by Sarah Penner
Lady Clarence sucked in a breath, her throat rattling. “But she was gone, and my husband, too, and the crystal glass of liqueur with them. I could not believe I’d missed it—that he’d stepped away with her in that short time, and I had missed it. I was sure, in that moment, I would never lay eyes on her face again, and I imagined the two of them running off to his library or back to the carriage house for the final time. I took comfort in this, you know.”
As she told her story, I remained still, envisioning it all before me: the dinner table of puddings and evening gowns, the fig liqueur, the fine green powder hiding in the viscid shadows of it.
“But then I grew anxious,” Lady Clarence continued, “thinking perhaps it was all happening a bit too fast, and I worried that in her state of lust, she may forget the liqueur altogether and not drink the required amount.” She paused, looking around. “Might I have some wine to calm my nerves, please?”
I rushed to my cupboard, poured her a glass and set it in front of her.
“I began to panic, Nella, and considered searching them out, confronting them, asking her to join the ladies in the drawing room. Instead, I remained frozen at my seat while Mariel continued to spout on about Lyon, and I prayed that at any moment my husband would come into the room, telling me something terrible had happened to her, his dear cousin.” Lady Clarence looked down at the floor and suddenly wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
“Then I saw a ghost approaching from the corridor. The ghost of Miss Berkwell. Oh, how I nearly cried out! I stifled it, thank heavens—how strange that would have seemed to the dinner guests—but I soon learned it was no ghost. It was her, in flesh and blood. I knew it by the mole on her neck, red and inflamed, as though my husband’s lips had just been on it.”
A small moan left her throat. “She came out with such a look of fright. She is just a young thing, and so small. She nearly collapsed into the arms of the first person she saw, Lord Clarence’s brother, who is a physician. Immediately, he rushed down the corridor from which she’d just come. There were people everywhere, running this way and that in a complete uproar. From down the hall, near the library, I heard shouts and cries, something about his heart having stopped, and I rushed to see him. He was still clothed, thank God. And as I suspected, on a small table next to the chaise was the empty crystal glass. He must have drank the entire thing. Oh, Nella, I did not know it would happen so quickly!”
“I told you half the jar would kill him in an hour. How much was in the glass?”
The look of anguish on Lady Clarence’s face fell away, transformed into something like guilt. “I believe my maid used all that was in the jar.” She let out a cry, slumping forward in her chair, while I gasped in disbelief; it was no wonder he died within moments.
But Lady Clarence seemed as distraught about Miss Berkwell’s behavior after the fact as she was about her dead husband. “Would you believe that as I sat there looking at his dead body, Miss Berkwell approached me and placed her arms around me, and began to cry? ‘Oh, Lady Clarence,’ the girl wailed, fig fruit stinking on her breath, ‘he was like a father to me!’ And I thought it a sick thing to say, and I had half a nerve to ask her if she liked to prig her own father, too!”
Lady Clarence let out a final, hideous laugh, her eyes sunken as though spent from the telling of her tale. “And now I am the widow of a wealthy man and will never want for anything except for the thing I most want, which is a child. How utterly bitter on the tongue, even to say it! I will never have a child, Nella, never!”
A statement with which I could well relate, yes. But something about her story began to tug, to worry me. “You say his brother, a physician, was the first to administer to him?”
She nodded. “Yes, a kindly man. He declared my husband dead not five minutes after Miss Berkwell came into the dining room in a mad fright.”
“And he did not seem worried by the empty glass sitting next to the chaise?”
Lady Clarence shook her head, sure of herself. “He asked about it, to which Miss Berkwell immediately claimed it as her own. She said they’d been in the library so he could show her a newly acquired tapestry, as she claims some recent interest in the textile arts. And she could hardly reveal that he shared of her drink, could she? For then it would be clear they were doing more than just enjoying his art.”
“And the jar?” I asked. “You hid it somewhere, or destroyed it?”
