Page 1 of The Cursed Writer
1
It began, as so many adventures did, with the arrival of a telegram for Sherlock Holmes.
That the message was for Holmes was not unusual – Harry White opened and read hundreds of similarly addressed letters each week and she had, by and large, grown used to the idea that so many otherwise sensible and intelligent people believed the celebrated master detective was a real person. They came from all walks of life, as far as she could tell, earnestly writing to seek assistance with all manner of mysteries and suspected crimes. And since the newly built head offices of the Abbey Road Building Society spanned the detective’s famous Baker Street address, that was where the letters were delivered. They had accumulated in the post room of the bank for months, growing in volume every day, until it became clear something needed to be done about them.
By dint of an unpleasant but well-timed collision between Harry’s knee and her lascivious manager’s groin, she found herself unceremoniously demoted from the plush upper floors of the bank to the basement, and what she supposed was the most menial role an enraged Simeon Pemberton had been able tofind. For the best part of two months, Harry had worked her way through the backlog of letters, responding to each in the same brief but sympathetic manner:Mr Holmes has retired to Sussex to keep bees and is regretfully unable to help.At least her reply toalmosteach letter had been the same, and a glance at that morning’s newspaper headlines reminded her she did not regret a single moment that had followed from her one deviation, even if her true role in the events that followed would never be publicly known.
But the arrival of a telegram for Holmes stood out from the other correspondence, by virtue of its novelty as well as its urgency, and it caused Harry to sit up straight at her desk to open it.
SHERLOCK HOLMES. PHILIP ST JOHN AT DEATH’S DOOR. TIME OF THE ESSENCE. REPLY IMMEDIATELY.
It came from a John Archer, Esq, of Thrumwell Manor in Cambridgeshire, and although Harry read it four times she still felt herself none the wiser. The telegram was reserved for news and information of vital importance and, at face value, a mortal illness certainly qualified. Moreover, Philip St John was a man of considerable literary repute – both her father and grandfather had waxed lyrical about his novels and her mother had complained on more than one occasion that he had snubbed all her invitations to the illustrious dinner parties she threw at their family home, Abinger Hall.
The revelation of his apparent indisposition was both unexpected and alarming. But Harry could not fathom why this Mr Archer had felt the need to advise Sherlock Holmes of the unhappy situation, and to spend a not insignificant amount in doing so. Even if she overlooked the fact that Holmes did not exist, surely Dr Watson was the more qualified resident of 221BBaker Street in matters of health. Perhaps Archer suspected foul play and wanted Holmes to investigate, but if that were the case, why not say so?
Shaking her head in bewilderment, Harry read the terse message again. It made little sense, which she supposed at least put it in the same category as much of the other correspondence she dealt with on a daily basis. What she ought to do was place it at the bottom of the date-ordered pile and respond in the usual way when it reached the top, without being swayed by the urgency of the message. But even as she forced herself back to the task of opening yet more envelopes, she knew she could not ignore the telegram that long. It smouldered like a sullen coal beneath a blanket of tinder. Sooner or later, it would catch light and she would need to attend to it.
Despite the burning presence, it took Harry until three o’clock that afternoon to finally give in. The latest batch of correspondence was typical of that received by Holmes, veering between the scandalous, the libellous and the merely dull, but it did succeed in distracting her. A woman in Margate was unsure whether the man she was set to marry was who he claimed to be. A gentleman in Dulwich alleged his neighbour had poisoned his honeysuckle. Another asked for help in retrieving his late father’s missing Last Will and Testament, promising a handsome reward if Holmes was able to restore his rightful inheritance.
Harry allowed herself a moment to imagine how the detective might approach the case; undoubtedly, he would deduce within seconds that there was more to the matter than vanished paperwork. At first glance, it appeared Mr Stubbs might be the victim of an unscrupulous relative who had stolen his father’s fortune, but the jagged zigzag of his signature would tell Holmes the man was hiding a dark personality and could not be relied upon for the truth. And then Harry felt a faint stingof guilt, because Mr Stubbs was not a character in a Sherlock Holmes story but a real person in some distress – she had no right to second-guess the circumstances that had brought him to write to Holmes.
