Chapter 7

7

Agnes and Mary hurried down the steps to meet them as they crunched awkwardly across the gravel to the house. ‘Oh no!' Agnes cried, when she took in the grey faces of the men, and saw the body they carried between them.

‘Hot water and blankets,' Archer commanded, as he and Donaldson manoeuvred the stone stairs and burst into the hallway. ‘And towels for the rest of us. Bring them to the drawing room.'

Harry hurried after them, pausing only to wrench the sodden boots and socks from her feet. The fire was still lit, although it had burned low. It glowed orange in the hearth as Archer and Donaldson lowered Philip St John to the floor in front of it. Ashen-faced, Archer pressed two fingers into his uncle's neck, searching for a pulse. When that did not help, he held a hand in front of the bluish lips and a faint flicker of relief crossed his features. ‘Still breathing. But we must get him warm. Where is Agnes with the towels and blankets?'

As though summoned, the housekeeper burst into the room, her arms wrapped around a mound of folded blankets. Mary followed, carrying towels, which she deposited on an armchair. Archer looked up. ‘Donaldson, a glass of brandy.'

The man did as instructed, returning from the drinks cabinet with a glass brimming with amber liquid. Gently, Archer raised his uncle's head until it rested in the crook of his shoulder and took the alcohol. He tilted the brandy to St John's lips, allowing a dribble to pass across the rim and seep into his mouth. The effect was almost instantaneous. Philip St John coughed and jerked forwards, a slew of fen water gushing down his chin. His eyes flew open and stared wildly at Archer. ‘Steady, Uncle,' the younger man murmured. ‘You're safe now; have no fear.'

St John's hands clutched at his nephew's chest. ‘I am not safe! We are none of us safe.'

Archer held the brandy to his lips again. This time, more of the liquid passed his lips and he gasped as it burned its way down. Faint colour began to flow into his cheeks, although he shivered uncontrollably. ‘We need to remove these wet clothes,' Archer said, and glanced across at Harry, who had also begun to shiver. ‘Agnes, please run a bath for Miss Moss. Mary, perhaps you might provide us all with some tea.' He glanced up at Donaldson. ‘I'd be grateful if you could dry Barrymore. Without him, we might all have drowned this night.'

Reluctantly, Harry allowed the housekeeper to lead her upstairs. The bath seemed to take an age to fill, during which Harry escaped to her bedroom to strip off her soaking coat and nightclothes, but at last it was ready. Agnes left Harry to it. She winced as she introduced her extremities to the gently steaming water, gritting her teeth at the tingle of increased blood flow and the sting of the many cuts and grazes on the palms of her hands. But once she was fully immersed, her aches and pains were soothed by the heat. She lay for a full fifteen minutes without moving, then set about washing the dirt from her hair.

Now that the adrenaline of the chase through the fens was wearing off, shock was numbing her reactions. Her thoughts were fragmented and hard to decipher, as though they were a radio signal coming from a great distance, and she found it hard to put events into sequence. Had Barrymore begun to howl before or after she had lost Archer? Donaldson must have been near – she had seen his lamp bobbing in the distance. Did he stumble over Philip St John or had Archer reached him first? And what had caused St John to run into the fens in the first place?

Warm at last, she dried herself on the soft white towels Agnes had provided and returned to her room. Sleep was out of the question – not without knowing how Philip St John fared. She dressed quickly, pulling on several pairs of socks and both the jumpers she had brought, and made her way back downstairs. Philip St John was now seated in the armchair, swaddled in blankets, his eyes drifting shut and jerking open suddenly in the manner of one fighting exhaustion but otherwise unmoving. Barrymore lay at his feet, his dark gaze fixing on Harry as she entered the drawing room. John Archer stood next to the fire, sipping a brandy of his own, still in the same clothes he had worn outside. Steam rose gently from the side nearest the flames. Agnes perched on the armchair opposite St John. She looked worn out too, Harry thought. There was no sign of Donaldson. She assumed he was restoring himself as she had done.

