The Apothecary's Curse

by Barbara Barnett

  After swiftly tossing the ouroboros book in his messenger bag, Gaelan flung it to the bookcase just as the door splintered in two.

  “I hear tell you’ve taken up with my Lil, Erceldoune!” Predictably, there was Tremayne, flanked by two men, each dragging a cudgel.

  Sucking in a breath, Gaelan stood firm, unmoving. “Not taken up, Tremayne, fixed up, and from what you’ve done to her!”

  “Ain’t none of your bloody business to tell my Lil she shouldn’t be working. You cost me, Erceldoune. Every bloody time. Lil’s my best girl, and she refuses to work this night or the next, or the one after that, till you say it’s bloody all right!”

  This was different from the usual—rarely would these encounters evince conversation. What is he up to? Staying calm was his best ally. Aggression was as pointless as trying to appeal to whatever feelings Tremayne might have toward a girl he housed and clothed. “Lil is sick. She shall grow sicker still if you force her—in any way—to work or anything else, if you catch my drift, Mr. Tremayne.”

  “Ah, never mind all that, Erceldoune. Never mind at all. My sweet Lil has told me a lovely little tale about some sort of special concoction you’ve made up for some highborn gent, something to cure . . . cancer, is it? And from what I’ve heard, nothing can cure that scourge. So I have to think, what are you up to, a reputable apothecary like you? You’re no street mountebank, and I’ve got to thinking that you’ve got something might make me a pretty penny, more than the girls do, I venture. I could retire in fine fashion, wash the stink of this place from my clothes at last!”

  What had Lil overheard? Gaelan shoved down a growing panic. “I’ve no bloody idea what you’re talking about. You’re not making sense, sir!” Gaelan stared straight ahead, hands balled into fists, trying to recall what she might have been privy to while sipping her tea. And even if she had heard—and understood—any of his conversation with Bell, she would never betray him to Tremayne. Unless he’d beat it from her, or . . .

  “Ahhh. Go on!” He laughed. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. They know it too.” Tremayne gestured to the men at his side. “Were right there with me, listening to Lil squeal like a gutted pig.”

  Gaelan knew this was not to end well. “To speak true, Mr. Tremayne, I do not know what you’re talking about.” He ventured a step back, then another, until he felt the smoothness of the wall behind him.

  “No? More’s the pity. I can only assume, then, that Lil was lying to set me off her and on a merry little worthless chase to you. Well, she’ll pay for it; make no mistake. As for you, I’ve warned you ’fore this many a time to keep your bloody hands off my girls. And apparently, you place no value upon your life or business.” Tremayne’s soft sing-song belied the menace in his voice.

  Gaelan shuddered, remaining silent, his gaze fixed upon one of the cudgels, as he waited for the first blow. Instead, the men doused the clubs with pitch and oil before touching them to the hearth flames; a suffocating-sweet haze filled the room.

  Gaelan smoothed his hands along the wall behind him until he reached a small bronze knob beside the bookcase. Counting his breaths, slow and steady, without taking his gaze away from the silk window curtains now ablaze across the room, he pressed the knob. The bookshelves slid from view, replaced by a masonry wall.

  Done. Now to escape . . . somehow. But the broken door was many feet away; the only other exit was in the next room.

  Tremayne smirked. “Clever, Erceldoune. I’ve a mind to get me one of those; never know when it will come in right handy. However, your books, wherever they have gone off to, will not be safe from fire. Paper burns, just like wood and silk, only quicker. I thought you would know that, being you’re a very clever man an’ all!”

  Little time remained until the entire building would be engulfed in flames. Once the fire reached his laboratory . . . Gaelan held up his hands in appeal. “Tremayne. Hear me. Hear. Me. Now. There yet remains but a small window through which we may back away from this precipice. I serve you and your men, repair their wounds and treat their ailments. There is none other in Smithfield. If you destroy my business—kill me—”

  “You think much of yourself, Erceldoune. Enough talk.” Tremayne nodded, and instantly the floor was ablaze. “See you in hell, apothecary!” he called out as they fled.

