Page 20 of The Cursed Writer
‘But of course, simply name the place,’ Archer exclaimed, and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘I’ll leave you to your breakfast, if you don’t mind, and tell Donaldson you’ll be taking Barrymore out. Just ring the bell for Mary when you’ve finished eating.’
‘Of course,’ Harry said. ‘Thank you.’
Nodding at her, he left the room. Harry helped herself to a glass of orange juice and sipped it thoughtfully. Archer’s admission that the household was finding his uncle’s illness a burden reinforced her suspicion that something was causing the man’s condition to worsen, although she had no idea what that might be. She had not had time to examine the library in any great detail the night before, not with St John and Archer in attendance, but it would be empty now. Did she have time to sneak inside before Mary returned with her breakfast? She would need to be quick.
Moving decisively, Harry got to her feet and hurried to the door. She glanced out, checking both ways. The hallway was empty. Turning right, she walked as quickly as she dared. When she reached the closed door of the library, she hesitated. If it were locked, she would have to abandon the idea. Reaching down, she grasped the handle and turned. There was a loud clickand the door opened. Checking she was not observed, Harry slipped inside.
The curtains were still drawn, giving the room a cold and gloomy aspect. Harry flicked a switch near the door and the wall lights flickered into life. They were as weak here as elsewhere in the house but a little light was better than none. She stood still for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Where to start? Hurrying forward, she approached the chair Philip St John had occupied the night before. Some effort had been made to clean it but there was an unmistakable dark stain where the brown leather seat cushion met the arm. Kneeling, Harry sniffed cautiously. The overriding odour was of stale pipe smoke and tobacco but she thought she detected a heavy, sweet scent that could have been medicinal. With some reluctance, Harry licked her finger and rubbed it across the stain. The taste was similar to that of cough medicine but with a faint bitter aftertaste that could certainly be the barbiturate commonly used in sleeping draughts.
What had prompted Philip St John to dispose of it instead of drinking it? Had it been the paranoia of his condition or something more? The drug it contained could certainly be dangerous – even lethal – if the wrong dosage were used. Had Philip St John suspected something?
Getting to her feet, Harry brushed fragments of charred tobacco from her knees, remnants of the spilled pipe the night before. She gazed around the room in search of further clues, anything that might inspire terror in an already troubled mind. Philip St John had seemed especially fixated with one of the bookshelves – which one had it been? She perched on the edge of the armchair, recreating his posture of the night before, then crossed the room to the tall rows of books. She ran her fingers along the spines until she reached a title she recognised:The Blood-soaked Soil. She’d made mention of it the night before but it appeared to mean little to the author. Harry supposed hismind was busy with other things – terrors she could not even guess at.
Conscious that she had been away from the dining room for some time, she crossed to the nearest window and peered behind the curtain. The view from here looked out across the fen. Anyone stood here in the early hours of the morning would have seen her stumbling from the reeds, with Archer and Donaldson carrying the unconscious Philip St John. Perhaps Mary and Agnes had watched from this room.
With a final look around, Harry made her way back to the door and switched the lights off. Glancing up and down the hallway, she slipped through the door and closed it carefully behind her. She was so intent on getting back to the dining room that she almost bumped into Mary, who was leaving the room. ‘Oh!’ the cook clucked, jumping backwards like a startled hen. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’
‘The bathroom,’ Harry managed, with a self-conscious laugh.
Mary relaxed a little. ‘Your toast and eggs are ready, and there’s fresh tea. Will you be wanting anything else?’
‘No, thank you,’ Harry said. ‘I’m sure it’s going to be delicious.’
Apparently mollified, the cook nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
The eggs were as good as anything Harry had tasted at Abinger Hall, poached to perfection on golden brown toast slathered with salty butter. She took her time over a cup of tea, reviewing what she had found in the library. There was no obvious evidence of anything untoward, other than the spilled medicine and that in itself proved nothing, except that Philip St John was wilier than any of them had thought. She was sure, if she asked, that John Archer would show her the bottle containing his uncle’s sleeping draught and she would see the barbiturates listed as the active ingredient. It was, she suspected, simply another oddity that led nowhere. With a sigh,she finished her tea and piled up the used crockery on the silver tray Mary had left on the table. Since Harry needed to visit the kitchen to retrieve her boots and coat before her walk, she may as well return the tray at the same time.
The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air as Harry neared the kitchen. The cook had her hands in the sink and her back to the door when she entered the room. ‘Is that you, Agnes? I could do with some help with these dishes.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Harry said lightly. ‘But I’m happy to dry if it helps.’
Mary spun around, her face a picture of consternation. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, miss. I wasn’t expecting you.’
Harry slid the tray onto the ancient wooden table, taking care not to dislodge the rack of golden bread rolls that sat there cooling. ‘I know. But I need my boots and I thought I would save you the job of clearing the dining room table.’
Mary shook her head. ‘Mr Archer will have my guts if he finds out.’
‘I won’t tell him if you don’t,’ Harry said, smiling. She reached for one of the tea towels that hung from an overhead airer. ‘But there is something I wanted to ask you about. Why don’t I dry the dishes while we talk?’
For a moment, she thought Mary would refuse. ‘Mr Archer won’t like it,’ she mumbled, but turned back to the sink and resumed her task.
Harry lifted a plate and set to work. ‘Agnes tells me you’re a local. Is that right?’
The cook nodded. ‘Born and bred in Burwell,’ she said. ‘My pa worked at the fertiliser factory, back when they were mining the fens for dung, and my husband worked there too, until the accident that killed him.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Harry said, lowering the plate to stare at the other woman.
‘It was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘Nine years or more. That’s why I came here. His job came with a worker’s cottage and they wanted me out to give it to someone else. I needed somewhere quick and this job was live-in.’
Harry gazed at her with horrified sympathy. ‘That must have been a dreadful time.’
Mary sighed. ‘Like I said, it was a while ago. I’m not the first woman to lose her man to drowning round here, and I won’t be the last.’
Perhaps it was an occupational hazard when so many men depended on the waterways for their livelihoods but Harry thought there was more to Mary’s words than that. ‘What do you mean?’
There was a silence, as though the cook was weighing her words carefully. ‘I mean that you need to keep your wits about you in the fens. Anyone born round here knows it.’
Harry thought back to the night before. ‘I wasn’t born here and I can definitely vouch for that. I almost lost sight of Mr Archer and Donaldson and then I would have been in trouble.’
