Chapter 5

5

His handshake was firm, although perhaps a little too enthusiastic to be entirely proper, but Harry did not hold that against him. The warmth of his smile was enough to dispel some of the apprehension that had enveloped her since passing through the iron gates of the manor, and she found she could not help smiling in return. ‘Thank you, Mr Archer. Your home is very impressive.'

‘My uncle's home,' he corrected without rancour, and turned to survey the vine-covered walls, now darkened to a deep burgundy by the dipping sun. ‘But it is a splendid old pile. Was it wrong of me to hope that you might arrive in time to admire the effect of the leaves? They lend such a marvellously Gothic air to the place.'

‘They do,' Harry agreed. A gust of icy wind caused her to shiver.

‘But I am being a terrible host,' Archer cried, noticing her discomfort. ‘You must come inside at once. Donaldson will bring your effects.'

Harry did not need any further encouragement. The temperature had dropped since she had alighted from the train at Ely and her breath was beginning to plume in the cold air. It would be below freezing before moonrise, she thought, and was glad she had heeded Mr Archer's warning and brought a thick coat. Not that she planned to spend much time outside during her brief visit to Thrumwell Manor. She followed Archer up the steps, hesitating only for a fraction of a second as she passed beneath the blood-red vines and through the ornately carved door frame to enter the house.

‘How is your uncle today?' she asked as they arrived in a wood-panelled hallway with a heavy, grey flagstone floor. It was only marginally warmer than outside, Harry thought, but thankfully the whistling wind was shut out as soon as the door closed. Weak yellow light spilled feebly from several wall lamps, creating deep pockets of gloom where it did not reach. A wide stone staircase against one wall drew the eye, also lit with barely adequate wall lamps that did nothing to dispel the fall of night. It was a far cry from the entrance hall at Harry's family home, where a magnificent chandelier shimmered from the high ceiling, filling the room with light. Standing at the foot of the stairs was a woman of around thirty, dressed simply in black with her hands folded together. At her side was an enormous grey wolfhound. It eyed Harry with wary stillness and she wasn't altogether sure she blamed it.

‘My uncle is in the library,' Archer said. ‘As I told your associate, he rarely leaves that room, now. It is all I can do to get him to bed each evening. You can meet him presently, once you've settled into your room and recovered from your journey.' He took a few steps towards the woman. ‘In the meantime, may I introduce Agnes, our housekeeper – I believe you have already spoken on the telephone. And beside her is Barrymore, my uncle's beloved wolfhound. He may look terrifying but I assure you he is a soft-hearted creature, especially if you happen to have a biscuit to offer him.'

The dog was large, even seated as he was now, and Harry guessed he must be twice the size of Tiggy and Winston, her beloved Labradors at Abinger Hall. He was covered in wiry grey fur and his head was cocked, his eyes alert as he assessed her. She would make friends with him later, she decided, once she'd had time to source a treat to allay his suspicions. Her gaze travelled to Agnes, who was watching her every bit as warily as Barrymore. ‘Good afternoon, Agnes,' she said.

The woman nodded, her face pale in the dim light. She did not smile. ‘Good afternoon, miss. I hope you had a pleasant journey.'

A soft country accent coloured her words, evident to Harry's ears now that her voice was not distorted by the crackle of the telephone. ‘I did, thank you,' Harry replied. ‘The train was punctual and not too crowded.'

John Archer rubbed his hands together in jovial approval. ‘Excellent. Agnes, would you show Miss Moss to her room?' He turned to Harry. ‘Once you've settled in, I thought perhaps tea in the drawing room. Unless you'd prefer something stronger?'

It could not be much past four o'clock, Harry thought, although dusk had fallen in earnest outside. ‘Tea would be very welcome,' she said.

Archer nodded. ‘And once you're refreshed, I thought I might show you the house. It might aid your investigations to understand the layout before – before I introduce you to my uncle.'

