Beloved Poison (10 page)

‘What’s that?’ I said. I used the large flask for collecting the distillate of plant oils, though I was sure I had not undertaken any such procedure the day before.

‘Tea,’ said Will. ‘I couldn’t find the tea pot. Don’t you have one? And where’s the maid?’

‘The maid?’ I laughed. ‘Why would we need one of those? We can look after each other.’

‘Cups then. Do you have cups?’

‘The cups are in the dresser.’ I looked over at my father.

‘He seems rested,’ said Will. ‘Was he quiet during the night?’

I had slept heavily, my dreams filled with bloodied bandages, blotch-eyed dolls and dead flowers. ‘Yes,’ I said. In fact, I had been so tired that my father might have risen up and danced a jig on the table top and I would not have noticed. ‘At least, I think so. Gabriel!’ I threw a shoe at the recumbent form on the hearth rug. ‘Get up!’

Will and I sat side by side staring out at the thick brown fog that rubbed against the windows. I had smelled it on the air as I walked back across the courtyard the night before. Now, not even the sun could be distinguished. Behind us, Gabriel began scrubbing the table. My father remained, unmoving, but breathing steadily, in his chair. I spooned some tea between his lips and was reassured to see him swallow the stuff. His face was grey and still. Beneath his lowered lids, however, I could see his eyes moving, restless and wakeful despite everything.

‘This tea tastes of lavender,’ I said.

There was one thing I wanted to do before the day began in earnest. ‘The wrappings around those dolls,’ I said to Will. ‘We must test to see whether it’s blood or not.’

‘You have doubts?’

‘No. But I’d like to be certain. What if it’s no more than, say, vegetable dye? The objects themselves would become quite harmless.’

‘And if it’s not?’

I did not reply.

Will and Gabriel watched in silence as I took one of the coffins from the sack. Gabriel’s eyes grew wide, and his lips began to tremble when he saw what was inside – the dried weeds, the bloodied rags, the hideous peg-like doll. To my surprise, however, he said nothing. I snipped off a piece of the blood-coloured wrappings and put it onto a glass saucer. Potassium chloride dissolved in ice vinegar was the necessary reagent. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘If we drop the acetic acid mixture onto the cloth and then gently heat it . . .’ I used a glass dropper to cover the material with fluid, and then carried the saucer over to the stove. Other than the ticking of the clock, and Gabriel’s gormless breathing, the room was silent. We stood there, Will and I, watching while the saucer and its bloody mixture grew warm. Too much and the test would not work. Too little and we would see no change. It was anyone’s guess. At length, I extracted a drop of the heated, loam-coloured liquid with my pipette, and plopped it onto a glass slide ready for the microscope. I loved that microscope, a brass beauty made by Leitz of Wetzlar that I polished every week until it gleamed like gold. I had bought it some years ago, under Dr Bain’s advice, and it sat in the window, the best place in the apothecary to catch the light, where it was regarded jealously by Dr Graves, Dr Catchpole and Dr Magorian, all of whom though it scandalous that a mere apothecary should possess such a mighty scientific instrument.

‘Well?’ said Will as I peered into the Leitz’s brass eyepiece. I turned the knobs, my heart suddenly racing, waiting for the microscopic construction of the droplet to become visible. ‘Is it—’

I felt my skin grow cold. Caught in that icy gaze was a tell-tale ring of rhombic crystals, what Dr Bain called the ‘hematin derivative’. There was no doubt about it. ‘Blood,’ I said. ‘These rags are soaked in blood.’

I went out to get some bread. When I came back, Dr Hawkins was there. He was holding my father’s wrist, his pocket watch open in his hand.

‘I hear he’s been sleeping,’ he said.

‘He’s been unconscious, certainly,’ I replied. ‘But that’s not the same as sleeping, is it? His eyelids might be closed but beneath them his eyes move constantly. It’s as though he’s searching for something even though he cannot see. I would not describe such a state as “sleep” any more than you would.’

