Without giving it a moment’s thought, I texted Gaynor. At the coffee shop, she’d mentioned that she’d confirmed the date of Lord Clarence’s death in the parish records. Perhaps she could do the same for Lady Clarence, to validate whether the woman had indeed penned the hospital note. Hi again! I texted Gaynor. Could you check the death records one more time? Same surname Clarence, but a woman. Any death record around October 1816?

Until Gaynor replied, it would be useless to waste any more time on this idea. I took a long drink of water, tucked my legs against my body and zoomed into my phone to better read the final entry—the closing entry.

Before I even read it, bumps prickled on my skin. This entry was the last record the apothecary made before running from the police and jumping to her death.

I read the entry once, but I frowned; the handwriting of this final entry was less steady, as though the author had been trembling. Perhaps she’d been ill or cold or even hurried. Or perhaps—I shuddered as I considered it—someone else made this entry.

The heavy curtains of my window were open, and across the street in another building, someone flipped on a light. I suddenly felt on show, so I stood from the bed to close the curtains. Below, the streets of London churned with movement: friends heading to the pub, suited men leaving a late night at work, and a young couple pushing a baby stroller, walking slowly toward the River Thames.

I took my seat again on the bed. Something did not feel quite right, but I couldn’t place my finger on it. I reread the final entry, clicking my tongue against my teeth as I considered each word, and then I saw it.

The entry was dated 12 Feb 1791.

I picked up the second article—the one that described the apothecary jumping to her death—and it said the woman jumped from the bridge on the eleventh of February.

The phone tumbled from my hands. I sat back on the bed, an eerie sensation floating over me, as though a ghost had just settled herself in the room, watching, waiting, as exhilarated as I was that the truth had been unveiled: that no matter who jumped from the bridge on the eleventh of February, someone had returned to the shop, alive and well.

33

Nella

February 11, 1791

Before I lifted my own leg over the railing, I paused.

All that I’ve lost. It weighed on me now, a lifetime of misery, like the raw earth pressing into an open grave. And yet—this precise moment of breath, the light breeze at the back of my neck, the distant call of some hungry waterfowl on the river, the taste of salt on my tongue—these were all things I had not lost yet.

I stepped back from the railing and opened my eyes.