‘I'm afraid the tea is stewed,' Archer said, indicating a tray on the table. ‘Perhaps you'd prefer a brandy.'

‘Thank you, but no,' Harry said. ‘I am quite recovered. How is your uncle?'

‘Still alive, despite his best efforts,' Archer said, without a trace of amusement. ‘But the shock of his experience appears to have chased his demons away, at least temporarily. We may yet get some sleep.'

‘Have you been able to establish why he ran from the house?'

Archer hesitated. ‘Indirectly.' He glanced at the housekeeper. ‘Agnes has discovered he did not take his sleeping draught. It appears he pretended to, and presented her with an empty glass as though he had, but instead he poured it into a fold of his chair in the library.'

‘There's a sticky patch,' she said, sounding injured. ‘I thought I could trust him to take it – I only turned my back for a moment.'

‘No one blames you, Agnes,' Archer said soothingly. His gaze returned to Harry. ‘But the exact reason for his departure is not clear. I can only assume it was another nightmare or hallucination.'

Harry shook her head. ‘I didn't hear any screaming.'

‘There was none,' Archer replied. ‘He woke me when he threw a chair across the room. It hit the wall between his room and mine.'

The news made Harry pause. ‘That sounds dangerous.'

Archer nodded, looking suddenly weary. ‘He has taken a fresh dose of the sleeping draught now. That should ensure he sleeps well into the morning.'

Harry eyed the dozing man with a mixture of pity and concern. ‘I hope there will be no ill effects from being out on such a cold night with so little protection from the elements. Was he unconscious when you discovered him?'

‘He was,' Archer confirmed. ‘Lying on his back, half in and half out of the water with Barrymore standing over him and snarling like a wolf, at least until he understood it was me who approached.'

Harry frowned, trying to piece together the sequence of events. ‘When did Donaldson arrive? I saw his light among the fens and knew he must be near.'

‘A few moments after me,' Archer said. ‘I hadn't realised you'd fallen behind and was about to send him to look for you when we heard you splashing towards us.' He took a sip of brandy, his brow furrowing. ‘But you must be mistaken about the lights. He'd lost his by the time he reached me. There was only one lantern.'

She cast her mind back, reliving the moment she had hauled herself upright after tumbling into the freezing fen. She had been panic-stricken, afraid she had lost Archer. Could she have thought she saw two lights when there had been only one? It was hard to be sure. ‘But how else would I have known Donaldson had found you before I did?' she asked. ‘I was not surprised that you were together. I expected him to be with you and he was.'

Archer eyed her sympathetically. ‘Fear can play cruel tricks on the mind. There's no shame in thinking you saw something that wasn't there.'

Harry rubbed a hand across her eyes, the weight of the night's adventures suddenly taking their toll. ‘Perhaps you're right.'

‘Or perhaps there was someone else out there,' Agnes said, with brittle defiance. ‘Someone… or something.'

‘Agnes,' Archer snapped. ‘Must I tell you again?'

The housekeeper folded her arms. ‘It could have been him, although I pray for all our sakes it was not.'

Harry stared at her in blank incomprehension. ‘Who? Who could it have been?'

Agnes closed her eyes for a fraction of a second. ‘The ferryman,' she whispered, and put a hand to her mouth.

At the fireplace, Archer let out a growl. ‘That's enough. I won't have this superstitious mumbo-jumbo raised again. There was no one else out there, Agnes – Miss Moss is confused.' He tossed back the rest of his drink and glowered at the housekeeper. ‘I think it is time we all went back to bed. Please summon Donaldson to help me carry my uncle upstairs.'

For a moment, the other woman looked so mutinous that Harry thought she would refuse. But Agnes got wordlessly to her feet and left the room, leaving Harry and Archer alone with the dozing Philip St John. ‘My apologies, Miss Moss,' Archer said, after a heavy silence stretched between them. ‘I did not invite you here to be regaled with old wives' tales and ghost stories. But nor did I anticipate you would risk your life chasing my uncle into the fens.'

