On a Desert Shore (21 page)

At long last Tallboys vanished into the coach, and the three lawyers, apparently having decided to stretch their legs, set off on foot for Laurentum. Buckler followed.

Chapter Twenty-one

“Let me tell you how it was, Mr. Chase,” said Aurelius Caldwell, gesturing with his hands and pacing back and forth on the hearthrug. During Garrod's final illness, Chase had learned to consider the surgeon a sensible and reliable man. He still did. But it seemed that science enraptured Caldwell like nothing else. Though Chase had sent Buckler to catch the lawyers at the funeral, he needed to leave on his own errand.

“Explain yourself, sir.” Chase pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time again, not concealing his impatience.

“Of course. You're a busy man. First, we noted that the powder was gritty and had a milky whiteness.” Caldwell launched into a description that involved his friend the chemical gentleman tossing some of the sugar from the teapoy's cut-glass bowl onto the fire. “There it was,” said Caldwell. “The distinctive garlic smell.” When Chase looked blank, he hastened to add, “Assuredly, it was the garlic smell. Then we saw the most remarkable thing, sir. My colleague Mr. Holt—a talented man of science—took a few grains of the powder and set them atop a penny, which he balanced over a candle flame. Indisputable. Unequivocal. When cooled, the coin bore a silvery sheen laid down by the fumes. In short, we saw Addington's white flowers,” he finished in triumph.

“Cut line, Caldwell. I'm in a hurry.”

“I quite understand. We are fortunate in that the science has advanced since Mary Blandy poisoned her father's gruel, yet Holt thought it appropriate to begin with the older tests. Addington observed the white flowers when he threw the powder on a hot iron and held cold iron over the rising fumes. The deposit resembled a burst of blooms, you see.” Caldwell saw that Chase was already at the door. “Shall I accompany you, sir? All will be made plain directly.”

Chase motioned him into the corridor, smiling with a grim humor. “You can do more than that. Have you got your gig with you?”

The surgeon seemed taken aback, but even that could not stem the flow of words. After they had hurried through the coffee room and spilled out into the yard, Caldwell said, “My friend Holt was not satisfied there, no indeed. He next did the color test—the silver nitrate—which resulted in a glorious yellow cloud that turned the solution the most distinctive shade of yellow you've ever seen.”

They mounted into the gig, the surgeon making no objection when Chase picked up the reins. The placid pony trotted down the lane as Caldwell resumed his report. “Unfortunately, the tests on the victim's stomach contents and the other samples of effluent I had collected were inconclusive.” The surgeon's face fell for a moment, then brightened. “On the other hand, you'll be glad to hear that Holt is convinced in regard to the tests on the sugar. I trust his expertise absolutely; of that you may be confident, Mr. Chase. The tests are definitive.”

“Of what exactly?” said Chase, slanting a sidelong look at the man's eager face with its pointed chin, ragged side-whiskers, and shiny, bald pate.

Caldwell grinned in delight. “Why, the poison was arsenic, just as I said it was.”

“You or your friend will testify to this?”

“Glad to, sir. One or both of us. Whatever you like.”

Chase absorbed the significance of this information. Would it be enough? Yes, he thought it would, for how could Tallboys claim that Marina had used a botanical poison to kill her father if Caldwell and his colleague were willing to swear the agent had been arsenic? Was this one of the reasons why the plans for her removal seemed rushed? Was she to be put out of reach before the test results could exonerate her? Now Chase faced a dilemma: should he hasten back to Laurentum with Caldwell's testimony or go to London to interview the druggist who had sold the tonic? Logic dictated the former—he had no solid indication that the druggist could tell him anything to the purpose. But if the druggist could…

Swiftly, Chase made his decision, his mind busy with the implications. A thought occurred to him. “What of Miss Garrod's composing draught?”

The pony whickered at its freedom, the dust swirling around them as they joined the London road. So far, his companion, intent on sharing his own news, had asked no questions. Fanning himself, Caldwell replied, “Oh, the draught is the usual sort of stuff, but it seems to contain more opiate than is wise.” The surgeon gave a cough, frowning. “I must have a word with her guardians about that.” Thankfully, his message delivered, Caldwell seemed content to sit quietly. But suddenly he sat up straighter on the bench. “Where in thunder are we going, sir?” he demanded.

