Beloved Poison (47 page)

‘I wonder how Lily is,’ said Will.

I shrugged. I was about to turn back when the door opened. Mr Jobber stood there looking down at me.

‘Go on then.’ Will did not look at me. ‘I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting.’

Mrs Roseplucker’s parlour was the same as when I had last seen it. The place was warmer than ever, and as damp as breath, as if somewhere a kettle was perpetually boiling. ‘She’s upstairs,’ said Mrs Roseplucker. ‘You know what room.’ She grinned, and held out a scrawny claw. ‘Knew you’d come. That’s ten shillings to you.’ She pocketed the coins and turned back to her penny blood. ‘Don’t expect much,’ she said. She licked her forefinger and reached for the corner of the page. ‘She ain’t what she was.’

I climbed the stairs slowly. I don’t know why I went. It was unlikely that Lily would be pleased to see me, and I had little to say to her. I shook my head. That I had come to this . . . I knocked, and pushed open the door to her room. There was the bed, that great sagging mattress on its crooked iron bedstead; the awful prints on the walls; the crimson drapes at the windows; the cracked ewer and pitcher on the washstand. Wrapped in a blanket, huddled in a chair before the dismal coals of a brown, smouldering fire, was Eliza.

‘Hello, Jem,’ she said.

Her voice was flat. She had grown thin, her hair hung dull and lank about her shoulders and across cheeks that were pale and hollow. I stared at her, unable to find the words that might make her look up, make her come to me. I put out a hand to the wall to steady myself, my knees suddenly barely able to hold me up.

‘I came here after that night,’ she said. She did not look at me as she spoke, but kept her eyes downcast. ‘Mrs Roseplucker gave me some clothes, a bath, a room. She knew my mother – my real mother – years ago. She was happy to take care of me in the only way she knew how.’ She pulled the shawl tight about her thin shoulders. ‘There’s no more to tell. No more I
want
to tell. So here I am; where I belong and no better than I deserve.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I said. I remained where I was, at the door. I hardly dared to draw closer, hardly dared to move, or to take my eyes off her in case she disappeared. Was I dreaming? I had been sleeping badly, and could not be sure . . . I rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them again she was still there, in that chair before the mean, smouldering fire, still unable to meet my gaze. It was the hardest thing of all to bear, to find she could no longer look at me; she who used to wink at me like a boy, whose eyes used to sparkle with mirth at the absurdity of others. Into my mind flashed an image of her in that room, on that bed, with man after man, crushed beneath them, their hands tearing at her, pulling her this way and that, stuffing themselves into her wherever they could. I closed my eyes. That was not who she was. ‘None of it was your fault,’ I whispered.

She shook her head. ‘This is where I should be.’

‘Of course it isn’t. I can’t believe you didn’t come to me.’

‘I killed him.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I would have done the same thing.’

‘You would?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

She seemed to shrink into her chair, then; drawing in on herself. She said, ‘I don’t believe you. You’re better than I, Jem. You would have given him a chance. But I’m not like you. There’s nothing in me that’s good. There never was. Whatever you saw, whatever you
think
you saw in me, you were wrong.
This
is my place. My fate.’

I went to her then, and took her hands. She was cold to my touch, as cold as any corpse. I rubbed her fingers between my own. ‘And so you will stay here, or will you come with me? It’s your choice.’

Her face was expressionless. Still she did not look at me. ‘The things they have done to me.’ Her voice was a whisper.

I bent my head, my tears running over her hands. ‘Oh Eliza,’ I said. ‘Eliza.’

I never saw Eliza again. She did not remain at Mrs Roseplucker’s, and I have no idea where she went. I think of her often, and I hope she found some sort of peace. As for me, I had no choice but to leave her where I found her, for she would not be persuaded. What else could I do? And so, that part of my life, that part of my heart, is closed off for ever. But I have much to be grateful for, and my position is unique amongst women. I have my father to thank, and my mother, who died without giving him the son he wanted. I work as an apothecary, alone amongst my herbs and powders – save for Gabriel, who still makes a mess, and Will, who helps us from time to time, when we are busy and he is back from his work for the evening. He shows a surprising aptitude with the pestle and mortar, and has perfected a recipe for aniseed balls. We are no longer at St Saviour’s Infirmary – we have had our fill of that place – instead, we have taken a shop on Fishbait Lane. Will chose the place wisely: we are south facing, and the sun shines through our windows, the tinctures and syrups we have made glowing warm, like lanterns. The room beyond is full of welcome, the stove with its pot of coffee, the wing-backed chair beside it, the polished glass of my flasks and retorts winking brightly from the high shelves. We are safe here in our clean and ordered world, surrounded by the scents of hops and lavender, sage, citrus and cinnamon. And I am not afraid, as my father was. Why? I am not afraid because I am not alone. And when I can’t sleep, which happens sometimes, I sit beside the fire, reading and thinking. Or I work on my treatise on poisons. When it is finished, I will dedicate it to Dr Bain. Upstairs, as dawn breaks, I hear Will moving about. I have an idea for an experiment involving a possible test for the presence of arsenic that I am keen to explain. I fill the tea pot, and listen for the clatter of his boots on the stair.

A
number of people have been instrumental in the genesis of this book. A few of them deserve special mention. For the suggestion that I try my hand at crime fiction, I am grateful to Alison Hennessey – what a good idea! For support and encouragement in all my writing efforts, and especially in the early stages of this novel, and for her kindness and hospitality over a number of years, I’m indebted to Jane Conway-Gordon.

For corrections, suggestions for improvement and steadfast enthusiasm for the book and its characters, even from its beginnings, I owe a debt of gratitude to the elite writers of Helen Lamb’s Saturday morning writing class. In particular, the comments on early sections and drafts made by Michelle and Kirsty, Denice Percival, Olga Wojtas and Margaret Ries were invaluable.

I must also thank my mother, for her unwavering belief in me, and my lovely sons who have heard the words ‘I’ll just finish this bit and then I’ll come . . .’ more often than I care to remember.

Special thanks and a round of applause go to Adrian Searle, friend, supporter and my favourite lunch-time companion; Jenny Brown, my fabulous agent without whom this book may never have seen the light of day; Al Guthrie for his judicious and intelligent edits, as well as Krystyna Green and the lovely people at Constable for their belief in Jem and her adventures.

Finally, to John Burnett, friend and fellow writer, I owe the most heartfelt thanks. He has read various drafts without demur, has offered the best of advice, and is always the most diplomatic, interesting and entertaining of companions. John, ‘thank you’ just doesn’t cover it.

I
tried to be precise with dates and events, but must admit to some poetic licence here and there. In particular, the test for blood carried out by Jem (Teichmann’s test) was not actually common currency before 1853. Any other liberties I have taken with history are entirely my fault – the result of a novelist’s exuberance outweighing a historian’s desire for pin-point accuracy.