by Sarah Penner
“Thank you,” the woman replied, her eyes softening as she took in the girl. “When I made my way over here today, I did not realize there would be two of you.” She looked to me expectantly. “Your daughter?”
Oh, how I wished my daughter were by my side. But then we would not have been doing this at all, dispensing poisons and hiding in shadows. I choked over my response. “She helps me on occasion,” I lied, unwilling to admit that Eliza had arrived without notice at the perfectly wrong time. There were only two chairs at the table for a reason, and I soon felt a cloud of regret in permitting Eliza to stay. I had spent a lifetime valuing discretion, and I saw clearly now the mistake in allowing her to intrude on the secrets exchanged between this woman and myself. “Eliza, perhaps you should take leave of us now.”
“No,” the woman said with the force of someone well accustomed to getting her way. “This peppermint tea is very good,” she continued, “and soon I’d like more. Besides, I find the presence of a child to be...comforting. I don’t have children of my own, you know, as badly as I want them and as much as we’ve—” She paused. “Oh, never mind that. How old are you, little Eliza? And where are you from?”
I could hardly believe it. This woman, surely an heiress to some great estate, shared something in common with me: we both desired the swelling of our bellies, the little kicks in our wombs. And yet, how lucky she was that her time had not yet passed. The skin around her eyes told me she could not be more than thirty years old. It was not too late for her.
“Twelve,” Eliza said softly. “And I’m from Swindon.”
The woman nodded approvingly while I, desperate to conclude the appointment, walked to one of my shelves and withdrew a small sheep horn jar. I motioned for Eliza to help me, and then I directed her to carefully spoon the beetle powder from the bowl on the table into the jar. As I had hoped, her hand was steadier than mine.
Once we finished, I set the uncovered jar before the woman for her to inspect. Inside, a lustrous green powder shimmered back at her, so fine it could run between her fingers like water. “Cantharides,” I whispered.
Her eyes widened. “It is safe to be this close?” she asked. She scooted forward in her chair, her enormous skirts rustling around her legs.
“Yes, so long as you don’t touch it.”
Eliza leaned forward to peek into the jar while the woman nodded, her brows still lifted in surprise. “I have heard of it only once. Something about its use in the Parisian brothels...” She tilted the bowl slightly toward her. “How long did this take?”
The memory of crossing the River Thames—my coughing fit, the woman feeding her baby, Beatrice—seized me at once. “All night and into this morning,” I breathed. “It requires more than just harvesting the beetles. They must be roasted over the fire and ground.” I pointed to the mortar bowl and pestle across the small room; the bowl was as wide across as the woman’s bodice. “I ground them up in that basin over there.”
The lady, whose name I still did not know, lifted the jar of powder and shifted it in the light. “Do I simply drop the powder into a bit of food or drink? Is it really so simple?”
I crossed my ankles and leaned back in my chair. “You asked for something to incite lust. Cantharides are meant, foremost, to arouse. Blood will rush into the loins, and overtake—” I paused, aware that Eliza continued to listen closely. I turned to her. “This is not for your ears. Might you consider stepping into the storage room?”
But the woman placed her hand over mine and shook her head. “It is my powder, is it not? Go on. Let the girl learn.”
Sighing, I continued, “The swelling of the groin is insatiable. This arousal will continue for some time, then will be accompanied by abdominal pain and mouth blisters. I suggest you brew something dark—a molasses liqueur, perhaps—and drop in the powder, then give it a good stir.” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “A quarter of the jar, and he will not survive the night. Half of it, and he will not survive the hour.”
There was a long pause as the lady considered this, and the only noise came from the clock ticking by the door and the snapping of the fire. I remained still, my previous unease of the woman’s visit returning with a vengeance. She mindlessly touched the thin wedding band adorning her hand, her gaze locked on the low flame behind me, fire dancing in her eyes.
She lifted her chin. “I cannot kill him. I cannot have a child if I kill him.”
