The bathroom was well-stocked with pads and tampons, the latter of which I eagerly tore open. When I was done, after washing my hands at the sink, I peered up at myself in the mirror. I pressed my fingers to the glass, touching my reflection, and smiled. No matter what would come of my marriage, there was no baby to complicate things. No innocent child to stand by helplessly as James and I redefined ourselves, both as individuals and as a couple.

I returned to my seat next to James and leaned my head back against the wall, considering whether I might be able to catch a short nap in such an uncomfortable position. In the moment of warm, satiated respite, a memory slipped toward me: this morning, in the coffee shop, with Gaynor. She’d given me the two articles about the apothecary, but I hadn’t yet read the second one.

I frowned, reaching into my crossbody bag and pulling the articles out. Why on earth didn’t I show these to the officers earlier, when they threw doubt on my research claims? In truth, I’d forgotten about the articles entirely, given the more immediate concerns at hand.

I unfolded the two pages; the earlier article, dated February 10, 1791, was on top. It was the article about Lord Clarence’s death and the wax impression of the bear logo. Since I’d already read it, I moved it to the back, and my eyes settled on the second article, dated February 12, 1791.

I gasped as I read the headline. This article, I understood now, explained what Gaynor meant at the coffee shop, when she referred to Lord Clarence’s death as the beginning of the end for the apothecary.

The headline read “Apothecary Killer Jumps from Bridge, Suicide.”

The article began to tremble in my hands, like I’d just read the death announcement of someone I knew all too well.

31

Nella

February 11, 1791

Eliza and I stood together on the bridge, the constable no more than three strides behind us. Death was close—so close that I could feel the chill of its outstretched arms.

The seconds preceding my death were not as I expected. Within me, there arose no memories of my mother, my lost child or even Frederick. There was only one memory, a single, young one, hardly formed: little Eliza and the first time she appeared at my doorstep in her threadbare cloak, her poor excuse of a hat, yet her cheeks so young and dewy, like a newborn. In the truest sense of the word, she was a disguise. The perfect murderer. For many a servant had murdered her master in the city of London, but who would believe a twelve-year-old served a poison-laced egg at the breakfast table?

No one would believe it. Not even me.