Page 17 of The Cursed Writer
He said nothing as he released her, his grim gaze returning to the scene at their feet. They were in a small clearing, no wider than four feet. Barrymore stood guard over the body of his master, the shadows from the lantern lending him an almost supernatural size. Beside them, Archer crouched, clearing mud and decaying leaves from the face of Philip St John. Sharpness twisted in Harry’s gut as she grasped the implications. ‘Is he?—’
‘He lives,’ Archer cut in, before she could finish the sentence. ‘But barely. Take the lamp from Donaldson so that he can help me lift him. You will need to guide us back to the house.’
She did as she was told, curling her numbed fingers around the handle and willing herself not to let go. ‘But where is Donaldson’s lamp? I saw it bobbing and guessed he had found you.’
Donaldson shook his head. ‘I dropped it almost as soon as I left you. It’s no use now.’
Harry stared at him, uncomprehending. ‘But?—’
Archer stood up, radiating urgency. ‘You take his feet, Donaldson. I’ll take his arms.’
The water squelched as they lifted him, and poured from his thin nightclothes in a torrent. Barrymore padded around them and came to stand at Harry’s side. She lowered her spare hand to rest upon his soaking-wet fur. ‘Show me the way, Barrymore.’
It was the most difficult journey Harry had ever had to make. Her arm ached from holding the lantern aloft. Coldpulsed through her limbs; she could not feel her feet and would have tripped more than once had it not been for Barrymore’s steadying presence. Behind her, soft grunts and muffled curses told her the men were fighting their own battles. She had no idea if she was leading them the right way. She could only blink up at the moon and hope the wolfhound at her side knew the way home.
At last, after what felt like hours, the ground became firmer under Harry’s feet. The sedge began to thin; the water grew shallower. She stumbled out of the reeds and righted herself on the mossy grass. Up ahead, she saw the distant but unmistakable glow of Thrumwell Manor. An uneven sob caught in her throat. They were free of the fen. They were safe.
7
Agnes and Mary hurried down the steps to meet them as they crunched awkwardly across the gravel to the house. ‘Oh no!’ Agnes cried, when she took in the grey faces of the men, and saw the body they carried between them.
‘Hot water and blankets,’ Archer commanded, as he and Donaldson manoeuvred the stone stairs and burst into the hallway. ‘And towels for the rest of us. Bring them to the drawing room.’
Harry hurried after them, pausing only to wrench the sodden boots and socks from her feet. The fire was still lit, although it had burned low. It glowed orange in the hearth as Archer and Donaldson lowered Philip St John to the floor in front of it. Ashen-faced, Archer pressed two fingers into his uncle’s neck, searching for a pulse. When that did not help, he held a hand in front of the bluish lips and a faint flicker of relief crossed his features. ‘Still breathing. But we must get him warm. Where is Agnes with the towels and blankets?’
As though summoned, the housekeeper burst into the room, her arms wrapped around a mound of folded blankets. Maryfollowed, carrying towels, which she deposited on an armchair. Archer looked up. ‘Donaldson, a glass of brandy.’
The man did as instructed, returning from the drinks cabinet with a glass brimming with amber liquid. Gently, Archer raised his uncle’s head until it rested in the crook of his shoulder and took the alcohol. He tilted the brandy to St John’s lips, allowing a dribble to pass across the rim and seep into his mouth. The effect was almost instantaneous. Philip St John coughed and jerked forwards, a slew of fen water gushing down his chin. His eyes flew open and stared wildly at Archer. ‘Steady, Uncle,’ the younger man murmured. ‘You’re safe now; have no fear.’
St John’s hands clutched at his nephew’s chest. ‘I am not safe! We are none of us safe.’
Archer held the brandy to his lips again. This time, more of the liquid passed his lips and he gasped as it burned its way down. Faint colour began to flow into his cheeks, although he shivered uncontrollably. ‘We need to remove these wet clothes,’ Archer said, and glanced across at Harry, who had also begun to shiver. ‘Agnes, please run a bath for Miss Moss. Mary, perhaps you might provide us all with some tea.’ He glanced up at Donaldson. ‘I’d be grateful if you could dry Barrymore. Without him, we might all have drowned this night.’
Reluctantly, Harry allowed the housekeeper to lead her upstairs. The bath seemed to take an age to fill, during which Harry escaped to her bedroom to strip off her soaking coat and nightclothes, but at last it was ready. Agnes left Harry to it. She winced as she introduced her extremities to the gently steaming water, gritting her teeth at the tingle of increased blood flow and the sting of the many cuts and grazes on the palms of her hands. But once she was fully immersed, her aches and pains were soothed by the heat. She lay for a full fifteen minutes without moving, then set about washing the dirt from her hair.
Now that the adrenaline of the chase through the fens was wearing off, shock was numbing her reactions. Her thoughts were fragmented and hard to decipher, as though they were a radio signal coming from a great distance, and she found it hard to put events into sequence. Had Barrymore begun to howl before or after she had lost Archer? Donaldson must have been near – she had seen his lamp bobbing in the distance. Did he stumble over Philip St John or had Archer reached him first? And what had caused St John to run into the fens in the first place?
Warm at last, she dried herself on the soft white towels Agnes had provided and returned to her room. Sleep was out of the question – not without knowing how Philip St John fared. She dressed quickly, pulling on several pairs of socks and both the jumpers she had brought, and made her way back downstairs. Philip St John was now seated in the armchair, swaddled in blankets, his eyes drifting shut and jerking open suddenly in the manner of one fighting exhaustion but otherwise unmoving. Barrymore lay at his feet, his dark gaze fixing on Harry as she entered the drawing room. John Archer stood next to the fire, sipping a brandy of his own, still in the same clothes he had worn outside. Steam rose gently from the side nearest the flames. Agnes perched on the armchair opposite St John. She looked worn out too, Harry thought. There was no sign of Donaldson. She assumed he was restoring himself as she had done.
‘I’m afraid the tea is stewed,’ Archer said, indicating a tray on the table. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer a brandy.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ Harry said. ‘I am quite recovered. How is your uncle?’
‘Still alive, despite his best efforts,’ Archer said, without a trace of amusement. ‘But the shock of his experience appears to have chased his demons away, at least temporarily. We may yet get some sleep.’
‘Have you been able to establish why he ran from the house?’
Archer hesitated. ‘Indirectly.’ He glanced at the housekeeper. ‘Agnes has discovered he did not take his sleeping draught. It appears he pretended to, and presented her with an empty glass as though he had, but instead he poured it into a fold of his chair in the library.’
‘There’s a sticky patch,’ she said, sounding injured. ‘I thought I could trust him to take it – I only turned my back for a moment.’
‘No one blames you, Agnes,’ Archer said soothingly. His gaze returned to Harry. ‘But the exact reason for his departure is not clear. I can only assume it was another nightmare or hallucination.’
Harry shook her head. ‘I didn’t hear any screaming.’
‘There was none,’ Archer replied. ‘He woke me when he threw a chair across the room. It hit the wall between his room and mine.’
The news made Harry pause. ‘That sounds dangerous.’