“Oh, yes. My lady’s maid put it on a shelf at the very back of the cellar. Only the cook has any reason to go digging back there. I’ll dispose of it as soon as I am able to sneak down there. Tonight, perhaps.”
I exhaled a small sigh of relief, grateful that the canister remained hidden. But even if it were found, not all would be lost; this was precisely why the jars and vials about my shop were naked, save for the small engraving of the bear. “Though it is not traceable to me,” I urged, “best to get rid of immediately.”
“Most certainly,” she said, chastised. “Anyhow, I thought it curious you would have engravings on the jar.” She delicately wiped her nose, composing herself. A lifetime of rigid manners could not be so easily forgotten.
“Just that of a little bear,” I said, pointing to a small canister on a nearby shelf. “Like that one. So many jars are similar in appearance. Imagine if someone were to administer a drop from the wrong bottle, and the wrong person—” I stopped myself, ashamed of what had nearly slipped from my tongue, given the story she had just told.
But she didn’t seem to notice as she frowned and walked to the shelf. She shook her head. “My jar had this image, but there was something else.” She lifted the jar and turned it on its side. “No, these aren’t the same. My jar has something on the other side of it. Words, I’m sure of it.”
A faint rumble crawled through my belly, and I let out a nervous laugh. “No, you must be mistaken. What words would I dare place on a jar of poison?”
“I assure you,” Lady Clarence said. “There was something written on it. Jagged letters, as though it had been etched into the clay by hand.”
“A scratch, perhaps? Or dirt, just rubbish,” I suggested, the pressure in my stomach rising upward into my chest.
“No,” she insisted, irritation in her voice now. “I know words when I see them.” She threw me an exasperated glance and returned the jar to its shelf.
Though I was listening to her words, I did not fully hear them; the tap tap tap was too loud, and the story which Lady Clarence had just shared no longer seemed her crisis alone. Like I had just sipped from the crystal glass of cantharides myself, I choked out her name: “Eliza.”
A memory began to crystallize. Yesterday afternoon, just before Lady Clarence arrived to retrieve the poison, Eliza had selected the jar that would hold the powder. I hadn’t paid any attention to the jar she selected, for any within easy reach were etched with the bear logo and nothing more. Only those deep in the back of my mother’s cupboard were marked otherwise.
“Eliza, yes, where is she today?” Lady Clarence asked, unaware of the storm brewing inside of me.
“I must find her immediately,” I gasped. “The cupboard...” But I could not speak another word, much less explain myself to Lady Clarence, for I could not think about anything except making haste to Warwick Lane, where I would find the Amwell estate. Oh, how I prayed she was there! “And you,” I said to Lady Clarence, “go, now! Get the jar immediately and bring it to—”
“Your eyes are that of an animal,” she cried. “Whatever is the matter?”
But I was already moving out the door, and she followed close behind. As I stepped outside, I did not feel the cold against my skin or the tightness of my shoes against my swollen ankles. Ahead, a flock of blackbirds took flight; even they were scared of me.
At some point, Lady Clarence went her own way—to retrieve the jar, I prayed. I continued onward, rushing up Ludgate Street, the cathedral ris
ing high above me. The Amwell estate was very close now, only a couple of blocks ahead.
As I neared my turnoff to Warwick Lane, I spotted a small, shrouded figure on a bench ahead, near the churchyard. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? My heart surged as I observed the light, playful manner in which this mysterious figure turned the pages of the book in her lap. I was close to the Amwell home; it would not be out of the realm of possibility to encounter Eliza at any moment.
My hopes were soon confirmed: it was undoubtedly her. Not an hour ago, I feared the child may be fear-stricken and morose, but that did not seem the case whatsoever. For, as I drew closer, I saw indeed that as the girl perused the book she wore a wide smile, as fresh and bright as a bloom.
“Eliza!” I shouted when we were only meters apart.
