Beloved Poison Read online

  I stood at the window. Below me, in the main courtyard, Edward VI’s shoulders were cloaked in silver. Beyond him, I could see the dim yellow squares of the apothecary windows. I wondered whether I had been rash to leave my father in the care of Will Quartermain. After all, before that day I had never met the man. Now I was entrusting him to look after my only relative. And yet there was something about the young architect that I had liked immediately. He did not try to prove himself a better man than I. He did not question my knowledge and authority. He made me laugh. His curiosity matched my own. I wondered whether he would prove so agreeable if he knew who I really was.

  On the opposite side of the square the eight tall windows of the Magdalene ward gleamed as black as onyx in the moonlight. I caught a movement at one of them. Was a patient out of bed? The night nurse should be on hand to prevent such wanderings. No doubt she was cackling with the rest of St Saviour’s midnight coven out in the corridor. I cupped my hand about the glass, pressing my nose to the cold pane. All at once a white face appeared, emerging from the darkness of the opposite ward the way a drowned corpse might rise up from the black depths of a mill pond. Mrs Magorian! Her small, round face stared down, the bottle-green ribbons on her bonnet hanging limp against her cheeks like strips of weed. Beside her, tall and slim, stood Mrs Catchpole.

  I clicked my tongue. What in heaven’s name were they doing on the wards so late at night? I had not noticed them when I had passed through the place not half an hour earlier, and it was far too late for a Bible reading. I knew that I should go over there directly and tell them to go, but I had no stomach for a pair of lady almoners that evening and no wish for a confrontation. I waited for one or other of them to look up and see me. But neither of them did. They seemed to be engrossed by something at the far end of the courtyard. I followed their gaze.

  Eliza had her cloak pulled close and her hood up, but her small quick figure was unmistakable. She was in the shadows with somebody, a man, though from that distance in the darkness I could not be certain who it was. All at once she ran across the courtyard and disappeared out into St Saviour’s Street. Behind her, in the doorway to the library, her companion watched her go. He shifted in the shadows, his face suddenly visible in the moonlight.

  Dr Bain.

  For a moment he stood there. Mrs Magorian stared down, her expression unreadable. But Mrs Catchpole was not so guarded. Even from the opposite ward I could see her lips twist as she struggled to master her sense of betrayal, her hand clutched to her breast, her face frozen in a mixture of such pain and fury that I felt myself blanch.

  As the clock above the hospital struck the half hour, the door to the laundry opened. Within I could see great bales of bedding illuminated like mounds of pale flesh – limbs, arses and torsos. The laundrywoman appeared, her arms folded, and leaned against the door-frame. Dr Bain hesitated; but not for long.

  My skin grew hot, then cold. How could he court Eliza and then go immediately to a great fat trollop like that? Not two months ago I had come across him in the ironing room, beached on a dune of sheets, the laundrywoman stripped to the waist and sitting astride him. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Flock’art?’ she’d said. She had lifted up a great swaying breast in each hand, the way a baker might weigh up two lumps of dough before flinging them into the oven.

  Later, Dr Bain had begged me not to tell anyone. ‘A man has needs, Jem,’ he’d said. ‘At least until he’s obliged to marry – and even then there are passions that fall beyond the compass of a wife. But perhaps you’d care to come along with me one night? Mrs Roseplucker in Wicke Street has some new girls. Clean too. What d’you say? A young chap like you must have something of an appetite, eh? And we’ve not been there together for a while.’

  But I knew about men’s needs well enough: did I not visit the foul wards every day? Now, I wished I had not been so easily persuaded to say nothing. Dr Bain was my friend, but Eliza deserved better. And now Mrs Magorian, and Mrs Catchpole, had seen them together. Dr Bain, I knew, could look after himself, but Eliza? Damn the man, I thought. Could he not be content with whores and doctor’s wives?

