Hemlock

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I frowned. Including the board? Why would Dorothea not want the board to know? “There must be other people she could ask to help,” I said. “People who know about rare books, for instance. I’m sure there’s somebody who—”

  “Maybe. But Dorothea is asking for you, China.” As if in explanation, Penny added, “Her sister worked at Mount Zion. Dorothea heard what happened there a few years ago.”

  Ah. Mount Zion Shaker village, in Kentucky. I had been visiting with a friend at a time when the historic village was facing a little problem of embezzlement—and murder. Dorothea’s sister must have told her of my involvement in that sticky situation.*

  But Penny wasn’t finished. “She also knows that you used to work as a criminal defense attorney. And that you know and appreciate those early herbals.”

  I had to chuckle. “So you and Dorothea thought I could go to Hemlock House, take a quick look around, wave my magic wand, and come up with Elizabeth Blackwell’s missing book. Is that it?”

  “If you could,” Penny said wistfully, “that would be wonderful.” She cocked her head to one side. “I have the impression that investigating is something you especially like to do. That you are pretty good at it, in fact. If I’m wrong . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  I considered. “No,” I said slowly. “You’re not wrong.”

  It’s true. When I worked as a criminal attorney, my favorite part of every case was the investigation. It was . . . well, I suppose you could call it fun. Or intellectually rewarding. It is certainly satisfying to go behind the reported events and find out what really happened. People forget things, accidentally and on purpose. Witnesses perjure themselves. Evidence gets misplaced or lost. A newspaper misreports. As a criminal attorney, I learned how important it is to build a legal team that conducts its own investigation into the alleged crime and ensures that all the facts are put in front of the jury, not just those that the prosecution chooses to bring into the courtroom. Digging up the details nobody else has bothered to find, interviewing people who aren’t eager to tell what they know, asking questions that haven’t occurred to anybody else, and then putting all these bits and pieces together to tell a believable, fact-based story—that’s what I liked to do. That’s what I was good at.

  “So?” Penny asked hopefully. “What do you think? Want to find out what happened to that missing herbal? Spend a few days in a beautiful part of the country at a beautiful time of year? Dorothea says the foundation has an account she can tap for plane fare, if that would help persuade you to come. And you’re welcome to stay at Hemlock House. There’s plenty of room.”

  A blue jay hopped onto the deck, snatched up a crumb, and made off with it. I frowned. It sounded like Dorothea needed some help, but still . . .

  “I can’t just pack up and leave,” I said. I waved my hand at the gardens and shop. “I’m a working girl, you know, and there’s never enough time around here to do what needs to be done. Plus, I’m also a mom, and Caitie has a concert coming up.” Caitie, my niece and our adopted daughter—my husband McQuaid’s and mine—is in junior high. She is also first-chair violin in the school orchestra, and keeping track of her doings is almost a full-time job.

  “Hang on a sec.” Penny raised her hand. “I happen to know that Caitie’s concert isn’t until next month. My Cindy has the seat next to her in the violins.”

  Caught. “But she needs encouragement now,” I said defensively. “And anyway, I can’t leave the shop. Spring is our busy time and—”

  “Next week is spring break.”

  Caught again. “Oh. Yes, you’re right. Spring break.”

  Spring break. Lots of people are out of town during spring break, and there’d be much less traffic in the shops and the tea room. I didn’t think we had any catering events scheduled, and there were no classes or workshops. If I wanted to go to North Carolina, I suppose it would be as good a time as any, especially because Caitie was scheduled to spend the week with my mother and her husband Sam on their ranch near Utopia. My husband McQuaid (who teaches part time in the Criminal Justice Department at Central Texas State University and invests the rest of his working hours in his PI firm) was conducting a complicated investigation in San Antonio. But he would be home in the evenings and available to take care of Caitie’s chickens, her cat, and her parrot. And Winchester, our basset, who hates it when his dinner is late.

