Page 43 of The Cursed Writer
They were almost at the car when Harry spoke next. ‘Is she still watching?’
Oliver passed around the bonnet and inserted the key in the door before he glanced casually up. ‘Yes. I can see her at the window.’
Harry did not look round as she got into the car. ‘I don’t think she trusted us.’
‘No,’ Oliver agreed, ‘but the feeling is mutual.’ He glanced across from the driver’s seat. ‘What now?’
‘We take Philip St John his tobacco,’ Harry said. ‘And then we wait. If my suspicions are correct, we have a very interesting night ahead of us.’
15
It was a little after lunch when Harry went to the library. Philip St John sat dozing in his armchair, an upturned paperback resting on his lap. Reluctant to disturb him, she sat in the chair opposite and took the opportunity to study him. The grey pallor that hung over him appeared to have receded still further since the morning; she noted faint colour creeping into his cheeks. He was not in good health – not yet – but she judged he would be in a day or two. As long as he was not poisoned further.
He had probably been handsome as a young man, she thought, although age was beginning to catch up with him now. She imagined his sandy hair had been strawberry blond then, his bearing proud with the easy arrogance of youth, his head filled with dreams of becoming a writer. He would have been in his twenties when the Great War had broken out; had he gone to the Western Front in glad anticipation of serving his country? How quickly that eagerness must have turned to despair when he understood the reality of life in the trenches. The fact that he had never spoken about his experience told its own story. Or perhaps, as Archer had suggested, he had poured all he needed to say into his writing.
Leaving the tobacco on the side table, Harry got to her feet and crossed quietly to the bookshelves. The range of titles was impressive – just as good as that of the library at Abinger Hall. But there was a noticeable gap on one shelf. She presumed this was where the books Archer had given her had sat. The titles to either side leaned against each other, lopsided and unsupported. She reached out to straighten them and, as she did so, she saw there was another book hidden behind them. Frowning, she removed some of the volumes in front and pulled it free. It was a hardback copy ofThe Blood-soaked Soil.
She opened the cover. It was a first edition, published in 1920. Harry stared at it reverently, suspecting it must be worth much more now than it had been on the day it was published. Turning the page, she expected to see the now-familiar dedication and blinked in surprise. It had been scored out, eviscerated so that the words did not exist. With a huff of dismay, Harry flipped to the opening chapter. That too had been slashed, three vicious lines slicing diagonally across the page, cutting into the paper beneath. In stunned silence, she leafed through the rest of the pages. All had been carved into tatters, an act of violence that both shocked and saddened her. Who could have done such a thing? And why?
‘Are you a spirit?’
The question made Harry jump. The book tumbled from her fingers, sending a flurry of lacerated paper fluttering like sycamore seeds. The spine landed with a heavy thud at her feet. Harry did not bend to pick it up. Instead, she turned to eye Philip St John, who was watching her without apparent emotion. ‘No,’ she said, gathering her wits. ‘I am Miss Moss. We met this morning.’
His gaze focused more keenly on her. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, I remember now. You were going to bring me some tobacco.’
Harry smiled in spite of herself. ‘I did bring you some. It’s on the table there. Would you like me to fill your pipe?’
‘No, I would not,’ he snapped. ‘I am not an invalid, despite what my nephew may claim.’
He reached for the package she had left on the table. Kneeling, Harry began to gather the shredded paper together, determined not to let Philip St John see the mutilation. But the fall had dislodged the binding. The book would not close. Getting to her feet, Harry slid it unobtrusively back into the gap on the bookshelf. She would ask Archer about it later, find out if he knew how it had come to be damaged.
‘Why did you ask if I was a spirit?’ she said, crossing back to the armchair to sit across from St John.
‘Because I often see someone standing in that exact spot,’ he said. ‘But when I look again, they are not truly there.’
Part of the hallucinations he had endured, Harry guessed, and offered a reassuring smile. ‘I assure you I am most definitely here.’
Lighting the pipe, he puffed several times to draw the tobacco, and studied Harry through the cloud of smoke. ‘A fact I am well aware of,’ he said dryly.
Harry weighed her options. Now that his mind seemed to be clearer, she could tell he was no fool. She decided brutal honesty was the best way to deal with him. ‘Mr St John, I must tell you that I don’t believe your illness is a natural one. I believe you have been poisoned.’
He gaped at her and, for a moment, she regretted her candidness. ‘Poisoned?’ he echoed. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Not at all,’ she said, and leaned forward. ‘It appears there are criminals at large in Morden Fen – desperate men who will go to any length to protect their identities. I can’t be sure exactly what happened to make them target you, but I am certain they did, with the intention of keeping you quiet until they had finishedtheir work.’ Harry sat back. ‘And they used the tobacco you smoke to do it.’
St John lowered the pipe. ‘My tobacco? How?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ she admitted. ‘Tests should tell us more. But the tobacco you are smoking now is uncontaminated. You may be sure of that.’
He stared at her. ‘You must be mistaken. Who would do such a thing?’
‘I don’t know that, either,’ Harry said, ‘but I have my suspicions. If I’m right, you are in more danger now than you have ever been.’
St John eyed her mutely, the pipe smoking gently in his hand. Harry held his gaze. ‘I fear there is a very real danger the perpetrators may try to silence you forever,’ she said. ‘Your unexpected recovery may force their hand but please rest assured we plan to apprehend them before any harm befalls you.’
‘We?’ Philip St John said in irritated bewilderment. ‘Who the devil do you mean by we?’
Harry took a deep breath. ‘Myself, Mr Fortescue and your nephew. No one else can know what we intend. And we will need your help to catch them.’
