by C. J. Archer
The Apothecary’s Poison
Glass and Steele, Book #3
C.J. Archer
C.J. Archer
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
A Message From The Author
Also by C.J. Archer
About the Author
Chapter 1
London, Spring 1890
"This is it!" Matt folded the newspaper and slapped it down on the table beside his untouched plate of bacon, eggs and toast. He stabbed his finger at a brief article near the bottom of the page. "This is the breakthrough we need. Eat up, India. After breakfast, we're going to the hospital."
"Which hospital?" Duke asked, rising. "What's happened?"
Willie and Cyclops crowded around Matt and peered at the newspaper. I couldn't see over Cyclops's brawny shoulder to read it.
"What's the breakthrough?" I asked.
Cyclops picked up the paper. Willie caught the edge to hold it still, her lips moving as she read.
Cyclops whistled. "Could be," he said, eyes bright. "Could be what we've been looking for."
Willie let go of the paper, looped her arms around her cousin and hugged him. Matt hugged her back. He was trying hard to contain his smile, but he lost the fight and grinned. His gaze connected with mine over the top of Willie's head.
I tried to read the paper, but Duke took it from Cyclops and out of my view. I'd only managed to read the headline and journalist's byline: MEDICAL MIRACLE AT LONDON HOSPITAL, by Oscar Barrett.
"God damn," Duke murmured as he read.
"Will someone tell me what it's about?" I asked, only just managing not to stamp my foot. "Is there evidence of a magical doctor?"
"Possibly," Matt said. "If the article is accurate."
"Why wouldn't it be accurate?" Willie asked, returning to her chair and her breakfast of sausages and bacon.
"Because newspaper men like to sensationalize." Matt also sat, and the rest of us followed suit.
I finally managed to grab the newspaper and read the article. According to Oscar Barrett, a patient at the London Hospital had been declared dead upon arrival by one doctor, only to sit up after being tended to by another. According to a witness, the patient then asked for an ale to slake his "devil of a thirst." A representative for the hospital said the first doctor made a mistake. The reporter, however, insisted the witness was reliable and that the patient had presented with no pulse and wasn't breathing when Dr. Hale "worked his magic."
"An interesting last line," I said.
"That isn't the first time that reporter has used it," Matt said. "That's the third piece I've read by Oscar Barrett in The Weekly Gazette where he uses the exact same phrase."
How curious. "Dr. Hale," I said, setting the newspaper down beside my plate. "That name seems a little familiar, but I can't place it." I re-read the article then poured over it a third time. I felt Matt's gaze upon me but didn't glance up. I didn't want to face him in case he read the doubt on my face. In the end, he guessed anyway.
"India?" he urged. "You don't seem very enthusiastic."
I was about to tell him why but changed my mind. From his tone, I guessed he had the same doubts too. Expressing them didn't make them disappear or change the course of what we must do next. I cut the top off my boiled egg. "The sooner we finish breakfast, the sooner we can go to the hospital and verify the claim ourselves."
Matt's elderly aunt entered the dining room, putting an end to the discussion of Dr. Hale's medical miracle. While she knew that Matt was ill, she didn't know the magical nature of it. Few did. That was how it must remain.
"What a lovely morning," she said, pouring herself a cup of tea at the sideboard. "India, will you walk with me today?"
"I have errands to run with Matt," I said. "Perhaps Willie can accompany you."
Willie and Miss Glass shot me matching withering glares.
"I can't," Willie said. "I've got errands to run too."
"No you don't," Duke said, sitting back with a smile. "We're free all day."
"Then you go."
"I will, if Miss Glass can put up with my company."
Miss Glass nibbled the edge of her toast. "Gladly. Your company is always welcome, Duke. Yours too, Cyclops."
Willie dropped her fork on the plate, making Miss Glass jump. "And my company?"
"Is tolerable."
"Fine. If you insist that I come, Letty, I will."
A short, charged silence was only broken by Miss Glass's resigned sigh. "Only if you refrain from smoking."
"Christ," Willie muttered, stabbing a sausage with her fork. "It's bad enough you order me about in here, you got to do it outside, too?"
"It's for your own good. Smoking is a disgusting habit. I don't suppose you'll change into a dress?"
"No!"
"Then you'll have to walk several paces behind."
Willie dropped her fork again and a sausage rolled off the plate and onto the floor. "I ain't the goddamned maid."
Miss Glass winced. "Do you have to use such vulgar language?"
"Goddamned ain't a cuss word. Not like fu—"
"Willie!" Matt pinned her with a glare and she pressed her lips together. "Aunt, let Willie walk alongside you."
Willie picked up another sausage from her plate with her fingers and bit off the end, all while shooting Miss Glass a triumphant look.
"You are family, after all," he went on.
Willie choked and spat out the half-eaten sausage.
"We are not blood related," Miss Glass said. "That's an important distinction."
"Sure is," Willie said.
Miss Glass sighed. "Very well, she can walk with me."
"Why, thank you, Princess." Willie frowned and studied her sausage. "How did I get talked into that?"
