Page 37 of The Cursed Writer
She had not known but the revelation made perfect sense. The descriptions of the horrific conditions could only have been written by someone who had experienced them first hand. ‘Then it is even more remarkable. Where did he get the paper?’
‘I believe he traded it for chocolate sent from home,’ Archer replied. ‘And occasionally cigarettes.’
Chocolate and cigarettes had been high-value commodities then, Harry thought, worth more than money to the soldiers. Philip St John must have been desperate to get his story out. ‘I’d like to read more of his work,’ she said. ‘Do you have any of his other books I might borrow?’
‘Of course,’ Archer said. ‘There are copies of them all in the library. I’ll get you a selection now.’
‘Oh, please don’t trouble yourself,’ she protested. ‘Some point over the weekend would be fine.’
‘There’s no time like the present,’ he said jovially. ‘Agnes is with him now but it gives me an excuse to check on them.’ He glanced at Oliver. ‘I hope you don’t mind not meeting my uncle this evening. He’s often more unsettled at this time of day and I thought tomorrow might be better.’
‘Not at all,’ Oliver said. ‘You know best.’
Archer gave a short laugh. ‘Do I? I sometimes wonder if I know anything at all. But I’ll get the books, Miss Moss.’
Once he had left the room, Oliver took a sip of his drink. ‘Well, it seems we almost have a full house. Donaldson is just back from the village and Agnes is in the library with St John. That just leaves the cook to be accounted for.’
‘She’ll be in the kitchen, I expect, preparing the evening meal,’ Harry said. ‘It makes sense to investigate the pantry later, once everyone has gone to bed. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I’ll see if I can find any evidence of Ergot.’
‘Not on your own,’ he said firmly. ‘If you’re snooping around in the dark, I’m coming with you.’
She was about to object – one person was less likely to make a noise than two – but decided it was an argument they did not need to have. All she needed to do was wait until he had fallen asleep to sneak downstairs to the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow. ‘And don’t go thinking you’ll wait until I’m asleep to do it. I’m coming with you and that’s that.’
Harry sipped her drink, half amused and half irritated that he had guessed her plan. But she felt the atmosphere at Thrumwell Manor weighing on her more heavily than it had during her last visit, and while she didn’t need Oliver watching over her as she searched the kitchen for poison, she had to admit she was glad he had accompanied her this time. ‘Fine,’ she huffed.
Archer bustled back into the room, carrying four leather-bound books. ‘Here you are,’ he said, handing the pile to Harry. ‘These should keep you busy.’
He had brought a copy ofThe Blood-soaked Soil, as well as three more recent novels. She passed the first book to Oliver, who opened the cover with some curiosity. ‘To Rupert Templeton, who died that I might live,’ he read aloud, running a finger across the dedication. ‘Who is Rupert Templeton? Do you know?’
‘Ah,’ Archer said, bending to prod at the fire with an iron poker. ‘That’s rather a tragic tale. He and my uncle served together on the front line – brothers in arms, I suppose you might say. Rupert was a writer too – I imagine they used it as a form of escape. Anyway, it didn’t end well for Rupert and Uncle Philip was devastated. My mother said he never wanted to talk about the war but he once told her that Rupert had saved his life.’
‘How?’ Harry asked softly.
‘He refused to elaborate,’ Archer said, straightening up. ‘Which makes it all the more remarkable that he wroteThe Blood-soaked Soilbut I suppose the writing process can be cathartic. I still remember seeing him scribbling away, night after night, when I was a child. I used to think it helped him come to terms with it all, until I moved back here and discovered he won’t touch a penny of the royalties from it. I once heard him call it blood money.’
Harry could understand St John’s reluctance to revisit such painful memories but his aversion to the money earned by his first novel was surprising. It had been in print since publication in 1920 and, as far as she could tell, remained a well-read book. ‘What does he do with it?’
Archer shrugged. ‘All I know is that it goes into a separate account and is not to be touched under any circumstances.Thankfully, he earns a good income from his subsequent novels and he lives a relatively modest lifestyle.’
She nodded absently. Perhaps it was not so strange that Philip St John viewed his earnings from a book about the horror of the war as blood money. It did not appear that any of his other work had touched on so terrible a subject. Opening the cover of another of his novels, she began to read but she had not got much further than the first page when the door opened again and Mary appeared. ‘Dinner is served.’
Oliver cocked his head, asking if this was the cook, and she gave the faintest of nods. ‘Excellent,’ Archer said, and beamed at them both. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m famished. Let’s tuck in.’
13
Harry did her best to forget her suspicions about Mary as they ate but it was hard not to wonder whether the chicken pie had been laced with something more than tarragon and white wine. Across the table, she sensed Oliver had the same reservations and reminded herself that she had no hard proof the cook was responsible for poisoning anyone. The cook’s mouth had tightened when she had entered the dining room and caught sight of Harry but she thought that had more to do with the reckless disregard of her warning about what might happen if she saw the ferryman again than a suspicion that Harry might be onto her. And the pie smelled delicious.
As during her previous visit, Archer was an entertaining host, even though his manner was more subdued. He made no complaint when, shortly before ten o’clock, she gathered up the books he had brought from the library and claimed an early night. ‘Would you like me to ask Mary to make you some warm milk?’ he offered, when she made her excuses.
‘Please don’t trouble her,’ Harry said. ‘I’m sure I shall still be awake at midnight, reading your uncle’s excellent books.’She glanced at Oliver, and saw her message had been received. ‘Goodnight to you both.’
The first thing Harry noticed, once she had settled herself against the plump pillows of the bed, was that Philip St John’s later novels were shorter thanThe Blood-soaked Soil. That wasn’t so unusual, she supposed – it had been so successful that perhaps his publisher had asked for more books to supply public demand rather more quickly than St John had expected. The subject matter was markedly different too;The Junglewas about a teacher at a public school, struggling to deal with a secret alcohol addiction.Paris By Nighttold the story of two friends who became enemies after their business fell apart. Harry read the opening chapters of both and was struck by the change of tone and style in the post-war novels. She supposed that had been a commercial decision too – the Roaring Twenties had been about gaiety and hedonism and putting the awfulness of war behind them – butThe Blood-soaked Soilhad an aching depth to it that she found to be lacking in the books that had followed. And having heard from Archer that his uncle refused to touch the money it brought in, Harry could only assume Philip St John’s aversion to his painful memories had affected the way he wrote his subsequent novels too. There were no further dedications to Rupert Templeton; St John had dedicated his other books to his mother, his sister and his beloved nephew.
Sounds on the landing around eleven o’clock told her the rest of the household had retired. She continued to read, refusing to let her heavy eyelids beat her. Just after midnight, she heard a soft tapping at her door. She slipped out of bed and stooped to pull on her shoes. Picking up the torch from the bedside table, she inched the door open a crack. ‘Ready?’ Oliver asked, when she peered out at him.
She was glad to observe he was still wearing day clothes, just as she was; she feared the sight of him in pyjamas would havestirred up some inconvenient thoughts she had no time to deal with. ‘Of course,’ she whispered, easing through the gap to stand beside him. ‘We’ll use the servants’ staircase. It leads directly to the kitchen.’
The hidden stairs were even darker than Harry remembered. Pressing the button to switch the torch on, she cast its pale beam around. ‘We’d better go slowly. Stay close.’