His good humour dimmed a little, as though this last task was something he was loath to undertake, and Harry could certainly understand why. Such a sudden deterioration in the health and behaviour of a loved one must be hard to accept and the instinct of any caring relative would be to shield them from outsiders. The fact that Harry was there expressly because of Philip St John's illness would not make the instinct to protect any easier to quell. ‘Of course,' she said. ‘That would be very helpful, thank you.'

Agnes stepped forward. ‘This way, if you please.'

Harry followed her up the stairs, the steps of which were bare and worn in the centre with age and the passage of feet. She took care with her own footing in the dim light, keeping one hand on the smooth wooden balustrade as they climbed to the first floor. Tall leaded windows punctuated the landing and Harry felt a sharp burst of cold air radiate from the expanse of glass as she passed along the corridor. She made a mental note to wear a cardigan when she met Mr Archer for tea, and hurried to catch up to Agnes. ‘Tell me, is it just you who sees to Mr Archer and his uncle?'

The housekeeper shook her head. ‘No, miss. There's the cook, Mary. Mr Archer likes a hearty meal, as does the master, when he's in his right mind, and she's been here almost as long as I have. And then there's Donaldson, who drove you here. He's the groundskeeper as well as Mr Archer's driver.'

They must all be live-in staff, Harry thought, given the isolation of the house. Three was a reasonable number to cater for the needs of two gentlemen but she doubted it was enough to manage a property the size of Thrumwell Manor. Perhaps there were parts of the house that were unused. ‘How long have you worked here?'

‘Around fifteen years,' Agnes replied. ‘Started as a maid for the old family what lived here, and stayed on when the master took the place on, after the war.'

Which meant this was very likely the only employment she had known, Harry thought. That spoke well of Philip St John, at least. ‘And Donaldson?'

‘He came not long after Mr Archer arrived, about a year ago.'

A little surprised, Harry considered this new information. Did it mean anything that John Archer had come to live with his uncle so recently? Where had he lived before? The housekeeper stopped beside a wooden door. ‘I put you in the blue room. It's got good drapes to keep the wind out.'

Turning the handle, she pushed the door back and stood aside to allow Harry to enter. There could be no doubt how the room had got its name; the walls were covered in pale blue wallpaper and slightly faded cornflower blue velvet drapes shrouded the windows. A grand four-poster bed dominated the room, hung with the same cornflower blue velvet as the windows. The lighting was as weak here as elsewhere in the house, although Harry was glad to see a decent fire burned in the grate, beneath a white marble mantelpiece. Overall, the room was calm and welcoming, and Harry turned to smile her approval at Agnes. ‘It's lovely. Thank you.'

The housekeeper nodded. ‘There's a washbasin in the cabinet over there, and a pot under the bed, but the bathroom is just at the end of the corridor if you prefer.'

Harry very much did prefer; even her grandfather had stopped expecting the household staff to empty his chamber pot each morning. She cast her gaze around the room again and the pattern on the wallpaper caught her eye. Moving closer for a better look, she saw that what she'd taken from a distance to be stylised flowers and ferns was actually a line drawing of a man rowing a tiny boat, picked out in varying shades of blue and repeated over and over again across the paper. ‘How unusual.'

‘There's a lot of waterways round these parts,' Agnes said. ‘The fens and the lodes that join them up to the rivers. People have been transporting goods on the water since long before the railway came.'

‘Fascinating,' Harry said, studying the wallpaper again.

Agnes cleared her throat. ‘Will there be anything else, miss? I can wait and take you to the drawing room, if you'd like.'

Harry shook her head. What she wanted was ten minutes alone, to gather her thoughts and consider what she had learned so far. But she had one last question for Agnes before she let her go. ‘When we spoke on the telephone the first time I rang, you told me you thought Philip St John was cursed. What did you mean by that?'

The housekeeper started, glancing over her shoulder as though she feared someone might have overheard. ‘I shouldn't have said that,' she said quickly. ‘Mr Archer doesn't like us to talk about it.'

‘But you believe it's true?'

