Chapter 15

15

It was a little after lunch when Harry went to the library. Philip St John sat dozing in his armchair, an upturned paperback resting on his lap. Reluctant to disturb him, she sat in the chair opposite and took the opportunity to study him. The grey pallor that hung over him appeared to have receded still further since the morning; she noted faint colour creeping into his cheeks. He was not in good health – not yet – but she judged he would be in a day or two. As long as he was not poisoned further.

He had probably been handsome as a young man, she thought, although age was beginning to catch up with him now. She imagined his sandy hair had been strawberry blond then, his bearing proud with the easy arrogance of youth, his head filled with dreams of becoming a writer. He would have been in his twenties when the Great War had broken out; had he gone to the Western Front in glad anticipation of serving his country? How quickly that eagerness must have turned to despair when he understood the reality of life in the trenches. The fact that he had never spoken about his experience told its own story. Or perhaps, as Archer had suggested, he had poured all he needed to say into his writing.

Leaving the tobacco on the side table, Harry got to her feet and crossed quietly to the bookshelves. The range of titles was impressive – just as good as that of the library at Abinger Hall. But there was a noticeable gap on one shelf. She presumed this was where the books Archer had given her had sat. The titles to either side leaned against each other, lopsided and unsupported. She reached out to straighten them and, as she did so, she saw there was another book hidden behind them. Frowning, she removed some of the volumes in front and pulled it free. It was a hardback copy of The Blood-soaked Soil .

She opened the cover. It was a first edition, published in 1920. Harry stared at it reverently, suspecting it must be worth much more now than it had been on the day it was published. Turning the page, she expected to see the now-familiar dedication and blinked in surprise. It had been scored out, eviscerated so that the words did not exist. With a huff of dismay, Harry flipped to the opening chapter. That too had been slashed, three vicious lines slicing diagonally across the page, cutting into the paper beneath. In stunned silence, she leafed through the rest of the pages. All had been carved into tatters, an act of violence that both shocked and saddened her. Who could have done such a thing? And why?

‘Are you a spirit?'

The question made Harry jump. The book tumbled from her fingers, sending a flurry of lacerated paper fluttering like sycamore seeds. The spine landed with a heavy thud at her feet. Harry did not bend to pick it up. Instead, she turned to eye Philip St John, who was watching her without apparent emotion. ‘No,' she said, gathering her wits. ‘I am Miss Moss. We met this morning.'

His gaze focused more keenly on her. ‘Yes,' he said slowly. ‘Yes, I remember now. You were going to bring me some tobacco.'

Harry smiled in spite of herself. ‘I did bring you some. It's on the table there. Would you like me to fill your pipe?'

‘No, I would not,' he snapped. ‘I am not an invalid, despite what my nephew may claim.'

He reached for the package she had left on the table. Kneeling, Harry began to gather the shredded paper together, determined not to let Philip St John see the mutilation. But the fall had dislodged the binding. The book would not close. Getting to her feet, Harry slid it unobtrusively back into the gap on the bookshelf. She would ask Archer about it later, find out if he knew how it had come to be damaged.

‘Why did you ask if I was a spirit?' she said, crossing back to the armchair to sit across from St John.

‘Because I often see someone standing in that exact spot,' he said. ‘But when I look again, they are not truly there.'

Part of the hallucinations he had endured, Harry guessed, and offered a reassuring smile. ‘I assure you I am most definitely here.'

Lighting the pipe, he puffed several times to draw the tobacco, and studied Harry through the cloud of smoke. ‘A fact I am well aware of,' he said dryly.

Harry weighed her options. Now that his mind seemed to be clearer, she could tell he was no fool. She decided brutal honesty was the best way to deal with him. ‘Mr St John, I must tell you that I don't believe your illness is a natural one. I believe you have been poisoned.'

He gaped at her and, for a moment, she regretted her candidness. ‘Poisoned?' he echoed. ‘Are you mad?'

‘Not at all,' she said, and leaned forward. ‘It appears there are criminals at large in Morden Fen – desperate men who will go to any length to protect their identities. I can't be sure exactly what happened to make them target you, but I am certain they did, with the intention of keeping you quiet until they had finished their work.' Harry sat back. ‘And they used the tobacco you smoke to do it.'

