Page 5 of The Cursed Writer
‘Your message,’ Oliver said flatly. ‘Or that of an imaginary person?’
‘Technically, it would be from Holmes,’ she conceded. ‘But it’s me you’d be helping. I just need to make sure Archer doesn’t get angry and turn up at the bank, demanding to speak to him.’
There was a long silence. ‘You shouldn’t have got involved in the first place. Haven’t you learned anything from the business with Mildred?’
She had, Harry wanted to say. She’d learned that she wasn’t a bad detective, if not quite in Holmes’ league. She’d learned how to impersonate a Cockney to obtain information, to dress like a man and chase a suspect through the back streets of the city. She had discovered a hitherto unsuspected talent for digging up clues, for following their trail and using what she found to right wrongs. And most of all, Harry had learned she could make a difference, to do something that mattered instead of just finding ways to dodge her mother’s matchmaking efforts. ‘I know I shouldn’t have answered,’ she told Oliver, taking a sip from the bone china cup that held her tea. ‘But I did and there’s no help for it.’
He huffed in irritation and now she could imagine him pushing his black hair back from his forehead. ‘What sort of person consults a detective instead of a doctor, anyway?’
‘I don’t know,’ Harry said honestly, because she had wondered the same thing. ‘I thought perhaps you might know him, actually, since you’re both members of the same club.’
‘The name isn’t familiar,’ Oliver said, sounding thoughtful. ‘But the Garston has a few hundred members. I haven’t met them all.’
Harry weighed her options up. When she’d first thought about asking Oliver to help, she had only wanted him to pass on the message that Holmes was unable to assist. But as she’d made her way home, she’d begun to wonder whether he might find out a little more about Philip St John’s strange malady. Now she wasn’t sure sharing the details of her odd telephoneconversation with the woman at Thrumwell Manor was a good idea. Oliver, she knew, was a believer in science and the law, and cold, hard logic. He would not be swayed by tales of a mysterious curse, and Harry decided she would do better to keep that part of the story to herself. Instead, she waited in silence. She’d asked for his help. The only thing that remained to be seen was whether he would agree to give it to her. And if he said no, she could fall back on the plan to leave a telephone message of her own at the club. At length, Oliver let out an irritable sigh. ‘When did Archer tell you to meet him?’
‘Five o’clock tomorrow,’ Harry replied. ‘Although he’s expecting Sherlock Holmes, of course.’
Oliver gave a humourless laugh. ‘Then he’s going to be very disappointed.’
Harry felt a warm rush of elation. ‘So you’ll do it, then? You’ll meet Archer and tell him Holmes can’t help?’
‘I’m not sure you’ve given me much choice,’ Oliver grumbled but she didn’t think he was as annoyed as he was pretending to be. ‘But that’s all I’m doing – I’ll make sure he understands the message and then I’m leaving. And you agree not to send any more telegrams, yes? It’s too risky, you’re going to land yourself in hot water. If Pemberton ever finds out?—’
He stopped and, for a moment, Harry was reminded of the other revelation she’d uncovered that day, the news that she was not the only one to fall foul of Pemberton’s grubby hands. But as with the story of the curse, she wasn’t sure there was anything to be gained by sharing the discovery with Oliver. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘No more telegrams.’
‘Standard replies only,’ he went on. ‘No more risks.’
He sounded so severe that Harry couldn’t help smiling. ‘Standard replies only. And thanks awfully, Oliver. I really appreciate you doing this.’
He grunted. ‘As you should.’
Harry hesitated for a moment, then decided to throw caution to the wind. ‘And if you do happen to find out why Archer wrote to Holmes in the first place?—’
‘No, I will not tell you,’ he cut in. ‘I’m not even going to ask.’
She gave in. ‘Of course not.’
‘And you owe me a drink.’
‘Actually, I think you owe me one,’ she said brightly. ‘A pint of mild from our trip to Elephant and Castle, although I’d much rather make it a cocktail. Why don’t we meet after you’ve seen Archer. At the Savoy, say six o’clock?’
There was a brief silence, which caused Harry to wonder if she had misjudged him. Was he so exasperated with her that meeting for a drink was out of the question? ‘An excellent plan,’ Oliver said at length, and she was relieved to hear he did not sound exasperated at all. ‘See you tomorrow. Do try to stay out of trouble until then.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, and put the phone down to gaze into the flames that danced in the fireplace opposite the settee. She ought to feel as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders but instead, she was filled with a strange tingling sensation that she suspected might very well be excitement. Whether that was due to the strange conversation she’d had with the woman at Thrumwell Manor, or the thought of seeing Oliver, Harry did not want to speculate. Perhaps, she thought, it was a little of both.
3
As Simeon Pemberton’s assistant, Harry had always endeavoured to be at her desk early. She enjoyed the quiet of the office, the opportunity to review the day ahead without interruption, and the sense that she was completely in control of her domain. After her demotion to the post room, interruptions were few and far between and Mr Babbage left her to manage her own work, which meant her office was always quiet and she always felt in control of her admittedly much smaller domain, but she had maintained her practice of arriving early. Apart from anything else, it meant she had rarely had to worry about running into Mr Pemberton in the bank’s hushed, marbled lobby while waiting for the elevator.
But delays on the Underground system the following morning conspired against Harry and meant she found herself hurrying through the front doors later than usual. She was not late, but she was later than she liked to be. And then her morning was made a thousand times worse. She glanced across the lobby and realised with a sinking heart that the day she had been dreading had arrived. Waiting by the elevator, with a neatly furled umbrella in one hand, a briefcase in the other and a blackbowler hat on his head, was Simeon Pemberton. From the back, he looked very much like any one of the managers who worked on the bank’s upper floors but Harry had taken that hat and coat to hang up every morning for months. She knew it was him.
She almost walked out, but she could already sense a curious gaze being directed her way from the doormen standing outside. Slowly, she forced herself to cross the lobby, her heels tapping with each reluctant step. Was it too much to ask that the lift might arrive before she did, whisking Pemberton out of her sight without him ever knowing she was there? Or perhaps she could take the grand, red-carpeted marble staircase that swept away to the left of the elevator. The problem with that was that Pemberton was sure to see her and she would really rather avoid him altogether. Even so, it was the lesser of two evils. Making up her mind, she dipped her head and made for the stairs. Just as a cheerful ding proclaimed the lift car had reached the ground floor.
There was an understated swoosh as the doors opened. Harry kept walking, hoping Mr Pemberton would enter the lift without noticing her. But it seemed her luck had run out. ‘Miss White,’ a familiar, peevish voice called as she passed. ‘Won’t you take the lift?’
It was more of a command than a question but even so, Harry was tempted to ignore it. Could he object to her taking the stairs? The thought of being in an enclosed space with him made her stomach churn and she could always claim she was on a health kick. But the thought withered almost as soon as it had arrived. Simeon Pemberton was an important figure at the Abbey Road Building Society. He could make her life difficult if he chose, as he had already demonstrated once, and she did not want to be summoned to Mr Babbage’s office again to explain herself. As much as she hated to admit it, Pemberton held all the power.
She did not smile as she turned back to face him. ‘Of course. I didn’t realise it was there.’
