by Sarah Penner
One morning, while I was carefully arranging dried herbs on a platter, a housemaid rushed downstairs. Mrs. Amwell wanted to see me in her drawing room. Terror struck me at once. I felt sure I had done something wrong, and I ascended the stairs slowly, held back by a sense of dread. I had been at the Amwell house not even two months; my mother would be horrified if I were dismissed in such a short time.
But when I stepped into my mistress’s pale blue drawing room and she closed the door behind me, she merely smiled and asked me to sit down next to her at her writing desk. Here, she opened a book and produced a blank sheet of paper, a pen and an inkwell. She pointed at several words in the book and asked me to write them down.
I was not comfortable holding a pen, not at all, but I pulled the page close and steadily copied the words as best I could. Mrs. Amwell watched me closely as I worked, her brow knit together, her chin in her hands. When I finished the first few words, she selected several more, and almost immediately I noticed an improvement in my own pen strokes. My mistress must have noticed it, too, for she nodded approvingly.
Next, she pushed aside the sheet of paper and lifted the book. She asked if I understood any of the words, and I shook my head. She then pointed at several of the shorter words—she, cart, plum—and explained how each letter made its own sound, and how words strung together on paper could convey an idea, a story.
Like magick, I thought. It was everywhere, if only one knew to look.
That afternoon in the drawing room was our first lesson. Our first of countless lessons, sometimes twice a day—for my mistress’s condition, which I’d first noticed at the registry office, had worsened. The tremor in her hand had grown so severe, she could no longer write her own correspondence, and she needed me to do it for her.
In time, I worked in the kitchen less and less, and Mrs. Amwell called me often to her drawing room. This was not well received by the other household staff, Sally most of all. But I didn’t worry myself over it: Mrs. Amwell was my mistress, not Sally, and I couldn’t refuse the ganache balls and ribbons and penmanship lessons by the drawing room hearth, now, could I?
It took me many months to learn to read and write, and even longer to learn how to speak like a child who had not come from the country. But Mrs. Amwell was a wonderful tutor: gentle and soft-spoken, wrapping my hand in hers to form the letters, laughing with me when the pen slipped. Any lingering thoughts of home vanished; it shamed me to admit, but I did not want to see the farm, not ever again. I wanted to remain in London, in the grandeur of my mistress’s drawing room. Those long afternoons at her writing desk, when I was burdened only by the gazes of the jealous servants, were some of my best memories.
Then something changed. A year ago, when the roundness of my face began to fall away and the edge of my bodice grew tight, I could ignore it no longer: the feeling of another gaze, a new one, and the sensation that someone watched me too closely.
It was Mr. Amwell, my mistress’s husband. He had, for reasons I could only faintly understand, begun to pay attention to me. And I felt sure my mistress sensed it, too.
* * *
It was almost time. My bellyache was not so bad anymore; moving about the kitchen seemed to help. I was grateful for it, as following Nella’s instructions would require me to be careful and steady. A slip of my hand, which might be laughed about in my mistress’s drawing room, would be very bad today.
The two smaller eggs sizzled in the pan. The fat spit onto my apron while the white edges of the egg bubbled and curled. I remained still, concentrating, and spooned the eggs from the pan when the edges reached the color of honey, just as the mistress liked. I placed her eggs on a plate, covered them with a cloth and set them far aside. I then spent a few minutes tending to the gravy, which was Nella’s suggestion.
As the gravy thickened, I realized it was the final moment to undo what I had not yet done, to strip out the thread which had not yet been sewn in. If I followed through, I would be like one of those men at Tyburn that I’d heard about at the hanging day fairs: a criminal. Gooseflesh scurried across my skin as I thought of it, and I considered briefly the idea of lying to my mistress—telling her that the poisoned egg must have been too weak.
I shook my head. Such a lie would be cowardly, and Mr. Amwell would remain alive. The plan—which Mrs. Amwell had set into motion—would fail because of me.