‘But his enervated condition may give him some rest,’ said Dr Hawkins. The rose on his lapel that day was white – a dense creamy head of thickly curled velvet petals. Flawless. Beautiful. And in the language of flowers? It meant silence, I thought bitterly. Silence and secrecy. Eliza had taught me well, that day in the physic garden.

I clamped my hand about his wrist. ‘What have you done to him?’ I whispered. ‘You’ve bled him until he can hardly stand.’

‘I’m trying to help him, Jem.’

‘But what’s wrong with him?’

‘It’s not for me to explain what ails him. He must do that himself. And he
will
tell you. He’ll have to. But it’ll be in his own time. All you can do is wait. Wait and hope.’

Tears stung my eyes. I could not reply. I could only stare at my father, at the dark rings that circled his eyes. ‘But look at him,’ I whispered. ‘He’s as empty as a glove. And for what?’

‘I hoped we had taken enough to weaken the system. To make sleep, or at least unconsciousness, inevitable.’

‘But he does
not
sleep. You’ve made him into a living corpse.’

‘We had to try. He insisted that we try. If you knew, you would understand—’

‘But I
don’t
know,’ I cried. ‘You won’t tell me.
He
won’t tell me. How can I understand?’

My father stirred. ‘Jem.’ I crouched down and took his hand. ‘Don’t shriek,’ he whispered. His fingers were cold and limp, and did not respond to my touch.

‘You can’t help him like this, Jem,’ said Dr Hawkins.

‘But I
can
help him,’ I said. I pulled my coat off and fumbled with my shirt cuff. ‘Here,’ I cried, exposing an arm and thrusting it towards Dr Hawkins. ‘Take
my
blood. Take it and put it into him.’

‘No!’ My father’s voice was sharp, his expression irritated, as if he wished I would just shut up and go away. But I would not shut up. And I would never go away.

‘Father—’

I watched him struggle to control his annoyance. ‘No.’ He attempted a smile, but looked away from me. ‘I think a dose of iron tonic would be useful, don’t you?’

I knew when I had been dismissed. I fetched the bottle in silence.

When I returned from the morning ward rounds my father had the out-patients’ ledger open on his lap. He had the long-stick ruler in his hand and was using this to direct proceedings.

‘There, Gabriel,’ he said, jabbing the air in the direction of the top shelf. ‘The powdered clove is up there. Seventy-seven grains, as I showed you. Come along, lad!’ He looked exhausted, and I could see that even wielding the ruler was an effort.

Gabriel scaled the ladder against the shelves like a sailor amongst the rigging. He was glad my father had recovered sufficiently to order him about the place. He was also pleased that there was now someone at work in the apothecary who knew even less than he did about medicinal matters, for with my father incapacitated, Will had offered to help us. Was he not supposed to be making a survey of St Saviour’s churchyard? He was stalling, I knew.

‘
I
know what you can do,’ Gabriel said. ‘You can polish the brass scales and weights. Then you can scrub all the glassware and dust the bottles on the top shelf and take the hops up to the drying room and then change the water in the leech tank—’

Will gazed at the leeches. ‘Do I scoop them out first?’

‘Forget the leeches,’ I said. ‘I need you to grind, and measure.’ I pointed to the scales, and the pestle and mortar. ‘Follow my instructions exactly.’

As usual, people came and went. At ten o’clock I sent Gabriel to take the medicines to out-patients. He returned some time later with a bag of buns (cadged from the baker on Priory Street who was sorry to hear of my father’s ill health) and bearing news of Mrs Speedicut’s brutality – she had caught him by the fire in the out-patients’ waiting room and had boxed his ears for ‘lolling about’. ‘I weren’t lollin’ anywhere,’ said Gabriel, rubbing his ear. ‘I were
standin’
.’

The ward sisters brought down their prescription ledgers; a group of students came in looking for Dr Graves, who was due to operate and could not be found anywhere. Mrs Magorian came in on her way to the almoners’ meeting, asking for the tincture of St John’s wort my father had made up for her. Everyone seemed to know about the coffins, and we were asked about them again and again. The nurses looked at them askance; the students laughed and shrugged and turned away.