  Reading my expression, Penny gave me a crafty smile. “Besides,” she said, “you owe me.”

  I sighed. I’d been waiting for her to bring that up. The previous fall, Penny and I had teamed up to manage the Herb Guild’s table at Pecan Springs’ Fall Fling. But I came down with a bad case of flu and was home in bed that weekend, leaving Penny to manage all by herself. I told her then that I owed her, big time, which made it difficult to say no to her now.

  “I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so worried about Dorothea,” Penny added quietly. “I’ve known her for a long time, China. I’ve never heard her sound so . . . troubled.” She put out her hand. “If you can make the time to do this, I would appreciate it. Very much.”

  “I’d have to ask Ruby,” I said cautiously. “Just to make sure that there’s not something on the calendar I’ve forgotten about.” Ruby’s Crystal Cave and my Thyme and Seasons are in the same building, side by side, with an open door between them. We like the arrangement because one of us can keep an eye on both shops if the other has to be away. Every now and then, it pays off.

  Penny seemed to relax. “Thank you,” she said with a smile. “I’m so glad you’re willing to consider this, China. And I know Dorothea will be relieved to see you. I have the sense that she feels terribly beleaguered. She doesn’t know quite what to do. She needs somebody on her side.”

  Somebody on her side. Don’t we all?

  But I couldn’t promise anything without checking with McQuaid and Ruby. And even if I went, what could I do? The cops probably had the investigation well in hand and would likely resent anybody tromping on their turf. And the missing herbal could be anywhere by now—in some collector’s European library, for instance. Getting it back might take a miracle.

  I was intrigued, though. Was the Curious Herbal stolen simply because it was the most valuable book in the library—or was there another reason for making off with it? Who knew it was there? Who had access to it, besides Dorothea?

  Penny’s smile wavered just a bit. “Well, while we’re talking about it, there’s something I suppose I should tell you, just so it won’t come as a surprise.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t think it will daunt you, though. In fact, it might even entice you.”

  Entice me? I raised both eyebrows. “What is it?”

  “It’s . . . well, it’s the house. The gardens are really spectacular—I’ve seen photos. But Dorothea says Hemlock House is supposed to be haunted. By the eccentric old lady whose family built it. She spent her life there. And died there.”

  “Dorothea doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who sees ghosts,” I said. “That’s probably just the foundation’s hype to lure tourists.”

  “Tourists can’t visit. As I said, the gardens are open to the public only occasionally. The library has been open to a few researchers, while the house itself is private.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But every old house in North Carolina has inspired some sort of ghostly legend—it only adds to the charm. And spring is the very best time of year there, with the dogwoods and redbuds and all the spring flowers in bloom. A great time for a little vacation.”

  I was silent for a moment. Finally, I said, “All right, then. I’ll talk to my family. I’ll call Dorothea and try to find out what’s going on. Maybe she’ll decide she doesn’t need me.” I paused. “I’m sure I have an email address for her somewhere, but she may have changed it. Do you have her phone number handy?”

  “I do,” Penny said promptly, digging into her shoulder bag. She took out a lit
tle notebook and tore out a page. “Here you go—both her new email and her phone number.” She paused and looked me squarely in the eye. “She said you could call any time. She’s anxious to hear from you.”

  Now was my chance to say no—and save myself from what turned out to be a dangerous and even deadly trip. If I had known where the journey was going to take me, I might not have agreed to go. I might have stayed home, gotten on with my work, and enjoyed spring break in Pecan Springs.

  But I didn’t say no.

  • • •

  Dorothea Harper had seemed relieved and very glad to hear my voice on the phone. I asked a few questions and learned a bit more about the strange disappearance of A Curious Herbal. The book—a unique presentation copy, beautifully bound and signed by Elizabeth Blackwell herself—had vanished from a locked display case in the library at the Hemlock House Foundation. Disturbingly, an inventory (begun some weeks before but nowhere near completion) had identified a number of pages missing from other rare books of botanical prints.

