The Lost Apothecary(81)

I returned to the first few images in the set, the photos of the shop interior. They were terribly grainy and overexposed, and even after playing with the exposure and brightness, I was unable to see anything beyond the foreground. It seemed the camera’s flash brought into focus only the flecks of dust floating about in the room; I supposed that was the downside of using a cell phone to capture images of a once-in-a-lifetime event. I could have kicked myself. Why hadn’t I brought a proper flashlight?

I flicked over to the next few photos, those of the apothecary’s book—her register. There were eight photos of the register, pictures I hastily took at random: a couple from the front, a few toward the middle, and the rest from the back of the book. These were the pictures that got me into trouble; they were clear enough that I was able to jot down notes, and those same notes nearly had me thrown in jail.

The final photo in the set was a picture of the inside cover of another book that was on the shelf. I could only make out one word: pharmacopoeia. I plugged this into my browser’s search bar, and the results told me this second book was a directory of medicinal drugs. So, a reference guide then. Interesting, but not as much as the apothecary’s handwritten register.

I returned to the last image of the apothecary’s register. As I zoomed into the photo, I noticed the familiar format of the entries, which included the date and to whom the remedy was dispensed. I read the entries closely, and it dawned on me that since this was the final page of the register, these entries would have been made in the days or weeks immediately preceding the apothecary’s death.

At once, my eyes fell on the name Lord Clarence. I gasped aloud, reading the entirety of the entry:

Miss Berkwell. Mistress to, cousin of, the Lord Clarence. Cantharides. 9 February 1791. On account of his wife, the Lady Clarence.
I lunged forward on the bed, reaching for the first article that Gaynor printed for me—the one dated February 10, 1791. My heart racing, I cross-checked the names and dates between the register entry and the article related to the same incident, Lord Clarence’s death. And though I’d believed all along that the shop belonged to the murderous apothecary, this was proof. This picture of the register from inside the shop was proof that she had dispensed the poison that killed him.

But I frowned, reading the entry more closely. The first name in the entry, the person meant to ingest the poison, was Miss Berkwell. Lord Clarence, who actually ingested it, was mentioned only in reference to Miss Berkwell; she was his cousin. And the final name listed, the purchaser of the poison, was the Lady Clarence. His wife.

I reread the end of the first newspaper article and it did not even mention a Miss Berkwell. The article stated, very clearly, that Lord Clarence was dead, and doubt existed as to whether it was his wife or someone else who had slipped poison into his drink. Yet the apothecary’s register entry implied he wasn’t supposed to die at all. The intended victim was Miss Berkwell.

According to what lay in front of me, the wrong person had died. Did anyone, besides Lady Clarence and the apothecary—and now me—even know it? I might not have had an advanced degree in history, but pride swelled within me at the monumental discovery I’d made.

And as for the motive? Well, the entry made that clear, too; it identified Miss Berkwell as not only Lord Clarence’s cousin, but his mistress. It was no wonder Lady Clarence set out to kill her; Miss Berkwell was the other woman. I remembered well enough learning about James’s infidelity and the immediate urge within me to seek revenge on the other woman. In this way, I could not blame Lady Clarence, though I wondered how she felt when her plan went awry and her husband died instead. Things certainly did not happen as she intended.

Did not happen as she intended...

The hospital note. Hadn’t it said something similar? Hands shaking, I navigated back to the digitized image of the note from St. Thomas’ Hospital, dated October 22, 1816. I reread the line I’d remembered:

Only, it did not happen as I intend’d.
Could it have been that the author of the hospital note was Lady Clarence? I covered my mouth with my hands. “Impossible,” I whispered aloud to myself.

But the last sentence of the hospital note fit the possibility, too: I lay blame unto my husband, and his thirst for that which was not meant for him. Had this clue been both literal and figurative—referring to Lord Clarence’s thirst for a poisonous drink that was meant for Miss Berkwell, and his thirst for a woman who was not his wife?

Without giving it a moment’s thought, I texted Gaynor. At the coffee shop, she’d mentioned that she’d confirmed the date of Lord Clarence’s death in the parish records. Perhaps she could do the same for Lady Clarence, to validate whether the woman had indeed penned the hospital note. Hi again! I texted Gaynor. Could you check the death records one more time? Same surname Clarence, but a woman. Any death record around October 1816?

Until Gaynor replied, it would be useless to waste any more time on this idea. I took a long drink of water, tucked my legs against my body and zoomed into my phone to better read the final entry—the closing entry.

Before I even read it, bumps prickled on my skin. This entry was the last record the apothecary made before running from the police and jumping to her death.

I read the entry once, but I frowned; the handwriting of this final entry was less steady, as though the author had been trembling. Perhaps she’d been ill or cold or even hurried. Or perhaps—I shuddered as I considered it—someone else made this entry.