Page 18 of The Cursed Writer
Archer nodded, looking suddenly weary. ‘He has taken a fresh dose of the sleeping draught now. That should ensure he sleeps well into the morning.’
Harry eyed the dozing man with a mixture of pity and concern. ‘I hope there will be no ill effects from being out on such a cold night with so little protection from the elements. Was he unconscious when you discovered him?’
‘He was,’ Archer confirmed. ‘Lying on his back, half in and half out of the water with Barrymore standing over him and snarling like a wolf, at least until he understood it was me who approached.’
Harry frowned, trying to piece together the sequence of events. ‘When did Donaldson arrive? I saw his light among the fens and knew he must be near.’
‘A few moments after me,’ Archer said. ‘I hadn’t realised you’d fallen behind and was about to send him to look for you when we heard you splashing towards us.’ He took a sip of brandy, his brow furrowing. ‘But you must be mistaken about the lights. He’d lost his by the time he reached me. There was only one lantern.’
She cast her mind back, reliving the moment she had hauled herself upright after tumbling into the freezing fen. She had been panic-stricken, afraid she had lost Archer. Could she have thought she saw two lights when there had been only one? It was hard to be sure. ‘But how else would I have known Donaldson had found you before I did?’ she asked. ‘I was not surprised that you were together. I expected him to be with you and he was.’
Archer eyed her sympathetically. ‘Fear can play cruel tricks on the mind. There’s no shame in thinking you saw something that wasn’t there.’
Harry rubbed a hand across her eyes, the weight of the night’s adventures suddenly taking their toll. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘Or perhaps there was someone else out there,’ Agnes said, with brittle defiance. ‘Someone… or something.’
‘Agnes,’ Archer snapped. ‘Must I tell you again?’
The housekeeper folded her arms. ‘It could have been him, although I pray for all our sakes it was not.’
Harry stared at her in blank incomprehension. ‘Who? Who could it have been?’
Agnes closed her eyes for a fraction of a second. ‘The ferryman,’ she whispered, and put a hand to her mouth.
At the fireplace, Archer let out a growl. ‘That’s enough. I won’t have this superstitious mumbo-jumbo raised again. There was no one else out there, Agnes – Miss Moss is confused.’ He tossed back the rest of his drink and glowered at thehousekeeper. ‘I think it is time we all went back to bed. Please summon Donaldson to help me carry my uncle upstairs.’
For a moment, the other woman looked so mutinous that Harry thought she would refuse. But Agnes got wordlessly to her feet and left the room, leaving Harry and Archer alone with the dozing Philip St John. ‘My apologies, Miss Moss,’ Archer said, after a heavy silence stretched between them. ‘I did not invite you here to be regaled with old wives’ tales and ghost stories. But nor did I anticipate you would risk your life chasing my uncle into the fens.’
‘But you did invite me to fully observe his condition,’ Harry said. ‘At least I can lay claim to having done that.’
‘True.’ He eyed her broodingly. ‘Have you reached any conclusions?’
‘None that I am prepared to share at this stage,’ she replied with total honesty. Many things troubled her about Philip St John’s mysterious lapses into apparent madness, but very little of what she had seen made sense and she could not yet connect the dots to form a whole picture. What she needed was time to consider everything she had learned, but she had an unhappy suspicion that time was a luxury Philip St John did not have. ‘I will return to London tomorrow and report back to you as soon as possible next week.’
Archer’s gaze travelled to his slumbering uncle. ‘Thank you. I know you appreciate the urgency of the situation.’
Harry took a breath. She did have a suggestion to make, although he would not thank her for it. ‘Mr Archer, I strongly recommend that you consider removing your uncle to a place of safety, if only in the short term.’ He began to object but she held up her hand. ‘There is a malign influence on him here, something I have yet to identify, but you were right to suspect there is a reason for his condition. I do not mean Agnes’s ferryman, or even anything supernatural, but I believesomething in this house is affecting him. It might be better to get him out of harm’s way.’
‘But you have seen him, Miss Moss,’ Archer exclaimed. ‘An asylum might ruin what little self-control he has left. I might not be able to get him out again.’
‘That is a danger,’ she conceded. ‘But is there nowhere else? A discreet hotel or the home of a friend?’
Archer spread his hands. ‘A hotel is out of the question – his illness would become public information within hours,’ he said. ‘And even though there are certain of my friends who could be trusted, I cannot be convinced that their employees would be similarly discreet. The risk is too great.’
Harry opened her mouth to point out that the risk of remaining far outweighed the chance that the public might discover Philip St John’s ill health, but Donaldson chose that moment to appear in the doorway, dry and seemingly none the worse for their trudge through the night. Archer shook his head decisively. ‘I’m afraid it is quite impossible to do as you suggest,’ he said, as he put his glass down and moved nearer to St John. ‘But for now, we would all do well to try and get some rest.’
Stifling a yawn, Harry decided not to argue further. Perhaps she would have better luck with Archer in the morning.
When Harry awoke, it took her several long seconds to remember where she was. The blue drapes around the bed confused her, as did the unfamiliar bumps in the mattress, and her head ached. Then she remembered she was at Thrumwell Manor, and the events of the night before came flooding back to her. How could she have forgotten?
Her hands stung as she pressed them against the sheets to lever herself out of bed, reminding her of the criss-crossed scratches that covered her palms. The hour felt late, she thought as she moved towards the window to pull the curtain aside. Had the rest of the household slept in too? Oliver was arriving to collect her at midday and there were many questions to be answered before Harry left Thrumwell Manor. In particular, she wanted to see the fens in the daylight, although she intended to keep to the paths this time.
The sky was a faded pale blue, dotted with wisps of white cloud that put her in mind of a watercolour painting. Her room was at the front of the house, overlooking the drive and the iron gates in the far distance. If she craned her head to the left, she could make out a faint yellow smudge on the horizon that she supposed must mark the start of Morden Fen. Archer had told her it surrounded the manor, and Agnes had suggested it linked to other waterways nearby, which made it unlikely that a boundary wall protected the estate on all sides. Harry’s thoughts returned to the unexplained light she had seen the night before. Was it possible someone else might have been among the reeds in the darkness? To what end?
A soft knock at the bedroom door brought Harry from her musing. Letting the curtain fall back into place, she crossed the room and opened the door to find Agnes standing there, a laden coal scuttle in one hand. Her face was pale, with dark smudges beneath her eyes. ‘Good morning, miss. Would you like me to make the fire up?’
‘Yes, please,’ Harry said, standing aside to let her in. ‘Although I have no idea what time it is, other than it feels rather late.’
