Page 16 of The Cursed Writer
The dog raised his head, sniffing the air. Harry offered the biscuit. He took it, despatching it with two decisive crunches, and eyed her as if hoping for more. She laughed. ‘Maybetomorrow.’ She held out her hand for him to inspect, the way she always did when befriending a new dog. Cautious at first, he snuffled a wet nose against her fingers, then licked them once. Friendship accepted, he lowered his head to his paws once more. Harry bent down to ruffle his ears, and he closed his eyes in silent appreciation. ‘Goodnight, Barrymore,’ she said affectionately. ‘Sleep well.’
It seemed to Harry that only minutes had passed since she had gone to bed before she jerked awake. She lay still, heart thudding, blinking in the darkness and trying to establish what had disturbed her. There had been a sound, she was sure – a crash somewhere nearby. Now she heard a muffled cry in the corridor outside her room, followed by the thudding of feet. Sitting up in alarm, Harry swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. She pulled open the bedroom door and peered out, just in time to catch sight of Agnes flying past. ‘What is it?’ she called.
‘The master,’ Agnes cried over her shoulder. ‘He’s out of his mind!’
No sooner had she disappeared along the darkened corridor than Mary huffed into view, dressed in a voluminous white nightgown with an oil lantern in her hand. She tossed an agonised look Harry’s way. ‘Best if you stay in your room, miss,’ she said, in between breaths. ‘There’s nothing you can do that we can’t.’
Another desperate shout rang out, this one from downstairs. It was followed by a ferocious volley of barks. Harry stepped back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe, pulling out the boots and warm coat Archer had advised her to bring. It didnot take a detective like Holmes to deduce what had happened. Barrymore had not made a sound for the entire duration of her visit – that he was agitated now suggested something was happening outside the manor. She fumbled with the laces on her boots, forcing her impatient fingers to slow, and tugged her winter coat over her dressing gown. The corridor was empty but she could hear raised voices coming from below.
Harry hurried towards the stairs and was greeted on the ground floor by the sight of John Archer pulling on a coat, Donaldson standing by with a lantern in each hand. Mary and Agnes hovered nearby, anxiety and dread written large across their features. There was no sign of Philip St John or the Irish wolfhound.
Archer looked up as Harry approached. ‘The worst has happened,’ he said tersely. ‘My uncle has been devoured by fear once again and has fled the safety of the house.’
Harry glanced between him and Donaldson, then tightened her coat more firmly around her. ‘Let me help. Three pairs of eyes are better than two.’
Archer took one of the lanterns from his man. ‘Thank you, but the fens are at their most treacherous in the dark. Donaldson and I will conduct the search.’
But Harry stood her ground. ‘I have boots and a warm coat. Give me a lantern and I can help.’
He gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘This is no place for a woman. Please, stay inside.’
It was exactly what Harry had expected to hear. She drew herself up and fixed him with a steely glare. ‘Need I remind you of the reason you invited me here? Would Sherlock Holmes stand by while others risked their lives? Would he allow vital evidence to slip through his fingers?’
Archer stared at her.
‘It is too dangerous,’ Donaldson growled.
Harry ignored him and stretched out a hand to take the lamp Mary carried. ‘Let me put it another way, Mr Archer. I am coming, whether you like it or not.’
He threw up his empty hand in frustration. ‘Come, then. We are wasting precious time.’
The chill of the night bit at Harry’s fingers as she hurried down the stone steps at the front of Thrumwell Manor. The moon glowed overhead, surrounded by stars, and she realised she had no idea what time it was. Frost glittered on the gravel beneath her boots and her breath plumed in clouds; the temperature must be well below freezing. It was no time to be outside, she thought with a shiver and quickened her pace. The last time Philip St John had fled his home in terror, he had contracted a fever that had weakened him. This time, the consequences could be fatal.
Archer and Donaldson had veered left. Harry followed the bobbing of their lanterns, breaking into a run to catch up to them. The crunch of gravel under her feet changed to spongy softness and she glanced down to see she was now running across grass. ‘Any sign of him?’ Archer’s voice rang out in the darkness.
‘Nothing,’ Donaldson responded. ‘Wait! Was that a bark?’
