The Lost Apothecary

by Sarah Penner

  I waited, too, for the stab of regret; I did not tell James about the apothecary. I didn’t tell him that I broke into a hidden subcellar. I didn’t tell him about Gaynor or Bachelor Alf or the serial killer whose secrets I still held safe.

  I didn’t tell him any of it.

  I stood in front of the door a long while, waiting for guilt, or regret, to rush its way into me. But nothing of the sort plagued me. Nothing festered, and no scores were left to be settled.

  As I turned away from the door, my phone dinged—a text from Gaynor. Sorry for the delay! she said. Parish records show a Lady Bea Clarence died at St. Thomas’ hospital, edema, on 23 Oct 1816. No surviving children.

  I stared at my phone, dumbfounded, and lowered myself onto the bed. The hospital note was indeed a deathbed confession, written—perhaps with a guilty conscience—by Lord Clarence’s widow twenty-five years after his death.

  I picked up the phone to call Gaynor and tell her what I’d learned.

  * * *

  After I explained the existence of Miss Berkwell, the mistress—who I knew about not from the articles Gaynor printed for me, but from the entry in the apothecary’s register—Gaynor was quiet for some time.

  There was only one thing I hadn’t told her, and this was about the register entry made the day after the apothecary supposedly died, bearing the name Eliza Fanning.

  I kept this to myself.

  “This is astounding,” Gaynor finally said through the phone. As I pondered how utterly unbelievable the entire thing was, how utterly spectacular the whole thing was, I could imagine Gaynor shaking her head in awe at all that I’d solved. “And all of this due to a little vial in the river. I can’t believe you pieced it all together. Excellent detective work, Caroline. I do believe you’d be an asset to any PI team.”

  I thanked her, then reminded her I’d been a little too close to the police force in recent days.

  “Well, if not a PI team,” she replied, “then maybe you could join the research crew at the library.” I felt sure she meant it in jest, but she’d struck a tender nerve. “I’ve seen the spark in you,” she added.

  If only I didn’t have to return to Ohio in a matter of days. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I’ve quite the mess to sort out back home...starting with my husband.”

  Gaynor took a breath. “Look, we’re new friends, and I won’t offer advice on your marriage. Though if we go for cocktails, I’ll start in on that without issue.” She chuckled. “But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s the importance of chasing dreams. Believe me, if you want something different, the only person holding you back is you. What is it you love to do?”

  I blurted it out without missing a beat. “Dig into the past—dig into the lives of real people. Their secrets, their experiences. In fact, I almost applied to Cambridge after graduation to study history...”

  “Cambridge?” Gaynor gasped. “Like, the university an hour from here?”

  “One and the same.”

  “And you almost applied but didn’t, why?” Her tone was gentle, inquisitive.

  I gritted my teeth, then forced the words out. “Because I got married, and my husband had a job back in Ohio.”

  Gaynor clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Well, you might not be able to see it, but I do—you’re talented, you’re intelligent, you’re capable. You also have a new friend in London.” She paused, and I imagined her crossing her arms, a determined look on her face. “You’re cut out for more. And I think you know it.”

  35

  Nella

  February 12, 1791

  As I approached the Amwell estate, my vision began to twist and spin, colors bright like a child’s toy, the city of London unsteady around me. I tucked a bloodied rag into the pocket of my skirt and looked at the faces walking past—some sharp with concern about the dried blood on my lips, others hazy and obscure and unseeing, as though I did not exist at all. I wondered if I’d entered a realm of ghosts. Was there such thing as a half world, an in-between place, where the dead and the living mingled together?

  In another pocket of my skirt was the package: the skullcap tincture and a short letter, in which I’d explained to Mrs. Amwell that Eliza would not be returning—and not for a lack of affection, but because of a heroic act in which Eliza was selfless and brave. I also advised the mistress of the suggested dosage of the skullcap, just as I did when she came to my shop long ago, seeking a remedy for her trembling hands. I would have written more—oh, how much I could have written! But time did not permit, as indicated by a smudge of my blood at the corner of the letter. I hadn’t even had time to record the skullcap, my last remedy, in my register.

  The estate loomed ahead: three stories of mottled, bloodred brick. Sash windows, twelve panes each, or maybe sixteen; I could not be sure of anything, not in these final minutes. It was all so hazy. I urged my feet forward. I must only reach the front steps, the black door, and set down the package.

  I glanced up at the gabled roof, tilting and bending beneath the clouds. No smoke bled from the chimney. As suspected, the mistress was not home. This came as a great relief; I had not the strength to talk to her. I would drop the package and go. Crawl away, south, to the nearest set of riverbed stairs. If I could manage to make it so far.

  A child scurried by, laughing, nearly tangling herself in my skirts. She spun about me once, twice, playing a game of my senses, reminding me of the baby that fell from my belly. She ran off as quickly as she’d appeared. As my vision blurred with tears, her face seemed to melt away, obscure and indistinct, a phantom. I began to feel a fool for doubting Eliza’s claim that ghosts resided all around her. Perhaps I’d been wrong when I told her these spirits were only remnants of memories, creations of an invigorated imagination. They all seemed so vibrant, so corporeal.

