Chapter 8

8

Harry would not admit to being relieved that her visit to Thrumwell Manor was over, but her spirits definitely rose at the sight of Oliver's car slowing to a halt on the gravel a little after midday. John Archer hurried down the steps to greet him, much as he had done to Harry the day before. ‘Mr Fortescue. Welcome, welcome. I trust you've had a good journey?'

Oliver shook his hand. ‘Most agreeable,' he said. ‘The Cambridgeshire countryside is quite lovely.'

‘You will hear no argument from me,' Archer said. ‘Will you take tea before you return to London?'

Oliver's gaze slid towards Harry, who gave the slightest possible shake of her head. ‘Alas, we cannot. A prior commitment – I'm sure you understand.'

‘Of course,' Archer said. ‘But as I have mentioned to Miss Moss, I shall be in London myself on Thursday. Perhaps we can discuss matters then.'

‘Perhaps,' Oliver said. ‘Are you ready, Miss Moss?'

‘I am,' she said, as Donaldson carried her case down the stairs and placed it beside Oliver's car. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Archer. While I hope your uncle's condition improves, if that is not possible then I hope it does not get any worse.'

Archer sighed. ‘I fear that is all any of us can hope.'

Barrymore appeared in the doorway, much to Harry's delight. She hurried over to ruffle his ears and offer him the biscuit she had kept especially. ‘Goodbye, boy. Stay away from those herons, won't you?'

Oliver had loaded her case while she fussed over the dog, and he now stood by the driver's door, observing her. With a final farewell, Harry climbed into the passenger seat. Oliver handed her a folded Ordnance Survey map. ‘You're in charge of getting us home. These tiny roads are a labyrinth – I got lost four times on the way here.'

Harry smiled as he started the engine. ‘Seems easy enough to me. Go straight on until you reach the gate.'

He gave her a level look. ‘Ha ha.'

He eased the car forward. Donaldson followed as far as the iron gates and then jumped out, hurrying ahead to open them. ‘Were they chained when you arrived?' Harry asked Oliver as the groundsman waved them through.

‘Yes,' Oliver murmured, nodding as Donaldson as they passed. ‘They really don't want anyone to visit without an invitation, do they?'

‘No,' she said, and offered him an apologetic look. ‘Was it terribly bad of me to make you drive back to London without so much as a glass of water? The house is a peculiar place and I freely admit I was glad to leave.' She peered at the map. ‘There's a village a few miles away, if you need a break. Turn right.'

‘Yes, I think I know the one you mean.' He followed her instruction, then glanced across at her. ‘I knew I should have come with you. Was Archer a problem?'

‘Not him.' Harry took a deep breath, wondering where to begin. ‘I should probably start with the curse.'

She launched into a description of everything she had experienced at Thrumwell Manor, from Agnes's first fearful warning about the ferryman, to Philip St John's terror and Mary's doom-laden predictions of death to come. Oliver listened intently, occasionally interrupting to ask a question but for the most part simply absorbing the story. When she finished, he was silent for several seconds. ‘It appears I was wrong when I said you would be in no danger,' he said at length. ‘I underestimated the situation quite badly, it seems.'

‘We both did,' Harry said. ‘But you also predicted I would get my feet wet. It might have turned out to be rather more than that but I lived to tell the tale.'

‘Hmmm,' Oliver said, evidently unconvinced by her reassurances. ‘I'm still not happy with Archer. What was he thinking, letting you run around the fen in the dark in winter?'

‘He didn't let me do anything,' Harry retorted. ‘Must I remind you that I am quite capable of making decisions for myself?'

‘A decision that nearly got you drowned,' he said severely.

‘Hardly drowned,' she objected. ‘I admit it was a little terrifying in the moment, but Archer and his man were never actually very far away.'

‘As well as an unidentified third party,' he pointed out. ‘This ferryman, who I don't believe for a moment is some restless spirit out for revenge. He's far more likely to be a local criminal up to no good.'

