by Sarah Penner
I would never know.
Perhaps I would glean more information about these missing details, someday, when I began my research work and returned to the shop with a proper light and a team of historians or other academics. Undoubtedly, a wealth of unexplored possibility existed inside that tiny room. But these sorts of questions—especially those about the subtle, mysterious interactions between two women—would likely not be found in old newspapers or documents. History doesn’t record the intricacies of women’s relationships with one another; they’re not to be uncovered.
As I sat underneath the elm tree, the soft twitter of larks somewhere above me, I mused on the fact that after learning the truth about Eliza, I hadn’t gone back upstairs to tell Gaynor. I hadn’t told her the name of the person who really jumped from the bridge on February 11, 1791, and lived to see another day. To Gaynor’s knowledge, it was the apothecary who jumped from the bridge and committed suicide.
It wasn’t that I felt the need to hide this fact from Gaynor, so much as I felt a protectiveness over Eliza’s story. And even though I meant to further explore the apothecary’s shop and her lifetime of work, I intended to keep Eliza to myself—my lone secret.
Sharing the truth—that Eliza, not the apothecary, jumped from the bridge—could very likely catapult my dissertation work to the front page of academic journals, but I didn’t want the renown. Eliza had been only a child, but like me, she’d found herself at a turning point in her life. And like me, she’d gripped the light blue vial between her fingers, hovered above the frigid, unwelcome depths...and then she’d jumped.
While sitting on the bench outside the library, I pulled my notebook out of my bag, but I flipped backward, past the notes about the apothecary, to the first page. I reread the original, planned itinerary with James. My handwriting from weeks earlier was loopy and whimsical, interspersed with miniature hearts. Only a few days ago, this itinerary had left me nauseated, and I’d had no desire to see the sights that James and I meant to experience together. Now, I found myself curious about all the places I’d waited so long to see: the Tower of London, the V&A Museum, Westminster. The idea of visiting these places by myself wasn’t as distasteful as it was a few days ago, and I found myself eager to explore. Besides, I felt sure Gaynor would be happy to join me on a few outings.
But visiting a museum could wait until tomorrow. There was something else I needed to do today.
I took the Underground from the library to Blackfriars station. As I exited the train, I headed east toward Millennium Bridge, strolling along the narrow riverfront walkway. The river, to my right, rolled calmly along its well-worn path.
I followed along the knee-high stone wall for some time, then I spotted the concrete steps leading to the river. They were the same steps I’d taken a few days earlier, just before the mudlarking tour. I made my way down them, then stepped carefully over the smooth, round stones along the river. The silence struck me, as it did my first time here. I was grateful to see that there were no people milling about on the rocks—no sightseers, no children, no tour groups.
Opening my bag, I pulled out the light blue vial; the one, I now knew, which had contained Eliza’s magic tincture. It had rescued her, and in some strange way, it had done the same for me. According to the apothecary’s register, the contents of this vial two hundred years ago had been ingredients unknown. The unknown had once been an unpleasant concept to me, but I realized now the opportunity in it. The excitement in it. Clearly, it had been the same for Eliza.
For both of us, the vial marked the end of one quest and the beginning of another; it represented a crossroads, the abandonment of secrets and pain in favor of embracing the truth—in favor of embracing magic. Magic, with its enchanting, irresistible appeal, just like a fairy tale.
The vial looked exactly as it had when I’d found it, albeit a bit cleaner and smudged with my own fingerprints. I traced the bear with my thumbnail, thinking of all the vial had taught me: that the hardest truths never rest on the surface. They must be dredged up, held to the light and rinsed clean.
A movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention: a pair of women, upriver a long way, walking toward me. They must have come down another set of steps. I paid them no mind as I prepared for my final task.
I clutched the vial to my chest. Eliza must have done the same while standing on Blackfriars Bridge, not far from here. Raising the vial above my head, I thrust it forward to the water with as much strength as my arm allowed. I watched as the bottle made an arc upward and over the water, then splashed gently in the far depths of the Thames. A single ripple made its way outward before a low wave overtook it.
Eliza’s vial. My vial. Our vial. The truth of it remained the one secret I would not share.
I remembered Bachelor Alf’s words on the mudlarking tour, about how finding something on the river was surely fate. I hadn’t believed it at the time, but I now knew that stumbling upon the tiny blue vial was fate—a pivotal turn in the direction of my life.
As I stepped onto the concrete steps to make my way up and out of the riverbed, I glanced once more upriver, toward the two women. This stretch of river was long and straight; they should have been closer to me now. But I frowned, studying the area, and then smiled at my own wild imagination.
My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, for the two women were nowhere to be found.
* * *
Nella Clavinger’s Apothecary of Poisons
Excerpt from dissertation submitted by Caroline Parcewell,
MPhil candidate in eighteenth century and Romantic studies,
University of Cambridge
Annotations & assorted remedies as recovered
from the journals at Bear Alley
Farringdon, London EC4A 4HH, UK
HEMLOCK JULEP
For a gentleman of exceptional intelligence and command of language.
These qualities will remain until the very end, which may be useful
when needing to extract a confession or account of events.
