Chapter 11

11

John Archer seemed to have aged ten years in the few days since Harry had last seen him, and the splendid, palm tree bedecked elegance of the Landmark's Winter Garden courtyard only made the change in his appearance more conspicuous. He looked tired; dark circles hung beneath his eyes and his skin had lost some of its ruddy good health. She thought he had lost weight too, although he could afford to lose some of the padding around his midriff. It was clear his uncle's illness was taking a toll on him and Harry could only guess how it was affecting the others at Thrumwell Manor. What was clear was that the situation could not go on for much longer. John Archer was coming to the end of his strength just as certainly as his uncle was.

She watched as he ran a tired hand over his face. ‘At least I can say he is no worse, even if he seems no better,' he said, when she enquired after Philip St John. ‘There have been no more incidents in the fen, for which we are all grateful.'

Harry felt Oliver's eyes upon her. ‘Have you considered my suggestion of removing him from Thrumwell Manor?' She paused, weighing up how much to tell him. ‘I am starting to feel most strongly that it is the best course of action for both you and your uncle.'

‘It may come to that,' Archer admitted, with a wretched sigh. ‘I have even considered a specialist institution. But I fear he may be beyond even their help now.'

Harry exchanged a long look with Oliver. Did either of them really believe Archer was a suspect? She did not think so. It was time to reveal her suspicions.

‘Poison?' He gaped, when she laid her thoughts before him. ‘But how? Who? There are but four of us.'

‘I don't know the how yet,' Harry admitted. ‘I need to identify the poison first and that is taking some time, since I have no sample to send to a laboratory. As for who in your household is responsible, that is also unclear. I have not been able to determine why anyone might want to injure your uncle.'

‘Because none of us would!' Archer cried, in a voice loud enough to attract attention from those seated at the tables around them and cause a brief lull in the genteel murmur of conversation and chink of cutlery. ‘Surely you must be mistaken. What does Mr Holmes say?'

Harry hesitated, avoiding Oliver's gaze. ‘He is attempting to identify the poison,' she said, after a moment. ‘But he also feels that the safest course of action is to remove Mr St John from Thrumwell Manor. To put him beyond the reach of the immediate danger.'

Archer shook his head, unwilling to accept her words. ‘It cannot be. None of them would harm him – aside from anything else, their livelihoods depend on him.'

‘And yet it appears one of them is harming him,' Harry said, with quiet determination. ‘If he were being inadvertently affected by something in your household environment – lead pipes, for example – then you would all be unwell with the same symptoms. But it is only your uncle who suffers, and it seems to me that his symptoms could logically be explained by something more than a sudden psychological affliction.' She met his tormented gaze with much sympathy and fell back on the principles of Sherlock Holmes. ‘If we rule out all other possibilities, then what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'

He was silent for a long moment, then turned brooding eyes upon Oliver. ‘Do you agree?'

‘I trust what Miss Moss tells me,' he said simply. ‘Given all she has described, I think it possible, perhaps even probable, that her suggestion fits, although I don't think we have all the pieces yet.'

‘Then we must find them,' Archer rumbled. ‘If it is poison then we must establish which of the household is responsible for such a monstrous act and we must confront them.'

Harry exchanged a look with Oliver. ‘There may be more than one involved,' she warned. ‘It might be a partnership, or perhaps even all.'

Archer's brows furrowed in consternation. ‘I cannot believe that,' he exclaimed, once again garnering curious looks from their fellow diners. ‘Agnes is devoted to my uncle – Mary too. And Donaldson has helped me carry him from the fens when it would surely have been easier to let him perish if he meant him ill.'

‘And yet someone is responsible,' Harry pointed out as gently as she could.

‘But not all,' Archer held. ‘I cannot believe they are all three bent on harm. However, I agree we must resolve this matter soon, before it is too late.' He looked from Harry to Oliver. ‘Will you come this weekend? Commit to catching whoever is responsible before my uncle succumbs to their wickedness?'

His anguish was so palpable that Harry could not refuse him, even though she was not at all sure she could bring matters to a head so quickly. ‘Of course,' she said. ‘I will come.'

‘As will I,' Oliver said. ‘But if we cannot establish who is to blame, perhaps you should consider taking Mr St John away.'