Harry could hardly argue with that, since it had been the conclusion she had come to during her walk with Barrymore. There had been no obvious evidence of any criminal activity – no proverbial breadcrumb trail that led her to a stash of ill-gotten gains – but she had observed a trail of broken reeds that suggested a boat or skiff of some kind had forced its way through the fen recently. She had walked as far as the lode, which was a straight, water-filled ditch wide enough for a barge that stretched as far as she could see. There had not been another soul in sight, only the birds circling overhead. And she hadn't been able to entirely quell a whisper of disquiet deep in the pit of her stomach as the reeds rustled around her. The ferryman was nothing more than folklore, she had reminded herself, but the hairs on the back of her neck had still prickled as she made her way back to Thrumwell Manor.

‘Were you able to establish whether anything within the house might have caused Philip St John's health to deteriorate so alarmingly?' Oliver asked.

‘I'm afraid not,' Harry admitted. ‘It would have to be something quite specific to him – perhaps something in his bedroom – and I didn't get more than a brief look at that.' She paused. ‘Mr Archer said his uncle used to sleep with the door locked, although I'm sure that isn't true now.'

She stared out of the window at the passing countryside. Hadn't there been a Conan Doyle story in which a young woman had mysteriously died in a locked room? The culprit in that case had been a family member in the neighbouring bedroom, feeding a deadly snake through a hole in the wall. In another Holmes case, three siblings had been affected by a poisonous root thrown into the fireplace by their brother as he left the room. She very much doubted life was imitating art at Thrumwell Manor in so exact a manner but it was possible something in Philip St John's bedroom was causing him to hallucinate. Something that had only been recently introduced.

Oliver frowned when Harry voiced her thoughts. ‘But what could cause such a startling breakdown? Archer said nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in the days before his uncle became ill.' He glanced across at her. ‘Unless you're suggesting a more sinister explanation. That someone inside the house had reason to cause him harm.'

Harry bit her lip. Was she suggesting that? ‘I don't know. It seems preposterously far-fetched to even think such a thing.' She rubbed her forehead. ‘Maybe I've been reading too many stories.'

But Oliver's frown had deepened. ‘Archer is certain it must be a psychological condition, despite the lack of any history of mental breakdown. But what if there's a physiological explanation?'

‘Surely the doctor would have ruled that out,' Harry said doubtfully but, even as she spoke, she was recalling Archer's description of the night before. The doctor was a local, not especially experienced in unusual illnesses. It was quite possible he had misdiagnosed his patient.

‘Not if he had already decided the problem was psychological,' Oliver replied. ‘Think about it – a sudden bout of hallucinatory distress, accompanied by confusion and physical tremors. What could cause something like that?'

Harry thought back to the Holmes story in which two of the three siblings had been driven insane by breathing in toxic fumes. ‘Poison,' she said quietly. ‘He is being poisoned.'

‘It certainly fits his symptoms,' Oliver said. ‘The question is how.'

‘It can't be something burned on the fire in St John's bedroom – the rest of the household would have been affected when they entered the room.' She shook her head. ‘But if you're right, what I can't understand is why. There are only four people with access to him and I cannot fathom which of them would do such a thing.'

‘That doesn't mean none of them would,' Oliver pointed out. ‘I've tried plenty of cases where the perpetrator seemed entirely innocent, in spite of the mountain of evidence proving their guilt.'

Harry shook her head again. ‘I don't understand what they're trying to achieve. An accidental overdose of his sleeping draught would be an easier death, if one of them wanted him dead. But who would benefit from it? Not the domestic staff – they run the risk of losing their jobs, and the roof over their heads. And not Archer – he positively dotes on his uncle.'

Oliver sighed and changed down a gear as he took on a particularly jagged corner. ‘Although he is also an accomplished actor – perhaps his affection is just another act. No, don't argue with me; let's consider this logically. Who has the opportunity to poison Philip St John?'

‘Any of them,' Harry said, after a moment's consideration. ‘His bedroom is on the first floor, easily accessed without arousing suspicion. He eats separately from Archer, so it would be easy to add something to his food. The sleeping draught is usually dispensed by Agnes, the housekeeper, but I don't think it is kept under lock and key so any one of them could have doctored it with a little extra something to tip him over the edge. It's a shame I couldn't get a sample – we might have had it tested in London.'

Oliver glanced at her. ‘You're stuck on the notion that the crime is the action of a single person – what if there is more than one person involved in poisoning him? What if it is a conspiracy?'

She reviewed what she knew of Agnes, Mary and Donaldson. ‘If that is the case, they are all extremely talented actors. Slow down – you need to take this left.'