***

Wagons, carts, coaches, and gigs struggled over London Bridge, sometimes pulling in the wrong directions so that all traffic ground to a halt. Pedestrians in long ant trails crossed to and from the Surrey side of the Thames by footpaths. Whips cracked; wheels rumbled on stone; carters and hackney coachmen swore; the river roared and frothed under the human tumult. The noise was so deafening that Chase had to shout to make himself heard. “I need proof of Miss Garrod's innocence,” he said.

“By tracing the purchase of the arsenic?” shouted back Aurelius Caldwell. “Excellent notion, if you can accomplish it. The druggists are not required to record such purchases. They do as they damned well please. Some refuse to sell poisons to those they don't know; others are not so choosy. Blasted scoundrels calling themselves chemists and druggists—not a one of them has a particle of real medical training.” Once Caldwell had heard the story about Marina Garrod, the surgeon, with quick sympathy, had thrown himself into the spirit of the adventure. However, he must have been conscious of the risk to his professional practice and reputation should he make an enemy of a powerful family.

Chase spoke into his wind-reddened ear. “Are you willing to examine the patient? If you compose a report that she's lucid, locking her up would look bad for the family.”

“Well,” Caldwell replied, shrugging philosophically, “I suppose I am. But you must know, Mr. Chase, rich people are not so easily turned aside from their purposes. At the very least, I'll tell them what I think of giving strong opiates to young girls.”

“They wanted her quiet and biddable.” Chase thought of Marina as she faced the crowded coroner's court and smiled at the memory. “It didn't work.”

“Got spirit, doesn't she?”

Caldwell sat back to nurse his own reflections, and they rattled off the bridge, barely avoiding another stoppage when the wheel of a southbound dray snapped and a bed piled high with cabbages tilted drunkenly over the pavement. Chase guided the gig around the vehicle and shook a fist at a rude driver who'd thought to seize the right of way from him, all the while telling himself that he was a fool to take the risk of being gone for several hours. Perhaps he should have stayed at Laurentum, though it was difficult to see precisely what he could have done there, given that he'd been sent about his business. At any rate, it was too late. Shaking off these thoughts, he kept his attention on the road.

As the gig traveled up Fish Street Hill, Chase and Caldwell inhaled the odors of horses, sewage, and fish mingling with the reek of the cows plodding to the slaughterhouses near Leadenhall Market. The gig joined the coaches that inched past the spire of St. Magnus and the soaring but ugly column of the Monument, which had been erected in commemoration of the Great Fire. A few minutes later Chase pulled up in a dingy court off Gracechurch Street close to the coaching inns, where the mail and stage-coaches departed. It had occurred to him that if someone from Laurentum had wanted to conceal a journey to purchase the poison, he or she might have boarded a public coach from Clapham to Gracechurch Street and found a local shop. Now Chase would discover if his instincts had steered him right.

The shop featured a sign above the door that was lettered with the proprietor's name—
Obadiah P. Pope, Chemist and Druggist
—and decorated at either end with the same green sprig Chase had found on the medicine bottle with the torn-off label. A set of small-paned windows displayed a host of vessels and jars with painted labels, some with colored water. On one windowpane a notice announced:
Surgeon and Apothecary in Constant Attendance. Enquire Within
. Caldwell gave a fastidious sniff and followed Chase inside.

The chemist was a large, shambling man with stooped shoulders and heavy hands that trembled as he pressed them together in a nervous desire to please. He employed a shop-boy, whose shock of mud-colored, uncombed hair seemed to give him no end of bother, flopping across his forehead and into his eyes. Armed with a vigorously wielded broom, he sent his master occasional looks of scalding contempt.

Caldwell's lips tightened as he looked around. The half light woven through the bottles in the windows revealed a scratched mahogany counter behind which was a tall set of drawers with wooden knobs for the chemist's powders, roots, and herbs. Above these drawers were still more shelves of earthenware jars and bottles. The vessels all appeared to bear labels, but how the chemist ever found what he needed was a mystery. Here and there stacked on tables in the corners and heaped in piles on the floor were broken pots, pill jars and containers, boxes of lozenges and pastilles, even tarnished shoe buckles of various sizes. Arranged on the countertop next to a brass scale were bottles of eau de cologne and elderflower and rose water.

