by S K Rizzolo
As the gig traveled up Fish Street Hill, Chase and Caldwell inhaled the odors of horses, sewage, and fish mingling with the reek of the cows plodding to the slaughterhouses near Leadenhall Market. The gig joined the coaches that inched past the spire of St. Magnus and the soaring but ugly column of the Monument, which had been erected in commemoration of the Great Fire. A few minutes later Chase pulled up in a dingy court off Gracechurch Street close to the coaching inns, where the mail and stage-coaches departed. It had occurred to him that if someone from Laurentum had wanted to conceal a journey to purchase the poison, he or she might have boarded a public coach from Clapham to Gracechurch Street and found a local shop. Now Chase would discover if his instincts had steered him right.
The shop featured a sign above the door that was lettered with the proprietor’s name—Obadiah P. Pope, Chemist and Druggist—and decorated at either end with the same green sprig Chase had found on the medicine bottle with the torn-off label. A set of small-paned windows displayed a host of vessels and jars with painted labels, some with colored water. On one windowpane a notice announced: Surgeon and Apothecary in Constant Attendance. Enquire Within. Caldwell gave a fastidious sniff and followed Chase inside.
The chemist was a large, shambling man with stooped shoulders and heavy hands that trembled as he pressed them together in a nervous desire to please. He employed a shop-boy, whose shock of mud-colored, uncombed hair seemed to give him no end of bother, flopping across his forehead and into his eyes. Armed with a vigorously wielded broom, he sent his master occasional looks of scalding contempt.
Caldwell’s lips tightened as he looked around. The half light woven through the bottles in the windows revealed a scratched mahogany counter behind which was a tall set of drawers with wooden knobs for the chemist’s powders, roots, and herbs. Above these drawers were still more shelves of earthenware jars and bottles. The vessels all appeared to bear labels, but how the chemist ever found what he needed was a mystery. Here and there stacked on tables in the corners and heaped in piles on the floor were broken pots, pill jars and containers, boxes of lozenges and pastilles, even tarnished shoe buckles of various sizes. Arranged on the countertop next to a brass scale were bottles of eau de cologne and elderflower and rose water.
Chase presented his gold-crowned baton. “Mr. Pope? John Chase, Bow Street. I have some questions for you about a purchase of your restorative tonic. This your bottle?” He set the green glass vial on the counter.
Despite the innocuous nature of the question, the chemist seemed to shrink before their eyes. The hands that had been resting on the counter began to twitch. Becoming aware of this fact, Pope gripped his right hand over his left, slid out the left and thrust it down again on the right. The motion was repeated as his watery and almost colorless eyes studied Chase anxiously. He did not pick up the bottle.
“You wish to ask about a purchase,” he said, offering this statement, as though Chase might have forgotten his own words. “My restorative tonic. My patrons do purchase it frequently.” He cast a sidelong appeal at Caldwell.
“I am in a hurry,” said Chase. “You won’t waste my time like you did with the man I sent to inquire.”
Pope blanched. “Waste your time? Oh, no, sir. I’m sure I won’t. But I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do,” said the shop-boy with evident pleasure. “The little man what was here yesterday. You was too scared to talk to him. Me, I would have given him a kick in the arse if I wanted ’im out of the shop, but not you. No, you just run like a rabbit into the back and hide till the fellow took hisself off.”
The chemist made no effort to quell this disrespect, merely hunching his shoulders still more and sagging toward the counter. “Be quiet,” said Chase sternly, and the boy moved away to resume his sweeping but remained close enough to hear every word of the conversation.
“Fetch your ledgers,” Chase said to Pope. “I’m interested in your sales of the last few weeks. You sell any poisons?”
The shop-boy gave a loud snort. “Ledgers? You’ll not get very far there, sir. Told him time and again that we’ll be closing our doors if he don’t learn to manage better. Does he care? He’s too much the fool to know his own incompetence, no matter how many times I remind him. Not him. You ask him, and he’ll say he stands well before the world. He thinks everyone likes him, he does. But he’s a sniveling, crawling, mean-hearted little worm, he is.”
