The Apothecary's Curse

by Barbara Barnett

  He removed the gold pocket watch from his waistcoat for the third time in an hour: half past two. Middle of the fucking night and he was still wired, restless—stalking from the shop up to his flat and back again. Prison. No combination of whisky and drugs seemed to knock him back more than a notch or two, and when sleep finally claimed him, he was back in Bedlam, his screams echoing through the decades, waking him. Rinse, repeat.

  The chanting at his door seemed to have stopped for the night. Gaelan put his ear to the glass. Maybe they’d given up, gone home, and finally left him the bloody hell alone. Daring to lift the blind, he looked out onto the sidewalk. Empty. Even the votives and flowers had vanished.

  He grabbed a wool cap from behind the counter and pulled his leather greatcoat around him, collar up. Maybe just a short walk down to the lakefront, where he might be calmed by the reassuring rhythm of the waves as they crashed into the breakwater. A tentative step beyond the threshold . . .

  “Hallo.” A muffled woman’s voice. British?

  Gaelan jumped at the unexpected sound, which originated from somewhere within the fur-trimmed hood of an oversized navy blue anorak. He sighed. Even at fucking two in the morning? He staggered backward, retreating into the shop, slamming the door behind him. No fucking way. He sank to the floor, back against the wall.

  The door opened again. Fuck! He’d forgotten to lock it. “Go the bloody hell away! Give me a moment’s peace—”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind . . . my clearing away the clutter in front of your shop? It’s amazing how people are always looking for something . . . novel . . . to worship. I guessed you might not be too keen on the shrine. . . . Gave me something to do other than freeze out there on your sidewalk—”

  “Leave. Now. Please?” Gaelan grumbled, not looking up, his head buried in his hands.

  “I will. I promise. Just hear me out. Five minutes. Less, if I can manage it.”

  Gaelan said nothing. Defeated, he didn’t know what else to do. “I bloody give up,” he said finally, each word a dagger flung blindly into dim light. “What is it I might do for you this fine night . . . erm . . . morning?” he hissed.

  “Look. I’m not a reporter, not paparazzi. I don’t want to make a cable movie about you, feature you on my talk show, or start a bloody religion with you as the new messiah.”

  He waited for a follow-up sentence, which never came. Instead, she joined him on the floor, sitting cross-legged beside him.

  “You’ve told me what you’re not,” he said quietly, finally looking up, struggling to remain vigilant against the threat. She had discarded the anorak, revealing faded jeans and Doc Martens. M. C. Escher T-shirt. Long, thick auburn hair hung down her back, her dark blue eyes warm and alert, even in the middle of the night. “Now if you don’t mind, your five minutes are quickly vanishing.”

  “I’m Anne Shawe. Dr. Anne Shawe. I don’t suppose you’ve gotten my e-mails or phone messages, have you? I’ve been trying to reach you for three days.”

  “As you might imagine, I’m not quite in the mood for checking in on my e-mail.” Gaelan pointed to his watch. “Ticktock.” He’d stopped reading his mail on the third day, slamming his laptop shut after the fiftieth request for an interview.

  “Look. Andrew Samuelson called me in on your case.”

  The genetics doctor. Figures. Her five minutes had become what seemed like ten. “I’ve heard enough, and you can leave. Like I told him, I’ve no interest in bloody tests.” The conversation was quickly sapping what little energy he possessed.

  “Please. Let me finish, and then I’ll go. I promise. I slipped Samuelson two days ago. He has no idea I’m here; he actually thinks I caught a flight to San Diego.” She picked up her phone, glancing at the face. “Yesterday.”

  The sincerity in her expression began to undermine his resolve. Should he believe her? Hear her out or send away this interloper, cast her out into the night, bloody anorak and all? Gaelan shrugged the coat from his shoulders and snapped off the wool cap. “Go on,” he said, leaning his head against the wall, curiosity piqued. Holding up his right hand, fingers spread, he mouthed, “Five.”