  The package. I must drop the package.

  A final glance upward, to the dormer windows, where the servants would be. I hoped one would see me drop the paper-wrapped bundle on the porch, just steps ahead, then retrieve it for safekeeping until Mrs. Amwell returned.

  Indeed, yes, a servant spotted me! I saw her clear as day behind the window, with her thick black hair, and her chin held high—

  I stopped short on the walkway, my fingers loosening on the package; with a soft thunk, it fell to the ground. This was no servant behind the window. It was an apparition. My little Eliza.

  I could not move. I could not breathe.

  But then a flash, a movement, as the shadow pulled away from the window. I fell to my knees, the urge to cough rising within me again, the colors of London turning to black, everything turning black. My last breath, only seconds away...

  And then, in my final, coherent moment, the color around me returning: little Eliza with the bright, youthful eyes I knew so well, floating out of the house in my direction. A rosy flash of glass. I frowned, trying to focus my vision. Clutched in her hand was a tiny vial, so similar in size and shape to the one she’d offered me on the bridge. Only that vial had been blue, and this one was seashell pink. She uncorked it as she ran toward me.

  I reached for her bright shadow, finding it all so strange and unexpected: the flush in her cheeks, the inquisitive grin, as though this was not a ghost at all.

  Everything about her, so lifelike.

  Everything about her, just as I remembered in the moments before her death.

  36

  Caroline

  Present day, Friday

  The next morning, I stepped into the British Library for the third time. I walked along the familiar path, past the reception desk, up the staircase, and made my way to the third floor.

  The Maps Room now felt as familiar and comfortable to me as the underground train stations. I spotted Gaynor near one of the stacks toward the center of the room, rearranging a pile of books at her feet.

  “Psst,” I whispered, sneaking up behind her.<
br />
  She jumped and turned around. “Hi! You can’t stay away, can you?”

  I grinned. “As it turns out, I have news.”

  “More news?” She lowered her voice and said, “Please tell me you didn’t break down another door.” At seeing the smile still on my face, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. What is it, then? Something more on the apothecary?” She grabbed a book from the floor and pushed it into place on one of the shelves.

  “This news is about me, actually.”

  She paused, suspending another book in midair as she looked at me. “Do tell.”

  I took a deep breath, still in disbelief that I’d done it. I’d done it. After all the outrageous things I’d done in London this week, it was this that most surprised me. “I applied to grad school at Cambridge last night.”

  In an instant, Gaynor’s eyes filled with tears, catching the reflection of the lights overhead. She set the book down and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “Caroline, I am so completely proud of you.”

  I coughed, a knot in my throat. I’d called Rose a short while ago to tell her the news, too. She’d burst into happy tears, calling me the bravest woman she knew.

  Brave. It wasn’t a label I would have given myself back in Ohio, but I realized now that she was right. What I’d done was brave—even a bit mad—but it was authentic and true to the real me. And despite how different my life looked from Rose’s now, her support reminded me that it was okay for friends to venture down different paths.

  I looked at Gaynor, thankful for this unlikely friendship, too. I thought of my very first time in this room; rain-drenched, grieving and directionless, I’d approached Gaynor—a total stranger—with nothing but a glass vial in my pocket. A glass vial and a question. Now, I stood before her again, bearing almost no semblance to that person. I was still grieving, yes, but I’d uncovered so much about myself, enough to propel me in another direction altogether. A direction I felt I was meant to pursue long ago.

  “It’s not a history degree, but a master’s program in English studies,” I explained. “Eighteenth century and Romantic studies. The coursework includes various antiquated texts and works of literature, as well as research methods.” I felt the degree in English studies would bridge my interest in history, literature and research. “I’ll submit my dissertation at the end of the program,” I added, though my voice shook at the word dissertation. Gaynor raised her eyebrows as I explained, “The lost apothecary—her shop, her register, the obscure ingredients she used—I’m hoping to make these the subject of my research. An academic, preservationist approach to sharing what I’ve found.”

  “My God, you sound like a scholar already.” She grinned, then added, “I think it’s absolutely brilliant. And you won’t be so far at all! We should plan a few weekend getaways. Maybe hop over to Paris on the train?”

  My stomach flipped at the thought of it. “Of course. The program starts after the first of the year, so we’ve got plenty of time to plan a few ideas.”

  Though I could hardly wait to get started, in truth it was probably best the program didn’t start for another six months. I had some difficult conversations ahead of me—my parents and James, to start—and I’d need to train my replacement at the family business; secure student housing at Cambridge; and complete the paperwork for a marital separation, which I’d initiated online last night...

  As if reading my thoughts, Gaynor wrung her hands together and asked in a hesitant voice, “It’s really none of my business, but does your husband know yet?”

  “He knows we need to be apart for a time, but he doesn’t know I plan to return to the UK while we sort out our lives. I’m calling him tonight to tell him that I’ve applied.”

  I also intended to call my parents and tell them, finally, the truth about what James had done. Whereas a few days ago, I’d meant to protect them from the news, now I realized how unreasonable that was. Gaynor and Rose had reminded me of the importance of surrounding myself with people who supported and encouraged me and my desires. This encouragement had been missing for far too long, and I was ready to reclaim it.