St John lowered the pipe. ‘My tobacco? How?'

‘I don't know exactly,' she admitted. ‘Tests should tell us more. But the tobacco you are smoking now is uncontaminated. You may be sure of that.'

He stared at her. ‘You must be mistaken. Who would do such a thing?'

‘I don't know that, either,' Harry said, ‘but I have my suspicions. If I'm right, you are in more danger now than you have ever been.'

St John eyed her mutely, the pipe smoking gently in his hand. Harry held his gaze. ‘I fear there is a very real danger the perpetrators may try to silence you forever,' she said. ‘Your unexpected recovery may force their hand but please rest assured we plan to apprehend them before any harm befalls you.'

‘We?' Philip St John said in irritated bewilderment. ‘Who the devil do you mean by we?'

Harry took a deep breath. ‘Myself, Mr Fortescue and your nephew. No one else can know what we intend. And we will need your help to catch them.'

He sat in silence for a moment, his pipe smouldering in his hand. ‘Poison. I can scarcely believe it. And yet…' His gaze slid towards the bookshelves once more, then he seemed to reach a decision. He narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you want me to do?'

The bedroom was warm, stuffy, and dark, the ideal environment for sleep. And indeed, one person in the room was in the realm of dreams: his gentle snore both reassuring and grating on Harry's already frayed nerves. Her senses told her it must be after midnight; the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece marked each passing second with maddening precision. They had been waiting this way for more than an hour: Harry behind the drapes, with Barrymore at her feet and the icy chill of the window at her back, Oliver in the shadow of the wardrobe to the left of the bedroom door, Archer crouched behind a vast armchair. Peering round the edge of the curtain, Harry could see nothing of the others, but she knew they were there. She really hoped they were not waiting in vain.

Philip St John had played his part to perfection; it was obvious to Harry that acting ability ran in the family. A short while after dinner, he had begun to bellow in the library, proclaiming he had seen lights on the fen. The household staff had come running when the shouting began, dismayed at his sudden relapse, and Mary had begged Archer not to venture into the night. ‘He's out there, sir,' she had exclaimed, her face dreadful. ‘Waiting to take you.'

Archer had not listened; he and Donaldson had rushed outside with Barrymore to search among the reeds. Agnes had set about comforting her master, filling his pipe and offering him brandy. Mary had hovered by the window, wringing her hands and uttering dire predictions. When the two men returned, empty-handed but certain someone had been out on the fen, St John announced it was not the first time he had seen the lights. ‘There are sinister forces at work,' he declared with some imperiousness. ‘I insist the police are summoned first thing in the morning so I can tell them all I know.'

‘The police?' Mary cried. ‘What good will they be against the supernatural? Oh, we are doomed!'

Harry had seen Archer's expression tighten but, for once, he did not reprimand the cook. ‘That will do, Mary,' was all he said.

She had subsided then, exchanging mutinous glances with the housekeeper, who had looked apprehensive. ‘Must we call the police?' she asked. ‘I fear it will make it more difficult to keep the master's illness to ourselves.'

‘I'm afraid we must take that risk,' Archer said solemnly. ‘My uncle is adamant that he tells them everything he knows. We cannot deny him that.'

It was perhaps a little overdone but Harry took the opportunity to observe each of them, searching their demeanour for clues about which of them might be uneasy over what Philip St John had seen. Donaldson said nothing, his expression taciturn and closed. Agnes cast the occasional anxious glance towards the windows but seemed more concerned with tending to her master. It was Mary who was the most disturbed and Harry couldn't help wondering whether it was the fear of discovery that was making her jumpy. At length, Archer instructed Agnes to prepare the sleeping draught for his uncle. Harry waited until Philip St John had raised the dose to his lips, then leapt to her feet, pointing at the window. ‘What's that?'

Mary let out a cry as everyone turned to look. Oliver strode forward to peer out. ‘There's nothing there.'

‘Oh,' Harry said, subsiding. ‘But I was sure I saw something.'

Archer took the empty glass from his uncle and frowned. ‘This is not helping anyone's nerves. I suggest we retire to bed.'

