Chapter 3

3

As Simeon Pemberton's assistant, Harry had always endeavoured to be at her desk early. She enjoyed the quiet of the office, the opportunity to review the day ahead without interruption, and the sense that she was completely in control of her domain. After her demotion to the post room, interruptions were few and far between and Mr Babbage left her to manage her own work, which meant her office was always quiet and she always felt in control of her admittedly much smaller domain, but she had maintained her practice of arriving early. Apart from anything else, it meant she had rarely had to worry about running into Mr Pemberton in the bank's hushed, marbled lobby while waiting for the elevator.

But delays on the Underground system the following morning conspired against Harry and meant she found herself hurrying through the front doors later than usual. She was not late, but she was later than she liked to be. And then her morning was made a thousand times worse. She glanced across the lobby and realised with a sinking heart that the day she had been dreading had arrived. Waiting by the elevator, with a neatly furled umbrella in one hand, a briefcase in the other and a black bowler hat on his head, was Simeon Pemberton. From the back, he looked very much like any one of the managers who worked on the bank's upper floors but Harry had taken that hat and coat to hang up every morning for months. She knew it was him.

She almost walked out, but she could already sense a curious gaze being directed her way from the doormen standing outside. Slowly, she forced herself to cross the lobby, her heels tapping with each reluctant step. Was it too much to ask that the lift might arrive before she did, whisking Pemberton out of her sight without him ever knowing she was there? Or perhaps she could take the grand, red-carpeted marble staircase that swept away to the left of the elevator. The problem with that was that Pemberton was sure to see her and she would really rather avoid him altogether. Even so, it was the lesser of two evils. Making up her mind, she dipped her head and made for the stairs. Just as a cheerful ding proclaimed the lift car had reached the ground floor.

There was an understated swoosh as the doors opened. Harry kept walking, hoping Mr Pemberton would enter the lift without noticing her. But it seemed her luck had run out. ‘Miss White,' a familiar, peevish voice called as she passed. ‘Won't you take the lift?'

It was more of a command than a question but even so, Harry was tempted to ignore it. Could he object to her taking the stairs? The thought of being in an enclosed space with him made her stomach churn and she could always claim she was on a health kick. But the thought withered almost as soon as it had arrived. Simeon Pemberton was an important figure at the Abbey Road Building Society. He could make her life difficult if he chose, as he had already demonstrated once, and she did not want to be summoned to Mr Babbage's office again to explain herself. As much as she hated to admit it, Pemberton held all the power.

She did not smile as she turned back to face him. ‘Of course. I didn't realise it was there.'

Pemberton's bottle-brush moustache quivered as he licked his lips. His eyes glittered with unconcealed amusement at the lie. ‘It's lucky I called out, then.'

On legs that did not feel like her own, Harry stalked to the elevator doors and stepped inside. Pemberton followed. Stabbing the button for the second floor, she resisted the temptation to close her eyes, relieved to observe he had at least kept a respectable distance between them. Perhaps he remembered the pain her knee had inflicted the last time he had got too close, Harry thought as the doors slid shut. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, painfully aware of his too-strong cologne, the underlying hint of the pomade he used on his ridiculous moustache. The journey would not be long but she would hate every second. Just as she was certain he would enjoy the discomfort he must know she was feeling. ‘How is your new position? I trust you are better suited to the simpler requirements of the post room?'

Harry wanted to grind her teeth but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing just how rattled she was. ‘Quite suited, thank you.'

From the corner of her eye, she saw the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. ‘I've been keeping an eye on your performance, of course, as I was the one who put you forward for the role. It seems Mr Babbage has no complaints.' He paused and she knew he was watching her. ‘So far.'

Harry watched the gold arrow crawl past 1 and move towards 2, willing it to move faster. ‘Mr Babbage is an excellent manager.'

She shouldn't have said it but being so near to him was grating on her nerves. Pemberton clicked his tongue. ‘Babbage is a fool but he serves a useful purpose within the bank. All the same, don't think you can use your charms on him when you make a mistake. I haven't forgotten the way you encouraged my affections, Miss White. A woman might get a reputation for that kind of thing if she is not careful.'