‘It makes me feel quite faint just to look at them,’ said Mrs Magorian, who had indeed turned rather green. She fluttered a small silk handkerchief in front of her face. I caught a whiff of lavender and sal volatile. ‘Where’s Dr Bain?’ she added, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘Gabriel,’ I said, as the door closed behind them. ‘Have you told the entire world about these boxes?’ I stowed them back out of sight beneath the work bench.

‘No, Mr Jem,’ he said. ‘At least, not the
entire
world. Perhaps if you showed them to me, prop’ly, rather than just letting me peep into that sack . . .’ Only my father seemed uninterested. He looked at them and shrugged, his face registering neither surprise nor recognition. I could not help but feel relived, though it was clear his indifference was due to other, more pressing preoccupations.

Not everyone who came in went away again so promptly. Mrs Speedicut appeared looking irritable. She was breathing heavily, as though from some recent exertion. She wore the same cuffs and apron as the day before, and I noticed that her skirts were singed slightly on the right hand side. Clearly, she had fallen asleep before the fire. Perhaps that was why she had missed the ward rounds the night before. She had been conspicuous by her absence that morning too. She sat down in the chair opposite my father and peered into the blackened bowl of her pipe. Finding it empty, she contented herself with sucking on the stem. I heard the sound of tar gurgling. I had made a pot of coffee, and I handed her a cup. My father winced as she slurped the bitter black brew. I was determined not to show her the coffins unless she asked.

Dr Bain and Dr Catchpole arrived at the apothecary at the same time, and were obliged to enter together. Dr Catchpole looked dejected, his eyes red rimmed, his gaze hostile and ill tempered. Dr Bain affected not to notice Dr Catchpole’s black looks. He winked at Will and me, ruffled Gabriel’s hair and made Old Mother Speedicut an elaborate bow. ‘Dear lady,’ he said. He turned to my father. ‘And how are you, Mr Flockhart? Dr Hawkins tells me you’re feeling the benefit of his treatment.’

My father nodded. He was lying back on his cushions again. ‘You know of it?’

Dr Bain glanced over at me. ‘I know . . . something of it,’ he said. I was about to object, to ask whether everyone but me was privy to my father’s health concerns, but Mrs Speedicut had fixed her gimlet eye upon me, so I said nothing.

‘Well now,’ said Dr Bain. ‘What’s all this about coffins?’

‘Coffins?’ said Dr Catchpole.

‘Clearly, Dr Catchpole, you are not quite as devoted to listening to the gossip of the hospital’s servants as Dr Bain,’ said my father.

‘I dare say you’re right, Mr Flockhart,’ said Dr Bain. ‘Oh!’ he added, turning to his colleague. ‘How is Mrs Catchpole? I heard she fainted yesterday while she was with the lady almoners. Feeling better, I hope?’

‘She has taken to her bed, sir. She is—’ Dr Catchpole breathed deeply. ‘She is not herself.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ murmured Dr Bain.

‘No doubt you are,’ snapped Dr Catchpole. ‘My wife is pregnant.’ He glared at Dr Bain. In his left hand he held a pair of dogskin gloves, so that for a moment I thought he was going to slap Dr Bain across the face with them, or at least throw one to the ground and demand satisfaction.

Dr Bain looked at Dr Catchpole warily. Then, when nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, he leaped forward to seize the doctor’s hand. ‘Congratulations, my dear fellow.’

Dr Catchpole snatched his fingers away.

Dr Bain pretended not to notice. ‘So, Jem,’ he said, rather too brightly. ‘Where are they then? These coffins young Master Locke has been telling me about?’ Did his cheek turn pale as he spoke? Was his smile forced? I saw his eyes flit nervously across the bottles and jars set out on the table top, as if searching for something he did not want to find. At the time I made nothing of it.