by Sarah Penner
“You must trust your instinct more than your eyes,” Bachelor Alf went on.
As I considered his words, I caught the sulfuric odor of sewage from somewhere downriver, and an unexpected wave of nausea rolled over me. Apparently I wasn’t the only one bothered by the smell, as a few others let out an audible groan.
“That’s another reason we don’t dig with shovels,” Bachelor Alf explained. “The odors down here, they’re none too pleasant.”
As I continued to make my way along the edge of the water, searching for an area undisturbed by the others, I took a misstep and ended up ankle-deep in a murky puddle. Gasping at the sudden shock of cold water inside my shoe, I considered what Bachelor Alf might say if I bailed early on the tour. Unpleasant smells aside, the adventure had done little to lift my mood.
I checked my phone and decided to give it twelve more minutes, until 3:00 p.m. If things hadn’t perked up by then—a small find, even mildly interesting—I’d kindly excuse myself.
Twelve minutes. A fraction of a lifetime, yet enough to alter the course of it.
5
Nella
February 4, 1791
I walked to the shelf behind Eliza and retrieved the small, milk-colored dish. Resting inside were the four brown hen’s eggs, two of them slightly larger than the others. I set the dish of eggs onto the table.
Leaning forward as though badly wanting to reach for the dish, Eliza set her hands on the table, her palms leaving a damp residue.
In truth, I saw much of my own childhood self in her—the wide-eyed curiosity about something novel, something that most other children don’t get to experience—though that part of me felt a thousand years dead. The difference was that I had first seen the contents of this shop—the vials and scales and stone weights—at a much younger age than twelve. My mother introduced them to me as soon as I had the ability to lift and sort objects, to distinguish one from another, to order and rearrange.
When I was only six or seven and my attention span was fleeting, my mother taught me simple, easy things, like colors: the vials of blue and black oil must stay on this shelf, and the red and yellow on that shelf. As I entered adolescence and became more skilled, more discerning, the tasks grew in difficulty. She might, for instance, dump an entire jar of hops onto the table, spread out the dry, bitter cones and ask me to rearrange them according to complexion. As I worked, my mother would toil beside me with her tinctures and brews, explaining to me the difference between scruples and drachms, gallipots and cauldrons.
These were my playthings. Whereas other children amused themselves with blocks and sticks and cards in muddy alleyways, I spent my entire childhood in this very room. I came to know the color, consistency and flavor of hundreds of ingredients. I studied the great herbalists and memorized the Latin names within the pharmacopoeias. Indeed, there existed little doubt that someday, I would preserve my mother’s shop and carry on her legacy of goodwill to women.
I never intended to stain that legacy—to leave it twisted and tarnished.
“Eggs,” Eliza whispered, jolting me from my reverie. She looked up at me, confused. “You have a chicken that lays poisonous eggs?”
Despite the seriousness of my meeting with Eliza, I could not help but laugh. It was a perfectly logical thing for a child to say, and I leaned back in my chair. “No, not quite.” I lifted one of the eggs, showed it to her and returned it to the dish. “You see here, if we look at these four eggs together, can you tell me which two are the largest?”
Eliza furrowed her brow, bent down until the table was level with her eyes and studied the eggs for several seconds. Then abruptly she sat up, a proud look on her face, and pointed. “These two,” she declared.
“Good.” I nodded. “The larger two. You must remember that. The larger two, they are the poisonous ones.”
“The large ones,” she repeated. She took a sip of her tea. “But how?”
I put three of the eggs back in the dish, but kept one of the larger ones out. I turned it in my hand so that my palm cupped the fat base of the egg. “What you can’t see, Eliza, is a tiny hole here at the top of the egg. It is covered, now, with a matching wax, but if you’d been here yesterday, you would have seen a tiny black dot where I inserted the poison with a needle.”
“It did not break!” she exclaimed, as though I had demonstrated a magick trick. “And I cannot even see the wax.”
