The Apothecary's Curse (28 page)

“I am not interested in writing another word. I want this just to be over with. For both of us, my darling. So we might both rest in peace.”

He'd tried to rid himself of her: mediums, ghost hunters, and the lot. Anyone who wouldn't think him completely delusional, that was. They'd all told him the same thing. “Give her what she desires: her freedom.” They would go in circles. Just what the hell was that supposed to mean?

“If you're willing to free her, she will go, but not until.” Willing? If only that were true
.
But, no. He was trapped with a keening, screeching ghost of his own bloody conjuring.

“You really do not wish me to leave. I could wail in your ear all day, and all night howl, and still you weep if I leave you alone.”

Aye, there's the rub.

She screamed in his ear, sending the sensitive hairs at the back of his neck on edge with her shrill, keening shrieks. She was frustrated. So was he.

Simon turned back to his computer. The new book was coming slowly; each new title had required greater and greater effort. He'd known even before Gaelan pointed it out that his last three had been but retreads of the first three. Names and locations changed, and the victim as well. But . . . 
Case of the Errant Influenza
. Simon had thought to put Dr. John Watson in the spotlight, alter the formula—perhaps then it wouldn't be such a bore to write. But the research had been more than a chore.

Simon knew only a little about modern pharmacology research—and an influenza vaccine to cover a murder required more than a bit of digging. But what to Google? He typed “vaccine” and “unethical” into the search box and clicked on the first article, a blog dated two years ago:

An ethics investigation of Transdiff Genomics, Ltd., a multinational pharmaceutical company based in London, was dropped suddenly last month under highly suspicious circumstances. All files pertaining to the case, which alleged that the firm engaged in unethical medical practices during clinical testing of a new vaccine, were sealed under the patient privacy rules. However, we at BeyondTheNews.net have learned from reliable sources inside the company that Transdiff, a major player in European genetic-based pharmaceuticals, had been using an experimental anthrax vaccine on children in a small Asian-Pacific island nation. No permission for clinical trials had been granted to Transdiff, and all twenty-six subjects died after being administered the vaccine, according to our sources.”

Hmm. Yes! Now that would give his novel an interesting twist: a victim unwittingly set up by her husband to be part of a medical experiment with the intent to do away with her! Perfect. Simon's face grew hot, as he suddenly felt the pang of embarrassment. Twenty-six children dead, and all he could think was “plot device.”

LONDON, 1842

CHAPTER 35

Gaelan was sipping tea in the dining room when Bell arrived for breakfast.

“Is Eleanor about yet?” he asked.

“No, Dr. Bell, I've not seen her since . . . yesterday,” he lied, “when we were all together.”

“You must eat at least a portion of Cook's hearty porridge; you are yet skin and bones, sir, and she prepared it specially for you.”

Gaelan shrugged. “To speak true, I've little appetite—” He scowled as he pushed away the steaming bowl Bell had placed before him.

“You do seem, however, much improved since you left . . . rather, come to stay with me. And I wonder if you might be up to venturing out today? To the place you mentioned, where you stashed your library?”

Gaelan held up his hand in protest. He regretted telling Bell about the slim possibility that his books, including the ouroboros book, were yet in London. “You must understand, Dr. Bell, it has been nearly five years, and I very much doubt—”

“It is, at the least, worth a try, do you not think? And if it should not be there, we shall scour the whole of Britain—the world if need be. Money is no object, and I've solicitors aplenty to make inquiries!”

Gaelan had little desire to return to Smithfield. Dead, Tremayne may well be, but Gaelan had little doubt that his gang yet operated unabated all about the place. “Look, Dr. Bell, perhaps it would do better if you went yourself. There is a woman, Sally Mills, she is called, and I will write for you a letter of introduction. If anyone might have knowledge of my belongings,
she
would.”

“Why would you not go yourself?”

Gaelan considered how much to reveal of his plans for the future. “My intention is to slip away to America as I had planned—before my arrest. I've little desire to be seen in Smithfield. To the good people of Smithfield Market, I am dead—murdered at Newgate Prison. And I am quite happy to leave it thus.”