With uneasy acquiescence, they had done as he instructed. Or at least, some of them had. Harry, Oliver and Archer had gone to their rooms, only to sneak along the corridor once the house had settled into silence. They had taken up their posts in St John's bedroom without speaking, waiting to see who, if anyone, would take the bait.

The minutes ticked past, stretching into another hour. Someone – Oliver or Archer – coughed, a hurriedly stifled sound that felt as loud as a gunshot. Harry shifted behind the drapes and massaged the small of her back. She wished she had worn another jumper, the cold was stiffening her muscles. At her feet, Barrymore twitched in his sleep. Had she been wrong in her suspicions? How much longer should they wait before giving up? And then she felt Barrymore tense. He raised his head, brushing against her knee, then rose. A low growl rumbled in the darkness. Harry dropped a warning hand to rest upon his head. ‘Sssshhh, boy. I know.'

The dog fell silent, although he continued to radiate tension. Somewhere nearby, a floorboard creaked. Harry held her breath. Her companions must have heard it too – were they poised and ready? A faint rattle. Another creak. The unmistakable sound of the door handle turning.

Harry moved to peer through the gap in the curtain. Her eyes had grown well used to the dark; she picked out the four-poster bed, its drapes left open to reveal the hump of a sleeping body. The wardrobe loomed behind the door – she could not make out Oliver. The armchair that hid Archer was a hunched monster, waiting to attack. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with the faintest whisper, the door edged from its frame and slowly opened.

The figure that entered was nothing more than a smudge. They carried no light. Harry tensed as they stopped in the entrance of the room. She pressed her hand against Barrymore's skull, hoping the dog understood. Not yet, boy , she willed him in silence. Wait .

Apparently satisfied, the figure started to move towards the bed. Harry heard the rustle of cotton, saw a blur of white as one of the pillows was raised. Every sinew burned with the desire to burst out of her hiding place, to stop what was about to happen, but she held back. Whoever the intruder was must be caught in the act of trying to silence Philip St John forever. She watched, eyes stinging with the strain of picking out the movements in the dark. When she saw the pillow being lowered, she snatched her hand from Barrymore's head and hauled back the curtain. ‘Now!' she cried.

The wolfhound leapt forward, snarling and snapping in the dark. Across the room, Harry heard Oliver and Archer move. Bounding from her hiding place, she switched on the torch she held in her other hand, training its beam on the face of the would-be attacker. Raising a hand, they tried to ward off the light. Archer and Oliver advanced, grim-faced, just as Philip St John sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes, blinking at the brightness of the torch, and turned his head to stare at the figure cowering before Barrymore's bared teeth. ‘What the blazes are you doing?' he said, gaping in astonishment.

‘Eliza has come to kill you before you give her up to the police,' Harry said, her tone flat. ‘Isn't that right?'

The other woman lowered her arm, the pillow dropping to the bed. Her eyes flickered wildly from side to side, searching for an escape. But Barrymore stood between her and the door, his rumbling snarl full of menace. She drew a ragged breath and glared at Philip St John. ‘If you hadn't been poking about in things that don't concern you, I wouldn't have had to.'

‘But…' St John shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Don't give me that,' she scoffed. ‘You came across our skiff that morning, returning to Morden from Burwell. You saw us.'

He blinked at her, open-mouthed. Then understanding slowly dawned in his eyes as a memory floated through the fog of the past weeks. ‘I remember. I did see you – you and—' He ran a hand across his eyes. ‘And someone else – I don't know who. I asked what you were doing.'

Eliza's lip curled. ‘I knew you didn't believe the story we gave you – why would anyone risk the fens to move honest goods when they could go by road? But it was so early and we'd missed our rendezvous the night before – we didn't think anyone would be out.'

St John still appeared to be adjusting to the sudden recollection. ‘I was suspicious. I was going to tell the police. And then – and then?—'

‘And then you were poisoned,' Harry supplied. ‘I know you put something in the tobacco, Eliza – tincture of Ergot, if I'm not mistaken.'

The other woman's expression slackened in surprise. ‘How did you know that?'

‘An educated guess,' Harry said. ‘But I'm impressed by the speed at which you administered the poison. Did you have it already prepared?'