  I was about to return to the corridor and wake up the night nurse with a kick and a bellow, when I heard a noise. At first I thought it was Mrs Speedicut come to find me, but there was no laboured breathing and no rustling skirts. Had the night nurse woken up? And yet I could still hear her snores out in the corridor. I was hidden from view by a cupboard, and was invisible to anyone coming in at the door. I could not tell who had entered, but I saw a shadow, tall and thin as a scarecrow, rearing against the walls. Perhaps Dr Bain had not stayed in the laundry after all, but had come to check on his patient. He was curious and diligent as a doctor, whatever his faults might be as a man.

  I had left my lantern on the table in the middle of the ward, but the visitor seemed not to have noticed. He had his own lantern and he raised it now as he stood over Dr Bain’s patient, looking down. Dr Graves. His face was white, almost greenish in the light, his eyes two dark hollows. He put his lamp on the table beside the patient’s bed, and began gently to open the man’s bandages. The patient did not move. The sleeping draught he had been prescribed had been a powerful one. Dr Graves slid a hand into his pocket, and produced a small glass phial.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Graves,’ I said, stepping into view. ‘The patient is healing well, is he not?’

  Dr Graves cried out and sprang away from the bedside. He tried to slip the phial back into his pocket, but in his haste the thing fell to the floor.

  ‘Let me help,’ I said.

  ‘No!’ Dr Graves plunged beneath the bed. The phial had not smashed, but had rolled away from him. I too dived beneath the bed. There was a scrabbling of fingers. My fist closed about the phial but Dr Graves clawed the back of my hand with his long brittle nails. ‘I do apologise,’ he said through clenched teeth as he seized the glass from my slackened grip.

  We stood up, both of us panting. ‘Thank you, Mr Flockhart.’ Dr Graves grinned at me, a trickle of sweat running down his temple. He plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and swabbed at his face.

  ‘Think what you’re doing, sir.’ I nursed the back of my hand, wet with blood. ‘Consider your reputation—’

  Dr Graves said nothing. His face twitched.

  ‘And your conscience,’ I added.

  Dr Graves looked at me, his face blank. A dry rattling sound came from his throat and his eyes bulged. He put out a hand to steady himself as I started forward. Had he somehow managed to slip himself some of his own poison? I had been able to do no more than glimpse the contents of the phial in the dim light beneath the bed – a white, crystalline powder. What was it? Arsenic? Oleander? Cyanide? All were fast acting and quite deadly.

  And then I realised that he was not dying at all. He was laughing.

  I was awoken by the sound of someone moving about the apothecary. I had slept on Gabriel’s bed beneath the table, while Gabriel remained in his blanket at my father’s feet. Only Will Quartermain had spent the night in the space he had been allocated: the truckle bed in my room. I was glad to have been spared that forced intimacy, at least for another night. Still, the sight of him pottering about the apothecary was most welcome. He had poked the fire back into life, and on the stove top sat a large, fat-bellied flask, dark flecks eddying in the amber-coloured liquid. Will seized the neck of the thing with a pair of tongs.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said. I used the large flask for collecting the distillate of plant oils, though I was sure I had not undertaken any such procedure the day before.

  ‘Tea,’ said Will. ‘I couldn’t find the tea pot. Don’t you have one? And where’s the maid?’

  ‘The maid?’ I laughed. ‘Why would we need one of those? We can look after each other.’

  ‘Cups then. Do you have cups?’

  ‘The cups are in the dresser.’ I looked over at my father.

  ‘He seems rested,’ said Will. ‘Was he quiet during the night?’

 
I had slept heavily, my dreams filled with bloodied bandages, blotch-eyed dolls and dead flowers. ‘Yes,’ I said. In fact, I had been so tired that my father might have risen up and danced a jig on the table top and I would not have noticed. ‘At least, I think so. Gabriel!’ I threw a shoe at the recumbent form on the hearth rug. ‘Get up!’

  Will and I sat side by side staring out at the thick brown fog that rubbed against the windows. I had smelled it on the air as I walked back across the courtyard the night before. Now, not even the sun could be distinguished. Behind us, Gabriel began scrubbing the table. My father remained, unmoving, but breathing steadily, in his chair. I spooned some tea between his lips and was reassured to see him swallow the stuff. His face was grey and still. Beneath his lowered lids, however, I could see his eyes moving, restless and wakeful despite everything.

  ‘This tea tastes of lavender,’ I said.