Chase presented his gold-crowned baton. “Mr. Pope? John Chase, Bow Street. I have some questions for you about a purchase of your restorative tonic. This your bottle?” He set the green glass vial on the counter.

Despite the innocuous nature of the question, the chemist seemed to shrink before their eyes. The hands that had been resting on the counter began to twitch. Becoming aware of this fact, Pope gripped his right hand over his left, slid out the left and thrust it down again on the right. The motion was repeated as his watery and almost colorless eyes studied Chase anxiously. He did not pick up the bottle.

“You wish to ask about a purchase,” he said, offering this statement, as though Chase might have forgotten his own words. “My restorative tonic. My patrons do purchase it frequently.” He cast a sidelong appeal at Caldwell.

“I am in a hurry,” said Chase. “You won't waste my time like you did with the man I sent to inquire.”

Pope blanched. “Waste your time? Oh, no, sir. I'm sure I won't. But I don't know what you mean.”

“You do,” said the shop-boy with evident pleasure. “The little man what was here yesterday. You was too scared to talk to him. Me, I would have given him a kick in the arse if I wanted 'im out of the shop, but not you. No, you just run like a rabbit into the back and hide till the fellow took hisself off.”

The chemist made no effort to quell this disrespect, merely hunching his shoulders still more and sagging toward the counter. “Be quiet,” said Chase sternly, and the boy moved away to resume his sweeping but remained close enough to hear every word of the conversation.

“Fetch your ledgers,” Chase said to Pope. “I'm interested in your sales of the last few weeks. You sell any poisons?”

The shop-boy gave a loud snort. “Ledgers? You'll not get very far there, sir. Told him time and again that we'll be closing our doors if he don't learn to manage better. Does he care? He's too much the fool to know his own incompetence, no matter how many times I remind him. Not him. You ask him, and he'll say he stands well before the world. He thinks everyone likes him, he does. But he's a sniveling, crawling, mean-hearted little worm, he is.”

“My friend told you to shut your mouth.” Caldwell took a step toward him.

Hastily, the boy withdrew a few paces, but nothing could banish the sneer on his countenance. He subsided, however, continuing to watch the scene with interest.

“We are in a hurry,” Chase said. “If you have no records, you must search your memory.” He paused, then indicated the bottle. “Perhaps a week or two ago? Someone bought a bottle of this tonic? A stranger?”

The hands twisted and writhed, engaged in their own bizarre dance. “I don't remember anyone in particular. I sell this tonic to many people. It is popular, sir, especially with the ladies.”

Chase held the chemist's eyes. “Can you recall any particular ladies, Mr. Pope?”

“A lady purchasing my tonic?” whined the chemist.

“A lady—or anyone. Anyone you remember.” Suddenly he wanted to bloody the sniveler's nose, but he kept a tight rein on his temper. “How many bottles have you sold in the last fortnight?”

“How many bottles have I sold? It's difficult to say—maybe a dozen?”

“Right. To whom? Describe these customers.” Chase held up a hand. “Not their names, sir, but their general appearance. Anything you can tell me about them, especially those who were strangers to you. I need to know what else they bought—especially that, Mr. Pope.”

“God save me,” said the shop-boy. “If you don't tell 'im about her, I will. I said it was a rum go, and I was right.” He smirked at Chase. “There was a lady, sir.”

“Old or young?”

“Well now, I didn't see her face, so you'd best ask 'im about that.”

Obadiah P. Pope burst out with a stream of words, as if eager to get the ordeal over. “A respectable lady. Her dress, a gown of black silk. Her voice, refined. Worried about a young woman of her acquaintance, who required relief from distressful feelings. Confusion and giddiness. Troubling images presenting themselves to the mind. Insomnia. Pulse: quick and weak. The lady did me the honor to tell me the whole of the patient's symptoms.” The chemist's voice broke off; then he added mournfully, “Young ladies are such hypochondriacal creatures. They must have a discharge of bile. Pure air. The healthy exercise of their muscles. They do keep themselves too confined, sir.”

“You are a disgrace. What do you know about it?” snapped Caldwell. “You merely recite something you've read in a magazine. God, the harm the quacks like you do.” He put his hands on the counter, drawing back in disgust as he felt its stickiness.