‘As you wish,' Archer said, and checked his pocket watch. ‘I should certainly hurry back to Cambridgeshire. My head is still spinning from all you have said but it may be that my presence will protect my uncle, although I admit it has not helped much so far.'

His words prompted Harry to make another suggestion. ‘Try to act normally if you can,' she said. ‘If the poisoner thinks they are discovered, they might be tempted to take more risks, which could put you and your uncle in terrible danger.'

Archer's smile was bleak. ‘Acting is perhaps the only thing I can manage, Miss Moss.'

After he had gone, Oliver fixed Harry with a curious stare. ‘You said Holmes was trying to identify the poison used. Does that mean you have been looking into the possibilities?'

She nodded. ‘With the aid of a book I borrowed from the library. Mortlake's Common and Uncommon Poisons. '

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. And has Mortlake been of much help?'

‘He has,' she said. ‘If nothing else, I'm now well-versed in all the ways one human being might poison another. It seems a lot of these substances are far too easy to get hold of.'

‘Believe me, I know,' Oliver said. ‘Cases of poison are all too common in court, in spite of the authorities' efforts to make them harder to obtain.'

‘Whatever it is, it's not one of the usual suspects,' Harry said. ‘We can rule out arsenic, strychnine, hemlock and a whole host of other Agatha Christie favourites. The symptoms don't fit.'

Oliver drank the remainder of his tea and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘You'd better get back to your research, then. What time shall I pick you up tomorrow? Five o'clock?'

Harry bit her lip, wondering whether to tell him she planned a trip to Brighton before they could leave for Thrumwell Manor. ‘Better make it six,' she said, deciding to keep the day trip to herself for now. ‘I've got a few things to take care of first.'

He shook his head. ‘I can't believe you've roped me into another of your Holmesian escapades.'

Harry smiled. ‘Oh, admit it, Oliver. You're enjoying yourself.'

He sighed as he signalled for the waiter. ‘That's half the trouble. I rather think I am.'

Mr Babbage took Harry's request for a day's holiday well, even though it was, as she pointed out, terribly last minute. ‘Sometimes we just have to seize the moment, Miss White,' he said jovially down the telephone. ‘A trip to the seaside sounds like a capital idea. It's not as though you have anything urgent awaiting your attention here, is it?'

‘No,' Harry agreed. ‘Mr Holmes is hardly going to investigate any of the letters he receives behind my back, is he?'

Her employer chuckled and she could picture his jowls wobbling with amusement. ‘Exactly so,' he said. ‘I'll trust you to fill in the relevant paperwork on Monday when you're back. Have a nice time.'

He was, Harry reflected as she waited at Victoria station for the Brighton train, a good man. All things considered, she had been very fortunate after her encounter with Simeon Pemberton. It seemed the same could not be said of Cecily Earnshaw.

Circus Street was a good ten-minute walk from Brighton railway station. She took directions from a confectioner's stand beside the entrance and tried not to let his horrified expression trouble her when she told him her destination. ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but that's no place for a young lady like you.'

‘Isn't it?' she said, a little taken aback. ‘A friend of mine is staying there.'

The man shook his head. ‘It's a slum,' he said darkly. ‘None but pickpockets and head thumpers and – and other bawdy types live there. Take my advice and steer clear of it.'

When it became clear Harry was not going to take his advice, he supplied her with grudging directions and watched her go as though he expected to read about her grisly murder in the evening newspaper. As she approached the area he had described, Harry's optimism that he had been mistaken began to waver. Circus Street was tucked away behind Victoria Gardens, only a short way from the Royal Pavilion, with its Indian-inspired turrets and minarets. But it was apparent even as Harry rounded the corner of Sussex Street that the confectioner's assessment had not been far wrong. Several of the squat terraced houses were boarded up and some had large gaps where the roof tiles should be. A derelict pub stood on the corner, its windows smashed and the door kicked loose so that it swung lazily in the wind. The smell of decay hung in the air.

An assortment of ragged-clothed children were playing outside, their faces pinched and hollow-cheeked beneath the grime as they chased a wooden ball along the filthy gutter. They stopped their game when they saw Harry. The eldest nudged one of the younger boys and she watched as he scurried along the street and disappeared into one of the nearby houses. They ought to be in school, she thought, and indeed there did seem to be a school at the very end of Circus Street, or at least a tall, red-bricked building that looked like an educational establishment. Either that or a prison. Harry pressed her lips together. The stark evidence of poverty was not at all what she had imagined when the Earnshaws' maid had revealed Cecily had gone to stay with her aunt.