“Precisely. And yet, there is poison inside—enough to kill someone.”
Eliza nodded, gazing at the egg. “What kind of poison is it?”
“Nux vomica, rat poison. An egg is the ideal place for the crushed seed, as the yolk—viscous and cool—preserves it, no different than if there were a baby chicken inside.” I returned the egg to the dish with the others. “You’ll be using the eggs soon?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Eliza said. “When he is home, my mistress and her husband eat together.” She paused, as though imagining the breakfast table laid out before her. “I will give my mistress the two smaller eggs.”
“And how will you tell them apart, after you have dumped them into the pan?”
This stumped her, but only briefly. “I will cook the smaller eggs first, set them on the plate meant for my mistress and then cook the larger eggs.”
“Very good,” I said. “It will not take long. Within seconds, he may complain of a burning sensation in his mouth. Be sure to serve the eggs as hot as you can so he does not know any better—perhaps underneath a gravy or pepper sauce. He will think he’s only burned his tongue with the heat. Soon after, he will feel nauseous, and he will most certainly want to lie down.” I leaned forward, making sure Eliza clearly understood what I was to say next. “I suggest you do not permit yourself to see him after this.”
“Because he will be dead, you mean,” she said, expressionless.
“Not immediately,” I explained. “In the hours after ingesting nux vomica, most victims suffer a rigid spine. They may arch backward, like their body has been strung into a bow. I have never seen it myself, but I have been told it is horrifying. Indeed, the cause of a lifetime of nightmares.” I leaned back into my chair, softening my gaze. “When he dies, of course, this rigidity will release. He will look much more peaceful then.”
“And later, if someone asks to inspect the kitchen or the pans?”
“They will find nothing,” I assured her.
“Because of the magick?”
Placing my hands in my lap, I shook my head. “Little Eliza, let me make it very clear—this is not magick. These are not spells and incantations. These are earthly things, as real as the smudge of dust there on your cheek.” I licked the pad of my thumb, bent forward and ran it across her cheek. Satisfied, I sat back in my chair. “Magick and disguise may achieve the same end, but I assure you, they are very different things.” A look of confusion crossed her face. “Do you know the meaning of disguise?” I added.
She shook her head, shrugged one shoulder.
I motioned to the hidden door through which Eliza had come. “When you came into the storage room this morning on the other side of where we sit now, did you know that I watched you from a tiny hole set into the wall?” I pointed to the entrance of my hidden room.
“No,” she said. “I had no idea you were back here. When I first came in and found it empty, I thought you would come in off the alley, behind me. I would very much like one of these hidden rooms in a house someday.”
I tilted my head toward her. “Well, if you have something to hide, you very well might need to build yourself a hidden room.”
“Has it been here always?”
“No. When I was a child and worked here with my mother, there was no need for this room. We did not have poisons back then.”
The girl frowned. “You have not always sold poisons?”
“Not always, no.” Though there was little sense in shari
ng the details with young Eliza, the admission unfurled a painful memory.
Twenty years ago, my mother developed a cough at the start of the week, a fever by midweek, and was dead by Sunday. Gone in the short span of six days. At the age of twenty-one, I had lost my only family, my only friend, my great teacher. My mother’s work had become my work, and our tinctures were all I knew about the world. I wished, at the time, that I had died with her.
I could hardly keep the shop afloat, such was the sea of grief pulling me under. I couldn’t call on my father, having never known him. Decades ago, as a boatman, he’d lived in London several months—just long enough to seduce my mother—before his crew set sail again. I had no siblings, few friends to speak of. The life of an apothecary is a strange, solitary one. The very nature of my mother’s business meant we spent more time in the companionship of potions than people. After she left me, I believed my heart had fractured, and I feared my mother’s legacy—and the shop—would also meet their demise.
