The Lost Apothecary(12)
Eliza nodded, her bun bobbing at the base of her neck. She would soon be a beautiful young woman, more handsome than most, with her long eyelashes and the sharp angles of her face. She hugged the dish of eggs to her chest. “I suppose this is all I need, then.” She pulled several coins from her pocket and set them on the table. I counted them quickly: four shillings, sixpence.
She stood, then touched her lips with her fingertips. “But how shall I transport them? I fear they may break inside the pocket of my gown.”
I had sold poison to women three times her age who thought nothing of the vials snapping inside their pocket; Eliza, it seemed, was wiser than all of them put together. I handed her a reddish glass jar and, together, we carefully placed each egg in the jar, then covered it with a centimeter of wood ash, before placing the next egg on top. “You must still handle it carefully,” I warned. “And—” I placed a hand softly over one of hers. “One egg will do the trick if it must.”
Her look darkened, and in that moment I sensed that, despite the youthfulness and buoyancy she had demonstrated thus far, she did indeed understand the gravity of what she meant to do. “Thank you, Miss, ah—”
“Nella,” I said. “Nella Clavinger. And what is his name?”
“Thompson Amwell,” she said confidently. “Of Warwick Lane, near the cathedral.” She lifted up the jar to ensure the eggs were properly nestled within, but then she frowned. “A bear,” she observed, gazing at the small image etched onto the jar. My mother had decided upon the bear etching long ago, as there were countless Back Alleys in London, but only ours ran next to a Bear Alley. The little etching on the jar was harmless enough, and recognized only by those who needed to know.
“Yes,” I urged, “so you do not mix up the jar with another one.”
Eliza stepped to the door. With a steady hand, she ran a single finger down one of the blackened stones near the entrance. It left a sharp line in the soot, revealing a finger-width band of unblemished stone. She smiled, amused as if she’d just drawn me a picture on a spare sheet of paper. “Thank you, Miss Nella. I must say that I loved your tea and I love this hidden shop, and I very much hope we meet again.”
I raised my eyebrows. Most of my customers were not killers by trade and, unless she returned needing a medicinal remedy, I did not expect to see her again. But I merely smiled at the inquisitive girl. “Yes,” I said, “perhaps we will meet again.” I unlatched the door, swung it in and watched as Eliza exited through the storage room and out onto the alley, her small frame melting into the shadows outside.
Once she had gone, I spent a few minutes thinking about the girl’s visit. She was a strange young thing. I had no doubt she would accomplish her task, and I was grateful for the momentary gaiety she brought into my otherwise cheerless shop of poisons. I was glad I had not refused her, glad I had not heeded the ominous feeling first brought on by her letter.
Taking my seat once again at the table, I pulled my register close. I turned to the back, locating the next empty space, and prepared to write my entry.
Then, dipping the nib into the well of ink, I put it to the paper and wrote:
Thompson Amwell. Egg prep NV. 4 Feb 1791. On account of Ms. Eliza Fanning, aged twelve.
6
Caroline
Present day, Monday
I shook off the mud from my wet shoe and continued along the edge of the water. As I distanced myself from the rest of the mudlarking tour group, their quiet chatter disappeared, and the soft lapping of the gentle river waves urged me toward the waterline. I glanced upward to the sky; a bruised-looking cloud moved overhead. I shivered and waited for it to pass, but more followed close behind. I feared a storm was fast approaching.
Crossing my arms, I glanced at the ground around my feet, an unvarying band of gray-and copper-colored rocks. Look for inconsistencies, Bachelor Alf had said. I stepped closer to the water, observing the way the low waves seeped toward me and withdrew in a steady, even rhythm, until a boat rushed past, forcing a gush of water close. Then I heard it: a hollow popping sound, like water bubbles caught in a bottle.
As the water receded, I stepped closer to the sound and spotted a glass container, bluish in color, nestled between two stones. An old soda bottle, perhaps.
I knelt down to inspect it and tugged at the narrow neck of the bottle, but its base was lodged firmly between the stones. While I maneuvered it out, I spotted a tiny image on one side of the bottle. A trademark or company logo, perhaps? I pulled one of the larger rocks away, freeing the object at last and allowing me to lift it from its crevice.
The bottle stood no more than five inches tall—more of a vial, given its small size—and was made of translucent, sky blue glass, hidden beneath a layer of caked-on mud. I dipped the vial into the water and used my rubber-gloved thumb to scrub away the dirt, then held it up to inspect it more closely. The image on the side seemed a rudimentary etching, likely done by hand rather than with a machine, and appeared to be an animal of some kind.
Though I had no idea what I’d found, I thought it sufficiently interesting to hail Bachelor Alf. But he’d already begun walking toward me. “Whatcha got?” he asked.
“Not sure,” I said. “Some kind of vial with a little animal etched onto it.”
Bachelor Alf took the vial, lifting it up to his face. He turned the bottle over and scratched his fingernail against the glass. “How odd. Very much like an apothecary’s vial, but typically we’d see other markings—a company name, date, address. Perhaps this is just a household item, then. A way for someone to practice his etching skills. I do hope they improved a bit from this.” He stood silent a moment as he studied the bottom of the vial. “The glass is quite uneven in places, too. It’s not factory-made, that’s for sure, so it must be quite old. It’s yours to keep if you’d like.” He spread his hands wide. “Fascinating, isn’t it? This is the best job in the world, if I don’t say so myself.”