by C. J. Archer
"Why did Oakshot suspect Dr. Hale administered the incorrect amount?" Matt asked.
"Jonathon thinks—thought—one of the other doctors put it into Oakshot's head. The other doctors at the hospital have been against him ever since his appointment to the staff. Physicians and surgeons look down on apothecaries, you see. They consider us little better than herbalists." He rolled his eyes.
"But Dr. Hale was a qualified physician," I said.
"Indeed. He went to Oxford and completed his medical training at St. George's Hospital. But his background as an apothecary rankled with them. He could never quite shake it off. It never bothered him, though. He was quite ambivalent to the opinions of others, until Oakshot accused him of killing his wife. Jonathon was deeply upset by it." He picked up a cloth and began slowly polishing the counter, even though the surface gleamed.
"Forgive me, Mr. Pitt," I said, "but I must ask. Did Dr. Hale give Mrs. Oakshot the wrong amount of morphine? Was that why he was upset? Because he felt guilty?"
Mr. Pitt stopped polishing. "While Jonathon didn't admit as much to me, I think you may be right. It was impossible to prove or disprove, but he certainly seemed as if he were second guessing himself after Oakshot's accusation."
"What did the hospital do?" Matt asked.
"Nothing, as far as I know."
"Does Mr. Oakshot have a shop?"
"He manufactures medicines but has no retail outlet himself. His products are distributed to many pharmacies throughout England." He pointed to shelves lined with medicine jars on our right. "Many of those are manufactured by Oakshot's."
"Does he have his own cure-all?" Matt asked.
I frowned. Was he implying that Oakshot's motive for killing Dr. Hale could have been two-fold—revenge for his wife's death and eliminating a business rival whose name graced another medicine's label?
"Of course. Every pharmacist worth his salt has his own cure-all."
"What sort of reputation does Oakshot have within the industry?" Matt asked.
"Excellent. He's the largest manufacturer of medicines in London with a reputation the rest of us envy. You can see for yourselves, if you like. His factory is located in Hackney Wick. "
Matt approached the counter. "An envious reputation? Do you mean to say his medicines work exceptionally well?"
I approached the counter too, eager to gauge Mr. Pitt's reaction.
He glanced at each of us in turn and cleared his throat. "What are you implying, Mr. Glass?"
Matt pressed his palms on the counter. "Are Oakshot's medicines as good as Dr. Hale's?"
Mr. Pitt leaned away. He glanced past me to the door again then leaned forward. "Are you asking what I think you're asking?" he said, voice low.
"Is Mr. Oakshot a magical apothecary, like Dr. Hale was?"
Mr. Pitt sucked in a breath between his teeth. "H-how do you know? What do you know?"
"We know that Dr. Hale could infuse magic into his medicines, but the magic didn't last for long. He admitted it to us when we spoke to him after that newspaper article appeared in The Weekly Gazette."
"He admitted it to you?" he blurted out. "Was he mad?"
"He trusted us," I said.
Matt shot me a glare and gave a small shake of his head.
"We know about magicians, you see," I said. "The article directed us to him." It was the only response I could think of that didn't give away my magic.
Mr. Pitt pressed his lips together. "I feared it would act as a signpost for anyone hunting out magic. Jonathon didn't care. He was pleased." He shook his head. "Fool. I warned him that it was a bad idea, that people who feared magicians might come after him, but he wouldn't listen."
"We're not those sort of people," I assured him. "We have an interest in magic, but that's only because we want to know more about it. We're curious."
"Much of our work involves magic, one way or another," Matt said. "We're thinking of making it a specialty within our agency."
I blinked at him. He sounded sincere. Then again, he'd proven to be a marvelous actor.
"And you read about Jonathon in the article." Mr. Pitt shook his head. "That reporter has a lot to answer for. His reporting was irresponsible. Have you spoken to him?"
Matt nodded. "Do you know of anyone who would attack Hale because he was magical?"
Mr. Pitt sighed. "Other apothecaries, perhaps, out of jealousy. The guild members, too, for the same reason. The guilds don't like magicians, you see. They're afraid it puts the artless members out of business."
