The Apothecary's Curse

by Barbara Barnett

  There was little regret in the vicar’s countenance. Beads of sweat welled on his doughy face. He was afraid, but of whom?

  “Forgive me, sir. I have not come here to harangue you. Have I your leave, or shall you have me thrown off these lands as Kinston did a year back?” He would brook no small talk, no sympathetic platitudes from this sniveling toady. Gaelan gauged the height of the fence, contemplating how he might vault it, if need be.

  The vicar nodded, blowing out a breath. “Very well.” He unlocked the high gate and pointed in the direction Gaelan had been looking before he’d been interrupted. “You’ll find her grave at the base of yonder hill, beneath the acacia tree.”

  Gaelan approached the hillock, listening for footsteps in pursuit, hoping the vicar had not lost his nerve. The alabaster stone was polished and new, set amid the fragrance of new-mown lawn and the moist decay of autumn.

  “Lady Caitrin Arianna Kinston, Beloved Daughter and Mother.” Gaelan bit his lower lip, rage flooding his grief. The bond between them—ten years of marriage and a son, the earl’s own grandson—severed by a stonemason’s awl. Not even the anticipation of such coldheartedness mitigated the blow.

  He ran his hands across the deep carving of the headstone, engraving it upon his soul. But where was Iain’s grave? He ran from one marker to the next, frantic, crawling through the damp grass and debris, but it was nowhere to be found. Why would they not . . . ? Then, from behind, hoofbeats! There was no time! He whirled to find Kinston’s men surrounding him, rifles at the ready.

  “You shall leave, sir, and never return,” said one. “The next time we discover you on these lands, we shall call the magistrate. Be gone.”

  With little use in confronting the heavily armed men, Gaelan was forced to abandon all hope of finding his son’s gravestone. The family had gathered before the great house to witness from a distance his humiliation. They were all there—Kinston, his wife, even a serving girl, holding in her arms a young child—all staring at him derisively as he was marched off the estate.

  The midafternoon sun filtered dull orange-red through the dissipating smoke of Smithfield as Gaelan arrived at the White Owl Inn. The boisterous crowd was still buzzing about the blaze, uttering, “Thanks to heaven,” that no one had been killed and the injuries mild. “Ah, but you, Mr. Erceldoune! What of your shop? And what’s to become of you?”

  The publican Sally Mills stood in the midst of the crowd, three mugs in each meaty hand. Gaelan approached her, taking three of the brimming vessels from her. “Have you a room to let, Sally? And have you seen Tim around yet today?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Erceldoune. Yes, he’s yonder,” she said, gesturing with her elbow to a corner table as she shifted one of the mugs to her other hand. “Too bad about your shop; I’ve seen the ruin, but of course you’ll rebuild.” He followed her to a large table, distributing the mugs among the customers. “Meantime, consider the White Owl to be your home.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm.

  “The room’s not for me, Sally, but for Tim. I mean to leave London, quickly as I may.”

  “Leave? But why? Whatever shall we do without you? Lyle Tremayne will bring in one of his own—some charlatan to fleece us all and line his pockets! You can’t leave us. I’m more than happy to put you up on the house till you’re ready to rebuild.”

  Gaelan nodded. He well understood what would likely befall the good people of Smithfield if Tremayne had opportunity to put in an apothecary of his own choosing. “That I know well, my dear friend, but I’m afraid I cannot stay. I shall put in a word at the Apothecary’s Hall and find Smithfield a proper practitioner—perhaps better than me!”

  Timothy had spotted him and was now excitedly waving his arms. Gaelan smiled and began to make his way to his table. “Now, my darling Sal, bring us round bowls of that wonderful stew of yours, which even now intoxicates my senses. And pints of your finest.”

  “Shop’s a ruin, Mr. Erceldoune,” Timothy said, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know how we’re to rebuild—”

  “We cannot.”

  The food arrived, and Timothy devoured the stew quickly. Gaelan had no appetite, no matter how enticing the savory aroma. He pushed his bowl toward his apprentice, and finished off his ale in three gulps. After withdrawing two envelopes from his leather satchel, Gaelan set them on the table.

