by AB Morgan
Turning my attention to the remaining journals, I opened up a whole new world. Beginning another slightly water-damaged journal, picked at random, I couldn’t put it down.
All through the war, I worked alongside Mr M, the pharmacist, as his assistant. I admired Mr M for his extensive knowledge of curative home remedies, which were often less financially burdensome than the manufactured tinctures and lotions to be found on the shelves. He shared his wisdom readily with the good folk of the town, who remained indebted to this generous man until the day he sadly passed away.
His son, young Mr M, had returned from the war a broken man who had then relied upon me most heavily to guide him in re-learning the requirements of the family business, almost as if he had never experienced it previously. He was a pharmacist, like his father, but Burma had deprived him of his confidence and he narrowly avoided death or insanity. I believe it was for that reason he never once spoke of the terrors he endured during his incarceration as a prisoner of war.
The hardships for the everyday people of this country continued long after the end of the conflict and yet, in contrast, the dispensary seemed to prosper. I had been certain that with the end of the war my employment would be in jeopardy, for it was the case that my mother and I had blown into the town like the wind, uninvited. Desperation drove us to seek out and to stay with relatives as evacuees from London and we never once returned there.
Neither young Mr M nor his father ever indicated that my employment with them was to be terminated once the war had finished. Conversely, Mr M senior made me a life-changing proposal, which would secure my ability to remain financially independent. As a young adult, I had an ability to adapt and to learn rapidly, soaking up knowledge and skills as if I were a sponge.
My family name was synonymous with poisoning, and for this reason, I was introvert by nature, and particular not to seek attention nor to attain friendship other than on a superficial level, fearing that disclosure of my family history would undermine acceptance by the local welcoming community.
My obsession with privacy was not borne out of pure selfishness but was for my mother’s benefit. She had finally been able to evade the hounds of the press, who, for many years, had persisted in speculating as to her part in the poisoning of Father, Aunt V, and Grandmother.
What a clue. “A family name synonymous with poisoning”. Who on earth could that be? I wondered. Someone who had poisoned three family members … Surname beginning with the letter C.
The authorities, the investigations, and the inquests failed to identify the guilty party, but for years afterwards society deemed my dear mother to be guilty and she suffered dreadfully until such time as we escaped London and achieved anonymity using father’s middle name as our surname. Legally of course, we still retained our former surnames, and it was this secret I feared would be revealed.
Oh no, the surname doesn’t begin with C.
It will be after my death that these scattered memoirs may come to light, but in spite of this I will not disclose the facts. For certain, the vultures will speculate and damage my mother’s memory. My own guilt, however, is to be revealed within, as a cathartic confession of sorts.
I demanded revenge for my mother’s unwarranted emotional torture and vowed to seek out the guilty party to ensure that he, for it was my own uncle, would be held to account. My wish was not to come true, for my uncle had, by design, moved to America with his wife. It was the war that robbed him of his life, not me. He boarded a ship, supposedly on business, bound for Great Britain, before the United States joined the war, but the ship was torpedoed by a German U boat and sank without a trace. Only a handful of passengers and crew survived. My uncle was not among them. His wife informed my mother of the events, who seemed saddened by the loss of yet another member of the family, although I am not convinced that she had even considered that her own brother had deliberately thrown the burden of suspicion and guilt in her direction. He died an innocent man, because his crimes were never proven. He had killed for money.
Cheated and unfairly robbed of restitution, a gaping hole was filled by a bitter appetite for revenge, which I eventually learnt to feed. This I achieved by ensuring removal from society, those who are truly evil and where justice had failed in its duty. It has been a most satisfying compromise; morally, psychologically, and financially.
Not once did it ever occur to me that my first, but unintended victim would, by default, dictate my future path in life, causing destiny to veer wildly from its predetermined course. I have little regret. It has been a lucrative career and allowed me to live in comfort, some would argue, luxury. Living in obscurity, abstaining from both marriage and children were the prices paid.
I recall in the late 1950s, Mr Adatti, long since deceased, with no offspring or relatives in this country (I am therefore at liberty to use his name), regularly gave his custom to the dispensary. He was a victim of his wife’s tongue and of her fists. On at least one occasion that the Messrs M were aware of, Mr Adatti was assaulted with a deadly weapon at the hands of his spouse. Once, almost certainly, she had used an iron poker and on a later occasion had caused considerable damage to his person with a skillet. Mr Adatti managed to manufacture a variety of implausible explanations for the injuries with which he presented for assistance. Our local doctor shared our considerable concerns for the man, but could not persuade Mr Adatti to confess to his hellish matrimonial existence. The doctor therefore took a fresh perspective. Treating the perpetrator, to save the victim, he decided to prescribe the new antidepressant medication imipramine to Mrs Adatti in an attempt to alleviate her most foul temperament.
The powerful combination of knowledge, fear, and desperation must have given Mr Adatti the impetus to act. When he called at the dispensary to collect the first prescription for his wife, I enlightened him to the fact that imipramine had been found to be fatally toxic in overdose, and in order to avoid such a catastrophe, he should ensure that his wife was made aware of this and not encouraged to take more than the prescribed daily dose. It was a whispered suggestion on my part and not intended as anything other than helpful guidance.