"Artless?" I asked idly.
"A word Jonathon used for those without magic."
"Why would the guild be worried about Dr. Hale if he wasn't a practicing apothecary?" Matt asked. "He posed no threat to any of them."
"I don't know, Mr. Glass. Some of them have an irrational fear, you see, and think any good apothecary is magical. Oakshot himself has had visits from them."
"Do you think he's a magician?"
Mr. Pitt shrugged one shoulder.
"Have you had run-ins with the guild, Mr. Pitt?" I asked.
He indicated the pyramid of Cure-All. "There were rumblings when we released this, and Jonathon and I were questioned by the guild master. Nothing came of it. Jonathon didn't use his magic in it. He said it was rather useless since it didn't last."
"It can last weeks," I said. "Perhaps even months."
"So we've heard," Matt said quickly. "But Miss Steele is right. If Hale put magic in your Cure-All it could work for a brief time afterward. It might be enough to give it a reputation as a wonder medicine."
"I see your point, but there is a flaw in your theory. Jonathon simply put his name to it. He didn't create it. I did. Alone."
The silence that followed thickened, our unspoken question hanging suspended like the curiosities in the jars of fluid.
"No, I am not magical," he finally said. He directed his fierce gaze first at Matt then at me.
I realized that I had a way of telling if he spoke the truth or not. I took a bottle of Cure-All off the pyramid, opened it and smelled. No warmth. I did the same for other bottles, taking random ones off shelves and pretending to smell while actually trying to detect magical warmth. Mr. Pitt watched me for a while then must have dismissed my actions as harmless. He turned back to Matt.
"What concerns me," Mr. Pitt said, "is how did the poison get into Jonathon's Cure-All in the first place?"
"A good question," Matt said. "The thing is, Dr. Hale suffered none of the symptoms from any known poison. It also had no smell or color."
"That is unusual. Are you sure?"
Matt nodded. "We believe a magic poison was added to the bottle."
Mr. Pitt's already pale face whitened further. The blue veins stood out on his forehead and throat, and his mouth worked but no words came out for several seconds. "How do you know?" he muttered.
"We have our methods," Matt said.
Mr. Pitt shook his head. "No, I don't believe it. He wouldn't kill himself."
"We weren't suggesting that," I said.
Mr. Pitt turned sharply to me.
"The question is," Matt said, "do you know any other apothecary magicians?"
"That's what you think?" Mr. Pitt scrunched the cloth still in his hand and wiped the counter in a slow arc. He took his time answering. "I have my suspicions, but I'm not certain. And no, I will not name the man I suspect. It wouldn't be fair."
"We wish him no harm," Matt said. "We just want to question him."
"I can't do it. I'm sorry. If the guild gets wind of it, they'll persecute him. He could lose his license, and the man has children to provide for."
Not children and a wife? Could he have omitted that point because the man was now a widower? Like Mr. Oakshot?
"Do you have any further questions?" Mr. Pitt asked.
"Just one," Matt said. "The journalist for The Weekly Gazette told us that Dr. Hale talked to him freely about his magic. If he feared the guild, why would he do that?"
"That's
the problem. Jonathon didn't fear the guild, because he was not a practicing apothecary—and because he was a fool. His head was completely turned by that journalist. Bloody irresponsible, pardon my language, Miss Steele."
"I don't understand," I said, giving up on detecting for magical warmth. "What do you mean, ‘his head was turned?’"
"The reporter fellow had the grand idea that magicians and artless could live peacefully together, without fear or jealousy. I tried to tell him otherwise, but Jonathon wouldn't listen to me. The reporter got in his ear, telling him how wonderful life could be if everyone got along." He clicked his tongue. "That fellow ought to be ashamed of himself for bringing attention to magic. Who knows, he may have inadvertently caused Jonathon's death by writing that article about his 'medical miracle.'"
I bristled. "You can't blame the victim for being murdered. It's entirely the murderer's fault."