I smiled into my teacup and refrained from telling her that she was jealous of the attention Miss Glass gave Duke and Cyclops lately. Ever since the appointment of staff at number sixteen Park Street, Miss Glass had begun to treat them more as friends than servants. This was the first time they would step out in her company, however. The very public display of acceptance between the two rough American men and a genteel English lady was quite a statement. She might appear to be a conformist, but a rebellious streak ran through her. She broke the rules when she wanted to, in her own subtle way.
I looked at Matt and caught him smiling into his teacup too. He winked at me, clearly pleased with how they were all getting along. Despite Willie's scowl, she seemed to want to be included in the party and his aunt made no more complaints. Indeed, she didn't even wrinkle her nose when Willie picked the fallen sausage off the floor and bit off the tip.
Thirty minutes later, Matt and I climbed into the brougham and Bryce drove us to the Whitechapel Road hospital at a bracing pace. An uncomfortable five-minute silence felt as if it stretched twice as long until Matt finally broke it.
"Dr. Hale may not be magical," he said. "This could be a wild goose chase."
"But we have to know for certain," I finished for him. "There is hope, Matt. As you said at breakfast, this could be a breakthrough."
Two weeks ago, during our investigation into the disappearance of a magical mapmaker, we'd discovered the timepiece magician Matt sought,
known only as Chronos, was most likely living in London under the name Pierre DuPont. After a brief glimpse of DuPont at the clock factory where he worked, he'd fled. We'd not seen him since and decided to change direction in our search. Instead of looking all over London for DuPont, without any clue where to begin, we hoped to find him by seeking out the thing he wanted most—a magical doctor.
Chronos had spent years looking for a magical doctor whose skills he could combine with his own. He'd found that doctor in an American backwater, and they'd experimented on Matt after he was shot. The experiment had saved Matt's life, but the doctor had regretted his actions afterward and refused to perform such magic again. Chronos, however, had been enthused by the results and was eager to continue experimenting. With Dr. Parsons refusing, and later dying, Chronos needed another magical doctor.
Matt had suggested that if Chronos was indeed in London, under the name DuPont, it was possible he'd finally found another doctor magician here. We'd spent the next two weeks visiting all the hospitals, both in search of a doctor with rare skill and for a man who fit the description of Chronos. We'd not had any luck with either.
The Weekly Gazette article was the first indication that our theory might hold water. It seemed as though London harbored a doctor magician after all.
"We didn't speak to Dr. Hale last time we inquired at the London Hospital," I said. "Perhaps questioning him directly will yield results."
Matt absently patted the breast pocket where he kept his magic watch tucked away. He looked quite healthy today, although it was still early and he'd already yawned twice since leaving the house. Yet no matter how ill or tired he appeared, he was still the most handsome man I'd ever laid eyes on. "We have to be delicate."
"And not mention my own magic, not even to encourage him to open up."
Matt watched me closely. "Is that a promise?"
"It is. I plan to be careful, from now on."
He leaned forward and sandwiched my hand between both of his. The gesture sent a thrill through me, even though our gloves prohibited contact. "The murder of Daniel Gibbons frightened you."
"It served as a timely warning. He was killed because of his magic."
"He was killed by a rival, jealous of his skill, who thought he was doing something his guild wanted. Since you're not a practicing watchmaker, you won't have the same problem."
"Matt, it was you who warned me to keep my magic a secret. Are you now telling me not to hide it?"
He sat back. "I'm simply trying to allay your fears."
"But you still think it best to keep it quiet?"
"I do."
"As do I." I sighed. "For now. I reserve the right to tell someone if I think they ought to know."
"And you must use it if you are in danger." He nodded at my reticule sitting in my lap.
I closed my fingers around the pouch. The familiar shape of my watch inside was a comfort. It had saved my life once, as had a clock I'd tinkered with. Apparently my magic was strong, but I didn't know how to wield it with spells, and I certainly couldn't fix Matt's watch. I hoped Chronos could teach me.
An elderly porter met us in the hospital reception room. "You don't look poorly," he said, eyeing us up and down. "Are you visiting? Visiting hour is four to five in the afternoon."
"We want to speak to Dr. Hale," Matt said.
The porter clicked his tongue and muttered something about demanding toffs before hailing a nurse who entered from a side door. She drew us aside as the porter dealt with a man cradling his arm against his chest.
"Is he in surgery?" Matt asked when the nurse said Dr. Hale wasn't available.
"He's not a surgeon," she said crisply. "He's a physician. He's on his rounds now. He won't be long, if you'd like to take a seat."
"I read about the doctor in this morning's paper," Matt told her. "Did you see the article?"
The nurse rolled her eyes. "Dr. Hale made sure that I did. He made sure we all saw it. Is that why you're here?" Her face softened as she regarded Matt. "To have him perform a miracle for you? I knew this would happen. I told him it would. Mark my words, you'll be the first of many through those doors today, hoping for a medical miracle." She spat out the two words as if they tasted sour. "The reporter shouldn't have written that, and Dr. Hale should have had more care."
"In not letting anyone see him perform his miracle?"
"In not letting the reporter think he performed a miracle and saved that fellow's life. Oh, sir. You haven't gone and got your hopes up, have you?"
Matt went still. "Are you implying he didn't save that patient?"