‘But you did invite me to fully observe his condition,' Harry said. ‘At least I can lay claim to having done that.'

‘True.' He eyed her broodingly. ‘Have you reached any conclusions?'

‘None that I am prepared to share at this stage,' she replied with total honesty. Many things troubled her about Philip St John's mysterious lapses into apparent madness, but very little of what she had seen made sense and she could not yet connect the dots to form a whole picture. What she needed was time to consider everything she had learned, but she had an unhappy suspicion that time was a luxury Philip St John did not have. ‘I will return to London tomorrow and report back to you as soon as possible next week.'

Archer's gaze travelled to his slumbering uncle. ‘Thank you. I know you appreciate the urgency of the situation.'

Harry took a breath. She did have a suggestion to make, although he would not thank her for it. ‘Mr Archer, I strongly recommend that you consider removing your uncle to a place of safety, if only in the short term.' He began to object but she held up her hand. ‘There is a malign influence on him here, something I have yet to identify, but you were right to suspect there is a reason for his condition. I do not mean Agnes's ferryman, or even anything supernatural, but I believe something in this house is affecting him. It might be better to get him out of harm's way.'

‘But you have seen him, Miss Moss,' Archer exclaimed. ‘An asylum might ruin what little self-control he has left. I might not be able to get him out again.'

‘That is a danger,' she conceded. ‘But is there nowhere else? A discreet hotel or the home of a friend?'

Archer spread his hands. ‘A hotel is out of the question – his illness would become public information within hours,' he said. ‘And even though there are certain of my friends who could be trusted, I cannot be convinced that their employees would be similarly discreet. The risk is too great.'

Harry opened her mouth to point out that the risk of remaining far outweighed the chance that the public might discover Philip St John's ill health, but Donaldson chose that moment to appear in the doorway, dry and seemingly none the worse for their trudge through the night. Archer shook his head decisively. ‘I'm afraid it is quite impossible to do as you suggest,' he said, as he put his glass down and moved nearer to St John. ‘But for now, we would all do well to try and get some rest.'

Stifling a yawn, Harry decided not to argue further. Perhaps she would have better luck with Archer in the morning.

When Harry awoke, it took her several long seconds to remember where she was. The blue drapes around the bed confused her, as did the unfamiliar bumps in the mattress, and her head ached. Then she remembered she was at Thrumwell Manor, and the events of the night before came flooding back to her. How could she have forgotten?

Her hands stung as she pressed them against the sheets to lever herself out of bed, reminding her of the criss-crossed scratches that covered her palms. The hour felt late, she thought as she moved towards the window to pull the curtain aside. Had the rest of the household slept in too? Oliver was arriving to collect her at midday and there were many questions to be answered before Harry left Thrumwell Manor. In particular, she wanted to see the fens in the daylight, although she intended to keep to the paths this time.

The sky was a faded pale blue, dotted with wisps of white cloud that put her in mind of a watercolour painting. Her room was at the front of the house, overlooking the drive and the iron gates in the far distance. If she craned her head to the left, she could make out a faint yellow smudge on the horizon that she supposed must mark the start of Morden Fen. Archer had told her it surrounded the manor, and Agnes had suggested it linked to other waterways nearby, which made it unlikely that a boundary wall protected the estate on all sides. Harry's thoughts returned to the unexplained light she had seen the night before. Was it possible someone else might have been among the reeds in the darkness? To what end?

A soft knock at the bedroom door brought Harry from her musing. Letting the curtain fall back into place, she crossed the room and opened the door to find Agnes standing there, a laden coal scuttle in one hand. Her face was pale, with dark smudges beneath her eyes. ‘Good morning, miss. Would you like me to make the fire up?'

‘Yes, please,' Harry said, standing aside to let her in. ‘Although I have no idea what time it is, other than it feels rather late.'

