Chapter 6

6

As Harry had surmised, not all of Thrumwell Manor was in everyday use. The upper floors were closed off, apart from the attic rooms inhabited by Agnes, Donaldson and Mary. A servants' staircase allowed them to come and go freely without using the main stone stairs. To the right of the staircase, Archer opened and closed a succession of doors, giving Harry a brief glimpse of several other first-floor guest rooms; she had a jumbled impression of pink wallpaper and drapes, followed by yellow and then green. All were cold and dank through lack of use and she was relieved when they did not linger in any of them.

Archer's room was on the left of the stairs, three doors along from the blue room Harry occupied. It reminded her of her brothers' bedrooms at home – a little untidy but comfortable and lived-in. At the furthest end of the corridor was the room where Philip St John slept. It was warm in here too, with a banked fire in the hearth and a four-poster bed even grander than the one in Archer's room, but there was something in the stale air that reminded Harry of a sick room. A full set of iron tools sat beside the fire. No one had felt the need to confiscate the poker.

Once they had left Philip St John's room, its splintered lock patched up but not fitted with a replacement that could keep anyone out, Harry turned her attention to a discreet door set into the wood panelling of the end wall. ‘Does this lead to the service staircase?'

‘It does,' Archer said, and turned a small brass door handle. The door swung silently inward. ‘They go from the basement all the way up to the attic rooms.'

Leaning into the inky darkness, Harry looked up and down the shadowy stairs. ‘There are no lamps.'

Archer shook his head. ‘They use oil lamps to light their way. The previous family didn't fit electric lights in there before they left and my uncle didn't see the need for so small a staff.'

It made sense, Harry supposed, but she didn't much like the idea of travelling up and down a dark, narrow staircase with only an oil lamp to guide her steps, and she couldn't imagine Chesterton, the butler at Abinger Hall, accepting such a thing. ‘Of course,' she murmured.

The ground floor had unused rooms too. The ballroom had clearly not enjoyed any dancing for a very long time, which made Harry a little sad; it was filled with cloth-draped furniture and the parquet floor was thick with dust. A splendidly formal dining room had a similarly abandoned air, although Archer showed her a much smaller room containing a highly polished six-seater table that was much more suited to the modest needs of the manor's inhabitants. ‘We'll dine around six-thirty this evening, if that suits you?' Archer said.

A quick glance at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece told Harry it was just past five-thirty now. ‘Perfect,' she said.

The kitchens were exactly as Harry had expected them to be – warm, comforting and filled with delicious aromas that competed for her attention. Mary was a well-rounded woman in her fifties, with rosy cheeks and wisps of white hair that peeked beneath her cap. She was kneading a large slab of bread dough with the air of one who meant to pummel it into submission but she looked up and smiled when they entered. ‘Agnes told me you'd arrived,' she said, when Archer introduced Harry. ‘I hope you've brought a good appetite.'

Harry returned her smile. ‘If the rest of your food is as delicious as your seed cake then I'm going to be leaving here half a stone heavier tomorrow.'

The cook beamed at her. ‘Well, now, I aim to please.'

Archer rubbed his hands together. ‘And you succeed very well, Mary. As I mentioned earlier, Miss Moss may want to ask you some questions about my uncle's illness. Please answer them as fully as you can.'

‘I'm not sure what I can add but I'll do my best,' Mary said, and Harry thought she saw a shadow pass over the other woman's face.

‘Nothing for now,' Harry reassured her. ‘Perhaps after dinner, when you're not so busy.'

Mary nodded gratefully. ‘Yes, miss. Thank you.'

Outside the kitchen, Archer waved a hand at a door at the far end of the corridor. ‘That leads to the cellar, where we keep the wine. Do you need to see it?'

Harry made a mental adjustment to the map she was building in her mind and shook her head. ‘Not at present.'

‘Good. That just leaves the library.' Squaring his shoulders, he glanced at her. ‘Now remember, his appearance might shock you but he is not in any way dangerous. You will be perfectly safe.'