Agnes hesitated, then took several steps closer. ‘Not just me – the cook too. But she's a local, like me – she knows the stories. Mr Archer and William aren't from these parts; they've never heard about the ferryman .'

The final word was whispered in a tumbling, fearful rush, as though simply saying the name might invoke terrible consequences. ‘I see,' Harry murmured. ‘Who – or what – is the ferryman?'

Agnes flashed her a beseeching look and hurried to the window, twitching one of the drapes aside to peer out into the darkness. ‘We try not to speak his name, especially not so near the fens. Some say it summons him.'

It was exactly as Oliver had predicted, Harry thought: a local myth that could be blamed for the unexplained. ‘But you believe he is responsible for your master's condition? How?'

‘He saw him,' Agnes said, with doleful certainty. ‘Death always comes to those who see him. But I've said too much. Mr Archer won't like it.'

Damping down her frustration, Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘Mr Archer has invited me here to discover what ails his uncle. How am I to do that if I can't explore all the possibilities?'

For a moment, Agnes looked torn. ‘You'll have to ask him,' she said finally. After smoothing the curtain back into place, she crossed to the door. ‘Will that be all?'

‘Yes, thank you.' Harry decided to let her go. ‘For now.'

The housekeeper nodded once and left, closing the door firmly behind her. Glancing around, Harry saw her case had been left at the foot of the bed and she set about unpacking the items she had brought with her. Given the nature of her visit, she had guessed she would not be expected to dress for dinner but she did want to change out of her travelling clothes and wash her hands and face. Once that was done, she perched on the end of the bed and took her notebook from her handbag to jot down what little new information she had gathered.

The cook was an unknown at present, but she had met three of the five people who lived at Thrumwell Manor and it was possible one of them knew more than they were telling about the illness of Philip St John. Getting to her feet, Harry crossed to the window and tugged the curtain aside to gaze out into the night. The room occupied the corner of the house and had windows in two of its walls; she assumed she would have excellent views across the front and north-eastern side of the estate. But for now, unbroken blackness met her gaze, and a low, whistling moan could be heard as the wind blew around the corner of the building. She was reminded with a shiver of unease that she truly was in the middle of nowhere. But it would not do to dwell on that, nor to be affected by the housekeeper's suggestion of mysterious ferrymen.

It was time to bring logic and common sense to bear, to eliminate the impossible and examine what was left. It was time to meet Philip St John.

The drawing room was just off the entrance hall. It was warmed by a roaring fire in the hearth, much to Harry's relief. Its windows were covered by heavy brocade curtains and its chairs faced towards the fire. Barrymore basked in the warmth of the flames; he raised his grey head when the door opened and then lowered it again when he observed Agnes, although Harry noticed he maintained a watchful eye on her as Archer ushered her towards the chairs. ‘Tea?' Archer asked, waving a hand at a table laden with cups and saucers and a gently steaming teapot.

‘Yes, please,' Harry said, settling into an armchair. ‘With milk, thank you.'

He poured her a cup and balanced it deftly on a saucer to pass it to her, before filling a cup for himself. ‘I thoroughly recommend the seed cake,' he said, indicating a delicious-looking, golden brown loaf topped with caraway seeds that sat invitingly at one end of the tray. ‘The cook here is an excellent all-rounder but I believe her cakes are worthy of the finest London afternoon tea menu.'

Harry was about to regretfully decline, having learned from experience that juggling tea and cake did not go well when trying to take notes, when her stomach betrayed her with a perfectly timed rumble, reminding her that she had eaten nothing since her hurried lunch before boarding the train at Liverpool Street. ‘Perhaps a small slice,' she allowed, putting her notebook to one side.

She sipped the tea, which was strong and hot and most welcome, and took the opportunity to study John Archer as he busied himself in cutting the cake. Oliver's estimate had been accurate, she thought – he was somewhere around his mid-thirties. Faint lines creased his forehead and the skin around his eyes, although his hair was as yet untouched by grey. He dressed well; his suit was expensively cut from a dark grey material but the waistcoat beneath his jacket was a glorious flash of claret and gold. His shoes were black and shiny – patent leather, if she was not mistaken, and made for style rather than comfort. He was, Harry guessed, something of a peacock but perhaps that wasn't such a surprise, given his profession.