But like an elixir splashed onto the very flame of my grief, a young, dark-haired man named Frederick entered my life. At the time, I’d thought the chance encounter a blessing; his presence began to cool and soften so much that had gone awry. He was a meat merchant, making quick work of the mess I’d accumulated since my mother’s death: debts I had not paid, dyes I had not inventoried, dues I had not collected. And even after the shop’s figures had been fixed, Frederick remained. He did not want to be apart from me, nor me from him.
Whereas I’d once thought myself skilled in only the intricacies of my apothecary shop, I soon realized my expertise in other techniques, the release between two bodies, a remedy that couldn’t be found in the vials lining my walls. In the weeks to follow, we fell terribly, wonderfully in love. My sea of grief grew shallower; I could breathe again, and I could envision the future—a future with Frederick.
I couldn’t have known that mere months after falling in love with him, I would dispense a fatal dose of rat poison to kill him.
The first betrayal. The first victim. The beginning of a stained legacy.
“The shop must not have been very amusing back then,” Eliza said, turning her head away as though disappointed. “No poisons, and no hidden room? Humph. Anyone should like a secret room.”
Though her innocence was enviable, she was too young to understand the curse of a once-loved place—hidden room or not—that had been marred by loss. “It is not about amusement, Eliza. It is about concealment. That is what it means to disguise something. Anyone can buy poison, but you cannot simply drop a pellet of it into one’s scrambled eggs, because the officials may find residue or the box of poison in the trash. No, it must be so cleverly disguised that it is untraceable. The poison is disguised in that egg just as my shop is disguised within the bowels of an old storage room. That way, anyone not meant to be here will undoubtedly turn around and leave. The storage room at the front is a measure of protection for me, you might say.”
Eliza nodded, her bun bobbing at the base of her neck. She would soon be a beautiful young woman, more handsome than most, with her long eyelashes and the sharp angles of her face. She hugged the dish of eggs to her chest. “I suppose this is all I need, then.” She pulled several coins from her pocket and set them on the table. I counted them quickly: four shillings, sixpence.
She stood, then touched her lips with her fingertips. “But how shall I transport them? I fear they may break inside the pocket of my gown.”
I had sold poison to women three times her age who thought nothing of the vials snapping inside their pocket; Eliza, it seemed, was wiser than all of them put together. I handed her a reddish glass jar and, together, we carefully placed each egg in the jar, then covered it with a centimeter of wood ash, before placing the next egg on top. “You must still handle it carefully,” I warned. “And—” I placed a hand softly over one of hers. “One egg will do the trick if it must.”
Her look darkened, and in that moment I sensed that, despite the youthfulness and buoyancy she had demonstrated thus far, she did indeed understand the gravity of what she meant to do. “Thank you, Miss, ah—”
“Nella,” I said. “Nella Clavinger. And what is his name?”
“Thompson Amwell,” she said confidently. “Of Warwick Lane, near the cathedral.” She lifted up the jar to ensure the eggs were properly nestled within, but then she frowned. “A bear,” she observed, gazing at the small image etched onto the jar. My mother had decided upon the bear etching long ago, as there were countless Back Alleys in London, but only ours ran next to a Bear Alley. The little etching on the jar was harmless enough, and recognized only by those who needed to know.
“Yes,” I urged, “so you do not mix up the jar with another one.”
Eliza stepped to the door. With a steady hand, she ran a single finger down one of the blackened stones near the entrance. It left a sharp line in the soot, revealing a finger-width band of unblemished stone. She smiled, amused as if she’d just drawn me a picture on a spare sheet of paper. “Thank you, Miss Nella. I must say that I loved your tea and I love this hidden shop, and I very much hope we meet again.”
I raised my eyebrows. Most of my customers were not killers by trade and, unless she returned needing a medicinal remedy, I did not expect to see her again. But I merely smiled at the inquisitive girl. “Yes,” I said, “perhaps we will meet again.” I unlatched the door, swung it in and watched as Eliza exited through the storage room and out onto the alley, her small frame melting into the shadows outside.