Glancing to the right and the left, Harry tried to make out door numbers but they seemed to be few and far between. Drawing herself up, she addressed the children. ‘I'm looking for number 11. Do any of you know which house that is?'

They eyed her with mute incomprehension, as though she had spoken in another language. ‘Number 11,' she repeated patiently. ‘Which is it?'

A woman appeared from the doorway through which the boy had disappeared, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Whatever you're peddling, we don't want it.'

Harry took a few steps closer. ‘I'm not selling anything. I just?—'

‘And we don't want to be saved, thank you all the same,' the woman went on, as though Harry had not spoken. ‘You should spare us all the trouble and clear off.'

Harry took a deep breath. If she'd known the area she was visiting was so squalid, she might have come as Sarah Smith. A second woman materialised in the door of a neighbouring house, smaller and thinner faced but equally suspicious. ‘What's going on, Joan?'

‘Another do-gooder, come to save us all from ourselves,' the first woman scoffed.

The newcomer folded her arms. ‘The only good she can do for me is by slinging her hook.'

Joan laughed. ‘Hear that? Sling your hook, she says.'

Gritting her teeth, Harry approached them. ‘I'm looking for someone – Cecily Earnshaw. I have her address as 11 Circus Street. Is that correct?'

Was it her imagination or did Joan's eyes narrow. ‘No one of that name here,' she said, her tone flat. ‘I reckon you've got the wrong address.'

Harry eyed her more closely. She was tall and thin, with grey hair and dark eyes that missed nothing and strong forearms that looked like they knew what hard work was. And she reminded Harry of someone, although she was certain they had never met before. ‘You're Cecily's aunt,' she declared. ‘Susanna told me she came here to stay with you. Please, I just want to talk to her.'

Joan's eyes flashed. ‘I don't know what you're on about.'

But it was too late. Harry had seen the flicker of recognition when she had mentioned the maid's name. ‘I know she's in trouble, through no fault of her own. And I know the man responsible, although I wish I didn't.'

‘What do you want with her?' Joan asked, after staring hard at Harry for several seconds.

‘To talk to her,' Harry said. ‘That's all.'

Time seemed to stand still as Joan considered her request and Harry got the impression she was weighing up the best way to get rid of her. Pursing her lips, she stood to one side. ‘Come in, then.'

Every one of Harry's senses was screaming at her not to go into the house. She pushed them aside and slowly approached the door. Beyond it was a gloomy single room, thick with steam and the stinging aroma of bleach. A narrow bare-wood staircase led upwards but it was the large wooden tub in the centre of the room that caught Harry's eye, filled with wet clothes. ‘You're a laundress,' she said.

‘The cheapest this side of the Pavilion,' Joan said, with more than a hint of pride. ‘Most of the hotels use professional laundries these days but there's still plenty of work if you know who to ask.'

That explained the strong arms, Harry thought, and peered through the steam to the room beyond. ‘Is Cecily in there?'

Joan nodded. ‘Don't keep her long. She has to earn her keep.'

Already feeling her clothes begin to stick to her back, Harry pushed through the steam to the back room, which turned out to be a kitchen. A young woman was bent over a smaller wooden tub, scrubbing what looked like towels against a long, ribbed board. Her brown hair was coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck but tendrils had escaped to stick damply to her skin. She turned as Harry came in, a startled look on her flushed face, and Harry saw with a dismayed rush of comprehension that she was heavily pregnant. ‘Cecily?' she asked.

Warily, the other woman nodded. ‘That's right. Who are you?'

‘My name is Harriet. I work at the Abbey Road Building Society.'

Instantly, Cecily's hand curled around her belly and Harry caught a flash of fear in her dark eyes. ‘I left there months ago. What do you want?'

‘Nothing, except to ask you a few questions,' Harry reassured her. ‘I think we have an acquaintance in common. Or should I say, an enemy in common.'