‘Please don't worry,' Harry said. ‘I'm fully prepared.'

Archer looked as though he might add more but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he led her out of the domestic quarters and back into the main part of the house. He stopped at a heavy wooden door and gripped the brass handle with purpose. ‘Ready?'

She nodded. ‘Ready.'

The door opened with the faintest of sighs. Harry followed Archer into the room, which appeared at first glance to be a fairly typical country house library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered all four walls and were stacked with books of all shapes and sizes – tall atlases, leather-backed tomes, less expensive cloth-coated hardbacks. As with all the other regularly used rooms in the house, thick drapes hung at the windows – these ones in a deep burgundy silk, Harry noted, to complement the plush plum-coloured carpet. A fire burned in the hearth, stoked high with leaping yellow flames and bright orange coals; the smell of woodsmoke and soot mingled with the lighter aroma of pipe tobacco.

Two high-backed armchairs faced each other near the fireplace. From Harry's position at the door, neither seemed to be occupied, but then she saw a faint curl of smoke rising from the chair with its back to her. A low, fearful voice broke the silence. ‘Who is it? Who's there?'

Archer strode forwards. ‘It's me, Uncle. It's John.' He rounded the chair so that its occupant could see him. ‘I've brought someone to see you.'

There was a sharp intake of breath, the suggestion of movement in the chair. ‘Who is it? Who's there?' the voice repeated. This time its tone was querulous.

‘A friend,' Archer said soothingly, and beckoned Harry nearer. ‘Here she comes now. This is Miss Moss. She's staying with us this evening.'

Slowly, Harry made her way towards the centre of the room and turned towards the chair. She wasn't entirely sure what she expected to find – a skeletal figure, perhaps, with gaunt yellow skin and strands of grey hair, and claw-like hands that dug into the arms of the chair as if they were talons. What she actually saw was a sandy-haired man of around forty-five, wild-eyed but alert. That he had recently been ill was evident from the pallor of his complexion and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. One hand held a gently smouldering pipe, the other clutched at a sheaf of blankets tucked around him almost to chin height. ‘Hello, Mr St John,' she said softly. ‘How lovely to meet you.'

He surveyed her with sudden agitation. Twin spots of red burned in his cheeks, in stark contrast to the milk white of the rest of his face. ‘You shouldn't be here.'

With a quick glance at Archer, Harry took the seat opposite Philip St John. ‘Oh, but I've just arrived. I came especially to see you, after your nephew told me you'd caught a fever.'

At this, the older man glared at Archer. ‘Is she a nurse? Another damned nurse to prod and poke at me?'

Harry smiled, hoping to disarm him. ‘I'm not a nurse.' She held up her notebook and pen. ‘See? No thermometer, no stethoscope and definitely no needles.'

His beady-eyed gaze came to rest on the notebook. ‘A psychiatrist, then, come to take me away. Do they let women do that nowadays?'

‘They do,' Harry said, ‘but that isn't why I'm here, either. I'm – well, to be honest, I just wanted to meet you. I'm a great admirer of your writing, most especially The Blood-soaked Soil .'

Philip St John stilled. His eyes, which had been balefully fixed on Harry, flicked towards the bookshelves and then back again. The fingers clutching the blankets tightened, turning white with the pressure. ‘My hand,' he moaned. ‘We agreed on the hand.'

‘Which one?' Archer asked sympathetically. ‘The right again?'

‘The right!' St John roared, spittle flying from his lips. ‘It was ever my right.'

With sudden, spasmodic jerks, the arm nearest the fireplace began to convulse. The pipe fell from his hand, showering glowing tobacco across the layers in which he was wrapped. With a muttered oath, Archer sprang forward, seizing the uppermost blanket and shaking the wool towards the fire, so that the burning tobacco fell to the hearth. With a great effort of will, his uncle gripped his quivering right arm with his left. ‘Be silent!' he bellowed, his gaze roving wildly to the bookshelves once more, eyes bulging at something only he could see. ‘You shall not speak. It is mine as much as yours.'