  My first thought: This looked like the classic inside job, especially since there had been only a limited number of visitors over the past few months. At the risk of sounding like an officious Miss Marple, I suggested to Dorothea that she make a list of everyone who had been in the library since she assumed her position as director.

  “But you’ve probably already done that,” I added, “for the police.”

  No, she said. She hadn’t. The sheriff hadn’t asked.

  Which told me something. And I learned something else, indirectly, from the tone of her voice. The Dorothea Harper I had known had been strong, self-assured, and poised. The woman on the phone sounded fragile, unsure of herself, apprehensive. And she made sure to tell me that, if I came, the real reason for my visit had to be kept secret.

  “I can tell people that you’re an old friend,” she said, and then laughed a little. “Which is true, of course. although we’ve never been able to spend much time together. I will be very glad to know you better.” She added “I really hope you’ll come, China,” in such a plaintive voice that I knew I had no choice. I couldn’t back out now.

  And then, after I agreed, Dorothea told me that one of her graduate students—a young woman named Jenna—was working as a library intern at Hemlock House. Jenna had done quite a bit of research into the life of Elizabeth Blackwell. She was writing a novel about her and would like to send me the first chapter.

  “A novel!” I said, genuinely excited by this news. “I’ve often wondered just who Elizabeth was and how in the world she managed to carry out that mammoth project all by herself. I would love to read it, Dorothea.”

  “Excellent,” Dorothea said. “I’ll give her your email address and she can send it. Jenna is a good writer, and she’s sticking to the facts as closely as she can. Her take on the Blackwell story is intriguing.”

  Ah, technology. Fifteen minutes later, the chapter flew into my computer’s inbox. I couldn’t wait to settle down for the evening, open the file, and read it.

  When I did, I found that it was every bit as good as Dorothea had said. When I finished, I was eager for more and seriously looking forward to digging into the disappearance of the Hemlock House’s copy of Elizabeth Blackwell’s famous book.

  And thereby hangs a tale.

  Two of them, actually.

  Elizabeth’s curious tale—and my own tale of the theft of A Curious Herbal.

  * * *

  *The story is told in Wormwood.

  The Curious Tale of Elizabeth Blackwell by Jenna Patterson

  Part One

  January 4, 1735

  Outside Newgate Prison, London

  Since the fourteenth century, debtors could end up in prison for nonpayment of debts. In many cases, it was hoped that the debtors’ families and friends would repay the debt. Generally, conditions in prison depended on your standing in society. The warden of the prison would charge for accommodation—prisons were state-owned and subject to regulation, but were operated for private profit. If you could afford it, accommodation allowed access to a bar and shop. Conditions for debtors who could not raise money were appalling, with whole families cramped into overcrowded, cold, damp cells.

  Andy Wood, “In debt and incarcerated: the tyranny of debtors’ prisons.” The Gazette, https://www.thegazette.co.uk/all-notices/content/100938

  Clutching her woolen cloak against the bitter wind, Elizabeth Blackwell turned to look at the forbidding façade of the prison where she had just left her husband. The despair that filled her was colored with anger and frustration, for her husband’s imprisonment was of his own making. And even though he cheerfully acknowledged his faults, he was clearly depending on her to get him out of gaol—an accomplishment that would be nothing short of a miracle.

  Alexander had been remanded to Newgate on the demand of his creditors and by order of the Commissioners of Bankruptcy. Elizabeth knew that it had been foolish of him to defend himself before the commissioners, for he made such an arrogant showing that it merely hardened the creditors’ resolve against him. But all the attorneys of Chancery Lane could not have saved him—besides which, if there had been money for a defense it would have gone to pay off a creditor or two or put something toward the usurious court costs.

  So there had been no money for a proper defense. There was, in fact, no money at all, which was why Alexander was being held in an unheated cell with a thin straw mattress and only a small table and single chair for furniture. For light, there was but one tiny window, very near the ceiling, and a stub of a candle in a saucer on the table. If there had been money, they could have paid the turnkey for a cell with a fire, a better mattress, more daylight, and meals.