“My friend told you to shut your mouth.” Caldwell took a step toward him.
Hastily, the boy withdrew a few paces, but nothing could banish the sneer on his countenance. He subsided, however, continuing to watch the scene with interest.
“We are in a hurry,” Chase said. “If you have no records, you must search your memory.” He paused, then indicated the bottle. “Perhaps a week or two ago? Someone bought a bottle of this tonic? A stranger?”
The hands twisted and writhed, engaged in their own bizarre dance. “I don’t remember anyone in particular. I sell this tonic to many people. It is popular, sir, especially with the ladies.”
Chase held the chemist’s eyes. “Can you recall any particular ladies, Mr. Pope?”
“A lady purchasing my tonic?” whined the chemist.
“A lady—or anyone. Anyone you remember.” Suddenly he wanted to bloody the sniveler’s nose, but he kept a tight rein on his temper. “How many bottles have you sold in the last fortnight?”
“How many bottles have I sold? It’s difficult to say—maybe a dozen?”
“Right. To whom? Describe these customers.” Chase held up a hand. “Not their names, sir, but their general appearance. Anything you can tell me about them, especially those who were strangers to you. I need to know what else they bought—especially that, Mr. Pope.”
“God save me,” said the shop-boy. “If you don’t tell ’im about her, I will. I said it was a rum go, and I was right.” He smirked at Chase. “There was a lady, sir.”
“Old or young?”
“Well now, I didn’t see her face, so you’d best ask ’im about that.”
Obadiah P. Pope burst out with a stream of words, as if eager to get the ordeal over. “A respectable lady. Her dress, a gown of black silk. Her voice, refined. Worried about a young woman of her acquaintance, who required relief from distressful feelings. Confusion and giddiness. Troubling images presenting themselves to the mind. Insomnia. Pulse: quick and weak. The lady did me the honor to tell me the whole of the patient’s symptoms.” The chemist’s voice broke off; then he added mournfully, “Young ladies are such hypochondriacal creatures. They must have a discharge of bile. Pure air. The healthy exercise of their muscles. They do keep themselves too confined, sir.”
“You are a disgrace. What do you know about it?” snapped Caldwell. “You merely recite something you’ve read in a magazine. God, the harm the quacks like you do.” He put his hands on the counter, drawing back in disgust as he felt its stickiness.
Chase addressed the shop-boy. “You weren’t here?”
“No, sir,” the boy replied, puffing out his narrow chest. “Himself had sent me on an errand, and I come in just as she was going out the door. But I know what she bought. If there’s trouble here, you won’t find me mixed up in it.” He jerked a thumb at his master. “You won’t credit what this one gets up to in my absence.”
Pope wrung his hands. “What could I do? How was I to know? I made her a batch of my restorative tonic. No harm there. Tincture of Peruvian bark, one dessert spoonful. Ten drops of aromatic elixir of vitriol. An ounce of pure water. Sugar and ginger to taste.”
Chase and Caldwell exchanged a glance. “He’s right, Chase,” said the surgeon. “Nothing out of the ordinary in that. You can buy such nostrums at any druggist.”
“Ah, but you see, that wasn’t all.” Chase turned to Pope. “You sold her a packet of arsenic, didn’t you?”
“A packet of arsenic,” Pope echoe
d in desperation. With a heroic effort, he pushed the writhing hands down behind the counter. “She said the young lady had a rash. She meant to add some of the arsenic to water for a wash and mix the rest in lard for an ointment. Less caustic that way. I warned her, sir. I warned her, and I wrote ‘POISON’ on the wrapping.” He shuffled back and forth on his feet and avoided looking at any of them. “I am not to blame. I serve the customers. How can I help it if they ask for it? She…she has used the arsenic to destroy herself?”
