Page 26 of The Cursed Writer
It was exactly what Harry wanted to hear. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s the kind of thing that happens in the stories, after all.’
Bobby’s eyes widened. ‘Blimey, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.’
She placed the telegram on the desk. ‘Unfortunately, the truth is almost certainly much less interesting. But there’s no harm in dreaming sometimes.’
The post boy backed out of the room, his gaze far away, and Harry wondered whether she had said too much. But she could not take it back now. With luck, word of the telegram’s arrival would reach the ears of the person who had broken into her office. All she could do now was set the trap at the end of the day and wait to see who, if anyone, sprang it.
9
Harry’s hands shook for a full thirty minutes after she had left the bank for the day. Would the intruder be tempted back by the arrival of a third telegram? And, if they were, would Harry’s carefully laid trap spring in the way she intended? Oliver was right – it was a risky strategy. The presence of the trap would make it apparent Harry knew someone had broken in. There could be unexpected consequences.
To distract herself, she detoured to St James’ Square on the way home, and spent a calming twenty minutes browsing the stacks of the London Library. She left with a copy ofMortlake’s Common and Uncommon Poisonsunder her arm. If she found herself unable to sleep, she could at least try to identify the cause of Philip St John’s illness.
She awoke early, having fallen asleep over the chapter concerning garden poisons and dreamt of evil-looking potions she was expected to drink. Her face was pale in the mirror above the bathroom sink and she spent more time than usual trying to give her cheeks some colour. But at last it was time to leave for work. She did not want to draw attention to herself by arriving early.
Patrick nodded to her as she approached, pulling the door open wide to allow her through. ‘Good morning, Miss White,’ he said. ‘How are you today?’
Harry smiled, although her gaze flew automatically to his right hand, which was resting on the brass door handle. She had left the handle of her office smeared with a thin layer of Vaseline, on top of which she had carefully painted a coating of the antiseptic tincture, Gentian Violet. Anyone who gripped the handle firmly, or even brushed against it, would find their skin indelibly stained a brilliant violet. The grooms at Abinger Hall used it to disinfect the horses’ hooves and Harry had seen the results when they had not taken enough care to protect themselves, and no amount of scrubbing removed it. If anyone other than Harry had tried to enter the office, they would be obviously branded. But Patrick’s fingers were clean and unstained. Not him, Harry thought to herself, unless he was left-handed. But a quick downward glance told her his other hand was unmarked too.
‘I’m very well, thank you. Are you on your own today?’
‘It appears so,’ the doorman said, with a good-natured grimace. ‘I’ll be busy, if nothing else.’
It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to ask where Danny was, but she knew the question would seem improper. Instead, she adopted a sympathetic expression. ‘I do hope Danny is not unwell.’
‘I’ll be sure to pass on your good wishes,’ Patrick replied as she passed inside.
At the door to her office, Harry took a moment to study the handle. Was it her imagination or was the layer of Vaseline smudged? It was hard to tell. But she could not linger outside to examine it too closely. With a quick glance along the corridor to make sure she was not observed, she pulled a pair of gloves from her bag, and the damp muslin cloth she had brought fromhome. Taking great care, she wiped the handle clean of both the tincture and the jelly. When she was satisfied not a trace remained, she slotted the key into the lock. She was just about to turn it when she remembered the other precaution she had taken – the hair she had once again trapped between the door and the frame. Peering upwards, she searched for the single golden strand. She did not find it. The breath caught in her throat. There was only one way it could have been dislodged it. Someone had been in her office.
She did not imagine they were still there now but, even so, she opened the door with caution. As before, nothing looked out of place, apart from a silvery trace of Vaseline along the edge of the filing cabinet and a small purple smudge on the telegram she had deliberately left unopened on her desk. She was certain now that the intruder had fallen foul of the trap she had laid. The evidence was smeared all over her office.
Methodically, she set about wiping it away and then settled at her desk to start work. When Bobby arrived with the latest batch of letters, she surreptitiously studied his hands. They looked the same as always: pale, with fingernails bitten to the quick, and without even a hint of violet staining. ‘What’s the gossip from the post room today?’ she asked him conversationally. ‘Is there anything of note to report?’