  Alone at last, Gaelan withdrew to his bedchamber and down the back passage toward the alleyway. Timothy! Oh, dear God. Black smoke followed him down the stairs as fire crackled and spat out burning embers of paper and wood. In moments, the conflagration would spiral through the turret and up to the laboratory, transforming it into a noxious cauldron of chemical reactions.

  The blaze had not yet reached the shop, but already smoke billowed through the ceiling from above as Gaelan made his way through the sea of shattered glass, rousting Timothy from his sleep.

  The entire building shuddered as they escaped into the street. People shouted, screams muffled by the fire’s roar as the laboratory went up, sending flares and flames like rockets into the night sky before the entire structure imploded. In the end, there was naught left of Gaelan’s home but steam and smoke, smoldering wood and fused glass.

  Gaelan led Timothy to a small iron grate set into the cobblestones. “Come quickly, Tim.” A steep ladder carried them from the street down into a deep cellar. The choking, acrid stink of burned wood and smoke faded from their nostrils as they descended farther into dark, stale air, the grate fast fading from sight high above them.

  Perhaps this is a sign that it is long past time to depart this place.

  They emerged into a large stone room, air chill and breathable, a welcome relief from the smoke and ash. Gaelan edged his way along the wall in the dark to a table. The room was bathed in a soft light as he touched a match to a filament inside a glass globe.

  Across the space, Gaelan spied his bookshelves, slid into place from the flat above. Pleased that his bit of ingenuity had actually worked, he allowed himself a moment to admire the achievement.

  “You see, Tim . . . ?” Gaelan turned around, ready to explain just how several hundred books managed to travel from the second story of the building into a hidden cellar—a lesson in ingenuity for his apprentice. But Timothy had already found the straw pallet, long ago prepared, and was sound asleep.

  Exhausted as he was, sleep was not something Gaelan could afford—not right now. Some unfinished business, and then he must depart London, soon as he was able.

  CHAPTER 12

  Simon refused to believe it as he stood in horror over Sophie’s prone body. She could not be dead. She cannot be dead. She cannot be dead! Simon reeled backward, staring in disbelief. It is not possible. “No! No, no, no!” he howled again and again, as if saying it would make it true.

  The contorted rictus smile pulled the white-gray skin of Sophie’s face tight—a skull wearing a mask. The line of red-black blood was dried and sticky on her chin and down her neck.

  Hands a vise, Simon shook her hard, the burning in his left hand a vague nagging. He prayed for a return of her convulsions—any sign of life at all. His entreaties echoed through the room, by turns plaintive and thunderous. “Do not leave me, Sophie. You cannot! Please, love, open your eyes for me! I promise I shall go out into the garden with you. I shall!”

  He’d forgotten Mrs. McRory was still in the room, and now she was at his side, pulling at his fingers to wrest them from Sophie’s arm. “Please, Dr. Bell,” she addressed him, a kindly grandmother. He shoved her away, sent her staggering into the armoire.

  “I am sorry, Mrs. McRory. But please leave me. Leave me now!”

  “Come with me, sir; we shall call your cousin. . . .”

  No, that would not do. He could not leave her side. Climbing into the bed beside Sophie, Simon brushed the long curls from her eyes, which stared, accusing him, wide and blank, from sockets already beginning to hollow in her lifeless face.

  “Oh my God, Sophie. What have I done? My love . . . you cannot be . . . You are only sleeping
; I am sure of it. You shall awaken. Do not leave me!” he bellowed, even as he forced her eyelids shut with his hand.

  “Dr. Bell, if you cannot bring yourself to leave just yet, allow me to settle you a bit.”

  Simon had no desire to be “settled” at all, but he let her guide him into a rocking chair. He was only vaguely aware of the blanket draped around his shoulders as he stared ahead unseeing.

  “My God, Dr. Bell. I am so very, very sorry. I will take my leave, but only to prepare you something to eat. You must keep up your strength, sir!” The door closed behind Mrs. McRory, and finally he was alone with her.

  There was something he ought to be doing, was there not? Calling for someone to come? But he could not reckon what to do or whom to call. The undertaker, certainly. James, perhaps. No! She shall awaken. It is only a matter of having patience.