‘Almost nine o'clock,' Agnes said as she made her way towards the fireplace. ‘Mr Archer said not to disturb you.'

‘I have only just woken up,' Harry confessed. She surveyed the remaining clothes she had brought and chose a blue day dress, which was impractical for exploring the fens but all she had that was clean and dry. What she wouldn't give for the practical men's trousers she had worn to disguise herself as she sought to solve the mystery of Mildred Longstaff's disappearance. ‘How is Mr St John today? I hope he has not caught another chill.'

Agnes busied herself at the hearth. ‘He hasn't woken yet. Mr Archer said not to disturb him either.'

That made sense, Harry thought as she dressed. ‘It looks like a pleasant day,' she said. ‘I thought I might take a walk around the grounds after breakfast.'

The housekeeper did not look up. ‘It is a nice morning, although bitterly cold. Mary hung your coat in the kitchen and stuffed your boots with newspaper – they should be mostly dry.'

‘Excellent,' Harry said, making a mental note to thank the cook when she saw her. ‘You mentioned other waterways in the area yesterday – does Morden Fen join any of them?'

She nodded. ‘Yes, although you couldn't pass anything bigger than a flat-bottomed skiff through. It flows into Morden lode, which is a small, manmade waterway meant for moving goods around. There are lots of them round these parts – they join the River Cam, where the big barges come back and forth from ports on the coast.'

Harry raised her eyebrows in surprise. She knew river transportation played a vital part for businesses across the country but she hadn't realised Thrumwell Manor was so close to such an important network. Perhaps it wasn't as isolated as it seemed. ‘I see. And the villages around here, are they built around these lodes?'

‘Some of them,' Agnes replied. ‘Burwell village is probably the biggest, to the east of the manor. There's the brick company and fertiliser factory there, so they have their own lode that joins up with the Cam, as well as a place that builds and repairs barges. The villagers in Morden used to take a shortcut across the fen to reach Burwell lode, to avoid paying the tolls, but no one bothers now. Not since they stopped mining the fen.'

Harry felt her forehead crinkle as she tried to envisage the geography. ‘But it's still possible?' she asked. ‘To cut across the fen from Morden to Burwell, I mean.'

Agnes stopped sweeping the ashes then to give her a wary look. ‘It's possible.'

Lowering her gaze to the buttons of the cardigan she had pulled over the thin dress, Harry considered the new information. The existence of a shortcut across the fen surrounding the manor increased the likelihood that she had not been confused over the lights. It could well be that someone had been trespassing in Morden Fen in the early hours of the morning. What she could not yet fathom was why. ‘Thank you, Agnes, you've been most helpful.'

The housekeeper eyed her in silence for a moment, then returned her attention to the fireplace. ‘Yes, miss. Breakfast will be served in the dining room, when you're ready.'

The thought succeeded in driving all thoughts of the fen from Harry's mind. She was starving and in dire need of a cup of tea. ‘I'll go down now,' she said. ‘Thanks.'

She was not surprised to find John Archer seated at the dining table, staring absently out of the window, an empty plate in front of him. He roused himself when she entered. ‘Ah, Miss Moss. I trust you slept well?'

‘I did,' Harry said. ‘And you?'

‘Like the proverbial log,' he replied. ‘I fear that had my uncle awoken to another manic episode, I might very well have slept through it.'

She took a seat at the table and reached for the teapot, which appeared to be empty. ‘I understand from Agnes that he is still asleep.'

Archer nodded. ‘The sleeping draught,' he said, by way of explanation. ‘I doubt he will rise before midday, which will give us all some respite. But let me ring for Mary, and some fresh tea.'

He rose to press a button near the door. Moments later, Mary appeared. ‘Some fresh tea, please,' Archer said. ‘And whatever Miss Moss would like to eat.'

Harry smiled at the cook, who had bustled forward to collect the teapot. ‘Poached eggs on toast, if it's not too much trouble.'

