Chapter 13

13

Harry did her best to forget her suspicions about Mary as they ate but it was hard not to wonder whether the chicken pie had been laced with something more than tarragon and white wine. Across the table, she sensed Oliver had the same reservations and reminded herself that she had no hard proof the cook was responsible for poisoning anyone. The cook's mouth had tightened when she had entered the dining room and caught sight of Harry but she thought that had more to do with the reckless disregard of her warning about what might happen if she saw the ferryman again than a suspicion that Harry might be onto her. And the pie smelled delicious.

As during her previous visit, Archer was an entertaining host, even though his manner was more subdued. He made no complaint when, shortly before ten o'clock, she gathered up the books he had brought from the library and claimed an early night. ‘Would you like me to ask Mary to make you some warm milk?' he offered, when she made her excuses.

‘Please don't trouble her,' Harry said. ‘I'm sure I shall still be awake at midnight, reading your uncle's excellent books.' She glanced at Oliver, and saw her message had been received. ‘Goodnight to you both.'

The first thing Harry noticed, once she had settled herself against the plump pillows of the bed, was that Philip St John's later novels were shorter than The Blood-soaked Soil . That wasn't so unusual, she supposed – it had been so successful that perhaps his publisher had asked for more books to supply public demand rather more quickly than St John had expected. The subject matter was markedly different too; The Jungle was about a teacher at a public school, struggling to deal with a secret alcohol addiction. Paris By Night told the story of two friends who became enemies after their business fell apart. Harry read the opening chapters of both and was struck by the change of tone and style in the post-war novels. She supposed that had been a commercial decision too – the Roaring Twenties had been about gaiety and hedonism and putting the awfulness of war behind them – but The Blood-soaked Soil had an aching depth to it that she found to be lacking in the books that had followed. And having heard from Archer that his uncle refused to touch the money it brought in, Harry could only assume Philip St John's aversion to his painful memories had affected the way he wrote his subsequent novels too. There were no further dedications to Rupert Templeton; St John had dedicated his other books to his mother, his sister and his beloved nephew.

Sounds on the landing around eleven o'clock told her the rest of the household had retired. She continued to read, refusing to let her heavy eyelids beat her. Just after midnight, she heard a soft tapping at her door. She slipped out of bed and stooped to pull on her shoes. Picking up the torch from the bedside table, she inched the door open a crack. ‘Ready?' Oliver asked, when she peered out at him.

She was glad to observe he was still wearing day clothes, just as she was; she feared the sight of him in pyjamas would have stirred up some inconvenient thoughts she had no time to deal with. ‘Of course,' she whispered, easing through the gap to stand beside him. ‘We'll use the servants' staircase. It leads directly to the kitchen.'

The hidden stairs were even darker than Harry remembered. Pressing the button to switch the torch on, she cast its pale beam around. ‘We'd better go slowly. Stay close.'

The air was still as they navigated a series of narrow stairways. Harry kept the torch trained on the steps as they descended, her other hand holding the thin metal rail that served as a banister. She was aware of Oliver close behind, could hear his breath in her ear, and felt a quiver of something that was most definitely not going to help with the task in hand. Forcing herself to ignore his proximity, she concentrated on lighting the way. It would not do to get distracted and drop the torch.

The stairs ended in a door that opened just outside the kitchen. Holding up one hand, Harry listened intently. Most domestic staff rose early in the morning, and so went to bed at a sensible time, but this was a strange household, in more ways than one. After a few seconds, she was satisfied the room was empty. Praying the hinges would not creak, she lifted the latch and entered the shadowy room.

The weak electric light that seemed so feeble elsewhere in the house felt bright when Harry first flicked the switch on the wall, but her eyes quickly adjusted. The kitchen was warm, its fire still glowing red in the wide hearth. A large bowl stood in the centre of the table, covered by a white tea towel. ‘Dough,' Harry murmured, lifting the corner of the cloth. She gazed around the room. ‘You take the cupboards; I'll check the pantry.'

‘Do you have any idea what we're looking for?' he asked.

Harry hesitated. Mortlake had listed several ways Ergot poisoning occurred in humans; these included a tincture that had been distilled from infected grain, an overdose of prescribed medication for a variety of health conditions, and the ingestion of fungal spores through contaminated flour. ‘If Mary is administering the poison through bread she only gives to Philip St John, she'll be careful to keep the infected flour separate. Look for a sealed bag or a stoppered jar of some kind. Maybe even a small bottle. It could be marked Rye .'

He began to open the cupboards, methodically searching the shelves. Harry made for the pantry. It was well organised and stocked with everything she might expect in a working kitchen. A large sack of plain flour sat in one corner, securely tied. Another contained strong flour, which Harry assumed the cook used to bake bread, but it seemed unlikely that would be the source of Ergot; it would be too easy to make a mistake and poison everyone. She kept an eye out for unlabelled bottles that might contain a tincture. She assumed only a few drops would be enough to poison St John's food, but she found nothing that seemed suspicious. Before she knew it, almost half an hour had passed and she had not discovered anything that proved Mary's guilt.

