‘If we see another boat already there, we sail past, agreed?’
The boys nodded, though she wasn’t sure their easy acquiescence could be trusted. They were burning with curiosity– and so was she. What did Knotte have on the island? The other skate? A copy of Wordsworth’s poem? He would’ve had time to make his own transcript– that might be why he returned the original notebooks. They had to know. It could be the break they had been waiting for.
Deciding not to backtrack on her decision but press forward, she paid the boat keeper and promised to return the skiff in a few hours.
‘Good day for it,’ said the keeper. ‘Lots of visitors out today.’ He threw Derwent the end of the rope that he’d untied. ‘Take care if you land in any of the woods. I heard a couple of shots earlier, though it’s a few days early for the grouse season.’
‘We’re planning to tour the islands,’ said Dora, thinking it as well to leave word of their intentions.
‘Boys, look after the lady as she’s giving you a treat,’ said the man, eyeing the two Coleridge boys with distrust.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Hartley.
Derwent saluted.
‘Get on with you!’ The boatman dismissed them with a gruff laugh.
The boys proved to be more reliable sailors than Barton, handling the small sail and the rudder with ease. Dora had little to do but admire their skills.
‘Who taught you to sail?’ she asked as they skipped along towards the cluster of islands four miles south of the head of the lake.
‘Uncle Robert,’ said Hartley. ‘We learned on Derwent Water.’
‘Not your father?’
Hartley chuckled but then sobered quickly. He looked over at her a little sadly. ‘Father isn’t a practical fellow.’
‘He’d likely drown,’ agreed Derwent.
‘Uncle William and Aunty Dorothy are also good sailors and taught us a lot.’ Hartley shifted the rudder a fraction. ‘Uncle John taught them, but he went down with his ship when I was little.’
Dora remembered that there had been a seafaring brother of the poet, now honoured with a headstone in Grasmere churchyard next to Catherine. ‘Did you hear anything about Mr Knotte’s father?’
‘He drowned too, didn’t he, but not that long ago?’ said Hartley, confirming Knotte’s story. ‘We got a lecture at school about the danger of swimming too soon after a meal. You remember him, don’t you, Derwent, the shepherd at Loughrigg?’
‘I liked Mr Knotte.’
‘You knew him?’ asked Dora.
‘Everyone knows everyone else in the valley. He let me play with his lambs. We were all sad when he died.’
‘Do you remember if his son was home at the time?’ asked Dora.
Hartley shrugged. ‘Sorry, miss. No one ever said he was but that doesn’t mean much, does it?’
It didn’t– and he was right. All she had learned was that no one suspected foul play at the time because the boys would likely remember that.
The islands approached. These were tree-covered hillocks strung like a green-gemmed necklace across the narrowest part of the lake.
‘Which is Chapel Holm?’ she asked.
‘The first one. It’s not very exciting, not like Longholme. That one’s got a temple on it,’ said Derwent.
‘It’s not a temple, silly. It’s the Curwens’ house,’ said Hartley with all the superiority his extra years allowed.
‘But it’s got a dome!’
‘But the point is, boys,’ said Dora, playing peacemaker again, ‘that the island we are interested in has no inhabitants? We’re not going to get turned off by an angry landowner?’