Harry cocked her head as she ran, listening. Above the sound of her own ragged breathing, all she heard was a strange sibilant sighing, the rustle of reeds that seemed to surround her, even though she knew that could not be true. ‘Donaldson – turn south.’ Archer’s cry was commanding. ‘Miss Moss – to me! You and I will search north.’
The weaving light from his lantern halted. Harry angled towards it, noticing the ground underfoot changing again, becoming wetter. Her boots sank into the grass, making it more difficult to run. With a burst of determination, she made for the stationary glow of Archer’s lamp. His face loomed pale as shereached him. He held up a hand. ‘Do you hear that? Splashing, up ahead.’
Harry listened. There was the unmistakable sound of something moving at speed through water but the darkness prevented her from identifying what it was, or where exactly it might be. ‘Is it your uncle?’
‘Or Barrymore,’ Archer replied, peering into the night. ‘No others would be out among the fens at this hour. But we must go carefully, for all our haste. There are deep waters here.’
Turning, he began to walk forward, his lantern held high. They had not gone far when Harry caught her first glimpse of the sedge that marked the edge of the fenland. The reedbed rose before them, its thin stalks huddling to resemble a ghost forest that stretched almost as tall as Harry herself. There was scarcely a breeze and yet the leaves shivered and swayed, so that it seemed to her that they hissed in warning. ‘This way,’ Archer advised her. ‘Mark my footsteps and follow them as closely as you can.’
She did as he advised, straining her ears for any clue to the location of Philip St John. Icy water seeped inside her boots, which were not as sturdy as she had anticipated. Ahead of her, John Archer pushed the reeds aside as they made their way deeper into the fen. Faint sounds made themselves heard over the ever-present sighing: the squawk of a displaced bird, wings flapping as it took flight, the slap of water against boots. And then a long, mournful howl that sent a shudder of foreboding down the length of Harry’s spine. ‘Barrymore!’ Archer exclaimed, his lantern swinging wildly as he tried to pinpoint the direction of the noise. ‘Barrymore!’
The howl faded away, only to begin anew, louder and more desolate than before. ‘This way,’ Archer bellowed and plunged into the sedge.
Harry followed as best she could but the water sucked at her feet and slowed her progress. She kept her gaze fixed on Archer’s light, dragging her boots free from the mire, her breath ever more ragged in her chest. Her woollen socks were soaked through, her toes numb. The cold weighed them down, making it harder to pull her feet clear of the water, and she stumbled more than once. If moving through the fen was this difficult for her, she could only imagine how deathly cold Philip St John must be, dressed only in nightclothes. He would not survive for long, she realised, and the thought spurred her on.
At last it seemed as though Barrymore’s howls grew nearer. Ahead, Archer’s light slowed. Harry pushed towards it, fearful she might lose sight of it if he lowered it to help his uncle. She had no idea where Donaldson might be, although she assumed he too was homing in on the wolfhound’s distress call. And then she slipped, tumbling forwards into the brackish water, gasping as cold enveloped her arms. Her hands sank into the fen, reed stalks stabbing at her palms as she tried to break her fall. She landed almost flat, her face plunging beneath the water, filling her mouth and nostrils. Blessedly, her fingers made contact with the reedbed. She pushed with all her might and burst into the night once more, coughing and retching as she forced herself upright. Water cascaded from her sodden arms and chest; the cold gnawed at her skin. She blinked hard, not daring to wipe her eyes with mud-coated fingers, and cast around for her lantern. It lay half-submerged, its glow extinguished.
Desperately, she sought Archer and could have sobbed in relief when she saw his lamp in the distance. She plunged through the blackness towards it, hands outstretched and little caring about the water that splashed over her knees now; she was already drenched to the bone. Barrymore’s howling stopped with a shocking abruptness that Harry could only pray meant he had been found. As she staggered on, she saw a secondlight bob into view, further away still. Donaldson, she thought with another burst of relief, and dragged her exhausted limbs onwards.
When at last she reached Archer’s light, she was almost sent sprawling again, this time by an outstretched foot. Strong arms caught her before she met the water, and she looked up to see it was Donaldson pulling her to safety. ‘Thank you,’ she gasped, her teeth chattering around the words. ‘Th-thank you.’