For a moment, Cecily simply stared at her, then understanding dawned on her face. She let the sopping towel drop into the tub and straightened up with a wince. ‘Not here,' she said, in a low voice, rubbing the small of her back. ‘My aunt doesn't know the truth and I'd rather she didn't find out.'

She dried her hands and reached behind to untie her apron. ‘I'm going for a walk, Aunt Joan,' she called. ‘I won't be long.'

Joan appeared from the other room, scowling. ‘Those towels won't wash themselves. There's another load arriving this afternoon.'

Cecily inclined her head. ‘I know. But my back is aching and I need some fresh air. This lady and I can take a stroll along the promenade while we talk.'

From the mulish expression on the older woman's face, Harry knew she wanted to refuse. But then she relented. ‘Thirty minutes, no more.'

‘Yes, Aunt,' Cecily said, and took a shapeless coat from behind the door.

It was a relief to be back outside, Harry thought as she took deep lungfuls of bracing salt-laced air, despite the foul odour that hung over Circus Street. The gaggle of children were still there, watching them. ‘This way,' Cecily said, turning left and making for the end of the road. ‘It's much nicer when you can see the sea.'

The wind was biting when they reached the seafront, whipping the grey-blue waves into prancing white horses. Harry wrapped her coat around herself more tightly as they made their way along the promenade, dodging other walkers and the few hardy tourists who had chosen December to sample what Brighton had to offer. She glanced across at Cecily, filled with wretchedness for her unfortunate situation. ‘Does your aunt work you very hard?'

The other woman glanced down at her hands, which were red and rough-skinned. ‘She has a living to make,' she said. ‘I'm happy to help. It's the least I can do after she took me in.'

‘She's your mother's sister – is that right?'

Cecily eyed her with surprise that bordered on alarm. ‘Yes, that's right. But how could you know that? I thought you worked at the bank.'

‘I do,' Harry said. ‘But I went to find you at your family home in Norland Square. Your mother told me you no longer lived there and your maid, Susanna, came after me to give me your address here. She sends her best wishes, incidentally.'

That coaxed a smile from Cecily. ‘She was always my favourite. I miss her sometimes, and the life I used to have.'

Harry pictured the smart rows of Norland Square, overlooking the private garden, and compared it to Circus Street. ‘I can imagine. How long is it since you left?'

She gazed out at the waves. ‘Around four months. It was August when I first arrived here and the weather was better. I liked being by the sea when the beaches were busy and the sun was shining.'

‘Did you know your aunt particularly well before you came?'

Cecily shook her head. ‘No, not well. I remember she used to visit us in London, when I was a child, but as you can tell, she and my mother have ended up with wildly different lives. Mother chose practicality over romance and married a banker, who did very well for himself. Whereas Joan fell in love with a sailor, who was killed in a U-boat attack during the war.' She threw Harry a pensive look. ‘Mother used to say she never really recovered, although she did eventually marry a fisherman. We didn't see her after that.'

Harry nodded. A fisherman's wife would not fit in Norland Square. ‘But you knew where to find her.'

‘She used to write to my mother sometimes,' Cecily said. ‘Usually asking for money. Mother hid the letters in a secret drawer in her bureau – Father would have been angry if he'd known she was still in touch with Joan and I don't imagine she wanted him to know that she sent any money.'

The revelation surprised Harry. She'd been of the opinion that Mrs Earnshaw was a cold-hearted harridan who had thrown her only child from the house in her time of direst need. The fact that she had supported her sister financially softened her opinion, although only a little. ‘Why don't you tell me what happened with Simeon Pemberton? I assume he is responsible for your condition.'

The mention of his name caused the other woman to glance sharply at Harry. ‘Do you really work at the bank? You're not a private detective or a reporter for a newspaper, are you?'

The question gave Harry a moment's pause, because if she was really honest, there were times when she was a private detective. But she was not labouring on behalf of Sherlock Holmes now. ‘Yes, I really do work at the bank. I used to be Mr Pemberton's personal assistant and now—' She stopped speaking to decide how much information she wanted to share. ‘And now I work in another department.'

Cecily was not deceived. ‘You too,' she said softly.

‘In a manner of speaking,' Harry said. ‘But tell me what happened to you.'

She let out a laugh then, strange and harsh. ‘What happened to me is that I was a fool. I said yes when I should have said no and this—' she waved a hand at her swollen belly ‘—is what it got me.'

