Page 30 of The Cursed Writer
Harry patted the folder she carried under one arm. ‘It appears the bank did not complete all the paperwork to sever her employment – a regrettable oversight on our part, for which I wholeheartedly apologise. I have the papers with me now. It should not take very long.’
The older woman held out her hand. ‘Cecily is not here. But you may leave the papers. I will see to it that she signs them.’
Harry did not move. ‘Unfortunately, they are of a confidential nature. I cannot share them with anyone other than Miss Earnshaw herself.’
‘I am her mother,’ Mrs Earnshaw said, drawing herself up and favouring Harry with a haughty glower. ‘You may entrust them to me.’
‘Even so, I cannot leave them,’ Harry said, with polite determination. ‘Perhaps there is another, more suitable time I might return to see her.’
‘There is not,’ she snapped. ‘My daughter no longer lives here, Miss Foster. If you cannot leave the papers with me for her to sign at a later date, then the matter must remain unresolved.’
Harry blinked and tried to cover her surprise. ‘But the… the papers. The outstanding signature?—’
‘Must remain outstanding,’ Mrs Earnshaw cut in. ‘Now, I must ask that you leave. Do not call here again – you will not be admitted.’
Turning on her heel, she crossed the hallway and disappeared down the same passageway from which she had come. Harry stared after her, shocked by both the coldness with which the woman had uttered her daughter’s name and the rudeness she had displayed. The maid hovered anxiously at Harry’s side. ‘Shall I show you out, miss?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said, recovering her composure enough to nod at the girl. ‘Thank you.’
She made her way slowly along the street, replaying the interview in her mind. Was Mrs Earnshaw telling the truth when she said Cecily did not live there any longer? It was possible she was lying to protect her daughter from an inquisitive stranger, which was perfectly understandable in the circumstances. But if that were the case, Harry would find it almost impossible to speak to Cecily alone, if at all. Sighing, she turned the corner and made for the Underground station. At least she would not be late to meet Mr Archer. But she had not taken more than a few steps when she became aware of running feet behind her and a breathless voice calling her name. ‘Miss Foster!’
Harry turned to see the Earnshaws’ maid hurrying towards her, a coat thrown over her uniform. When the girl was near enough, she thrust out a hand. ‘Here. This is Cecily’s address.’
‘Her address?’ Harry repeated, taking the small square of paper. ‘Where is she?’
‘In Brighton,’ the maid said. ‘With her aunt. No surprise after how she was treated.’
She almost spat the words, leaving Harry in no doubt over what must have followed Cecily’s disgrace at the bank. ‘Her parents sent her away?’
The maid nodded. ‘Said she was an embarrassment to them, a stain on their good name. Can you believe it? Their own flesh and blood!’
Having met Mrs Earnshaw, Harry found it all too easy to believe. Unfolding the paper, she read the address: ‘11 Circus Street, Brighton.’
‘It never sat right with me, what they done. Just sending her off like that, with no thought for how she might support herself.’ The maid flashed a rebellious look at Harry. ‘If you do see her, tell her Susanna sends her best.’
‘I will,’ Harry said, and smiled. ‘I’m sure it will mean a lot to her.’
Susanna bobbed, then glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’d better get back, before they miss me.’
Harry nodded. ‘Go. And thank you. I’ll see what may be done to help Cecily.’
She watched as the girl made her way back towards the corner and disappeared into Norland Square once more, then resumed her journey towards Holland Park station, deep in thought. It seemed a trip to Brighton was on the horizon. There might be more to Cecily Earnshaw’s story than she had realised.
11
John Archer seemed to have aged ten years in the few days since Harry had last seen him, and the splendid, palm tree bedecked elegance of the Landmark’s Winter Garden courtyard only made the change in his appearance more conspicuous. He looked tired; dark circles hung beneath his eyes and his skin had lost some of its ruddy good health. She thought he had lost weight too, although he could afford to lose some of the padding around his midriff. It was clear his uncle’s illness was taking a toll on him and Harry could only guess how it was affecting the others at Thrumwell Manor. What was clear was that the situation could not go on for much longer. John Archer was coming to the end of his strength just as certainly as his uncle was.
She watched as he ran a tired hand over his face. ‘At least I can say he is no worse, even if he seems no better,’ he said, when she enquired after Philip St John. ‘There have been no more incidents in the fen, for which we are all grateful.’
Harry felt Oliver’s eyes upon her. ‘Have you considered my suggestion of removing him from Thrumwell Manor?’ She paused, weighing up how much to tell him. ‘I am starting to feelmost strongly that it is the best course of action for both you and your uncle.’
‘It may come to that,’ Archer admitted, with a wretched sigh. ‘I have even considered a specialist institution. But I fear he may be beyond even their help now.’
Harry exchanged a long look with Oliver. Did either of them really believe Archer was a suspect? She did not think so. It was time to reveal her suspicions.
‘Poison?’ He gaped, when she laid her thoughts before him. ‘But how? Who? There are but four of us.’
‘I don’t know the how yet,’ Harry admitted. ‘I need to identify the poison first and that is taking some time, since I have no sample to send to a laboratory. As for who in your household is responsible, that is also unclear. I have not been able to determine why anyone might want to injure your uncle.’
