The Apothecary's Poison (Glass and Steele #3)(28)

"I think we should visit the Apothecary's Guild," he said. "We might learn something from them, although probably not through direct questions."

"We have quite a list of people to visit now. We won't get time until tomorrow if we still want to talk to Dr. Wiley and Ritter today."

"And I must return home at midday and in the evening to rest," he bit off. "Yes, I know. No need to remind me."

"I wasn't. Don't speak to me like that."

He winced and rubbed his forehead. "Sorry, India. You're right, and I spoke out of turn. I'm not myself lately."

I bit the inside of my cheek. "I'm sorry, too, Matt. There was no need for me to snap back at you. I don't feel like myself lately, either. I don't know why."



Black smoke billowed from the chimney stacks of Mr. Oakshot's factory and joined the miasma spewing from the surrounding factories to blanket Hackney Wick. Soot settled on our clothing in the short walk from the carriage to the red brick building, and I pressed my handkerchief to my nose in an attempt to block out the stench of burning coal and God knew what else.

We found Mr. Oakshot in an office on the first level, standing with his hands at his back before a large window that overlooked the factory floor below. He turned when Matt cleared his throat.

"Good morning," Matt said, hand extended. "My name is Matthew Glass and this is my partner, Miss Steele."

Mr. Oakshot looked like a man in need of a rest. He was about forty and, like Matt, exhaustion pulled his features tight and shadowed red-rimmed eyes. He gave Matt's hand a firm shake. "Your accent has a hint of American," he said. "Are you looking to distribute my medicines in your country?"

"Actually, we're private inquiry agents investigating the death of Dr. Hale."

Mr. Oakshot whipped his hand back and fisted it at his side. "Get out!" he barked. "I don't want to hear his name uttered within my hearing."

"It'll just take a moment of your time," Matt said. "We have a few questions we'd like to—"

Mr. Oakshot stepped up to Matt, toe to toe, and bared his teeth. "Get. Out. Of. My. Sight."

"But—

Mr. Oakshot grabbed hold of Matt's jacket lapels and swung his fist.





Chapter 6





Matt blocked Mr. Oakshot's fist with his forearm. Mr. Oakshot swung again and Matt caught his wrist.

"Not in front of Miss Steele," Matt said with far more calm than I felt.

Mr. Oakshot pulled free of Matt's grip and straightened his waistcoat and tie. He did not try to hit out again, but Matt's stance remained tense, poised to fight.

"We're deeply sorry to hear about your wife's death," I said, my heart hammering against my ribcage. Mr. Oakshot turned to me, his dark hazel eyes boring into me, challenging. "You have our sincerest condolences. We understand that Dr. Hale believed he may have given your wife the incorrect dose of morphine."

The ferocity dissolved from his eyes at my sympathetic tone. He heaved in a shaky breath. "Hale believed that, did he? That's not what he told me." He turned back to the window, his shoulders stooped, hands loose at his sides. He was the picture of a dejected, defeated man.

Matt nodded at me, urging me to continue. I joined Mr. Oakshot at the window. Below us, workmen dressed in overalls fed furnaces that heated large cauldrons of liquid. Steam rose in drifts and swirled among the rafters. The factory hands wiped their brows between stirring the cauldrons and tipping in ingredients. At the far end, men filled bottles at a long table while another two pasted labels onto bottles before they were packed into boxes. It was a busy factory.

"Tell us what happened that day at the hospital?" I asked.

Mr. Oakshot crossed his arms, resting them on his paunch. "She'd been ill for some time. A tumor in her stomach, so the doctors said. They couldn't cure her. My medicines…" he choked out. "My medicines couldn't cure her either, only ease her pain for a short time. She felt wretched that day—the day she died. She'd hardly slept because of the pain, and she couldn't keep anything down. I took her to the hospital, and Hale assured me he'd take care of her. It was a busy day. There were lots of patients coming in and not enough staff. They wouldn't let me stay with my wife, so I went for a walk. When I got back…" He cleared his throat. "When I got back, she had passed." He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

I touched his arm. "Who told you that Dr. Hale might have made a mistake with the morphine dose?"

He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. "The doctor in charge."

"Dr. Ritter?"

He nodded. "He didn't outright admit it. He just said that Hale's mind wasn't on the task, that he had to tend to lots of patients that day, and he'd made the same mistake once before, although that patient survived. He said Hale had limited experience compared to the other doctors and that he—Ritter—would have words with him to get to the bottom of it."

"Do you know if he did?"

"I never found out. I went straight to Hale's office myself and told him what I thought of him. No one tried to stop me then, but they came when they heard the shouting." He stared down at the factory floor, and his body relaxed a little. He seemed to take comfort in the pattern of activity, from filling the cauldrons through to packing bottles into boxes. He must have looked upon that scene every day for years.