I wasn’t meant to be in the kitchen at all today. Last week, Sally had asked Mrs. Amwell for a few days away to visit her ailing mother. My mistress had readily approved and, afterward, called me to her drawing room for another lesson. But this lesson was not about penmanship or letter-writing; it was about the hidden apothecary shop. She told me that I was to leave a note in the bin of pearl barley just inside the door of 3 Back Alley, and that the note should specify the date and time I meant to return for the remedy—which was, of course, a deadly one.
I did not ask my mistress why she meant to harm her husband; I suspected it was because of what happened a month ago, just after the new year, when my mistress left the house and spent the day at the winter gardens near Lambeth.
That day, Mrs. Amwell had asked me to organize a pile of her letters, giving me several dozen to sort before leaving for the gardens, but I could not complete my task because of a headache. Midmorning, Mr. Amwell stumbled upon me with tears on my cheeks; the pressure behind my eyes had become almost unbearable. He insisted that I retire to my room and sleep. A few minutes later, he offered me a drink that he said would help, and I sucked down the sharp, honey-colored liquid as quickly as I could even though it made me cough and gasp. It looked like the brandy my mistress sometimes sipped from the bottle, though I could not fathom why anyone would willingly drink such a thing.
I slept away the headache in the quiet, sunny comfort of my room. Eventually, I woke to the smell of animal fat—a tallow candle—and my mistress’s cool touch on my forehead. The ache in my head had gone. Mrs. Amwell asked me how long I had been asleep, and I told her truthfully that I did not know—that I had lain down midmorning. It is now half ten at night, she told me, meaning I had slept for nearly twelve hours.
Mrs. Amwell asked if I had had any dreams. Although I shook my head, the truth was that a faint memory had begun to form, one I felt sure was a dream I’d had only a few hours ago. It was a memory of Mr. Amwell in my garret room; he had lifted the fat tabby cat from her place on my cot and set her into the corridor, then closed the door and approached me. He took a seat next to me, placing his hand on my stomach, and we began to talk. Try as I might, I could not remember what we discussed in the dream. He then began to move his hand upward, sliding it along my navel, when one of the footmen made a commotion downstairs; a pair of gentlemen had arrived, needing to speak urgently with Mr. Amwell.
I admitted this story to my mistress, but I said that I did not know whether it had been a dream or real. Afterward, she remained at my side, a concerned look on her face. She pointed at the empty brandy glass and asked if Mr. Amwell had given it to me. I told her yes. She then leaned in close and placed one of her hands on mine. “Is it the first time he has done so?”
I nodded.
“And you are well now? Nothing hurts?”
I shook my head. Nothing hurt.
My mistress eyed the glass carefully, tucked the blankets in close around me and wished me goodnight.
It was only after she had gone that I heard the soft cry of the tabby cat outside my room. She was in the corridor, mewing to be let inside.
* * *
Now, I handled each of the larger eggs like they were made of glass. It was a tricky thing, to be sure, and I had never given so much thought to the pressure with which I cracked an egg. The pan was still very hot, and the yolks began to cook almost instantly. I feared to stand too close, lest I breathe in any poisonous odors, so I tended the eggs with a long, outstretched arm, and soon my shoulder ached like it did when I used to climb trees
in the country.
Once cooked, I removed the two larger eggs to a second plate. I smothered them in gravy and threw the four eggshells into the rubbish bin, straightened my apron, and—being very sure to place the poisoned eggs on the right side of the tray—I left the kitchen.
The master and mistress were already seated, engaged in a quiet discussion about an upcoming banquet. “Mr. Batford says there will be a display of sculptures,” Mrs. Amwell said. “Procured from all over the world.”
Mr. Amwell grunted in response, looking up at me as I entered the dining room. “Aha,” he said. “Here we are.”
