Page 14 of The Cursed Writer
Archer’s room was on the left of the stairs, three doors along from the blue room Harry occupied. It reminded her of her brothers’ bedrooms at home – a little untidy but comfortable and lived-in. At the furthest end of the corridor was the room where Philip St John slept. It was warm in here too, with a banked fire in the hearth and a four-poster bed even grander than the one in Archer’s room, but there was something in the stale air that reminded Harry of a sick room. A full set of iron tools sat beside the fire. No one had felt the need to confiscate the poker.
Once they had left Philip St John’s room, its splintered lock patched up but not fitted with a replacement that could keep anyone out, Harry turned her attention to a discreet door set into the wood panelling of the end wall. ‘Does this lead to the service staircase?’
‘It does,’ Archer said, and turned a small brass door handle. The door swung silently inward. ‘They go from the basement all the way up to the attic rooms.’
Leaning into the inky darkness, Harry looked up and down the shadowy stairs. ‘There are no lamps.’
Archer shook his head. ‘They use oil lamps to light their way. The previous family didn’t fit electric lights in there before they left and my uncle didn’t see the need for so small a staff.’
It made sense, Harry supposed, but she didn’t much like the idea of travelling up and down a dark, narrow staircase with only an oil lamp to guide her steps, and she couldn’t imagine Chesterton, the butler at Abinger Hall, accepting such a thing. ‘Of course,’ she murmured.
The ground floor had unused rooms too. The ballroom had clearly not enjoyed any dancing for a very long time, which made Harry a little sad; it was filled with cloth-draped furniture and the parquet floor was thick with dust. A splendidly formal dining room had a similarly abandoned air, although Archer showed her a much smaller room containing a highly polished six-seater table that was much more suited to the modest needs of the manor’s inhabitants. ‘We’ll dine around six-thirty this evening, if that suits you?’ Archer said.
A quick glance at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece told Harry it was just past five-thirty now. ‘Perfect,’ she said.
The kitchens were exactly as Harry had expected them to be – warm, comforting and filled with delicious aromas that competed for her attention. Mary was a well-rounded woman in her fifties, with rosy cheeks and wisps of white hair that peekedbeneath her cap. She was kneading a large slab of bread dough with the air of one who meant to pummel it into submission but she looked up and smiled when they entered. ‘Agnes told me you’d arrived,’ she said, when Archer introduced Harry. ‘I hope you’ve brought a good appetite.’
Harry returned her smile. ‘If the rest of your food is as delicious as your seed cake then I’m going to be leaving here half a stone heavier tomorrow.’
The cook beamed at her. ‘Well, now, I aim to please.’
Archer rubbed his hands together. ‘And you succeed very well, Mary. As I mentioned earlier, Miss Moss may want to ask you some questions about my uncle’s illness. Please answer them as fully as you can.’
‘I’m not sure what I can add but I’ll do my best,’ Mary said, and Harry thought she saw a shadow pass over the other woman’s face.
‘Nothing for now,’ Harry reassured her. ‘Perhaps after dinner, when you’re not so busy.’
Mary nodded gratefully. ‘Yes, miss. Thank you.’
Outside the kitchen, Archer waved a hand at a door at the far end of the corridor. ‘That leads to the cellar, where we keep the wine. Do you need to see it?’
Harry made a mental adjustment to the map she was building in her mind and shook her head. ‘Not at present.’
‘Good. That just leaves the library.’ Squaring his shoulders, he glanced at her. ‘Now remember, his appearance might shock you but he is not in any way dangerous. You will be perfectly safe.’
‘Please don’t worry,’ Harry said. ‘I’m fully prepared.’
Archer looked as though he might add more but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he led her out of the domestic quarters and back into the main part of the house. He stopped at aheavy wooden door and gripped the brass handle with purpose. ‘Ready?’
She nodded. ‘Ready.’
The door opened with the faintest of sighs. Harry followed Archer into the room, which appeared at first glance to be a fairly typical country house library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered all four walls and were stacked with books of all shapes and sizes – tall atlases, leather-backed tomes, less expensive cloth-coated hardbacks. As with all the other regularly used rooms in the house, thick drapes hung at the windows – these ones in a deep burgundy silk, Harry noted, to complement the plush plum-coloured carpet. A fire burned in the hearth, stoked high with leaping yellow flames and bright orange coals; the smell of woodsmoke and soot mingled with the lighter aroma of pipe tobacco.
Two high-backed armchairs faced each other near the fireplace. From Harry’s position at the door, neither seemed to be occupied, but then she saw a faint curl of smoke rising from the chair with its back to her. A low, fearful voice broke the silence. ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’
Archer strode forwards. ‘It’s me, Uncle. It’s John.’ He rounded the chair so that its occupant could see him. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you.’
There was a sharp intake of breath, the suggestion of movement in the chair. ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ the voice repeated. This time its tone was querulous.
‘A friend,’ Archer said soothingly, and beckoned Harry nearer. ‘Here she comes now. This is Miss Moss. She’s staying with us this evening.’
Slowly, Harry made her way towards the centre of the room and turned towards the chair. She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected to find – a skeletal figure, perhaps, with gaunt yellow skin and strands of grey hair, and claw-like hands that dug intothe arms of the chair as if they were talons. What she actually saw was a sandy-haired man of around forty-five, wild-eyed but alert. That he had recently been ill was evident from the pallor of his complexion and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. One hand held a gently smouldering pipe, the other clutched at a sheaf of blankets tucked around him almost to chin height. ‘Hello, Mr St John,’ she said softly. ‘How lovely to meet you.’
He surveyed her with sudden agitation. Twin spots of red burned in his cheeks, in stark contrast to the milk white of the rest of his face. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
With a quick glance at Archer, Harry took the seat opposite Philip St John. ‘Oh, but I’ve just arrived. I came especially to see you, after your nephew told me you’d caught a fever.’
At this, the older man glared at Archer. ‘Is she a nurse? Another damned nurse to prod and poke at me?’