He braked, slowing the car and steering into the road she indicated. ‘So that's opportunity settled,' he said, ignoring her objection. ‘What about the means?'

‘Hard to say when we don't know what's being used to poison him,' Harry said. ‘But if it is the sleeping draught then it doesn't narrow things down. Any of them could have tampered with it at any time. And then there is the small matter of last night's hallucinations, which got worse when he didn't take the medicine.'

‘Who served him his meal?'

‘Agnes,' Harry said. ‘Although Mary prepared it and Donaldson was inside the house. Archer was with me most of the time but not always. Again, if there's something in his food, anyone could have added it.'

Oliver frowned. ‘Then we should consider motive, although you have suggested no one stands to gain by Philip St John's death, at least at first glance.'

‘It's likely Archer would inherit Thrumwell Manor but he already lives there – why would he need to inherit the house sooner?'

‘Who knows?' Oliver said. ‘Perhaps he has gambling debts he needs to pay.'

Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘Was there any evidence of that when you enquired about him at the Garston Club?'

‘No,' Oliver admitted. ‘He doesn't even play cards, from what I was told. What about the others?'

‘Agnes has been at Thrumwell Manor longer than St John,' Harry said doubtfully. ‘She was still very young when he bought the house. I suppose it's possible that his behaviour towards her has not always been proper, although she gave no sign of it, and I can't imagine why it has taken her so long to extract this rather convoluted revenge.'

‘An excellent point,' he said. ‘In the cases I've seen like that, the victims usually snap out of desperation or in self-defence. They lash out with whatever comes to hand; they don't often drive their abuser to the brink of insanity with a cunningly administered poison. What of the cook?'

Harry shrugged. ‘Without her position at the house, she would have nowhere to live.'

‘The groundsman, then,' Oliver said. ‘He only joined the household recently. Maybe there's more to him than meets the eye.'

Harry thought of no-nonsense Donaldson, who had helped to carry Philip St John from the fen on two occasions. ‘Wouldn't he have just let St John drown?'

Oliver grunted. ‘So none of them have a motive,' he exclaimed in frustration. ‘But someone is poisoning him. How can that be?'

Harry considered the problem thoughtfully. ‘Whoever it is, they don't mean it to be the cause of his death, or he would be dead already. I think they mean to make it look as though he died by his own actions.' She paused to glance across at Oliver. ‘And they don't care how much he suffers beforehand. That suggests revenge of some kind.'

‘For an act we have yet to uncover,' he added, and groaned. ‘This is making my head hurt. I'm not sure we're any further forward than we were before.'

‘Mine too,' Harry said, sighing. ‘And in the meantime, Philip St John's life hangs in the balance.' Realising she had not been concentrating on their route, she glanced down at the map. ‘I think Morden village is up ahead, if you want to stretch your legs.'

Oliver winced. ‘It's not my legs that are the problem, it's my back. I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a chauffeur.'

The village was as tiny as Harry remembered from her fleeting glance the day before – just a cluster of houses on either side of the main road. A shop overlooked a triangular village green, facing a pub on the other side, both of which were closed. Harry pointed to a wooden table and chairs outside the pub. ‘It doesn't look like we're going to get a drink but we could sit over there.'

On impulse, she brought the map and spread it over the table. ‘We're here,' she said, pointing to Morden village. Her finger slid across the paper. ‘And there's Thrumwell Manor, right in between the villages of Burwell and Morden. Agnes said there's a shortcut across the fens but I can't see it marked on here.'

‘Hardly a surprise, since she said it was an informal route,' Oliver observed.

Harry nodded and shifted her attention to the winding blue strip that represented the River Cam. ‘See how the Cam joins up with this larger river – the Great Ouse, which goes all the way up to King's Lynn. I suppose the international barges come in there, through The Wash, and then travel down the river network, picking up and dropping off as required.'

Oliver studied the map. ‘And look, these little strands must be the lodes she mentioned. There are quite a few of them.'

Harry squinted at the tiny print. ‘A lot of them are still in use. But not the one here.' She looked up, wondering where the lode ran in relation to the houses, and saw a dark-haired young woman walking purposefully towards them from the direction of the shop. As she got nearer, Harry saw she carried two glasses of water.