Indignation bubbled up in Harry's chest. ‘Encouraged your affections?' she echoed in disbelief. ‘That's hardly how things were. You forced yourself on me and sent me to the post room when I refused your advances.'

His face reddened. ‘How dare you accuse me of such a thing!'

Heart thudding, Harry forced herself to look into his pudgy eyes. ‘But it isn't the first time it's happened, is it? There was another secretary, before me, although you did a better job of getting rid of her. She lost her job entirely, didn't she?'

Pemberton's mouth opened and closed like a carp gasping for air. ‘I don't know what you mean. The very idea – you have no proof I was in any way involved.'

‘So far,' she whipped back, using his own words against him. ‘Furthermore, please don't suggest that I am the kind of woman who dallies with married men. If the truth ever comes out, I think you'll discover you have much more to lose than I do.'

The arrow reached the second floor and Harry felt a flutter of relief as the bell chimed and the doors slid open. ‘Have a pleasant day, Mr Pemberton,' she said as she sailed past and into the safety of the corridor. ‘I do hope we understand one another better now.'

Her nerves did not stop jangling until she had reached the safety of her office and closed the door behind her. She stood leaning against it, waiting for her breathing to return to normal before she removed her hat and coat and took a seat at her desk. Either she had fired a warning shot across her enemy's bows, or she had scuttled her own ship. Only time would tell.

It seemed to Harry that the American Bar at the Savoy Hotel was never busy. That was to say, she had never seen the elegantly curved room crowded, although its tables were seldom empty and the seats at the bar always occupied. She had often seen would-be drinkers turned away at the gleaming walnut doors, even when there appeared to be room to accommodate them, and she knew there must be some unwritten rule about who could, and could not, enjoy its understated elegance. Regardless of how full it was, the buzz of conversation was never loud, no matter how many cocktails the clientele had consumed, and the tinkle of the grand piano in the background meant confidences were not easily overheard. It was part of the reason Harry had chosen it to meet Oliver. That, and the excellent cocktails, although she'd learned early that less was definitely more when it came to the bar's signature dry Martini.

Oliver was uncharacteristically late. Harry sat back in the velvet chair, allowing the alcohol to smooth away the final trace of her encounter with Simeon Pemberton at the start of the day. She'd spent most of the morning worrying he would hammer on her door, with Mr Babbage on his heels, but as lunchtime came and went, she began to put the matter into perspective. She had not been wrong when she'd said Pemberton had more to lose than she did; she doubted his wife would appreciate his lasciviousness, for a start. But the more Harry thought about it, the more she realised a run-in like that had been bound to happen eventually. At least he understood she was not entirely defenceless now.

To occupy herself while she waited, Harry observed her fellow drinkers. There were several she recognised without being personally acquainted – the world-famous opera singer Giuseppe Carina, who must have the night off, judging by the way he and his group were downing champagne; an American actress who was the darling of the silver screen was deep in conversation with the bartender; and a well-known author whose latest novel was taking the London literary scene by storm. Harry kept herself entertained by studying each of them in turn, observing their clothing and mannerisms. She might very well be at the start of an Agatha Christie novel. It was exactly the kind of glamorous setting where motive, means and opportunity might come together to spell murder. But despite the entertainment supplied by her fellow drinkers, by the time Oliver arrived at just after seven o'clock, breathless and apologetic, Harry had eaten two bowls of peanuts and was starting to feel drawn towards a second drink.

‘I'm so sorry to keep you waiting,' Oliver said, draping his coat over the back of the empty chair and drawing admiring glances from both the actress and the opera singer. ‘I couldn't get away.'

Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘From the Garston Club in general? Or from Mr Archer?'

‘From Archer,' he said, and shook his head in wry amusement. ‘It turns out the man's an actor by trade and he certainly knows how to spin a tale.'

Harry absorbed the news with fresh puzzlement. As an actor, Archer must understand the line between reality and fiction better than most. Somehow it made even less sense that he had contacted Sherlock Holmes for help. ‘I see,' she said, as Oliver ran a weary hand through his hair and reached for the menu. ‘I take it he wasn't too unhappy not to be met by Holmes himself.'

