Page 22 of The Cursed Writer
‘Of course,’ Archer said. ‘But as I have mentioned to Miss Moss, I shall be in London myself on Thursday. Perhaps we can discuss matters then.’
‘Perhaps,’ Oliver said. ‘Are you ready, Miss Moss?’
‘I am,’ she said, as Donaldson carried her case down the stairs and placed it beside Oliver’s car. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Archer. While I hope your uncle’s conditionimproves, if that is not possible then I hope it does not get any worse.’
Archer sighed. ‘I fear that is all any of us can hope.’
Barrymore appeared in the doorway, much to Harry’s delight. She hurried over to ruffle his ears and offer him the biscuit she had kept especially. ‘Goodbye, boy. Stay away from those herons, won’t you?’
Oliver had loaded her case while she fussed over the dog, and he now stood by the driver’s door, observing her. With a final farewell, Harry climbed into the passenger seat. Oliver handed her a folded Ordnance Survey map. ‘You’re in charge of getting us home. These tiny roads are a labyrinth – I got lost four times on the way here.’
Harry smiled as he started the engine. ‘Seems easy enough to me. Go straight on until you reach the gate.’
He gave her a level look. ‘Ha ha.’
He eased the car forward. Donaldson followed as far as the iron gates and then jumped out, hurrying ahead to open them. ‘Were they chained when you arrived?’ Harry asked Oliver as the groundsman waved them through.
‘Yes,’ Oliver murmured, nodding as Donaldson as they passed. ‘They really don’t want anyone to visit without an invitation, do they?’
‘No,’ she said, and offered him an apologetic look. ‘Was it terribly bad of me to make you drive back to London without so much as a glass of water? The house is a peculiar place and I freely admit I was glad to leave.’ She peered at the map. ‘There’s a village a few miles away, if you need a break. Turn right.’
‘Yes, I think I know the one you mean.’ He followed her instruction, then glanced across at her. ‘I knew I should have come with you. Was Archer a problem?’
‘Not him.’ Harry took a deep breath, wondering where to begin. ‘I should probably start with the curse.’
She launched into a description of everything she had experienced at Thrumwell Manor, from Agnes’s first fearful warning about the ferryman, to Philip St John’s terror and Mary’s doom-laden predictions of death to come. Oliver listened intently, occasionally interrupting to ask a question but for the most part simply absorbing the story. When she finished, he was silent for several seconds. ‘It appears I was wrong when I said you would be in no danger,’ he said at length. ‘I underestimated the situation quite badly, it seems.’
‘We both did,’ Harry said. ‘But you also predicted I would get my feet wet. It might have turned out to be rather more than that but I lived to tell the tale.’
‘Hmmm,’ Oliver said, evidently unconvinced by her reassurances. ‘I’m still not happy with Archer. What was he thinking, letting you run around the fen in the dark in winter?’
‘He didn’tletme do anything,’ Harry retorted. ‘Must I remind you that I am quite capable of making decisions for myself?’
‘A decision that nearly got you drowned,’ he said severely.
‘Hardly drowned,’ she objected. ‘I admit it was a little terrifying in the moment, but Archer and his man were never actually very far away.’
‘As well as an unidentified third party,’ he pointed out. ‘This ferryman, who I don’t believe for a moment is some restless spirit out for revenge. He’s far more likely to be a local criminal up to no good.’
Harry could hardly argue with that, since it had been the conclusion she had come to during her walk with Barrymore. There had been no obvious evidence of any criminal activity – no proverbial breadcrumb trail that led her to a stash of ill-gotten gains – but she had observed a trail of broken reeds that suggested a boat or skiff of some kind had forced its way through the fen recently. She had walked as far as the lode, whichwas a straight, water-filled ditch wide enough for a barge that stretched as far as she could see. There had not been another soul in sight, only the birds circling overhead. And she hadn’t been able to entirely quell a whisper of disquiet deep in the pit of her stomach as the reeds rustled around her. The ferryman was nothing more than folklore, she had reminded herself, but the hairs on the back of her neck had still prickled as she made her way back to Thrumwell Manor.
‘Were you able to establish whether anything within the house might have caused Philip St John’s health to deteriorate so alarmingly?’ Oliver asked.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Harry admitted. ‘It would have to be something quite specific to him – perhaps something in his bedroom – and I didn’t get more than a brief look at that.’ She paused. ‘Mr Archer said his uncle used to sleep with the door locked, although I’m sure that isn’t true now.’
She stared out of the window at the passing countryside. Hadn’t there been a Conan Doyle story in which a young woman had mysteriously died in a locked room? The culprit in that case had been a family member in the neighbouring bedroom, feeding a deadly snake through a hole in the wall. In another Holmes case, three siblings had been affected by a poisonous root thrown into the fireplace by their brother as he left the room. She very much doubted life was imitating art at Thrumwell Manor in so exact a manner but it was possible something in Philip St John’s bedroom was causing him to hallucinate. Something that had only been recently introduced.
Oliver frowned when Harry voiced her thoughts. ‘But what could cause such a startling breakdown? Archer said nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in the days before his uncle became ill.’ He glanced across at her. ‘Unless you’re suggesting a more sinister explanation. That someone inside the house had reason to cause him harm.’
Harry bit her lip. Was she suggesting that? ‘I don’t know. It seems preposterously far-fetched to even think such a thing.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘Maybe I’ve been reading too many stories.’
But Oliver’s frown had deepened. ‘Archer is certain it must be a psychological condition, despite the lack of any history of mental breakdown. But what if there’s a physiological explanation?’
‘Surely the doctor would have ruled that out,’ Harry said doubtfully but, even as she spoke, she was recalling Archer’s description of the night before. The doctor was a local, not especially experienced in unusual illnesses. It was quite possible he had misdiagnosed his patient.
‘Not if he had already decided the problem was psychological,’ Oliver replied. ‘Think about it – a sudden bout of hallucinatory distress, accompanied by confusion and physical tremors. What could cause something like that?’
Harry thought back to the Holmes story in which two of the three siblings had been driven insane by breathing in toxic fumes. ‘Poison,’ she said quietly. ‘He is being poisoned.’