"I'm not blaming the victim, Miss Steele. I'm blaming that reporter. It's the magicians he writes about who are the victims, not him."
I stamped down on my temper, not entirely sure why I was so angry. Oscar Barratt had noble intentions. Intentions that he must now set aside until the murderer was found. In a way, he was a victim.
"Thank you, Mr. Pitt," Matt said. "We'll purchase a bottle of Cure-All then leave you alone. My housekeeper's stock is low."
I returned to the clock while Mr. Pitt wrapped up a bottle for Matt. I opened the glass casing and corrected the minute hand.
"Thank you, Miss Steele," Mr. Pitt said, looking up from his wrapping. "I have to adjust it every day, but I forgot this morning, what with all the newspaper reports on Jonathon's death to read."
"Every day?" I asked. "It must need fixing. Do you want me to have a look?"
"You know about clocks?"
"My father used to own a shop."
"We don't have time." Matt scooped up the wrapped bottle from the counter before Mr. Pitt could hand it to him. "Thank you, Mr. Pitt. You've been helpful." He opened the door for me and waited with an arched look.
I sighed, closed the clock casing, and exited the shop. "It wouldn't have taken long," I told him as I passed.
Matt continued to hold the door open for a gentleman using a silver-topped walking stick. His carriage waited behind ours.
"Good morning, my lord," Mr. Pitt greeted him.
I was pleased to see that Mr. Pitt hadn't lost everyone's custom. Or perhaps the lord hadn't read the papers yet.
I climbed into the coach while Matt gave Bryce the address to Mr. Oakshot's factory, then he sat opposite me. He regarded me with a slight frown. "You feel compelled to fix clocks and watches, don't you?"
"I don't like seeing time running slow, if that's what you mean."
"You need to fix them, to handle them."
"Are you going to take my watch away from me again and turn all the clocks around?" I clutched my reticule tighter. "It was somewhat amusing the first time, but you proved your point. There's no need to do it again."
He smiled crookedly. "No, India, I'm not."
Even so, I did not loosen my grip. "What do you think of Pitt?"
"Intelligent, cautious, perhaps not telling us the entire truth," he said.
"Why do you think that?"
"He had smooth answers for every question."
A bubble of laughter rose up my throat. "Oh, Matt, if that were a crime, you would be under arrest every day. You are the smoothest man I've ever met."
"I'm utterly sincere," he protested.
"Having ready, smooth answers to everything doesn't make you insincere. The same for Mr. Pitt. I think you're mistaken about him. I think he's simply not all that upset by Dr. Hale's death, but I don't think he had any part in it. I believe him when he says he's not magical. I detected no warmth in any of his medicines whatsoever. And besides, he had more to lose than gain from Dr. Hale's death. No one will touch his Cure-All, now that the newspapers have revealed it was the murder weapon, of sorts. He'll lose business."
Matt removed his hat and dragged his hand through his hair, ruffling it. For a brief moment, he didn't look at all like the gentleman he usually presented but more like the outlaw his mother's family wanted him to be. But then he smoothed down his hair and replaced his hat back on his head. I sighed. Both versions of Matt were utterly, devastatingly handsome, and very much forbidden to me.
"I think we should visit the Apothecary's Guild," he said. "We might learn something from them, although probably not through direct questions."
"We have quite a list of people to visit now. We won't get time until tomorrow if we still want to talk to Dr. Wiley and Ritter today."
"And I must return home at midday and in the evening to rest," he bit off. "Yes, I know. No need to remind me."
"I wasn't. Don't speak to me like that."
He winced and rubbed his forehead. "Sorry, India. You're right, and I spoke out of turn. I'm not myself lately."
I bit the inside of my cheek. "I'm sorry, too, Matt. There was no need for me to snap back at you. I don't feel like myself lately, either. I don't know why."
Black smoke billowed from the chimney stacks of Mr. Oakshot's factory and joined the miasma spewing from the surrounding factories to blanket Hackney Wick. Soot settled on our clothing in the short walk from the carriage to the red brick building, and I pressed my handkerchief to my nose in an attempt to block out the stench of burning coal and God knew what else.