Harry eyed her compassionately. ‘You're not the first to make that mistake and you most certainly won't be the last.'

‘No,' Cecily said, glancing away in humiliation. ‘I'm sure you can imagine how it went. At first, it was just praise for my work – a well-typed letter, that kind of thing. I was flattered – he was such an important man; it meant a lot that he noticed. The other women used to say he had his eye on me, but I didn't pay them any attention. I was only a lowly secretary, after all, and he had a whole department to manage, not to mention being a married man.'

Harry said nothing. It had occurred to her to wonder what the other secretaries had known about Simeon Pemberton, after he had attempted to seduce her. They had at least tried to warn Cecily, it seemed.

‘Anyway, soon he was saying nice things about my appearance too,' the young woman went on. ‘He said my hair was like burnished copper, which I didn't believe for a moment but I liked hearing him say it. The first time he kissed me was a shock – I think I pushed him away. But he said he couldn't help himself, that he couldn't stop thinking about me and he'd never seen anyone more beautiful.' She fixed her gaze on the ground, shame burning in her cheeks. ‘I didn't push him away after that.'

Harry turned to watch the sea, observing the rise and fall of the swell and the seagulls that swooped overhead with detached interest. Simeon Pemberton had said nothing the first time he'd tried to kiss her. He'd said nothing afterwards, either, but that was because she had kneed him so sharply in the groin that he had not been capable of speech.

‘After a while, he confessed that his wife didn't care for him but he could tell I was different. He – he told me he loved me.' Cecily looked beseechingly at Harry. ‘I knew it was wrong but no one had ever talked to me like that. He said he would leave his wife, when the time was right, and we'd set up home together. I knew Father would approve, even if he was a divorced man, and it made it easier, somehow, to forget that we were doing something wrong. And then I missed a month, and another. Simeon was furious – he accused me of trying to trap him, even went so far as to say the baby could not be his.'

She stopped talking, visibly upset. Harry seethed inwardly at Pemberton's ugly yet predictable reaction to the awful fate he had inflicted on Cecily. She was not blameless but his refusal to take responsibility only infuriated Harry more. One day, she would find a way to hold him accountable, she vowed. They walked in silence for a few minutes until Cecily had herself under control again. ‘I didn't know what to do. He was so different. He told me I'd have to leave the bank and if I tried to claim my situation was anything to do with him, he'd deny everything. I didn't dare tell my father – for weeks, I pretended to go to work each day. Then my mother noticed my belly and the game was up. She turned white as a sheet, didn't say a word. She just walked out of the room.'

Harry's hands clenched into fists by her sides. Her own mother could be a bit overbearing and occasionally infuriating, but her actions came from a place of love and Harry knew that if she ever found herself in so desperate a situation, she would not be abandoned with such heartlessness. ‘I'm sorry,' she said quietly, as Cecily wiped a tear from her cheek.

The other woman looked at her. ‘Why should you be sorry? It's not your fault.'

Harry made a helpless gesture. ‘No, but even so. It must have been very difficult for you.'

Cecily shrugged. ‘For days she didn't speak to me, then one morning about a week later, she gave me some pills. She'd got them from America, she said, and told me to take one each day.'

An awful suspicion began to dawn on Harry. She turned sharply to Cecily, who let out a barely muffled sob. ‘I didn't know what it would do! I thought it must be vitamins of some kind, a supplement to keep us both healthy. It was only when I became ill that I realised the truth.'

Harry was aghast as her worst fear was confirmed. Abortion was not only illegal but terribly risky – the newspapers were full of stories about women who had tried to end an unwanted pregnancy and had lost their own lives in the process. For once, she had no words to offer. Cecily did not meet her gaze. ‘I don't think I've ever been so unwell as I was then. The convulsions. The hallucinations. For days, I was confined to my bed, but I remember trying to run from the house more than once. When I slept, I was haunted by nightmares. And when at last I got better and I could think clearly again, it became obvious that it had been for nothing. I was still with child.' She paused, her expression bleak. ‘That was when my mother told my father.'

