Page 8 of The Cursed Writer
She had to concede it was a good point. ‘I suppose so.’
They sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, the piano tinkling in the background. ‘I took the liberty of doing somedigging on Archer, incidentally,’ Oliver said, as the gentility was broken by an outburst of raucous laughter from the opera singer’s table. ‘He’s had some success as an actor – decent enough roles in several acclaimed theatre productions, although nothing you or I might have heard about. He seems well regarded at the Garston – something of abon vivant– but that’s no surprise, since you can’t become a member if anyone objects to you joining. Philip St John is his uncle on the maternal side, and the consensus is that Archer is a fond and devoted nephew.’
Which explained his desperate efforts to determine the cause of his uncle’s illness, Harry thought, if not his choice of detective. ‘But what was your impression of him?’ she asked Oliver.
Her friend pursed his lips. ‘I’d say he’s in his mid-thirties. Tall, with the kind of build that suggests he enjoys a good meal. Affable, despite the unhappy subject of our meeting. He speaks very well and, as I said, knows how to spin a yarn. I imagine he’d be excellent on stage.’
She absorbed the information. ‘Is there a Mrs Archer?’
‘A confirmed bachelor, by all accounts,’ Oliver replied. ‘Perhaps he hasn’t met the right woman.’
It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to point out that perhaps he didn’t want to meet the right woman, but she decided to let the observation go. Instead, she sat back, replaying everything else she had heard. She was still not certain that Watson wouldn’t be the better choice to investigate, rather than Holmes, but perhaps there was something to be found that could help Philip St John recover his health. She was just about to say as much to Oliver when a shadow fell across their table. Expecting the waiter, Harry glanced up to ask for their bill and realised it was not the waiter at all. Standing before them, a cool smile playing across his handsome features, was Percy Finchem, son of Lord and Lady Finchem, and a potential future suitor for Harry, if her mother had her way. His gaze travelled from Harryto Oliver and back again. ‘What a cosytête-à-têtethis is. I do hope I’m not interrupting.’
The sudden tightness around Oliver’s eyes left Harry in no doubt that he was less than pleased to see Percy, and she was not the least bit surprised. Oliver had once warned her to take care around the Finchem brothers, said that they were not everything they seemed to be, although Harry herself had never known either of them to be anything less than charming. ‘You’re not interrupting at all,’ she said smoothly. ‘In fact, we were just about to leave.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ Percy said, with flattering dismay. He glanced at Oliver. ‘Come, Fortescue, allow me to buy you a drink. Scotch on the rocks, is it?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Thanks but as Harry says, we’re leaving. You can take our table if you like.’
‘No need, I’m with a group of friends.’ Percy turned his blue-eyed gaze on Harry and she saw him frown slightly as he took in the bruising around her eye. He was far too well-mannered to mention it but she knew he had noticed it all the same. She hoped the observation would not make its way back to her mother. ‘In fact, it was only the sight of Miss White that tore me away from them. Are you sure I can’t tempt you into another?’
His eyes danced as he surveyed her and, for a moment, she was transported back to a conversation they had shared on the starlit terrace of Abinger Hall. She’d suspected him of flirting then – there’d been a moment when she thought he might even have kissed her – and she was almost tempted to accept his offer of a drink now. He really was very good-looking, as well as attentive and amusing and even a little exciting. But Oliver was radiating disapproval; there was a good chance he might walk out if she said yes. And then she took in Percy’s formal attire – the suave dinner jacket, crisp white shirt and black tie. ‘It seemsyou’re on the way somewhere else. We wouldn’t want to hold you up.’
Percy lowered his voice. ‘A rather stuffy dinner, since you ask,’ he said, then brightened. ‘But of course you must join us! I’d be forever in your debt – you’ll be saving me from death by a thousand dull opinions.’ He glanced at Oliver, whose scowl had deepened, and smiled. ‘But I can see Fortescue is reluctant to let go of you. Perhaps another time.’
‘Perhaps,’ Harry replied diplomatically, as Oliver signalled to the waiter, who was at their table within seconds.
‘Charge this to my account, Rolo, there’s a good chap,’ Percy said with easy authority, before Oliver could say a word.
The waiter hesitated and glanced at Oliver, who stiffened. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
Percy’s smile widened into a grin. ‘Oh, buck up, Fortescue, and let me buy you and Miss White a drink.’
For a second, Harry thought Oliver would refuse. But then he seemed to realise Percy would enjoy his refusal much more than his acceptance, and the tension in his expression eased. He downed the last of his whisky and put the glass on the table. ‘Of course. Thank you.’
‘It’s the least I can do after disturbing your little get-together,’ Percy replied as the waiter hurried away. ‘And do give my very best regards to your parents, Harry. I hope to be invited back to dear old Abinger Hall very soon.’
‘I’ll be sure to pass on your good wishes,’ Harry said, and placed her own glass on the table. ‘Thanks for the drink, Percy. I hope you have fun this evening.’
‘Not as much fun as I might with you for company.’ Percy sighed. ‘But I daresay I’ll survive.’
Harry smiled with wry amusement. She’d thought when they’d first met that James Finchem was the more obviously charming of the Finchem brothers but she had soon learnedthat Percy’s sly humour was a secret weapon that disarmed all her defences. It was probably a good thing she had turned his offer down. She stood up and hung her handbag over her arm. ‘I daresay you will. Goodnight.’
Oliver rose too. He nodded at Percy. ‘Goodbye, Finchem.’
‘Fortescue,’ Percy said, but kept his eyes on Harry. She felt him watching them all the way to the polished walnut doors and it was something of a relief when they swung shut behind them. ‘That was an unexpected pleasure,’ Oliver said, in a tone of voice that suggested it had been anything but.
‘You shouldn’t let him provoke you,’ Harry replied as they made their way down the marble stairs and into the chandelier-lit magnificence of the Savoy hotel lobby. ‘It only encourages him.’
Oliver grunted. ‘Men like Percy Finchem don’t need encouragement.’ Seeming to realise how surly he sounded, he puffed out a breath. ‘But enough about him. Have you made a decision about Archer?’
‘I’m going to sleep on it,’ Harry said promptly. ‘Mr Archer was returning home this evening – I have no doubt he can wait until tomorrow to hear from Holmes again.’
‘That sounds like an excellent plan,’ Oliver answered with an approving nod. He glanced towards the brass revolving doors that led to the horseshoe-shaped courtyard, where the green-liveried doormen waited to guide them towards the bustle of the Strand. ‘Will you take a cab?’
Harry considered the question. She loved making her own way around London but it was a good thirty-minute walk to her apartment in Hamilton Square, and while the Underground lessened the journey time, she would still have to change trains at Oxford Circus and she was tired. Moreover, the gin had gone a little to her head, a situation that she suspected would only be made worse by the cold night air. A taxi would have her home inless than ten minutes, if the traffic were kind, and curled up on her settee with a pot of Earl Grey gently brewing within quarter of an hour. The thought was too appealing to turn down. ‘Yes,’ she said, giving in graciously for once. ‘I rather think I will.’
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