The Lost Apothecary(53)
“And the jar?” I asked. “You hid it somewhere, or destroyed it?”
“Oh, yes. My lady’s maid put it on a shelf at the very back of the cellar. Only the cook has any reason to go digging back there. I’ll dispose of it as soon as I am able to sneak down there. Tonight, perhaps.”
I exhaled a small sigh of relief, grateful that the canister remained hidden. But even if it were found, not all would be lost; this was precisely why the jars and vials about my shop were naked, save for the small engraving of the bear. “Though it is not traceable to me,” I urged, “best to get rid of immediately.”
“Most certainly,” she said, chastised. “Anyhow, I thought it curious you would have engravings on the jar.” She delicately wiped her nose, composing herself. A lifetime of rigid manners could not be so easily forgotten.
“Just that of a little bear,” I said, pointing to a small canister on a nearby shelf. “Like that one. So many jars are similar in appearance. Imagine if someone were to administer a drop from the wrong bottle, and the wrong person—” I stopped myself, ashamed of what had nearly slipped from my tongue, given the story she had just told.
But she didn’t seem to notice as she frowned and walked to the shelf. She shook her head. “My jar had this image, but there was something else.” She lifted the jar and turned it on its side. “No, these aren’t the same. My jar has something on the other side of it. Words, I’m sure of it.”
A faint rumble crawled through my belly, and I let out a nervous laugh. “No, you must be mistaken. What words would I dare place on a jar of poison?”
“I assure you,” Lady Clarence said. “There was something written on it. Jagged letters, as though it had been etched into the clay by hand.”
“A scratch, perhaps? Or dirt, just rubbish,” I suggested, the pressure in my stomach rising upward into my chest.
“No,” she insisted, irritation in her voice now. “I know words when I see them.” She threw me an exasperated glance and returned the jar to its shelf.
Though I was listening to her words, I did not fully hear them; the tap tap tap was too loud, and the story which Lady Clarence had just shared no longer seemed her crisis alone. Like I had just sipped from the crystal glass of cantharides myself, I choked out her name: “Eliza.”
A memory began to crystallize. Yesterday afternoon, just before Lady Clarence arrived to retrieve the poison, Eliza had selected the jar that would hold the powder. I hadn’t paid any attention to the jar she selected, for any within easy reach were etched with the bear logo and nothing more. Only those deep in the back of my mother’s cupboard were marked otherwise.
“Eliza, yes, where is she today?” Lady Clarence asked, unaware of the storm brewing inside of me.
“I must find her immediately,” I gasped. “The cupboard...” But I could not speak another word, much less explain myself to Lady Clarence, for I could not think about anything except making haste to Warwick Lane, where I would find the Amwell estate. Oh, how I prayed she was there! “And you,” I said to Lady Clarence, “go, now! Get the jar immediately and bring it to—”
“Your eyes are that of an animal,” she cried. “Whatever is the matter?”
But I was already moving out the door, and she followed close behind. As I stepped outside, I did not feel the cold against my skin or the tightness of my shoes against my swollen ankles. Ahead, a flock of blackbirds took flight; even they were scared of me.
At some point, Lady Clarence went her own way—to retrieve the jar, I prayed. I continued onward, rushing up Ludgate Street, the cathedral rising high above me. The Amwell estate was very close now, only a couple of blocks ahead.
As I neared my turnoff to Warwick Lane, I spotted a small, shrouded figure on a bench ahead, near the churchyard. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? My heart surged as I observed the light, playful manner in which this mysterious figure turned the pages of the book in her lap. I was close to the Amwell home; it would not be out of the realm of possibility to encounter Eliza at any moment.
My hopes were soon confirmed: it was undoubtedly her. Not an hour ago, I feared the child may be fear-stricken and morose, but that did not seem the case whatsoever. For, as I drew closer, I saw indeed that as the girl perused the book she wore a wide smile, as fresh and bright as a bloom.
“Eliza!” I shouted when we were only meters apart.
She jerked her head toward me. Her smile fell, and she clutched the book to her chest—but it was not the book I gave her. This one was smaller, and the cover a lighter color. “Eliza, oh, do listen to me, for it is very urgent.”
I reached for her, bringing her into a hesitant embrace, yet she remained stiff in my arms. There was something odd with her; she was not pleased to see me. This morning, I had wished to be a distant memory of hers, yet now I found myself offended by it. And what of her smile a moment ago? What had happened recently that left her in such a gleeful state?
“You must return to the shop with me, child, for there is something I need to show you.” In fact, I needed her to show me from exactly which cupboard she withdrew the jar.
Her gaze was flat, unreadable, but her words were not. “You sent me away. Remember?”
“I do remember, but I also remember telling you that I feared something terrible was about to happen, and it has. I want to tell you all about it, but—” I glanced at a man walking close by, and lowered my voice “—I cannot do so here. Come with me now, I need your help.”