The shop of Mr. J. Moore, Apothecary, was crowded with oddly shaped bottles, each adorned with a scribbled label. There was no one behind the counter.

Sophie bent over one of the bottles. “Just look at this! Worm powder. Do you think it’s made of worms?”

Gabby shook her head. “I doubt it.” Where was the proprietor? She clutched the advertisement in a gloved hand.

“No, it’s not made of worms,” Sophie was saying. “It brings away worms of all sorts of lengths and shapes and leaves the body in perfect health.” She snorted. “Gabby, what are we doing in this place?”

Just then an old man entered through the curtained back door. Gabby almost stepped back in dismay. His eyes were covered with a milky-white film, and he felt his way along the counter to stand before them. “Hello! Hello! I’m Mr. James Moore,” he said cheerfully. “Purveyor of real and effectual medicines, fit for the use of old and young. How may I help you?”

“I’ve come in response to your advertisement,” Gabby said, wishing she’d never opened The Times that morning.

“Ah, my lady, so you suffer from gip in the guts? Windy belches? Or perhaps …” He paused. “Wind in the bowels?”

Sophie took Gabby’s arm. “I don’t believe we are in the right shop,” she murmured.

“So there are two lovely ladies,” Mr. Moore exclaimed. “All the better! Now, a trifling anxiety is natural in these circumstances. But is it better to be a bit mortified here or to suffer true mortification when an eruption occurs in a crowded place?”

Gabby felt purple with embarrassment. “I’ve come because you apparently cured a woman who had violent headaches,” she said.

“Quite right! Quite right,” Mr. Moore said, rubbing his extremely filthy hands together. “That would be my lovely niece, Miss Rachel Morbury of Church Lane. She insisted—positively insisted—that I allow her to place that testimonial in the paper, my dear madam. Suffered for two years, she did. The headaches had become so bad that she was like to lose her place. She has a good place with Mrs. Huffy, who lives in Church Lane. Finally, Miss Rachel allowed me to give her a dose of my effectual medicine.

“And she hasn’t suffered a bit since!” he said triumphantly, beaming at the wall just over Gabby’s shoulder. “Miss Rachel placed that advertisement of her own free will, ladies. For the benefit of mankind, she said. She’s a good niece to me.”

Sophie’s hand had been tightening on Gabby’s arm during Mr. Moore’s little speech. “Gabby,” she hissed, “the medicine is quite likely unsafe.”

Gabby cleared her throat. “How do you make your headache medicine, Mr. Moore?”