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Back The Lost Apothecary Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Dedication
  5. Map
  6. Ancient Apothecary’s Oath
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. Nella Clavinger’s Apothecary of Poisons
  44. Historical Note
  45. Recipes
  46. Acknowledgments

“Very good,” Lady Clarence said. “I will return tomorrow, as I understand that is ample time to prepare the powder anew, and you will give me a bowl of fresh cantharides, identical in appearance and form to those which you just foolishly ruined. I will be here at half one.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded, ready to push her out the door with Eliza’s help if I must.

“If you do not have the powders ready for me as I’ve asked,” Lady Clarence continued, “then you best gather your things and make haste, for I will go straight to the authorities and tell them all about your little shop, full of cobwebs and rat poison. And when I speak to them, I’ll make special note to proceed through the storage room and check behind the wall at the back. Every secret within this squalid hole will come to light.” She pulled her shawl tightly around her. “I’m the wife of a lord. Don’t try any tricks on me.” She yanked the door open and let herself out, slamming it shut behind her.

14

Caroline

Present day, Tuesday

With only a few hours left before James’s arrival, I didn’t have time to investigate the gated-off door, but my curiosity, piqued yesterday, now felt on fire. It seemed that every bit of information gleaned, beginning with the vial, then the cryptic hospital note about Bear Alley, and now the door at the back of the alley, presented a new piece of a tantalizing puzzle. I resolved to do more digging and return when I could.

As I made my way out of Bear Alley, the sun slipped behind a cloud, plunging me into a cool shadow. Assuming the apothecary did exist, I envisioned what she may have looked like: an elderly woman with white, scraggly hair, frayed at the ends from spending so much time over her cauldron, hurrying out of the cobblestoned alley in a black cape. Then I shook my head at my own imagination: she wasn’t a witch, and this wasn’t Harry Potter.

I thought back to the hospital note. Whoever wrote the note had said the men are dead—plural. It was frustratingly vague. And yet, if more than a few people had died because of the apothecary, there should be some reference, some record of the apothecary’s renown, online.

As I turned back onto Farringdon Street, I pulled out my phone, opened up my browser search bar and typed London Apothecary Killer 1800s.