Chapter 12

12

If the man at the confectioner's stand was surprised to see Harry had escaped Circus Street with her life, he did not show it as she hurried past him and into Brighton station to catch the train back to London. Perhaps he had already forgotten her, she thought as she checked she had the correct platform. She had to concede his warning had not been entirely without merit.

She was relieved to find she had the compartment to herself for the journey home and, since she had managed to catch the non-stop train, that happy state of affairs continued all the way to Victoria. It gave her a much-needed opportunity to jot down all she had learned in her notebook. The fury she felt on Cecily Earnshaw's behalf drove her pen across the page. Simeon Pemberton had used and discarded her in such a morally bereft manner that it made Harry's blood boil and the actions of the Earnshaws were equally reprehensible: one had administered a potentially life-threatening drug without seeming to care that it might cost Cecily her life, and the other seemed to value his good name more than the safety and wellbeing of his only child. She could not help feeling that Cecily was safer away from the clutches of all three, although she feared the young woman had put herself into even greater danger by taking up residence in Circus Street. She could only hope Cecily's aunt truly felt some warmth towards her unfortunate niece, and would not turn her out as readily as her parents had.

The train pulled into Victoria station a little after four o'clock, leaving Harry with just enough time to get home to Mayfair to prepare for her trip to Morden Fen. She also wanted to consult Mortlake's Common and Uncommon Poisons . Cecily's description of the symptoms invoked by the drug she had taken sounded so much like those suffered by Philip St John that Harry was certain it could not be coincidence. Medicine was often a balancing act using substances that were deadly in other circumstances. Could it be the ingredient in the pills Cecily had unwittingly taken might contain the poison that had been used against John Archer's uncle?

She packed quickly, rummaging under her bed for a pair of dusty wellington boots she had rarely needed since moving to London and adding the men's trousers and cap she had used as a disguise during the last case she had investigated. The trousers were an ugly brown and too large, not in any way stylish like the ones being worn more and more frequently by fashionable women, but she hoped they might provide some warmth in case of another midnight chase among the fens. More than her nightclothes, certainly. The final item she packed was a torch. It might not do much to pierce the darkness but it would be better than nothing.

Once she had gathered everything she needed, she made a pot of tea and sat down with her copy of Mortlake. Her attention skimmed from page to page, skipping the poisons she had already discounted. Many listed hallucinations as a symptom – even the more deadly substances affected the mind when given in small doses – but there were other effects that did not match with those Harry had observed in Philip St John. She was also looking for something else – a poison that was known to affect pregnancy. And after a time, she found it. Cecily had not been far off with her jumbled recollections. It was Ergot she had been given by her mother, not Argot.

According to Mortlake, it was a fungal spore that infected grain crops. If accidentally ingested – usually in bread – its symptoms included hallucinations, loss of appetite, tremors, fatigue and, if left untreated, death. Mortlake also observed its effect on pregnant women, although he made no mention of any pills that might be taken on purpose. Those had come from America, Cecily had said, and Harry considered it unlikely they had come from a legal source. Slowly, she closed the book. Bread. There was only one person at Thrumwell Manor responsible for the household baking and the fact that no one but Philip St John had been poisoned told Harry that any contamination could not be an accident. She did not know why Mary was exacting such a terrible punishment on her employer but, before the weekend was over, she intended to find out.

Harry was waiting by the side of the road with her case when Oliver arrived. She got in and fixed him with a resolute gaze. ‘I think I know who the poisoner is.'

As he drove, she told him about the trap she had laid for Danny, the address he had supplied for Cecily and the journey she had made to Brighton. She finished with her suspicion about the poison used and how she supposed it had been administered.

‘Flour?' Oliver repeated incredulously as they left London behind and entered Hertfordshire. ‘Whoever heard of poisoned flour?'

‘Mortlake mentions a tragedy in France where thousands of people died from eating contaminated grain,' Harry said. ‘Although those deaths were accidental, not murder. But the sooner we get to Thrumwell Manor, the better.'

He glanced across at her, his expression pensive. ‘Are you sure about this?'

‘Nothing else fits,' she said. ‘Ergot poisoning occurs from eating infected grain. As the cook, Mary bakes every day, but only Philip St John has been poisoned. It's hard to see how it could be anything but intentional. So that's means and opportunity. I don't know why yet.'

Oliver puffed out his cheeks. ‘We're going to need evidence.'

‘One of us can sneak into the kitchen.' She paused. ‘Although it might not be easy to find the flour she's been using. I don't suppose she keeps it in a jar with a skull and crossbones on it.'

‘Probably not,' he agreed ruefully. ‘How much of this are you going to share with Archer?'

