The Lost Apothecary(19)

Toward the top of the search result was a link to request the document. I clicked the link and sighed, expecting that I’d be required to register with the library and request the physical document. But to my surprise, several sample pages within the document had been digitized. In moments, they began to materialize on the screen of my phone.

It had been a decade since I’d last done this sort of digging, and I couldn’t help the sudden rush of adrenaline in my chest. To think that Gaynor spent day after day in the British Library with full access to archives like this left me nearly writhing in envy.

As the image sharpened, my screen flashed with an incoming call. I didn’t recognize the number, but my caller ID said the call originated from Minneapolis. I frowned, trying to remember if I knew anyone from Minnesota. I shook my head; must be a telemarketer. I declined the call, settled deeper into the pillow and began to read the sample pages of the document.

The first several pages were irrelevant: names of hospital administrators, a lease document and a signed copy of a will—perhaps signed while the patient was on their deathbed. But on the fourth page, something caught my eye: the word bear.

It was a digitized image of a short, handwritten note, the writing jagged and faded in several places:

22 October 1816
To men, a maze. I could have show’d them all they wish’d to see at Bear Alley.
That a killer need not lift her long, delicate hand. She need not touch him as he dies.
There are other, wiser ways: vials and victuals.
The apothecary was a friend to all of us women, the brewer of our secret: the men are dead because of us.
Only, it did not happen as I intend’d.
It was not her fault, the apothecary. It was not even mine.
I lay blame unto my husband, and his thirst for that which was not meant for him.
The note was unsigned. My hands began to shake; the words bear and vial were present, meaning this was definitely the page that hit my search keywords. And the author of this note, whoever she was, clearly meant to share a heavy secret while she was indisposed at the hospital. Could this have been a deathbed confession of some kind?

And what of the line all they wish’d to see at Bear Alley? The author of the note alluded to a maze, implying she knew the way through. And if there was a maze, it seemed only logical that something valuable—or secretive—would be at the end of it.

I chewed at a fingernail, at a complete loss over the meaning of this strange wording.

But it was something else that struck me the most: mention of the apothecary. The author of the note said the apothecary was a “friend” and a “brewer” of secrets. If the secret was that men were dead—and clearly not by accident—it seemed the apothecary was the common thread among their deaths. Like a serial killer. A chill ran through me as I pulled the sheets closer.

As I examined the note again, an unread message notification on my email inbox flashed. I ignored it, instead jumping over to Google Maps and quickly typing Bear Alley, London, as mentioned in the first phrase of the note.

In an instant, a single result displayed: there was, indeed, a Bear Alley in London. And to my utter disbelief, it was close—very close—to my hotel. A ten-minute walk, no more. But was it the same Bear Alley referenced in the note? Surely some streets had been renamed in the last two hundred years.

The satellite view of Google Maps indicated the Bear Alley area in London was built up with massive concrete buildings, and the businesses listed on the map consisted mostly of investment banks and accounting firms. Which meant that even if this were the right Bear Alley, I wouldn’t find much beyond crowds of men moving about in suits. Crowds of men like James.

I glanced over at my suitcase, inside of which I’d placed the vial. Gaynor had agreed the image etched on its side was a bear. Could the vial be tied to Bear Alley? The idea of it—unlikely, though not impossible—was like bait on a hook. I couldn’t resist the pull of the mystery—the what if, the unknown.

I checked the time; it was nearly 4:00 a.m. As soon as the sun came up, I’d grab a coffee and venture over to Bear Alley.

Before setting my phone aside, I jumped over to the unread email waiting in my inbox and gasped: the email was from James. My jaw clenched as I began to read.

Tried calling from MSP. I can hardly breathe, Caroline. The other half of my heart is in London. Must see you. I’m about to board for Heathrow. I land at 9 am, your time. Will take a bit to get thru customs. Meet me at the hotel, 11ish?
In stunned silence, I read the email a second time. James was on his way to London. He didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see him, nor was he allowing me the solitude and distance I so badly needed. The unknown call a few minutes ago must have been from James at the airport, perhaps from a payphone—he likely knew I wouldn’t pick up if I had seen his caller ID.

My hands began to shake; it felt like I’d just learned about his affair all over again. I hovered my finger over Reply, prepared to tell James, No, don’t you dare come here. But I’d known him long enough; tell him he couldn’t have something, and he would work twice as hard to get it. Besides, he knew the name of the hotel, and even if I refused to meet with him, I had no doubt he would wait in the lobby for as long as it took. And I couldn’t stay holed up in my room forever.

Sleep would now be impossible. If James meant to arrive at eleven o’clock, there were just a few hours left without the burden of his presence, his excuses. A few hours left to avoid dealing with our damaged marriage. A few hours left to venture over to Bear Alley.