew level, he ran lightly down them. Like the others he did not approach Casper, but fell into step with Stephen. For a moment he looked as if he might want to say something, but in the end he silently removed from his jacket-pocket a silver flask. It made a little sloshing noise as he tucked it into Stephen’s swollen satchel. He then stepped back to the side of the road and waited for them to pass. At the Royal Oak the landlord came out and stood quietly at the door.

  Casper did not pause, or stop to lean on his stick. He kept his eyes on the road in front of him and at the same steady pace led Stephen, and a couple of younger children who seemed to have joined them, up the hill in the shadow of Latrigg. Stephen had guessed where they were going now. His back was aching and he wondered how Casper was managing it, but aware of his duties he kept watching the people who came to see them pass. At last Casper turned off the road and unlatched the gate to the field where the stone circle stood. Stephen glanced about him and followed. The other children hung around the gateway, punching each other on the shoulder, or murmuring as Casper crossed the cropped turf and entered the circle.

  Stephen hovered between the gateway stones until Casper had reached the centre of the circle and slowly knelt down. Something stopped the boy from following. Instead he circled round, and slipped between the two stones to the south where there seemed to be a smaller inner oblong of slabs, like a sanctuary within the church. Without taking his eyes off Casper he settled himself on the ground between them and, gratefully, lifted the strap of the satchel over his shoulder.

  After some time the children dispersed at the gateway, and Stephen was startled out of his contemplation of the falling ranks of hills around them by Casper’s voice.

  ‘Come then.’

  He took the satchel in his arms, and jogged over, keeping low and quiet as if he were in some holy place. Casper gave him time to settle, then said: ‘Well?’

  Stephen drew the flask that Mr Askew had handed him from his pocket and passed it to Casper, who raised his eyebrows at it, then smiled slowly, uncapped it and drank.

  ‘Everyone looked very grave,’ Stephen said.

  ‘So they might.’

  ‘The third cottage on the left in Portinscale . . .’

  Casper nodded. ‘Thin man in back. Woman at the gate.’

  ‘He didn’t look up as you went by, just kept turning the muck.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘Eyes all over, kept glancing back at him, and her hands were twitching.’

  Casper smiled, creasing the sunset of his bruises, then took another swig from the flask. ‘You have sharp eyes. Get them from your mother, did you?’

  Stephen hugged his knees and looked at the turf in front of him. ‘Her eyes are green. Mine are blue, like my papa’s.’

  Casper pulled at the flask again. ‘As may be, but I reckon you got your manner of seeing with them from her. What else?’

  ‘There was a man in his stable yard at the Oak kept his back turned.’

  Casper was looking north at the curve of Latrigg and the upward swell of Skiddaw. He upended the flask into his mouth and shook the last of the liquor out of it, then screwed the little silver top back on and handed it back to Stephen.

  ‘Time for you to go now, Master Westerman. Take that food back to my cabin if you would, and untie Joe.’

  Stephen looked around him. ‘Are you going to ask the fair-folk for their help? Will they tell you who beat you, or who killed that man?’

  Casper gave him a lopsided grin. ‘I’ve already learned what I intended, youngling. I shall sit here for a while longer though.’ Stephen looked very confused, opened his mouth and shut it again. ‘My business is more with people than magic. Herbs, yes. Seeing how people are, knowing them and protecting our faith.’ He frowned suddenly. Stephen followed the direction of his eyes and saw a thin, older man at the entrance to the field. ‘Take the flask back to Mr Askew, and thank him,’ Casper continued. ‘Don’t go in. Just stand at the steps till he comes out. For the rest, say no word and keep your eyes low. And that man by the gate is Mr Kerrick. Tell him he may come to me.’

 

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