‘No trouble at all,' she said cheerfully.

Archer waited until she had left the room to fix Harry with a bleak look. ‘It is a terrible thing but I fear we are all lighter of spirit when my uncle is sedated.'

‘Understandably,' Harry said, with some sympathy. ‘Caring for an invalid puts a strain on everyone, and Mr St John's condition seems particularly difficult to bear.'

He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘And yet I am firm in my belief that Thrumwell Manor is the best place for him.' He raised one hand, as though to forestall her argument. ‘I know you fear he is in danger here but I worry he would lose what little of his mind he had left if we were to move him.'

Harry could see there was no point in trying to change his mind. ‘Whatever you think best.'

Archer nodded absently, then seemed to give himself a mental shake. ‘But enough melancholy. What are your plans for this morning? Donaldson will be happy to return you to Ely station when you are ready.'

‘Thank you, but I have arranged to be collected by Mr Fortescue, the gentleman you met last week,' Harry said. ‘Before then, I thought I might take a walk around the estate. Agnes has been explaining the way the fen connects to the lodes and I wanted to see it for myself. Perhaps Barrymore might appreciate the exercise.'

If Archer thought her interest in the lodes peculiar, he did not say so. ‘A capital idea. And it occurs to me that I shall be in London on Thursday – would that give you enough time to consult with Mr Holmes about the case? We could meet at my club.'

Harry smiled politely. ‘The Garston Club does not admit women, sadly. But it may be possible to meet elsewhere. If Mr Holmes deems it necessary.'

‘But of course, simply name the place,' Archer exclaimed, and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘I'll leave you to your breakfast, if you don't mind, and tell Donaldson you'll be taking Barrymore out. Just ring the bell for Mary when you've finished eating.'

‘Of course,' Harry said. ‘Thank you.'

Nodding at her, he left the room. Harry helped herself to a glass of orange juice and sipped it thoughtfully. Archer's admission that the household was finding his uncle's illness a burden reinforced her suspicion that something was causing the man's condition to worsen, although she had no idea what that might be. She had not had time to examine the library in any great detail the night before, not with St John and Archer in attendance, but it would be empty now. Did she have time to sneak inside before Mary returned with her breakfast? She would need to be quick.

Moving decisively, Harry got to her feet and hurried to the door. She glanced out, checking both ways. The hallway was empty. Turning right, she walked as quickly as she dared. When she reached the closed door of the library, she hesitated. If it were locked, she would have to abandon the idea. Reaching down, she grasped the handle and turned. There was a loud click and the door opened. Checking she was not observed, Harry slipped inside.

The curtains were still drawn, giving the room a cold and gloomy aspect. Harry flicked a switch near the door and the wall lights flickered into life. They were as weak here as elsewhere in the house but a little light was better than none. She stood still for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Where to start? Hurrying forward, she approached the chair Philip St John had occupied the night before. Some effort had been made to clean it but there was an unmistakable dark stain where the brown leather seat cushion met the arm. Kneeling, Harry sniffed cautiously. The overriding odour was of stale pipe smoke and tobacco but she thought she detected a heavy, sweet scent that could have been medicinal. With some reluctance, Harry licked her finger and rubbed it across the stain. The taste was similar to that of cough medicine but with a faint bitter aftertaste that could certainly be the barbiturate commonly used in sleeping draughts.

What had prompted Philip St John to dispose of it instead of drinking it? Had it been the paranoia of his condition or something more? The drug it contained could certainly be dangerous – even lethal – if the wrong dosage were used. Had Philip St John suspected something?

Getting to her feet, Harry brushed fragments of charred tobacco from her knees, remnants of the spilled pipe the night before. She gazed around the room in search of further clues, anything that might inspire terror in an already troubled mind. Philip St John had seemed especially fixated with one of the bookshelves – which one had it been? She perched on the edge of the armchair, recreating his posture of the night before, then crossed the room to the tall rows of books. She ran her fingers along the spines until she reached a title she recognised: The Blood-soaked Soil . She'd made mention of it the night before but it appeared to mean little to the author. Harry supposed his mind was busy with other things – terrors she could not even guess at.