  The full moon washed the room, glinting off the cobalt phial, which still sat upon the night table. He should hurl it across the room, shatter it into a million pieces. What a fool he had been to trust Erceldoune. My God, Sophie. What have I done? What have I done? How might he face James, Sophie’s parents, even his poor housekeeper, who had witnessed the act?

  Time ticked and the hours chimed, one bleeding into the next as he sat in the dark of Sophie’s boudoir.

  “I’ve set out some supper for you, Dr. Bell. You must be starved, sir, and you must eat.”

  Simon heard her, muffled through the heavy mahogany door. The mere mention of food made him queasy, and he ignored her plea. “I beg of you, Mrs. McRory. Do go away and leave me be!”

  Simon was not surprised to hear the doorknob turn and see his housekeeper once again at his side. “I hope you don’t mind that I sent for your cousin to come; he awaits you in the dining room.”

  No. Not James. But who else might be called? “Let me be a while longer . . . with her, would you be so kind? Tell my cousin—”

  “That I cannot rightly do, sir,” she interrupted. “You are in a terrible state; you should not be in there. Not like this. Not with her lying there. Please come with me downstairs.”

  “No. I cannot. What if she awakens? What then? She should not be alone.” What if the medicine works oddly and this is simply the way . . . ?

  Mrs. McRory placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I know, Dr. Bell. It is so hard to believe. But you must come now. Please.” She gently took his hand, guiding him from the chair. He recoiled from her grasp, standing upright as the blanket slipped from his shoulders into a pile at his feet.

  He mustered a poised and formal tone. “Tell James I’ll be down presently, Mrs. McRory, after I have washed.” She remained, unmoved, unconvinced.

  Simon puffed out a breath, acknowledging her concern with a nod. “You needn’t worry. Truly, I shall be down in just a moment,” he said a little too lightly. “If you would be so kind as to place a jug of hot water in my dressing room—”

  “Very good, sir. But mind you do not take long, or I shall send your cousin to fetch you himself.”

  Simon knelt again at Sophie’s still body, which had already gone stiff. All medicine is poison, and he supposed the more potent, the more venomous. Had his simple act—opening a bottle, exposing the contents to air—so altered the elixir as to make it poisonous? It was possible, this much he knew. Or had that been Erceldoune’s intent from the start, his worst suspicions about the apothecary proved tragically correct?

  With trepidation, Simon pulled back the bedcovers a last time for a final glance. He faltered, stunned and disbelieving. Impossible!

  The tumors had vanished!

  CHICAGO’S NORTH SHORE, PRESENT DAY

  CHAPTER 13

  Simon reread the e-mail:

  Dear Mr Danforth, I believe I may have in my possession the book about which you advertised on the Antiquarian Online site. Might I ask further about your interest in it? Might it be for your research, perhaps? A new Holmes? BTW: I am quite the fan, and would quite like to think I may be of assistance in this way if it is.

  Yours, Paul Gilles, DSc

  How many inquiries had Simon made over the years? Fifty? Seventy? All had led him to pay a small fortune sight unseen for interesting volumes, alchemy texts with the promise of hidden formulas and obscure language, most of which now sat in Gaelan’s shop, cluttering the shelves. And all of which Gaelan insisted were his in the first place, lost when he was arrested oh so many decades ago. But neither he nor Gaelan had ever turned up the ouroboros book.

  Gaelan believed Simon had long ago lost his mind pursuing a phantom that likely no longer existed. But he couldn’t give up. He owed that much to Sophie, no matter how spiteful, even malicious, she, or rather, her spirit, had become over the years.

  She’d scuttled every attempt he’d made at having a normal, intimate relationship with a living woman, turning up at the most inopportune moment possible. It was bloody maddening.

  “Malicious? Me? And who was the one rousted me from my eternal rest? And you have audacity to call me cruel?”

  Sophie stood inches from Simon, hands poised on her hips, expression haughty, but with a twinkle in her eye. More the seductive mockingbird tonight than the shrill shrike. She was attired in red this night—Victoria’s Secret—and her hair was drawn up in a jeweled feather comb.