‘Your scrutiny does you credit, Miss Moss,' he said, without looking up. ‘Do I meet with your expectations?'

It wasn't a rebuke – if anything, he seemed amused as he handed her a plate containing a generous slice of cake – but Harry still felt warmth rise in her cheeks. She fought to maintain her composure. ‘You must forgive me. It's a peculiarity of the job – one never knows which tiny detail might help Mr Holmes to crack the case.'

‘Indeed,' he said heartily and cleared his throat. ‘ You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles .'

‘Exactly so,' Harry said, recognising the quote as one belonging to Holmes but unable to recall which of the many stories it had come from. ‘Have you ever portrayed Mr Holmes on the stage?'

Archer shook his head. ‘I am a great admirer of his work but I have not yet had the honour,' he said, and patted his gently rounded stomach. ‘Sadly, I suspect I am more of a Watson.'

Harry could not help smiling. Oliver had been right about that too; it was difficult not to like John Archer. ‘Is that what made you write to Holmes?'

‘In a manner of speaking,' Archer said slowly, and some of his good humour slipped away. ‘You must understand that my uncle is an intensely private man. He began writing as a way to occupy his mind while he recovered from the war, little dreaming his first book would propel him to such fame.' He sighed. ‘He once told me that everyone he met seemed to demand something from him – an autograph, an endorsement, a recommendation. It overwhelmed him, forcing him to hide away for well over a decade. But the life of a recluse suited him, although he struggled frequently with writer's block.'

Harry nodded. She had visited the London Library the night before to investigate Philip St John's literary career and had discovered his output had been sporadic over the years since his startling first success in 1920. She had borrowed that novel, The Blood-soaked Soil , with every intention of reading it before bed but tiredness had overtaken her and she had fallen asleep. It now sat on the bedside table of the blue room upstairs and she hoped she might have some time to begin reading it later.

Archer fixed her with a look. ‘You must be wondering what all this has to do with Sherlock Holmes but it is simply this: when my uncle fell ill, I rapidly came to suspect there was an identifiable cause for his sudden mental decline, although I was at a loss to discern what it might be. I could not approach the police for help, as they would undoubtedly fail to appreciate the complexity of our unhappy situation. I needed a remarkable intellect, a deductive genius who would see to the heart of the problem in an instant. In short, I needed Sherlock Holmes.'

Harry shifted uncomfortably in her armchair and took a mouthful of seed cake, wondering what Mr Archer would say if she revealed his confidence was entirely misplaced, that he did not have the brilliance of the great detective at his command, because such a man did not exist outside the imagination of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He only had her. The confession would meet with incredulity and denial and perhaps even anger, and the repercussions would resonate well beyond the grounds of Thrumwell Manor. No, she could not confront Archer with the truth, not when she had willingly entered into, and encouraged, the charade. She had come with the intention of discovering what she could in order to help Philip St John, fully aware that she did so under false pretences. All she could do was continue to play the game, and hope that her confidence in her own abilities was not misplaced.

‘I understand your position completely,' she said. ‘Has Mr St John given any clue about the source of his terror? Were his nightmares the first symptom?'

John Archer placed his cup and saucer on the tea tray and gazed pensively at the leaping flames in the fireplace. ‘Tell me, Miss Moss. Do you believe in the supernatural?'

The question caught Harry by surprise. She had not expected him to raise the matter of the curse, given his housekeeper's repeated insistence that he would not hear of it. ‘I do not,' she said, after a moment to recover her wits.

‘Nor do I,' he said, with brusque approval. ‘And yet there are circumstances at play here that defy logical explanation. That is why I sent for Holmes.'

Harry considered his words. It occurred to her that logic was something that might be beyond Philip St John. His mind must be entirely given over to emotion. ‘Does your uncle believe there is a supernatural cause?'