At once, I feared I had not properly explained the danger of the powder. My voice began to shake. “I assure you, this is a deadly poison. You cannot safely administer a nonfatal amount—”
She raised her hand to stop me. “You misunderstand me. I do, indeed, seek a deadly poison. I only mean to say, it is not him I want to kill. It is her.”
Her. I flinched at this final word; there was nothing more I needed to know.
It was not the first request of its kind. Over the preceding two decades, I had been asked several times to dispense a poison that would be administered to another woman, but I had refused these customers without question. No matter the underlying betrayal, no woman would suffer at my hands. My mother founded the apothecary shop at 3 Back Alley to heal and nurture women, and I would preserve this until the day I died.
It was possible, of course, that some of my customers told me lies—that they kept their true intentions from me and meant to slip my tinctures to sisters or courtesans. And how could I stop them? It would have been impossible. But as far as I knew, my poisons had never been used against a woman. Never. And so long as I lived, I would not knowingly agree to it.
I considered how I might say this now—how I might tell this woman no—but her eyes were dark and I felt sure she sensed my desire to refuse her. She seized the moment of silence, my weakness, like I was a rabbit and she a fox. She squared her shoulders toward me. “You do not seem pleased by this.”
I had regained some of my senses, and words no longer resisted. “I appreciate your efforts in seeking me out, but I cannot agree to this. I cannot send you away with this powder, if you mean to kill a woman. This shop is meant to help and heal women, not harm them. That remains the cornerstone. I won’t dislodge it.”
“And yet you’re a murderer,” she accused. “How can you talk about helping and healing anything, man or woman?” She glanced at the open jar of beetle powder. “Do you even care to know who she is, this insect? She is his mistress, his whore—”
The woman continued to explain, but her words deteriorated into a faint hum as I blinked slowly, the room growing dark around me. An old, shameful memory closed in: I had been a mistress once, too, though I hadn’t known it at the time. An insect, a whore, according to this woman. I was the secret kept in the shadows—not someone to be loved, but a form of amusement. And no matter how I adored him, I would never forget the moment that I learned of Frederick’s masquerade—his web of lies. It was a bitter thing to swallow, the realization that I’d been little more than an empty vessel for Frederick’s lust.
If only this had been the worst of his transgressions. The worst of what he had done to me. Instinctively, I grazed my fingers across my belly.
This merciless woman was not worth another moment of my time; I would not tell her about my story, about the coward who sowed the first seed of the tainted legacy that brought her to my door. As the room continued to whirl about me, her chatter finally ceased. My unsteady hands sought the flat, hard safety of the table.
Unsure of how many seconds or minutes went by, I eventually became aware of Eliza shaking me by the shoulders. “Nella,” she whispered, “Nella, are you well?”
My vision cleared and I saw the two of them, sitting across from me with troubled looks on their faces. Eliza, leaning forward to touch me, appeared concerned for my well-being. The woman, however, resembled a petulant child, fearful that she might not be given what she wanted.
Comforted by Eliza’s touch, I
forced a small nod, shaking loose the memories. “I am well, yes,” I assured her. Then I turned to the lady. “It is my business only who I choose to help and who I choose to hurt. I will not sell you this powder.”
She looked at me in disbelief, her eyes narrow, as though it was the first time she had been told no. She let out a single barking laugh. “I am Lady Clarence of Carter Lane. My husband—” She paused, looking at the jar of beetle powder. “My husband is Lord Clarence.” She watched me closely, waiting for my surprised reaction, but I gave her no such satisfaction. “You cannot understand the urgency of this, clearly,” she continued. “As I said in my letter, we are to have a party tomorrow eve. Miss Berkwell, my husband’s cousin and mistress, will attend.” Lady Clarence tugged at the hem of her bodice, rubbing her lips together. “She’s in love with my husband, and he with her. It cannot continue. Month after month, I am sure that I am not with child because he has nothing left for me, having spent it all in her. I will take this powder,” she said, reaching into a pocket sewn into her skirts near her waist. “How much do you want, anyhow? I’ll give you twice what you want for it.”