Never have I seen such a relieved and unburdened man at a funeral. In an unexpected twist of fate, Mrs Adatti had come into a sizeable inheritance the year before, which she had appeared unwilling to share with her long-suffering husband. He inherited every penny.
I am certain that Mr Adatti would have danced upon her grave, if it were not for the certain knowledge that this would have aroused suspicion. He could have done, because no one questioned her death. It was simply an accidental overdose.
Mr Adatti made a private donation to Mr M and to the local doctor by way of a gift of thanks for aid in his darkest hours. It was a tidy sum, from which I too benefitted.
That single opportune moment, when I imparted knowledge to Mr Adatti, which then gave rise to his freedom and to retribution for years of wretched suffering, gave respite from my unrequited need for personal vengeance. Such liberating emotions meant that I would forever seek more of those sweet moments, like a gambler or an opium addict, or in the same way in which an actor seeks adulation for a performance.
Mr M had long been a purveyor of fine poisons, all legal and above board, carefully accounted for. Yet, despite working alongside him for many years, I had initially failed to realise what additional services he offered, for a fee of course. I was soon to become privy to the alternative business, which enabled prosperity for both Mr M and for myself.
In a cavernous laboratory within the building, referred to as ‘the Apothecary’ there was the most comprehensive collection of chemicals, compounds, tinctures, and tonics outside of that owned by Merlin himself, I would imagine. As well as cures for boils, syphilis, and other unfortunate ailments, abortions were available, although never named as such. Income was also derived from the local convalescent homes, cottage hospitals, isolation hospitals, and asylums, who all required assistance with enabling their residents to ‘pass peacefully’ and it
was Mr M who provided invaluable solutions for these demands, using the same humane approach taken by veterinary medicine.
Mr M was a marvel. He provided a postal service for home remedies to be sent to those who lived out of the local area and for whom a journey into town would have been far too taxing. Regrettably, it became apparent to Mr M senior, that his son, through no fault of his own, was unable to grasp the intricacies of the ‘recipes’ for these herbal specialities. Fine, exact measurements were required, as well as distillation processes, infusions, and centrifugal separations.
Another apprentice was required by the Master and I had the aptitude for the task.
I grasped with both hands the offer made by Mr M to become his apprentice.
Now, it is not beyond the wit of the everyday man in the street to understand why he offered me this, but the level of risk he was taking in exposing his own unlawful practices had to be ameliorated, if not offset altogether.
That risk was indeed cleverly countered by Mr M who had taken the trouble to confirm my true identity and that of my mother. He had assistance from a number of valued ‘customers’ within the Civil Service, shall we say. He knew I was trustworthy enough to keep secrets. For one so young, I held many better than a vault at the Bank of England. Thus, the binding contract was made and I had seven years of learning ahead of me.
Mr M was a thoughtful master. He gave me a special gift in recognition of my acceptance of his tutelage. A fine antique polished medicine cabinet, which had once belonged to a ship’s doctor. He had a small brass plaque made with my initials engraved on it. My false initials, G.C. Within, there were a variety of bottles, glass vials, earthenware storage jars, a small pestle and mortar, minuscule silver spoons, and dainty pillboxes in crafted drawers. It was thing of beauty to me, and remains so as I gaze at it now.
That had solved another part of the puzzle. The engraved plaques had been added much later in the cabinet’s life. How brilliant it was to have such detailed provenance with my antique. I was going to stop what I was doing and return to the usual household chores and routines that awaited me, but I couldn’t prevent myself from reading on.
This form of education is never completed, and so it was that for twenty years, I worked alongside Mr M senior. His son took on my previous role, and, being a qualified pharmacist, he could dispense prescriptions as the honest face of the business. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, much cash was being generated by less lawful means in exchange for unusual remedies, and in absolute secrecy. This business plan made perfect sense.
The business thrived, leaving less time for Mr M and myself to take on special assignments of our own and out of necessity we became discerning as to which contracts we chose.
Mr M wholeheartedly approved of my moral approach to justice and the pair of us would keep a close eye on the news, on court reports, on inquests, and especially the verdicts from the Coroner’s Court. Specifically, we were keeping our beady eyes open for cases where justice was seen not to have been done, or where there had been a technicality preventing a sound verdict, despite irrefutable evidence of guilt. We targeted rapists, sex offenders, murderers, and serial killers, some of whom were unprincipled poisoners. They were unlike ourselves in every respect.
Mr M and I performed a most valuable service to society. We were the new Resistance. We were vigilantes in the true sense of the word. Vigilant for the personification of evil.
This required a strict code of conduct, thorough vetting procedures, impeccable planning and execution. Mr M had learnt valuable lessons over the years. Mistakes that I was keen not to repeat.
There are key areas for consideration in the tools used by a poisoning mercenary, for that is what we were, in essence.
The overriding question as you read this will be, why poison?
Why would I, as the daughter of a woman falsely accused of poisoning become a poisoner?
The answer is more straightforward than you would care to imagine.