We found Mr. Oakshot in an office on the first level, standing with his hands at his back before a large window that overlooked the factory floor below. He turned when Matt cleared his throat.
"Good morning," Matt said, hand extended. "My name is Matthew Glass and this is my partner, Miss Steele."
Mr. Oakshot looked like a man in need of a rest. He was about forty and, like Matt, exhaustion pulled his features tight and shadowed red-rimmed eyes. He gave Matt's hand a firm shake. "Your accent has a hint of American," he said. "Are you looking to distribute my medicines in your country?"
"Actually, we're private inquiry agents investigating the death of Dr. Hale."
Mr. Oakshot whipped his hand back and fisted it at his side. "Get out!" he barked. "I don't want to hear his name uttered within my hearing."
"It'll just take a moment of your time," Matt said. "We have a few questions we'd like to—"
Mr. Oakshot stepped up to Matt, toe to toe, and bared his teeth. "Get. Out. Of. My. Sight."
"But—
Mr. Oakshot grabbed hold of Matt's jacket lapels and swung his fist.
Chapter 6
Matt blocked Mr. Oakshot's fist with his forearm. Mr. Oakshot swung again and Matt caught his wrist.
"Not in front of Miss Steele," Matt said with far more calm than I felt.
Mr. Oakshot pulled free of Matt's grip and straightened his waistcoat and tie. He did not try to hit out again, but Matt's stance remained tense, poised to fight.
"We're deeply sorry to hear about your wife's death," I said, my heart hammering against my ribcage. Mr. Oakshot turned to me, his dark hazel eyes boring into me, challenging. "You have our sincerest condolences. We understand that Dr. Hale believed he may have given your wife the incorrect dose of morphine."
The ferocity dissolved from his eyes at my sympathetic tone. He heaved in a shaky breath. "Hale believed that, did he? That's not what he told me." He turned back to the window, his shoulders stooped, hands loose at his sides. He was the picture of a dejected, defeated man.
Matt nodded at me, urging me to continue. I joined Mr. Oakshot at the window. Below us, workmen dressed in overalls fed furnaces that heated large cauldrons of liquid. Steam rose in drifts and swirled among the rafters. The factory hands wiped their brows between stirring the cauldrons and tipping in ingredients. At the far end, men filled bottles at a long table while another two pasted labels onto bottles before they were packed into boxes. It was a busy factory.
"Tell us what happened that day at the hospital?" I asked.
Mr. Oakshot
crossed his arms, resting them on his paunch. "She'd been ill for some time. A tumor in her stomach, so the doctors said. They couldn't cure her. My medicines…" he choked out. "My medicines couldn't cure her either, only ease her pain for a short time. She felt wretched that day—the day she died. She'd hardly slept because of the pain, and she couldn't keep anything down. I took her to the hospital, and Hale assured me he'd take care of her. It was a busy day. There were lots of patients coming in and not enough staff. They wouldn't let me stay with my wife, so I went for a walk. When I got back…" He cleared his throat. "When I got back, she had passed." He bowed his head and closed his eyes.
I touched his arm. "Who told you that Dr. Hale might have made a mistake with the morphine dose?"
He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. "The doctor in charge."
"Dr. Ritter?"
He nodded. "He didn't outright admit it. He just said that Hale's mind wasn't on the task, that he had to tend to lots of patients that day, and he'd made the same mistake once before, although that patient survived. He said Hale had limited experience compared to the other doctors and that he—Ritter—would have words with him to get to the bottom of it."
"Do you know if he did?"
"I never found out. I went straight to Hale's office myself and told him what I thought of him. No one tried to stop me then, but they came when they heard the shouting." He stared down at the factory floor, and his body relaxed a little. He seemed to take comfort in the pattern of activity, from filling the cauldrons through to packing bottles into boxes. He must have looked upon that scene every day for years.
"I don't regret it," he went on. "Even though he's dead now, and you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, I don't regret confronting him."