Page 44 of The Cursed Writer
He sat in silence for a moment, his pipe smouldering in his hand. ‘Poison. I can scarcely believe it. And yet…’ His gaze slid towards the bookshelves once more, then he seemed to reach a decision. He narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you want me to do?’
The bedroom was warm, stuffy, and dark, the ideal environment for sleep. And indeed, one person in the room was in the realm of dreams: his gentle snore both reassuring and gratingon Harry’s already frayed nerves. Her senses told her it must be after midnight; the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece marked each passing second with maddening precision. They had been waiting this way for more than an hour: Harry behind the drapes, with Barrymore at her feet and the icy chill of the window at her back, Oliver in the shadow of the wardrobe to the left of the bedroom door, Archer crouched behind a vast armchair. Peering round the edge of the curtain, Harry could see nothing of the others, but she knew they were there. She really hoped they were not waiting in vain.
Philip St John had played his part to perfection; it was obvious to Harry that acting ability ran in the family. A short while after dinner, he had begun to bellow in the library, proclaiming he had seen lights on the fen. The household staff had come running when the shouting began, dismayed at his sudden relapse, and Mary had begged Archer not to venture into the night. ‘He’s out there, sir,’ she had exclaimed, her face dreadful. ‘Waiting to take you.’
Archer had not listened; he and Donaldson had rushed outside with Barrymore to search among the reeds. Agnes had set about comforting her master, filling his pipe and offering him brandy. Mary had hovered by the window, wringing her hands and uttering dire predictions. When the two men returned, empty-handed but certain someone had been out on the fen, St John announced it was not the first time he had seen the lights. ‘There are sinister forces at work,’ he declared with some imperiousness. ‘I insist the police are summoned first thing in the morning so I can tell them all I know.’
‘The police?’ Mary cried. ‘What good will they be against the supernatural? Oh, we are doomed!’
Harry had seen Archer’s expression tighten but, for once, he did not reprimand the cook. ‘That will do, Mary,’ was all he said.
She had subsided then, exchanging mutinous glances with the housekeeper, who had looked apprehensive. ‘Must we call the police?’ she asked. ‘I fear it will make it more difficult to keep the master’s illness to ourselves.’
‘I’m afraid we must take that risk,’ Archer said solemnly. ‘My uncle is adamant that he tells them everything he knows. We cannot deny him that.’
It was perhaps a little overdone but Harry took the opportunity to observe each of them, searching their demeanour for clues about which of them might be uneasy over what Philip St John had seen. Donaldson said nothing, his expression taciturn and closed. Agnes cast the occasional anxious glance towards the windows but seemed more concerned with tending to her master. It was Mary who was the most disturbed and Harry couldn’t help wondering whether it was the fear of discovery that was making her jumpy. At length, Archer instructed Agnes to prepare the sleeping draught for his uncle. Harry waited until Philip St John had raised the dose to his lips, then leapt to her feet, pointing at the window. ‘What’s that?’
Mary let out a cry as everyone turned to look. Oliver strode forward to peer out. ‘There’s nothing there.’
‘Oh,’ Harry said, subsiding. ‘But I was sure I saw something.’
Archer took the empty glass from his uncle and frowned. ‘This is not helping anyone’s nerves. I suggest we retire to bed.’
With uneasy acquiescence, they had done as he instructed. Or at least, some of them had. Harry, Oliver and Archer had gone to their rooms, only to sneak along the corridor once the house had settled into silence. They had taken up their posts in St John’s bedroom without speaking, waiting to see who, if anyone, would take the bait.
The minutes ticked past, stretching into another hour. Someone – Oliver or Archer – coughed, a hurriedly stifled sound that felt as loud as a gunshot. Harry shifted behind the drapesand massaged the small of her back. She wished she had worn another jumper, the cold was stiffening her muscles. At her feet, Barrymore twitched in his sleep. Had she been wrong in her suspicions? How much longer should they wait before giving up? And then she felt Barrymore tense. He raised his head, brushing against her knee, then rose. A low growl rumbled in the darkness. Harry dropped a warning hand to rest upon his head. ‘Sssshhh, boy. I know.’
The dog fell silent, although he continued to radiate tension. Somewhere nearby, a floorboard creaked. Harry held her breath. Her companions must have heard it too – were they poised and ready? A faint rattle. Another creak. The unmistakable sound of the door handle turning.
Harry moved to peer through the gap in the curtain. Her eyes had grown well used to the dark; she picked out the four-poster bed, its drapes left open to reveal the hump of a sleeping body. The wardrobe loomed behind the door – she could not make out Oliver. The armchair that hid Archer was a hunched monster, waiting to attack. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with the faintest whisper, the door edged from its frame and slowly opened.
The figure that entered was nothing more than a smudge. They carried no light. Harry tensed as they stopped in the entrance of the room. She pressed her hand against Barrymore’s skull, hoping the dog understood.Not yet, boy, she willed him in silence.Wait.
Apparently satisfied, the figure started to move towards the bed. Harry heard the rustle of cotton, saw a blur of white as one of the pillows was raised. Every sinew burned with the desire to burst out of her hiding place, to stop what was about to happen, but she held back. Whoever the intruder was must be caught in the act of trying to silence Philip St John forever. She watched, eyes stinging with the strain of picking out the movements inthe dark. When she saw the pillow being lowered, she snatched her hand from Barrymore’s head and hauled back the curtain. ‘Now!’ she cried.
The wolfhound leapt forward, snarling and snapping in the dark. Across the room, Harry heard Oliver and Archer move. Bounding from her hiding place, she switched on the torch she held in her other hand, training its beam on the face of the would-be attacker. Raising a hand, they tried to ward off the light. Archer and Oliver advanced, grim-faced, just as Philip St John sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes, blinking at the brightness of the torch, and turned his head to stare at the figure cowering before Barrymore’s bared teeth. ‘What the blazes are you doing?’ he said, gaping in astonishment.
‘Eliza has come to kill you before you give her up to the police,’ Harry said, her tone flat. ‘Isn’t that right?’
The other woman lowered her arm, the pillow dropping to the bed. Her eyes flickered wildly from side to side, searching for an escape. But Barrymore stood between her and the door, his rumbling snarl full of menace. She drew a ragged breath and glared at Philip St John. ‘If you hadn’t been poking about in things that don’t concern you, I wouldn’t have had to.’
‘But…’ St John shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ she scoffed. ‘You came across our skiff that morning, returning to Morden from Burwell. You saw us.’
He blinked at her, open-mouthed. Then understanding slowly dawned in his eyes as a memory floated through the fog of the past weeks. ‘I remember. I did see you – you and—’ He ran a hand across his eyes. ‘And someone else – I don’t know who. I asked what you were doing.’
Eliza’s lip curled. ‘I knew you didn’t believe the story we gave you – why would anyone risk the fens to move honest goods when they could go by road? But it was so early and we’d missedour rendezvous the night before – we didn’t think anyone would be out.’
St John still appeared to be adjusting to the sudden recollection. ‘I was suspicious. I was going to tell the police. And then – and then?—’
‘And then you were poisoned,’ Harry supplied. ‘I know you put something in the tobacco, Eliza – tincture of Ergot, if I’m not mistaken.’
The other woman’s expression slackened in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘An educated guess,’ Harry said. ‘But I’m impressed by the speed at which you administered the poison. Did you have it already prepared?’
‘I had the tincture,’ Eliza admitted. ‘It’s used for—’ She broke off and seemed to recollect herself. ‘Never you mind what it’s used for. I had it, all the same. And I knew Archer was coming to collect the tobacco, so I took the chance.’
