Page 11 of The Cursed Writer
‘How is your uncle today?’ she asked as they arrived in a wood-panelled hallway with a heavy, grey flagstone floor. It was only marginally warmer than outside, Harry thought, but thankfully the whistling wind was shut out as soon as the door closed. Weak yellow light spilled feebly from several wall lamps, creating deep pockets of gloom where it did not reach. A wide stone staircase against one wall drew the eye, also lit with barely adequate wall lamps that did nothing to dispel the fall of night. It was a far cry from the entrance hall at Harry’s family home, where a magnificent chandelier shimmered from the high ceiling, filling the room with light. Standing at the foot of the stairs was a woman of around thirty, dressed simply in black with her hands folded together. At her side was an enormous grey wolfhound. It eyed Harry with wary stillness and she wasn’t altogether sure she blamed it.
‘My uncle is in the library,’ Archer said. ‘As I told your associate, he rarely leaves that room, now. It is all I can do to get him to bed each evening. You can meet him presently, once you’ve settled into your room and recovered from your journey.’ He took a few steps towards the woman. ‘In the meantime, may I introduce Agnes, our housekeeper – I believe you have already spoken on the telephone. And beside her is Barrymore, my uncle’s beloved wolfhound. He may look terrifying but I assure you he is a soft-hearted creature, especially if you happen to have a biscuit to offer him.’
The dog was large, even seated as he was now, and Harry guessed he must be twice the size of Tiggy and Winston, her beloved Labradors at Abinger Hall. He was covered in wiry grey fur and his head was cocked, his eyes alert as he assessed her. She would make friends with him later, she decided, once she’d had time to source a treat to allay his suspicions. Her gaze travelled to Agnes, who was watching her every bit as warily as Barrymore. ‘Good afternoon, Agnes,’ she said.
The woman nodded, her face pale in the dim light. She did not smile. ‘Good afternoon, miss. I hope you had a pleasant journey.’
A soft country accent coloured her words, evident to Harry’s ears now that her voice was not distorted by the crackle of the telephone. ‘I did, thank you,’ Harry replied. ‘The train was punctual and not too crowded.’
John Archer rubbed his hands together in jovial approval. ‘Excellent. Agnes, would you show Miss Moss to her room?’ He turned to Harry. ‘Once you’ve settled in, I thought perhaps tea in the drawing room. Unless you’d prefer something stronger?’
It could not be much past four o’clock, Harry thought, although dusk had fallen in earnest outside. ‘Tea would be very welcome,’ she said.
Archer nodded. ‘And once you’re refreshed, I thought I might show you the house. It might aid your investigations to understand the layout before – before I introduce you to my uncle.’
His good humour dimmed a little, as though this last task was something he was loath to undertake, and Harry could certainly understand why. Such a sudden deterioration in the health and behaviour of a loved one must be hard to accept and the instinct of any caring relative would be to shield them from outsiders. The fact that Harry was there expressly because of Philip St John’s illness would not make the instinct to protectany easier to quell. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘That would be very helpful, thank you.’
Agnes stepped forward. ‘This way, if you please.’
Harry followed her up the stairs, the steps of which were bare and worn in the centre with age and the passage of feet. She took care with her own footing in the dim light, keeping one hand on the smooth wooden balustrade as they climbed to the first floor. Tall leaded windows punctuated the landing and Harry felt a sharp burst of cold air radiate from the expanse of glass as she passed along the corridor. She made a mental note to wear a cardigan when she met Mr Archer for tea, and hurried to catch up to Agnes. ‘Tell me, is it just you who sees to Mr Archer and his uncle?’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘No, miss. There’s the cook, Mary. Mr Archer likes a hearty meal, as does the master, when he’s in his right mind, and she’s been here almost as long as I have. And then there’s Donaldson, who drove you here. He’s the groundskeeper as well as Mr Archer’s driver.’
They must all be live-in staff, Harry thought, given the isolation of the house. Three was a reasonable number to cater for the needs of two gentlemen but she doubted it was enough to manage a property the size of Thrumwell Manor. Perhaps there were parts of the house that were unused. ‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Around fifteen years,’ Agnes replied. ‘Started as a maid for the old family what lived here, and stayed on when the master took the place on, after the war.’
Which meant this was very likely the only employment she had known, Harry thought. That spoke well of Philip St John, at least. ‘And Donaldson?’
‘He came not long after Mr Archer arrived, about a year ago.’
A little surprised, Harry considered this new information. Did it mean anything that John Archer had come to live with hisuncle so recently? Where had he lived before? The housekeeper stopped beside a wooden door. ‘I put you in the blue room. It’s got good drapes to keep the wind out.’
Turning the handle, she pushed the door back and stood aside to allow Harry to enter. There could be no doubt how the room had got its name; the walls were covered in pale blue wallpaper and slightly faded cornflower blue velvet drapes shrouded the windows. A grand four-poster bed dominated the room, hung with the same cornflower blue velvet as the windows. The lighting was as weak here as elsewhere in the house, although Harry was glad to see a decent fire burned in the grate, beneath a white marble mantelpiece. Overall, the room was calm and welcoming, and Harry turned to smile her approval at Agnes. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’
The housekeeper nodded. ‘There’s a washbasin in the cabinet over there, and a pot under the bed, but the bathroom is just at the end of the corridor if you prefer.’
Harry very much did prefer; even her grandfather had stopped expecting the household staff to empty his chamber pot each morning. She cast her gaze around the room again and the pattern on the wallpaper caught her eye. Moving closer for a better look, she saw that what she’d taken from a distance to be stylised flowers and ferns was actually a line drawing of a man rowing a tiny boat, picked out in varying shades of blue and repeated over and over again across the paper. ‘How unusual.’
‘There’s a lot of waterways round these parts,’ Agnes said. ‘The fens and the lodes that join them up to the rivers. People have been transporting goods on the water since long before the railway came.’
‘Fascinating,’ Harry said, studying the wallpaper again.
Agnes cleared her throat. ‘Will there be anything else, miss? I can wait and take you to the drawing room, if you’d like.’
Harry shook her head. What she wanted was ten minutes alone, to gather her thoughts and consider what she had learned so far. But she had one last question for Agnes before she let her go. ‘When we spoke on the telephone the first time I rang, you told me you thought Philip St John was cursed. What did you mean by that?’
The housekeeper started, glancing over her shoulder as though she feared someone might have overheard. ‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ she said quickly. ‘Mr Archer doesn’t like us to talk about it.’
‘But you believe it’s true?’
Agnes hesitated, then took several steps closer. ‘Not just me – the cook too. But she’s a local, like me – she knows the stories. Mr Archer and William aren’t from these parts; they’ve never heard about theferryman.’
The final word was whispered in a tumbling, fearful rush, as though simply saying the name might invoke terrible consequences. ‘I see,’ Harry murmured. ‘Who – or what – is the ferryman?’
Agnes flashed her a beseeching look and hurried to the window, twitching one of the drapes aside to peer out into the darkness. ‘We try not to speak his name, especially not so near the fens. Some say it summons him.’
It was exactly as Oliver had predicted, Harry thought: a local myth that could be blamed for the unexplained. ‘But you believe he is responsible for your master’s condition? How?’
