Page 7 of The Cursed Writer
‘It’s been something of a long day, Harry. Can’t I at least have my drink first?’ he asked.
Harry forced down a small surge of impatience. Oliver had just done her an enormous favour, after all, and it sounded verymuch as though the story he was about to share might be worth the wait. ‘Of course.’
Thankfully, the service in the bar was every bit as fast as its reputation. The drinks arrived moments later and Oliver took a long, appreciative sip from his glass. ‘That’s better.’
Harry’s own gin and tonic was much less incendiary than the Martini, for which she was grateful. The bartender, a certain Harry Craddock, had compiled a book containing some 750 cocktails and was always looking to add to his repertoire. He was well known for his heavy hand with spirits, meaning some of his drinks were strong enough to fell a giant, and Harry wasn’t among those customers seeking the oblivion alcohol could offer. She wanted a clear head for what she was about to hear. After another swig, Oliver set his glass on the table. ‘To business, then. Firstly, you were quite right to suspect Archer would not have tolerated being ignored. The circumstances of his uncle’s illness trouble him greatly and I believe he is desperate for help.’
‘So are most of the people who write to Holmes,’ Harry observed, thinking about the many letters that had begged Holmes to intercede. ‘But what is wrong with Philip St John? Is he really at death’s door, as the telegram suggested?’
‘I can only share what Archer told me,’ Oliver said. He glanced around, as though making sure they were not being overheard. ‘There are some physical symptoms – fatigue, lack of appetite, convulsions – but the majority of the problem appears to be in his mind. He is, according to Archer, terrified beyond all reason.’ He rested a sombre gaze on Harry. ‘Scared almost to death.’
The words sent an unexpected shiver down Harry’s spine. It was no surprise St John’s doctor had been unable to cure him – mental illness was fiendishly difficult to treat, even for those who specialised in psychological afflictions. ‘Scared of what?’
‘That is what Archer has not been able to establish,’ Oliver said. ‘The symptoms began around two weeks ago, with a series of nightmares so violent that the poor man’s screams woke the entire household. At first, Archer put them down to his uncle’s vivid imagination – you’ll recall he is an author – and asked the housekeeper to prepare a mild herbal sedative. But the next night proved much worse. Not only did the sedative fail to help, St John was also so distressed that he ran from the house in his nightclothes, stumbling into the fenland that surrounds the manor.’
‘How awful,’ Harry said, her eyes widening as she pictured the scene. ‘Was anyone able to follow?’
‘His wolfhound led the chase, it seems,’ Oliver said. ‘Archer said he was out of the door before anyone could stop him, snarling as though he sensed the devil himself in the darkness. They found St John by following the animal’s barking and dragged him from the reeds, back to the house. The next morning, St John awoke with a raging fever, no doubt the result of being drenched in fen water, and the doctor was summoned.’
That St John had caught a chill did not surprise Harry. The last days of November had been bitterly cold, with black ice and snow flurries on London’s streets. How much colder must it have been in Cambridgeshire? And Philip St John was not a young man; a fever could lead to something much more deadly if not treated quickly. But Oliver had said the worst of his symptoms were psychological. It was likely they, and not the fever, were the reason for Archer’s desperate telegram.
‘Having listened to Archer’s descriptions of the nightmares St John was suffering from, the doctor prescribed a sleeping draught,’ Oliver continued. ‘This at least allowed the patient and the remainder of the household to get some rest. But it seemed only to force the terrors into the daytime. St John became nervous and jumpy while awake, prone to fits of hallucinationand hysterical screaming. He refused to leave the library, although Archer says many of his worst episodes have occurred there. But even when calm and lucid, St John cannot – or will not – tell anyone what he is afraid of, only that his doom is upon him.’
Harry reached for her drink, recalling the dreadful certainty of the woman she had spoken to.It’ll be the death of him, as it has been for many others.‘And there has been no improvement?’