  “I’ll be gone in three days’ time, lad. And you shall return home to your father’s house. I’ve here a letter of introduction; you shall have no difficulty in finding another apothecary with whom to apprentice. You’re clever, and you’re an able assistant; you would do well to study the surgeon’s art as well, as I did long ago. The other letter is for your father and a return of monies not used, for he paid me ahead three months.”

  “But, Mr. Erceldoune, where shall you go? I can certainly follow wherever you set up a new shop. You shall need an assistant, of course, wherever you resettle—”

  Gaelan looked away. “No, Tim. I mean to leave England forever. Perhaps away to America.” Indeed, he had been in Smithfield too long by far. Soon enough, neighbors would take notice; no doubt Sally already had. They had all aged, Sal, Timothy, Tremayne—all but him. No wonder Tremayne suspected something peculiar. “No, my lad. Fortune be with you, but we shall never again cross paths.”

  Pulling Timothy into an embrace, Gaelan regretted severing himself once again from all he held dear. But there really was no other way. He gestured toward Sally, now arguing with a customer from behind the long bar. “Now mind her, and she’ll take care of you until it is time for your coach on the morrow. I’ve arranged your fare already.” Simon closed his bag, adjusting it over his shoulder and across his chest. He patted it, feeling within it the ouroboros book, determined never again to let it venture too distant from his grasp.

  “But—”

  Already out the door, squinting into the sun, Gaelan sighed, one task complete and his thoughts drifting to the next item on his list.

  “Gaelan Erceldoune?”

  He looked up; five men formed a semicircle before him, pistols raised. He took a step backward, tensing. What’s this about, then? It couldn’t be Kinston’s men chasing him all the way to Smithfield, and yet . . . Not Kinston’s, he realized: Tremayne’s men, sent to finish the task forgotten in their haste to flee the blaze.

  Perhaps this was a stroke of luck. They would shoot, and he would fall. Fifty witnesses would swear to his death, and he’d be carried off. Morning would come, and he would vanish, the body undoubtedly snatched by resurrectionists.

  Over his shoulder, the White Owl quickly emptied, the patrons watching with curiosity as the armed men approached. “I am Gaelan Erceldoune. What do you want of me?”

  “Gaelan Erceldoune, you are under arrest for murder, by order of the magistrate. You are to accompany us to the Old Bailey.” One advanced, shackles unlocked and at the ready.

  Arrest? Coiled and wary, Gaelan stepped backward toward the White Owl, his hands flat in front of him—a gesture of surrender. “I’ve murdered no one.”

  “That is not what it says here!” Another of the men approached with a rolled paper. “You will answer, sir, for the death of Lillian Mason, found poisoned late last night.”

  Incomprehensible. Lil dead? Poison? It could not be true. Gaelan’s knees buckled; he fought to remain upright, facing his accusers eye to eye. He refused to believe it. Tremayne. Had to be. Who else would do it—murder an innocent girl and then come after him to hang for it? Gaelan shouted the scoundrel’s name, as if he would have the courage to confront him directly.

  “Mr. Erceldoune!”

  Tim. Gaelan startled, yet remaining mindful of the armed men, now nearly upon him. “Timothy! Please. Come no closer, lad. All will be right.” He held up an arm, waving Timothy away and addressing his captors, begging reason to prevail. “Surely, the young man is no threat to you.”

  Gaelan held up his satchel, still slung across his chest. “This bag contains nothing but items of sentimental value. I wo
uld give it into this young man’s safekeeping. You may look inside if you wish, but I would ask—”

  One of the men took it, ripping the long strap from Gaelan’s shoulder. He opened it. “Fine.” He threw it into the dirt.

  Gaelan picked it up, beckoning Timothy closer. “Tim, my boy, there’s naught to give you a fright. I shall be fine. Only just take my satchel; I’ll have no need of it for a while.” His voice dropped to a whisper, forcing Timothy closer still, but the men continued to draw nearer. “Be sure to take care with it, and keep it safe for me. Do not let it out of your possession, wherever you go. Someday you shall return it to me.”