Bobby scratched his chin. ‘Nothing springs to mind,’ he said, after examining the ceiling in thoughtful silence. ‘It’s Harold’s birthday – he’s forty-one today. And someone ate Mr Babbage’s custard tart, which he isn’t best pleased about.’
‘I should imagine he’s not,’ Harry said, her lips quirking. ‘But please wish Harold many happy returns from me.’
‘I will,’ Bobby said, looking a little surprised.
Harry took a breath, wondering how to ask whether anyone was afflicted by unusual violet stains. ‘Is everyone quite well? I do hope no one has been taken unexpectedly ill.’
Now Bobby stared at her. ‘Bernard says his bunion is playing up, but he’s always complaining about that. Oh, and Jasper didn’t turn up this morning. Mr Babbage says he’s got toothache.’
She filed the name away, wondering as she did so whether the man’s absence was genuinely down to toothache, or the fact that his hands were dyed purple. She had no idea what motive he might have for breaking into her office, not once but twice. It couldn’t be simple inquisitiveness, surely. ‘Have you delivered to the upper floors, yet?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Specifically to Mr Pemberton’s office.’
‘I did,’ Bobby said, now frowning at her. ‘And before you ask after his health, he’s not at work today, either. I don’t know why – I’m only the post boy.’
Harry beamed at him. ‘Thank you, Bobby. That’s very helpful.’
Once he had taken his trolley off to the next stop on his rounds, Harry jotted down the three absentees she had identified so far: Danny the doorman, Jasper from the post room, and Simeon Pemberton. Of the three, only Pemberton had what she considered to be a solid motive for prying into her business, but he was the kind of man she could not imagine doing his own dirty work, no matter how much she had enraged him. Jasper could be responsible, perhaps egged on by his colleagues to discover what crimes the telegrams were reporting; he would have been disappointed by what he read. And lastly, there was Danny, who was already under suspicion of spying for Pemberton. He was the one Harry suspected the most but she would have to wait until he returned to work to find out whether she was right.
It was a little after four o’clock when Harry left the bank. She smiled at Patrick, who wished her a pleasant evening, and set off for home. Dusk had already fallen and there was adampness to the December air that made Harry tighten her scarf a little more closely around her neck. Some women wore furs to keep the cold at bay but the sight of them always made her melancholy, for as splendid and luxurious as the coats were, they had undoubtedly looked better on the animal. When she was not visiting the library, or meeting friends, it was her habit to take the Underground to Oxford Circus and walk the rest of the way to her apartment in Hamilton Square. Sometimes she detoured into the shops along the way, but Christmas shoppers had already begun to clog Oxford Street, eager to see the window displays at Selfridges, and Harry had no desire to get caught up in their midst.
She cut along Hanover Street and across the square, and from there she took Brook Street. But it wasn’t until she paused to cross New Bond Street that she realised she was being followed. A man trailed some yards behind her, his trilby hat lowered and his face muffled by a scarf. His greatcoat was plain black, the collar turned up against the cold, but she had noticed him behind her in the queue at Baker Street. He hadn’t caught her attention in the crowd, and she hadn’t observed him near her on the train, but he had been there as she left Oxford Circus. And now he was here.
Heart thudding, Harry paused as though looking in the window of an expensive jewellery shop and used the reflection to observe her pursuer. If he carried on walking, she might be mistaken. But he did not continue on. He stopped, almost clumsily, and gazed into another shop window. Harry moved on at a leisurely pace, one eye on his movements, hoping she was wrong. Whoever he was, she could not allow him to follow her home.
She set off again, at pace this time, and led him briskly along Grosvenor Street. There was no doubt in her mind now; when she crossed the road, so did he. When she dawdled to window-shop, he did too. It occurred to her that she had two choices. Either she could try to lose him in the warren of cut-throughs and alleyways that made up Mayfair, or she could confront him and demand to know his business. And if she was going to attempt the latter, she needed to do it somewhere open and surrounded by people. She needed Berkeley Square.
