The Lost Apothecary(57)

Most of the photos of the book were clear, although the edges of some were overexposed and so the borders were white and indecipherable. And yet, despite the clarity of the pictures, I was faced with another maddening frustration: I couldn’t understand much of the text. Not only did it seem to be written in shorthand, but the cursive handwriting was at such a slant—and so hastily written in places—that parts of it may as well have been in a foreign language. In one photo, I could understand only a portion of one row toward the top:

Garr t Chadw k. Marl bone. Op um, Prep. lozenge. 17 Aug 1789. On acc nt of Ms. Ch wick, wife.
As my brain struggled to fill in letters and make sense of the text, I felt like I was playing one of those missing-letter word games. But after a few minutes, I realized that the v’s and s’s and d’s—which were indistinguishable at first—were looped in a certain way, and my brain began to recognize them so that I was better able to make out the subsequent pages:

Mr. Frere. S uthwark. Tobacco leav s, prep. oil. 3 May 1790. On acct of Ms. Am er, sister, friend of Ms. M nsfield.
Ms. B. Bell. Raspb rry leav, crush’d plaster. 12 May 1790.
Charlie Turner, May air, NV tincture. 6 Jun 1790. On acc of Ms. Apple, servant-cook.
I set my chin in my hand, reading certain entries again, discontent welling inside of me. Raspberry leaves? Tobacco? There was nothing dangerous about these, though I had once heard that nicotine was toxic in large amounts. Perhaps it was the quantity of a non-poison that proved deadly? And as for some other references in the book—like NV tincture—well, I had no idea what they even meant.

I tried to decipher the way the entries were formatted, too. Each one began with a name, then listed an ingredient—dangerous or not—followed by a date. Some entries included a second name at the end with the designation, on account of. I assumed this meant the first name was the intended recipient of the ingredient, and the second name was the person who actually bought it. So Charlie Turner, for example, was meant to ingest NV tincture—whatever that was—and it was likely purchased by Ms. Apple.

I grabbed a pen and my notebook from the nightstand and jotted down a few things to research later:

Quantities of non-poisons needed to kill
Opium—lozenge?
Tobacco—oil?
NV tincture—what is NV?
I spent the next fifteen or so minutes cross-legged on the bed, furiously writing down questions and words, some familiar, some not. Nightshade. Wasn’t that a plant? Thorn apple. Never heard of it. Wolfsbane. No idea. Drachm, bolus, cerate, yew, elix. I wrote all of it down.

I flipped to another photo and gasped as my eyes fell on a word that I knew, without doubt, to be deadly: arsenic. I wrote it down in my notebook, putting an asterisk next to it. I zoomed farther into the photo, hoping to decipher the rest of the words in the row, when I heard another noise outside.

I froze. It sounded like someone had stopped just in front of the door. I silently cursed whoever it was; didn’t they see the Do Not Disturb sign? But then I heard the keycard slide into the door. Had James returned already? I shoved the phone underneath my pillow.

A moment later, James walked in—and I knew immediately that something was very, very wrong. His face was pale and clammy, his forehead dripping wet, and his hands shook badly.

Instinctively, I stood from the bed and rushed toward him. “Oh, my God,” I said as I approached him; I could smell his sweat and something else, sweet and acidic. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” he said, rushing for the bathroom. He leaned over the sink, taking deep breaths. “Must be yesterday’s Italian food.” He looked up to the mirror in front of the sink, making eye contact with me even though I stood behind him. “I’m such a fucking mess, Caroline. First you, and now this. I got sick outside, on the sidewalk,” he said. “I think I just need to get all this out. Would it be okay if—” He paused, swallowing something down. “Would it be okay if I have the room to myself for a bit until this is out of my system?”

I didn’t hesitate for a second. “Of course, yes.” I’d known for years that James hated being sick in front of other people. And, truthfully, I wanted the privacy, too. “You sure you’re okay, though? Do you need juice or anything?”

He shook his head, starting to close the bathroom door. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Just give me a bit.”

I nodded, put my shoes on and grabbed my bag, tossing my notebook inside. I set a water bottle just outside the bathroom door and told James I’d be back soon to check on him.

I remembered there being a café a block down the road so I headed that way, intending to finish looking at the photos on my phone. But as soon as I stepped outside, my phone started to ring. I didn’t recognize the number, and thinking it might be James calling from the hotel, I answered it quickly. “Hello?”

“Caroline, it’s Gaynor!”

“Oh, oh, my gosh, hi, Gaynor.” I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and a pedestrian threw me an irritated glance.

“I’m sorry for calling so early, but the manuscripts I texted you about last night came in. Are you able to meet me at the library, like, ASAP? I’m not technically working today, but I stopped in a few minutes ago to check out the documents. You’re not going to believe it.”

I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to remember what she’d said yesterday about the documents. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours and her text messages had, admittedly, been relegated to the back of my brain, given last night’s adventure—and now James’s illness.