Oliver was similarly empty-handed. ‘Is there somewhere else it might be kept?' he asked, when he had searched the last cupboard. ‘An outdoor storeroom?'

It was worth exploring, Harry decided. They might not get another chance. There was only one other exit from the kitchen: a solid oak door with two black iron bolts and a hefty key in the lock just below the door handle. Steadily, Oliver drew the bolts back. Harry held her breath, praying they were well oiled. The key turned with a clunk that sounded too loud. They both froze, listening. Barrymore could not be far away; if they woke him, his barking would rouse the entire household. But all remained quiet. Turning the handle with care, Oliver opened the door and they slipped out into the freezing night air.

The first door Harry tried led to an outside toilet. It was clearly in regular use. She flashed her torch around to reveal a neat pile of torn paper resting on an upturned bucket and a candle on the windowsill beside a box of matches. Cobwebs dangled from the overhead cistern but there was no sign of any spiders. A jumble of wellington boots was piled up in one corner. Closing the door, Harry glanced around to locate Oliver. He was peering into an outbuilding on the far side of the yard, his hands cupped against the window as he tried to make out what was inside. ‘Looks like a garage,' he said. ‘The car Donaldson drives is in there.'

Harry nodded and made for another small building. But as she approached the door, a flash caught her eye in the black night beyond the building. She stopped, switching off the torch to stare past the rough stone wall. The kitchen was in the rear corner of the house, and she supposed its windows would look towards the fen during the day. Was her imagination playing tricks on her? There was nothing to see now. She strained into the shadows and was about to switch the torch back on when another flash bloomed and died in the darkness. ‘Oliver,' she whispered urgently. ‘Did you see that? A light over there.'

He was at her side in a moment. ‘Where?'

‘Past the buildings. Wait – there it is again.' There could be no mistake this time. Harry was sure of what she'd seen – a light bobbing in the fen. Her heart thudded as Mary's words echoed around her head. ‘Someone is out there.'

‘But who?' Oliver asked. ‘Someone from the house?'

Harry shook her head and cast around, trying to get her bearings. ‘I don't think so. Let's see, the lode is that way.' She turned to point at what she hoped was north. ‘And the edge of the fen nearest the house is over there.'

‘In that case whoever it is must be in a boat,' Oliver said.

‘They must be,' she replied, and fought hard against a mental image of a lone ferryman sculling through the reeds. Holmes would have no truck with such fancies and nor should she. ‘I think this is what Agnes mentioned last week, even though she said no one did it any more. Someone is cutting across the fen from Morden village to Burwell, in the dead of night.' She fired a determined look his way. ‘We need to find out who.'

She expected him to argue, to try and talk her out of it, but he simply nodded. ‘We can try.'

‘I'll keep the torch angled down so they don't see the light,' she said, then stopped. ‘Wait! There were some boots in the outside toilet. Let's see if any of them fit.'

Oliver was in luck – he found a pair that fitted almost immediately. Harry was less fortunate and was forced to settle for one that was the right size and one that was at least one size too large. They would have to do, she decided. She had no time to go and get her own boots from upstairs. ‘Okay,' she said, clenching her toes to keep the larger boot from slipping. ‘Follow me and stay very close.'

Bending low, she half-hobbled, half-scurried to the edge of the outbuildings and stopped to take stock. The light was easier to spot now, bobbing in and out of sight as though hidden by the reeds. ‘We need to be quick,' she murmured, pushing her fear to one side. ‘If they get too far out we'll lose them.'

The endless sighing of the sedge grew louder. All too soon the ground changed consistency and became marshy. The reedbed loomed up, causing Harry to murmur in surprise, and she edged sideways, seeking a way in. Now that they were nearer, she could hear the loose slosh of the water being displaced by the boat, a faint snatch of murmured words. Whoever it was, they were moving very slowly, in no apparent hurry. Harry waded through the whispering reeds, hoping her borrowed boots were tall enough to prevent water from slopping onto her feet. She was cold enough already. Some distance ahead, the lantern swung back and forth, filling Harry with a dreadful anticipation that made her shiver.

Without stopping to think, she reached back with her spare hand and grabbed Oliver's fingers, needing reassurance that she was not alone. Nothing could happen to her as long as they stuck together.

They crept on, the sound of their movements masked by the slap of the water against the boat. The murmuring carried further now, and Harry realised with a start that she could make out two voices over the constant shivering of the sedge.

‘We… before tomorrow…'

‘Package… final… barge.'

The words were snatched away by the breeze but the implications were not lost on Harry. The voices were male and perfectly ordinary, quietly discussing the job they were undertaking. The light they carried did not represent a restless spirit in search of the lost. Feeling more than a little foolish, she grasped the logical explanation close to her chest and pushed on, straining to catch more of the conversation. They were perhaps only ten or twelve feet behind now; she could make out muffled figures in the lamplight, confirming her belief that this could not be the ferryman.

