The Lost Apothecary(76)

“It’s no wonder the police were suspicious.” She hesitated, then said, “Probably not the anniversary celebration you expected. If there’s anything I can do...” She trailed off, as lost for words as I was. The situation, after all, wasn’t remedied. James might have been on the mend, but we were not. I envisioned us together in Cincinnati again, trying to undo the tangled knot he’d brought into our lives, but the vision was murky and unsatisfying, like an ill-fitting resolution at the end of an otherwise decent movie.

Gaynor reached into her bag and pulled out my notebook. When I’d left the interrogation room with the police, I hadn’t even noticed that the notebook remained in the center of the table, right in front of Gaynor. “I didn’t look through it,” she said. “I thought I’d give you a chance to...explain.” Her face twisted as though she didn’t want to know the full truth—as though her ignorance would keep us both safe.

This was my last chance to escape unscathed; my last chance to salvage a remnant of our friendship. By falsifying a story about my own research, I could avoid admitting to the worst wrongdoing of all, which was that I’d breached a precious historical site. If I told her, who knew what she may do? She might chase after the two officers and report the offense; she might cash in on the incredible, newsworthy discovery; or she might reject me altogether and tell me to never contact her again.

But this wasn’t about what Gaynor would or would not do with the information. This was my burden, and if there was anything I’d learned in recent days, it was that secrets wreaked havoc on lives. I needed to let out the truth about my trespassing—which now seemed minor, relative to the murder charge I’d nearly faced—and I needed to let out the truth about the unfathomable discovery I’d made.

“There’s something I need to show you,” I said at last, checking to ensure the waiting room remained empty. I pulled out my cell phone and navigated to my photos of the lost apothecary’s register. Then, with Gaynor peeking eagerly over my shoulder, I began to unveil the truth.

When I returned to James’s bedside, it was midafternoon. Little had changed—only now, he slept soundly. When he woke, later, there were a few things I needed to tell him.

Before settling myself into the chair near the window, I made my way to the restroom. Suddenly I froze, looking down at myself with wide eyes: I’d felt that unmistakable, leaking sensation from between my legs. Clenching my thighs together, I rushed into the cold bathroom in James’s hospital room and sat down on the toilet.

Thank God, I finally had my answer: I was not pregnant. I was very much not pregnant.

The bathroom was well-stocked with pads and tampons, the latter of which I eagerly tore open. When I was done, after washing my hands at the sink, I peered up at myself in the mirror. I pressed my fingers to the glass, touching my reflection, and smiled. No matter what would come of my marriage, there was no baby to complicate things. No innocent child to stand by helplessly as James and I redefined ourselves, both as individuals and as a couple.

I returned to my seat next to James and leaned my head back against the wall, considering whether I might be able to catch a short nap in such an uncomfortable position. In the moment of warm, satiated respite, a memory slipped toward me: this morning, in the coffee shop, with Gaynor. She’d given me the two articles about the apothecary, but I hadn’t yet read the second one.

I frowned, reaching into my crossbody bag and pulling the articles out. Why on earth didn’t I show these to the officers earlier, when they threw doubt on my research claims? In truth, I’d forgotten about the articles entirely, given the more immediate concerns at hand.

I unfolded the two pages; the earlier article, dated February 10, 1791, was on top. It was the article about Lord Clarence’s death and the wax impression of the bear logo. Since I’d already read it, I moved it to the back, and my eyes settled on the second article, dated February 12, 1791.

I gasped as I read the headline. This article, I understood now, explained what Gaynor meant at the coffee shop, when she referred to Lord Clarence’s death as the beginning of the end for the apothecary.

The headline read “Apothecary Killer Jumps from Bridge, Suicide.”

The article began to tremble in my hands, like I’d just read the death announcement of someone I knew all too well.



31

Nella


February 11, 1791

Eliza and I stood together on the bridge, the constable no more than three strides behind us. Death was close—so close that I could feel the chill of its outstretched arms.

The seconds preceding my death were not as I expected. Within me, there arose no memories of my mother, my lost child or even Frederick. There was only one memory, a single, young one, hardly formed: little Eliza and the first time she appeared at my doorstep in her threadbare cloak, her poor excuse of a hat, yet her cheeks so young and dewy, like a newborn. In the truest sense of the word, she was a disguise. The perfect murderer. For many a servant had murdered her master in the city of London, but who would believe a twelve-year-old served a poison-laced egg at the breakfast table?

No one would believe it. Not even me.

And so it was that I fell into disbelief again. For, as we stood on the bridge together and I prepared to jump, just as the word run had tumbled off my tongue, the girl lifted her thin legs over the railing of Blackfriars Bridge. She glanced back at me with a gentle gaze, the edges of her skirt whipping in the breeze that pushed up against her from the River Thames.