Chapter 4

4

Despite her early night, Harry did not sleep well. Her dreams were disjointed journeys along dark alleys and dingy backstreets, punctuated with white-faced figures who loomed out of the shadows and vanished within seconds. She was searching for something but could not grasp what it was, let alone find it, and there was no one to help her. On several occasions she was certain she had been awoken by the mournful howling of a hound, even though none of her neighbours owned a dog. When she finally got up, yawning and unrefreshed, it was to dull grey skies and the persistent patter of rain on the windowpanes.

The wireless did nothing to raise her spirits; she listened for a few minutes but the presenter's voice grated on her nerves and she was forced to turn it off. It was going to be a long day, she decided, as she set a saucepan of water on the stove to make a soft-boiled egg for breakfast. A day in which she had some decisions to make.

The rain turned London's streets into a sea of black umbrellas. The newspaper sellers hunched into their coats, calling the headlines with markedly less enthusiasm than usual, although Harry was still able to discern that the American arrested in Southampton for suspected drug trafficking had been released without charge. The Lord Robertson burglary seemed to have slipped from the front pages, which Harry supposed was to be expected. The news cycle moved fast, after all, and fresh headlines sold more papers. Few were stopping to buy today – her fellow pedestrians hurried to their destinations with grim determination, collars up and heads down against the icy deluge. It was not a day for making eye contact or smiling, Harry thought as she made her way along Baker Street.

Danny the doorman nodded deferentially as he ushered her into the sanctuary of the bank. ‘Good morning, Miss White.'

‘Good morning, Danny,' she said, shaking the raindrops from her umbrella before stepping through the open door. ‘I hope you don't get too wet today.'

He smiled. ‘It's good for the garden. Maybe I'll grow a bit too.'

Harry laughed, because the doorman was broad-shouldered and at least six foot four. ‘Maybe you will.'

Her good humour faded as she crossed the hushed lobby and pressed the gilded button to summon the elevator. She had always been on good terms with Danny, and his colleague, Patrick, and that had not changed. But she suspected one of them, perhaps both, were spying on her for Simeon Pemberton, and reporting her movements in and out of the bank. As Pemberton had implied, he was looking for a reason to force Mr Babbage to sack her, in a way that could not possibly cast a blemish on his own conduct, but perhaps he would consider his next move more carefully now that he knew she was aware of his secret. Nevertheless, Harry intended to find a way to flush out which of the doormen was the spy. That too might be information she could turn to her advantage.

She knew from the moment she unlocked the door to her office and stepped inside that someone had been there before her. Pausing in the doorway, she took in the scene, wondering what it was that had caught her attention. Nothing appeared to be out of place: the typewriter sat on the small wooden desk, its empty carriage perfectly centred, just as she'd left it the night before. A cluster of envelopes rested beside the peace lily, waiting for Bobby to collect them. Her chair was pushed neatly beneath the desk; the telephone stood to attention on the tallest filing cabinet in one corner; the hatstand loomed behind the door.

All was as it should be, yet Harry could not shake the impression someone else had been in the room. It could not be the cleaners – her tiny broom cupboard of an office was not important enough to merit their attention and Harry kept dusters and polish, plus a dustpan and brush, in a drawer to use herself twice a week. Frowning, she sniffed the air. Was that cologne she could smell? Faint but woody, with a hint of something like musk – not, she thought, a perfume a woman would choose to wear. And beneath that, the unmistakable odour of tobacco.

A swift glance at the keyhole showed no obvious signs of tampering – if there had been an intruder, they had used a key. Closing the door, Harry approached her desk. The envelopes had been neatly aligned when she'd left for the day, leaning against one another like fallen dominos. Now they were ever so slightly askew, as though someone had rifled through them and not taken the same exacting care Harry had when replacing them. Her gaze came to rest upon the floor at the side of the desk. Fragments of soil lay dark against the plush red carpet. It was not unheard of for Harry to accidentally knock the peace lily to the ground, but she had not done so for several days, and she was sure she had tidied any loose soil that had been spilled.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she turned to survey the filing cabinets, which contained all the correspondence relating to Sherlock Holmes, both the letters he received and carbon copies of the replies Harry sent back. The taller of the two cabinets was not kept locked – she used that for the letters and standard responses she produced on behalf of Holmes. The smaller cabinet was fitted with a lock, to which Harry held the only key. The top drawer was home to her tin of Fortnum and Mason biscuits, which she usually took with a cup of tea from the drinks trolley that passed mid-morning along the corridor. The bottom drawer was where she kept her cleaning materials, along with several old, discarded newspapers. Slotted among the printed pages was a slender cardboard folder, containing the unauthorised letter she had sent to Esme Longstaff and the second telegram from John Archer, detailing the meeting at the Garston Club.

