Page 12 of The Cursed Writer
‘He saw him,’ Agnes said, with doleful certainty. ‘Death always comes to those who see him. But I’ve said too much. Mr Archer won’t like it.’
Damping down her frustration, Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘Mr Archer has invited me here to discover what ails his uncle. How am I to do that if I can’t explore all the possibilities?’
For a moment, Agnes looked torn. ‘You’ll have to ask him,’ she said finally. After smoothing the curtain back into place, she crossed to the door. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Harry decided to let her go. ‘For now.’
The housekeeper nodded once and left, closing the door firmly behind her. Glancing around, Harry saw her case had been left at the foot of the bed and she set about unpacking the items she had brought with her. Given the nature of her visit, she had guessed she would not be expected to dress for dinner but she did want to change out of her travelling clothes and wash her hands and face. Once that was done, she perched on the end of the bed and took her notebook from her handbag to jot down what little new information she had gathered.
The cook was an unknown at present, but she had met three of the five people who lived at Thrumwell Manor and it was possible one of them knew more than they were telling about the illness of Philip St John. Getting to her feet, Harry crossed to the window and tugged the curtain aside to gaze out into the night. The room occupied the corner of the house and had windows in two of its walls; she assumed she would have excellent views across the front and north-eastern side of the estate. But for now, unbroken blackness met her gaze, and a low, whistling moan could be heard as the wind blew around the corner of the building. She was reminded with a shiver of unease that she truly was in the middle of nowhere. But it would not do to dwell on that, nor to be affected by the housekeeper’s suggestion of mysterious ferrymen.
It was time to bring logic and common sense to bear, to eliminate the impossible and examine what was left. It was time to meet Philip St John.
The drawing room was just off the entrance hall. It was warmed by a roaring fire in the hearth, much to Harry’s relief. Its windows were covered by heavy brocade curtains and itschairs faced towards the fire. Barrymore basked in the warmth of the flames; he raised his grey head when the door opened and then lowered it again when he observed Agnes, although Harry noticed he maintained a watchful eye on her as Archer ushered her towards the chairs. ‘Tea?’ Archer asked, waving a hand at a table laden with cups and saucers and a gently steaming teapot.
‘Yes, please,’ Harry said, settling into an armchair. ‘With milk, thank you.’
He poured her a cup and balanced it deftly on a saucer to pass it to her, before filling a cup for himself. ‘I thoroughly recommend the seed cake,’ he said, indicating a delicious-looking, golden brown loaf topped with caraway seeds that sat invitingly at one end of the tray. ‘The cook here is an excellent all-rounder but I believe her cakes are worthy of the finest London afternoon tea menu.’
Harry was about to regretfully decline, having learned from experience that juggling tea and cake did not go well when trying to take notes, when her stomach betrayed her with a perfectly timed rumble, reminding her that she had eaten nothing since her hurried lunch before boarding the train at Liverpool Street. ‘Perhaps a small slice,’ she allowed, putting her notebook to one side.
She sipped the tea, which was strong and hot and most welcome, and took the opportunity to study John Archer as he busied himself in cutting the cake. Oliver’s estimate had been accurate, she thought – he was somewhere around his mid-thirties. Faint lines creased his forehead and the skin around his eyes, although his hair was as yet untouched by grey. He dressed well; his suit was expensively cut from a dark grey material but the waistcoat beneath his jacket was a glorious flash of claret and gold. His shoes were black and shiny – patent leather, if she was not mistaken, and made for style rather than comfort. He was,Harry guessed, something of a peacock but perhaps that wasn’t such a surprise, given his profession.
‘Your scrutiny does you credit, Miss Moss,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Do I meet with your expectations?’
It wasn’t a rebuke – if anything, he seemed amused as he handed her a plate containing a generous slice of cake – but Harry still felt warmth rise in her cheeks. She fought to maintain her composure. ‘You must forgive me. It’s a peculiarity of the job – one never knows which tiny detail might help Mr Holmes to crack the case.’