Oliver shrugged. ‘The fever has left him weakened, with a rattling cough that shows no sign of improvement, but that is the least of Archer’s concerns. He says his uncle does not eat and fights sleep, in spite of efforts to administer the sleeping draught. He sits hunched in a chair beside the fire, smoking his pipe and muttering endlessly to himself, jumping at shadows. Archer fears he has quite lost his mind, although thankfully he shows no tendency towards violence.’
It sounded like a terrible situation, Harry thought, made worse by both Philip St John’s fame as an author and his notoriously reclusive nature. If news got out of a suspected mental illness, it might very well result in a newspaper frenzy. But as shocking as St John’s decline was, she could not see what Archer could expect of Holmes, or any detective for that matter. It seemed as though the best course of action would be to consult an expert in psychological disorders.
‘I agree,’ Oliver replied, when she said as much. ‘But Archer believes there must be a reason for his uncle’s behaviour. The change in personality has been too sudden and the terror so absolute that something must have triggered it. That’s what he wants Holmes to uncover.’
Harry sat back, deflated. ‘It could be anything. Does Philip St John have a history of mental illness?’
‘None at all,’ Oliver said. ‘Not even after his return from the war, which is another reason Archer is so convinced there is more to the matter than meets the eye. He wants Holmes to visit Thrumwell Manor and speak to his uncle.’ He held up a hand to forestall Harry’s interruption. ‘Obviously, I explained I was in no position to agree to anything. He urged me to faithfully report everything to Holmes and promised to accept whatever decision he made.’
She sipped her drink, turning everything Oliver had said over in her mind. She could not deny it was an interesting case, one that Holmes would undoubtedly have jumped at, had it flown from the imagination of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. But, as she had learned from her investigations into the disappearance of Mildred Longstaff, and her efforts to bring the true criminals to justice, real-life detective work was not as simple as it appeared on paper. And as tragic as Philip St John’s condition appeared to be, Harry couldn’t help observing there was very little of substance to investigate. It was something of a surprise Oliver hadn’t pointed out the same thing. She arched an eyebrow over the top of her glass. ‘Aren’t you going to remind me that none of this is my concern?’
‘I could,’ he said mildly. ‘Would you pay any attention if I did?’
It was a valid point. ‘No, but that hasn’t stopped you in the past.’
He inclined his head. ‘Perhaps I’m learning. But in actual fact I think it might be a worthwhile puzzle for you. There’s no crime, no danger that you might cross the wrong person and get hurt. The worst thing that might happen is that you get your feet soggy in the fens.’
There was, Harry observed with some exasperation, a maddening hint of condescension in his tone. It came from a well-meaning desire to protect her but completely failed toacknowledge she had already thwarted one criminal gang. He may as well have patted her on the head as he spoke. ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself, Oliver.’
‘I know. I’ve seen you in action.’ He sighed. ‘Look, you know I think you’re taking a risk by investigating any of the letters Holmes receives, but I’ve also developed a healthy respect for your instincts and, having met with Archer myself, I can’t help agreeing that there’s something strange about the suddenness of his uncle’s decline. Something you might be able to uncover.’
Slightly mollified, Harry frowned and shifted on her chair. ‘Perhaps. Tell me, did Mr Archer mention anything about a curse?’
The incredulous look on Oliver’s face almost made her wish she’d kept quiet. ‘A curse? Why on earth would you ask that?’
‘Because when I rang Thrumwell Manor yesterday, to advise Mr Archer the meeting could not go ahead, the woman who answered the phone suggested Philip St John had fallen victim to a curse that would lead to his death.’ She paused. ‘As it had to many others.’
Oliver puffed out a long breath. ‘A coincidence. Fear and ignorance often breed superstition and I daresay it could appear as though someone suffering from a mental affliction might be cursed in some way, although it’s a rather medieval view.’
‘But the suggestion was that others had been afflicted too.’ Harry swirled her drink around her glass. ‘Surely that can’t be a coincidence.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘Archer didn’t mention it and actors are generally a superstitious bunch. But I doubt it means anything. It’s probably some local myth that’s easy to repeat when there’s no other explanation for frightening events.’