‘I had the tincture,' Eliza admitted. ‘It's used for—' She broke off and seemed to recollect herself. ‘Never you mind what it's used for. I had it, all the same. And I knew Archer was coming to collect the tobacco, so I took the chance.'

Beside her, Harry saw Archer clench his fists. ‘I only wanted to shut him up,' Eliza defended herself, as if the admission made her actions less terrible. ‘I could have killed him any time.'

‘But what were you moving that was important enough to poison a man?' Archer burst out.

Eliza glanced at him scornfully. ‘Don't you know?'

‘He may not,' Oliver said, stepping forwards. ‘But we do. You're working with Ishmael Bloom and you were moving narcotics.' He offered a cool smile. ‘The game is up, Eliza. One call to Scotland Yard and they'll be able to round up your whole gang. In fact?—'

He was interrupted by a hoarse bellow from the hallway. ‘I told you not to come!'

For a moment, they all stood frozen, staring at the figure in the doorway. ‘How could I not come?' Eliza snapped. ‘I could hardly leave it to you.'

Harry turned the torch towards the door. ‘Mr Donaldson,' she said coolly. ‘How good of you to incriminate yourself.'

He jerked his head to glower at her but said nothing.

‘Don't just stand there, you fool!' Eliza cried. ‘Help me!'

The command seemed to jolt Donaldson into action. With a snarl, he barrelled into the room, crashing into Oliver and knocking him into the wall. Harry gasped as his head snapped against the wood panels. At the same time, Eliza snatched up the counterpane and hurled it at Barrymore, smothering the dog in the heavy fabric. Archer roared in fury and leapt towards her, but stumbled over the writhing animal. Before Harry could move, Eliza was bounding across the room, making for the door.

Staggering to his feet, Donaldson vanished after her. Heart racing, Harry stared after them, unsure whether to give chase or go to Oliver, who lay in a crumpled heap. But there was really only one choice. With a muttered oath, she hurried to his side and played the torch over his pale face. ‘Oliver?'

Behind her, Archer had succeeded in releasing Barrymore. With a volley of ferocious barks, the dog hurtled from the room. ‘I'll follow them!' Archer cried, running from the room.

Oliver let out a groan. His eyes fluttered open. ‘Harry?'

She wanted to sob with relief. ‘You're alive.'

‘Of course he's alive.' Philip St John was clambering out of the bed, his expression fierce. ‘He's a lawyer – they're made of stone. But I'll stay with him. You go and help my nephew.'

This time, Harry felt no hesitation. Snatching up her torch, she hurtled from the room and made for the servants' staircase. As she yanked open the door, she almost collided with Agnes, who gasped and shrank back. ‘What's happening?' the housekeeper cried. ‘I heard shouting.'

Mary peered over her shoulder. ‘It's the master, isn't it? He's lost his senses again.'

‘He's in his room,' Harry said, stepping back to allow them onto the landing. ‘But Mr Fortescue is injured. Please tend to his head.'

She did not wait to answer their startled questions, but hurried down the stairs as fast as she dared. In the kitchen, no one was in sight but the window was shattered and the door leading outside was wide open. Cursing, she ran through it and into the freezing night.

There were no lights to guide her this time. Straining her ears, Harry listened for the telltale splashing that would give away the direction the flight had taken. A shout rang out in the darkness, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the water. A woman screamed – Harry guessed that must be Eliza and made for the source of the noise. The beam of her torch picked out the ground directly before her but even so she stumbled. She'd had the foresight to wear her boots when she had dressed for the night's adventures but she had not anticipated she would need a coat. By the time she reached the fen, her feet were already drenched and she was shivering. But she did not stop.

The sound of fighting increased. Following the crashing and furious cries, Harry splashed onwards, burst through a clump of reeds to see Archer and Donaldson locked in battle. Eliza was watching, kept at bay by a snarling, terrifying Barrymore. With a yell, Harry thrust towards the men. Donaldson saw her first. He swung at Archer, knocking him backwards into her. Harry tumbled, sprawling on her back in the fen. Razor-sharp reeds sliced at her skin as she landed in the ice-cold water. The impact sent the breath gushing from her lungs. She lay still for a moment, wheezing, then scrambled to her feet. The torch lay a short distance away, lodged half in, half out of the sedge, its light extinguished. With an oath, Harry snatched it up and stabbed at the switch. Dead. She dropped it in the water and turned to the brawl once more.