Pulling open the top drawer of the taller cabinet, Harry cast her gaze over the contents. The hanging folders and their papers were arranged in date order, the original letter plus the corresponding reply, each signed by R.K. Moss, the name Harry had invented for the secretary to Sherlock Holmes. She ran a hand across the metal supports, selecting one at random to pull apart and reveal the letters inside. As with the envelopes on the desk, they had not been replaced with precision. It appeared someone was interested in what Harry had been doing in her official capacity at the bank. But how much had they discovered?

Crouching down, she examined the lock on the filing cabinet, ignoring the droplets of rain that ran from her coat to dampen her stockings. There were no telltale scratch marks to indicate it had been picked. She tugged at the uppermost drawer, relieved when it did not open. If someone had been able to pick the lock without leaving a trace, it was unlikely they would have taken the trouble to lock it again. But she would only know for sure by looking inside.

Taking the key from a zipped pocket of her handbag, Harry eased it into the lock. The top drawer appeared to be undisturbed – her biscuit tin was in the corner where she had left it, an unopened bar of Fry's Chocolate Cream beside it. So far, so good, Harry thought as she closed the drawer and opened the one below. This, too, looked exactly as she'd left it. The dusters were folded, a tin of beeswax polish resting on top. The dustpan and brush lay alongside. Carefully, Harry lifted them out and laid them on the carpet. She surveyed the newspapers with a narrowed gaze. Had they been moved? She thought not. Even so, she held her breath when she shifted their weight to reveal the folder hidden in their midst. Her heart thumped as she flipped back the cover. The letter and the telegram were both still there, perfectly centred the way Harry had left them. She let out her breath in a fast, uneven whoosh. Whoever had entered the office, for whatever reason, it did not appear they had discovered her secret.

Getting to her feet, Harry closed the drawer and set about removing her hat and coat. She had never considered who at the bank might have keys that could open all the doors – the security guards, perhaps? There was a cabinet filled with keys in Mr Babbage's office, down in the post room, but Harry did not think he kept a key to her office, for all that it was technically part of his domain. And it seemed almost impossible that the intruder had been someone from outside the bank – what logical motive could anyone have to break into Harry's all-but-forgotten office and take nothing? It made no sense at all, she thought, as she took a distracted seat at her desk. But it made no sense for anyone who worked at the bank to break in either. Unless?—

Harry tapped a fingernail on the wooden surface of the desk. Bobby had told her the men in the post room were burning with curiosity after the second telegram to Holmes had arrived. He had hinted there might even be gambling about its contents. What if one of the post room men had decided to settle the wager and find out what the message had said? Could they have snuck into her office to read the telegram for themselves? She could think of no other reason someone might have broken in, and gone to some pains to keep their intrusion secret. But it was a mystery she did not know how to solve.

Certainly, she could not march into the basement and start throwing accusations around – that would lead to a very unpleasant scene and Harry would not come out of it well. She might question Bobby but she instinctively felt this was not his work. He was too blunt and open for such underhand behaviour. But he might know who the culprit was. It was something she would have to think about. And, in the meantime, she would go out at lunchtime to buy a copy of that morning's newspaper and hide the letter to Esme and Mr Archer's telegram inside it when she went home that evening.

An immovable prickle of unease settled between Harry's shoulder blades for the remainder of the morning. Coupled with her indecision about John Archer, she was restless and out of sorts, and frequently caught herself staring into space. By the time the clock hands had crawled around to midday, she was desperate to escape. Donning her hat and coat once more, she made her way to the nearby gates of Regent's Park, in the hope that its lush greenery might improve her mood. It might also help her decide what to do about John Archer and his ailing uncle.

Thankfully, the rain had stopped but Harry's usual bench was wet and uninviting. Preferring not to mar her afternoon with a damp skirt, she decided instead to take the bridge that crossed the boating lake and stroll along the path that led to the newly established open-air theatre. It had begun life as a makeshift venue in June and rumour had it there were plans for a full production of Twelfth Night the following summer. Harry made a mental note to ask Seb, her usual partner for all things theatrical, if he'd like to attend. Perhaps John Archer would be among the cast, if he was as talented an actor as Oliver had suggested.

The thought took her back to the story he had shared the night before. The idea that Philip St John might be cursed in some way seemed ridiculous in the cold light of day – she was sure there must be a more logical explanation for his sudden illness. Would it hurt to travel to his home and see if she could find it? The discovery that someone had searched her office had left her unsettled and she suddenly felt the need to get away from London.