An impeccably dressed waiter appeared at their table. ‘I'll have a Scotch on the rocks,' Oliver said, and glanced enquiringly at Harry.

‘A gin and tonic, thank you,' she said, and held up a hand. ‘Please ask Mr Craddock to go easy on the gin, however. That last Martini nearly blew my head off.'

The waiter gave a nod and glided away as silently as he had arrived. Oliver loosened his tie a little and sighed. ‘It's a funny thing but Archer didn't seem surprised that Holmes hadn't come personally. When I introduced myself and said I was there on his behalf, he simply nodded and said he realised the detective must be rather elderly by now.'

Harry frowned. ‘So he does think Holmes is real.'

‘It would appear so,' Oliver agreed. ‘Why else would he have sent a telegram to Baker Street?'

Why indeed, Harry wondered, for what felt the hundredth time. She eyed Oliver curiously. ‘Dare I ask whether you touched on his reasons for sending that telegram? Since you clearly did much more than advise him Holmes could not take his case.'

Much to her amusement, Oliver looked somewhat embarrassed. ‘I may not have been quite as emphatic as I could have been on that front.'

Harry stared at him. The Oliver she'd known and admired since she was a teenager rarely had difficulty putting his point across. ‘Really?'

Oliver waved her incredulity aside. ‘As I said, he's an excellent storyteller and I may have got caught up in the tale he wove. You'll understand when you hear it, although I can't promise to bring it to life quite so well.'

He had her full attention now. What exactly had Archer told him? ‘Go on.'

‘It's been something of a long day, Harry. Can't I at least have my drink first?' he asked.

Harry forced down a small surge of impatience. Oliver had just done her an enormous favour, after all, and it sounded very much as though the story he was about to share might be worth the wait. ‘Of course.'

Thankfully, the service in the bar was every bit as fast as its reputation. The drinks arrived moments later and Oliver took a long, appreciative sip from his glass. ‘That's better.'

Harry's own gin and tonic was much less incendiary than the Martini, for which she was grateful. The bartender, a certain Harry Craddock, had compiled a book containing some 750 cocktails and was always looking to add to his repertoire. He was well known for his heavy hand with spirits, meaning some of his drinks were strong enough to fell a giant, and Harry wasn't among those customers seeking the oblivion alcohol could offer. She wanted a clear head for what she was about to hear. After another swig, Oliver set his glass on the table. ‘To business, then. Firstly, you were quite right to suspect Archer would not have tolerated being ignored. The circumstances of his uncle's illness trouble him greatly and I believe he is desperate for help.'

‘So are most of the people who write to Holmes,' Harry observed, thinking about the many letters that had begged Holmes to intercede. ‘But what is wrong with Philip St John? Is he really at death's door, as the telegram suggested?'

‘I can only share what Archer told me,' Oliver said. He glanced around, as though making sure they were not being overheard. ‘There are some physical symptoms – fatigue, lack of appetite, convulsions – but the majority of the problem appears to be in his mind. He is, according to Archer, terrified beyond all reason.' He rested a sombre gaze on Harry. ‘Scared almost to death.'

The words sent an unexpected shiver down Harry's spine. It was no surprise St John's doctor had been unable to cure him – mental illness was fiendishly difficult to treat, even for those who specialised in psychological afflictions. ‘Scared of what?'

‘That is what Archer has not been able to establish,' Oliver said. ‘The symptoms began around two weeks ago, with a series of nightmares so violent that the poor man's screams woke the entire household. At first, Archer put them down to his uncle's vivid imagination – you'll recall he is an author – and asked the housekeeper to prepare a mild herbal sedative. But the next night proved much worse. Not only did the sedative fail to help, St John was also so distressed that he ran from the house in his nightclothes, stumbling into the fenland that surrounds the manor.'

‘How awful,' Harry said, her eyes widening as she pictured the scene. ‘Was anyone able to follow?'

‘His wolfhound led the chase, it seems,' Oliver said. ‘Archer said he was out of the door before anyone could stop him, snarling as though he sensed the devil himself in the darkness. They found St John by following the animal's barking and dragged him from the reeds, back to the house. The next morning, St John awoke with a raging fever, no doubt the result of being drenched in fen water, and the doctor was summoned.'

