The Lost Apothecary — Chapter 34

34

Caroline

Present day, Wednesday

I read the final entry again, my hand over my lips.

Eliza Fanning, London. Ingr. unknown. 12 Feb 1791.

The twelfth of February? It didn’t make sense. The apothecary jumped from the bridge on the eleventh of February, and the article said the river was “littered with ice.” Even if someone survived the fall, it seemed unlikely they would have lasted more than a minute or two in the frigid water.

It was curious, too, that just one name was listed: Eliza Fanning. The entry did not say she was “on account” of anyone else. She must have come to the shop by herself, then. Did she have any idea that she was the final customer? And did she play any role in the apothecary’s demise?

I pulled a blanket over my legs. Admittedly, this final entry left me a bit spooked. I considered the possibility that the discrepancy was an error; perhaps the apothecary simply got her dates mixed up. Could this something really be nothing?

And it was also strange that the entry said Ingr. unknown—ingredients unknown. It seemed impossible. How could the apothecary have dispensed something of which she had no knowledge?

Maybe it wasn’t the apothecary at all. Maybe someone else made the entry. But the shop was well hidden, and it seemed unreasonable that someone would have entered the shop the day after the apothecary jumped in order to write down such a cryptic, final message. It only made sense that it was the apothecary’s own entry.

But if she made the entry, then who jumped?

More questions than answers had presented themselves in the last few minutes, and my curiosity melted into frustration. Nothing matched up: the

victim in the first article didn’t fit with the victim in the entry about Lord Clarence; the final entry was cryptically written, with its strange handwriting and the reference to unknown ingredients; and most significant, the date of the final entry was a day after the apothecary had supposedly died.

I spread out my hands, at a complete loss. How many secrets did the apothecary take to her grave?

I walked to the minifridge and pulled out the bottle of champagne that the hotel had stocked in the suite. I didn’t think to pour the chilled wine into a glass; instead, once I’d popped off the cork, I lifted the rim to my lips and took a deep drink directly from the bottle.

Instead of fortifying me, the champagne left me fatigued, almost dizzy.

My curiosity about the apothecary had worn down for the day, and the idea

of further research was not appealing.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

I resolved to write down my questions about everything I’d learned today, and I would revisit them in the morning, or once James left. I grabbed a pen and my notebook and flipped to a clean page. I had a dozen or more questions about what I’d read. I prepared to list them all.

But as I held the pen in my hand and considered what to write down first, I realized that there was one question I most wanted to know. It was the most intrusive, the most insistent of them all. I sensed the answer to this question might solve some others, like why the entry was made on the twelfth of February.

I pressed the tip of my pen to the page and wrote: Who is Eliza Fanning?

The next morning, after James had been discharged from the hospital, we sat at the small table near the door of the hotel room. I wrapped my hands tightly around a cup of weak tea as he held his cell phone close, searching the airline’s website for flights home. Housekeeping hadn’t yet come to the room so a half-drunk bottle of champagne sat near the coffeepot, and I had the headache to show for it.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. “Found one that leaves Gatwick at four,” he said. “Gives me enough time to pack up and

catch a train there. I’ll need to leave by one.”

The vase of baby blue hydrangeas sat between us; most had wilted and now tumbled over the edge of the glass. I slid the vase to the side and looked at him more closely. “You think you’ll be okay? No dizziness or anything?”

He put down his wallet. “None at all. I’m just ready to get home.”

A short while later, James stood near the window with his packed luggage beside him—as though we’d rewound the trip and he had only just arrived. I remained at the table, where I’d been half-heartedly perusing the photos of the apothecary’s book, keenly aware that the minutes were counting down. If I planned to reveal to James the truth about my own activities in recent days, I’d better do so quick.

“I think I’m good,” James said, patting his jeans to make sure his passport was in place. Between us was the unmade bed in which I’d slept— alone—for the past several nights. It was a force between us now, a white, billowy reminder of everything we were meant to share on this trip, yet hadn’t. Only days ago, I’d hoped desperately that our baby would be conceived in this bed. But now, I couldn’t fathom making love to the man standing across the room ever again.

What I imagined for this “anniversary” trip had been nowhere close to reality, but I felt this horror story had been a necessary lesson. After all, what if I hadn’t discovered James’s infidelity, and we’d gotten pregnant, and the truth had come out after the baby’s arrival? Or what if both of us developed a slow-burning resentment—for our jobs, our routine or each other—and the result was a cataclysmic end of our marriage and the ripping apart of our maybe-family-of-three? Because this wasn’t just about James.

I’d been just as dissatisfied with life as he was, and I’d buried those feelings deep inside of myself. What if I had been the one to snap? What if I had been the one to make an irreversible mistake?