Archer's gaze was resigned. ‘He does. That is why he will not sleep, at least not without resistance, and dare not leave the library. He fears death stalks him, although he cannot say what form it takes.'

It sounded very much like a tragic case of paranoid delusion, Harry decided, but kept the observation to herself. She put her cup on the tea tray, along with her empty plate, and opened her notebook. ‘And your doctor – what is his view?'

‘A complete mental breakdown,' Archer said abruptly. ‘He advises me to transfer my uncle to an asylum, so that he may receive proper treatment.'

Harry understood his unspoken reluctance. Care for the mentally ill had endured a nightmarish reputation for centuries, with asylums leaving vulnerable patients at the mercy of neglect and abuse, often with no attempt at treatment or rehabilitation. Huge steps had been taken to modernise the way the medical profession treated psychological afflictions, and the inhumane conditions of the old lunatic asylums were long gone, but there was still much that was unknown and a dreadful stigma attached to being admitted to a psychiatric hospital. No wonder Archer was desperate to find the reason for his uncle's sudden illness. ‘Perhaps it would help if you could describe what happened the day Mr St John's health took a turn for the worse,' she said. ‘Did anything out of the ordinary occur?'

‘Nothing,' Archer said. ‘Believe me, I have gone over and over that day, and the days preceding it. All was as it usually was. My uncle is a creature of habit – he rarely leaves the grounds of the manor. He took Barrymore for his usual walk – as you can imagine, a hound of his size needs considerable exercise and they usually roam along the path that winds through Morden Fen, most of which is contained within the manor's estate. They are often gone for several hours.'

‘I see,' Harry said. Her own family dogs also needed long walks, and enjoyed the run of the Abinger land that surrounded the hall. ‘Do they take their walk in the morning or later in the day?'

Archer frowned. ‘Generally mid-morning but on that particular day, they went first thing. He took an early breakfast and was gone before I came downstairs.'

A change in routine, she observed, scribbling furiously. ‘Why was that?'

‘It had been a particularly good sunrise,' Archer said, shrugging. ‘My uncle was inspired to get as close to it as he could.'

‘And when they returned, Mr St John seemed to be his usual self?'

‘As far as I could tell. Barrymore had chased a heron into the fen and needed washing down, but Donaldson took care of that. I saw my uncle at lunch and he seemed as taciturn as ever. Asked me to run an errand to the village shop to collect some more tobacco for his pipe and said he had some business to attend to in the library.'

Harry had to admit it did not sound as though anything untoward had happened to trigger such terror in Philip St John. ‘Did you notice any change in his behaviour that evening?'

‘None at all.' Archer paused. ‘I took Barrymore out for a short walk before it got dark, just as far as the gates and back, and met my uncle for a pre-dinner drink in this very room. We ate an excellent meal – venison, as I recall – and took leave of each other around ten o'clock.'

She made a note of the time. ‘When did you become aware something was wrong?'

‘When the screaming began,' he said. ‘In my sleep-befuddled state, I assumed it must be Agnes, or perhaps Mary, but realised I was wrong the moment I stumbled from my room. It was coming from along the corridor, from my uncle's room, but that made no sense to me. The noise was a dreadful, high-pitched keening, not the kind of sound a man would make.' He shook his head at the memory. ‘I've never heard anything like it.'

Harry grimaced in sympathy. ‘What happened next?'

‘The others arrived – Agnes and Mary in their nightclothes, Donaldson half-dressed, all of them just as bewildered and half-asleep as I. My uncle was in the habit of sleeping with a locked door, so Donaldson and I forced it open. We found him curled upright in the corner of the room, screaming and screaming as though burning alive, although there was no injury that I could see.' Archer glanced at Harry, his expression suddenly bleak. ‘I'm ashamed to admit I struck him, although there was no other way to bring him to his senses.'

The fact that he was so clearly remorseful did him credit, Harry thought. ‘Did it work?'

