Page 6 of The Cursed Writer
Pemberton’s bottle-brush moustache quivered as he licked his lips. His eyes glittered with unconcealed amusement at the lie. ‘It’s lucky I called out, then.’
On legs that did not feel like her own, Harry stalked to the elevator doors and stepped inside. Pemberton followed. Stabbing the button for the second floor, she resisted the temptation to close her eyes, relieved to observe he had at least kept a respectable distance between them. Perhaps he remembered the pain her knee had inflicted the last time he had got too close, Harry thought as the doors slid shut. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, painfully aware of his too-strong cologne, the underlying hint of the pomade he used on his ridiculous moustache. The journey would not be long but she would hate every second. Just as she was certain he would enjoy the discomfort he must know she was feeling. ‘How is your new position? I trust you are better suited to the simpler requirements of the post room?’
Harry wanted to grind her teeth but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing just how rattled she was. ‘Quite suited, thank you.’
From the corner of her eye, she saw the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on your performance, of course, as I was the one who put you forward for the role. It seems Mr Babbage has no complaints.’ He paused and she knew he was watching her. ‘So far.’
Harry watched the gold arrow crawl past 1 and move towards 2, willing it to move faster. ‘Mr Babbage is an excellent manager.’
She shouldn’t have said it but being so near to him was grating on her nerves. Pemberton clicked his tongue. ‘Babbage is a fool but he serves a useful purpose within the bank. All the same, don’t think you can use your charms on him when youmake a mistake. I haven’t forgotten the way you encouraged my affections, Miss White. A woman might get a reputation for that kind of thing if she is not careful.’
Indignation bubbled up in Harry’s chest. ‘Encouraged your affections?’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘That’s hardly how things were. You forced yourself on me and sent me to the post room when I refused your advances.’
His face reddened. ‘How dare you accuse me of such a thing!’
Heart thudding, Harry forced herself to look into his pudgy eyes. ‘But it isn’t the first time it’s happened, is it? There was another secretary, before me, although you did a better job of getting rid of her. She lost her job entirely, didn’t she?’
Pemberton’s mouth opened and closed like a carp gasping for air. ‘I don’t know what you mean. The very idea – you have no proof I was in any way involved.’
‘So far,’ she whipped back, using his own words against him. ‘Furthermore, please don’t suggest that I am the kind of woman who dallies with married men. If the truth ever comes out, I think you’ll discover you have much more to lose than I do.’
The arrow reached the second floor and Harry felt a flutter of relief as the bell chimed and the doors slid open. ‘Have a pleasant day, Mr Pemberton,’ she said as she sailed past and into the safety of the corridor. ‘I do hope we understand one another better now.’
Her nerves did not stop jangling until she had reached the safety of her office and closed the door behind her. She stood leaning against it, waiting for her breathing to return to normal before she removed her hat and coat and took a seat at her desk. Either she had fired a warning shot across her enemy’s bows, or she had scuttled her own ship. Only time would tell.
It seemed to Harry that the American Bar at the Savoy Hotel was never busy. That was to say, she had never seen the elegantly curved room crowded, although its tables were seldom empty and the seats at the bar always occupied. She had often seen would-be drinkers turned away at the gleaming walnut doors, even when there appeared to be room to accommodate them, and she knew there must be some unwritten rule about who could, and could not, enjoy its understated elegance. Regardless of how full it was, the buzz of conversation was never loud, no matter how many cocktails the clientele had consumed, and the tinkle of the grand piano in the background meant confidences were not easily overheard. It was part of the reason Harry had chosen it to meet Oliver. That, and the excellent cocktails, although she’d learned early that less was definitely more when it came to the bar’s signature dry Martini.
Oliver was uncharacteristically late. Harry sat back in the velvet chair, allowing the alcohol to smooth away the final trace of her encounter with Simeon Pemberton at the start of the day. She’d spent most of the morning worrying he would hammer on her door, with Mr Babbage on his heels, but as lunchtime came and went, she began to put the matter into perspective. She had not been wrong when she’d said Pemberton had more to lose than she did; she doubted his wife would appreciate his lasciviousness, for a start. But the more Harry thought about it, the more she realised a run-in like that had been bound to happen eventually. At least he understood she was not entirely defenceless now.
To occupy herself while she waited, Harry observed her fellow drinkers. There were several she recognised withoutbeing personally acquainted – the world-famous opera singer Giuseppe Carina, who must have the night off, judging by the way he and his group were downing champagne; an American actress who was the darling of the silver screen was deep in conversation with the bartender; and a well-known author whose latest novel was taking the London literary scene by storm. Harry kept herself entertained by studying each of them in turn, observing their clothing and mannerisms. She might very well be at the start of an Agatha Christie novel. It was exactly the kind of glamorous setting where motive, means and opportunity might come together to spell murder. But despite the entertainment supplied by her fellow drinkers, by the time Oliver arrived at just after seven o’clock, breathless and apologetic, Harry had eaten two bowls of peanuts and was starting to feel drawn towards a second drink.
‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ Oliver said, draping his coat over the back of the empty chair and drawing admiring glances from both the actress and the opera singer. ‘I couldn’t get away.’
Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘From the Garston Club in general? Or from Mr Archer?’
‘From Archer,’ he said, and shook his head in wry amusement. ‘It turns out the man’s an actor by trade and he certainly knows how to spin a tale.’
Harry absorbed the news with fresh puzzlement. As an actor, Archer must understand the line between reality and fiction better than most. Somehow it made even less sense that he had contacted Sherlock Holmes for help. ‘I see,’ she said, as Oliver ran a weary hand through his hair and reached for the menu. ‘I take it he wasn’t too unhappy not to be met by Holmes himself.’
An impeccably dressed waiter appeared at their table. ‘I’ll have a Scotch on the rocks,’ Oliver said, and glanced enquiringly at Harry.
‘A gin and tonic, thank you,’ she said, and held up a hand. ‘Please ask Mr Craddock to go easy on the gin, however. That last Martini nearly blew my head off.’
The waiter gave a nod and glided away as silently as he had arrived. Oliver loosened his tie a little and sighed. ‘It’s a funny thing but Archer didn’t seem surprised that Holmes hadn’t come personally. When I introduced myself and said I was there on his behalf, he simply nodded and said he realised the detective must be rather elderly by now.’
Harry frowned. ‘So he does think Holmes is real.’
‘It would appear so,’ Oliver agreed. ‘Why else would he have sent a telegram to Baker Street?’
Why indeed, Harry wondered, for what felt the hundredth time. She eyed Oliver curiously. ‘Dare I ask whether you touched on his reasons for sending that telegram? Since you clearly did much more than advise him Holmes could not take his case.’
Much to her amusement, Oliver looked somewhat embarrassed. ‘I may not have been quite as emphatic as I could have been on that front.’
Harry stared at him. The Oliver she’d known and admired since she was a teenager rarely had difficulty putting his point across. ‘Really?’
Oliver waved her incredulity aside. ‘As I said, he’s an excellent storyteller and I may have got caught up in the tale he wove. You’ll understand when you hear it, although I can’t promise to bring it to life quite so well.’
He had her full attention now. What exactly had Archer told him? ‘Go on.’