That St John had caught a chill did not surprise Harry. The last days of November had been bitterly cold, with black ice and snow flurries on London's streets. How much colder must it have been in Cambridgeshire? And Philip St John was not a young man; a fever could lead to something much more deadly if not treated quickly. But Oliver had said the worst of his symptoms were psychological. It was likely they, and not the fever, were the reason for Archer's desperate telegram.

‘Having listened to Archer's descriptions of the nightmares St John was suffering from, the doctor prescribed a sleeping draught,' Oliver continued. ‘This at least allowed the patient and the remainder of the household to get some rest. But it seemed only to force the terrors into the daytime. St John became nervous and jumpy while awake, prone to fits of hallucination and hysterical screaming. He refused to leave the library, although Archer says many of his worst episodes have occurred there. But even when calm and lucid, St John cannot – or will not – tell anyone what he is afraid of, only that his doom is upon him.'

Harry reached for her drink, recalling the dreadful certainty of the woman she had spoken to. It'll be the death of him, as it has been for many others. ‘And there has been no improvement?'

Oliver shrugged. ‘The fever has left him weakened, with a rattling cough that shows no sign of improvement, but that is the least of Archer's concerns. He says his uncle does not eat and fights sleep, in spite of efforts to administer the sleeping draught. He sits hunched in a chair beside the fire, smoking his pipe and muttering endlessly to himself, jumping at shadows. Archer fears he has quite lost his mind, although thankfully he shows no tendency towards violence.'

It sounded like a terrible situation, Harry thought, made worse by both Philip St John's fame as an author and his notoriously reclusive nature. If news got out of a suspected mental illness, it might very well result in a newspaper frenzy. But as shocking as St John's decline was, she could not see what Archer could expect of Holmes, or any detective for that matter. It seemed as though the best course of action would be to consult an expert in psychological disorders.

‘I agree,' Oliver replied, when she said as much. ‘But Archer believes there must be a reason for his uncle's behaviour. The change in personality has been too sudden and the terror so absolute that something must have triggered it. That's what he wants Holmes to uncover.'

Harry sat back, deflated. ‘It could be anything. Does Philip St John have a history of mental illness?'

‘None at all,' Oliver said. ‘Not even after his return from the war, which is another reason Archer is so convinced there is more to the matter than meets the eye. He wants Holmes to visit Thrumwell Manor and speak to his uncle.' He held up a hand to forestall Harry's interruption. ‘Obviously, I explained I was in no position to agree to anything. He urged me to faithfully report everything to Holmes and promised to accept whatever decision he made.'

She sipped her drink, turning everything Oliver had said over in her mind. She could not deny it was an interesting case, one that Holmes would undoubtedly have jumped at, had it flown from the imagination of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. But, as she had learned from her investigations into the disappearance of Mildred Longstaff, and her efforts to bring the true criminals to justice, real-life detective work was not as simple as it appeared on paper. And as tragic as Philip St John's condition appeared to be, Harry couldn't help observing there was very little of substance to investigate. It was something of a surprise Oliver hadn't pointed out the same thing. She arched an eyebrow over the top of her glass. ‘Aren't you going to remind me that none of this is my concern?'

‘I could,' he said mildly. ‘Would you pay any attention if I did?'

It was a valid point. ‘No, but that hasn't stopped you in the past.'

He inclined his head. ‘Perhaps I'm learning. But in actual fact I think it might be a worthwhile puzzle for you. There's no crime, no danger that you might cross the wrong person and get hurt. The worst thing that might happen is that you get your feet soggy in the fens.'

There was, Harry observed with some exasperation, a maddening hint of condescension in his tone. It came from a well-meaning desire to protect her but completely failed to acknowledge she had already thwarted one criminal gang. He may as well have patted her on the head as he spoke. ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself, Oliver.'

‘I know. I've seen you in action.' He sighed. ‘Look, you know I think you're taking a risk by investigating any of the letters Holmes receives, but I've also developed a healthy respect for your instincts and, having met with Archer myself, I can't help agreeing that there's something strange about the suddenness of his uncle's decline. Something you might be able to uncover.'