Her instinct was to catch a train to Abinger Hall, to immerse herself in the familiarity and comfort of her family home, where there was always a dog to help soothe her worries away, but perhaps a trip to Thrumwell Manor might provide a different kind of distraction. Hadn't Oliver mentioned there was a dog there too? All she would need to do was notify Archer of her intention to visit, on behalf of Holmes, and decide on the best method of communication. A telegram would be easiest, and perhaps might carry the most authority, but a telephone call would allow her to inform Mr Archer that he should expect the arrival of R.K. Moss, not Sherlock Holmes. Since she would be travelling some distance, and would be alone, Harry was anxious to avoid any misunderstandings. It seemed prudent to ensure Archer understood she was a woman.

Her mind made up, Harry left the greenery of the park and revisited the telephone booth on Marylebone Road. Grateful she'd had the wit to make a note of the number to reach Thrumwell Manor, she dialled it and waited for someone to answer. ‘Morden 4.'

It seemed to Harry to be the same voice she had heard on her last call, and perhaps the call before that. ‘John Archer, please.'

‘Who should I say is calling?'

‘This is Miss R.K. Moss,' she said in a crisp tone, ‘calling with regard to Mr Archer's meeting at the Garston Club yesterday.'

‘One moment.'

The silence on the other end of the telephone seemed to stretch for an age, although Harry guessed it was no more than a minute. ‘Archer here. Who is this?'

Again, Harry steeled herself. This was it, the moment of no return. Once she explained who she was and why she was calling, the wheels of the investigation would begin to turn. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Archer, my name is R.K. Moss. I'm an associate of Oliver Fortescue, with whom you met yesterday. I understand you want to engage the services of Sherlock Holmes.'

If Archer was surprised, his voice did not reflect it. ‘That's right. Does this mean Mr Holmes will take the case? Are you calling to make arrangements for him to visit?'

‘In a manner of speaking,' Harry said carefully. ‘Mr Holmes has retired as a consulting detective. I work as his assistant, managing his London correspondence. Your uncle's story intrigues him but, as I am sure you will understand, he is unable to travel to Cambridgeshire to investigate himself. He has, however, authorised me to do so on his behalf.'

There was a pause as Mr Archer digested the information. ‘I see,' he rumbled at length. ‘Then who is the gentleman I met with at the Garston Club yesterday?'

‘An associate,' Harry repeated. ‘A trusted associate who assists me with Mr Holmes' cases from time to time. On this occasion, it was not possible for me to meet you, so I asked Mr Fortescue to do so instead.'

‘And he has made you aware of our situation?' Archer queried. ‘You and Holmes?'

‘He has,' Harry said. ‘I am prepared to call upon you and your uncle when convenient, to see what, if anything, Mr Holmes can do to help.'

She waited, resisting the temptation to hold her breath. Either he would accept the story she had proffered or demand Holmes take the case himself. If he chose the latter, she would have no choice but to wish his uncle well and end the conversation.

‘How soon could you come?' Archer said abruptly. ‘Is this evening too soon?'

Harry thought fast. She was certain there would be a train that would get her to Cambridgeshire that evening, but she did not want to arrive at the house of a stranger, with no means of getting away if she needed to. ‘I'm afraid so. There are certain preparations I shall need to make. Tomorrow is more convenient.'

‘Tomorrow, then,' Archer said. ‘If you are able to take the 1.34p.m. train from Liverpool Street to Ely, our driver will collect you from the station. My uncle is a recluse, as you must be aware, so the house is rather isolated. You will not find a taxi willing to carry you.'

‘Thank you,' Harry said. ‘That's very kind.'

‘Not at all – it's the least I can do,' he said, and paused. ‘I don't know whether Mr Fortescue mentioned that the manor is surrounded on all sides by ancient fenland. It can be a little windswept. Might I suggest you bring a warm coat and sturdy boots along with your overnight bag?'

Recalling Oliver's comment about getting her feet wet, Harry permitted herself a mirthless smile. ‘Advice I shall certainly take. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow, Mr Archer.'

‘As do I. Until then, Miss Moss.'

Harry walked back to Baker Street with a determined spring in her step and a tingle of what might just have been excitement in her stomach. Investigating the mystery of Philip St John's illness might not have the same thrill as chasing a dangerous criminal through the streets of London but it was still enough to lift her spirits. Whether it became a case worthy of the famous detective in whose name she was acting remained to be seen.