It was immediately clear Donaldson was the better fighter. He laid punch after punch on Archer, who did his best to weave out of the way but was hampered by the water sloshing against his thighs. Rallying, Archer landed a punch of his own. Donaldson staggered backwards, shaking his head. Sensing his advantage, Archer pressed forward but Donaldson was ready. With a howl, he threw himself into the other man, bearing him through the air and landing them both flat in the water. With mounting horror, Harry watched as Donaldson forced Archer's head beneath the surface. Archer fought back, spluttering and coughing, but his assailant was too strong. Once more, Donaldson plunged him under the water. ‘Stop!' Harry cried. ‘You're going to kill him!'

But it was clear from the demented grimace on Donaldson's face that he did not intend to stop. Wildly, Harry looked around for a branch or a tree stump she could use as a weapon. She found nothing. And then she remembered the torch. Where had it been? Scrambling sideways, she clutched desperately among the waterlogged vegetation until at last her fingers closed around it. She hauled it from the water and launched herself towards the struggling men, praying she was not too late. Archer's feet were thrashing now as Donaldson tried to finish the job. Eliza let out a cry of warning. Donaldson's head jerked up, presenting Harry with a target. Summoning as much force as she could, she brought the torch down on the back of his skull. It connected with a sickening crunch. The man jerked and reared back. His hands loosened on Archer's neck. For a moment, he hovered in the air, fingers convulsing. Then he toppled sideways and lay still.

The torch tumbled from Harry's numb grip as she scrambled towards Archer. With strength born of fear, she dragged him from the water and hauled him into a lopsided sitting position, banging her fist hard against his back. He coughed, weakly, and a torrent of fen water gushed from his lungs. Another cough, and another, as Harry continued to pummel his back. Finally, he opened his eyes. Blinking, his gaze came to rest upon Donaldson, who lay groaning. ‘Did I do that?' he croaked. ‘I've never been in a real fight before. It's quite different to what we do on stage.'

On the other side of the clearing, Eliza glared at them. ‘Call off your dog.'

‘That depends on you,' Harry said, undoing the belt from her skirt to knot around Donaldson's hands. ‘Are you going to tell the police everything? Or shall I leave you out here with Barrymore?'

The woman's eyes narrowed. ‘You wouldn't.'

As though on cue, the dog snarled. ‘Oh, I would,' Harry said. She smiled thinly. ‘Among all the commotion this evening, I believe Donaldson forgot to feed him. He's probably hungry.'

Eliza seemed to be weighing her options. ‘Don't leave me out here,' she said, with a nervous glance at Barrymore's flattened ears and bared teeth. ‘I'll come quietly.'

‘Sensible,' Harry said and turned her attention to Archer. ‘Are you able to walk?'

He nodded. ‘Strong as an ox,' he said, wincing as he clambered to his feet and glanced at Donaldson. ‘Stronger than him, anyway.'

Hiding a smile, Harry decided not to mention her role in the fight. She tugged on the makeshift handcuffs, earning her a glare from the groundsman. ‘You've got a nasty head wound and probably a concussion,' she told him severely. ‘I doubt you'd last ten minutes out here on your own, so don't even consider trying to run.'

Scowling, he evidently saw the wisdom of her words because he allowed her to help him to his feet. She handed the end of the belt to Archer, who took it with steely determination and turned to Eliza. ‘You. In front of me. Don't try anything or I'll set the hound on you.'

With an apprehensive look, Eliza nodded. Satisfied the fight seemed to have gone out of her, Harry squared her shoulders. ‘Let's go,' she said to Archer. ‘Barrymore, take us home.'

With a final baleful growl at Eliza, the dog turned and trotted into the reeds. Archer followed, keeping Donaldson close. Eliza went next, leaving Harry to bring up the rear. Progress was slow – it seemed to take an age to reach the edge of the fen and Harry's shoulders ached with the tension of watching their captives – but no sooner had the ground firmed up beneath their feet than Eliza let out a scream. ‘What's that? Out there, I can see a light!'