He strained forward and, for a moment, Harry thought he meant to get up. But the impulse seemed to leave him almost as soon as it had arrived and he slumped back in his chair, lapsing into sullen, unintelligible muttering. Harry turned to Archer. ‘Do you have any idea who he is talking to?'

The sound of her voice seemed to rouse St John again. His eyes came into focus as he dragged his gaze towards her. ‘Who is it?' he demanded, and his peevish tone was a stark contrast to the fury of the minute before. ‘Who's there?'

‘None at all.' Archer finished refilling his uncle's pipe with tobacco from a box on the mantelpiece and laid it on a small table within his reach. ‘It's always the same. I think his hands must pain him, although the right one seems the worst. The doctor thinks it might be from holding a pen for long periods of time when he is writing.'

Harry nodded. There was no typewriter in sight; Philip St John must draft his novels longhand. She studied him through lowered lashes, watching his fingers shake as he tried to grip the woollen blankets. ‘Has it always convulsed that way?'

Archer shook his head. ‘The doctor said it is a symptom of his mental distress.'

She frowned, her gaze travelling down to the carpet, where the puddle of wool twitched as St John moved. ‘There must be some medication that can help. Has he prescribed anything other than the sedative?'

‘A mild painkiller,' Archer said. ‘To be blunt, he is a local doctor and not well versed in how to treat psychological illness, which is why he would prefer that my uncle be admitted to hospital. And while it may come to that eventually, I believe for the moment that he is better kept here, where I can observe him.'

Harry said nothing. Philip St John's gaze had wandered to the bookshelves again, although his eyes lacked focus. ‘Be silent,' he muttered, drawing in a rattling breath. ‘Your voice will not be heard.'

His chin sank slowly towards his chest. After a few seconds, he began to snore. ‘Come,' Archer said softly. ‘I imagine you've seen enough.'

She had. Wordlessly, she rose and followed him from the library. Archer closed the door behind them and stood for a long moment, before glancing at Harry with a bleak smile. ‘Come now, Miss Moss. Surely now you feel the need of a drink?'

‘Yes,' Harry said, resisting the urge to shiver in the colder air of the hallway. ‘I rather think I do.'

John Archer had not exaggerated the excellence of Mary's cooking but, even so, Harry found she had little appetite for the food set before her at dinner. Philip St John did not join them to eat and Harry felt a little guilty at her relief when Archer said he would have a tray served in the library. Now that she had witnessed his illness for herself, she understood the strain his condition was placing on the house. Archer had been at pains to reassure her his uncle was not always so incoherent. ‘His agitation comes and goes, although I fear he eats less each day.'

Archer was a good host, despite the unease that hung over the dining room like a cloud. He regaled Harry with tales of his acting career that were both interesting and amusing, and she might even have forgotten the reason she was at Thrumwell Manor had it not been for the occasional distant hoarse shout that drifted from the library. ‘One of us sits with him most of the time,' Archer said, after a particularly lengthy disturbance had died away. ‘Although there are occasions when he will not tolerate anyone being in the same room.'

Harry nodded. In other circumstances, she might have suggested he engage the services of a nurse but she suspected the presence of a stranger would only agitate Philip St John more. ‘Your domestic staff are clearly devoted to him. I'm given to understand that Agnes is the longest serving. Is that correct?'

‘It is,' Archer replied. ‘She was scullery maid to the previous owner of the manor – a Mr Hobbs-Morton, I believe. My uncle bought the house in 1920 and Agnes chose to stay on as housekeeper, along with a groundsman and a cook.'

‘She must have been very young,' Harry observed.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose she must. I've never really thought about it – she's just always been here. I can't imagine the place without her.'

‘I feel much the same about our family butler,' Harry said, and then remembered she was R.K. Moss, not Harry White. ‘How long have you lived here?'