I checked the time; it was five till one. “Wait,” I said, setting down my phone and standing from my chair. James frowned, his fingers clutching the handle of his luggage. I leaned over my own suitcase, shoving aside the sneakers I wore while mudlarking, and reached for something that had been hidden at the bottom. It was so small, it fit easily in the palm of my hand as I lifted it out.

I wrapped my fingers around the cool, hard object: the vintage box meant for James’s business cards. It was my ten-year anniversary gift to him,

which I’d kept tucked away since that fateful afternoon in the bedroom closet.

I crossed the room. “This isn’t forgiveness,” I said softly, “or even a path forward. But it belongs to you, and it’s more fitting now than I could have dreamed when I originally purchased it.” Then I gave him the box, which he accepted with a trembling hand. “It’s made of tin,” I explained. “It’s the traditional gift for ten-year anniversaries because it represents strength and —” I took a deep breath, wishing I could see into the future. In five or ten years, what would our lives look like? “Strength, and the ability to withstand a fair amount of damage. I bought it to symbolize durability in our relationship together, but that’s not the important thing anymore. What’s important is strength on our own. We both have a lot of hard work ahead of us.”

James wrapped me in a tight hug; we stood that way so long, I felt sure the clock ticked past one, and then some. When he finally released me, his voice shook. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, his fingers still clutching my gift.

“See you soon,” I said in return, and an unexpected quiver made its way into my own words. I walked James to the door and we glanced at each other a final time, then he left and shut the door behind him.

Alone, again. And yet the freedom was so penetrating and real that I stood motionless, almost stunned, for a moment. I gazed at the floor, waiting with dread for the inevitable wave of loneliness to wash over me. I waited for James to run back, asking for another chance to stay. I waited for my phone to ring, the hospital or police calling with news, bad news, more bad news.

I waited, too, for the stab of regret; I did not tell James about the apothecary. I didn’t tell him that I broke into a hidden subcellar. I didn’t tell him about Gaynor or Bachelor Alf or the serial killer whose secrets I still

held safe.

I didn’t tell him any of it.

I stood in front of the door a long while, waiting for guilt, or regret, to rush its way into me. But nothing of the sort plagued me. Nothing festered, and no scores were left to be settled.

As I turned away from the door, my phone dinged—a text from Gaynor.

Sorry for the delay! she said. Parish records show a Lady Bea

Clarence died at St. Thomas’ hospital, edema, on 23 Oct 1816. No surviving children.

I stared at my phone, dumbfounded, and lowered myself onto the bed.

The hospital note was indeed a deathbed confession, written—perhaps with a guilty conscience—by Lord Clarence’s widow twenty-five years after his death.

I picked up the phone to call Gaynor and tell her what I’d learned.

After I explained the existence of Miss Berkwell, the mistress—who I knew about not from the articles Gaynor printed for me, but from the entry in the apothecary’s register—Gaynor was quiet for some time.

There was only one thing I hadn’t told her, and this was about the register entry made the day after the apothecary supposedly died, bearing the name

Eliza Fanning.

I kept this to myself.

“This is astounding,” Gaynor finally said through the phone. As I pondered how utterly unbelievable the entire thing was, how utterly spectacular the whole thing was, I could imagine Gaynor shaking her head in awe at all that I’d solved. “And all of this due to a little vial in the river. I can’t believe you pieced it all together. Excellent detective work, Caroline. I do believe you’d be an asset to any PI team.”

I thanked her, then reminded her I’d been a little too close to the police force in recent days.

“Well, if not a PI team,” she replied, “then maybe you could join the research crew at the library.” I felt sure she meant it in jest, but she’d struck a tender nerve. “I’ve seen the spark in you,” she added.

If only I didn’t have to return to Ohio in a matter of days. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I’ve quite the mess to sort out back home…starting with my husband.”

Gaynor took a breath. “Look, we’re new friends, and I won’t offer advice on your marriage. Though if we go for cocktails, I’ll start in on that without issue.” She chuckled. “But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s the importance of chasing dreams. Believe me, if you want something different, the only person holding you back is you. What is it you love to do?”

I blurted it out without missing a beat. “Dig into the past—dig into the lives of real people. Their secrets, their experiences. In fact, I almost applied to Cambridge after graduation to study history…”

“Cambridge?” Gaynor gasped. “Like, the university an hour from here?”

“One and the same.”

“And you almost applied but didn’t, why?” Her tone was gentle, inquisitive.

I gritted my teeth, then forced the words out. “Because I got married, and my husband had a job back in Ohio.”

Gaynor clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Well, you might not be able to see it, but I do—you’re talented, you’re intelligent, you’re capable. You also have a new friend in London.” She paused, and I imagined her crossing her arms, a determined look on her face. “You’re cut out for more. And I think you know it.”