Warily, Harry looked around, certain it was a trick meant to distract her. But Eliza was right – there was a light bobbing among the sedge behind them. It appeared to be coming their way. For one startled moment, Harry stared at it in disbelief. There couldn't be more smugglers on the fen, could there? But the terrified expression on Eliza's face told her it was not someone she was expecting and Harry knew without a doubt what the other woman feared. ‘Move,' she commanded, nudging the girl in the back. ‘Towards the house. Now.'

Eliza did not argue. She stumbled forward, almost losing her footing, and Harry was obliged to steady her. She did not dare look back. Before they were more than halfway, more lights appeared, this time in front of them. Harry cursed, fearing Donaldson had somehow alerted the other smugglers. They could not go back into the fen – she had no desire to meet whoever – or whatever – bore the lamp floating there. But frantic shouts soon made it clear the lanterns in front of them were held by Agnes and Oliver. As the bedraggled party cleared the reeds, Harry saw them both. Oliver's head was wrapped in a clean white bandage but he seemed otherwise unhurt. The housekeeper's face sagged when she saw Donaldson's bonds. Her gaze slid to Eliza and her obvious confusion deepened. ‘I don't understand. What is this?'

‘I'll explain later,' Harry said tersely. ‘Has anyone called the police?'

Oliver nodded. ‘They're on their way. The local constabulary should arrive first but I took the liberty of suggesting they call in Scotland Yard, to sweep up the rest of the gang.'

The news brought Harry a much-needed surge of relief, although she might have known he would have matters well in hand. ‘Well done,' she said, further relieved to see the house looming into view. ‘How's your head? Are you badly hurt?'

He grimaced. ‘It's sore but I'll survive. How are you?'

‘Wet,' she sighed. ‘Again. But otherwise fine. I'll feel better once we get these two under lock and key. I seem to recall there's a cellar we might use.' She let out a long shaky breath as the magnitude of the night's events began to catch up with her. In the space of a few hours, she had unmasked Philip St John's poisoners, saved John Archer's life and exposed an international drug smuggling ring. No wonder she felt exhausted. ‘I did say it would be an interesting night, didn't I?'

‘You did,' he agreed, with an amused nod. ‘And it's not over yet.'

He meant the arrival of the police, she supposed, but Harry found her gaze straying in the direction of the fen. There was no light there now, the darkness was unbroken. She and Eliza had been mistaken, she told herself with firm resolution – the ferryman was nothing more than a myth. With a determined effort of will, Harry turned her back on Morden Fen. Oliver was right; the night was not over and there were other dangers to face. Forcing her stiff muscles to move, she hurried forward to catch up with John Archer. ‘Forgive my urgency but I must ask – has the mystery of your uncle's illness been solved to your satisfaction?'

‘Eh?' he said, staring at her for a moment. ‘Oh. Yes, I suppose it has, although I must admit it's turned out to be rather more extraordinary than I expected. One might even say an adventure worthy of Sherlock Holmes.'

‘Quite.' Harry knew her smile lacked its usual vibrancy but she offered it nonetheless. ‘Which brings me onto the favour I must ask. As you know, my employer prefers not to draw attention to himself these days.' She met his gaze, hoping he understood her. ‘Do you think you might be able to keep his involvement in the case to yourself when you talk to the police?'

Archer frowned slightly. ‘I'm not sure I…' He trailed off, then gazed at her with dawning comprehension. ‘Ah. Yes, I don't think that will be a problem. To be honest, the gentleman concerned doesn't appear to have had much involvement at all. You and Mr Fortescue have done all the hard work.'

The observation drew another smile from Harry, but this one felt rueful. ‘Thank you. Might I suggest you pass me off as a cousin, visiting for the weekend?'

He considered the idea. ‘If I'm going to do that, I might need to know your first name.'

Harry thought for a moment. ‘Why don't we go with Irene?'

Archer nodded and she knew he'd caught her reference to one of the earliest of Sherlock Holmes' cases, A Scandal in Bohemia . ‘Excellent. Come along, then, Cousin Irene. Let's see if Mary has had the presence of mind to slice up some seed cake.'