Chapter 14

14

John Archer met Harry in the dining room the following morning with the kind of ebullient cheer that suggested he, at least, had rested well. ‘Miss Moss!' he said, abandoning the newspaper he was reading and getting up from the table to usher her towards an empty chair. ‘How good to see you. Did you sleep soundly?'

‘I did,' Harry said, and crossed her fingers. She had fallen asleep the moment she got into bed but her dreams had been haunted by a cowled figure that floated in and out of sight, reaching for her with long thin arms but never quite catching her. She had woken in a cold sweat just after dawn and had only dozed since; as a result, her head felt thick and woolly. ‘Did you?'

‘Very well,' he said. ‘And I awoke to excellent news. It appears my uncle has turned a corner. Agnes reports that he asked her quite distinctly for a kipper this morning.'

Harry was not sure whether she had heard correctly. ‘I'm sorry, did you say a kipper?'

‘I did,' he said, beaming. ‘And the significance of that is that kippers were his usual breakfast. Before he became ill. It has been some time since he was well enough to request anything for breakfast, much less a kipper.'

‘Ah,' Harry said. ‘I see.' The implications of what he was saying pierced her tiredness. ‘Oh, I see .'

‘I did think he was a little less erratic when I escorted him upstairs last night but I assumed it was just exhaustion,' Archer said. ‘Dare I dream our long nightmare may be coming to an end?'

‘Let us hope so,' Harry said, and reached for the teapot. The change in Philip St John was unexpected, especially considering what she and Oliver had overheard. What had altered that might bring about such an improvement? ‘But I am very glad to hear he is better. I wonder – do you think he might be well enough for me to visit him briefly? I'd like to observe his condition.'

‘Of course,' Archer said. ‘I plan to see him myself, after breakfast. We shall go together.'

She was halfway through her poached eggs on toast when Oliver appeared in the doorway of the dining room. Archer leapt up and made a show of ushering him to the seat opposite Harry, then rang the bell for Mary. ‘I thoroughly recommend the bacon and eggs,' he said, when the cook appeared.

Oliver smiled. ‘I shall take your recommendation. I find myself with the appetite of your wolfhound this morning.'

Archer nodded. ‘I feel like that most mornings,' he said, with a rueful glance at his middle. He tapped the folded newspaper on the table. ‘Would you think me terribly rude if I read while you eat? Breakfast is when I generally catch up with the news.'

‘Not at all,' Harry said. Her father had been known to hide behind the newspaper for the entire duration of the meal.

‘I say catch up, we are usually a day or two behind,' he said as he shook the pages out, and Harry recognised Friday's headlines about a tragic train crash in Switzerland, and the new record set by Amy Johnson flying solo from London to Africa. ‘But the news reaches us eventually.'

He lapsed into an absorbed silence as he perused the print. Oliver poured himself a cup of coffee and eyed Harry across the table. ‘How are you this morning?'

‘No worse than I should be,' she said dryly. ‘But Mr Archer has just been telling me his uncle seems more lucid today.'

The faintest of perplexed frowns crossed Oliver's face. ‘I'm very glad to hear it,' he replied cautiously. ‘Is there any indication why?'

‘Good Lord, such a small world.' Archer did not look up from the paper as he interrupted. ‘I know the chap mentioned here, Ishmael Bloom. He took a house near the village for a month or so last summer, drove a very fast car that almost ran me off the road once or twice.'

‘Ishmael Bloom,' Oliver echoed slowly. ‘Why do I recognise that name?'

Archer peered at the newsprint. ‘It says here he was arrested in Southampton, straight off the boat from New York, on suspicion of being the leader of an international narcotics ring. The authorities were forced to release him without charge but he remains a person of interest to Scotland Yard.' He paused. ‘It must be the same man, surely. There can't be two Americans called Ishmael Bloom.'

‘It's possible, I suppose,' Oliver said. ‘Did he strike you as the kind of character who might be up to no good?'

‘He was certainly a devil behind the wheel,' Archer said, after a moment's thought. ‘And no one seemed to know what he was actually doing here. But that's often the way of things these days and I must confess I forgot all about him once he'd left.'

Harry stared down at her plate. It could not be a coincidence and yet the whole idea of an international drug smuggler at large in the Cambridgeshire fens seemed laughable. She could not imagine anywhere less likely than the village of Morden to be caught up in anything more criminal than a spot of poaching. But the more she considered it, the less ridiculous it seemed. Agnes had observed more than once how important the nearby river network was, with connections that spread all over the country, and it was that observation that made Harry wonder. The drugs could come in from Europe by boat, be transported along the rivers via barges and moved across the fens to avoid tolls and perhaps even customs officers. And the kind of people involved in a drug smuggling ring might go to extreme lengths to prevent anyone discovering what they were doing. They might even turn to poison.

Harry looked up to see Oliver watching her and she knew without asking that he had made the same connection. ‘Your uncle never met Bloom, did he?'

