Page 41 of The Cursed Writer
‘Ishmael Bloom,’ Oliver echoed slowly. ‘Why do I recognise that name?’
Archer peered at the newsprint. ‘It says here he was arrested in Southampton, straight off the boat from New York, on suspicion of being the leader of an international narcotics ring. The authorities were forced to release him without charge but he remains a person of interest to Scotland Yard.’ He paused. ‘It must be the same man, surely. There can’t be two Americans called Ishmael Bloom.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Oliver said. ‘Did he strike you as the kind of character who might be up to no good?’
‘He was certainly a devil behind the wheel,’ Archer said, after a moment’s thought. ‘And no one seemed to know what he was actually doing here. But that’s often the way of things these days and I must confess I forgot all about him once he’d left.’
Harry stared down at her plate. It could not be a coincidence and yet the whole idea of an international drug smuggler at large in the Cambridgeshire fens seemed laughable. She couldnot imagine anywhere less likely than the village of Morden to be caught up in anything more criminal than a spot of poaching. But the more she considered it, the less ridiculous it seemed. Agnes had observed more than once how important the nearby river network was, with connections that spread all over the country, and it was that observation that made Harry wonder. The drugs could come in from Europe by boat, be transported along the rivers via barges and moved across the fens to avoid tolls and perhaps even customs officers. And the kind of people involved in a drug smuggling ring might go to extreme lengths to prevent anyone discovering what they were doing. They might even turn to poison.
Harry looked up to see Oliver watching her and she knew without asking that he had made the same connection. ‘Your uncle never met Bloom, did he?’
Archer lowered the paper in surprise. ‘I can’t imagine how he would have. I mean, I spotted Bloom’s car outside the pub a few times but Uncle Philip rarely leaves the manor grounds. Why do you ask?’
She shook her head. ‘No reason. Bloom sounds like the sort of character a writer might find interesting, that’s all.’
‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ Archer said. ‘Yes, I must admit to tucking one or two of his mannerisms away myself, in case I’m ever required to play a brash American gentleman, although he’s rather less of a gentleman than I realised, if Scotland Yard is to be believed. It just goes to show you never can tell.’
He returned to the newspaper, leaving Harry to turn her suspicions over and over in her mind. She wanted to discuss them with Oliver, to confirm that he had reached the same conclusion she had, but that was impossible within earshot of John Archer. She was about to excuse herself when Mary appeared with Oliver’s breakfast. He took the plate with enthusiasm and Harry forced herself to wait patiently as he ate,studying the articles on the back of the newspaper to pass the time. When at last he had finished eating, Archer folded the paper and cleared his throat. ‘I thought I might pay a brief visit to my uncle now, if you wanted to see how he fares for yourselves.’
As much as Harry longed to talk to Oliver, she was also curious about Philip St John’s turn for the better. ‘That would be helpful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Follow me.’
They encountered Agnes as she was leaving the library, a tray laden with breakfast crockery in her hand. She nodded at Archer as he stood back to allow her into the corridor but said nothing. Inside the room, the drapes had been drawn back, dispelling some of the gloom Harry had observed on her last visit. She glanced outside at the faint smudge on the horizon that marked the edge of the fen and frowned. Splashing after the boat and listening to the snatches of conversation felt like part of a bad dream now, but the sense of peril the experience had invoked lingered in her thoughts. She did not know what Philip St John had done to incur the smugglers’ wrath but she was certain it had resulted in his sudden ill health. If he was able, she hoped he might add those pieces to the puzzle now.
Archer strode towards the armchairs that flanked the fireplace. ‘Good morning, Uncle Philip,’ he said, his voice hearty above the crackle of the fire. ‘How was your kipper?’
‘Most enjoyable,’ Philip St John said, his voice frail but clear. ‘I told Agnes I may even manage another later.’
He certainly sounded better, Harry thought as she followed Archer. Philip St John was seated in the same chair as before, with a blanket tucked around his lap, and still bore the hallmarks of a man who was far from well. His skin had a greyish tinge and his eyes were underscored by dark circles, but Harry thought she detected improvements in his appearance as wellas his mental clarity. He sat upright and the tremors that had plagued him were noticeably weaker. His expression sharpened as he observed her and she had the impression he was not pleased by her presence. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, and the words were an echo of his peevish questions the last time Harry had met him.
Archer smiled in reassurance. ‘This is Miss Moss, Uncle. She’s a friend, staying for the weekend with the excellent Mr Fortescue here.’
‘Good morning, Mr St John,’ Harry said with a polite smile, as Oliver hung discreetly back. ‘It is an honour to meet you again, although I must apologise for intruding on your hospitality at a time like this.’
Philip St John did not smile. ‘As my nephew will attest, I am a poor host even when well.’
‘I would say reluctant, rather than poor,’ Archer put in hastily. ‘But we are not here to exhaust you and will keep our visit brief. Is there anything you need?’
The older man turned an irritated gaze from Harry to Archer. ‘I have had no tobacco since yesterday. Where is Donaldson?’
‘I’m afraid the shop had closed by the time I sent him to the village,’ Archer said apologetically. ‘I will go this morning.’
Philip St John’s hand twitched and shook. He glared at it. ‘Why does this damnable hand of mine shake so?’
‘It is a symptom of your illness,’ Archer reminded him. ‘I’m sure it will ease as you recover your strength.’
The older man grunted. ‘It will ease sooner if I am brought my tobacco.’
Harry cleared her throat. ‘I may be able to help with that. Mr Fortescue and I are going to the village shortly – would you like us to collect your tobacco while we are there?’
‘I don’t care who collects it, as long as I have it,’ he grumbled, but she thought he sounded very slightly less antagonistic.
‘You really don’t have to,’ Archer told Harry.
‘But we are going anyway,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s no trouble.’
‘In which case, it would be churlish of me not to accept your kind offer,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