It was, Harry thought, almost too horrific to contemplate. That a mother would risk her own child's life in such a way… But something else was nagging at her, something about the list of symptoms Cecily had described. They bore a chilling similarity to those endured by Philip St John, although she doubted he had been fed the same pills Cecily had. ‘The medicine your mother got from America,' she said slowly. ‘Did you ever learn its name?'

Cecily frowned. ‘The brand name was on the box. What was it, now? Mylex? Morlex? Mother said it was an ancient herbal medicine, distilled from some kind of grain.' She shook her head. ‘Argot? I'm sorry, I can't remember exactly.'

Harry frowned. Argot. Where had she heard that name before? Had it been one of the poisons listed in the book that was sitting on her bedside table? ‘Don't distress yourself,' she told Cecily. ‘It doesn't matter.'

They walked in silence for a moment, then Cecily spoke again. ‘Once I understood what Mother had tried to do, I could not bear to even look at her. But worse was to come. When my father learned that I was to be an unmarried mother, he told me I had brought shame on his good name and cast me out of the house.'

Again, Harry was appalled by the callousness of the Earnshaws. ‘So you came here.'

‘It was the only place I could think of,' Cecily said. ‘Joan was understandably a little taken aback to see me, after so many years, but she soon realised what the situation was. She said I could stay, if I earned my keep. I've been here ever since.'

It was, Harry thought, one of the saddest stories she had ever heard. And she could not see how things were going to improve for Cecily. Once the baby arrived, she would not be able to work. Would Joan be so accommodating when her niece was unable to scrub laundry? The house appeared to be no more than a two-up, two-down construction, hardly big enough for Joan and her family, let alone Cecily and her child. And then there was Circus Street itself, squalid and derelict, falling down around the ears of those who sheltered there. It was no place to raise a child. But she did not know how to help Cecily. Until an hour ago, they had been strangers.

‘I am glad the pills did not work,' Cecily said, suddenly breaking the silence in a clear, determined tone. She raised her chin. ‘I know you pity me and my situation but at least I will have my baby and we will find a way to manage somehow.'

Harry gave her an earnest look. ‘I don't pity you, Cecily. I admire you for having the strength and initiative to find somewhere to go. But I do admit to being concerned for you both.' She paused, remembering the sneering comments of Joan and her neighbour back at Circus Street. ‘There are charities that can help?—'

Vehemently, Cecily shook her head. ‘I know about those. They take the baby away the moment it's born.' Her hand curved around her stomach. ‘I'd never see my child again.'

There were such places, Harry had to admit, but they were not what she had meant. ‘What if I was able to secure some money – enough to give you a fresh start somewhere better than this. Would you take it?'

Cecily stared at her. ‘But where would it come from?'

‘Perhaps one of the charities I mentioned, but not the ones you mean. My grandmother is involved with a number of them, many of which are quite successful in terms of fundraising. I might be able to persuade one of them to support you, in the short term, to allow you to get back on your feet.'

The other woman did not answer immediately. ‘You are very kind,' she said at last. ‘But the shame of being an unmarried mother… I would be a pariah, no matter where I settled, and my child would be forever tarred by the same brush. At least here I am not alone.'

Harry was tempted to point out that being alone in relative comfort might be preferable to the filth of a slum but she held back, recognising it was not her decision to make. ‘Perhaps you might agree to think about it,' she said. ‘The offer will still be there if you change your mind, and you can always reach me at the bank.'

Cecily sighed and rubbed her back once more. ‘You are very kind,' she said again, ‘but I really should be getting back. I have been much longer than thirty minutes.'

Harry eyed her weary expression and wished she could do more to help. But she could not force the young woman to accept her assistance. ‘I wish you well, Cecily. Both of you.'

‘Thank you,' she said, and let out a strange, puzzled laugh. ‘Although I'm not sure I really understand what brought you here. You said we had a common enemy, and I realise that must be Mr Pemberton, but I'm not sure hearing my tale of woe was enough to bring you all the way from London.' She studied Harry in bewilderment. ‘Have I helped you in some way?'

The question gave Harry a moment's pause, because discovering the unhappy depths of Simeon Pemberton's cruelty could not be said to have helped in any practical terms. But knowing the severity of his secret had given her something to use against him in the future, although she would not make the details public if it meant ruining Cecily's reputation even further. Impulsively, Harry reached out to squeeze the younger woman's arm. ‘You've given me more than you will ever know.'