‘About a year or so,' Archer said. ‘I used to split my time between my mother in Essex and Uncle Philip, when acting jobs did not keep me in London, but she passed away and I came here.' He offered Harry a melancholy smile. ‘There's nothing like the loss of a parent to make you value the family you have left.'

‘Quite,' Harry said in sympathy. ‘Do you find being so far from London interferes with your work? Evening performances must make it difficult to return home.'

‘I tend to stay in town when I am in a production,' he explained. ‘My uncle suffers my company but he doesn't seek it out. I rather think he prefers it when I'm not here, but I don't hold it against him. It's how he's always been.'

He launched cheerfully into another anecdote. They were like night and day, Harry observed as he talked, the nephew and his uncle. One garrulous and outgoing, unafraid to put himself forward and be admired or criticised by his audience, the other introverted and withdrawn, refusing to engage or even acknowledge those who read his work. It was astonishing they had anything in common, other than the bonds of family, but nothing she had seen or heard so far suggested their relationship was anything other than cordial. And yet she could not shake the certainty that not everything was as it seemed at Thrumwell Manor. In the world of crime fiction, a mysterious illness in a wealthy relative automatically cast suspicion on whoever was due to inherit their fortune, but Harry found it hard to believe that John Archer had anything to do with his uncle's sudden decline, and she could not fathom what anyone else at Thrumwell Manor had to gain from it. And once she had eliminated the four people who had any contact with Philip St John, who else was there? The malign ferryman Agnes had warned her about?

Weariness caught up with Harry shortly after they had finished the dessert course – an excellent steamed pudding – and she excused herself. She slowed as she approached the library door, seeing Barrymore curled up at its base as though standing guard against intruders. ‘Hello, boy,' she said softly, digging into her pocket for the biscuit she had saved for exactly such an occasion. ‘This is for you.'

The dog raised his head, sniffing the air. Harry offered the biscuit. He took it, despatching it with two decisive crunches, and eyed her as if hoping for more. She laughed. ‘Maybe tomorrow.' She held out her hand for him to inspect, the way she always did when befriending a new dog. Cautious at first, he snuffled a wet nose against her fingers, then licked them once. Friendship accepted, he lowered his head to his paws once more. Harry bent down to ruffle his ears, and he closed his eyes in silent appreciation. ‘Goodnight, Barrymore,' she said affectionately. ‘Sleep well.'

It seemed to Harry that only minutes had passed since she had gone to bed before she jerked awake. She lay still, heart thudding, blinking in the darkness and trying to establish what had disturbed her. There had been a sound, she was sure – a crash somewhere nearby. Now she heard a muffled cry in the corridor outside her room, followed by the thudding of feet. Sitting up in alarm, Harry swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. She pulled open the bedroom door and peered out, just in time to catch sight of Agnes flying past. ‘What is it?' she called.

‘The master,' Agnes cried over her shoulder. ‘He's out of his mind!'

No sooner had she disappeared along the darkened corridor than Mary huffed into view, dressed in a voluminous white nightgown with an oil lantern in her hand. She tossed an agonised look Harry's way. ‘Best if you stay in your room, miss,' she said, in between breaths. ‘There's nothing you can do that we can't.'

Another desperate shout rang out, this one from downstairs. It was followed by a ferocious volley of barks. Harry stepped back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe, pulling out the boots and warm coat Archer had advised her to bring. It did not take a detective like Holmes to deduce what had happened. Barrymore had not made a sound for the entire duration of her visit – that he was agitated now suggested something was happening outside the manor. She fumbled with the laces on her boots, forcing her impatient fingers to slow, and tugged her winter coat over her dressing gown. The corridor was empty but she could hear raised voices coming from below.

Harry hurried towards the stairs and was greeted on the ground floor by the sight of John Archer pulling on a coat, Donaldson standing by with a lantern in each hand. Mary and Agnes hovered nearby, anxiety and dread written large across their features. There was no sign of Philip St John or the Irish wolfhound.

Archer looked up as Harry approached. ‘The worst has happened,' he said tersely. ‘My uncle has been devoured by fear once again and has fled the safety of the house.'