“So this Mrs. Mills has your books?”

“Most of my library, I left in an underground room beneath my shop. I doubt there is anything left of it.” Gaelan drew a map. “The book in question was in my possession when I was arrested; I gave it to my assistant, but I've no idea what he might have done with it. If it is anywhere to be found around London, Sally would know. That is, if she is yet living.”

“Perhaps it might be better to locate your assistant?”

“Obviously, though where he is I do not even venture a guess. I have already written to his father and await a reply. But now excuse me whilst I jot a note to Mrs. Mills.”

Half an hour later and Bell had his introduction and was on his way out of Bell's hair—at least for a time.

As the sound of Bell's carriage grew distant, Gaelan mounted the stairs to his room. Great sobs pealing through Eleanor's bedroom door and through to the corridor stopped him short of his destination. She seemed barely able to catch her breath. He knocked softly, and her wailing slowed into hiccoughs. “Lady Braithwaite, are you all right?”

“Go away. I am fine.”

Clearly she was not. “I thought perhaps . . . your brother has gone out and . . . we . . . we might continue our . . . our conversation of last—” The door opened abruptly, and he nearly lost his balance.

“What do you want of me?”

He had no answer, for he truly did not know what had drawn him impulsively to her door, and not to his own. Her pain, her weeping had nothing to do with him. Yet . . . A long moment passed before he replied. “To speak true, Lady Braithwaite, I see you are yet distressed in the extreme. I would only offer my ear to you, as I did last night. Perhaps now that it is day, might you stroll with me through the gardens? The sunlight might do us both some good.”

“Very well.” She took Gaelan's offered arm.

The late-morning sky was the sort of deep blue that seemed only possible on a cloudless day at the height of summer. Gaelan led them to a low iron bench beneath a heather tree.

“Forgive me, Lady Braithwaite, for my forthrightness, but there is little time whilst your brother is out and we might speak alone. Is it your husband that so torments you? I only ask because evidence suggests . . . And knowing . . . if I may be so bold . . . knowing what sort of man he is—”

Eleanor froze, and her hands curled into tight fists, which she pounded against the bench. Anxiety poured off her in waves.

“Forgive me if I have spoken out of turn, Lady Braithwaite.” Gaelan rose, bowing slightly as he moved off, creating distance between them.

“Please, sir, do
not
call me by that name. By
his
name. I detest the very sound of it for what he has done!”

This, Gaelan was not expecting. Was such powerful anger on his account—for what had been done to him? Or had Braithwaite truly turned his violent nature upon his own wife as he imagined? “What do you mean?” He turned to watch her face crumple as tears once again threatened.

“Perhaps later. It is still too painful to discuss—even, I might add,” she said with a melancholy smile, “with a kind stranger.”

Gaelan sat beside her again, allowing the aroma of lush English roses to envelop him. He waited, content to have his thoughts diverted from his own troubles. Bell should be round the White Owl by now. Was Sally already chatting his ear off, quizzing him for medical advice about her sciatica?

Eleanor's gaze wandered from the rose garden to her hands to the large trellis across the gravel path—everywhere but toward Gaelan. She drew a long breath. “Please. I implore you: do not say any of what I tell to you to my brother. If he should learn . . . if he should know . . . he shall murder Lord Braithwaite without hesitation. Of this I am certain!”

“You have my word.”
My solemn vow.
He urged her on, suspecting the source of her turmoil.

“I feel somehow, Mr. Erceldoune,
you
, of all people, would understand me . . . this . . . in a way Simon cannot. But I cannot venture a guess as to why you would offer to be my confessor . . .”

Gaelan waited for her to go on; silence surrounded them, save for the distant calls of two bickering blackbirds. “I have, my lady, seen much suffering, heard tales of distress and mistreatment in my . . . in my apothecary that . . . your brother mightn't have seen amongst his patients. Even ladies of your station might sooner come to . . . one like me . . . anonymously than to a physician amongst their own society if . . .” He politely declined to say it aloud. But he'd offered, he hoped, a tether.

