Page 38 of The Cursed Writer
The air was still as they navigated a series of narrow stairways. Harry kept the torch trained on the steps as they descended, her other hand holding the thin metal rail that served as a banister. She was aware of Oliver close behind, could hear his breath in her ear, and felt a quiver of something that was most definitely not going to help with the task in hand. Forcing herself to ignore his proximity, she concentrated on lighting the way. It would not do to get distracted and drop the torch.
The stairs ended in a door that opened just outside the kitchen. Holding up one hand, Harry listened intently. Most domestic staff rose early in the morning, and so went to bed at a sensible time, but this was a strange household, in more ways than one. After a few seconds, she was satisfied the room was empty. Praying the hinges would not creak, she lifted the latch and entered the shadowy room.
The weak electric light that seemed so feeble elsewhere in the house felt bright when Harry first flicked the switch on the wall, but her eyes quickly adjusted. The kitchen was warm, its fire still glowing red in the wide hearth. A large bowl stood in the centre of the table, covered by a white tea towel. ‘Dough,’ Harry murmured, lifting the corner of the cloth. She gazed around the room. ‘You take the cupboards; I’ll check the pantry.’
‘Do you have any idea what we’re looking for?’ he asked.
Harry hesitated. Mortlake had listed several ways Ergot poisoning occurred in humans; these included a tincture thathad been distilled from infected grain, an overdose of prescribed medication for a variety of health conditions, and the ingestion of fungal spores through contaminated flour. ‘If Mary is administering the poison through bread she only gives to Philip St John, she’ll be careful to keep the infected flour separate. Look for a sealed bag or a stoppered jar of some kind. Maybe even a small bottle. It could be markedRye.’
He began to open the cupboards, methodically searching the shelves. Harry made for the pantry. It was well organised and stocked with everything she might expect in a working kitchen. A large sack of plain flour sat in one corner, securely tied. Another contained strong flour, which Harry assumed the cook used to bake bread, but it seemed unlikely that would be the source of Ergot; it would be too easy to make a mistake and poison everyone. She kept an eye out for unlabelled bottles that might contain a tincture. She assumed only a few drops would be enough to poison St John’s food, but she found nothing that seemed suspicious. Before she knew it, almost half an hour had passed and she had not discovered anything that proved Mary’s guilt.
Oliver was similarly empty-handed. ‘Is there somewhere else it might be kept?’ he asked, when he had searched the last cupboard. ‘An outdoor storeroom?’
It was worth exploring, Harry decided. They might not get another chance. There was only one other exit from the kitchen: a solid oak door with two black iron bolts and a hefty key in the lock just below the door handle. Steadily, Oliver drew the bolts back. Harry held her breath, praying they were well oiled. The key turned with a clunk that sounded too loud. They both froze, listening. Barrymore could not be far away; if they woke him, his barking would rouse the entire household. But all remained quiet. Turning the handle with care, Oliver opened the door and they slipped out into the freezing night air.
The first door Harry tried led to an outside toilet. It was clearly in regular use. She flashed her torch around to reveal a neat pile of torn paper resting on an upturned bucket and a candle on the windowsill beside a box of matches. Cobwebs dangled from the overhead cistern but there was no sign of any spiders. A jumble of wellington boots was piled up in one corner. Closing the door, Harry glanced around to locate Oliver. He was peering into an outbuilding on the far side of the yard, his hands cupped against the window as he tried to make out what was inside. ‘Looks like a garage,’ he said. ‘The car Donaldson drives is in there.’
Harry nodded and made for another small building. But as she approached the door, a flash caught her eye in the black night beyond the building. She stopped, switching off the torch to stare past the rough stone wall. The kitchen was in the rear corner of the house, and she supposed its windows would look towards the fen during the day. Was her imagination playing tricks on her? There was nothing to see now. She strained into the shadows and was about to switch the torch back on when another flash bloomed and died in the darkness. ‘Oliver,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Did you see that? A light over there.’
He was at her side in a moment. ‘Where?’
