by Sarah Rayne
‘Would you want it?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘It would have to be properly drawn up. Legally drawn up.’
‘Certainly.’
‘We’d have to agree on what share you’d get of the profits, and all sorts of things. But,’ said Nell, thinking hard, ‘if we agree we’ll do it – and if the money’s there … Yes, I think I’d want to take your offer up.’ She turned on the pillows to look at him. ‘I can’t believe I’ve just said that,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so determined to be independent.’
‘I know you have. It’s one of the things I love about you. But you still would be independent. I wouldn’t even expect “West and Flint” over the door.’
‘I expect we could have that if you wanted.’
‘For the moment,’ said Michael, speaking slowly, as if he was choosing his words with infinite care, ‘I think this is as far as you’d want to go. But I think it’s something we might find would – well, it would give an extra layer to our relationship, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Nell. ‘Yes, it would.’
‘It feels as if we’ve made a decision.’
‘It does rather, doesn’t it?’ Nell reached up to trace the lines of his face. ‘Ought we to celebrate that?’
‘What a good idea,’ said Michael, pulling her against him.
Some considerable time later, Michael said, ‘Did we establish if you’re coming on the Porringer hunt with me tomorrow?’
Nell had been sliding into a warm, deeply contented sleep, but she came out of it slightly. ‘I’d like to. It’s half-day closing, so I could shut the shop at midday.’
‘Half-day closing. What a quaint old-fashioned custom.’
‘I suppose if you become an investor, you’ll demand a twelve-hour day and no holidays. Wasn’t it Scrooge who said, “It’s Christmas – take the day off”?’
‘I’ll install a system of clocking in and piece work,’ promised Michael.
‘And wear one of those sexy Victorian frock-coats, and glower over the ledgers?’
‘Yes, but I draw the line at a stovepipe hat.’
‘Pity. Even so, I’d like to Porringer hunt with you,’ said Nell.
‘In that case I’ll cancel the order for the time sheets. Are you going back to sleep now, or what?’
‘Is there anything else on offer?’
‘There might be,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, I believe there might be.’
‘Oh, good …’
As Michael drove them out of Oxford the following day, a thin soft rain was falling. Everywhere smelled fresh and new, and despite the rain Nell’s spirits rose.
‘I remember seeing quite a nice village pub,’ said Michael, ‘so we’ll have some lunch there, shall we?’
‘I do like the way you always incorporate eating into ghost-hunting.’
‘It can be a hungry occupation.’
‘Is that the sign for Willow Bank Farm?’ asked Nell, a little while later.
‘Yes. You can just see it across the fields. I noticed it the first time I was here, although I didn’t know it was relevant then.’ He pulled the car on to a grass verge for a moment. ‘It’s over there – it’s a bit misty through this rain, but you can make out the shape of the buildings.’
‘The rain makes it look slightly unreal,’ said Nell, after a moment. ‘Veiled and blurry, and as if it really does belong to the past.’
‘Do you ever feel that this kind of rain has a sort of immortality about it?’ said Michael, starting the car again. ‘As if it might be the same rain that fell a hundred years ago or a thousand years ago? Or even as near as yesterday.’
‘You’re such a romantic. But I know what you mean. That if you only knew the exact right place to reach through that rain, you might find you were touching another era.’
‘Except that with my sense of direction I’d probably miss the twentieth century altogether,’ said Michael, glancing in the driving mirror as they left Willow Bank Farm behind. ‘I wonder who lives there now? If it’s still the Hurst family.’
‘It’s probably being enthusiastically chopped up into flats or single dwellings by Jack Hurst, even as we speak,’ said Nell. ‘And speaking of Hursts, Godfrey suggested I ask Jack to provide some figures for knocking the two shops into one.’
She sounded slightly diffident, and Michael said, ‘That’s a good idea. It looked as if he was making a very nice job of Deadlight Hall. If anyone could make a nice job of such a monstrosity.’
‘I was going to phone him later to ask him to come in. You could be there as well. I’d tell you what he said in any case.’