"He died again, shortly afterward. Or…not again, not really. He died for the first time, since he couldn't have been dead before, could he? The dead don't come back to life for a few minutes—only to die a second time—do they?"
"He's dead," Matt said flatly.
The nurse nodded. Matt lowered his head and crushed the brim of his hat in his hand. My mind turned with possibilities and questions. It wasn't so much that the patient was now dead that intrigued me, but the fact that he'd been alive for a few minutes between his two deaths, if that were indeed what had happened.
"Start at the beginning," I urged the nurse. "Who was the patient and what was his condition?"
She folded her arms. "I'm not at liberty to divulge patient information. But, sir, madam, I want to urge you not to put any stock in that reporter's claims. There was no miracle here." She leaned forward, glanced toward the door, and lowered her voice. "Dr. Hale's just a jumped up apothecary, so the other doctors say. He certainly didn't cure anyone of anything. That patient's well and truly dead, now. I am sorry if you came here hoping the doctor would help you. If you tell me what ails you, I'll send for the appropriate doctor, one who specializes in your type of complaint."
"We want to speak to Dr. Hale," Matt said tightly. "We'll wait."
She sighed. "Very well. I'll have one of the nurses send for him." She indicated two empty chairs near where the porter stood by the door. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait out here. Patients are directed through to either the men's or women's reception room, but since you're not patients, you have to remain here."
Another patient entered, a bloody cloth tied around his head. He eyed us as if we were intruders, not supposed to be there. The London Hospital was located in the heart of the city's roughest areas. Patients were working class at best. It wasn't a hospital for the likes of Matt, or even me. I felt conspicuous in my best blue and cream day dress and smart hat with its blue satin ribbon.
We didn't have to wait long before a white-coated man greeted us, smiling broadly. He was much younger than I expected, perhaps in his late twenties, with thick brown hair that flopped over his forehead, and spectacles perched on a Roman nose. His features were a little familiar but I couldn't place him.
He extended a slender hand to Matt without breaking his smile. "I'm Dr. Hale. You wanted to see me about the medical miracle? Are you a reporter?"
"I am," Matt said, without pause. "My name is Matthew Glass and this is Miss Steele, my partner."
Partner! I wished he'd apprised me of the plan before he launched into it with both feet. He might be good at playing roles but I was not. I needed to prepare.
"Partner?" Dr. Hale said. "That's odd for a reporter to work in teams. And with a woman, no less."
"I'm more of an assistant, really," I said.
"It's as much her article as it will be mine," Matt countered.
Dr. Hale clicked his heels together and nodded at me. "Well, how intriguing and utterly delightful for me. It's a pleasure to meet you both. Shall we talk in my office?"
He led us up the stairs, past a desk staffed by a nurse who greeted Dr. Hale with a benign smile. "Keep up the good work, Nurse Benedict," he said.
"It's Nurse Barnaby," she said.
"This way, Mr. Glass, Miss Steele. Ah, Dr. Wiley." Dr. Hale hailed an elderly man with a quick step and eyes that narrowed upon seeing Hale. "These two reporters from the, er…"
"The Times," Matt said.
"The Times!" Dr. Hale's step faltered. "My, my, I had no idea. Did you hear that, Dr. Wiley? They're from The Times!"
"I heard," Dr. Wiley bit off.
"These two reporters from The Times wish to speak to me about my medical miracle. Perhaps you ought to join us, since you played a role." Dr. Hale leaned toward us. "My esteemed colleague originally declared the patient deceased on arrival."
"A mistake," Dr. Wiley said, his cheeks reddening. "Clearly."
"Or was it?" Dr. Hale winked.
Wiley heaved a sigh, as if he'd heard Hale tell the story a dozen times. "This is no joking matter. Does Dr. Ritter know you're speaking to reporters?"
"Bah!" Hale laughed and waved a hand in dismissal. "He'll thank me when he hears of it."
"I doubt it. I seem to recall him forbidding you to mention it publicly."
"Think of the publicity the hospital will receive. In The Times, no less."
"You're walking a thin line, Hale. You have been warned, sir," Wiley said to Matt. "I urge you not to believe a thing he tells you. If you want the real story, ask myself or Dr. Ritter."
"Always scare-mongering," Hale said with a conspiratorial wink at me. "Come, Miss Steele, Mr. Glass, let's begin. You must be itching to know the details."
Dr. Wiley hurried off, shaking his head. He glanced back and quickened his step before disappearing through a door.
Dr. Hale led us into a bare wood-paneled office. He shut a book that lay open on the desk and placed it inside his top drawer. It was the only book in the office, although a bookcase took up an entire wall. Instead of books, however, each shelf contained a row of cream ceramic jars, all labeled in Latin. I recognized the language but lacked the education to read it.
"Dr. Wiley is a trifle embarrassed," Hale said apologetically. "He's the most experienced doctor here, aside from our principal, Dr. Ritter, of course." He sat behind the desk chair and indicated we should sit too. "Dr. Wiley declared the patient deceased and when I brought him back to life, the good doctor almost fainted." Hale laughed. "One of the nurses had to steer him to a vacant bed."