  “But, sir! Your books—”

  Gaelan nodded. “Yes, them as well. I—”

  The men had lost patience, forcing the shackles around his wrists and ankles. “No more small talk!”

  He neither fought nor helped as his captors dragged him off to the mortifying cries of “Murderer!” in his wake.

  CHAPTER 16

  Two weeks later and still Simon could not believe that Sophie was dead. Life passed as if he were a spectator standing alongside a moving stage. The funeral at his in-laws’ estate, recalled only in flashes of distorted faces, lips mouthing unintelligible platitudes. He’d been home three days, refusing all visitors and swathed in a blanket of laudanum, which did little to stem his tearless sobs.

  And now his mother awaited him, the most unwelcome caller of all. He sighed, opening the drawing room doors, knowing he could not avoid her forever. Her hard gaze ambushed him immediately.

  “I must have a word with your housekeeper. You are a fright, Simon. James told me you were in a bad way, but I refused to believe him.”

  “Mother, I have just lost my wife.” So it began. There was little she could say that had not already been said several times over by James—and even Mrs. McRory.

  “Yes, and from what James has told me, it is more blessing than curse that she is gone; she was in terrible pain, he told me, and on death’s door. And what is this business of an apothecary? My God, Simon.” She shook her head slowly side to side. “My dear son, I thought you were more reasonable than this! Look at you! Is this any way to greet a visitor, in mourning or not. Really!”

  “You must allow me to grieve in my own way—”

  “What? By starving yourself, refusing to bathe or shave?”

  “Mother, you know nothing. I—”

  “To speak true, Simon, I came because dear Mrs. McRory was fearful for you. She sent word that you had deteriorated both in health and in deportment. I did not believe her, owing it to exaggeration and her own sorrow. Now go, dress properly for luncheon. I have no intention of returning home to Cheshire until I am satisfied you have recovered your good senses!”

  Simon was grateful to leave his mother’s presence, anxious to reprimand Mrs. McRory for going to Lady Elizabeth, although she’d warned him. But there was nothing Mrs. McRory, James . . . or Lady Elizabeth Bell might say to him.

  He’d avoided Sophie’s boudoir, the one place he feared more than any other on earth. Now he was pulled there as if tethered to it by an invisible strand of twine embedded beneath his ribs.

  Simon opened the door and stood at the threshold, holding onto the frame to steady himself. Her wardrobe was open, and he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the folds of her gowns. Two steps and he fell upon them, holding his face to the velvets and satins, brocades and silks. He breathed in her scent, her bath salts, her perfume, which lingered on the fine fabrics. She was almost there, so very close, caressing his hair, whispering to him that all would be well.

  “Simon . . .”

  An airy voice wound through his mind, calling out to him. He turned in its direction, heart pounding, knowing it was only the voice of his own despair calling out from the depths of the abyss. But there she was.

  “Oh my God, Sophie! How . . . how is it possible?” Staggering to the bed, Simon beheld her standing before him, corporeal, more than a vision; he reached out to touch her, exquisite in sapphire velvet, dark hair cascading about her shoulders. Was he mad or was this a ghost come to haunt him? He was terrified and elated.

  “The apothecary should not die, Simon. And certainly not because you refuse to speak up on his behalf.”

  “It is not for my silence that he hangs, but for the murder of that girl.” In truth, Simon could not imagine the apothecary murdering anyone, much less that particular girl. Yet he was little disposed to get involved despite three letters from Erceldoune’s lawyer begging his assistance. He’d watched them burn on the hearth, ignored.

  “It was his poison, after all, that killed you, Sophie. He hates physicians, all of us; he blames us for his wife’s death. Perhaps he was taking his revenge upon me as proxy for my brother physicians!”

  “You don’t really believe that!” She sat beside him on her bed, so near Simon could smell her lavender bath salts. He massaged the bridge of his nose. He was so bloody exhausted and had little inclination to argue with a figment of his imagination, ghost, or whatever this specter of his wife might be, however pleasing her countenance, how demurely she glanced at him. . . .

  “Are you so certain it was Erceldoune’s elixir that killed me? Perhaps it was simply my time or your error. A relapse of fever or a hundred other things?”