‘I’d quite like to be there for the meeting,’ said Michael. ‘But you don’t have to think you’ve got to – to consult me or anything.’
‘I know, but I’d like to. Actually though,’ said Nell, ‘something did occur to me. Is being part-owner of a business likely to be against Oxford’s rules for its dons?’
Michael sent her a surprised look. ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose they’d look very kindly on a part-share in a brothel or a porn-film shop, but antiques are very respectable, and what I do with my money is up to me. Why on earth did you think there might be a problem? Oh – you didn’t think that at all, did you? You’re giving me a polite way out in case I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Well, yes, all right, I am.’
‘If I change my mind I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘But I’m liking the idea more and more.’
‘I’m glad. Actually, I’m liking it more and more as well.’
‘Would my name go on the lease of the new premises?’
‘Would you want it to?’
‘Yes,’ he said, with unexpected firmness.
‘Good. So would I.’
He did not take his eyes from the road, but he smiled. ‘We understand each other, don’t we?’
‘As much as one person ever can understand another. Here’s the village now. Pity it hasn’t stopped raining.’
‘Never mind the rain, can you see anywhere to park? Oh, yes – over there by the war memorial. I hope I’m remembering this place accurately. I know I said there was a pharmacist’s shop, but now we’re here I’m not so sure.’
‘You did remember it accurately,’ said Nell, producing a 1920s-style hat from her bag and jamming it over her head against the rain. ‘The shop’s over there.’
EIGHTEEN
The shop was not, of course, called Porringer’s. Michael knew they had not expected that, and he reminded himself that it was stretching optimism anyway to think it might even be the shop that Maria Porringer’s husband had owned.
The sign over the main window said: ‘Trussell’s – dispensing pharmacist. Est.1860.’
‘Eighteen sixty. Would that fit for Porringer?’ asked Nell.
‘I think so.’ Michael fished out the untidy notebook which accompanied him wherever he went. ‘Maria’s letters start in 1878, when she was appointed as trustee or warden, or whatever she was, at Deadlight Hall. She refers to the death of Porringer then.’
‘And this shop was set up eighteen years before that,’ said Nell. ‘It sounds all right. What now? Do we just go in and ask if they’ve got any records we could see?’
‘I don’t see why not. We’re on a perfectly legitimate errand – research into the area in general. And this is Oxford, so they’re probably used to writers and academics researching all kinds of things.’
The shop had a pleasingly old-fashioned facade, but, as Nell said, it was not determinedly so. The displays inside were bright and clean, with familiar brand names strewn around, and there were placards about blood pressure checks and influenza jabs. At the far end were two large glass-fronted display cases with several old-fashioned scales and instruments, and a carefully arranged selection of old glass bottles inside.
‘Green for poison, I think,’ said Nell, pointing them out. ‘Oh, and look at this!’
‘What …?’
‘It’s an old Poison
Book. If you wanted to buy an ounce of ratbane you had to leave your name and a signature. I don’t think it was a very foolproof system, though, because presumably there was nothing to stop you going to a shop where you weren’t known, and signing as John Smith or U.N. Owen, like the island murderer in the Agatha Christie book.’
The poison book was in good condition. The ink of most of the entries was faded, but the writing was legible. There was, though, the feeling that the light which fell over the pages was tinged with the flickering radiance of candlelight, wax-scented and dim, or even the bad-smelling gaslight that came later. Michael stared at it, and felt the elusive memory stir again, a little more definitely this time. Somewhere recently he had seen other books, strongly similar to this one – something about the writing, was it? But again, it would not come fully into focus.
Nell was leaning forward to study the entries more closely, when a small rotund gentleman bustled over to them, and asked if he could help.
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Michael, producing a card. ‘We’re interested in the history of your shop, and we wondered if we could have a closer look at this book you’ve got on display.’
The rotund gentleman, who wore a neat name badge proclaiming him to be W. Trussell, M. Pharm., studied Michael’s card, then beamed with delight.