Conscious that she had been away from the dining room for some time, she crossed to the nearest window and peered behind the curtain. The view from here looked out across the fen. Anyone stood here in the early hours of the morning would have seen her stumbling from the reeds, with Archer and Donaldson carrying the unconscious Philip St John. Perhaps Mary and Agnes had watched from this room.

With a final look around, Harry made her way back to the door and switched the lights off. Glancing up and down the hallway, she slipped through the door and closed it carefully behind her. She was so intent on getting back to the dining room that she almost bumped into Mary, who was leaving the room. ‘Oh!' the cook clucked, jumping backwards like a startled hen. ‘I wondered where you'd got to.'

‘The bathroom,' Harry managed, with a self-conscious laugh.

Mary relaxed a little. ‘Your toast and eggs are ready, and there's fresh tea. Will you be wanting anything else?'

‘No, thank you,' Harry said. ‘I'm sure it's going to be delicious.'

Apparently mollified, the cook nodded. ‘I'll leave you to it.'

The eggs were as good as anything Harry had tasted at Abinger Hall, poached to perfection on golden brown toast slathered with salty butter. She took her time over a cup of tea, reviewing what she had found in the library. There was no obvious evidence of anything untoward, other than the spilled medicine and that in itself proved nothing, except that Philip St John was wilier than any of them had thought. She was sure, if she asked, that John Archer would show her the bottle containing his uncle's sleeping draught and she would see the barbiturates listed as the active ingredient. It was, she suspected, simply another oddity that led nowhere. With a sigh, she finished her tea and piled up the used crockery on the silver tray Mary had left on the table. Since Harry needed to visit the kitchen to retrieve her boots and coat before her walk, she may as well return the tray at the same time.

The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air as Harry neared the kitchen. The cook had her hands in the sink and her back to the door when she entered the room. ‘Is that you, Agnes? I could do with some help with these dishes.'

‘I'm afraid not,' Harry said lightly. ‘But I'm happy to dry if it helps.'

Mary spun around, her face a picture of consternation. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, miss. I wasn't expecting you.'

Harry slid the tray onto the ancient wooden table, taking care not to dislodge the rack of golden bread rolls that sat there cooling. ‘I know. But I need my boots and I thought I would save you the job of clearing the dining room table.'

Mary shook her head. ‘Mr Archer will have my guts if he finds out.'

‘I won't tell him if you don't,' Harry said, smiling. She reached for one of the tea towels that hung from an overhead airer. ‘But there is something I wanted to ask you about. Why don't I dry the dishes while we talk?'

For a moment, she thought Mary would refuse. ‘Mr Archer won't like it,' she mumbled, but turned back to the sink and resumed her task.

Harry lifted a plate and set to work. ‘Agnes tells me you're a local. Is that right?'

The cook nodded. ‘Born and bred in Burwell,' she said. ‘My pa worked at the fertiliser factory, back when they were mining the fens for dung, and my husband worked there too, until the accident that killed him.'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry,' Harry said, lowering the plate to stare at the other woman.

‘It was a long time ago,' she said. ‘Nine years or more. That's why I came here. His job came with a worker's cottage and they wanted me out to give it to someone else. I needed somewhere quick and this job was live-in.'

Harry gazed at her with horrified sympathy. ‘That must have been a dreadful time.'

Mary sighed. ‘Like I said, it was a while ago. I'm not the first woman to lose her man to drowning round here, and I won't be the last.'

Perhaps it was an occupational hazard when so many men depended on the waterways for their livelihoods but Harry thought there was more to Mary's words than that. ‘What do you mean?'

There was a silence, as though the cook was weighing her words carefully. ‘I mean that you need to keep your wits about you in the fens. Anyone born round here knows it.'