It was a question that made Harry frown. ‘Nothing for now. I want to make sure I'm right first.'

He nodded his approval. ‘We could have things wrapped up by tomorrow. Where's the police station? We're going to have to call them in.'

Harry hadn't thought that far ahead. A serious crime had been committed – of course the police would need to be summoned. And it made sense that Oliver's first thought was to involve them – he was a lawyer, after all. But Harry's investigative instincts had been moulded by Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose detectives preferred to solve the case themselves and often only involved the police at the last. Once again she was reminded that things worked differently in real life. ‘The nearest must be in Ely, I expect. But let's be certain of the facts before we accuse anyone.'

Night did not make navigation of the unlit country roads easy. More than once, Oliver was obliged to brake and reverse the car to correct after a missed signpost. Harry did her best with the map but the roads were still unfamiliar and the experience only served to remind her how remote Thrumwell Manor was. Eventually, they passed through Morden village, where the occasional window winked at them but all was otherwise quiet. A single street lamp on the village green was the only light, although the pub did appear to be open. They did not stop and Harry was relieved when she recognised the boundary wall that ran along the narrow road to the manor. The sweep of Oliver's headlights picked out Donaldson on the other side of the gates, waiting inside the car that had collected Harry from Ely station. Had that only been a week ago, she mused as she watched him grapple with the chains. It felt like longer.

Oliver waited until the gates were open, then eased the car through. ‘Thanks, Donaldson,' he said, winding down the window. ‘We'll drive on up to the house. Don't worry about bringing the cases in. I'll take them.'

The man nodded. ‘As you wish.'

Harry's impression of Thrumwell Manor as they drew nearer was markedly different to her previous visit. Now the house was dressed in almost total darkness, its windows shrouded by curtains so no light escaped. Two wall lamps illuminated the front door, fixed on either side to light the top step of the stone stairs that led up to it. Oliver drew the car to a halt on the gravel and both he and Harry got out. He took their cases from the back seat and surveyed the house with a frown. ‘I've had warmer welcomes. Should we ring the bell, do you think?'

Harry was not looking at the door. She was gazing back the way they had come, towards the gate, where she had expected to see the headlights of Donaldson's car sweeping up the drive. But there were no lights. ‘That's odd,' she said. ‘I expected Donaldson to follow us.'

Oliver turned to look. ‘Perhaps he was waiting to let us in before going out somewhere. Why, did you want him for something?'

‘No,' Harry said, and realised she couldn't explain why the groundsman's absence made her uneasy. Her gaze traversed the darkness, skimming the inky black that shrouded the fen, and Mary's prediction of the previous weekend floated into her mind. It's night-time that's the danger… if you ever come back – that's when you'll feel the pull . It was all nonsense, she reminded herself. She'd come back to Thrumwell Manor of her own volition, not because the mysterious ferryman had summoned her. And there were certainly no lights to be seen now – nothing broke the gloom, not even the moon. She pulled her coat tight against the wind and shivered. ‘It doesn't matter. Come on, let's get inside.'

It took longer than Harry expected for the door to open. Agnes peered out through the crack, her expression pinched and anxious. ‘Oh,' she said, and the tension on her face eased slightly. ‘Good evening, Miss Moss. Mr Fortescue. Welcome back.'

With a creak, the door opened wider to allow them to enter and closed again once they stood in the weak yellow light in the hall. She turned a heavy iron key in the lock and removed it, tucking it into her apron pocket. Harry supposed it was an effort to prevent Philip St John from using the door to escape, but it was still a little disconcerting to know they were locked inside the house. ‘Mr Archer has asked me to show you to your rooms,' Agnes said, turning to them. ‘He's with his uncle now and will join you for drinks in the drawing room shortly.'

Perhaps it was the strain of St John's illness but Harry thought the housekeeper moved with less vigour than she had on her last visit. There was a weariness about her shoulders that seemed to weigh her down as she trudged up the stairs. Was it guilt that caused her lethargy, or the helplessness of watching her master decline? Harry did not know but it made her more determined to resolve the darkness hanging over Thrumwell Manor. One way or another, it would end this weekend.

She turned right at the top of the stairs, showing Oliver to the green room Harry had briefly visited on her tour of the house. It had clearly been aired since then; it smelled much fresher and was now warmed by a fire. ‘I've put you in the blue room again, miss,' Agnes said to Harry, once Oliver was settled. ‘I hope that suits you.'

‘Very much so,' Harry said. ‘Thank you.'

The bedroom was just as it had been for Harry's last visit, although the counterpane on the bed was now a patchwork of cornflower blue and white rather than the royal blue one that had matched the curtains. She was glad to see the drapes themselves were firmly closed, shutting out the night. After crossing to the hearth, the housekeeper added some coal to the flames. Harry opened her case and began to unpack. ‘How are you, Agnes?'