She jerked her head toward me. Her smile fell, and she clutched the book to her chest—but it was not the book I gave her. This one was smaller, and the cover a lighter color. “Eliza, oh, do listen to me, for it is very urgent.”
I reached for her, bringing her into a hesitant embrace, yet she remained stiff in my arms. There was something odd with her; she was not pleased to see me. This morning, I had wished to be a distant memory of hers, yet now I found myself offended by it. And what of her smile a moment ago? What had happened recently that left her in such a gleeful state?
“You must return to the shop with me, child, for there is something I need to show you.” In fact, I needed her to show me from exactly which cupboard she withdrew the jar.
Her gaze was flat, unreadable, but her words were not. “You sent me away. Remember?”
“I do remember, but I also remember telling you that I feared something terrible was about to happen, and it has. I want to tell you all about it, but—” I glanced at a man walking close by, and lowered my voice “—I cannot do so here. Come with me now, I need your help.”
She clutched the book tighter to her chest. “Yes, fine,” she mumbled, glancing at the dark clouds building overhead.
We made our way back to the shop, Eliza silent next to me, and I sensed she was not only confused by my stealing her away, but irritated that I had seized her attention from whatever she busied herself with a moment ago. As we drew close to the shop, I hoped to find Lady Clarence inside, returned with the cursed jar in her hand—and indeed if that were the scene we came upon, my question for Eliza would be unnecessary. But could I really send her away again so soon?
It was of no matter, for the shop lay empty and Lady Clarence had not yet returned. I sat down at the table, feigning calm, and wasted not a moment. “Do you remember putting Lady Clarence’s powder into the canister?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eliza said quickly, her hands neatly folded in her lap, as though we were strangers. “Just as you said, I retrieved a proper-size jar from the cupboard.”
“Show me,” I said, a small tremble in my voice. I followed Eliza one, two, three steps across the small room, and she crawled onto her knees, opened a lower cupboard, and leaned her little body in. She reached to the very back and I clutched my belly, fearing I may vomit.
“Back here,” she said, her voice distorted as the sound echoed inside the wooden cabinet. “There was another one just like it, I think...”
I closed my eyes, terror finally rising in me and seizing my throat, my tongue. For this cupboard, the one in which Eliza now found herself halfway inside, was full of my mother’s things, including treasures with which I could not bear to part, old remedies of which I’d had no need, and yes, a terrible, shuddering yes, several of her old containers that I knew for certain were engraved with the address of her once-reputable apothecary shop.
The address of this shop, which was not so reputable anymore.
Eliza’s tiny body slithered out of the cupboard, and in her hand was a cream-colored jar—about four inches high, one of a pair, 3 Back Alley hand-engraved onto the side of it. Without her saying another word, I knew its mate was in the cellar of Lady Clarence’s stately home. A familiar, sour burn rose in my throat, and I placed my hand on the cupboard to steady myself.
“It was like this,” Eliza said, her voice hardly more than a whisper, her eyes downcast. “The one with the powder looked like this.” She slowly, bravely looked up at me. “Have I done something wrong, Nella?”
Though my hands itched with the urge to strangle her, what did the girl know? It was a terrible misunderstanding—the room was full of shelves, and was it not my own fault for asking her to choose a canister? Was it not my own fault for bringing the girl into this shop of poisons in the first place?—and so I resisted the urge to slap her flushed face, and instead, I placed my arm around her. “Did you not read the jar, girl? Did you not see the words on it?”
She began to cry and sucked in a breath full of snot and tears. “It hardly looks like words,” she hiccuped. “See here, just a few messy etches. I cannot even properly read what it says.” And while she was correct—the impression was old, nearly illegible—it remained nevertheless a terrible oversight on her part.
“But you know words from a picture, don’t you?” I said.
She nodded slightly. “Oh, I am so sorry, Nella! What does this say?” She squinted as she attempted to read the words on the jar. I slowly traced the fading outline of the words, running my finger along the fat loops of the 3 and the letter B.