She glanced back at Oliver, wondering whether he had reached the same conclusion. But of course he had, she thought as she caught sight of his set features. Oliver believed in facts and evidence. He was not as foolish as she was. Grateful she had not embarrassed herself by revealing her fears, Harry turned forwards again and cocked her head. The wind died a little, making it easier to pick out the words over the reeds and the slosh of the water. This voice was deeper, perhaps older. ‘Last delivery… King's Lynn… collect payment.'

‘I am glad.' The other voice seemed suddenly louder, as though raised in passion. ‘It's… risky. What if we get caught?'

Deep Voice rumbled. ‘No… suspects…'

More words followed, too low for Harry to make out. Now that her irrational fears had been vanquished, she was impatient to discover what was being transported, and by whom. She edged closer. ‘…Philip St John.'

The familiar name almost made Harry gasp. There was a word for those who moved goods around in secret: smugglers. Could it be that Philip St John was somehow involved?

‘He's out…' Deep Voice said, ‘…no… sense…'

‘…dangerous.' The second voice rose in tone, as though agitated, and the words were clear over the hiss of the reeds. ‘What if… wrong?'

‘…so far…' He seemed to be trying to soothe his companion. ‘Over… soon…'

Harry pushed forward again. If she could just get a clear view of the boat, she might be able to see what it was they carried. But in her haste, she trod on something thin and hard protruding from the water. It cracked sharply beneath her foot. There was a loud curse. The lamp swung wildly. The gentle slosh of the boat stopped. ‘What was that?'

Harry felt Oliver duck low. Instinctively, she did the same, turning the light of the torch against her body and hoping the reeds would hide them. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She did not dare draw breath. Those they were pursuing might not be the fabled ferryman but they were still almost certainly dangerous men. If they came looking for the source of the snapped twig, they would stumble right into Harry and Oliver.

‘It's nothing. A bird.'

A soft splash suggested the boat had begun to move again. ‘Let's get… done,' the second voice said, sounding fretful once more. ‘The sooner… Burwell… better.'

Harry's racing pulse began to slow. She stayed still, listening. When she judged the boat had moved far enough away, she turned to Oliver. ‘Did you hear any of that?'

He nodded. ‘Enough to know they are up to no good.'

‘Should we follow them? Find out what they're doing?'

‘No. Let's get back on dry land. We can talk back at the house.'

In other circumstances, Harry might have argued but she was cold and wet and unwilling to risk another broken twig. With care, they retraced their steps. Harry's mind whirled as she considered the implications of what they had overheard. She did not understand everything – not yet – but one thing was clear. There was something infinitely more dangerous than the supernatural out on the fens that night.

Abandoning their borrowed boots in the outhouse once more, Harry and Oliver made their way back into the kitchen and locked the door behind them. By unspoken agreement, Harry made a pot of tea. Neither of them said much as they waited for the kettle to whistle. It was only when they were seated opposite each other at the kitchen table, two steaming cups in front of them, that they broke their silence.

‘Well,' Harry said, in a flat murmur that still sounded too loud in the hush. ‘That changes things.'

Oliver inclined his head. ‘It's clear this isn't the first time they've made that journey.'

Harry wrapped her hands around her cup. ‘Agnes said the locals used the shortcut across the fen to avoid tolls on the barges, but what if they also used it to move things in secret. Illegal things.'

‘Smugglers.'

‘Yes.' She leaned forward. ‘Let's say you've hidden something on one of the big barges that come along the river from the coast but you don't want it to be examined at the tolls. So you offload it before then and transfer it to another barge on a different waterway. One that has already been through the tolls and passed the checks.'

Oliver frowned. ‘Why not just drive it there?'

Harry hesitated. ‘I don't know. Maybe it's easier to get it back on the boat from the water. Loading something from a car might attract more attention.'

‘Fine,' he allowed. ‘So they get the contraband past the tolls. Then what?'

‘I suppose it gets distributed to wherever it needs to go. I don't really know that either, or what it is they are moving. But it's risky – they said so. Which makes me suspect it's not legal.' She fixed him with a meaningful stare. ‘And that's not all. Did you hear one of them mention Philip St John? Does that mean he's involved somehow?'

He nodded, his expression sombre. ‘I did hear that, yes. But if he was part of a smuggling ring, why would Archer invite Sherlock Holmes to investigate?'

‘Archer doesn't know,' Harry suggested. ‘But I can't help feeling that's not it. The second voice sounded fearful when he mentioned St John. Almost like he thought he would give the game away. That doesn't sound like he's part of the operation.'

‘I picked up on that too,' Oliver said. ‘The other one was less concerned. He didn't seem to think St John was a threat.'

Harry brooded into her cup. ‘He certainly isn't at the moment.' Replaying the snatches of conversation in her mind, she looked up sharply. ‘Unless?—'

‘Unless what?'

She gnawed at her lip as her thoughts tumbled over one another. ‘What if that's what Philip St John's illness is really about? What if he saw something he wasn't supposed to – something similar to us – and needed to be silenced?' A frown dug into her forehead as she considered the possibilities. ‘Not silenced – they're not killers, whatever else they might be. But kept quiet. What if they're making sure no one listens to a word he says?'

Oliver's expression transformed into grim understanding. ‘Then we need to work out how they're doing it.'

‘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.