Slightly mollified, Harry frowned and shifted on her chair. ‘Perhaps. Tell me, did Mr Archer mention anything about a curse?'

The incredulous look on Oliver's face almost made her wish she'd kept quiet. ‘A curse? Why on earth would you ask that?'

‘Because when I rang Thrumwell Manor yesterday, to advise Mr Archer the meeting could not go ahead, the woman who answered the phone suggested Philip St John had fallen victim to a curse that would lead to his death.' She paused. ‘As it had to many others.'

Oliver puffed out a long breath. ‘A coincidence. Fear and ignorance often breed superstition and I daresay it could appear as though someone suffering from a mental affliction might be cursed in some way, although it's a rather medieval view.'

‘But the suggestion was that others had been afflicted too.' Harry swirled her drink around her glass. ‘Surely that can't be a coincidence.'

He rubbed his chin. ‘Archer didn't mention it and actors are generally a superstitious bunch. But I doubt it means anything. It's probably some local myth that's easy to repeat when there's no other explanation for frightening events.'

She had to concede it was a good point. ‘I suppose so.'

They sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, the piano tinkling in the background. ‘I took the liberty of doing some digging on Archer, incidentally,' Oliver said, as the gentility was broken by an outburst of raucous laughter from the opera singer's table. ‘He's had some success as an actor – decent enough roles in several acclaimed theatre productions, although nothing you or I might have heard about. He seems well regarded at the Garston – something of a bon vivant – but that's no surprise, since you can't become a member if anyone objects to you joining. Philip St John is his uncle on the maternal side, and the consensus is that Archer is a fond and devoted nephew.'

Which explained his desperate efforts to determine the cause of his uncle's illness, Harry thought, if not his choice of detective. ‘But what was your impression of him?' she asked Oliver.

Her friend pursed his lips. ‘I'd say he's in his mid-thirties. Tall, with the kind of build that suggests he enjoys a good meal. Affable, despite the unhappy subject of our meeting. He speaks very well and, as I said, knows how to spin a yarn. I imagine he'd be excellent on stage.'

She absorbed the information. ‘Is there a Mrs Archer?'

‘A confirmed bachelor, by all accounts,' Oliver replied. ‘Perhaps he hasn't met the right woman.'

It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to point out that perhaps he didn't want to meet the right woman, but she decided to let the observation go. Instead, she sat back, replaying everything else she had heard. She was still not certain that Watson wouldn't be the better choice to investigate, rather than Holmes, but perhaps there was something to be found that could help Philip St John recover his health. She was just about to say as much to Oliver when a shadow fell across their table. Expecting the waiter, Harry glanced up to ask for their bill and realised it was not the waiter at all. Standing before them, a cool smile playing across his handsome features, was Percy Finchem, son of Lord and Lady Finchem, and a potential future suitor for Harry, if her mother had her way. His gaze travelled from Harry to Oliver and back again. ‘What a cosy tête-à-tête this is. I do hope I'm not interrupting.'

The sudden tightness around Oliver's eyes left Harry in no doubt that he was less than pleased to see Percy, and she was not the least bit surprised. Oliver had once warned her to take care around the Finchem brothers, said that they were not everything they seemed to be, although Harry herself had never known either of them to be anything less than charming. ‘You're not interrupting at all,' she said smoothly. ‘In fact, we were just about to leave.'

‘Oh, surely not,' Percy said, with flattering dismay. He glanced at Oliver. ‘Come, Fortescue, allow me to buy you a drink. Scotch on the rocks, is it?'

Oliver shook his head. ‘Thanks but as Harry says, we're leaving. You can take our table if you like.'

‘No need, I'm with a group of friends.' Percy turned his blue-eyed gaze on Harry and she saw him frown slightly as he took in the bruising around her eye. He was far too well-mannered to mention it but she knew he had noticed it all the same. She hoped the observation would not make its way back to her mother. ‘In fact, it was only the sight of Miss White that tore me away from them. Are you sure I can't tempt you into another?'

