Page 13 of The Cursed Writer
Harry understood his unspoken reluctance. Care for the mentally ill had endured a nightmarish reputation for centuries, with asylums leaving vulnerable patients at the mercy of neglect and abuse, often with no attempt at treatment or rehabilitation. Huge steps had been taken to modernise the way the medicalprofession treated psychological afflictions, and the inhumane conditions of the old lunatic asylums were long gone, but there was still much that was unknown and a dreadful stigma attached to being admitted to a psychiatric hospital. No wonder Archer was desperate to find the reason for his uncle’s sudden illness. ‘Perhaps it would help if you could describe what happened the day Mr St John’s health took a turn for the worse,’ she said. ‘Did anything out of the ordinary occur?’
‘Nothing,’ Archer said. ‘Believe me, I have gone over and over that day, and the days preceding it. All was as it usually was. My uncle is a creature of habit – he rarely leaves the grounds of the manor. He took Barrymore for his usual walk – as you can imagine, a hound of his size needs considerable exercise and they usually roam along the path that winds through Morden Fen, most of which is contained within the manor’s estate. They are often gone for several hours.’
‘I see,’ Harry said. Her own family dogs also needed long walks, and enjoyed the run of the Abinger land that surrounded the hall. ‘Do they take their walk in the morning or later in the day?’
Archer frowned. ‘Generally mid-morning but on that particular day, they went first thing. He took an early breakfast and was gone before I came downstairs.’
A change in routine, she observed, scribbling furiously. ‘Why was that?’
‘It had been a particularly good sunrise,’ Archer said, shrugging. ‘My uncle was inspired to get as close to it as he could.’
‘And when they returned, Mr St John seemed to be his usual self?’
‘As far as I could tell. Barrymore had chased a heron into the fen and needed washing down, but Donaldson took care of that. I saw my uncle at lunch and he seemed as taciturn as ever. Askedme to run an errand to the village shop to collect some more tobacco for his pipe and said he had some business to attend to in the library.’
Harry had to admit it did not sound as though anything untoward had happened to trigger such terror in Philip St John. ‘Did you notice any change in his behaviour that evening?’
‘None at all.’ Archer paused. ‘I took Barrymore out for a short walk before it got dark, just as far as the gates and back, and met my uncle for a pre-dinner drink in this very room. We ate an excellent meal – venison, as I recall – and took leave of each other around ten o’clock.’
She made a note of the time. ‘When did you become aware something was wrong?’
‘When the screaming began,’ he said. ‘In my sleep-befuddled state, I assumed it must be Agnes, or perhaps Mary, but realised I was wrong the moment I stumbled from my room. It was coming from along the corridor, from my uncle’s room, but that made no sense to me. The noise was a dreadful, high-pitched keening, not the kind of sound a man would make.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it.’
Harry grimaced in sympathy. ‘What happened next?’
‘The others arrived – Agnes and Mary in their nightclothes, Donaldson half-dressed, all of them just as bewildered and half-asleep as I. My uncle was in the habit of sleeping with a locked door, so Donaldson and I forced it open. We found him curled upright in the corner of the room, screaming and screaming as though burning alive, although there was no injury that I could see.’ Archer glanced at Harry, his expression suddenly bleak. ‘I’m ashamed to admit I struck him, although there was no other way to bring him to his senses.’
The fact that he was so clearly remorseful did him credit, Harry thought. ‘Did it work?’
‘It did, although it took some time for him to tell us what had prompted him to scream in the first place. A nightmare he said, of such unbearable horror that his mind had wiped all trace of it from his memory. He only remembered the fear – a paralysing terror, he called it. He did not remember the screaming.’
Harry thought back to the sequence of events Oliver had related to her. ‘You managed to calm him and the household returned to bed. Is that correct?’
