Page 40 of The Cursed Writer
‘Give me a minute, Oliver,’ Harry said, puffing out her cheeks. ‘An hour ago we thought Mary was poisoning him.’
Oliver did not smile. ‘She could be. This doesn’t rule her out – she might be working with them. Any of the domestic staff might be in league with the smugglers.’
Harry couldn’t argue. It was Mary who’d filled her head with nonsense about the ferryman – had that been a smokescreen to keep her from venturing out on the fens in the dark? ‘It definitely wasn’t Mary or Agnes out there tonight.’
‘No,’ Oliver conceded. ‘It could have been Donaldson, though.’
‘I suppose so. I couldn’t hear clearly enough.’ She rubbed her eyes wearily and gazed bleakly across the table. ‘What a mess. Just when I think we’ve worked out who the poisoner is, everything gets thrown up in the air again. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of an enemy outside the walls.’
‘Because it wasn’t likely. There was no reason to suspect anyone might want to keep St John quiet,’ Oliver said. ‘You couldn’t have known any of this from the story Archer told.’
The fact that it was true did not make Harry feel any better. At least Oliver did not know the worst of her shame: that she’d almost believed the ferryman might be the one wielding the lantern that night. ‘Holmes would have known.’
Oliver reached across the table to take her hand. ‘Only because Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote it that way. If I’ve learned anything from observing Scotland Yard’s investigations, it’s that real-life detective work involves dedication, determination and a large helping of luck.’ He squeezed her fingers. ‘It’s not all flashes of brilliance and playing the violin.’
Harry smiled at his kindly reassurance. She liked the way her hand felt in his, warm and cocooned. ‘That’s a very good thing because I can’t play the violin.’ She yawned. ‘Do you think it might be time to get some sleep?’
He gathered up the cups and took them to the sink to wash. ‘Now that is a brilliant piece of reasoning. Things will look clearer in the morning.’
Harry hoped he was right. The myth of the ferryman might have been dispelled but she was beginning to suspect that very little was as it seemed at Thrumwell Manor.
14
John Archer met Harry in the dining room the following morning with the kind of ebullient cheer that suggested he, at least, had rested well. ‘Miss Moss!’ he said, abandoning the newspaper he was reading and getting up from the table to usher her towards an empty chair. ‘How good to see you. Did you sleep soundly?’
‘I did,’ Harry said, and crossed her fingers. She had fallen asleep the moment she got into bed but her dreams had been haunted by a cowled figure that floated in and out of sight, reaching for her with long thin arms but never quite catching her. She had woken in a cold sweat just after dawn and had only dozed since; as a result, her head felt thick and woolly. ‘Did you?’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘And I awoke to excellent news. It appears my uncle has turned a corner. Agnes reports that he asked her quite distinctly for a kipper this morning.’
Harry was not sure whether she had heard correctly. ‘I’m sorry, did you say a kipper?’
‘I did,’ he said, beaming. ‘And the significance of that is that kippers were his usual breakfast. Before he became ill. It hasbeen some time since he was well enough to request anything for breakfast, much less a kipper.’
‘Ah,’ Harry said. ‘I see.’ The implications of what he was saying pierced her tiredness. ‘Oh, Isee.’
‘I did think he was a little less erratic when I escorted him upstairs last night but I assumed it was just exhaustion,’ Archer said. ‘Dare I dream our long nightmare may be coming to an end?’
‘Let us hope so,’ Harry said, and reached for the teapot. The change in Philip St John was unexpected, especially considering what she and Oliver had overheard. What had altered that might bring about such an improvement? ‘But I am very glad to hear he is better. I wonder – do you think he might be well enough for me to visit him briefly? I’d like to observe his condition.’
‘Of course,’ Archer said. ‘I plan to see him myself, after breakfast. We shall go together.’
She was halfway through her poached eggs on toast when Oliver appeared in the doorway of the dining room. Archer leapt up and made a show of ushering him to the seat opposite Harry, then rang the bell for Mary. ‘I thoroughly recommend the bacon and eggs,’ he said, when the cook appeared.
Oliver smiled. ‘I shall take your recommendation. I find myself with the appetite of your wolfhound this morning.’
Archer nodded. ‘I feel like that most mornings,’ he said, with a rueful glance at his middle. He tapped the folded newspaper on the table. ‘Would you think me terribly rude if I read while you eat? Breakfast is when I generally catch up with the news.’
‘Not at all,’ Harry said. Her father had been known to hide behind the newspaper for the entire duration of the meal.
‘I say catch up, we are usually a day or two behind,’ he said as he shook the pages out, and Harry recognised Friday’s headlines about a tragic train crash in Switzerland, and the new recordset by Amy Johnson flying solo from London to Africa. ‘But the news reaches us eventually.’
He lapsed into an absorbed silence as he perused the print. Oliver poured himself a cup of coffee and eyed Harry across the table. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘No worse than I should be,’ she said dryly. ‘But Mr Archer has just been telling me his uncle seems more lucid today.’
The faintest of perplexed frowns crossed Oliver’s face. ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Is there any indication why?’
‘Good Lord, such a small world.’ Archer did not look up from the paper as he interrupted. ‘I know the chap mentioned here, Ishmael Bloom. He took a house near the village for a month or so last summer, drove a very fast car that almost ran me off the road once or twice.’