  There was one thing I wanted to do before the day began in earnest. ‘The wrappings around those dolls,’ I said to Will. ‘We must test to see whether it’s blood or not.’

  ‘You have doubts?’

  ‘No. But I’d like to be certain. What if it’s no more than, say, vegetable dye? The objects themselves would become quite harmless.’

  ‘And if it’s not?’

  I did not reply.

  Will and Gabriel watched in silence as I took one of the coffins from the sack. Gabriel’s eyes grew wide, and his lips began to tremble when he saw what was inside – the dried weeds, the bloodied rags, the hideous peg-like doll. To my surprise, however, he said nothing. I snipped off a piece of the blood-coloured wrappings and put it onto a glass saucer. Potassium chloride dissolved in ice vinegar was the necessary reagent. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘If we drop the acetic acid mixture onto the cloth and then gently heat it . . .’ I used a glass dropper to cover the material with fluid, and then carried the saucer over to the stove. Other than the ticking of the clock, and Gabriel’s gormless breathing, the room was silent. We stood there, Will and I, watching while the saucer and its bloody mixture grew warm. Too much and the test would not work. Too little and we would see no change. It was anyone’s guess. At length, I extracted a drop of the heated, loam-coloured liquid with my pipette, and plopped it onto a glass slide ready for the microscope. I loved that microscope, a brass beauty made by Leitz of Wetzlar that I polished every week until it gleamed like gold. I had bought it some years ago, under Dr Bain’s advice, and it sat in the window, the best place in the apothecary to catch the light, where it was regarded jealously by Dr Graves, Dr Catchpole and Dr Magorian, all of whom though it scandalous that a mere apothecary should possess such a mighty scientific instrument.

  ‘Well?’ said Will as I peered into the Leitz’s brass eyepiece. I turned the knobs, my heart suddenly racing, waiting for the microscopic construction of the droplet to become visible. ‘Is it—’

  I felt my skin grow cold. Caught in that icy gaze was a tell-tale ring of rhombic crystals, what Dr Bain called the ‘hematin derivative’. There was no doubt about it. ‘Blood,’ I said. ‘These rags are soaked in blood.’

  I went out to get some bread. When I came back, Dr Hawkins was there. He was holding my father’s wrist, his pocket watch open in his hand.

  ‘I hear he’s been sleeping,’ he said.

  ‘He’s been unconscious, certainly,’ I replied. ‘But that’s not the same as sleeping, is it? His eyelids might be closed but beneath them his eyes move constantly. It’s as though he’s searching for something even though he cannot see. I would not describe such a state as “sleep” any more than you would.’

  ‘But his enervated condition may give him some rest,’ said Dr Hawkins. The rose on his lapel that day was white – a dense creamy head of thickly curled velvet petals. Flawless. Beautiful. And in the language of flowers? It meant silence, I thought bitterly. Silence and secrecy. Eliza had taught me well, that day in the physic garden.

  I clamped my hand about his wrist. ‘What have you done to him?’ I whispered. ‘You’ve bled him until he can hardly stand.’

  ‘I’m trying to help him, Jem.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with him?’

  ‘It’s not for me to explain what ails him. He must do that himself. And he will tell you. He’ll have to. But it’ll be in his own time. All you can do is wait. Wait and hope.’

  Tears stung my eyes. I could not reply. I could only stare at my father, at the dark rings that circled his eyes. ‘But look at him,’ I whispered. ‘He’s as empty as a glove. And for what?’

  ‘I hoped we had taken enough to weaken the system. To make sleep, or at least unconsciousness, inevitable.’

  ‘But he does not sleep. You’ve made him into a living corpse.’

  ‘We had to try. He insisted that we try. If you knew, you would understand—’

  ‘But I don’t know,’ I cried. ‘You won’t tell me. He won’t tell me. How can I understand?’

  My father stirred. ‘Jem.’ I crouched down and took his hand. ‘Don’t shriek,’ he whispered. His fingers were cold and limp, and did not respond to my touch.

  ‘You can’t help him like this, Jem,’ said Dr Hawkins.

