Page 10 of The Cursed Writer
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Harry said carefully. ‘Mr Holmes has retired as a consulting detective. I work as his assistant, managing his London correspondence. Your uncle’s story intrigues him but, as I am sure you will understand, he is unable to travel to Cambridgeshire to investigate himself. He has, however, authorised me to do so on his behalf.’
There was a pause as Mr Archer digested the information. ‘I see,’ he rumbled at length. ‘Then who is the gentleman I met with at the Garston Club yesterday?’
‘An associate,’ Harry repeated. ‘A trusted associate who assists me with Mr Holmes’ cases from time to time. On this occasion, it was not possible for me to meet you, so I asked Mr Fortescue to do so instead.’
‘And he has made you aware of our situation?’ Archer queried. ‘You and Holmes?’
‘He has,’ Harry said. ‘I am prepared to call upon you and your uncle when convenient, to see what, if anything, Mr Holmes can do to help.’
She waited, resisting the temptation to hold her breath. Either he would accept the story she had proffered or demand Holmes take the case himself. If he chose the latter, she would have no choice but to wish his uncle well and end the conversation.
‘How soon could you come?’ Archer said abruptly. ‘Is this evening too soon?’
Harry thought fast. She was certain there would be a train that would get her to Cambridgeshire that evening, but she did not want to arrive at the house of a stranger, with no means of getting away if she needed to. ‘I’m afraid so. There are certain preparations I shall need to make. Tomorrow is more convenient.’
‘Tomorrow, then,’ Archer said. ‘If you are able to take the 1.34p.m. train from Liverpool Street to Ely, our driver will collect you from the station. My uncle is a recluse, as you must be aware, so the house is rather isolated. You will not find a taxi willing to carry you.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘Not at all – it’s the least I can do,’ he said, and paused. ‘I don’t know whether Mr Fortescue mentioned that the manor is surrounded on all sides by ancient fenland. It can be a little windswept. Might I suggest you bring a warm coat and sturdy boots along with your overnight bag?’
Recalling Oliver’s comment about getting her feet wet, Harry permitted herself a mirthless smile. ‘Advice I shall certainly take. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow, Mr Archer.’
‘As do I. Until then, Miss Moss.’
Harry walked back to Baker Street with a determined spring in her step and a tingle of what might just have been excitementin her stomach. Investigating the mystery of Philip St John’s illness might not have the same thrill as chasing a dangerous criminal through the streets of London but it was still enough to lift her spirits. Whether it became a case worthy of the famous detective in whose name she was acting remained to be seen.
After everything Harry had heard about Thrumwell Manor, both from Oliver and during her telephone conversation with John Archer, she was not surprised to experience a faint stirring of unease when the chauffeur stopped in front of a pair of imposing iron gates late on Saturday afternoon. ‘Won’t be a moment, miss,’ the driver said, opening his door and allowing a chilly gust of wind inside the car. ‘I need to undo the chain.’
Perhaps the security was necessary in the absence of a gatehouse, Harry thought as she watched the driver approach the gates, or perhaps it was evidence of Philip St John’s reclusive nature. The property was hidden from the road by a high red-brick wall but the entrance was not entirely unguarded; two stone dragons snarled at each other from turrets on either side of the gates. She turned her head to take in the surrounding area. Archer had not exaggerated when he’d said his uncle’s house was isolated. The car had passed through a tiny village a mile or so back; Harry had noted a pub – The Morden Arms – and a village shop nestled among a small cluster of houses, but the land since had been barren and flat in all directions. Spindly hedgerows lined the far side of the narrow road that bordered Thrumwell Manor, overlooking bare tilled fields that bled into distant hedges and more fields beyond. Trees were few and far between but when they did appear, they were leafless skeletons grasping at the leaden sky.
Cambridgeshire was prime farmland, Harry knew, famous for its fertile soil reclaimed from the wetlands. She’d expected it to be dotted with farmhouses and yards, criss-crossed with villages that still bustled even at the start of winter, all laid across a patchwork of undulating fields, much like the land around her family’s estate in Surrey. She hadn’t expected such emptiness.