“Beautiful things, he’s promised.” My mistress rubbed at her collarbone; where her fingers touched, the skin was red and splotchy. She seemed jittery, even though I carried the tray of poisonous eggs, and this annoyed me somewhat. She had been too scared to retrieve the eggs herself, and now she seemed unable to calm her nerves.
“Mmm-hmm,” he said to her, his eyes never leaving me. “Bring that over here. Quickly now, girl.”
Stepping close to him from behind, I lifted his plate from the right side of the tray and carefully set it in front of him. As I did so, he reached his hand behind my legs and delicately pulled the heavy fabric of my skirt upward. He ran his hand over the back of my knee and upward to my lower thigh.
“Lovely,” he said, finally pulling his hand away and lifting his fork. My leg itched where he touched it, an invisible rash beneath my skin. I stepped away from him and set the second plate in front of the mistress.
She nodded at me, her collarbone still flushed. Her eyes were sad and dark, as dim as the maroon rosettes on the papered wall behind her.
I took my place at the edge of the dining room and waited, still as stone, for what would come next.
8
Caroline
Present day, Monday
When I woke later that night, the nightstand clock showed 3:00 a.m. I groaned and turned away from the dim red light, but as I tried to fall back asleep, my stomach began to churn and an unsettled sensation left my skin damp and hot to the touch. I pushed the covers back, wiped sweat from my upper lip and stood to check the thermostat. It was programmed in Celsius, not Fahrenheit, so perhaps I’d accidentally set it too warm the day before. I shuffled my feet along the carpeted floors, stopped to steady myself and threw my hand against the wall.
Suddenly, I heaved.
I dashed for the bathroom, hardly making it to the toilet before vomiting up everything I’d eaten the day prior. Once, twice, three times I retched, my body limp over the toilet.
Afterward, as my stomach unclenched and I caught my breath, I reached for a washcloth on the counter. My hand knocked over something small and solid. The vial. After I’d returned to the hotel, I’d taken it out of my purse and set it on the bathroom counter. Now, to prevent myself from nearly shattering it, I tucked the vial safely at the bottom of my suitcase and returned to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Food poisoning in a foreign country, I thought to myself, groaning. But then I covered my mouth with trembling, damp fingers. Food poisoning, or...something else. Hadn’t I been queasy a couple times yesterday, too? I’d hardly eaten anything, so I couldn’t blame that nausea on bad food.
It felt, at once, like a terrible joke—if I was indeed pregnant, this was not how I imagined it happening. I’d long dreamed about the moment that James and I learned the news together: the happy tears, the celebratory kiss, rushing out to buy our first baby book. The two of us, together, celebrating what we’d made. And yet here I was, alone in a hotel bathroom in the wee hours of the morning, hoping that we hadn’t made anything at all. I didn’t want James’s baby, not right now. I only wanted to feel the uncomfortable, heavy ache of my imminent period.
I fixed myself a cup of hot chamomile tea. Sipping it slowly, I lay in bed for a half hour, wide-awake and waiting for the nausea to pass. I couldn’t bring myself to consider the idea of taking a pregnancy test. I’d give it a few more days. I prayed travel and stress were to blame—perhaps my period would start later tonight, or tomorrow.
My stomach began to settle, but the jet lag left me awake and alert. I spread my hand over the right side of the bed, where James should have been, and twisted the cool sheets in my fingers. For a brief moment, I couldn’t resist the truth: a part of me missed him terribly.
No. I released the sheets from my grip and turned onto my left side, away from the empty space next to me. I would not let myself miss him. Not yet.
As if James’s secret hadn’t burdened me enough, there was something more: so far, I’d only told my best friend, Rose, about my husband’s infidelity. Now, awake in the middle of the night, I considered calling my parents and revealing everything. But my parents had paid for the nonrefundable hotel stay, and I didn’t have the courage to tell them that only one of us had checked into the suite. I’d tell them when I returned, after I’d had time to think things through—after I’d decided what the future of my marriage looked like.