  ‘But I can help him,’ I said. I pulled my coat off and fumbled with my shirt cuff. ‘Here,’ I cried, exposing an arm and thrusting it towards Dr Hawkins. ‘Take my blood. Take it and put it into him.’

  ‘No!’ My father’s voice was sharp, his expression irritated, as if he wished I would just shut up and go away. But I would not shut up. And I would never go away.

  ‘Father—’

  I watched him struggle to control his annoyance. ‘No.’ He attempted a smile, but looked away from me. ‘I think a dose of iron tonic would be useful, don’t you?’

  I knew when I had been dismissed. I fetched the bottle in silence.

  When I returned from the morning ward rounds my father had the out-patients’ ledger open on his lap. He had the long-stick ruler in his hand and was using this to direct proceedings.

  ‘There, Gabriel,’ he said, jabbing the air in the direction of the top shelf. ‘The powdered clove is up there. Seventy-seven grains, as I showed you. Come along, lad!’ He looked exhausted, and I could see that even wielding the ruler was an effort.

  Gabriel scaled the ladder against the shelves like a sailor amongst the rigging. He was glad my father had recovered sufficiently to order him about the place. He was also pleased that there was now someone at work in the apothecary who knew even less than he did about medicinal matters, for with my father incapacitated, Will had offered to help us. Was he not supposed to be making a survey of St Saviour’s churchyard? He was stalling, I knew.

  ‘I know what you can do,’ Gabriel said. ‘You can polish the brass scales and weights. Then you can scrub all the glassware and dust the bottles on the top shelf and take the hops up to the drying room and then change the water in the leech tank—’

  Will gazed at the leeches. ‘Do I scoop them out first?’

  ‘Forget the leeches,’ I said. ‘I need you to grind, and measure.’ I pointed to the scales, and the pestle and mortar. ‘Follow my instructions exactly.’

  As usual, people came and went. At ten o’clock I sent Gabriel to take the medicines to out-patients. He returned some time later with a bag of buns (cadged from the baker on Priory Street who was sorry to hear of my father’s ill health) and bearing news of Mrs Speedicut’s brutality – she had caught him by the fire in the out-patients’ waiting room and had boxed his ears for ‘lolling about’. ‘I weren’t lollin’ anywhere,’ said Gabriel, rubbing his ear. ‘I were standin’.’

  The ward sisters brought down their prescription ledgers; a group of students came in looking for Dr Graves, who was due to operate and could not be found anywhere. Mrs Magorian came in on her way to the almoners’ meeting, asking for the tincture of St John’s wort my father had made up for her. Everyone seemed to know about the coffins, and we were asked about them again and again. The nurses looked at them askance; the students laughed and shrug
ged and turned away.

  ‘It makes me feel quite faint just to look at them,’ said Mrs Magorian, who had indeed turned rather green. She fluttered a small silk handkerchief in front of her face. I caught a whiff of lavender and sal volatile. ‘Where’s Dr Bain?’ she added, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Gabriel,’ I said, as the door closed behind them. ‘Have you told the entire world about these boxes?’ I stowed them back out of sight beneath the work bench.

  ‘No, Mr Jem,’ he said. ‘At least, not the entire world. Perhaps if you showed them to me, prop’ly, rather than just letting me peep into that sack . . .’ Only my father seemed uninterested. He looked at them and shrugged, his face registering neither surprise nor recognition. I could not help but feel relived, though it was clear his indifference was due to other, more pressing preoccupations.

  Not everyone who came in went away again so promptly. Mrs Speedicut appeared looking irritable. She was breathing heavily, as though from some recent exertion. She wore the same cuffs and apron as the day before, and I noticed that her skirts were singed slightly on the right hand side. Clearly, she had fallen asleep before the fire. Perhaps that was why she had missed the ward rounds the night before. She had been conspicuous by her absence that morning too. She sat down in the chair opposite my father and peered into the blackened bowl of her pipe. Finding it empty, she contented herself with sucking on the stem. I heard the sound of tar gurgling. I had made a pot of coffee, and I handed her a cup. My father winced as she slurped the bitter black brew. I was determined not to show her the coffins unless she asked.