The driver’s door opened and the chauffeur slid silently behind the wheel once more. He eased the car through the gates, then stopped again a short way inside. This time, he didn’t explain before getting out and Harry tried not to wince at the heavy clang of iron on iron as the gates were closed and chained. There was no going back now, she thought, although that had been true from the moment she’d alighted from the train at Ely; there were no return trains to London until the morning. A prickle of apprehension chased along her spine as the car resumed its journey. An overnight stay was undoubtedly required, in order to appreciate the terror that beset Philip St John, but now that Harry was here, she couldn’t help wondering whether coming alone had been a mistake. Oliver had wanted to accompany her; Harry had stoutly refused, although she had accepted his offer to come and collect her the following day. She hoped refusing his company was not a decision she was going to regret.
The view from inside the walls did nothing to settle her disquiet. There was no avenue of trees lining the somewhat bumpy track to the house, nothing to offer protection from the biting November wind that whistled across the roof of the car. And when she looked to the manor house itself, she was struck by its stark isolation; its only neighbours were the birds circling high above. An almost palpable sense of loneliness hung over the landscape. Perhaps the solitude was what had first drawn Philip St John to live here, but it might also be contributing tothe fear that was consuming him now, Harry thought. It was certainly affecting her and she hadn’t even crossed the threshold of Thrumwell Manor yet. She gave herself a brisk mental shake. Holmes would not allow himself to be swayed by such fanciful notions and nor would she. Logic and deduction were the antidote to fear.
The house began to loom large, shaking off the dark shadows that had shrouded it from a distance. Harry turned a curious gaze upon it. The sun was low in the sky; the last of its rays lacing the clouds with delicate pink and orange, and Harry half-expected the fading light to reveal broken windows and a neglected roof. What she saw caused an involuntary gasp of shock to escape her. The walls of Thrumwell Manor were the colour of blood.
She blinked hard, cursing her overstimulated imagination, and looked again but the effect had not diminished. Crimson rippled across the stone, as though the building’s lifeblood seeped from the wounds of its windows. Shaking the ridiculous notion away, Harry forced herself to study the scene. ‘How extraordinary,’ she said, striving to sound as though blood-drenched houses were an everyday experience. ‘Does it always look like that?’
The driver nodded, his cap bobbing in the half-light. ‘At this time of year, aye. It’s the vines. They turn red just before winter.’
The vines, Harry thought, and almost laughed in relief. Of course that’s what it was – a simple combination of leaves and the setting sun, fluttering in the wind. As the car drew to a halt, she could see the evidence with her own eyes; the walls of the house were indeed covered with thick scarlet leaves, from the ground floor all the way to the garret attic windows at the very top. She felt rather foolish as she got out of the car to stand on the gravel drive. Holmes would have deduced it in an instant, although she felt Dr Watson might have been more affected.But she had no time to dwell on her credulity. The large front door had opened and a tall, heavy-set, blond-haired man was hurrying down the stone steps to meet her.
‘Miss Moss,’ he said, throwing his arms wide in an expansive, theatrical greeting. ‘I am John Archer. Welcome to Thrumwell Manor.’
5
His handshake was firm, although perhaps a little too enthusiastic to be entirely proper, but Harry did not hold that against him. The warmth of his smile was enough to dispel some of the apprehension that had enveloped her since passing through the iron gates of the manor, and she found she could not help smiling in return. ‘Thank you, Mr Archer. Your home is very impressive.’
‘My uncle’s home,’ he corrected without rancour, and turned to survey the vine-covered walls, now darkened to a deep burgundy by the dipping sun. ‘But it is a splendid old pile. Was it wrong of me to hope that you might arrive in time to admire the effect of the leaves? They lend such a marvellously Gothic air to the place.’
‘They do,’ Harry agreed. A gust of icy wind caused her to shiver.
‘But I am being a terrible host,’ Archer cried, noticing her discomfort. ‘You must come inside at once. Donaldson will bring your effects.’
Harry did not need any further encouragement. The temperature had dropped since she had alighted from the trainat Ely and her breath was beginning to plume in the cold air. It would be below freezing before moonrise, she thought, and was glad she had heeded Mr Archer’s warning and brought a thick coat. Not that she planned to spend much time outside during her brief visit to Thrumwell Manor. She followed Archer up the steps, hesitating only for a fraction of a second as she passed beneath the blood-red vines and through the ornately carved door frame to enter the house.