Archer lowered the paper in surprise. ‘I can't imagine how he would have. I mean, I spotted Bloom's car outside the pub a few times but Uncle Philip rarely leaves the manor grounds. Why do you ask?'

She shook her head. ‘No reason. Bloom sounds like the sort of character a writer might find interesting, that's all.'

‘Ah, I see what you mean,' Archer said. ‘Yes, I must admit to tucking one or two of his mannerisms away myself, in case I'm ever required to play a brash American gentleman, although he's rather less of a gentleman than I realised, if Scotland Yard is to be believed. It just goes to show you never can tell.'

He returned to the newspaper, leaving Harry to turn her suspicions over and over in her mind. She wanted to discuss them with Oliver, to confirm that he had reached the same conclusion she had, but that was impossible within earshot of John Archer. She was about to excuse herself when Mary appeared with Oliver's breakfast. He took the plate with enthusiasm and Harry forced herself to wait patiently as he ate, studying the articles on the back of the newspaper to pass the time. When at last he had finished eating, Archer folded the paper and cleared his throat. ‘I thought I might pay a brief visit to my uncle now, if you wanted to see how he fares for yourselves.'

As much as Harry longed to talk to Oliver, she was also curious about Philip St John's turn for the better. ‘That would be helpful,' she said. ‘Thank you.'

‘Follow me.'

They encountered Agnes as she was leaving the library, a tray laden with breakfast crockery in her hand. She nodded at Archer as he stood back to allow her into the corridor but said nothing. Inside the room, the drapes had been drawn back, dispelling some of the gloom Harry had observed on her last visit. She glanced outside at the faint smudge on the horizon that marked the edge of the fen and frowned. Splashing after the boat and listening to the snatches of conversation felt like part of a bad dream now, but the sense of peril the experience had invoked lingered in her thoughts. She did not know what Philip St John had done to incur the smugglers' wrath but she was certain it had resulted in his sudden ill health. If he was able, she hoped he might add those pieces to the puzzle now.

Archer strode towards the armchairs that flanked the fireplace. ‘Good morning, Uncle Philip,' he said, his voice hearty above the crackle of the fire. ‘How was your kipper?'

‘Most enjoyable,' Philip St John said, his voice frail but clear. ‘I told Agnes I may even manage another later.'

He certainly sounded better, Harry thought as she followed Archer. Philip St John was seated in the same chair as before, with a blanket tucked around his lap, and still bore the hallmarks of a man who was far from well. His skin had a greyish tinge and his eyes were underscored by dark circles, but Harry thought she detected improvements in his appearance as well as his mental clarity. He sat upright and the tremors that had plagued him were noticeably weaker. His expression sharpened as he observed her and she had the impression he was not pleased by her presence. ‘Who's this?' he asked, and the words were an echo of his peevish questions the last time Harry had met him.

Archer smiled in reassurance. ‘This is Miss Moss, Uncle. She's a friend, staying for the weekend with the excellent Mr Fortescue here.'

‘Good morning, Mr St John,' Harry said with a polite smile, as Oliver hung discreetly back. ‘It is an honour to meet you again, although I must apologise for intruding on your hospitality at a time like this.'

Philip St John did not smile. ‘As my nephew will attest, I am a poor host even when well.'

‘I would say reluctant, rather than poor,' Archer put in hastily. ‘But we are not here to exhaust you and will keep our visit brief. Is there anything you need?'

The older man turned an irritated gaze from Harry to Archer. ‘I have had no tobacco since yesterday. Where is Donaldson?'

‘I'm afraid the shop had closed by the time I sent him to the village,' Archer said apologetically. ‘I will go this morning.'

Philip St John's hand twitched and shook. He glared at it. ‘Why does this damnable hand of mine shake so?'

‘It is a symptom of your illness,' Archer reminded him. ‘I'm sure it will ease as you recover your strength.'

The older man grunted. ‘It will ease sooner if I am brought my tobacco.'

Harry cleared her throat. ‘I may be able to help with that. Mr Fortescue and I are going to the village shortly – would you like us to collect your tobacco while we are there?'

‘I don't care who collects it, as long as I have it,' he grumbled, but she thought he sounded very slightly less antagonistic.

‘You really don't have to,' Archer told Harry.

‘But we are going anyway,' she pointed out. ‘It's no trouble.'

‘In which case, it would be churlish of me not to accept your kind offer,' he said. ‘Thank you.'

In the hallway outside the library, Harry eyed Oliver with triumph. ‘You look like you've lost a penny and found a pound,' he observed. ‘What have I missed?'

‘I think I know how Philip St John is being poisoned,' she said. ‘Apart from the sleeping draught, prescribed by the family doctor, there's only one thing that comes into the house solely for Philip St John, and that is his tobacco.'

Light dawned in Oliver's eyes. ‘Which comes from the village shop.'