  As it was, Alexander would have to make do with the bedding Elizabeth had brought, as well as the rest of the supplies she had put together: candles, a plate and cup and cutlery; clean cravats, shirts, stockings and small clothes; a basket of bread, cheese, fruit, and sweets; a bottle of wine, tobacco, and the books he had requested. The air was foul with the stench of the prison and noisy with the prisoners’ shouts, but Alexander would be more comfortable.

  The Newgate warden—a man of large girth, with a bulbous nose in a pocked face—was still standing by the cell door with a heavy ring of keys in his hand and something on his mind.

  “This cell ’twill not do for a family, o’course.” He eyed Elizabeth. “How many little ’uns will ye be bringin’ here, Missus? How large a room will ye need?”

  Elizabeth felt an icy shiver of dread. The bankruptcy had forced them to forfeit their lease at the Atlas on the Strand opposite Catharine Street, where they had lived above Alexander’s print shop. Their furnishings and presses and printing equipment and supplies—most of it purchased with her dowry—had been sold to satisfy their creditors. Alexander’s living arrangements were now certain: he would remain in debtor’s prison until she had scraped together the money to buy his freedom. Where she and the children should live—and how and with what funds—that was still an unanswered question.

  When the head of a family was consigned to debtor’s prison, the family often came too, with one or more “working out” to pay for the extra lodging and food and make payments on the debts. Alexander assumed that this was what they would do. In fact, he had told her as much.

  But now, looking around, she thought of four-year-old Blanche’s delicate constitution and two-year-old William’s frequent earaches and nosebleeds. She didn’t know where she and the children would live. But with a sudden strong conviction, she knew that this cold, damp, sunless place was no place for them, not for a single day.

  She turned to face the warden. “The children and I shall not—”

  “My wife and two little ones will be with me, of course.” Alexander—as he often did—spoke over her. He cast a disdainful look at the brick walls and dirty stone floor. “We shall want a room much larger than this. Wit
h a fireplace and a proper window.”

  “I’ll put you down for it, then,” the warden said. “Thruppence a week for a place on the list of them waiting. One and six for the room, when it comes open. Fireplace for cookin’, but no fuel nor furnishings,” he added, with a cautionary look at Elizabeth. “Meanwhile, you and the children can stay here, but you’ll have to provide your own bedding.” He held out his hand and Alexander dropped three pennies into it.

  Exasperated, Elizabeth shook her head. The Newgate wardens were notorious for charging exorbitant fees, but it was ridiculous to pay just to have a place on a waiting list.

  The turnkey pocketed the coins. To Alexander, he said, “S’pose ye’ve already found yer way around. Billiards is in the second gallery. Taproom in the hall-gallery. Food and drink in the snuggery.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Alex said courteously. “I have frequented all.”

  As the warden rattled his keys and made off, Alexander—a handsome man of slender build, with sandy hair and eyebrows and bright blue eyes—thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. With a smile he said, “Well, Bess, my dear, since I don’t have a bed to offer you, I don’t suppose you’ll want to pass the night. Next time you come, bring more candles. And do look through my things for the small chessboard and pieces. Surely I can find someone here who—”

  “I will do that.” Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. “But I am not bringing the children here, Alex. They’re sickly enough already, poor things. I shall bring more food and wine and your chessboard when I can. But I shall have to find lodging elsewhere.”

  “Well!” Offended, he pulled himself up. “Just what sort of ‘elsewhere’ do you think you can conjure? And I shan’t be in this place long, you know.” With a confident smile, he put out a finger and touched her cheek. “I shall be out of here and in our own shop and house again in no time.” He glanced around, as if to make sure that no one was listening, and lowered his voice. “I have stratagems afoot, Bess. One of them will come to fruition, I promise, and we will be together again.”