“No,” said Chase wearily. “To murder.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Penelope and Lewis entered Hugo Garrod’s property at a side gate that led into one of the wooded walks formed of slender birch trees. The weather was gloomy, a summer shower threatening to descend. Lewis was quiet, apparently occupied with his own thoughts, and Penelope’s heart sank to see again that closed expression that had so often daunted her since they had been living under the same roof. In the last few days she’d observed his animation when in the company of Marina Garrod. Penelope had grown, if not exactly to love the girl, at least to appreciate her resilience and strength of character. And Penelope had learned that guiding her brother would be a difficult task.
All her old worries about Lewis’ future came swarming back as they trudged in silence. If he didn’t want to go to university as their father commanded, he must be established in a profession, though what that was to be, and where the money would come from, she had no notion. She’d been wondering whether that profession could possibly be the law. But she knew Lewis had been disappointed in Buckler today. He had wanted Buckler to suggest a clever legal maneuver likely to achieve a brilliant success and a heroic rescue of a damsel in distress. Now it seemed a defeat to walk through these grounds, go tamely into the house, pack their bags, and go. She felt that too.
The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and a ray of light gleamed in the rivulet that trickled along the path. Penelope’s hopes quickened. Lewis was young. If his heart had been touched by Marina Garrod—so far above him in station—he would recover, and Penelope would find a way to solve their other problems. They emerged from the shrubbery, and the house appeared above them like a pearl in its elegant setting.
She broke the silence. “They want us gone, Lewis. We’ll wait as long as we can for Mr. Chase. Then we’ll gather our things and make our farewells. Agreed?”
He sent her an inscrutable glance. “Agreed.”
“Lewis?”
“Go upstairs and pack, Penelope. I’ll meet you in the hall.”
“We promised Mr. Chase we wouldn’t do anything foolish,” she reminded him.
“And we won’t.” He smiled, and she was so sharply reminded of her father that her throat tightened. She gazed up into his face, trying to decide if he could have grown another inch in the last week, and saw that he was already a man. More of her burden lifted. She could not be his mother. She must instead be counselor and trusted friend and sister.
“What are you going to do?” Penelope asked.
He told her. “Lewis!” she said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll rejoin you soon. I promise.”
She sighed. “Be careful.”
***
Penelope thanked the footman for carrying her valise and fumbled in her reticule for a coin. It seemed absurd that she had been worrying about the proper gratuities to bestow on Garrod’s servants, but so it was. She didn’t think she had forgotten anyone who had waited upon her. She would keep the rest of her cash for the coachman who would drive her and Lewis back to town. When she got downstairs, she found Niven, the butler, waiting.
“It’s been a pleasure to serve you, ma’am, even under these distressing circumstances,” said Niven, bowing.
She smiled at him. “Thank you. May I say that you and your staff have been magnificent? It can’t have been easy.”
Something flickered in his eyes. She thought he likely knew more of Marina’s plight than he would own to an outsider; no doubt all the servants did. “No, madam,” he agreed. “Some of the younger housemaids have been quite upset, but we are returning to our usual routine.”
Penelope studied him. Garrod’s butler was typical of the breed. He had a forgettable face and a manner so assured as to be undentable. Even a flicker was a response from him. “Has a tray been brought to Miss Garrod this morning?” she asked.
There was a pause. He said, “No, ma’am. We’ve been told she is asleep and not to be disturbed.”
They regarded one another somberly. “Will you give her my regards and thanks?” said Penelope, feeling awkward. “I can’t be sorry to have come to Laurentum and made the acquaintance of the family. I hope they will soon find…peace.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. We all hope that.” He glanced toward the staircase, obviously curious about where her brother could be, so she hurried into speech. “Can you tell me where Miss Honeycutt and Mrs. Yates are? I’d like to make my farewells in person.”
“I believe Mrs. Yates is below-stairs, but Miss Honeycutt has gone to the hothouse to walk among the plants. Shall I call the coach for you and Mr. Durant, ma’am?”
“In half an hour,” she replied coolly.