Archer nodded. ‘We were all exhausted the next morning but otherwise none the worse. I had some business in Ely but told Agnes to keep an eye on her master. Upon my return, she reported that the day had been uneventful, although my uncle had been irritable and had not eaten. He was ill-tempered with me at dinner, and I saw he had no appetite for the splendid meal Mary had served. Under my instructions, Agnes prepared a mild sedative – a lavender and valerian root tea, which he grudgingly accepted. I suggested an early night and took myself to bed not long after nine o’clock.’ He stood up then, and crossed to a polished cabinet against one wall. ‘Forgive me, but I find I am in need of something stronger than tea. Can I offer you anything?’
Harry shook her head. Archer busied himself briefly with a glass and the whisky bottle, then returned to his seat. ‘Where was I? Ah yes, the second night.’ He stared broodingly into the fire. ‘I confess that I had taken a heavy nightcap to bed with me and perhaps that made me sleep more soundly than I might otherwise have done, for it took longer for the screaming to wake me. When I arrived at my uncle’s door, it was already open and he was surrounded by Agnes, Mary and Donaldson. He was not curled in the corner this time, but on his feet and brandishing an iron poker.’
The admission caused Harry a flicker of disquiet. ‘I was under the impression he was not violent.’
Archer waved a hand. ‘He isn’t – not on that occasion, and never since. I quickly realised he was fending off some apparition or creature only he could see, but when I tried to take the poker from him, he pushed me aside and barrelled from the room. He was through the front door before any of us could stop him, vanishing into the pitch-black night.’
Into the freezing fen, Harry thought grimly. ‘You followed.’
‘We did,’ Archer said, ‘although we would not have found him had it not been for Barrymore. He sleeps downstairs and was out after his master before any of us had cleared the stairs, snarling and growling in a way I’ve never known before. It was his barking that led us to my uncle, half-drowned in amongst the sedge and reeds. Donaldson and I carried him back to the house, only semi-conscious, and Agnes and Mary dried him off. They did their best to warm him but it was clear from his shivering that he had caught a chill.’
‘The doctor came the next morning,’ Harry observed. ‘Did he suggest admitting Mr St John to hospital then?’
‘No. He prescribed medicine to reduce the fever, advised us to keep him calm and warm, and gave me a strong sleeping draught to administer at night.’ Archer shook his head. ‘In spite of being weakened by the fever, I do believe he was more himself during those few days. He slept, at least, which was a mercy for us all. But once the symptoms of the chill receded, the nightmares returned. Except now they were not confined to the night – the apparitions invaded his waking hours, and grew worse with every passing day. Which is where you find us now, Miss Moss. Please tell me you can help.’
He looked so dispirited that Harry felt her own disquiet stir. ‘It sounds like a terrible ordeal,’ she said, even as the weight of the mystery he was expecting her to unravel settled across her shoulders. Could she uncover what was ailing his uncle? What if she failed? For a moment, she battled with the fear that shehad undertaken a task that was far beyond her: she was not really a detective and certainly not as brilliant as Holmes. But she was also aware that this was a feeling she had encountered before, when she had gazed into the desperate eyes of Mildred Longstaff’s family as they begged her to find their girl. She had been out of her depth then too, but it had not prevented her from solving the case and restoring Mildred to her family.
Straightening her spine, Harry met John Archer’s beseeching gaze. ‘I shall do everything in my power to help you.’
Archer got to his feet. ‘Let me show you the layout of the house, so you can understand our movements better.’ Lifting his glass, he swallowed the remainder of his whisky in one gulp. ‘We will finish in the library, with my uncle. I can only hope I have done enough to prepare you for what he has become.’
6
As Harry had surmised, not all of Thrumwell Manor was in everyday use. The upper floors were closed off, apart from the attic rooms inhabited by Agnes, Donaldson and Mary. A servants’ staircase allowed them to come and go freely without using the main stone stairs. To the right of the staircase, Archer opened and closed a succession of doors, giving Harry a brief glimpse of several other first-floor guest rooms; she had a jumbled impression of pink wallpaper and drapes, followed by yellow and then green. All were cold and dank through lack of use and she was relieved when they did not linger in any of them.