‘People do like to see that display,’ he said. ‘How things were done in the old days. I change it every so often, of course, so as it won’t get too familiar, not to say dusty.’ He looked back at Michael’s card. ‘Well, now, Dr Flint, and …’
‘Nell West,’ supplied Nell.
‘You’re more than welcome to take a look at the book. We don’t leave it on open display, you understand, because it’s a bit fragile. But people like to see it there, and I like the reminder of the shop’s past. We’re one of the few independent pharmacists left in the county, you know. It’s always been in private ownership, this shop, right from the start. Of course, we’ve had offers from the big companies,’ he said, proudly, ‘and probably one day we’ll have to accept. But not quite yet.’ He produced a small set of keys, unlocked the display cabinet, and lifted the book out with care. ‘If I can’t trust a senior member of an Oxford University I don’t know who I can trust,’ he said, and Nell caught the ghost of a half-wink from Michael at this. ‘Is it for a thesis, Dr Flint? A paper?’
This was said hopefully, and Michael said, ‘It might be both in the end. It might not work out, of course – we might meet dead ends. But if it does come to something, I’d make sure you got an acknowledgement.’
‘Well, that would be very nice, although not at all necessary. I’ll leave you to it,’ said Mr Trussell. ‘It’s a fairly quiet time of day for us, so you’ll probably be undisturbed. There’re a couple of chairs over there – we keep them for people waiting for prescriptions to be made up. Feel free to use them. I’ll be around if you need any help.’
He took himself off, and Nell and Michael carried the book over to the chairs.
Nell opened it with care. The entries began on a page headed April 1870.
ITEM: 6d worth of arsenic, purchased by Mrs Trubb, housekeeper to Sir George Buckle.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: to get rid of rats at Boundary Hall, such being a pesky nuisance, and not fitting to a gentleman’s residence. Also for whitening solution for Lady Buckle’s hands.
ITEM: Belladonna and opium, one quarter teaspoonful, purchased by Mrs Trubb.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: to cure Sir George Buckle’s costiveness, it being a great trouble to him and everyone else, and not helped even by liquorice and rhubarb infusion or brimstone and treacle mixture.
Note by Mrs Maria Porringer: Mrs Trubb advised to allow Mr Porringer to make up a suppository from belladonna (atropa belladonna) and opium, by the addition of glycerin and theobroma oil, this method being a preferable method to a draught. Mr Trubb (butler to Sir George) shd be able to administer suppository, although must wash his hands very thoroughly both before and after the procedure. One bar lye soap added to order for this purpose.
‘Porringer,’ said Michael, staring at the page. ‘My God, we’ve found them. We really have. This was their shop.’
‘And,’ said Nell, ‘it sounds as if Maria was very much part of the set-up.’ She read the entry again. ‘What always fascinates me about the Victorians is their contradictions,’ she said. ‘That bizarre blend of extreme reticence – covering up chair legs and all the euphemisms they used for childbirth and sex – and then the robust way they’d describe what they used to call ailments. Poor old Sir George, though.’
‘Poor old Sir George’s butler,’ said Michael, grinning, and continued reading the book’s entries.
ITEM: pinch of hyssop (hyssopus officinalis), purchased by Ada Brittle.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: children’s cough, which is something chronic at this time of year, no one getting a wink of sleep, and Brittle having to be off to his work at Salamander House at half-past six of a morning.
Note by J. Porringer: Mrs Brittle advised to use only one small drop for each child, since hyssop known to cause convulsions or epileptic seizures if administered in larger quantities.
Note by Mrs Maria Porringer: Mrs Brittle told she would do better to feed her children on good wholesome food, not rubbishing pies from cookshop, with no nourishment in them, not to mention filling probably being made from all the unwholesome parts of the animal.
‘She doesn’t flinch from dishing out advice, does she?’ murmured Nell. ‘I’ll bet the customers in this shop used to pray she wasn’t around when they went in.’