She sighed, watching a bird as it fussed among the branches of a nearby tree. “My husband's temperament . . . his interests, shall we say . . . extend beyond . . . beyond the . . . voyeuristic proclivities of which you might be personally aware.”

Gaelan felt the blood drain from his face. He was not sure he was ready to hear this lady's confession, but he could not retreat.

“His tendencies, Mr. Erceldoune, did not become known to me until the several weeks just past. For the first many months of our marriage, he was the epitome of generosity. Our home life could not have been more to my liking. And despite the fact I was skeptical of the match, I was more content than I dreamed—”

“But something changed?”

“It did.” She rose to stand before a large bed of roses. She skirted her finger along the edge of a full-open bloom. “They are beautiful, the roses, are they not? My sister-in-law's gentle touch,” she said. “These were her prize possession—her delight. Besides Simon, these gardens were all she lived for, especially after . . . She'd become quite ill several years ago, yet she would spend hours out here, admiring them, tending them. No gardener was allowed to touch them.”

Eleanor plucked a flower, coming back to sit beside Gaelan.

“I observe a rose and see petals, pistil, and stamen,” she said wistfully. “Thorns and pollen, the veins that redden the green leaf as if blood courses through it. I wonder what magnificent alchemy creates the scent and color: yellow distinct from red, distinct from white. Of course I appreciate the beauty of it, yet there is no beauty greater than comprehending the truly amazing parts to the whole.”

Fascinated, he could not help taking it a step further. “Have you ever observed a leaf through a microscope's lens, seeing within it the symmetry of cells, the chlorophyll, what makes it green?”

She brought the rose to her face, inhaling the fragrance. “No, I have not. Few men in our exalted little society, it seems, care for a wife who is their intellectual equal, if not better. And I refused to conceal my nature or my curiosity, and there you have it! I married Richard, Lord Braithwaite, and as I said, he seemed a good enough match. He shared my love of nature, of science, allowed me to pursue my own interests, at least for a time. But then he revealed himself to me for what he was—a brutal, angry man with much power and little restraint. I saw it in the way he treated our servants and in the boasting of his grand and vile experiments.”

Gaelan flinched.

“Forgive me, Mr. Erceldoune. I know this must grieve you, but you have asked, and now I fear I cannot conceal anything of it.”

He nodded. “Please go on; it is I who invited you to speak freely. Do not concern yourself with my sensitivities.” The conversation was verging toward a dangerous territory, but his curiosity was too profound. He wanted to hear all of it.

“He'd found, he said, the key to eternal anatomical regeneration—immortality. All that was required was a bit of experimentation before he would become world-famous for his ‘discovery.'”

The air was suddenly too close, even as a breeze rifled the leaves above their heads. “And that discovery was . . . me.”

“You.” The compassion in her eyes was almost too much to bear.

“How did you know . . . ? That it was me . . . I mean to say.” He'd meant to deny it, to deflect suspicion away from himself, but the words emerged almost of their own volition. As if he'd had no choice in the matter to reveal himself to . . . this stranger. The wife of his tormenter. This fragile young woman.

“Richard flaunted a daguerreotype one night upon his return from London. He went often to attend the House of Lords, and returned home telling his tales, most of which I assumed were drunken exaggerations. But this daguerreotype, he told me, would prove his veracity to me. The image was of you . . . his ‘discovery.' That is how I recognized you from the first, although you are barely the same man as in the photograph. He was furious that you had been snatched from . . . them, just as he was to prove his point.” She shrugged. “It had been a flutter. He wagered you would regenerate the fingers severed; others did not believe it and wagered against. He blamed Simon for . . . ruining it. I was not certain until I saw your bandaged hand. I am so very sorry, Mr. Erceldoune, for my husband's terrible . . .”

She was sobbing now.

“Well, apparently . . . 
Richard
 . . . was wrong. As you see, my fingers are far from regenerated. But hush now. Please do go on.” Gaelan knew this was not to be the end of it.