At last I gave up on sleep and turned on the nightstand lamp, then pulled my cell phone off the charger. I opened up my internet app and hovered my fingers over the keyboard, tempted to search London attractions. But the big sights, like Westminster and Buckingham Palace, were already listed inside my notebook with opening times and entry fees—and still, none of it appealed to me. I could hardly stomach James’s absence in the spacious hotel room; how could I possibly stroll the winding paths of Hyde Park and not feel the empty space beside me? I’d rather not go at all.
Instead, I navigated to the website for the British Library. While chatting with Gaynor in the Maps Room, I’d seen a small card advertising the online database search. Now, jet-lagged and feeling unwell, I burrowed deeper into the cotton bedsheets and decided to do a bit of digging.
Tapping my finger on Search the Main Catalogue, I typed two words: vial bear. Several results appeared, varying widely in subject matter: a recent article from a biomechanics journal; a seventeenth-century book on apocalyptic prophecies; and a collection of papers retrieved in the early nineteenth century from St. Thomas’ Hospital. Clicking on the third result, I waited for the page to load.
A few additional details appeared, namely the creation date of the documents—1815 to 1818—and the acquisition information about the documents. The site noted the papers were acquired from the south wing of the hospital and included documents belonging to both staff and patients of the ward.
Toward the top of the search result was a link to request the document. I clicked the link and sighed, expecting that I’d be required to register with the library and request the physical document. But to my surprise, several sample pages within the document had been digitized. In moments, they began to materialize on the screen of my phone.
It had been a decade since I’d last done this sort of digging, and I couldn’t help the sudden rush of adrenaline in my chest. To think that Gaynor spent day after day in the British Library with full access to archives like this left me nearly writhing in envy.
As the image sharpened, my screen flashed with an incoming call. I didn’t recognize the number, but my caller ID said the call originated from Minneapolis. I frowned, trying to remember if I knew anyone from Minnesota. I shook my head; must be a telemarketer. I declined the call, settled deeper into the pillow and began to read the sample pages of the document.
The first several pages were irrelevant: names of hospital administrators, a lease document and a signed copy of a will—perhaps signed while the patient was on their deathbed. But on the fourth page, something caught my eye: the word bear.
It was a digitized image of a short, handwritten note, the writing jagged and faded in several places:
22 October 1816
To men, a maze. I could have show’d them all they wish’d to see at Bear Alley.
That a killer need not lift her long, delicate hand. She need not touc
h him as he dies.
There are other, wiser ways: vials and victuals.
The apothecary was a friend to all of us women, the brewer of our secret: the men are dead because of us.
Only, it did not happen as I intend’d.
It was not her fault, the apothecary. It was not even mine.
I lay blame unto my husband, and his thirst for that which was not meant for him.
The note was unsigned. My hands began to shake; the words bear and vial were present, meaning this was definitely the page that hit my search keywords. And the author of this note, whoever she was, clearly meant to share a heavy secret while she was indisposed at the hospital. Could this have been a deathbed confession of some kind?
And what of the line all they wish’d to see at Bear Alley? The author of the note alluded to a maze, implying she knew the way through. And if there was a maze, it seemed only logical that something valuable—or secretive—would be at the end of it.
I chewed at a fingernail, at a complete loss over the meaning of this strange wording.
But it was something else that struck me the most: mention of the apothecary. The author of the note said the apothecary was a “friend” and a “brewer” of secrets. If the secret was that men were dead—and clearly not by accident—it seemed the apothecary was the common thread among their deaths. Like a serial killer. A chill ran through me as I pulled the sheets closer.
As I examined the note again, an unread message notification on my email inbox flashed. I ignored it, instead jumping over to Google Maps and quickly typing Bear Alley, London, as mentioned in the first phrase of the note.
In an instant, a single result displayed: there was, indeed, a Bear Alley in London. And to my utter disbelief, it was close—very close—to my hotel. A ten-minute walk, no more. But was it the same Bear Alley referenced in the note? Surely some streets had been renamed in the last two hundred years.