  Gaynor resumed placing books on the shelf, looking over at me as she did so. “And the program, how long is it?” she asked.

  “Nine months.”

  Nine months, the same amount of time I had so desperately wished to carry a baby. I smiled, the irony not lost on me. A child might not have been in my immediate future, but something else—a long-lost dream—had taken its place.

  * * *

  After saying goodbye to Gaynor, I made my way to the second floor. I hoped she wouldn’t spot me turning into the Humanities Reading Room. Admittedly, at this very moment, I meant to avoid her; for this task, I wanted to be alone and away from any prying eyes, however well-intentioned they may be.

  I walked to one of the library-issued PCs at the back of the room. It was only a few days ago that Gaynor and I sat together at an identical computer upstairs, and I hadn’t yet forgotten the basics of navigating the library’s search tools. I opened the main British Library page and clicked Search the Main Catalogue. Then I navigated to the digitized newspaper records, where Gaynor and I had attempted our own fruitless search on the apothecary killer.

  The whole day lay empty in front of me, and I expected to be here a long while. I settled into my chair, pulled one leg up underneath me and opened my notebook. Who is Eliza Fanning?

  It was the one question, the only question, I’d jotted down two nights ago.

  In the search bar for the British Newspaper Archive, I typed two words: Eliza Fanning. Then I hit Enter.

  Immediately, the search results returned a handful of entries. I scanned them quickly, but only a single record—the one at the very top of the page—appeared to be a match. I opened the article and, since it had been digitized, the full text was displayed in an instant.

  The article was published in the summer of 1802, by a newspaper called The Brighton Press. I opened another tab in the browser to search for Brighton, learning that it was a seaside city on England’s south coast, a couple hours south of London.

  The headline read “Eliza Pepper, née Fanning, Sole Inheritor of Husband’s Magick Book Shoppe.”

  The article went on to say that twenty-two-year-old Eliza Pepper, born in Swindon but a resident of the outskirts of Brighton since 1791, had inherited the entirety of her husband Tom Pepper’s estate, including his wildly successful book shoppe at the north end of town. The shoppe carried a wide assortment of books on magick and the occult, and customers hailed regularly from all parts of the continent seeking remedies and cures for the most unusual of ailments.

  According to the article, unfortunately Mr. Tom Pepper himself could not seem to conjure an antidote for his own troubles; he’d recently fallen ill, believed to be pleurisy of the chest. His wife, Eliza, was his sole caregiver until he met his untimely end. But as tribute to the life and success of Mr. Pepper, a celebration was held at the shoppe; hundreds were in attendance to pay their respects.

  After the event, a small group of reporters interviewed Mrs. Pepper about her intent for the shoppe going forward. She assured the men that it would remain open.

  “Both Tom and I owe our very lives to the magick arts,” she told the reporters, before explaining that long ago, in London, her very own magick blend saved her life. “I was only a child. It was my first tincture, but I risked my life for a special friend, one who still encourages and counsels me to this very day.” Mrs. Pepper then added, “Maybe my youth was to blame, but I had not an ounce of fear when the moment of death presented itself. Indeed, I found the little blue vial of magick to be feverish against my skin, and after swallowing the tincture, the heat of it was so powerful that the frigid depths were a welcome respite.”

  The article stated that the reporters questioned her further about this last bit. “The ‘frigid depths’? Do explain, Mrs.
Pepper,” one of the men asked. But Eliza only thanked the men for their time and insisted she was needed back inside.

  She then reached out her arms on either side of her, taking the hands of her two young children—a boy and a girl, twins, aged four—and disappeared with them into her late husband’s store, the Blackfriars Shoppe of Magick Books & Baubles.

  * * *

  I left the British Library less than an hour after I arrived. The afternoon sun shone hot and bright above me. I bought a bottle of water from a street vendor and settled on a bench in the shade of an elm tree, considering how best to spend the rest of the day. I’d intended to spend the entire afternoon at the library, but I’d found what I was looking for in almost no time at all.

  I understood, now, that the apothecary was not the one who jumped from the bridge. It was her young friend, Eliza Fanning. This explained how the apothecary made an entry in the register on the twelfth of February. It was because, contrary to what police believed, the apothecary was not dead. But neither was Eliza; whether on account of her tincture or sheer luck, the girl survived her fall.

  But the article about Eliza didn’t explain everything. It didn’t explain why the ingredients of the tincture were unknown to the apothecary, or whether the police ever knew of Eliza’s existence. The article didn’t state whether the apothecary subscribed to Eliza’s same beliefs about the efficacy of magic, nor did it expand on the nature of Eliza’s relationship with the apothecary.

  And still, I did not know the apothecary’s name.

  There was something poignant, too, about young Eliza’s involvement. Shrouded in mystery was the role she played in the apothecary’s life and death; she’d only revealed to the papers that she’d risked her life for a special friend, one who still counseled her to that day. Did this mean the apothecary lived another decade and had left London to join Eliza in Brighton? Or had Eliza been referring to something else—the apothecary’s ghost, perhaps?