  Her smile creased the corners of her eyes, and a fleeting image from long ago snaked through his mind, vanishing too quickly to take hold. “Five minutes. Great! I read your hospital file; as I said, I’d been called into the case by your doctor—”

  “Samuelson. Except he wasn’t my . . . official physician. He had no right to—”

  “I disagreed with Dr. Samuelson. He was far too comfortable skating around the rules of ethics. His intention was to either badger you into consent or do the DNA testing without it. I was disturbed enough that I mentioned it to his dean. I understood his interest; I certainly share it, but no matter how astonishing your case, it doesn’t justify a breech—”

  Gaelan mustered his last reserves of contempt. “Then why are you here? Do you think your confession of Samuelson’s sins will render me more pliable a subject? Lay myself bare to your scrutiny because you came to the defense of my privacy?”

  “No, I don’t. But I did want to explain myself, and hope you might answer at least a question or two on that basis alone.” She turned out her pockets. “See? No test tubes or syringes to steal your blood whilst I distract you. Look. I came all the way from London to meet you.”

  Gaelan’s eyebrow quirked. “I’m flattered,” he spat, unimpressed.

  “I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to run your blood through a gene sequencer. I’d be a fool as well, given my field, but my interest in you—”

  Gaelan summoned every bit of the exasperation he’d accumulated the past few days. “Dr. Shawe, I don’t know what you saw in my file, but my physiology is no more unique than Samuelson’s—or yours.” He forced a laugh, imagining the notes in his chart: instant recovery, rapid tissue regeneration. How many exclamation points followed each notation? “I can still barely stand for more than a few moments at a time; my head feels as if it’s harboring angry bats, and my abdomen feels . . . Well, it’s quite beyond description.”

  “But it seems there is more in what you aren’t saying. I saw photographs of a man, charred, severe burns, broken—”

  “It’s quite amazing what Photoshop will do, if you’ve a mind to manipulate an image.” It was a terrible argument. Someone would have to have been diabolical enough to alter . . . how many images? But under the circumstances, it was the best he could summon. “What exactly are you implying, Dr. Shawe? That I am some sort of superhuman miracle? Where is your scientific disbelief, that you would—”

  “Yes. You are.”

  Gaelan stood, keeping hold of the wall, and took an unsteady step, his blood pressure plummeting. Catching himself, his right hand planted on the wall, he sat again, waiting for the lightheadedness to pass. “As you can see, Dr. Shawe, I am not exactly recovered. . . .” He held up his left hand, a demonstration of an imperfect man. “Is this the hand of a miracle of a man?” It was a slightly more persuasive tack, although he suspected she already knew about his deformed hand and had a ready answer for it.

  “Fingers—limbs—are more complex systems. Amputated, they’d never grow back. Yes, you’re still injured, but the rate at which you’ve recovered is like nothing I’ve ever seen. No one’s ever seen before . . . not in humans.”

  “Perhaps, then, I’m part salamander?” He needed to get rid of her. He was too exhausted, too vulnerable; his fortress walls were under too much stress from weariness and wear. “Might we continue this—”

  “I got into genetics, Mr. Erceldoune,” she continued, ignoring him, “for a very personal reason, one to which I’ve dedicated my career. My family thinks I’m obsessed; I’ve lost one fiancé over it and missed several other, shall we say, relationship opportunities over the years owing to it. When you came to my attention, I was intrigued enough—”

  “To catch the next flight to the US?” he snapped.

  “No. But to make a stopover that has lasted several days longe
r than I intended. I was actually on my way to join a project at the Salk Institute in California—”

  Gaelan didn’t know what to make of Dr. Shawe. Genuine as she seemed, she was no different than all the others who wanted bits and pieces of him. Yet he was curious.

  “The women in my family have lived extraordinarily long lives, it seems,” she continued. “Going back at least five generations, but only in a single genetic line. Little sickness, and legendary rapid recovery from childbirth, from injuries—for my family at any rate. But it seems only the women, and only from one origin point in my family tree . . . and only down one branch. So I’d always wondered if there had been some sort of genetic component—that is, after I took my first university genetics class!”

  “I’m sorry if you believe your family are eligible for their own Marvel comic series, or whatever. But why tell this to me? You think I’m a long-lost relation? A missing link?”

  “I have only a few questions—”

  Her five minutes had long since passed. “Why do you not run their blood through a sequencer?”

  “My relatives? I have. And with extraordinary results, which brings me to you. I need to know.”

