by Sarah Penner
At once, a memory struck me. “Nella, after we harvested the beetles and you told me about Frederick, you said that if you’d bled again, you might have stopped this long ago.”
Nella looked sharply away, as though my question had just struck the side of her face. “Yes,” she said between clenched teeth. “Perhaps I would have. But you are too young to understand what I meant, so you may forget I said it at all.”
“When will I be old enough to understand?”
“There is no set age,” she said, checking the buttons on her coat. “When your womb is ready to carry a baby, you will begin to bleed, once each month as the moon makes her route across the sky. It is a passage, child. Into maturity.”
I frowned. As the moon makes her route across the sky. Didn’t Mrs. Amwell say something similar on the night I began to bleed, the night we killed her husband? “How long does the bleeding last?” I asked.
Nella looked at me strangely, her eyes narrowed, as though reconsidering me. “Three or four days, sometimes more.” She lowered her voice. “Did your mother, or Mrs. Amwell, never tell you any of this?”
I shook my head.
“Are you bleeding now, child?” she asked.
Suddenly embarrassed, I said, “No, but I did a few days ago. It hurt very much—my belly felt swollen and cramped.”
“And it was the first time?”
I nodded. “It happened right after Mr. Amwell’s death. I feared he did it to me—”
Nella raised her hand and smiled softly at me. “A mere coincidence, child. You are blessed, and more so than me. I only wish you’d told me sooner. I could have mixed something up to ease the cramping altogether.”
I wished I’d told her sooner, too. For the first time since the death of Mr. Amwell, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that the bleeding might not have been his wicked spirit taking hold of me. Could it have been simply the monthly bleeding of which Nella just spoke? A passage into maturity? I had never thought of myself as a woman—only a child, a girl.
I wished to think on it longer, but there was no time. We should have left long ago.
Nella’s register was still open on the table, and I glanced down at it. She had opened it to the year 1770, more than twenty years ago. The page was badly damaged; a dark red stain, like wine, smeared across the side.
Why had Nella returned to this old entry? Perhaps she meant to turn back the pages of her life—to remember the early days, before it all began. When this page was written, Nella’s heart was not yet scarred. Her joints were not yet swollen and stiff. Motherhood, and her own mother, had not yet been taken from her. Perhaps she’d revisited the entry because she meant to remember these things: the honorable work she once did, the sort of apothecary she could have been, the virtuous woman her mother wanted her to be.
All of it, thrown aside in the bitter wake of Frederick’s betrayal.
Nella caught me looking, then closed the book with a loud snap and led us to the door to go our separate ways.
26
Caroline
Present day, Wednesday
In a dingy, windowless room on the third floor of St. Bartholomew’s hospital, I sat across from two male police officers, my notebook between us. A nauseating odor permeated the airless room—antiseptic and floor cleaner—while a fluorescent light buzzed and flickered above us.
The lead officer spun my notebook to face him, tapping his finger on the incriminating words: Quantities of non-poisons needed to kill. I braced myself, fearing what else he might see on the page of my hastily jotted notes. The word arsenic was asterisked, for God’s sake.
I wanted desperately to search for James, who’d been rushed down the long corridor leading to the critical care unit. But instinct told me this would not be wise; the unshaven officer sitting in front of me would slap handcuffs on me before I even made it to the hallway. Leaving was not an option.
Suddenly, I had a lot of explaining to do.
I held my breath, praying the officer didn’t look farther down the page. If he did, how could I begin to tell him the truth? Where would I even start? Would I begin with my unfaithful husband arriving in London unplanned, or my breaking-and-entering into a serial killer’s apothecary shop, or my reason for having eucalyptus oil in my toiletry bag at all? Every scenario stood against me; every explanation seemed either too implausible or too coincidental.
I feared my version of events would do more harm than good; I was emotionally wrecked and unable to form a clear thought, much less a coherent sentence. But given James’s condition only a short while ago, time was of the essence. I needed to find a way out of this, and quick.
As the second officer excused himself out of the room for a call, the first cleared his throat and addressed me. “Ms. Parcewell, do you care to explain what’s in this notebook?”
I forced myself to focus. “These notes are related to a historical research project,” I insisted. “Nothing more.”
“A research project?” He didn’t hide the dubious expression on his face as he leaned back in his chair and spread his legs apart. I stifled the sudden urge to vomit.
“About an unsolved mystery, yes.” At least that much was true. It dawned on me that maybe the whole truth wasn’t necessary—maybe the partial truth was enough to get me out of this predicament. “I’m a history major. I’ve been twice to the British Library, investigating an apothecary who killed people a couple hundred years ago. The notebook contains my research notes about her poisons, that’s all.”
“Hmm,” he mused aloud, crossing one leg over the other. “Seems a fitting story.”