The housekeeper did not look up. ‘I can't complain, miss, although I wish the master would get better. We try not to leave him unattended now and it makes life harder for us all.'

‘Of course,' Harry said sympathetically. The not quite concealed tremble in the other woman's tone made it hard to believe she had anything to do with Philip St John's affliction. ‘Mary told me that according to the curse, his third sighting of the ferryman will be his last. Is that why you locked the front door?'

The other woman stilled briefly, then resumed tending the fire. ‘It seems like a sensible precaution.'

‘I assume Donaldson will use the trade entrance when he comes back,' Harry said, watching her. ‘I notice he did not return to the house after opening the gate for us.'

Agnes got to her feet. ‘He has business in the village,' she said, brushing specks of coal dust from her fingers. ‘If there's nothing else, I'll go and relieve Mr Archer so he can join you in the drawing room.'

Harry studied her, observing the guarded set to her face. She wanted to ask her about Mary, whether she had noticed anything strange about her behaviour, but she could not think of a way to do so without sounding clumsy. She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Agnes.'

Once she had unpacked, Harry made her way along the landing to knock at Oliver's door. After a few seconds he opened it. ‘How's your room?' she asked.

‘Green,' he replied. ‘But not uncomfortable. Yours?'

‘Blue,' she said. ‘Shall we go down? The drawing room is just off the hall.'

Oliver waved a hand. ‘Lead on.'

Archer was standing beside the fireplace when they entered the drawing room, the grey wolfhound at his feet. ‘Welcome,' he said, hurrying forward to shake their hands with his usual enthusiasm, for all he looked even more fatigued than he had on Thursday. ‘Thank you for coming.'

‘Not at all,' Harry said, bending to ruffle Barrymore's wiry coat. ‘How is your uncle?'

He sighed. ‘Much the same. I know your suspicions must be correct, Miss Moss, but I must confess I simply cannot fathom how he is being poisoned, much less who is doing it. They all appear to be as devoted to him as ever.'

Harry exchanged a glance with Oliver, who had reached out a hand for Barrymore to sniff. Archer seemed tired but he was otherwise in good health. It appeared he had not set any alarm bells ringing that might result in desperate measures by the poisoner. ‘That is why we are here,' she said. ‘I intend to answer both questions this weekend.'

‘And I have every faith you will,' Archer said. He crossed towards the drinks cabinet. ‘But I am being a neglectful host. What can I offer you to drink?'

‘A gin and tonic, please,' Harry said.

‘I'll have the same, if it's not too much trouble,' Oliver said, then leaned nearer to Harry. ‘Are you sure it's safe for us to eat the food Mary prepares? What if she realises we suspect her and decides to poison us too?'

‘She can't have any idea we know,' she murmured back. ‘And mass poisoning would rather give the game away, don't you think? So much harder to explain than a single case.'

Oliver raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘I'm not entirely reassured by that.'

Harry scratched Barrymore's grizzled chin and dug into her pocket for a biscuit. ‘I think we're safe,' she whispered. ‘Just steer clear of the bread.'

Whatever he was about to say next was forestalled by a knock at the door. Barrymore's ears cocked and he let out a low rumbling growl. Archer looked up, gin bottle in hand. ‘Yes?'

The door opened to reveal Donaldson. Barrymore subsided, although Harry noticed he kept his eyes fixed on the groundsman. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Archer. I wasn't able to get it. The shop was closed up for the night and there was no sign of Eliza.'

Archer let out a tsk of annoyance. ‘It is my fault for failing to realise supplies were low. But there's nothing to be done now.' He nodded at the man. ‘Thank you for trying. I'll go to the village myself in the morning.'

‘Very good, sir,' Donaldson said, and withdrew.

Aware that both Harry and Oliver were eyeing him with polite curiosity, Archer cleared his throat. ‘No great mystery. My uncle's pipe tobacco has run out. I sent Donaldson to get some more but, as you heard, he did not succeed.'

So that was where he had gone after opening the gate, Harry thought. Oliver had been correct; there was a reasonable explanation for his disappearance. ‘Is your uncle a regular smoker?' she asked.

‘He likes a pipe after meals, although not first thing in the morning.' Archer grimaced. ‘Awful stuff – I can't bear it myself. It won't hurt him to have a break from it. His chest isn't fully recovered from the chill he caught, you know.'

Harry imagined the doctor might have recommended a rest from smoking after St John's initial fever but perhaps he had been ignored. ‘I expect it will do him good,' she agreed. ‘I read The Blood-soaked Soil , incidentally. It's quite an extraordinary achievement.'