After everything Harry had heard about Thrumwell Manor, both from Oliver and during her telephone conversation with John Archer, she was not surprised to experience a faint stirring of unease when the chauffeur stopped in front of a pair of imposing iron gates late on Saturday afternoon. ‘Won't be a moment, miss,' the driver said, opening his door and allowing a chilly gust of wind inside the car. ‘I need to undo the chain.'

Perhaps the security was necessary in the absence of a gatehouse, Harry thought as she watched the driver approach the gates, or perhaps it was evidence of Philip St John's reclusive nature. The property was hidden from the road by a high red-brick wall but the entrance was not entirely unguarded; two stone dragons snarled at each other from turrets on either side of the gates. She turned her head to take in the surrounding area. Archer had not exaggerated when he'd said his uncle's house was isolated. The car had passed through a tiny village a mile or so back; Harry had noted a pub – The Morden Arms – and a village shop nestled among a small cluster of houses, but the land since had been barren and flat in all directions. Spindly hedgerows lined the far side of the narrow road that bordered Thrumwell Manor, overlooking bare tilled fields that bled into distant hedges and more fields beyond. Trees were few and far between but when they did appear, they were leafless skeletons grasping at the leaden sky.

Cambridgeshire was prime farmland, Harry knew, famous for its fertile soil reclaimed from the wetlands. She'd expected it to be dotted with farmhouses and yards, criss-crossed with villages that still bustled even at the start of winter, all laid across a patchwork of undulating fields, much like the land around her family's estate in Surrey. She hadn't expected such emptiness.

The driver's door opened and the chauffeur slid silently behind the wheel once more. He eased the car through the gates, then stopped again a short way inside. This time, he didn't explain before getting out and Harry tried not to wince at the heavy clang of iron on iron as the gates were closed and chained. There was no going back now, she thought, although that had been true from the moment she'd alighted from the train at Ely; there were no return trains to London until the morning. A prickle of apprehension chased along her spine as the car resumed its journey. An overnight stay was undoubtedly required, in order to appreciate the terror that beset Philip St John, but now that Harry was here, she couldn't help wondering whether coming alone had been a mistake. Oliver had wanted to accompany her; Harry had stoutly refused, although she had accepted his offer to come and collect her the following day. She hoped refusing his company was not a decision she was going to regret.

The view from inside the walls did nothing to settle her disquiet. There was no avenue of trees lining the somewhat bumpy track to the house, nothing to offer protection from the biting November wind that whistled across the roof of the car. And when she looked to the manor house itself, she was struck by its stark isolation; its only neighbours were the birds circling high above. An almost palpable sense of loneliness hung over the landscape. Perhaps the solitude was what had first drawn Philip St John to live here, but it might also be contributing to the fear that was consuming him now, Harry thought. It was certainly affecting her and she hadn't even crossed the threshold of Thrumwell Manor yet. She gave herself a brisk mental shake. Holmes would not allow himself to be swayed by such fanciful notions and nor would she. Logic and deduction were the antidote to fear.

The house began to loom large, shaking off the dark shadows that had shrouded it from a distance. Harry turned a curious gaze upon it. The sun was low in the sky; the last of its rays lacing the clouds with delicate pink and orange, and Harry half-expected the fading light to reveal broken windows and a neglected roof. What she saw caused an involuntary gasp of shock to escape her. The walls of Thrumwell Manor were the colour of blood.

She blinked hard, cursing her overstimulated imagination, and looked again but the effect had not diminished. Crimson rippled across the stone, as though the building's lifeblood seeped from the wounds of its windows. Shaking the ridiculous notion away, Harry forced herself to study the scene. ‘How extraordinary,' she said, striving to sound as though blood-drenched houses were an everyday experience. ‘Does it always look like that?'

The driver nodded, his cap bobbing in the half-light. ‘At this time of year, aye. It's the vines. They turn red just before winter.'

The vines, Harry thought, and almost laughed in relief. Of course that's what it was – a simple combination of leaves and the setting sun, fluttering in the wind. As the car drew to a halt, she could see the evidence with her own eyes; the walls of the house were indeed covered with thick scarlet leaves, from the ground floor all the way to the garret attic windows at the very top. She felt rather foolish as she got out of the car to stand on the gravel drive. Holmes would have deduced it in an instant, although she felt Dr Watson might have been more affected. But she had no time to dwell on her credulity. The large front door had opened and a tall, heavy-set, blond-haired man was hurrying down the stone steps to meet her.

‘Miss Moss,' he said, throwing his arms wide in an expansive, theatrical greeting. ‘I am John Archer. Welcome to Thrumwell Manor.'