“Three B—” She paused, thinking. “Three Back Alley.” She set down the jar and crumbled into my arms. “Oh, can you ever forgive me, Nella?” Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed uncontrollably, tears dropping to the floor. “If you are arrested, it will be all my fault!” she said through her hiccups.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “Shhhhh.” And as I rocked her forward and back, forward and back, I was reminded of baby Beatrice. I closed my eyes and put my chin on Eliza’s head, and thought of how my own mother had done this after she’d grown very ill; how she had comforted me when I was sure her end was near. I had cried so hard with my face nuzzled into her neck. “I will not be arrested,” I whispered to Eliza, though I did not entirely believe it. Lord Clarence was dead, and the weapon—with my address on it—was still in his cellar.
The tap tap tap had not left me, and the demon in my skull was not yet at rest. I continued to rock Eliza back and forth, hushing her tears away, thinking of the lies my own mother told me about her illness and the severity of it after she fell sick. She had sworn she would live many more years.
And yet she had died in only six days. As a result, I had spent a lifetime wrestling with the abruptness of that grief, the incompleteness of it. Why didn’t my mother tell me the truth and use her last days to prepare me for a lifetime alone?
Eliza’s dewy tears began to dry. She hiccuped once, twice, then her breathing slowed as I continued to rock her back and forth. “All will be well,” I whispered, so quietly that I could hardly hear my own words. “All will be well.”
Two decades after my mother’s death, I found myself reassuring a child exactly as my mother had reassured me. But to what end? Why did we go to such lengths to protect the fragile minds of children? We only robbed them of the truth—and the chance to grow numb to it before it arrived with a hard knock on the door.
21
Caroline
Present day, Wednesday
Within the recesses of Back Alley in the subcellar of an old building, the hidden door swung open, revealing the tiny space behind the wall of crumbling shelves. I lifted my phone and shone the light around, reaching my hand to the wall, suddenly unbalanced. It was so dark in this room-within-a-room, darker than anywhere I’d ever been.
My single beam of light illuminated the details around me: several wall-mounted ledges sagged under the weight of milky, opaque glass containers; a wooden table with a buckled leg dipped at a slant in the center of the room; and just to my right stood a counter with a metal scale and what appeared to be boxes or books laid out on its flat
work surface. The room looked very much like an old pharmacy of sorts—exactly the type of place an apothecary might keep her shop.
My phone beeped. I frowned and looked at the screen. Shit. The battery was at 14 percent. I was shaking and terrified and exhilarated and I couldn’t think clearly, but I’d be damned if I stayed in this place without a light to guide me out.
I decided that I better make it quick.
With trembling hands, I flipped off the flashlight and opened my camera app, turned on the flash, and started taking pictures. It was the only logical thing I could think to do at the moment, given I’d just found something which, truly, could be worthy of international news. “London Tourist Solves 200-Year Old Murder Mystery,” the headline might read, “Then Returns Home to Begin Marriage Counseling and Start New Career.” I shook my head; if there was ever a time to remain rational, it was now. Besides, I’d solved nothing.
I snapped as many pictures as I could, each time the room bursting alive under the glare of the bright white flash. As I took the first few pictures, the flash provided a rapid, fraction-of-a-second view of the room: there was a hearth, I thought, at one corner, and a single mug lay on its side underneath the table. But after the first few shots, the camera flash left white, floating dots in my vision; the effect disoriented me, and soon I could hardly keep myself standing upright.
Nine percent. Vowing to leave when the battery hit 3 percent, I considered how to best use the remaining battery life. I looked again to my right and snapped a picture of the counter—the flash helped me confirm that it was books, not boxes, that I saw a moment ago—and then I opened the largest book, which was lying flat on the work surface. Some of the words within appeared to be handwritten, but I couldn’t be sure. In the black cover of absolute darkness, I opened the book to a dozen random pages, taking pictures of each one. I might as well have been blindfolded, because I had no idea what I was taking photos of. Would the words even be in English?