Reining her imagination in, she filed it at the bottom of the pile and settled herself into typing up standard responses. But her fingers, usually speedy and nimble, felt slow and fat. All too often, the keys jammed, creating letters that were smudged and littered with mistakes, forcing her to start again. The constant clack-clack-clack sounded like pistol shots and, to make matters worse, she had the start of a headache that she suspected was due to a lack of sleep and an overabundance of excitement. And every time she closed her eyes, John Archer’s words swam before her eyes:time is of the essence… reply immediately…
At length, she sat back and was instantly overtaken by a yawn so vast and unladylike that she was grateful she had no colleagues to witness it. Giving up on her infernally possessed typewriter, Harry reached for her notepad. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to ask Mr Archer for more information, if only to set her own mind at rest. After several attempts, she managed to draft a reply that was probing yet succinct. Conscious of the need for brevity, she decided against mentioning Holmes’ retirement and focused instead on the question of why Mr Archer had sought his help at all.
Sincere condolences. Request more details to assist. S.H.
Once the message was crafted to Harry’s satisfaction, she checked the return address on the telegram from John Archer and added it to her notebook, below the message she had composed. As another yawn overtook her, she decided enough was enough – she had not taken her lunch break after all.Gathering up her belongings, she locked the door of her tiny office and made for the fresh air of Baker Street.
Newspaper sellers called out the headlines of the evening edition. ‘American Drug Lord Arrested at Southampton!Read all about it!’
‘Suspect Released in Lord Robertson Robbery– read all about it!’
Harry couldn’t help glancing at the newspapers as she passed. Her own role in exposing the criminal gang behind Lord Robertson’s burglary was a closely guarded secret, and the whole sequence of events that had led to her chasing the true culprit around the alleys of south London felt like a bad dream, although she still had the bruises to remind her it had been real. All that mattered was that justice had been done, and the innocent maid accused of the crime had been set free.
At the post office, Harry transferred her message to a telegram form and slid it beneath the grille to the clerk. ‘Standard or greeting?’ he asked, without looking up.
Greetings telegrams were reproduced on decorative paper by the receiving post office, and were commonly used for birthday messages, congratulations and other good wishes. Harry could only imagine what Holmes, or even John Archer, might make of such frivolity. ‘Standard, please.’
The clerk nodded. ‘Two shillings and sixpence, if you please.’
Harry paid the fee without complaint, glad she had chosen not to use the telephone in her office to reply to Mr Archer. The cost would have been added to the bank’s bill, and while she felt reasonably confident it would have gone unnoticed among all the other correspondence sent on official Abbey Road Building Society business, it was much better not to leave any trace of her actions. Harry’s immediate manager, Mr Babbage who ran the post room, had once warned her she had a powerful enemy within the bank and she had no wish to draw attention toherself, and if she was caught in such a flagrant breach of bank procedure, it would mean instant dismissal.
The faint flutter of anxiety that thought caused stayed with her all the way home to her small but elegant apartment in Hamilton Square. For the second time in her official capacity as secretary to Sherlock Holmes, she had deviated from her duties as required by the bank. For the second time, her curiosity had been roused, leading her to indulge a most un-Holmes-like whisper of intuition that nagged at her in much the same way as Esme Longstaff’s letter about her missing sister had some months earlier, prompting her to launch her first investigation into the case of the missing maid. And for the second time, in spite of her anxiety, Harry felt certain she had done the right thing.
Harry was intrigued but not surprised by the speed of John Archer’s response. It came by telegram the next afternoon, much to the interest of Bobby the post boy, who presented it to her with an expression of unbridled curiosity. ‘Another urgent message for Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, wide-eyed beneath his red velvet cap. ‘It must be something serious.’
‘Thank you, Bobby,’ Harry said mildly, taking care to ensure her expression revealed nothing of her own interest in the contents.
He waited, an expectant look on his face, until it became clear she wasn’t going to open it. ‘Have an ’eart, Miss White,’ he begged. ‘The lads in the post room gave me hell yesterday when I said I didn’t know what the big mystery was.’
Harry placed the telegram on the desk in front of her. ‘We receive hundreds of letters to Sherlock Holmes every week. Do they ask you about those?’
Bobby scratched his chin. ‘No. But a telegram – two telegrams, even. That’s different.’ He paused. ‘My money’s on murder.’
‘You’ve been reading too many detective stories,’ Harry said, mildly amused by his ghoulish certainty. ‘Assuming this telegram is from the same person as yesterday then I can assure you it is nothing so sensational. And it is quite common for those who seek the help of Mr Holmes to write more than once.’
Bobby shrugged, apparently unconvinced. ‘Letters are cheaper than telegrams. Whoever sent it really wants your attention.’