  Gaelan made another attempt to stand, then thought better of it. He was too weary to do battle in the middle of the night with this woman, her indigo gaze piercing through him.

  Dr. Shawe rose from her position with the grace of a dancer, helping Gaelan to his feet. He wanted to protest, wave her off, be rid of her altogether, but instead he allowed her to lead him to an overstuffed reading chair at the center of the shop. She sat in the other, crossing her legs beneath her, and turned on a table lamp.

  “I cannot get over your collection, your books. There must be thousands. . . . Brilliant—”

  “What?” Oh bloody hell; he was never going to rid himself of her at this rate! He rolled his eyes, sighing. “It is what I do. Erceldoune’s Rare Books and Antiquities.”

  His tone was brusquer than he’d intended; she looked hurt. Good. Maybe she would leave now. “So you’ve explained your ‘why’; it fails to impress. And I’ve granted you far more than the allotted five minutes.”

  But she was already up and perusing the collection, examining the spines. “I’ve recently developed an interest in antiquarian scientific manuscripts. This is incredible,” she exclaimed, drawing out a large volume. “Culpeper? I have to look, please? And then I promise, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Dr. Shawe settled back into the chair with the large book on her lap. “Culpeper’s Herbal.” She ran her hands across the grooved leather of the cover, her index finger gliding along the perfect gilded edging—a solid brick of gold, it seemed.

  Gaelan fought the urge to be drawn in, but the way she handled the volume, almost caressing it, entranced him. She opened to the title page, and her fingers traced down the page as she squinted through the difficult ancient typeface. “The English Physitian by Nich. Culpeper, Gent. Student in Physik and Astrologie, 1651,” she recited with the excitement of a child opening a gift box. “Don’t you feel it, Mr. Erceldoune?”

  She looked up, catching him as he stared at her.

  “Sorry?”

  “When you touch these pages—the deep engraving of the print—how can you not feel the history of science run through from your fingertips to every nerve? It is an extraordinary volume. It must be worth a small fortune!”

  “It is. And it is not for sale. Now, if you don’t mind . . .” Focus on getting rid of her, Erceldoune! Bloody hell. She was like a mouse insinuating itself beneath the stove in winter.

  “Oh. Sorry. Of course.” She blushed.

  Gaelan pinched the bridge of his nose. The throbbing in his head, which had not abated since returning from the hospital, escalated now to deafening, and he gasped as a sharp pain lanced spear-like through his skull.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Erceldoune?” Her mobile rang, relieving him of the need to respond. “My boss. I’ll ring him back later,” she said quickly. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I shall get out of your hair. And what sort of doctor am I, keeping you from much-needed rest.”

  She started to go, reaching the doorknob before turning back. “Look, would you mind taking a look at something I recently acquired? Tomorrow, I mean. It’s a book. Very, very old, and I’ve no idea what to make of it. I have it back in my hotel room. It’s quite remarkable for its obvious age, and—”

  Anything to steer her away from more dangerous topics. “Yes. Of course I’ll take a look at it,” he interrupted, “as long as we don’t discuss the nature of my injuries, DNA, or anything else to do with my physiology; I would be . . . honored. But I warn you, most so-called ancient books are replicas, not authentic. But I shall give it my honest appraisal. Tomorrow!”

  Finally, she was gone, and Gaelan fell to sleep in his chair; he dreamed of Eleanor.

  LONDON, 1842

  CHAPTER 30

  Gaelan’s mind whirled as he and Bell entered the drawing room through the garden doors. Could it be true, then, that Bell had become like him? He’d not used the same combination of ingredients at all in the elixir, yet somehow . . .

  “We must, then Mr. Erceldoune, locate your book forthwith. Whatever it takes shall be at your disposal. And should it—”

  “Simon!”

  “Eleanor, darling!”

  The young woman fled into Bell’s arms, her full skirt and petticoats swishing loudly as she swept across the carpet. Gaelan considered the scene, wondering who she might be. A new wife, perhaps? With her hair piled high beneath a feathered bonnet and fine gown, she was a striking woman, if not conventionally pretty. And Gaelan could not tear his gaze from her.

