Page 4 of The Cursed Writer
‘Is that Thrumwell Manor, Cambridgeshire?’ the operator enquired, after a short silence.
Harry was impressed. ‘That’s right.’
‘Putting you through. Hold, please.’
Before Harry could thank her, there was a series of clicks on the line, which she took to be the effect of the call being transferred. Moments later, it began to ring and shortly after that, an entirely different, much softer female voice sounded in Harry’s ear. ‘Morden four.’
Hurriedly, Harry pumped some more coins into the slot. She had no real idea how much the call would cost and did not want to risk being disconnected before she had made her purpose clear. ‘Hello, is this Thrumwell Manor?’
‘That’s right.’
Harry allowed herself a small smile of relief. She’d assumed such a grand-sounding house would have a telephone but from the single-digit number, it didn’t sound as though there were many others in the area that did. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to contact a Mr John Archer. Is this the right number?’
The line crackled. ‘It is, but Mr Archer is not here at present.’
So much the better, Harry thought. She didn’t actually want to speak to the man. ‘That’s perfectly fine – I only want to leave a message. Will you see to it that he gets it? It’s rather urgent.’
‘That might be a problem, then,’ the woman said. ‘He’s in London, see. Not due back here until Thursday evening.’
‘Oh.’ Harry hadn’t considered that Archer might have already travelled to the city for his meeting with Holmes. ‘Is there a way I can contact him? Is he staying at a hotel, perhaps?’
There was a noise that sounded very much like a snort. ‘You could but I doubt he’d see it. You’d do much better to try his club – that’s where I find him when I need him.’
Harry felt a familiar sinking feeling. ‘His club. Would that be the Garston?’
‘That’s the one.’ It seemed to dawn on the speaker that she had given no small amount of information without asking for Harry’s name. ‘Who’s calling, please?’
Rapidly, Harry ran through her options. She couldn’t give her own name, and mentioning Sherlock Holmes might raise all kinds of questions she didn’t want to answer. But the name she used to sign her letters on behalf of Holmes ought to be safe enough. Surely no one would think to link it back to Harry or the bank. ‘R.K. Moss,’ she said.
‘R.K. Moss,’ the woman repeated, as though writing it down. ‘Well, like I said, you’ll most likely find him at the Garston and if he’s not there, he’ll be along at some point. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
Harry was about to say no when another thought occurred to her. She placed a steadying hand on one of the booth’s windowpanes and took a chance. ‘How is Mr St John, may I ask? I was so sorry to hear of his illness.’
Was it her imagination or did she catch a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line? The answer, when it came, was considerably less cheerful in tone. ‘Much the same. We can only hope and pray for a miracle.’
‘Of course,’ Harry murmured and tried to recall the exact wording of the first telegram to Holmes. ‘Mr Archer said the malady was serious but I had hoped for some improvement. Has his doctor nothing to say?’
A brisk clucking noise travelled down the line. ‘It is serious, make no mistake. But there’s nothing any doctor can do, not with the curse hanging over him.’
Harry blinked, assuming she must have misheard. ‘The curse?’
‘Aye,’ the woman said with stout certainty. ‘I fear it’ll be the death of him, as it has been for many others in these parts.’ She sniffed. ‘Not that Mr Archer believes, of course. But he will.’
Her tone left Harry in no doubt of what she thought of John Archer’s refusal to accept his uncle’s fate. ‘I see,’ she said,frowning as she tried to make sense of the macabre prophecy. ‘But what exactly is the nature of the?—’
A faint background ringing seemed to bring the other woman up short. ‘That’ll be the nurse,’ she said abruptly. ‘Like I said, try the Garston Club. Goodbye, now.’
She rang off, leaving Harry staring at the receiver as her unused coins clattered into the metal tray. Whatever she’d expected to hear when she’d asked about Philip St John’s illness, it wasn’t some strange mumbo-jumbo about a curse. It was, she thought, exactly the kind of thing that happened in a Sherlock Holmes story, however, and she began to have an inkling about why John Archer had sought the detective out, although from what the woman on the telephone had said, it didn’t sound as though he believed his uncle was under any kind of supernatural thrall.
Pensively, she gathered up the coins and pushed back the glass-panelled door to rejoin the bustle of Marylebone Road and considered what she had learned. It would be safe enough to call the Garston Club from her own telephone at home – they must receive scores of telephone calls each day and hers would not stand out. But an idea was forming in her mind, one so obvious that she didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her immediately. She was not able to go to the Garston Club herself to meet Archer but it didn’t follow that no one could. Both her brothers were members, although she couldn’t possibly ask them. They had no idea Harry had been demoted, for a start, and she feared Seb in particular would never stop laughing if they learned of her new job and its association with Holmes. And it was unlikely that either would agree to meet Archer, at least not without considerable explanation.
But Harry did know someone else who was a member of the Garston Club – someone who already knew all about her position as the secretary of Sherlock Holmes. Someone who hadhelped her investigate Mildred’s disappearance and pursued the criminals responsible through the shadowy streets of Elephant and Castle, much against his better judgement. Someone who could be relied upon to keep quiet, even if he could also be quite priggish and intensely annoying. That someone was Oliver Fortescue, city lawyer and best friend of Harry’s eldest brother, Lawrence. She hadn’t spoken to him since Tuesday lunchtime, when she’d all but hung up on him as Bobby arrived with the first telegram, but surely he wouldn’t object to attending the meeting with John Archer in her stead. Surely he would understand her curiosity and be equally intrigued, especially if she added the details of her call to Thrumwell Manor. Once he’d finished lecturing her about the stupidity of replying in the first place, that was. But the short-term pain of that was worth enduring to learn more about the mystery John Archer represented.
With renewed vigour in her steps, Harry turned towards Mayfair. She would telephone Oliver the very moment she got home.
‘Absolutely not.’ Oliver’s tone was firm. Harry could picture him frowning, his dark eyebrows beetling together in forbidding disapproval. ‘For heaven’s sake, Harry, I’m surprised you’d even ask.’
Swallowing a sigh, Harry sat up straight on the settee and adopted her most reasonable tone. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything unethical. All you have to do is meet this John Archer tomorrow evening and pass on my message.’