Once she had gone, I spent a few minutes thinking about the girl’s visit. She was a strange young thing. I had no doubt she would accomplish her task, and I was grateful for the momentary gaiety she brought into my otherwise cheerless shop of poisons. I was glad I had not refused her, glad I had not heeded the ominous feeling first brought on by her letter.
Taking my seat once again at the table, I pulled my register close. I turned to the back, locating the next empty space, and prepared to write my entry.
Then, dipping the nib into the well of ink, I put it to the paper and wrote:
Thompson Amwell. Egg prep NV. 4 Feb 1791. On account of Ms. Eliza Fanning, aged twelve.
6
Caroline
Present day, Monday
I shook off the mud from my wet shoe and continued along the edge of the water. As I distanced myself from the rest of the mudlarking tour group, their quiet chatter disappeared, and the soft lapping of the gentle river waves urged me toward the waterline. I glanced upward to the sky; a bruised-looking cloud moved overhead. I shivered and waited for it to pass, but more followed close behind. I feared a storm was fast approaching.
Crossing my arms, I glanced at the ground around my feet, an unvarying band of gray-and copper-colored rocks. Look for inconsistencies, Bachelor Alf had said. I stepped closer to the water, observing the way the low waves seeped toward me and withdrew in a steady, even rhythm, until a boat rushed past, forcing a gush of water close. Then I heard it: a hollow popping sound, like water bubbles caught in a bottle.
As the water receded, I stepped closer to the sound and spotted a glass container, bluish in color, nestled between two stones. An old soda bottle, perhaps.
I knelt down to inspect it and tugged at the narrow neck of the bottle, but its base was lodged firmly between the stones. While I maneuvered it out, I spotted a tiny image on one side of the bottle. A trademark or company logo, perhaps? I pulled one of the larger rocks away, freeing the object at last and allowing me to lift it from its crevice.
The bottle stood no more than five inches tall—more of a vial, given its small size—and was made of translucent, sky blue glass, hidden beneath a layer of caked-on mud. I dipped the vial into the water and used my rubber-gloved thumb to scrub away the dirt, then held it up to inspect it more closely. The image on the side seemed a rudimentary etching, likely done by hand rather than with a machine, and app
eared to be an animal of some kind.
Though I had no idea what I’d found, I thought it sufficiently interesting to hail Bachelor Alf. But he’d already begun walking toward me. “Whatcha got?” he asked.
“Not sure,” I said. “Some kind of vial with a little animal etched onto it.”
Bachelor Alf took the vial, lifting it up to his face. He turned the bottle over and scratched his fingernail against the glass. “How odd. Very much like an apothecary’s vial, but typically we’d see other markings—a company name, date, address. Perhaps this is just a household item, then. A way for someone to practice his etching skills. I do hope they improved a bit from this.” He stood silent a moment as he studied the bottom of the vial. “The glass is quite uneven in places, too. It’s not factory-made, that’s for sure, so it must be quite old. It’s yours to keep if you’d like.” He spread his hands wide. “Fascinating, isn’t it? This is the best job in the world, if I don’t say so myself.”
I forced a half smile, somewhat envious that I couldn’t say the same about my own job. Admittedly, plugging numbers into outdated software on an outdated PC at the family farm didn’t often leave me smiling as big as Bachelor Alf did now. Instead, I spent day after day at a wretched yellow oak desk, the same at which my mother worked for more than three decades. Ten years ago, unemployed with a new home, the job opportunity at the farm had seemed too good to pass up—but I sometimes wondered why I’d stayed so long. Just because I couldn’t teach history at a local school didn’t mean I was out of options; surely something more interesting existed than administrative work at the farm.
But kids. With children someday in the picture, the stability of my job was paramount, as James often liked to remind me. And so I’d stayed put, and I’d grown to tolerate the frustration and uncomfortable musings about whether I’d missed out on something bigger. Maybe even something altogether different.