8
‘Oh my God! G.C. is a woman!!’ I shouted out loud. Deefer, who was sitting expectantly waiting for his dinner, jumped as if startled by my sudden outburst. ‘She’s a woman,’ I repeated breathlessly. Deefer pricked up his ears at such an amazing revelation. Picking up the journal from where I had dropped it, I read the whole thing again from the start to the point of my discovery that G.C. was female.
‘Bloody effing Nora!’ I exclaimed, using one of my best friend’s alternative swear phrases. Holding G.C.’s secrets in my hands was superbly thrilling. I had experienced the odd coincidence in life, who hasn’t? But this was astounding by anyone’s standards. Had the cabinet found me at the auction? Were all the journals in my possession? I needed to know for certain because I did not want to miss one word of what G.C. had to share with me. The only way to tell was to read them word for word.
‘Shit.’
I had let time run away with me and Max would be home soon, with no dinner awaiting him. This would be viewed as a failure in my wifely duties and an infringement of the unwritten rules of our marriage. He would know that I had distracted myself again and he had not yet forgiven me for spending so much time on my academic studies over the last year.
Max knows how to twist the thumbscrews of guilt when necessary.
Dashing into the kitchen with Deefer at my heels, I racked my brains to arrive at a quick supper recipe. I stood flapping my arms at the contents of the fridge, seeking inspiration. Irritatingly, I was horribly distracted from the task in hand because I was desperate to know who G.C. was. She had already given me enough clues, but I strained my memory banks trying to recall a case of three family members being poisoned; a father, an aunt, and a grandmother. I had read about this. I knew this case.
My memory bank is more of a memory library. I always thought everyone had one. My memory library can be a little slow in revealing its hidden facts, but as I stood at the fridge, with the door open, nothing was forthcoming. As I hurriedly prepared my cheat’s version of pasta al forno for dinner, I searched it once more for information about who G.C. might be.
At last, it came to me. ‘Gotcha!’
When Max arrived home, I played the dutiful wife as required, prioritising his needs for a while, by deliberately cosseting him. ‘Hard day at work again?’ Kiss. ‘You’ll feel better after a hot shower. Dinner’s nearly ready.’
Once he had eaten his fill and parked himself sprawled in front of the television, it was not long before he drifted off into a cosy sleep alongside Deefer on the settee.
Free to finish the duties of the scullery maid, I washed up and tidied the kitchen, before commencing my mission to find the story of a well-known poisoning, which I was sure happened around the 1930s. I had read it in a book. All I had to do was to find that book in my extensive collection. When I did, it was such an immense relief to unearth exactly what I had been looking for that I sat down on the spare bed, clutching the book as if it were a precious artefact.
‘You’re Grace’s daughter … are you a Grace too? Or a Georgina? I don’t know anything about you,’ I whispered to the book. A slightly dog-eared paperback written in the 1970s, which had detailed documentation of the poisonings and inquests into three deaths, held the information I needed. Late 1920s was the era. This must mean that the prime suspect, Grace, could not be G.C., as she would have been in her early thirties at the time. She could not have been a young adult during the Second World War. Her daughter would have been. The young G.C. had been less than ten years old at the time the deaths in her family had occurred. She was barely mentioned anywhere in records of the inquests and yet they must have had a profound impact on her life.
I could easily imagine the young G.C. becoming protective of her mother and desperately seeking an answer as to who the real culprit was. She would never have considered her mother to be guilty, and it appeared, by what she had written, that she believed that her uncle was to blame. How frustrating that nothing was ever proved.
G.C. and I had much in co
mmon, and I anticipated she would have a lot to teach me about poisoning through her writings. I assumed she too was named Grace, and that was how I referred to her from then on. Such a tingling ran up my spine when I read her words about understanding the habits of intended victims, and leading others to believe suicide was the cause of death. How apt. For my dreadful discovery of Jan’s body had appeared to be just that. Suicide.
Was it? Could Liam Brookes have been sitting opposite her at her kitchen table, forcing her to swallow tablets? Unlikely. Did she really have good reason to kill herself? Was Liam really in France or had he returned and taken Jan’s money? Had he fooled her and everyone else, like Father Raymond said? Was it Liam’s leg I had seen as he headed out of her back gate?
Without a doubt, if I had taken the journals upstairs for bedtime reading I would have been awake all night, and Max would have been furious. So I decided to ration my doses of excitement to the evenings after work. I had so much on my plate already that a good night’s sleep was a priority.
Max woke up from his doze on the settee in good time to go straight to bed, where he lay wide awake. Irritatingly he chose this time of day to reflect on matters financial, work, and bike related. As we sat in bed I pretended to listen as he chatted but never once did he ask about my day. He was more interested in what I had planned for the next evening as far as food was concerned.
‘I have no bloody idea. I’ll rustle something up, don’t worry, you won’t starve.’
‘I tell you what, I’ll cook tomorrow,’ he offered. ‘Chinese, a kebab, pizza, or curry?’
We agreed on curry for the following night, and eventually Max drifted into a deep sleep, again. The only sounds he made, apart from his sonorous breathing, were the ones of tuneless windy trumpeting as he flatulently deflated.