‘Hello,' she said, smiling. ‘You look lost.'

‘We are,' Harry said agreeably, seizing on the ready-made excuse. ‘It's his fault for not following my directions.'

Oliver blinked, then caught on. ‘Oh, rubbish. You just can't read a map.'

‘I thought that must be it. We don't get many cars stopping here otherwise.' She held out the glasses of water. ‘Here. Why don't you have these while I try to point you in the right direction?'

Both Oliver and Harry took a glass each. ‘We're heading for Ely,' Harry lied. ‘I hear the cathedral is wonderful.'

The young woman nodded. ‘It certainly is.' She pointed at the map. ‘You're not too far off course. Just follow this road for around a mile, then turn right at this fork here. You should be able to follow the signposts after that.'

Harry took a long sip of water. ‘Thank you. Actually, you might be able to help with something else. We're planning a walking holiday along the River Cam once the weather warms up and I can see there are lots of little stream things to explore.' She traced a vague circle on the map. ‘Are they worth looking at? There seems to be one in this very village.'

The woman's smile dimmed a little. ‘You mean the lodes. They're used for goods transportation. Not what you'd call scenic – you'd be better off sticking to the river.'

‘Oh, that's such a shame,' Harry twittered, ignoring the covert look Oliver was firing her way. ‘I was hoping they might take us into the fens. We're keen birdwatchers, you see.'

‘Really, I wouldn't bother,' the other woman said. ‘Like I said, the lodes are mostly industrial and the fens themselves can be dangerous if you don't know them well. There are better places to go for birdwatching.' She held out a hand for the glasses. ‘I expect you'll be wanting to get on your way. Just follow the road until you get to the fork. You can't go wrong.'

Oliver let out a long-suffering sigh and got to his feet. ‘You haven't seen her map reading.'

Picking up the folded map, Harry used it to tap him on the arm. ‘That's quite enough of that.' She smiled at the young woman. ‘Cheerio, then. Thanks for taking the trouble to come over.'

‘It's no trouble at all,' she replied. ‘Goodbye. Safe travels.'

Oliver kept one eye on the rear-view mirror as they made their way out of the village. ‘Is she still watching us?' Harry asked.

‘Absolutely,' Oliver said. ‘If I didn't know better, I'd say she was making sure we're actually leaving.'

Harry nodded. ‘I got the impression she didn't entirely trust us.'

‘Me too.' Oliver frowned as they rounded a corner and Morden village disappeared from sight. ‘I wonder why.'

It was something Harry wondered about too, but perhaps they were both reading too much into it. People in small villages could often be mistrustful of strangers – it didn't have to mean anything. They drove in silence for a short while, punctuated only by Harry's directions. It was only when they reached the long, straight road that led to London that Harry was disagreeably reminded of a problem she had almost forgotten about while at Thrumwell Manor: the uninvited guest who had been in her office. ‘There's something else I wanted your opinion on,' she said slowly to Oliver, unsure about the wisdom of telling him. ‘Something worrying happened last week. I think someone broke into my office.'

His hands tightened on the wheel as he glanced over at her in shock. ‘At the bank?'

She dipped her head. ‘Yes.'

‘Who? And to what end?'

‘I don't know,' Harry admitted. ‘Nothing was taken. I can only assume they were looking for information, perhaps about the telegrams Holmes has received or my own work.'

Oliver let out a doubtful huff. ‘But who would be interested enough in those to break into your office?'

‘Someone who wanted to know what the telegram was about,' Harry replied. ‘But I won't know who that is until I catch them.'

‘Catch them?' he echoed. ‘That sounds foolhardy, Harry. What are you planning?'

‘A trap. One that will hopefully make them easy to identify.'

‘And then what?' he asked, with mounting alarm.

‘I find out what they wanted,' she said simply.

Oliver shook his head. ‘I don't know about this. Is it worth the risk?'

She'd known he would react like this, which was why she'd debated whether or not to tell him. ‘You're a lawyer, Oliver. You're supposed to want justice.'

‘Through the proper legal channels,' he countered. ‘Not by confronting criminals and taking the law into your own hands.'

He meant their adventures in South London, she was sure, which had, admittedly, descended into a street fight. ‘It has to be someone who works at the bank,' she said reasonably. ‘Hardly a violent criminal.'

