The Lost Apothecary(69)
In a dingy, windowless room on the third floor of St. Bartholomew’s hospital, I sat across from two male police officers, my notebook between us. A nauseating odor permeated the airless room—antiseptic and floor cleaner—while a fluorescent light buzzed and flickered above us.
The lead officer spun my notebook to face him, tapping his finger on the incriminating words: Quantities of non-poisons needed to kill. I braced myself, fearing what else he might see on the page of my hastily jotted notes. The word arsenic was asterisked, for God’s sake.
I wanted desperately to search for James, who’d been rushed down the long corridor leading to the critical care unit. But instinct told me this would not be wise; the unshaven officer sitting in front of me would slap handcuffs on me before I even made it to the hallway. Leaving was not an option.
Suddenly, I had a lot of explaining to do.
I held my breath, praying the officer didn’t look farther down the page. If he did, how could I begin to tell him the truth? Where would I even start? Would I begin with my unfaithful husband arriving in London unplanned, or my breaking-and-entering into a serial killer’s apothecary shop, or my reason for having eucalyptus oil in my toiletry bag at all? Every scenario stood against me; every explanation seemed either too implausible or too coincidental.
I feared my version of events would do more harm than good; I was emotionally wrecked and unable to form a clear thought, much less a coherent sentence. But given James’s condition only a short while ago, time was of the essence. I needed to find a way out of this, and quick.
As the second officer excused himself out of the room for a call, the first cleared his throat and addressed me. “Ms. Parcewell, do you care to explain what’s in this notebook?”
I forced myself to focus. “These notes are related to a historical research project,” I insisted. “Nothing more.”
“A research project?” He didn’t hide the dubious expression on his face as he leaned back in his chair and spread his legs apart. I stifled the sudden urge to vomit.
“About an unsolved mystery, yes.” At least that much was true. It dawned on me that maybe the whole truth wasn’t necessary—maybe the partial truth was enough to get me out of this predicament. “I’m a history major. I’ve been twice to the British Library, investigating an apothecary who killed people a couple hundred years ago. The notebook contains my research notes about her poisons, that’s all.”
“Hmm,” he mused aloud, crossing one leg over the other. “Seems a fitting story.”
This was precisely my concern. I stared at him, dumbfounded, resisting the desperate urge to throw up my hands and say, Okay, asshole, come with me and I’ll show you a few things. He pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket and began to scribble down words, some of which he underlined with rough, chalky strokes. “And you began this research when?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Just a couple of days ago.”
“And you’re visiting from where?”
“The States, Ohio.”
“Have you ever faced criminal charges?”
I spread out my hands in disbelief. “No, never. Nothing.” The back of my neck began to itch. Not yet, anyway.
Just then, the second officer returned to the room. He leaned against the wall and tapped his boot on the floor. “We understand you and your husband are having a bit of a...rough patch.”
My jaw fell open. “Who—” But I steadied my voice; the more defensive I appeared to these men, the worse off I’d be. “Who told you that?” I asked, feigning calm.
“Your husband has been slipping in and out of consciousness; the charge nurse—”
“So he’s okay?” I restrained myself from lunging out of my chair and making my way to the door.
“The charge nurse,” the officer started again, “has begun to ask him a few additional questions as they get him hooked up to his IV.”
Heat rose to my face. James told the nurse we’re having a rough patch? Was he trying to have me arrested?
But I reminded myself: so far as I knew, James was unaware of the predicament I now found myself in. Unless the police had told him that I was under interrogation, he had no knowledge of the terrible turn of events that had landed me in front of these officers.
The lead officer tapped his pencil against the table, waiting on my response to James’s claim. To improve my own situation, I considering rejecting it, insisting James had lied about our rough patch. But wouldn’t it look even worse if I accused James of being a liar? The officers were inclined to believe the person in the critical care unit, not the healthy wife with the suspicious notebook—so if James told them we were having marital struggles, I couldn’t deny it. The reality of the situation hardened around me like the steel bars of a jail cell. Maybe it was time to start thinking about an attorney.
“Yeah,” I relented, preparing to unleash my only line of defense: James’s infidelity. It was unfortunate for him that, just as I’d begun to process the reality of what had happened, I found myself wanting to use it against him. “I found out last week that he—” But I stopped myself. It was no use to reveal to these two men that James had cheated on me. It wouldn’t turn them on him, I felt sure of that; it would only serve to make me look vengeful and, perhaps, emotionally unstable.