Fatal dosage: six large leaves, though an especially large male may require eight. Initial symptoms are vertigo and the sensation of being very cold. Recommended preparation is a decoction or julep, similar to thorn apple. Extract juice from fresh leaves, crushed and drained.
ORPIMENT (YELLOW) ARSENIC
Because this remedy takes on the consistency of flour or fine sugar,
it is suited for the especially gluttonous gentleman, one who
may enjoy a sweet lemon or banana pudding.
A most curious mineral. Note: highly soluble in hot water. Fumes smell like garlic; hence, do not serve warm. Used to kill household varmints of many kinds, human or animal. Lethal dose is three grains.
CANTHARIDES BLISTER BEETLE
When arousal before incapacitation is desired,
such as at the brothel or in the bedchamber.
These insects may be found in low-lying fields in cool weather, near root crops; best harvested under a new or young moon. So as not to confuse with harmless beetles similar in appearance, crush a single male (will excrete milk-like fluid) to test for burn upon skin before full harvest. To prepare, roast then grind in wide basin until thin. Dispense in dark, thick liquid—wine, honey, syrup.
BLACK BUTTERCUP, HELLEBORE
For the gentleman prone to spells of madness or hallucination, possibly due
to overconsumption of drink or laudanum drops. He will believe hellebore
poisoning symptoms are the result of his own demons.
Seeds, sap, roots—all poisonous. Look for black blooms and roots, which prevent mix-up with other species in the buttercup family. Initial symptoms are dizziness, stupor, thirst and sensation of suffocation.
WOLFSBANE, OR MONK’S HOOD
For the most devout, who may feign the wrath of God in their final moments by
way of physical outburst. Wolfsbane
acts upon the nerves of the limbs, calming
them; such theatrical reactions will be impossible.
Cultivation notes: flowering plant is very easy to grow, soil must be well drained. Harvest when root is half-inch thick at base of plant. Handle with gloves. Dry the plucked root for three days. Shred root fibers with two sharp knives; dispense in mustard root sauce such as horseradish. Excellent when supper courses are to be served individually (avoid buffets).
NUX VOMICA, POISON NUT
The most reliable of remedies, as quick-acting as it is irreversible. Suitable for
administration to all men, regardless of age, proportion or intellect.
For extraction of agent, grind finely the brown bean, also known as crow fig. In very low doses, may be used to treat fever, plague, hysteria. Be warned, very bitter! Produces a yellowish color when stewed. Victim will experience severe thirst as first symptom. Egg yolk is preferred preparation.
DEVIL’S SNARE, OR THORN APPLE
Due to immediate delirium, even the cleverest conspirator will be caught
unaware. Ideal for attorneys and estate executors.
Note: egg-shaped seeds are not rendered benign by drying or heating. Thorn apple produces greater delirium than other nightshades. Animals, wiser than men, will avoid the weed due to its taste and disagreeable odor. Find the plant in undisturbed areas.
GRAVEYARD YEW
Yew trees are said to lust after corpses; an ideal remedy to speed along death in an
already-ailing or older gentleman.
Poison agent resides in seeds, needles and bark (needles least preferred, very fibrous). Often found in medieval village graveyards—trees upward of 400 to 600 years old. Seek younger trees for most desirous seeds. Preparation: bark bolus or suppository. Caution against dispensing to undertakers or cemetery groundsmen; familiar with the odor of the evergreens, they may thwart an attempt at administration.
PHALLUS FUNGUS
Death may be delayed five days or more. Best administered when a will or final
testament must be amended in the presence of a witness or family member who
needs time to arrive at the victim’s sickbed.
The deadliest mushroom, appearing at the base of certain trees in the second half of the year. Cooking does not render the fungus benign. A reliable toxin, though very difficult to obtain. An evasive remedy, as victim will believe he is nearing recovery. This indicates imminent death.
Historical Note
Death by poison is, at its very nature, an intimate affair: an element of trust generally exists between victim and villain. Such closeness is liable to be abused, as demonstrated by the fact that throughout England in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the largest population of accused poisoners consisted of mothers, wives and female servants, between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine. Motives ranged widely: grudges against employers, the removal of inconvenient spouses or lovers, death benefits or the inability to financially support a child.
It was not until the mid-nineteenth century that early toxicologists were able to reliably detect poison in human tissue. Thus, I set The Lost Apothecary in late-eighteenth-century London; even fifty years later, Nella’s disguised remedies might have been easily detected during an autopsy.
The number of individuals (across all social classes) who died by poison in Georgian London cannot possibly be established. Forensic toxicology did not yet exist, and whether accidental or homicidal, poisoning deaths tend to be little more than a footnote in eighteenth-century bills of mortality. Certainly, the lack of detection methods contributed to this. Given how easily these agents can be disguised and administered, I’d venture the number of poisoning deaths is significantly higher than reported in these records.
In data gathered from 1750 to 1914, the most commonly cited poisons in criminal cases were arsenic, opium and nux vomica. Deaths due to plant alkaloids like aconitine—found in the Aconitum plant, also known as wolfsbane—and organic poisons of animal origin, such as the aphrodisiac cantharidin from certain species of beetles, were not uncommon.