‘Indeed,’ he said heartily and cleared his throat. ‘You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.’
‘Exactly so,’ Harry said, recognising the quote as one belonging to Holmes but unable to recall which of the many stories it had come from. ‘Have you ever portrayed Mr Holmes on the stage?’
Archer shook his head. ‘I am a great admirer of his work but I have not yet had the honour,’ he said, and patted his gently rounded stomach. ‘Sadly, I suspect I am more of a Watson.’
Harry could not help smiling. Oliver had been right about that too; it was difficult not to like John Archer. ‘Is that what made you write to Holmes?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Archer said slowly, and some of his good humour slipped away. ‘You must understand that my uncle is an intensely private man. He began writing as a way to occupy his mind while he recovered from the war, little dreaming his first book would propel him to such fame.’ He sighed. ‘He once told me that everyone he met seemed to demand something from him – an autograph, an endorsement, a recommendation. It overwhelmed him, forcing him to hide away for well over a decade. But the life of a recluse suited him, although he struggled frequently with writer’s block.’
Harry nodded. She had visited the London Library the night before to investigate Philip St John’s literary career and had discovered his output had been sporadic over the years since his startling first success in 1920. She had borrowed that novel,The Blood-soaked Soil, with every intention of reading it before bed but tiredness had overtaken her and she had fallen asleep. It now sat on the bedside table of the blue room upstairs and she hoped she might have some time to begin reading it later.
Archer fixed her with a look. ‘You must be wondering what all this has to do with Sherlock Holmes but it is simply this: when my uncle fell ill, I rapidly came to suspect there was an identifiable cause for his sudden mental decline, although I was at a loss to discern what it might be. I could not approach the police for help, as they would undoubtedly fail to appreciate the complexity of our unhappy situation. I needed a remarkable intellect, a deductive genius who would see to the heart of the problem in an instant. In short, I needed Sherlock Holmes.’
Harry shifted uncomfortably in her armchair and took a mouthful of seed cake, wondering what Mr Archer would say if she revealed his confidence was entirely misplaced, that he did not have the brilliance of the great detective at his command, because such a man did not exist outside the imagination of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He only had her. The confession would meet with incredulity and denial and perhaps even anger, and the repercussions would resonate well beyond the grounds of Thrumwell Manor. No, she could not confront Archer with the truth, not when she had willingly entered into, and encouraged, the charade. She had come with the intention of discovering what she could in order to help Philip St John, fully aware that she did so under false pretences. All she could do was continue to play the game, and hope that her confidence in her own abilities was not misplaced.
‘I understand your position completely,’ she said. ‘Has Mr St John given any clue about the source of his terror? Were his nightmares the first symptom?’
John Archer placed his cup and saucer on the tea tray and gazed pensively at the leaping flames in the fireplace. ‘Tell me, Miss Moss. Do you believe in the supernatural?’
The question caught Harry by surprise. She had not expected him to raise the matter of the curse, given his housekeeper’s repeated insistence that he would not hear of it. ‘I do not,’ she said, after a moment to recover her wits.
‘Nor do I,’ he said, with brusque approval. ‘And yet there are circumstances at play here that defy logical explanation. That is why I sent for Holmes.’
Harry considered his words. It occurred to her that logic was something that might be beyond Philip St John. His mind must be entirely given over to emotion. ‘Does your uncle believe there is a supernatural cause?’
Archer’s gaze was resigned. ‘He does. That is why he will not sleep, at least not without resistance, and dare not leave the library. He fears death stalks him, although he cannot say what form it takes.’
It sounded very much like a tragic case of paranoid delusion, Harry decided, but kept the observation to herself. She put her cup on the tea tray, along with her empty plate, and opened her notebook. ‘And your doctor – what is his view?’
‘A complete mental breakdown,’ Archer said abruptly. ‘He advises me to transfer my uncle to an asylum, so that he may receive proper treatment.’