  Simon had thought of all those things, especially after the accident with the bottle. “I know poison’s footprints, Sophie.” But the argument was weak, and he knew it. “The doubt shall always live in my mind, love. I am certain there are plenty of others in Smithfield will speak up on his behalf—those that know him and can give real testimony, not the eavesdropping of a conversation. And what if I should be questioned about your death? Would that not go worse for him? As for me, I’ve nothing left to live for. Now you’re gone, I shall drink down the remainder of the terrible elixir and end it!”

  Sophie stood and stalked across the room to her escritoire, arms crossed, tapping her foot. Simon was well acquainted with this pose.

  “Suicide is against God’s laws, Simon, as well you know.”

  Simon tried to will her away. “Go. Please?” It could not be normal to be speaking thus to an apparition.

  “You then shall be condemned to burn for eternity and never be with me.”

  “It is not suicide, Sophie; it is judgment. And it is just. What I did—”

  “Was out of love for me. I would have died soon enough anyway. Listen to me, Simon!” She propelled herself from the desk, coming to light in front of him as he sat, head in his hands. “Yes, love, you hastened my death—perhaps—but do you not see what a slow and dreadful ending it might have been for me? I thank God Almighty that my suffering is at an end!”

  He felt in his pocket for the smooth lines of the apothecary bottle, which he’d kept close at hand since that dreadful night.

  “Dr. Bell!” Mrs. McRory pounded her fist on the door. Simon jumped at the unexpected sound. Sophie had vanished. He went to the door, opening it a crack.

  “Are you all right, sir? I’ve been knocking for minutes, and your cousin has arrived to join you and Lady Bell for luncheon. And you know your mother, if I may be so bold; she grows impatient at your absence.”

  “Tell James . . .” What? Just what should he tell his cousin that would not send him bounding up the stairs two at a time in panic? “Tell them I shall be down presently . . . and leave me be. And please serve; do not wait upon me.” Simon listened as Mrs. McRory’s footfalls grew more distant. He withdrew the phial, clasping it in his palm.

  Now my love, it is time for me to join you. Simon searched the room, but Sophie had not returned. He settled into her bed, breathing in the scent of her that now had nearly faded away.

  Simon considered the cobalt phial, turning it in his hand. Carefully, he slid away the glass stopper and placed the bottle to his lips, spilling the entire contents down his throat. A metallic taste lingered on his tongue. Mercury? Silver, perhaps. The bitterness of bloodroot and the anesthetic numb of opi
um and clove . . . garlic. Arsenic?

  Simon waited for death to take him as his thoughts decayed into chaos, fragmenting and rearranging themselves into random particles. He observed them caught in the sunbeams that played across the ceiling, radiant dust motes as the drug worked through him. He followed them from his place on her bed, enraptured; colors he had never before experienced swirled before him, then shattered on the floor.

  He sensed the poison working through his organs, an evil imp sliding astride the twists and turns of his blood vessels and organs—alive and hungry. How long would it be? Arsenic worked fast, but what of this oxidized elixir? Would it course through to his liver and lungs? Or would it set its sights on his heart and brain?

  “Dr. Bell!” Someone was jostling him, shouting his name. “Dr. Bell! Waken up! Waken up!” Mrs. McRory? The yelling echoed distantly, yet she must have been nearby. The shaking stopped, and then the soft sound of a closing door. Peace at last.

  Simon awoke into darkness. When had that happened? It had been light when . . . so very bright. Halos of color now traced in an ellipse around the periphery of vision in the dark, evaporating as he emerged into painful clarity. The door opened.

  A sharp pain lanced through his head before traversing to his stomach, where it pawed and clawed until he retched. He attempted to move his hand, the one that didn’t feel like a bar of lead, flexing his fingers.

  “Simon, thank God. What the devil happened?”

  “James?” he groaned, his parched throat refusing to cooperate. When he ventured to sit up, his head pounded, forcing him back.

  “Easy there, Simon. We’ve been trying for hours to rouse you. Your poor mother is beside herself—”

  James helped him to sit. Still, the room swam as he forced himself to focus on the steady horizon of the window frame until another round of nausea passed.