‘That isn't the point and you know it.'

She swallowed her exasperation and tried again. ‘Think of it this way. What would Holmes do?'

‘Nothing, because he would have already deduced who the intruder was,' Oliver said, without missing a beat.

‘He would not,' Harry said, rolling her eyes. ‘He'd set a trap. And the guilty party would walk right into it.'

Oliver was quiet for a moment. ‘But as I keep pointing out, this isn't a story. It's real life. And you are not?—'

Harry exhaled. ‘I'm not Sherlock Holmes. I know.'

‘I was going to say invincible.' He eyed her with dawning resignation. ‘Just promise me you'll be careful. No hiding in your office to confront them.'

She smiled at him. ‘Don't be so silly. I have something much more elegant in mind. All it needs is a little preparation and they'll be caught red-handed.'

For all her bravado, Harry was on edge as the door of her office came into view the next morning. It was unlikely that the intruder had returned so soon after their first visit but not impossible. She paused before putting the key in the lock, her gaze travelling up to the top of the door, where she had carefully trapped a single strand of golden hair between the wood and the frame, barely visible unless someone was looking for it. Her tension eased a little. The hair was still in place. Either the door had not been opened or the intruder had grown considerably more sophisticated in his craft. She thought the former was more likely.

The room itself seemed similarly undisturbed. Harry stood in the doorway, breathing in and out, testing the air, but there was no telltale hint of cologne this time. As far as she could tell, no one had been inside since she had locked the door on Friday. Reassured, she crossed the threshold and began her day in earnest.

At lunchtime, she had a number of errands to run. The trap itself would not work without bait, and she suspected the telegram was what had triggered the search, so she took the Underground to the newly opened post office at Charing Cross and composed a telegram to Sherlock Holmes from a Mr Corby, requesting his assistance with the recovery of a stolen watch. After that, she visited a small chemist's shop on the Strand and made two purchases. Errands complete, she returned to Baker Street, the items she had bought hidden inside her handbag, and sat back to await Bobby's arrival. She did not have to wait long.

‘Would you believe it, there's another telegram!' Bobby's breathless exclamation as he entered the office almost made Harry laugh. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she forced her features into what she hoped was an expression of surprise.

‘Goodness me,' she said. ‘It seems Mr Holmes is much in demand.'

Bobby did not put the message on the desk. Instead, he fixed Harry with a reproachful stare. ‘Ain't you ever curious about whether any of these letters is true?'

‘No,' she said.

‘But what if?—'

‘No,' Harry repeated, more firmly. ‘Is there anything else, Bobby?'

He pressed his mouth into a thin line, as though struggling to keep his thoughts to himself. Then he sighed and held the telegram towards her. She eyed him sympathetically as she took it. ‘The letters are nowhere near as exciting as you imagine. Most of them are entirely unbelievable.'

His gaze remained fixed on the telegram. ‘But not all of them.'

‘Not all of them,' she conceded. ‘But each writer seeks the help of one particular person – not me, and not Scotland Yard. Do you think they would thank me for sharing their private correspondence with the police?'

Bobby's mutinous expression shifted. ‘No.'

She sat back in her chair. ‘Well, then.'

‘But that's three telegrams,' he said. ‘It's got to mean something.'

‘What it means is that the literary adventures of Sherlock Holmes are as popular as ever,' Harry said. She paused, wondering whether she had played the bait down a little too much. ‘But I must confess there is something about the arrival of a telegram that creates a buzz of excitement.'

‘You can say that again,' Bobby said. ‘The whole post room stops when the delivery boy brings one addressed to Mr Holmes.'

It was exactly what Harry wanted to hear. ‘I'm not surprised. It's the kind of thing that happens in the stories, after all.'

Bobby's eyes widened. ‘Blimey, you're right. I hadn't thought of that.'

She placed the telegram on the desk. ‘Unfortunately, the truth is almost certainly much less interesting. But there's no harm in dreaming sometimes.'

The post boy backed out of the room, his gaze far away, and Harry wondered whether she had said too much. But she could not take it back now. With luck, word of the telegram's arrival would reach the ears of the person who had broken into her office. All she could do now was set the trap at the end of the day and wait to see who, if anyone, sprang it.