Page 28 of The Cursed Writer
Harry had very few memories of what life had been like during the Great War. She knew her father had served, could remember long periods of time when he was not at home, but her brothers had been too young to join up and the worst of the horror had passed her by. Plenty of her friends had been touched by the tragedy, however, and Harry was well aware how lucky she was. And never was she more conscious of her privilege than when she read Philip St John’s first novel, the one that had made his literary fortune.
TheBlood-soaked Soilwas set in 1917, and chronicled the life of a young man in the trenches, from his patriotic pride at signing up, to his horror as the reality of war stripped his romantic notions away. It was every bit as searing as the poetry of Wilfred Owen, and Harry was frequently moved to tears as she read. Even the dedication –To Rupert Templeton, who died that I might live– caused an ache in her chest. It took her two nights to read it, staying up far later than she should, and when she had finished, she understood why its author was considered such a prodigious talent. It made her all the more determined to solve the mystery of his illness.
All too conscious that John Archer was expecting an update on Thursday, Harry spent much of Tuesday evening poring over the book of poisons she had borrowed from the London Library. Many of the toxins described had symptoms that did not fit with what she had observed; often, they were instantly debilitating, making death an inevitability. There were only a handful that caused a gradual onset of symptoms, and she could not imagine how anyone at Thrumwell Manor could have acquired them. Her initial suspicion was lead poisoning from old pipes, but long-term exposure caused anaemia and a blue tinge around the lips and gums that she felt sure a doctor would have noticed. Short-term exposure in high doses presented itself as tiredness, appetite loss and hallucinations – all of which got Harry’s attention – but were also accompanied by nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea, which were thankfully not symptoms Philip St John suffered from. It was a conundrum Harry would have given a great deal to solve but as yet no solution presented itself.
Her research was interrupted around eight-thirty by the telephone. She answered to hear Oliver’s voice on the line. ‘Hello. I thought I’d check in and see how you were faring with setting the trap for your bank burglar.’
‘Very well,’ she said, with some satisfaction. ‘In fact, I caught him. He confessed to the whole thing – it turns out he’s been working for Pemberton but now he wants to be some kind of double agent. Can you believe it?’
‘Yes, unfortunately,’ Oliver said, sounding disapproving. ‘It’s the kind of thing I hear a lot, working in the court system. Some of the more hardened criminals will say anything they think you want to hear. I hope you turned him down.’
‘Not yet,’ Harry said. ‘He says he can give me the address of the young secretary Mr Pemberton seduced. I thought that might be information worth having.’
‘Maybe,’ Oliver said doubtfully. ‘But I’d be surprised if he can be trusted.’
‘I thought it might be worth a visit,’ Harry said. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to hear her story.’
‘Be careful. I know you can look after yourself but Pemberton strikes me as the kind of man who gets vicious when cornered.’
‘All the more reason to talk to the poor girl,’ Harry replied. ‘She might be in need of a friend.’
‘Perhaps,’ Oliver said, although Harry thought he still sounded unconvinced. ‘Speaking of friends, I got a rather odd letter today. It was addressed to a Sarah Smith, care of Oliver Fortescue Esq, from someone called Beth Chamberlain, and it claimed Mildred Longstaff was a mutual friend. Does that mean anything to you?’
Harry felt her jaw drop in astonishment. Sarah Smith was the alias she had adopted when she’d been investigating Mildred’s disappearance. She had met Beth while undercover at a shady employment bureau and the young woman had helped her to establish who the true criminals in the case had been. ‘Yes, but I can’t imagine why she’s writing to you.’
‘I suppose she saw my name in the newspaper and put two and two together. She says she has information about Polly Spender.’ Oliver paused. ‘Isn’t that the name of the maid who used to work for Lady Finchem?’
‘The same,’ Harry said, feeling a surge of excitement. ‘She’s the one who helped to frame Mildred, but she disappeared before I could question her. What does Beth say about her?’
‘Not much,’ Oliver replied. ‘She says she’ll be at the Mother Red Cap pub in Camden tomorrow evening at seven o’clock if you want to know more.’
Harry digested the unexpected news. Mildred had been cleared of the crime she had been accused of, and released from Holloway prison, but Harry was sure Polly knew something thatmight lead to the arrest of the gang leaders behind the robbery. Had Beth found something that would help Harry to discover their identities?
‘Are you going to go?’ Oliver asked, when she didn’t speak. ‘It sounds?—’
‘Dangerous,’ Harry cut in. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘I was going to say interesting,’ Oliver said. ‘It goes without saying that it’s probably dangerous.’
‘Beth is smart and she might have found something we can pass along to Scotland Yard,’ Harry said firmly. ‘She won’t put either of us in harm’s way.’
Shortly after that, she rang off and sat staring into space for a few moments. Then she roused herself and went to find the bag of serviceable but old clothes she wore when she became Sarah Smith. It looked very much as though another trip to Camden was on the cards.
Harry found Beth sitting at the same table they’d shared the last time she had visited the Mother Red Cap public house, nursing a half-drunk pint of mild. She squinted up when Harry arrived, then smiled. ‘Well, well, if it ain’t my mate Sarah Smith.’
‘Hello, Beth,’ Harry said, attempting to copy the young woman’s perfect Cockney accent and trying not to cringe at the result. She really needed to practise her vowel sounds. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Don’t mind if you do,’ Beth said. ‘I’ll have the usual.’
Harry made her way to the bar, easing her way through the crowd and returning with two pints. ‘So,’ Beth said as she joined her on the hard wooden bench. ‘How’ve you been? I saw your friend Mildred got out.’
‘She did,’ Harry said, pretending to sip her drink. ‘Nothing to do with me, of course. It was all her lawyer that done it.’
Beth gave her an innocent look. ‘Oh, of course.’
‘How’s things with you?’ Harry asked. ‘Have you managed to find a job yet?’
Beth sighed. ‘No. I’ve been round Mrs Haverford’s a few times but there’s not much going.’ She paused. ‘Not for someone that knows right from wrong, at any rate.’
