Page 39 of The Cursed Writer
The familiar name almost made Harry gasp. There was a word for those who moved goods around in secret: smugglers. Could it be that Philip St John was somehow involved?
‘He’s out…’ Deep Voice said, ‘…no… sense…’
‘…dangerous.’ The second voice rose in tone, as though agitated, and the words were clear over the hiss of the reeds. ‘What if… wrong?’
‘…so far…’ He seemed to be trying to soothe his companion. ‘Over… soon…’
Harry pushed forward again. If she could just get a clear view of the boat, she might be able to see what it was they carried. But in her haste, she trod on something thin and hard protruding from the water. It cracked sharply beneath her foot. There was a loud curse. The lamp swung wildly. The gentle slosh of the boat stopped. ‘What was that?’
Harry felt Oliver duck low. Instinctively, she did the same, turning the light of the torch against her body and hoping the reeds would hide them. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She did not dare draw breath. Those they were pursuing might not be the fabled ferryman but they were still almost certainly dangerous men. If they came looking for the source of the snapped twig, they would stumble right into Harry and Oliver.
‘It’s nothing. A bird.’
A soft splash suggested the boat had begun to move again. ‘Let’s get… done,’ the second voice said, sounding fretful once more. ‘The sooner… Burwell… better.’
Harry’s racing pulse began to slow. She stayed still, listening. When she judged the boat had moved far enough away, she turned to Oliver. ‘Did you hear any of that?’
He nodded. ‘Enough to know they are up to no good.’
‘Should we follow them? Find out what they’re doing?’
‘No. Let’s get back on dry land. We can talk back at the house.’
In other circumstances, Harry might have argued but she was cold and wet and unwilling to risk another broken twig. With care, they retraced their steps. Harry’s mind whirled as she considered the implications of what they had overheard. She did not understand everything – not yet – but one thing was clear. There was something infinitely more dangerous than the supernatural out on the fens that night.
Abandoning their borrowed boots in the outhouse once more, Harry and Oliver made their way back into the kitchen and locked the door behind them. By unspoken agreement, Harry made a pot of tea. Neither of them said much as they waited for the kettle to whistle. It was only when they were seated opposite each other at the kitchen table, two steaming cups in front of them, that they broke their silence.
‘Well,’ Harry said, in a flat murmur that still sounded too loud in the hush. ‘That changes things.’
Oliver inclined his head. ‘It’s clear this isn’t the first time they’ve made that journey.’
Harry wrapped her hands around her cup. ‘Agnes said the locals used the shortcut across the fen to avoid tolls on the barges, but what if they also used it to move things in secret. Illegal things.’
‘Smugglers.’
‘Yes.’ She leaned forward. ‘Let’s say you’ve hidden something on one of the big barges that come along the river from the coast but you don’t want it to be examined at the tolls. So you offload it before then and transfer it to another barge on a different waterway. One that has already been through the tolls and passed the checks.’
Oliver frowned. ‘Why not just drive it there?’
Harry hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s easier to get it back on the boat from the water. Loading something from a car might attract more attention.’
‘Fine,’ he allowed. ‘So they get the contraband past the tolls. Then what?’
‘I suppose it gets distributed to wherever it needs to go. I don’t really know that either, or what it is they are moving. But it’s risky – they said so. Which makes me suspect it’s not legal.’ She fixed him with a meaningful stare. ‘And that’s not all. Did you hear one of them mention Philip St John? Does that mean he’s involved somehow?’
He nodded, his expression sombre. ‘I did hear that, yes. But if he was part of a smuggling ring, why would Archer invite Sherlock Holmes to investigate?’
‘Archer doesn’t know,’ Harry suggested. ‘But I can’t help feeling that’s not it. The second voice sounded fearful when he mentioned St John. Almost like he thought he would give the game away. That doesn’t sound like he’s part of the operation.’
‘I picked up on that too,’ Oliver said. ‘The other one was less concerned. He didn’t seem to think St John was a threat.’
Harry brooded into her cup. ‘He certainly isn’t at the moment.’ Replaying the snatches of conversation in her mind, she looked up sharply. ‘Unless?—’
‘Unless what?’
She gnawed at her lip as her thoughts tumbled over one another. ‘What if that’s what Philip St John’s illness is really about? What if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to – something similar to us – and needed to be silenced?’ A frown dug into her forehead as she considered the possibilities. ‘Not silenced – they’re not killers, whatever else they might be. But kept quiet. What if they’re making sure no one listens to a word he says?’
Oliver’s expression transformed into grim understanding. ‘Then we need to work out how they’re doing it.’