I shook my head, caring little for her money. I would not have it, just like I would not have a woman—mistress or not—dead on my account. “No,” I said, standing from the chair and rooting my feet to the ground. “The answer is no. You may leave now.”
Lady Clarence stood from her own chair, our eyes level.
Meanwhile, Eliza’s head jerked back and forth as she looked at us on either side of her. She sat up straight, back rigid, lips pressed tightly together. When she asked to be my apprentice, I doubt she imagined an encounter like this one. Perhaps it would be enough to make her change her mind.
At once, there was a flurry of movement; I thought that Lady Clarence had dropped her money onto the table, for her hands darted around quickly. But then I realized, with horror, that one of her hands was reaching for the jar of powder, which Eliza and I had not yet corked, at the center of the table, and her other hand stretched open her pocket. She intended to take the lustrous green powder, no matter my wishes.
I lunged for the jar—snatching it from her fingertips at the last moment and bumping into Eliza with such force that she nearly fell off her box—and did the only thing that came to mind: I tossed the jar of poisonous cantharides powder into the flames of the fire behind me.
The flames exploded into a bright green flare, in an instant rendering the poison worthless. I stared at the fireplace in astonishment, hardly able to believe that a night and morning’s worth of work had just been so readily destroyed. My hands shaking, I turned very slowly to see Lady Clarence, flushed and astounded, and little Eliza, eyes wide as eggs, staring back at me.
“I cannot—” Lady Clarence stuttered. “I can’t—” Her eyes darted around the room like mice, searching for a second jar, more powder. “Have you gone mad? The party is tomorrow evening!”
“There is no more,” I told her, before motioning to the door.
Lady Clarence glared at me, then turned to Eliza. “My gloves,” she demanded. Eliza sprang into action, delicately lifting the gloves from the drying rack and handing them to Lady Clarence. She began to pull the gloves on, shoving her fingers deep into them one at a time. After several heavy breaths, she spoke again. “You can easily make me another batch, I’m sure,” she said.
God, this woman was insufferable. I threw my hands up in dismay. “Is there not some physician that you can bribe? Why must you put this on me, after I’ve refused you twice?”
She draped her veil over her face, the delicate strands of lace reminding me of hemlock leaves.
“You fool,” she retorted from behind her lace. “Don’t you think I’ve considered every physician, every known apothecary, in the city? I don’t want to be caught. Do you even know your own distinction?” She paused, straightening her gown. “It’s been a mistake to place my trust in you. But there’s little use in reversing my decision now.” She glanced down at her gloved hands, counting off a few fingers. “You made the powder in only a day, is that right?”
I furrowed my brow in confusion. What did it matter at this point? “Yes,” I muttered.
“Very good,” Lady Clarence said. “I will return tomorrow, as I understand that is ample time to prepare the powder anew, and you will give me a bowl of fresh cantharides, identical in appearance and form to those which you just foolishly ruined. I will be here at half one.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded, ready to push her out the door with Eliza’s help if I must.
“If you do not have the powders ready for me as I’ve asked,” Lady Clarence continued, “then you best gather your things and make haste, for I will go straight to the authorities and tell them all about your little shop, full of cobwebs and rat poison. And when I speak to them, I’ll make special note to proceed through the storage room and check behind the wall at the back. Every secret within this squalid hole will come to light.” She pulled her shawl tightly around her. “I’m the wife of a lord. Don’t try any tricks on me.” She yanked the door open and let herself out, slamming it shut behind her.
14
Caroline
Present day, Tuesday
With only a few hours left before James’s arrival, I didn’t have time to investigate the gated-off door, but my curiosity, piqued yesterday, now felt on fire. It seemed that every bit of information gleaned, beginning with the vial, then the cryptic hospital note about Bear Alley, and now the door at the back of the alley, presented a new piece of a tantalizing puzzle. I resolved to do more digging and return when I could.
