Page 25 of The Cursed Writer
‘I find out what they wanted,’ she said simply.
Oliver shook his head. ‘I don’t know about this. Is it worth the risk?’
She’d known he would react like this, which was why she’d debated whether or not to tell him. ‘You’re a lawyer, Oliver. You’re supposed to want justice.’
‘Through the proper legal channels,’ he countered. ‘Not by confronting criminals and taking the law into your own hands.’
He meant their adventures in South London, she was sure, which had, admittedly, descended into a street fight. ‘It has to be someone who works at the bank,’ she said reasonably. ‘Hardly a violent criminal.’
‘That isn’t the point and you know it.’
She swallowed her exasperation and tried again. ‘Think of it this way. What would Holmes do?’
‘Nothing, because he would have already deduced who the intruder was,’ Oliver said, without missing a beat.
‘He would not,’ Harry said, rolling her eyes. ‘He’d set a trap. And the guilty party would walk right into it.’
Oliver was quiet for a moment. ‘But as I keep pointing out, this isn’t a story. It’s real life. And you are not?—’
Harry exhaled. ‘I’m not Sherlock Holmes. I know.’
‘I was going to say invincible.’ He eyed her with dawning resignation. ‘Just promise me you’ll be careful. No hiding in your office to confront them.’
She smiled at him. ‘Don’t be so silly. I have something much more elegant in mind. All it needs is a little preparation and they’ll be caught red-handed.’
For all her bravado, Harry was on edge as the door of her office came into view the next morning. It was unlikely that the intruder had returned so soon after their first visit but not impossible. She paused before putting the key in the lock, her gaze travelling up to the top of the door, where she had carefully trapped a single strand of golden hair between the wood and the frame, barely visible unless someone was looking for it. Her tension eased a little. The hair was still in place. Either the door had not been opened or the intruder had grown considerably more sophisticated in his craft. She thought the former was more likely.
The room itself seemed similarly undisturbed. Harry stood in the doorway, breathing in and out, testing the air, but there was no telltale hint of cologne this time. As far as she could tell, no one had been inside since she had locked the door on Friday. Reassured, she crossed the threshold and began her day in earnest.
At lunchtime, she had a number of errands to run. The trap itself would not work without bait, and she suspected the telegram was what had triggered the search, so she took the Underground to the newly opened post office at Charing Cross and composed a telegram to Sherlock Holmes from a Mr Corby, requesting his assistance with the recovery of a stolen watch. After that, she visited a small chemist’s shop on the Strand and made two purchases. Errands complete, she returned to Baker Street, the items she had bought hidden inside her handbag, and sat back to await Bobby’s arrival. She did not have to wait long.
‘Would you believe it, there’s another telegram!’ Bobby’s breathless exclamation as he entered the office almost made Harry laugh. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she forced her features into what she hoped was an expression of surprise.
‘Goodness me,’ she said. ‘It seems Mr Holmes is much in demand.’
Bobby did not put the message on the desk. Instead, he fixed Harry with a reproachful stare. ‘Ain’t you ever curious about whether any of these letters is true?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘But what if?—’
‘No,’ Harry repeated, more firmly. ‘Is there anything else, Bobby?’
He pressed his mouth into a thin line, as though struggling to keep his thoughts to himself. Then he sighed and held the telegram towards her. She eyed him sympathetically as she took it. ‘The letters are nowhere near as exciting as you imagine. Most of them are entirely unbelievable.’
His gaze remained fixed on the telegram. ‘But not all of them.’
‘Not all of them,’ she conceded. ‘But each writer seeks the help of one particular person – not me, and not Scotland Yard. Do you think they would thank me for sharing their private correspondence with the police?’
Bobby’s mutinous expression shifted. ‘No.’
She sat back in her chair. ‘Well, then.’
‘But that’s three telegrams,’ he said. ‘It’s got to mean something.’
‘What it means is that the literary adventures of Sherlock Holmes are as popular as ever,’ Harry said. She paused, wondering whether she had played the bait down a little too much. ‘But I must confess there is something about the arrival of a telegram that creates a buzz of excitement.’
‘You can say that again,’ Bobby said. ‘The whole post room stops when the delivery boy brings one addressed to Mr Holmes.’