This was precisely my concern. I stared at him, dumbfounded, resisting the desperate urge to throw up my hands and say, Okay, asshole, come with me and I’ll show you a few things. He pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket and began to scribble down words, some of which he underlined with rough, chalky strokes. “And you began this research when?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Just a couple of days ago.”
“And you’re visiting from where?”
“The States, Ohio.”
“Have you ever faced criminal charges?”
I spread out my hands in disbelief. “No, never. Nothing.” The back of my neck began to itch. Not yet, anyway.
Just then, the second officer returned to the room. He leaned against the wall and tapped his boot on the floor. “We understand you and your husband are having a bit of a...rough patch.”
My jaw fell open. “Who—” But I steadied my voice; the more defensive I appeared to these men, the worse off I’d be. “Who told you that?” I asked, feigning calm.
“Your husband has been slipping in and out of consciousness; the charge nurse—”
“So he’s okay?” I restrained myself from lunging out of my chair and making my way to the door.
“The charge nurse,” the officer started again, “has begun to ask him a few additional questions as they get him hooked up to his IV.”
Heat rose to my face. James told the nurse we’re having a rough patch? Was he trying to have me arrested?
But I reminded myself: so far as I knew, James was unaware of the predicament I now found myself in. Unless the police had told him that I was under interrogation, he had no knowledge of the terrible turn of events that had landed me in front of these officers.
The lead officer tapped his pencil against the table, waiting on my response to James’s claim. To improve my own situation, I considering rejecting it, insisting James had lied about our rough patch. But wouldn’t it look even worse if I accused James of being a liar? The officers were inclined to believe the person in the critical care unit, not the healthy wife with the suspicious notebook—so if James told them we were having marital struggles, I couldn’t deny it. The reality of the situation hardened around me like the steel bars of a jail cell. Maybe it was time
to start thinking about an attorney.
“Yeah,” I relented, preparing to unleash my only line of defense: James’s infidelity. It was unfortunate for him that, just as I’d begun to process the reality of what had happened, I found myself wanting to use it against him. “I found out last week that he—” But I stopped myself. It was no use to reveal to these two men that James had cheated on me. It wouldn’t turn them on him, I felt sure of that; it would only serve to make me look vengeful and, perhaps, emotionally unstable.
“James and I learned, last week, that we have a few things we need to work through. I came to London to get away for a few days. I meant to be here alone. Call the hotel and ask the registration desk. I checked in by myself.” I straightened, looking the second officer in the eye. “In fact, James showed up in London unplanned, with almost no warning. Go ask the nurse. James can’t deny it.”
The two officers eyed one another warily.
“Let’s finish this conversation over at the station,” the officer across from me said, glancing toward the door. “I sense there’s something you’re not telling us. Perhaps our sergeant will have more success.”
My stomach clenched; a sour taste flooded my mouth. “Am I—” I paused, gasping. “Am I being arrested?” I looked around helplessly for a trash can in case I needed to vomit.
The second officer placed his hand on his hip, near the dangling handcuffs. “Your husband—with whom you are having marital problems—is down the hall, fighting for his life after ingesting a harmful substance that you gave him. And your ‘research notes,’ as you call them, mention substances ‘needed to kill.’” He emphasized the last three words as he unlatched the handcuffs from his hip. “Those are your words, Ms. Parcewell, not mine.”
27
Nella
February 11, 1791
If the departure from my shop was to be a temporary one, I would have reached into the cabinets—beginning with my mother’s, along the side wall—to withdraw certain sentimental items I wanted for safekeeping.
But death was permanent. What earthly objects, then, did I need?
I could not tell this to Eliza, of course. After she helped me with my coat—my strength, mercifully, had returned for the moment on account of the frankincense—we stood together at the threshold, ready to leave, and I was forced to give appearance that I would come back to this place after the crisis had passed.
My eyes fell on the line that Eliza had drawn in the soot on her first visit and the clean, unblemished stone hiding underneath the filth. My breath caught. From the moment of her arrival, this child had unwittingly begun to unravel me, to expose something inside of me.
“Is there nothing you want to take? Your book?” She pointed at the register in the center of the table, the one I had just slammed shut. Contained within were the thousands of remedies I had dispensed over the years, harmless draughts of lavender alongside deadly, arsenic-laced puddings. But more important were the names of the women recorded inside. I could open the book to any page at all and easily recall the memories of the women within, no matter their ailments, betrayals or boils.
The book was evidence of my life’s work: the people I had helped and the people I had hurt, and with what tincture or plaster or draught, and how much and when and on account of whom. It would be wise for me to take it, so the secrets could sink with me to the bottom of the Thames; the words smeared, the pages dissolved, the truth of this place destroyed. In this way, I could protect the women within the register.
Yet to protect them was to erase them.
These women were not queens and great heiresses. Rather, they were middling women whose names would not be found in gilded lineage charts. My mother’s legacy embodied the brewing of potions to ease maladies, but it also meant preserving the memory of these women in the register—granting them their single, indelible mark on the world.