‘It’s in her writing,’ said Michael, touching the page with a fingertip. ‘I recognize it from the letters in the Archives Office – and the papers Professor Rosendale had from Willow Bank Farm. The odd thing is that each time I’ve seen it, I’ve had a half-memory of having seen the same writing somewhere else.’
‘In Maria’s day most people would have written in very similar kinds of hands,’ said Nell. ‘All those pot-hooks and hangers they had to practise in copybooks. You’ve probably seen this style of writing quite often.’
‘I know. I wish I could pin down the precise memory, though.’
ITEM: Valve pump syringe purchased by Mrs Trubb.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: Administration of enema for Sir George Buckle (glycerin solution also purchased).
ITEM: Half teaspoon of ergot and rye, purchased by Polly Mabbley.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: Miss Mabbley refused to state the purpose, saying it was nothing to do with interfering old besoms, since her private life was her own affair, and what folks chose to write down in some silly book was up to them.
‘Ergot?’ said Michael, looking questioningly at Nell.
‘It was used to bring on a miscarriage, I think. Agonizingly painful though, and not necessarily effective. And it could be dangerous.’
‘There were a couple of girls called Mabbley mentioned in those statements,’ said Michael, opening his notebook again. ‘I remember the name. Yes, here it is – it’s the two girls who vanished from Deadlight Hall. Polly’s daughters?’
‘They might have been. Maybe she didn’t take the ergot and rye, or it wasn’t successful,’ said Nell. ‘And she produced a couple of bastards who were placed in Deadlight Hall. As for vanishing, it sounded more to me as if they’d simply run away. But whatever happened, this is a remarkable thumbnail sketch of village life, isn’t it? And I see Maria’s contributed to flighty Polly’s predicament again.’ She pointed to a further entry on the page.
‘That sounds like the title of a girls’ school story from the 1930s,’ said Michael. ‘“The Predicament of Promiscuous Polly – A Cautionary Tale”.’
‘Whatever she was, Maria seems to have given her short shrift.’
‘I wonder if Mr Porringer ever had a say in anything,’ said Michael. ‘Maria seems to have dispensed advice and disapproval in about equal measure, and she’s made sure it’s all recorded, as well.’
‘She’s even noted dow
n some arsenic she had for her own use,’ said Nell, pointing to an entry on the next page.
‘“Half grain of arsenic for proprietor’s use. Purpose: rats and mice in cellars.” Half a grain sounds quite a lot,’ said Michael.
‘We can check on quantities – we might even ask Mr Trussell. Oh, look at this,’ said Nell eagerly, and read the next entry. ‘“November 1877. To supply tincture of opium for use as soporific. Quantities: opium, two ounces.” A few other ingredients, as well – oh, and a half pint of sherry wine, “if permitted”, and a note about macerating and filtering. Then it says, “Account presented to H M Prison, The Governor.” Probably Porringer had a standing arrangement with some local gaol to supply sedatives for the poor condemned wretches destined for the noose,’ said Nell. ‘Are we at the end of the book? Oh, yes, what a pity – no, wait, there’s a loose sheet of paper tucked between the last two pages.’
‘It’s probably a receipt for the supply of the opium.’
But it was not a receipt at all. It was a handwritten letter, addressed to Mrs Thaddeus Porringer, and it was headed Governor’s Wing, H.M. Gaol, followed by the name of the village. The date was November 1877.
Dear Madam
I am in receipt of your letter of 10th inst. and would express my gratitude that you have accepted our request to attend at the prison on Wednesday, 16th, to accompany the prisoner in her last hours. As explained to you, our female wardresses would normally undertake the task as part of their regular duties. However, both are unable to do so, one being very unwell following an inflammation of the lung, and the other declaring herself so unwilling to attend this particular prisoner, she has given notice of her intention to leave.
In addition, the prison – by which I mean all inmates and staff – will shortly be transferred to the new gaol on the other side of the county. This, while it will provide better quarters and facilities, is already causing much disruption.
You will appreciate, I know, that this has been a most difficult and distressing situation for us all, particularly with this being a local case, and with so much unfortunate publicity in the newspapers.