‘Exactly.' Harry shook her head, remembering once more the Holmes story about the brother who had murdered his siblings by throwing poison into the fireplace. ‘It cannot be a coincidence that St John's health improves dramatically when he cannot smoke. The tobacco has to be responsible – either something is added at the village, or here at the house.'

Oliver shifted uneasily. ‘It's usually brought by Donaldson. Does that mean we should suspect him rather than Mary now?'

‘No one is above suspicion,' Harry said. ‘Apart from Archer, who I still cannot believe would harm his uncle. But we need proof and there's only one place to get that.' She fixed Oliver with a determined stare. ‘Let's take another trip to Morden village.'

The shop was small but appeared to be well stocked, in the way village stores often were. A wooden counter ran along one wall, behind which stood a dark-haired woman. She looked up as the bell above the counter rang and Harry recognised her as the good Samaritan they had met the weekend before, outside the pub. ‘Hello again,' she said, her gaze roving from Harry to Oliver in surprise. ‘Don't tell me you're still lost.'

Harry laughed. ‘No, we found our way to Ely in the end, thanks to your directions.'

The woman cocked her head. ‘I'm glad to hear that. And yet here you are again.'

‘Yes, we're staying at Thrumwell Manor,' Harry explained.

The woman frowned. ‘At the manor?' Her eyes flicked between them. ‘Mr St John isn't usually one for taking guests.'

‘My cousin, John, invited us,' Harry said. ‘Poor Uncle Philip has been so under the weather and John thought a visit might perk him up a bit.'

She nodded, although Harry was not sure she believed her. ‘I did hear he was unwell. Agnes was beside herself with worry last time I saw her, said she thought he'd taken leave of his senses.' Her gaze narrowed a little. ‘I'm surprised at Mr Archer, inviting you to stay at such a difficult time.'

Harry adopted a tone of carefree jollity. ‘Happily, my uncle is much improved,' she said. ‘Anyway, we've come to collect his tobacco. John told us to ask for Eliza – that's you, isn't it?'

The woman did not return her cheeriness. ‘That's right. But Donaldson usually gets the tobacco. Where is he?'

‘He came down last night but left it too late and you were closed,' Harry replied. ‘We were coming out for a drive and thought we'd save him a job.'

Eliza pursed her lips. ‘You won't mind if I call the manor, just to check? We've had some strange folk around here lately – you can't be too careful.'

‘Of course,' Harry said, waving her hand with blithe unconcern. ‘Call away – they'll vouch for us.'

She disappeared through a door at the far end of the counter. Moments later, Harry heard the soft murmur of her voice and presumed she was speaking on the telephone. She turned to Oliver. ‘Buy some tobacco,' she whispered. ‘I want to see if she takes it from the same place as St John's.'

When Eliza returned, her expression was still guarded but she seemed to have accepted their story. ‘Agnes says it's fine to give it to you. She also says Mary needs some cornflour, if you wouldn't mind taking that too.'

‘Not at all,' Harry said. ‘Anything to help out.'

Eliza took a box of cornflour from the shelf behind her, then reached under the counter for a small, paper-wrapped package. She pushed both across the counter. ‘I'll add them to the manor bill. Make sure you don't open the tobacco. Mr St John is very particular about it, so Agnes says.'

Harry let out a little laugh. ‘Oh, believe me, I know. He's quite the tyrant.' She turned to Oliver. ‘Didn't you want some tobacco too? For your pipe.'

The sudden, unbidden image of him puffing at a pipe almost undid her; she had to dig her nails into her palms to stop a wild giggle from escaping. ‘I do,' Oliver said, with a commendably straight face. ‘How clever of you to remember I've run out. I'll take an ounce of the stuff, if you don't mind.'

Nodding, Eliza measured the tobacco out and wrapped it. ‘That's two shillings.'

Oliver handed over the coins and thanked her. ‘I'm very pleased to hear Mr St John is feeling better,' the woman said. ‘Please do pass on my regards.'

‘I'll be delighted to,' Harry replied. ‘He's still a little frail at the moment but we're hoping he'll be back to his old self by the morning.'

Eliza patted the tobacco. ‘This should help, at least.'

‘Thanks,' Harry said, gathering up the cornflour and packet and leaving Oliver to pick up the tobacco he had bought. ‘Maybe we'll see you again before we leave.'

‘Maybe,' Eliza said, with a smile that Harry saw did not quite reach her eyes. ‘If you get lost again.'

They were almost at the car when Harry spoke next. ‘Is she still watching?'

Oliver passed around the bonnet and inserted the key in the door before he glanced casually up. ‘Yes. I can see her at the window.'

Harry did not look round as she got into the car. ‘I don't think she trusted us.'

‘No,' Oliver agreed, ‘but the feeling is mutual.' He glanced across from the driver's seat. ‘What now?'

‘We take Philip St John his tobacco,' Harry said. ‘And then we wait. If my suspicions are correct, we have a very interesting night ahead of us.'