Thanking him, she went down the passage and into the drawing room. The curtains had been drawn to protect the furniture, and the room, though immaculate, looked somehow pathetic. She was remembering Hugo Garrod’s immense pride in his house and gardens. He had created something beautiful at Laurentum, with attention to every detail, and now even the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece managed to look forlorn, as did the Sevres porcelain and the rich blue of the Axminster carpet showing the moon and a glittering constellation of stars. She did not linger but crossed the room and opened the door to the garden.
The sun strove through the clouds, too weak to warm the day. Rain spattered her gown as she followed the path, admiring the way the softer, gray light revealed the subtle hues of the greens, yellows, and browns in the flowerbeds. As she approached the hothouse, she encountered a bright-faced old man who materialized from a smaller side path, carrying a spade over his shoulder. On an impulse she stopped. “You’re Higgins, aren’t you?”
Lowering the spade, he touched his hat. “Yes’m. Do something for you?”
“Some information, if you please. You were the one who found the seeds of the exotic plant in the boiler room?”
He nodded, wary.
Penelope gave him a smile. “Mr. Garrod showed me and my brother the mechanism on the day of the party. My brother was terribly interested, though I confess it was all a little technical for my tastes.”
“Yes, ma’am. It do take some learning to understand all that.”
“Indeed. Mr. Garrod was justly proud of his modern improvements, wasn’t he?”
The gardener’s face fell, and Penelope caught the sheen of tears in his eyes. To give Garrod his due, he had earned the loyalty of his staff. He had drawn the servants into his schemes; he had inspired them to do all they could to make his dream perfect. She thought this odd, considering that the dream’s riches could never drop down upon them. “He was a good master to you?” she said softly.
Stroking his chin, Higgins pondered the question. “That he was, ma’am,” he said at last. “He liked things just so. Cut up rough if one of his people didn’t follow orders or do his part. But he was fair, and he had a pleasant way about him. I’m old, see. Never expected he’d be in his grave before me.”
“No one ever does expect someone younger to die, Mr. Higgins. I’m curious. Did Mr. Garrod mention a problem with the steam mechanism that heats the hothouse? I understand you were told to go down and inspect it on the day before the inquest?”
“Mrs. Yates mentioned the matter to me, ma’am. She was busy with the preparations for the funeral and came to discuss the flowers needed for the laying out o’ the corpse. She recalled as how Mr. Garrod had told her the water pipe was
leaking. Imagine that, ma’am—he was worrying over such a thing while mortal ill. Surely that were his way. But he were mistaken. Not a thing wrong with that pipe or anything else. I made just a few adjustments, and it were tip-top.”
“Mrs. Yates? Was she alone when she said this to you?”
Higgins’ white eyebrows wiggled in surprise. “She was, ma’am. She were that fretted on the matter.”
***
Thanking the gardener for his time, Penelope stepped into the hothouse. She heard voices but could not immediately see the speakers who stood behind several tall plants. After a moment, she picked out a voice that was pitched low and penetrating, familiar yet unfamiliar. It wasn’t until it lifted into a higher register that she recognized it as that of Anne Yates. Then she identified the second voice: Beatrice Honeycutt. Penelope glanced down at her feet. Today she had worn her soft leather slippers instead of her half boots, not having expected to do any walking. As she crept closer, she gripped the folds of her dress to stop it from rustling against the urns on the walkway, her pulse quickening with excitement and fear.
“What are you doing in here, Beatrice?” Mrs. Yates scolded. “I need you in the house.”
Beatrice was harder to hear, her responses high and pleading, but Penelope caught her next words. “…promised she would not be harmed. It’s not right, ma’am.”
“She won’t be, you foolish girl. You didn’t answer my questions. Was Marina sleeping when you left her? Is there any sign of that John Chase? Did you tell the servants that he must not be allowed on the property?”
“No…when…”
“Beatrice! Go back at once. Did you tell Todd to give Marina more laudanum?”
“….we dare not…dangerous for her.”