  “Mr. Erceldoune,” said Bell, settling Eleanor at his side. “Might I present my sister, Lady . . . ? That is, Eleanor.”

  Gaelan backed toward the doors. Might this be the sister married to Braithwaite? Dear God, what was she doing here? Could Braithwaite himself be not far behind?

  “Eleanor, darling, will you please excuse us a moment?” Bell pulled Gaelan aside and whispered in his ear. “Calm yourself, Mr. Erceldoune. She is innocent of Braithwaite’s proclivities, I assure you. She dislikes him, as I told you. I doubt he is with her.”

  Gaelan was unconvinced, quickening his pace toward the garden doors.

  “Please, at least stay a moment and make her acquaintance. I promise I shall not reveal you.”

  Gaelan nodded, not at all reassured. Yet he would not be rude, however monstrous her husband.

  Eleanor drew near and extended her hand. “Mr. Erceldoune.” She gazed at him, her scrutiny flushing his face hot with its intensity. She knew . . . something.

  “Lady . . . Braithwaite.” He could barely spit out the name past his revulsion of it. Gaelan bowed slightly from the waist, taking her proffered hand, the tremble in his own impossible to still. He noticed a profound sadness in her eyes as he straightened again. But something else too. Terror? He dismissed the notion. Braithwaite was his tormentor, not hers.

  “To what do we owe this surprise visit, my dear, and why did you not send word you were coming? I would have made preparations. Is . . . Lord Braithwaite with you?” Bell asked a bit too breezily.

  She shook her head tightly, eyes closed; when she opened them, tears had gathered in her eyelashes.

  Bell looped his arm about her back, and her head fell to his chest. “My darling, what is it? You must tell me.”

  “I would really rather not talk about it. In fact, I would beg you to tell no one that I am here, most especially Richar . . . my husband.” She stepped back, her expression beseeching. “I would ask the same of you, Mr. Erceldoune.” Tears spilled in delicate tendrils down her nose, already streaked and red.

  “Perhaps,” Gaelan said, excusing himself, “I’d best take my leave so you may talk in private. Dr. Bell, we shall talk again later.”

  Eleanor held up a hand. “No, please. Do not leave on my account. It would grieve me to know I’ve interrupted your conv
ersation, and I am quite exhausted from my travels. I shall retire to my rooms and leave the two of you in peace.”

  Bell ushered his sister to a settee, but she did not sit. “Sis, please end the mystery, and tell us what is the matter?”

  “I . . . I shall in good time. I promise, but I’ve not slept, and would . . . Would you mind awfully if I went up now? I’ve no stomach at the moment for tea—or company.”

  “Of course not. We shall send for you when it is time to sup.”

  “I’m sorry to be so mysterious, but—”

  Gaelan observed Eleanor as she disappeared through the doorway. There was something not quite right about the way she walked, an odd limp that suggested . . . He shook it off. If it was something wrong, surely her own brother would have made mention of it.

  “She is quite upset, but it shall all sort itself out, I am certain, at least I hope so—and soon. But, Mr. Erceldoune, please, might we return to our earlier conversation? Please do sit.”

  “I admit, I find it a trifle disquieting to discuss this particular subject whilst Braithwaite’s bride is about—”

  “You’ve little to fear from her; that I warrant.”

  Gaelan cleared his throat and drew a long breath. He’d never said it aloud. Ever. Not in more than two centuries. He drew a long breath. “I was born in 1586, to speak true. In the Scottish Borderlands, though I look not much more than a man of forty.

  “I would but guess, Dr. Bell, that when you administered yourself the elixir, it affected you in the same way it did me when I administered myself quite a different medicine created from that same book.”

  “Did you suffer cancer as did my Sophie?”

  “Not cancer—it was plague. It cured me to be sure, but as you see, it had other . . . consequences.”

  “Plague!”

  “Aye. I’d not realized anything was amiss for ten years after. By then, my contemporaries had grown old and shriveled, yet I remained unchanged. When I created that medicine for myself, I’d been delirious with fever. Certainly, I would have died by day’s end. It was only later I discovered my grandfather’s notes in a scroll hidden within the book’s binding. But, I assure you, my faculties were quite intact when I prepared the elixir for you. My head was clear. It was you—”