  But how many minutes would it be before impatience and pure spitefulness ended this respite, changing her into the malevolent, shrieking specter he’d come to expect? But even then, she was, and ever would be, his beloved Sophie.

  He stopped suddenly as if to avoid her, knowing full well he could walk right through her. “Please, Sophie, not tonight, my dear.”

  Her fingers fanned, reaching out toward his cheek, her nails scarlet daggers. If she’d been real, his face would now surely be in shreds.

  Her lips pursed into a pout. “You insult me with your little betrayals. First, you summon me from beyond the grave, then you try to bed every young woman you meet!”

  “My dear, it has been nearly two hundred years, after all.” He’d given up on women of any sort a long while back. He might as well be living in a monastery.

  “Your friend Mr. Erceldoune seems to fare all right without . . . entanglements—”

  “Living like a monk in a small flat. Half out of his mind, hardly a life worth living.”

  “As if either of you has a choice!”

  “Soon, love. I’ll put it to rights, I promise. And we both shall finally rest, and on the same side.”

  Sophie laughed. It was a dissonant, deafening cackling. The vixen had vanished, transformed into a hideous wraith. Simon clamped his hands to his ears to stifle the terrifying sound, squeezing his eyes against the sight of her. And then she was gone, suddenly as she’d appeared.

  His footsteps echoed on the oak flooring as he strode angrily from one end of his study to the other. Halted by an inconvenient wall, Simon slammed his hand against the plaster in frustration and reversed course, considering the Bedlam discovery. All those years he and Gaelan had eluded exposure. Could those bloody diaries at last be their undoing?

  He’d once proposed to Gaelan that they reveal it themselves. It had been New Year’s Eve 2000, the turn of a new millennium, and after much to drink. “Out with it already. So what if the world knows? It’s the twenty-first century, and you’ve bloody discovered the secret to immortality. You’ll be rich beyond your dreams—a celebrity. What have you to fear?”

  Gaelan had been in the midst of an especially bad patch just then, and Simon didn’t know what else to do. It had been impulsive—and exactly the wrong thing to suggest. Gaelan had gotten that haunted, hunted expression—a rabbit about to bolt—insisting that Simon couldn’t possibly understand what sort of Pandora’s Box they’d open. And then Gaelan disappeared. Again.

  It had taken two years for Simon to find him, this time on a remote island off Vancouver. And he suspected that Gaelan was found only because he’d wanted to be found, grown exhausted of living on nightmares and loneliness. He’d been in desperat
e straits, beyond gaunt, sitting outside a run-down caravan in a rusty lawn chair, barely recognizable, stoned out of his mind.

  Simon hadn’t been serious about disclosing their not-so-little secret—not really. He had no desire for discovery either. When he’d been too long in a place, he would relocate to the Continent, to Africa, to Asia, only to reappear years later with a slight change of name, a descendent with a claim to Simon’s legacy: great-grandnephew, fourth cousin twice removed, great-great-grandson, and always bearing a copy of the will, guaranteeing his inheritance of Simon Bell’s fortune. He’d become as adaptive as one of Darwin’s tortoises, but never venturing so far from himself as to get lost in the maze of time and age. This most recent occupation of writing Holmes suited him, connecting him to home, his time and place. It kept him grounded, like Gaelan and his antiquarian books.

  With the discovery of the Bedlam diaries, Gaelan would likely withdraw entirely into himself, then slip away one morning, departing without a word. Simon could not let that happen, not again. Not now. Not with this strong feeling that the ouroboros book was finally within their grasps.

  “You tell me he is not your friend, yet here you are, living not ten miles from his home! And when he disappears, you follow. Spare no expense to find him.”

  “I need him to translate the book if . . . when . . . I recover it.”

  Sophie’s icy glare sliced through him; she was inches from his face. At least the banshee had vanished for the moment. She would not be moved until he confessed it.

  He sighed. “I owe him.”

  “For what you’d not the bollocks to do yourself.”

  Pressing his head against the cold, hard window pane, he allowed the cool moisture to release the tension in his brow. Sophie’s reflection appeared just behind his shoulder, in the darkened window. He pivoted, about-face, but she had vanished.

  He blinked and turned back toward his desk; there she was again. He hated when she did that.