At that, Archer's expression relaxed somewhat. ‘I think so too,' he said, handing out their drinks. ‘He wrote it in the trenches, you know, while serving as an infantryman on the Western Front.'

She had not known but the revelation made perfect sense. The descriptions of the horrific conditions could only have been written by someone who had experienced them first hand. ‘Then it is even more remarkable. Where did he get the paper?'

‘I believe he traded it for chocolate sent from home,' Archer replied. ‘And occasionally cigarettes.'

Chocolate and cigarettes had been high-value commodities then, Harry thought, worth more than money to the soldiers. Philip St John must have been desperate to get his story out. ‘I'd like to read more of his work,' she said. ‘Do you have any of his other books I might borrow?'

‘Of course,' Archer said. ‘There are copies of them all in the library. I'll get you a selection now.'

‘Oh, please don't trouble yourself,' she protested. ‘Some point over the weekend would be fine.'

‘There's no time like the present,' he said jovially. ‘Agnes is with him now but it gives me an excuse to check on them.' He glanced at Oliver. ‘I hope you don't mind not meeting my uncle this evening. He's often more unsettled at this time of day and I thought tomorrow might be better.'

‘Not at all,' Oliver said. ‘You know best.'

Archer gave a short laugh. ‘Do I? I sometimes wonder if I know anything at all. But I'll get the books, Miss Moss.'

Once he had left the room, Oliver took a sip of his drink. ‘Well, it seems we almost have a full house. Donaldson is just back from the village and Agnes is in the library with St John. That just leaves the cook to be accounted for.'

‘She'll be in the kitchen, I expect, preparing the evening meal,' Harry said. ‘It makes sense to investigate the pantry later, once everyone has gone to bed. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but I'll see if I can find any evidence of Ergot.'

‘Not on your own,' he said firmly. ‘If you're snooping around in the dark, I'm coming with you.'

She was about to object – one person was less likely to make a noise than two – but decided it was an argument they did not need to have. All she needed to do was wait until he had fallen asleep to sneak downstairs to the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow. ‘And don't go thinking you'll wait until I'm asleep to do it. I'm coming with you and that's that.'

Harry sipped her drink, half amused and half irritated that he had guessed her plan. But she felt the atmosphere at Thrumwell Manor weighing on her more heavily than it had during her last visit, and while she didn't need Oliver watching over her as she searched the kitchen for poison, she had to admit she was glad he had accompanied her this time. ‘Fine,' she huffed.

Archer bustled back into the room, carrying four leather-bound books. ‘Here you are,' he said, handing the pile to Harry. ‘These should keep you busy.'

He had brought a copy of The Blood-soaked Soil , as well as three more recent novels. She passed the first book to Oliver, who opened the cover with some curiosity. ‘ To Rupert Templeton, who died that I might live ,' he read aloud, running a finger across the dedication. ‘Who is Rupert Templeton? Do you know?'

‘Ah,' Archer said, bending to prod at the fire with an iron poker. ‘That's rather a tragic tale. He and my uncle served together on the front line – brothers in arms, I suppose you might say. Rupert was a writer too – I imagine they used it as a form of escape. Anyway, it didn't end well for Rupert and Uncle Philip was devastated. My mother said he never wanted to talk about the war but he once told her that Rupert had saved his life.'

‘How?' Harry asked softly.

‘He refused to elaborate,' Archer said, straightening up. ‘Which makes it all the more remarkable that he wrote The Blood-soaked Soil but I suppose the writing process can be cathartic. I still remember seeing him scribbling away, night after night, when I was a child. I used to think it helped him come to terms with it all, until I moved back here and discovered he won't touch a penny of the royalties from it. I once heard him call it blood money.'

Harry could understand St John's reluctance to revisit such painful memories but his aversion to the money earned by his first novel was surprising. It had been in print since publication in 1920 and, as far as she could tell, remained a well-read book. ‘What does he do with it?'

Archer shrugged. ‘All I know is that it goes into a separate account and is not to be touched under any circumstances. Thankfully, he earns a good income from his subsequent novels and he lives a relatively modest lifestyle.'

She nodded absently. Perhaps it was not so strange that Philip St John viewed his earnings from a book about the horror of the war as blood money. It did not appear that any of his other work had touched on so terrible a subject. Opening the cover of another of his novels, she began to read but she had not got much further than the first page when the door opened again and Mary appeared. ‘Dinner is served.'

Oliver cocked his head, asking if this was the cook, and she gave the faintest of nods. ‘Excellent,' Archer said, and beamed at them both. ‘I don't know about you but I'm famished. Let's tuck in.'