As I made my way out of Bear Alley, the sun slipped behind a cloud, plunging me into a cool shadow. Assuming the apothecary did exist, I envisioned what she may have looked like: an elderly woman with white, scraggly hair, frayed at the ends from spending so much time over her cauldron, hurrying out of the cobblestoned alley in a black cape. Then I shook my head at my own imagination: she wasn’t a witch, and this wasn’t Harry Potter.
I thought back to the hospital note. Whoever wrote the note had said the men are dead—plural. It was frustratingly vague. And yet, if more than a few people had died because of the apothecary, there should be some reference, some record of the apothecary’s renown, online.
As I turned back onto Farringdon Street, I pulled out my phone, opened up my browser search bar and typed London Apothecary Killer 1800s.
The results were mixed: a few articles on the eighteenth-century gin obsession; a Wiki page on the Apothecaries Act of 1815; and an academic journal page on bone fractures. I clicked on the second page of search results, and a website with an inventory of London’s old criminal court—the Old Bailey—seemed the best search hit so far. I used my finger to scan the page, but it was terribly long and I had no idea how to do a document search on my cell phone. A moment later, the amount of data on the site froze my web browser. I cursed, swiping up on my phone to close the app altogether.
Frustrated, I sighed. Did I really think I could solve this with a simple web search? James would probably blame it on inadequate research techniques, which might have been better primed during undergrad if I’d read more textbooks and fewer novels during my long days at the university library.
The library. I jerked my head up and asked a passerby for the nearest Underground station, crossing my fingers that Gaynor would be working again today.
* * *
A short time later, I stepped inside the Maps Room, glad that I wasn’t rain-drenched and covered in stink like last time. I spotted Gaynor immediately, but she was in the middle of helping someone at a computer, so I waited patiently for her to finish.
After a few minutes, Gaynor made her way back to the desk. Upon seeing me, she gave me a smile. “You’re back! Did you learn anything about the vial?” she asked cheerily. Then she feigned a serious look. “Or did you go mudlarking again, and you’ve brought me another mystery?�
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I laughed, feeling a surge of warmth toward her. “Neither, actually.” I told her about the hospital papers and the note by the unknown author, alluding to the apothecary’s involvement in multiple deaths. “The note was dated 1816. It mentioned a Bear Alley, which just so happens to be close to my hotel. I ventured over there this morning but didn’t see much.”
“You’re a budding researcher,” she said playfully. “And I would have done the exact same thing.” Gaynor tidied a few folders sitting in front of her, then put them aside. “Bear Alley, you said? Well, the etching on your vial did resemble a bear, though it seems a bit of a stretch that the two might be connected.”
“I agree.” I leaned my hip against the desk. “The whole story seems a bit of a stretch, to be honest, but...” I trailed off, my eyes falling on a stack of books behind Gaynor. “But what if it’s not? What if there’s something to it?”
“You think this apothecary might really have existed, then?” Gaynor crossed her arms, looking at me inquisitively.
I shook my head. “I’m not really sure what I think. Which is part of why I’m here. I thought I’d see if you have any old maps of the area—Bear Alley, I mean—from the early 1800s. And I thought you might be better at a simple web search, too. I tried Googling an apothecary killer in London, but didn’t turn up much.”
Gaynor’s face lit up at my request; as she’d told me when we first met, the old historical maps were her favorite. A subtle rush of envy seeped into me. With the passage of another day, I was that much closer to returning to my own job in Ohio—a job having nothing to do with history at all.
“Well, unlike yesterday,” she said, “I think I can actually help you on this. We have some excellent resources. Come with me.” She guided me over to one of the computers and motioned for me to sit. I felt, for the first time in a decade, like a student of history once again.