Harry thought back to the night before. ‘I wasn't born here and I can definitely vouch for that. I almost lost sight of Mr Archer and Donaldson and then I would have been in trouble.'

‘I don't doubt it,' Mary said, placing the bowl she had washed on the draining board. She gave Harry a sideways look. ‘Agnes says you saw a light.'

It was the last thing Harry expected her to say. ‘I did,' she said, swallowing her surprise. ‘Although Mr Archer tells me I must have been confused.'

Mary shrugged. ‘Do you think you were?'

Harry hesitated. ‘It was cold, and I'd just fallen into the water. But no, I don't think I was confused. I think I saw another light. At the time I assumed it was Donaldson but he says he dropped his lantern.' Now it was her turn to shrug. ‘I suppose there must have been someone else out there.'

The cook did not look up. ‘That's how he lures you in.'

‘How who lures you in?' Harry asked, frowning.

‘The ferryman,' Mary said. ‘The stories say he was a boatman once, who was robbed and drowned by his passengers. Now he roams the fens at night, seeking souls to join him in the darkness. Once he's cast his light on you, death is sure to follow.'

It was the same story Agnes had spoken about, albeit with a little more ghoulish detail. ‘Do you truly believe that?'

‘I do,' Mary said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘It's how my Edward met his end. He saw a mysterious light one night, felt compelled to seek it out when darkness fell again but couldn't get close enough. On the third night, he never came home.'

Harry blinked at her in silent horror. ‘There's those who claimed it was an accident,' Mary went on. ‘That anyone who goes out into the fens at night risks drowning. But I knew my man and he changed the moment he saw that first light. It consumed him – he had to know more.' She glanced at Harry. ‘You've been thinking about it too. I bet you're planning to take a walk in the fens, just to see how things lie. Am I right?'

‘Well, yes, but?—'

The cook nodded in satisfaction. ‘You'll be safe enough during the day. It's night-time that's the danger and you'll be in London by the time darkness falls. But if you ever come back – that's when you'll feel the pull. Just like the master feels it.'

She should have guessed, Harry thought in dazed comprehension. Agnes had told her she blamed the ferryman for Philip St John's condition, although she had not explained the myth in full, and nor had John Archer. ‘Are you suggesting that's why he ran into the fen last night? He was seeking the ferryman's light?'

‘What other reason could it be?' Mary said. ‘He's not been in his right mind since that first time. The sleeping draught prevents him from going out there most nights but yesterday he was too clever for his own good.' She shook her head. ‘I fear for him. One more time and he'll be lost like all the others.'

Harry didn't know what to say. ‘Surely you don't believe that.'

‘It doesn't matter whether I do or I don't,' Mary replied. ‘It's what will happen if the master stays here.'

Harry finished drying the last plate and placed her towel on the side. ‘I'm afraid I don't agree. Mr St John is suffering from psychological distress, brought on by – well, I don't know what exactly but I mean to find out. He's not suffering from a curse or bewitched by a spell or anything of the kind. And nor am I.'

‘That's what my husband said,' Mary said. ‘He drowned all the same.'

The words hung in the air. Harry shook her head to clear the malaise. ‘Thank you for drying my coat and my boots. I'll take them now.'

The cook met her gaze squarely. ‘Take care on your walk. Don't go too deep.'

‘I will,' Harry said, with more force than she intended. ‘Thank you, Mary.'

She left the kitchen, and made for the entrance hall, where she was startled to see Donaldson waiting with Barrymore. ‘Mr Archer said you'll be taking him for a walk.'

‘That's right,' Harry said, wondering whether the groundsman was going to deliver another dire warning.

‘Watch out for herons,' Donaldson said, as she bent to pull on her boots. ‘He's a terror for chasing them.'

The words broke the gloom that had been cast by Mary's doom-laden prophesies. Harry laughed. ‘Duly noted.' She took the lead from Donaldson. ‘Come on, Barrymore. You can show me all your favourite birdwatching spots.'