Harry glanced between him and Donaldson, then tightened her coat more firmly around her. ‘Let me help. Three pairs of eyes are better than two.'

Archer took one of the lanterns from his man. ‘Thank you, but the fens are at their most treacherous in the dark. Donaldson and I will conduct the search.'

But Harry stood her ground. ‘I have boots and a warm coat. Give me a lantern and I can help.'

He gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘This is no place for a woman. Please, stay inside.'

It was exactly what Harry had expected to hear. She drew herself up and fixed him with a steely glare. ‘Need I remind you of the reason you invited me here? Would Sherlock Holmes stand by while others risked their lives? Would he allow vital evidence to slip through his fingers?'

Archer stared at her.

‘It is too dangerous,' Donaldson growled.

Harry ignored him and stretched out a hand to take the lamp Mary carried. ‘Let me put it another way, Mr Archer. I am coming, whether you like it or not.'

He threw up his empty hand in frustration. ‘Come, then. We are wasting precious time.'

The chill of the night bit at Harry's fingers as she hurried down the stone steps at the front of Thrumwell Manor. The moon glowed overhead, surrounded by stars, and she realised she had no idea what time it was. Frost glittered on the gravel beneath her boots and her breath plumed in clouds; the temperature must be well below freezing. It was no time to be outside, she thought with a shiver and quickened her pace. The last time Philip St John had fled his home in terror, he had contracted a fever that had weakened him. This time, the consequences could be fatal.

Archer and Donaldson had veered left. Harry followed the bobbing of their lanterns, breaking into a run to catch up to them. The crunch of gravel under her feet changed to spongy softness and she glanced down to see she was now running across grass. ‘Any sign of him?' Archer's voice rang out in the darkness.

‘Nothing,' Donaldson responded. ‘Wait! Was that a bark?'

Harry cocked her head as she ran, listening. Above the sound of her own ragged breathing, all she heard was a strange sibilant sighing, the rustle of reeds that seemed to surround her, even though she knew that could not be true. ‘Donaldson – turn south.' Archer's cry was commanding. ‘Miss Moss – to me! You and I will search north.'

The weaving light from his lantern halted. Harry angled towards it, noticing the ground underfoot changing again, becoming wetter. Her boots sank into the grass, making it more difficult to run. With a burst of determination, she made for the stationary glow of Archer's lamp. His face loomed pale as she reached him. He held up a hand. ‘Do you hear that? Splashing, up ahead.'

Harry listened. There was the unmistakable sound of something moving at speed through water but the darkness prevented her from identifying what it was, or where exactly it might be. ‘Is it your uncle?'

‘Or Barrymore,' Archer replied, peering into the night. ‘No others would be out among the fens at this hour. But we must go carefully, for all our haste. There are deep waters here.'

Turning, he began to walk forward, his lantern held high. They had not gone far when Harry caught her first glimpse of the sedge that marked the edge of the fenland. The reedbed rose before them, its thin stalks huddling to resemble a ghost forest that stretched almost as tall as Harry herself. There was scarcely a breeze and yet the leaves shivered and swayed, so that it seemed to her that they hissed in warning. ‘This way,' Archer advised her. ‘Mark my footsteps and follow them as closely as you can.'

She did as he advised, straining her ears for any clue to the location of Philip St John. Icy water seeped inside her boots, which were not as sturdy as she had anticipated. Ahead of her, John Archer pushed the reeds aside as they made their way deeper into the fen. Faint sounds made themselves heard over the ever-present sighing: the squawk of a displaced bird, wings flapping as it took flight, the slap of water against boots. And then a long, mournful howl that sent a shudder of foreboding down the length of Harry's spine. ‘Barrymore!' Archer exclaimed, his lantern swinging wildly as he tried to pinpoint the direction of the noise. ‘Barrymore!'

The howl faded away, only to begin anew, louder and more desolate than before. ‘This way,' Archer bellowed and plunged into the sedge.

