Page 36 of The Cursed Writer
The bedroom was just as it had been for Harry’s last visit, although the counterpane on the bed was now a patchwork of cornflower blue and white rather than the royal blue one that had matched the curtains. She was glad to see the drapes themselves were firmly closed, shutting out the night. After crossing to the hearth, the housekeeper added some coal to the flames. Harry opened her case and began to unpack. ‘How are you, Agnes?’
The housekeeper did not look up. ‘I can’t complain, miss, although I wish the master would get better. We try not to leave him unattended now and it makes life harder for us all.’
‘Of course,’ Harry said sympathetically. The not quite concealed tremble in the other woman’s tone made it hard to believe she had anything to do with Philip St John’s affliction. ‘Mary told me that according to the curse, his third sighting of the ferryman will be his last. Is that why you locked the front door?’
The other woman stilled briefly, then resumed tending the fire. ‘It seems like a sensible precaution.’
‘I assume Donaldson will use the trade entrance when he comes back,’ Harry said, watching her. ‘I notice he did not return to the house after opening the gate for us.’
Agnes got to her feet. ‘He has business in the village,’ she said, brushing specks of coal dust from her fingers. ‘If there’snothing else, I’ll go and relieve Mr Archer so he can join you in the drawing room.’
Harry studied her, observing the guarded set to her face. She wanted to ask her about Mary, whether she had noticed anything strange about her behaviour, but she could not think of a way to do so without sounding clumsy. She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Agnes.’
Once she had unpacked, Harry made her way along the landing to knock at Oliver’s door. After a few seconds he opened it. ‘How’s your room?’ she asked.
‘Green,’ he replied. ‘But not uncomfortable. Yours?’
‘Blue,’ she said. ‘Shall we go down? The drawing room is just off the hall.’
Oliver waved a hand. ‘Lead on.’
Archer was standing beside the fireplace when they entered the drawing room, the grey wolfhound at his feet. ‘Welcome,’ he said, hurrying forward to shake their hands with his usual enthusiasm, for all he looked even more fatigued than he had on Thursday. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Not at all,’ Harry said, bending to ruffle Barrymore’s wiry coat. ‘How is your uncle?’
He sighed. ‘Much the same. I know your suspicions must be correct, Miss Moss, but I must confess I simply cannot fathom how he is being poisoned, much less who is doing it. They all appear to be as devoted to him as ever.’
Harry exchanged a glance with Oliver, who had reached out a hand for Barrymore to sniff. Archer seemed tired but he was otherwise in good health. It appeared he had not set any alarm bells ringing that might result in desperate measures by the poisoner. ‘That is why we are here,’ she said. ‘I intend to answer both questions this weekend.’
‘And I have every faith you will,’ Archer said. He crossed towards the drinks cabinet. ‘But I am being a neglectful host. What can I offer you to drink?’
‘A gin and tonic, please,’ Harry said.
‘I’ll have the same, if it’s not too much trouble,’ Oliver said, then leaned nearer to Harry. ‘Are you sure it’s safe for us to eat the food Mary prepares? What if she realises we suspect her and decides to poison us too?’
‘She can’t have any idea we know,’ she murmured back. ‘And mass poisoning would rather give the game away, don’t you think? So much harder to explain than a single case.’
Oliver raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘I’m not entirely reassured by that.’
Harry scratched Barrymore’s grizzled chin and dug into her pocket for a biscuit. ‘I think we’re safe,’ she whispered. ‘Just steer clear of the bread.’
Whatever he was about to say next was forestalled by a knock at the door. Barrymore’s ears cocked and he let out a low rumbling growl. Archer looked up, gin bottle in hand. ‘Yes?’
The door opened to reveal Donaldson. Barrymore subsided, although Harry noticed he kept his eyes fixed on the groundsman. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Archer. I wasn’t able to get it. The shop was closed up for the night and there was no sign of Eliza.’
Archer let out a tsk of annoyance. ‘It is my fault for failing to realise supplies were low. But there’s nothing to be done now.’ He nodded at the man. ‘Thank you for trying. I’ll go to the village myself in the morning.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Donaldson said, and withdrew.
Aware that both Harry and Oliver were eyeing him with polite curiosity, Archer cleared his throat. ‘No great mystery. My uncle’s pipe tobacco has run out. I sent Donaldson to get some more but, as you heard, he did not succeed.’
So that was where he had gone after opening the gate, Harry thought. Oliver had been correct; there was a reasonable explanation for his disappearance. ‘Is your uncle a regular smoker?’ she asked.
‘He likes a pipe after meals, although not first thing in the morning.’ Archer grimaced. ‘Awful stuff – I can’t bear it myself. It won’t hurt him to have a break from it. His chest isn’t fully recovered from the chill he caught, you know.’
Harry imagined the doctor might have recommended a rest from smoking after St John’s initial fever but perhaps he had been ignored. ‘I expect it will do him good,’ she agreed. ‘I readThe Blood-soaked Soil, incidentally. It’s quite an extraordinary achievement.’
At that, Archer’s expression relaxed somewhat. ‘I think so too,’ he said, handing out their drinks. ‘He wrote it in the trenches, you know, while serving as an infantryman on the Western Front.’