Some of these poisons, like household rat poison, were readily accessible. Others were not, and their origins—the shops at which such toxins might have been purchased—have not been well established.
Recipes
TOM PEPPER’S HOT BREW
To soothe the throat or otherwise ease a long day.
1.4 drachm (1 tsp) local raw honey
16 drachm (1 oz) scotch or bourbon
½ pint (1 cup) hot water
3 sprigs fresh thyme
Stir honey and bourbon at bottom of mug. Add hot water and thyme sprigs. Steep five minutes. Sip while warm.
BLACKFRIARS BALM FOR BUGS AND BOILS
To subdue angry, itchy skin caused by insect bites.
1 drachm (0.75 tsp) castor oil
1 drachm (0.75 tsp) almond oil
10 drops tea tree oil
5 drops lavender oil
In a 2.7 drachm (10 ml) glass rollerball vial, add the 4 oils. Fill to top with water and secure cap. Shake well before each use. Apply to itchy, uncomfortable skin.
ROSEMARY BUTTER BISCUIT COOKIES
A traditional shortbread. Savory yet sweet, and in no way sinister.
1 sprig fresh rosemary
1 ½ cup butter, salted
2⁄3cup white sugar
2 ¾ cup all-purpose flour
Remove leaves from rosemary and finely chop (approximately 1 Tbsp or to taste).
Soften butter; blend well with sugar. Add rosemary and flour; mix well until dough comes together. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper. Form dough into 1.25-inch balls; press gently into pans until 0.5-inch thick. Refrigerate at least 1 hour.
Preheat oven to 375°F. Bake for 10–12 minutes, just until bottom edges are golden. Do not overbake. Cool at least 10 minutes. Makes 45 cookies.
Acknowledgments
This book would not be in your hands were it not for my fierce agent and advocate, Stefanie Lieberman. She minces no words, makes no promises, and yet works magick behind the scenes. Thank you also to her fabulous team, Adam Hobbins and Molly Steinblatt.
To my editor at Park Row Books, Natalie Hallak. In such a powerful industry, she reminds me that at its core, publishing is about good people who enjoy good books. I am so appreciative of her warmth, optimism and vision. To the phenomenal team at Park Row Books and Harlequin/HarperCollins: Erika Imranyi, Emer Flounders, Randy Chan, Heather Connor, Heather Foy, Rachel Haller, Amy Jones, Linette Kim, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Lindsey Reeder, Reka Rubin, Justine Sha and Christine Tsai, you are all rock stars! Thank you all, as well as Kathleen Carter, for working tirelessly to sell and promote books in the strangest of times.
To Fiona Davis and Heather Webb, both of whom offered me invaluable, unbiased guidance at important junctures in my writing career: my sincerest thanks. Truly, writers are the nicest bunch around. You both inspire me to pay it forward.
To Anna Bennett, Lauren Conrad, Susan Stokes-Chapman and Kristin Durfee, for their feedback on early drafts. And to Brook Allen, for her friendship and always lending an ear.
To my sister, Kellie, and my mother-in-law, Jackie, for their endless support and love. To Pat and Melissa Teakell, for the “writer’s block” block and their never-ending encouragement.
To Catherine Smith and Lauren Zopatti, whose support allowed me to balance my day job with my daydream.
To my lifelong comrade, the only woman who wouldn’t blink an eye at my internet search history: Aimee Westerhaus, thank you for stumbling through life with me. And to four beautiful women, my Florida friends and early readers: Rachel LaFreniere, Roxy Miller, Shannon Santana and Laurel Uballez.
For those of you interested in writing historical fiction: you know you’re on the right path when you can’t set down the research material. To Katherine Watson, author of Poisoned L
ives, and Linda Stratmann, author of The Secret Poisoner, thank you for keeping me spellbound as I researched and drafted this novel.
To the many mudlarkers who read my first chapter long ago and encouraged me to keep at it, including Marnie Devereux, Camilla Szymanowska, Christine Webb, Wendy Lewis, Alison Beckham and Amanda Callaghan. And to Gaynor Hackworth, whose enthusiasm was so zealous, I renamed a character in her honor! And to “Florrie” Evans, whom I met while mudlarking on the River Thames in the summer of 2019...thank you for teaching me how to spot real delftware. Follow her on Instagram: @flo_finds.
To booksellers, librarians, reviewers and readers: you are what keep books alive, and we need you more than ever. On behalf of authors everywhere, thank you.
To my husband, Marc. I think of the many hours you waited patiently in the other room while I typed away at a dream. You know the journey better than anyone. Thank you for always believing in me; this wouldn’t be any fun without you.
Lastly...this book begins and now ends with a dedication to my parents.
To my mom: there is a certain joy and enthusiasm that only a parent can offer, and I am forever thankful to have you alongside me on this wild ride. I appreciate our closeness now more than ever. And to my dad, who passed away in 2015: countless things that go into my work—the tenacity, the stubbornness, an appreciation for language—are gifts you passed along to me. I will forever embrace them. Thank you both.
ISBN-13: 9781488077494
The Lost Apothecary
Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Penner
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.