‘Past the buildings. Wait – there it is again.’ There could be no mistake this time. Harry was sure of what she’d seen – a light bobbing in the fen. Her heart thudded as Mary’s words echoed around her head. ‘Someone is out there.’
‘But who?’ Oliver asked. ‘Someone from the house?’
Harry shook her head and cast around, trying to get her bearings. ‘I don’t think so. Let’s see, the lode is that way.’ She turned to point at what she hoped was north. ‘And the edge of the fen nearest the house is over there.’
‘In that case whoever it is must be in a boat,’ Oliver said.
‘They must be,’ she replied, and fought hard against a mental image of a lone ferryman sculling through the reeds. Holmes would have no truck with such fancies and nor should she. ‘I think this is what Agnes mentioned last week, even though she said no one did it any more. Someone is cutting across the fen from Morden village to Burwell, in the dead of night.’ She fired a determined look his way. ‘We need to find out who.’
She expected him to argue, to try and talk her out of it, but he simply nodded. ‘We can try.’
‘I’ll keep the torch angled down so they don’t see the light,’ she said, then stopped. ‘Wait! There were some boots in the outside toilet. Let’s see if any of them fit.’
Oliver was in luck – he found a pair that fitted almost immediately. Harry was less fortunate and was forced to settle for one that was the right size and one that was at least one size too large. They would have to do, she decided. She had no time to go and get her own boots from upstairs. ‘Okay,’ she said, clenching her toes to keep the larger boot from slipping. ‘Follow me and stay very close.’
Bending low, she half-hobbled, half-scurried to the edge of the outbuildings and stopped to take stock. The light was easier to spot now, bobbing in and out of sight as though hidden by the reeds. ‘We need to be quick,’ she murmured, pushing her fear to one side. ‘If they get too far out we’ll lose them.’
The endless sighing of the sedge grew louder. All too soon the ground changed consistency and became marshy. The reedbed loomed up, causing Harry to murmur in surprise, and she edged sideways, seeking a way in. Now that they were nearer, she could hear the loose slosh of the water being displaced by the boat, a faint snatch of murmured words. Whoever it was, they were moving very slowly, in no apparent hurry. Harry waded through the whispering reeds, hoping her borrowed boots were tall enough to prevent water from slopping onto her feet. She wascold enough already. Some distance ahead, the lantern swung back and forth, filling Harry with a dreadful anticipation that made her shiver.
Without stopping to think, she reached back with her spare hand and grabbed Oliver’s fingers, needing reassurance that she was not alone. Nothing could happen to her as long as they stuck together.
They crept on, the sound of their movements masked by the slap of the water against the boat. The murmuring carried further now, and Harry realised with a start that she could make out two voices over the constant shivering of the sedge.
‘We… before tomorrow…’
‘Package… final… barge.’
The words were snatched away by the breeze but the implications were not lost on Harry. The voices were male and perfectly ordinary, quietly discussing the job they were undertaking. The light they carried did not represent a restless spirit in search of the lost. Feeling more than a little foolish, she grasped the logical explanation close to her chest and pushed on, straining to catch more of the conversation. They were perhaps only ten or twelve feet behind now; she could make out muffled figures in the lamplight, confirming her belief that this could not be the ferryman.
She glanced back at Oliver, wondering whether he had reached the same conclusion. But of course he had, she thought as she caught sight of his set features. Oliver believed in facts and evidence. He was not as foolish as she was. Grateful she had not embarrassed herself by revealing her fears, Harry turned forwards again and cocked her head. The wind died a little, making it easier to pick out the words over the reeds and the slosh of the water. This voice was deeper, perhaps older. ‘Last delivery… King’s Lynn… collect payment.’
‘I am glad.’ The other voice seemed suddenly louder, as though raised in passion. ‘It’s… risky. What if we get caught?’
Deep Voice rumbled. ‘No… suspects…’
More words followed, too low for Harry to make out. Now that her irrational fears had been vanquished, she was impatient to discover what was being transported, and by whom. She edged closer. ‘…Philip St John.’