Harry followed as best she could but the water sucked at her feet and slowed her progress. She kept her gaze fixed on Archer's light, dragging her boots free from the mire, her breath ever more ragged in her chest. Her woollen socks were soaked through, her toes numb. The cold weighed them down, making it harder to pull her feet clear of the water, and she stumbled more than once. If moving through the fen was this difficult for her, she could only imagine how deathly cold Philip St John must be, dressed only in nightclothes. He would not survive for long, she realised, and the thought spurred her on.

At last it seemed as though Barrymore's howls grew nearer. Ahead, Archer's light slowed. Harry pushed towards it, fearful she might lose sight of it if he lowered it to help his uncle. She had no idea where Donaldson might be, although she assumed he too was homing in on the wolfhound's distress call. And then she slipped, tumbling forwards into the brackish water, gasping as cold enveloped her arms. Her hands sank into the fen, reed stalks stabbing at her palms as she tried to break her fall. She landed almost flat, her face plunging beneath the water, filling her mouth and nostrils. Blessedly, her fingers made contact with the reedbed. She pushed with all her might and burst into the night once more, coughing and retching as she forced herself upright. Water cascaded from her sodden arms and chest; the cold gnawed at her skin. She blinked hard, not daring to wipe her eyes with mud-coated fingers, and cast around for her lantern. It lay half-submerged, its glow extinguished.

Desperately, she sought Archer and could have sobbed in relief when she saw his lamp in the distance. She plunged through the blackness towards it, hands outstretched and little caring about the water that splashed over her knees now; she was already drenched to the bone. Barrymore's howling stopped with a shocking abruptness that Harry could only pray meant he had been found. As she staggered on, she saw a second light bob into view, further away still. Donaldson, she thought with another burst of relief, and dragged her exhausted limbs onwards.

When at last she reached Archer's light, she was almost sent sprawling again, this time by an outstretched foot. Strong arms caught her before she met the water, and she looked up to see it was Donaldson pulling her to safety. ‘Thank you,' she gasped, her teeth chattering around the words. ‘Th-thank you.'

He said nothing as he released her, his grim gaze returning to the scene at their feet. They were in a small clearing, no wider than four feet. Barrymore stood guard over the body of his master, the shadows from the lantern lending him an almost supernatural size. Beside them, Archer crouched, clearing mud and decaying leaves from the face of Philip St John. Sharpness twisted in Harry's gut as she grasped the implications. ‘Is he?—'

‘He lives,' Archer cut in, before she could finish the sentence. ‘But barely. Take the lamp from Donaldson so that he can help me lift him. You will need to guide us back to the house.'

She did as she was told, curling her numbed fingers around the handle and willing herself not to let go. ‘But where is Donaldson's lamp? I saw it bobbing and guessed he had found you.'

Donaldson shook his head. ‘I dropped it almost as soon as I left you. It's no use now.'

Harry stared at him, uncomprehending. ‘But?—'

Archer stood up, radiating urgency. ‘You take his feet, Donaldson. I'll take his arms.'

The water squelched as they lifted him, and poured from his thin nightclothes in a torrent. Barrymore padded around them and came to stand at Harry's side. She lowered her spare hand to rest upon his soaking-wet fur. ‘Show me the way, Barrymore.'

It was the most difficult journey Harry had ever had to make. Her arm ached from holding the lantern aloft. Cold pulsed through her limbs; she could not feel her feet and would have tripped more than once had it not been for Barrymore's steadying presence. Behind her, soft grunts and muffled curses told her the men were fighting their own battles. She had no idea if she was leading them the right way. She could only blink up at the moon and hope the wolfhound at her side knew the way home.

At last, after what felt like hours, the ground became firmer under Harry's feet. The sedge began to thin; the water grew shallower. She stumbled out of the reeds and righted herself on the mossy grass. Up ahead, she saw the distant but unmistakable glow of Thrumwell Manor. An uneven sob caught in her throat. They were free of the fen. They were safe.