His eyes danced as he surveyed her and, for a moment, she was transported back to a conversation they had shared on the starlit terrace of Abinger Hall. She'd suspected him of flirting then – there'd been a moment when she thought he might even have kissed her – and she was almost tempted to accept his offer of a drink now. He really was very good-looking, as well as attentive and amusing and even a little exciting. But Oliver was radiating disapproval; there was a good chance he might walk out if she said yes. And then she took in Percy's formal attire – the suave dinner jacket, crisp white shirt and black tie. ‘It seems you're on the way somewhere else. We wouldn't want to hold you up.'

Percy lowered his voice. ‘A rather stuffy dinner, since you ask,' he said, then brightened. ‘But of course you must join us! I'd be forever in your debt – you'll be saving me from death by a thousand dull opinions.' He glanced at Oliver, whose scowl had deepened, and smiled. ‘But I can see Fortescue is reluctant to let go of you. Perhaps another time.'

‘Perhaps,' Harry replied diplomatically, as Oliver signalled to the waiter, who was at their table within seconds.

‘Charge this to my account, Rolo, there's a good chap,' Percy said with easy authority, before Oliver could say a word.

The waiter hesitated and glanced at Oliver, who stiffened. ‘That won't be necessary.'

Percy's smile widened into a grin. ‘Oh, buck up, Fortescue, and let me buy you and Miss White a drink.'

For a second, Harry thought Oliver would refuse. But then he seemed to realise Percy would enjoy his refusal much more than his acceptance, and the tension in his expression eased. He downed the last of his whisky and put the glass on the table. ‘Of course. Thank you.'

‘It's the least I can do after disturbing your little get-together,' Percy replied as the waiter hurried away. ‘And do give my very best regards to your parents, Harry. I hope to be invited back to dear old Abinger Hall very soon.'

‘I'll be sure to pass on your good wishes,' Harry said, and placed her own glass on the table. ‘Thanks for the drink, Percy. I hope you have fun this evening.'

‘Not as much fun as I might with you for company.' Percy sighed. ‘But I daresay I'll survive.'

Harry smiled with wry amusement. She'd thought when they'd first met that James Finchem was the more obviously charming of the Finchem brothers but she had soon learned that Percy's sly humour was a secret weapon that disarmed all her defences. It was probably a good thing she had turned his offer down. She stood up and hung her handbag over her arm. ‘I daresay you will. Goodnight.'

Oliver rose too. He nodded at Percy. ‘Goodbye, Finchem.'

‘Fortescue,' Percy said, but kept his eyes on Harry. She felt him watching them all the way to the polished walnut doors and it was something of a relief when they swung shut behind them. ‘That was an unexpected pleasure,' Oliver said, in a tone of voice that suggested it had been anything but.

‘You shouldn't let him provoke you,' Harry replied as they made their way down the marble stairs and into the chandelier-lit magnificence of the Savoy hotel lobby. ‘It only encourages him.'

Oliver grunted. ‘Men like Percy Finchem don't need encouragement.' Seeming to realise how surly he sounded, he puffed out a breath. ‘But enough about him. Have you made a decision about Archer?'

‘I'm going to sleep on it,' Harry said promptly. ‘Mr Archer was returning home this evening – I have no doubt he can wait until tomorrow to hear from Holmes again.'

‘That sounds like an excellent plan,' Oliver answered with an approving nod. He glanced towards the brass revolving doors that led to the horseshoe-shaped courtyard, where the green-liveried doormen waited to guide them towards the bustle of the Strand. ‘Will you take a cab?'

Harry considered the question. She loved making her own way around London but it was a good thirty-minute walk to her apartment in Hamilton Square, and while the Underground lessened the journey time, she would still have to change trains at Oxford Circus and she was tired. Moreover, the gin had gone a little to her head, a situation that she suspected would only be made worse by the cold night air. A taxi would have her home in less than ten minutes, if the traffic were kind, and curled up on her settee with a pot of Earl Grey gently brewing within quarter of an hour. The thought was too appealing to turn down. ‘Yes,' she said, giving in graciously for once. ‘I rather think I will.'