‘It did, although it took some time for him to tell us what had prompted him to scream in the first place. A nightmare he said, of such unbearable horror that his mind had wiped all trace of it from his memory. He only remembered the fear – a paralysing terror, he called it. He did not remember the screaming.'

Harry thought back to the sequence of events Oliver had related to her. ‘You managed to calm him and the household returned to bed. Is that correct?'

Archer nodded. ‘We were all exhausted the next morning but otherwise none the worse. I had some business in Ely but told Agnes to keep an eye on her master. Upon my return, she reported that the day had been uneventful, although my uncle had been irritable and had not eaten. He was ill-tempered with me at dinner, and I saw he had no appetite for the splendid meal Mary had served. Under my instructions, Agnes prepared a mild sedative – a lavender and valerian root tea, which he grudgingly accepted. I suggested an early night and took myself to bed not long after nine o'clock.' He stood up then, and crossed to a polished cabinet against one wall. ‘Forgive me, but I find I am in need of something stronger than tea. Can I offer you anything?'

Harry shook her head. Archer busied himself briefly with a glass and the whisky bottle, then returned to his seat. ‘Where was I? Ah yes, the second night.' He stared broodingly into the fire. ‘I confess that I had taken a heavy nightcap to bed with me and perhaps that made me sleep more soundly than I might otherwise have done, for it took longer for the screaming to wake me. When I arrived at my uncle's door, it was already open and he was surrounded by Agnes, Mary and Donaldson. He was not curled in the corner this time, but on his feet and brandishing an iron poker.'

The admission caused Harry a flicker of disquiet. ‘I was under the impression he was not violent.'

Archer waved a hand. ‘He isn't – not on that occasion, and never since. I quickly realised he was fending off some apparition or creature only he could see, but when I tried to take the poker from him, he pushed me aside and barrelled from the room. He was through the front door before any of us could stop him, vanishing into the pitch-black night.'

Into the freezing fen, Harry thought grimly. ‘You followed.'

‘We did,' Archer said, ‘although we would not have found him had it not been for Barrymore. He sleeps downstairs and was out after his master before any of us had cleared the stairs, snarling and growling in a way I've never known before. It was his barking that led us to my uncle, half-drowned in amongst the sedge and reeds. Donaldson and I carried him back to the house, only semi-conscious, and Agnes and Mary dried him off. They did their best to warm him but it was clear from his shivering that he had caught a chill.'

‘The doctor came the next morning,' Harry observed. ‘Did he suggest admitting Mr St John to hospital then?'

‘No. He prescribed medicine to reduce the fever, advised us to keep him calm and warm, and gave me a strong sleeping draught to administer at night.' Archer shook his head. ‘In spite of being weakened by the fever, I do believe he was more himself during those few days. He slept, at least, which was a mercy for us all. But once the symptoms of the chill receded, the nightmares returned. Except now they were not confined to the night – the apparitions invaded his waking hours, and grew worse with every passing day. Which is where you find us now, Miss Moss. Please tell me you can help.'

He looked so dispirited that Harry felt her own disquiet stir. ‘It sounds like a terrible ordeal,' she said, even as the weight of the mystery he was expecting her to unravel settled across her shoulders. Could she uncover what was ailing his uncle? What if she failed? For a moment, she battled with the fear that she had undertaken a task that was far beyond her: she was not really a detective and certainly not as brilliant as Holmes. But she was also aware that this was a feeling she had encountered before, when she had gazed into the desperate eyes of Mildred Longstaff's family as they begged her to find their girl. She had been out of her depth then too, but it had not prevented her from solving the case and restoring Mildred to her family.

Straightening her spine, Harry met John Archer's beseeching gaze. ‘I shall do everything in my power to help you.'

Archer got to his feet. ‘Let me show you the layout of the house, so you can understand our movements better.' Lifting his glass, he swallowed the remainder of his whisky in one gulp. ‘We will finish in the library, with my uncle. I can only hope I have done enough to prepare you for what he has become.'