I pictured my poor cat, with Overbury’s face, turning in circles, mewling in pain. What had been an idea, a possibility of freedom, had taken ugly form. In Larkin’s studio, where all was heroic and nothing real, the thought of murder had been as in a play or a painting. But when George’s cat bled from the ears and suffered agonies, the plan had become as hideous to me as the man who would abet us in it. Having spent many hours trying and failing to think of an alternative, I sat abruptly on a stool at Frankie’s feet.

The corrupt apothecary’s voice faltered and he looked uncertainly between us.

“I can raise spirits and converse with angels,” he finished.

“I do not doubt it,” said Frankie, taking one hand off the dog and rubbing my shoulders, “but what we need is a poison that works in a manner that is delayed yet effective with one dose.”

Franklin rubbed the side of his nose and smirked as if he were suddenly a co-conspirator.

“There is only money in this for you,” snapped Frankie, handing me her glass, “not friendship nor obligation.”

He dropped his grin. “There is cantharides or mercury sublimate. Both will act as you require.”

“What of powder of diamonds?” asked Frankie. If I was surprised by her knowledge, the poisoner’s eyebrows shot up as if to fly off his face.

“It will do the same but is more expensive,” he replied. He lifted the flap of his waistcoat and dug about underneath to retrieve a leather pouch. From it he pulled a glass vial, the size of his thumb, and held it up.

“This is water of white arsenic. It can be put in drink or food without risk of being tasted. Husband murder is become common,” he added. I noticed that Frankie did not correct his assumption. She was learning discretion, at long last. “There’s a play about it, full every day, after the true story of a Bedfordshire goodwife what poisoned her husband. But they could have choosed from any number of such stories. The newsmongers say it is the fault of men for not disciplining wives in their gossiping about the marriage bed. If a husband cannot give pleasure, it leads to discontent sufficient to commit murder,” sniggered Franklin, looking boldly at the Countess, but the giggle caught in his throat and turned to coughing. He wiped his mouth on a putrid rag, then used it to dab the sweat from his brow. I looked away. As neither of us took the vial, Franklin placed it on a table. “What of payment?” he asked.

“You will be paid when we know the bottle holds more than ditch water,” said Frankie. “You may show yourself out.”