No, I would not do it. I would not erase these women, obliterate them as easily as I’d done with the first batch of cantharides powder. History might dismiss these women, but I would not.
“No,” I said at last. “The book will be safe here. They will not find this place, child. No one will find this place.”
A few minutes later, we stood in the storage room. The hidden door to my shop was closed and the lever latched. I placed my hand on the top of Eliza’s head, her hair soft and warm against my fingers. I was grateful that the frankincense had numbed more than just my bones, for my innermost turmoil had also been tempered. I was not breathless or forlorn, nor did I await the rushing water with any sense of dread.
I considered it fitting that in the final moments of my life, I was aided by one of the many vials on my shelf. In life and in death, I relied on the palliative nature of what sat inside those glass bottles, and I was reminded, then, of more good memories than bad: more births than murders, more blood of life than of death.
But it was not only the frankincense that gave me comfort in this decisive moment; it was also the company of little Eliza. Despite the fact that her error had brought all of this upon us, I chose not to harbor ill feeling toward her, and instead I regretted only the day that Lady Clarence left me her letter. Indeed, if it weren’t for her renown and her scheming lady’s maid, I would not be in the predicament I now found myself.
Yet, there was no use in looking back. In the face of this hard goodbye and, very soon, my own departure from life, Eliza’s inquisitive spirit and youthful energy were salves upon my heart. I never met my own daughter, but I suspected she would have been much like the girl standing next to me. I put my arm around Eliza’s shoulder and pulled her close to me.
With a final glance behind us, I led Eliza out the storage room door. We stepped into the alley, the cold air wrapping around us, and began to walk. “Up here—” I motioned to where Bear Alley opened up to the avenue “—you will continue on to the Amwell house, or wherever it is you choose to go, and I will go my own way.”
In the corner of my vision, Eliza nodded. I moved closer to her, as a final, invisible goodbye.
We did not make it but twenty steps before I saw them: three constables wearing dark blue coats, walking straight toward us, their faces grim. One of them carried a rod in his hand, as though the shadows of the alley scared him, and I could faintly make out a scar across his left cheek.
Eliza must have seen the men at the same time—for, without speaking a word or exchanging a glance, we began to run. Together we instinctively headed south toward the river, away from them, our sharp breaths in harmony with one another.
28
Caroline
Present day, Wednesday
As the officer unlatched the handcuffs from his belt, a cell phone rang from somewhere in the small room. I remained frozen, waiting for one of the officers to answer it, then the hazy disorientation cleared from my brain; the phone ringing was mine.
“It might be about James,” I said, lunging for my purse, not caring if the officers tried to slap the cuffs on me before I could answer it. “Please, let me take it.” I put the phone to my ear, bracing for the worst. “Hello?”
On the other end of the line was a cheery, if not slightly concerned, voice. “Caroline, hey, it’s Gaynor. I’m just calling to check on things. Is your husband doing okay?”
God, what a dear she was. If only the timing wasn’t so terrible. The lead officer watched me closely, bouncing his foot lightly on his knee. “Hi, Gaynor,” I replied, my voice stiff. “Things are okay. I have—” I paused, aware that my every word was being closely monitored, maybe even recorded. “I’m dealing with a situation right now, but I promise I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
I gazed at the nearest officer, the one with handcuffs out and ready. My eyes fell on his badge affixed to his left hip: a sign of his position, his authority. Suddenly, like a rush of fresh air in the room, it dawned on me that Gaynor’s position at the library might work in my
favor.
“Actually, Gaynor...” I pushed the phone harder to my ear “...perhaps you could help me with something.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Anything.”
“I’m at St. Bartholomew’s,” I told her, drawing an odd look from the officers.
“The hospital? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m on the third floor, near the critical care unit. Could you possibly make your way over here? It’s quite a long story, but I’ll explain when I can.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll head that way in a few.”
My shoulders sagged with relief. “The woman on the phone is a colleague and friend,” I told the officers after I’d hung up the phone. “She works at the British Library, and she’s been helping with my research. Whether you decide to arrest me or not, I hope you’ll hear what she has to say first.”
The men glanced at each other, and the one across from me made another note in his book. After a few minutes, he checked his wristwatch and drummed three fingers on the table.
It was a last-ditch effort. Gaynor had no knowledge that I’d broken into the apothecary’s shop or snapped pictures of the register, and at no point in our research together did we take notes on things like opium, tobacco or arsenic. I prayed the officers wouldn’t show her the notebook, but I had to accept the risk. I’d rather come clean with Gaynor than get arrested for something I didn’t do.
Eventually, one of the officers found Gaynor in the waiting area; she stepped into the small room with a terrified look on her face, probably thinking the presence of officers signified that something tragic had happened to James. I hadn’t meant to cause her such alarm, but it would be impossible now to share any private words with her.
