Page 21 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder
CHAPTER 20
A New Disguise
When Henrietta awoke the next morning, the first thing she noticed was how wonderful it was to be secured against Theo’s body, with his arms encasing her. The second thing she noticed was the throbbing soreness of her calves. When Theo had applied the ointment the night before it had soothed her wounds, but the benefits weren’t long term.
‘There’s an infection,’ Theo said later, inspecting the injuries, his fingers gentle on her inflamed skin. ‘Let us visit the apothecary before we return to London. Benzoin and new bandages ought to help.’
When they stepped outside the Pickled Dog, glad to leave the radical enclave behind, early morning mists were rising from the saturated ground, stretching tendrils towards a clear sky. The air was rich with the earthy smell of the country after a rain.
The apothecary shop was in a half-timber cottage near the mill. The medical man himself had just returned from a night call when they arrived, and he was in the process of handing his horse to his son when Theo enquired about benzoin and bandages.
He nodded towards the shop door. ‘Wait in there while I attend to my necessaries.’
He lumbered off towards the privy, followed by a small, one-eared terrier.
The shop proved to be the front room of the cottage, crammed with jar-filled shelves and cabinets. Dust motes danced in the dim light cast by small leaded windows. These, combined with a pungent mixture of herbal, astringent and sulphuric scents, caused Henrietta’s nose to twitch, and she stifled the sneeze that followed.
Theo handed her a purplish-blue handkerchief embroidered with bilberries from a folded pile on the apothecary’s counter. ‘Mice sneeze louder than you,’ he said, laughing.
She dabbed the handkerchief to her nose. ‘It’s not ladylike to sneeze loudly, Theodore.’
He winked. ‘Well, I like it when you’re loud.’
He was referring to her exuberant sounds the night before, and she blushed as she tucked the handkerchief into her bodice. She’d never experienced going about daily life with the same person with whom one had recently entwined one’s body intimately, and, though she liked it, she gave him a mild scold. ‘You’re not a gentleman to remind me.’
His cheeky grin made an appearance. ‘I’m not a gentleman at all, darling.’
‘You’re more a gentleman than you realise,’ she answered simply. And then, sensing emotions she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge, she shifted her gaze from his handsome face and surveyed the shop. Her eyes settled on an upper shelf containing jars labelled with large black Xs, prompting her to edge closer for a better look. ‘Did Dr Grimsley say which type of poison was used, Theo?’
‘Not that I ever heard.’ He came alongside her and tapped one of the labelled jars. ‘I keep abreast of the more salacious trials, so I can tell you that arsenic is used in, oh, nine out of ten deliberate poisonings. It’s virtually undetectable. Odourless, colourless and tasteless. But you said your husband indicated his wine had a sweet flavour?’
‘He definitely tasted something.’ She read the other labels. Female-bane . Opium . Mercury . Cyanide . She took a jar labelled Nux Vomica off the shelf and opened it to expose a collection of guinea-sized, flat brown seeds. ‘If we knew which it was, perhaps that would be a clue.’
The door opened and closed behind them. ‘Trouble in the marriage, eh?’ The apothecary smirked knowingly, his twinkle-eyed terrier panting at his side. ‘Aye, that’ll solve it. I’ll mix a tincture, missus, and you serve it to him just before bed. You won’t have no more problems.’
Horrified, Henrietta hastily recapped the jar. Was the apothecary implying this poison was a perfect way to kill a spouse? ‘I … I … no, we simply need bandages and benzoin.’
The apothecary’s gaze jumped between her and Theo. ‘There’s no cause for shame. Happens to many men, from time to time. My tincture will have Roger up and standing for an hour or more, like a soldier at drill.’
Henrietta was baffled, but Theo laughed heartily. ‘Roger doesn’t have any trouble standing, I assure you. We were merely curious about the various types of poisons.’
The apothecary closed the distance between them, took the jar from Henrietta’s hands and returned it to its place on the dusty shelf. ‘Taken in the wrong amounts, nux vomica is poisonous, missus, which is why you should never touch anything on an apothecary’s shelves.’ He waggled a finger, as if she were a naughty child, and then tapped the arsenic jar. ‘If you have rats, this is what you want.’
‘I don’t have rats,’ she replied, annoyed. ‘My interest is of a scientific nature. What would you say are the most dangerous poisons?’
‘Dangerous for what? A rat?’
‘Something bigger than a rat,’ she replied. ‘An extremely large dog, say.’
The apothecary’s eyebrows popped up like two jack-in-the-boxes. ‘Here, what are you wanting to kill a dog for?’
‘It’s a hypothetical situation,’ she said.
He looked at his terrier, who cocked its one ear. ‘I don’t like it all the same.’
She repressed an eye-roll. ‘Let’s say the large dog preys upon smaller dogs, like the size of your terrier there. What are the most effective poisons against such a beastly creature?’
Appalled, the man scooped his dog into his arms. ‘Arsenic, opium or strychnine,’ he said, supplying an answer at last. ‘Very effective, strychnine is.’
‘Does strychnine have a flavour?’
The apothecary peered over his dog’s head. ‘None at all, same as arsenic.’
‘But opium does,’ Henrietta said, recalling the laudanum her mother had given her. ‘It’s a bitter flavour, isn’t it?’
‘As laudanum, yes, but it depends upon the preparation, and there are endless methods.’
‘So it could be made colourless and sweet?’
‘I imagine,’ the apothecary said, growing cagey.
So perhaps opium was the poison used. Memories of Edmund’s dying moments, his pain, his face, now flooded back, shaking Henrietta to the core. Her knees weakened and she leant against Theo for support, which he instantly provided with an arm about her shoulders. ‘And the … death? Would it be immediate or delayed?’
‘Depends again upon the preparation. The strength of poison ingested.’
Her throat was dry, prickly, her stomach sick. ‘Would it induce convulsions? Heated skin, like with a fever? Vomiting?’
‘Vomiting, aye. Convulsions less likely. The effect would be similar to the effect of laudanum. The … dog might suffer purging, but then he would experience drowsiness as the systems of his body slow. Weakened breath, slow movements, less and less energy, until he fell into death as one falls into sleep. Quite painless.’
Oh, yes – laudanum took away pain and put one to sleep. She had used it so infrequently in her life, she wasn’t thinking. ‘Of course. Not that, then,’ she muttered, dismayed. ‘What would produce a sweet-tasting poison with a delayed response, and induce headache, convulsions and vomiting before death?’
The apothecary returned his terrier to the floor. ‘What we have in abundance in this part of England. Death’s herb, of course.’
‘Which is?’ Henrietta asked.
‘Dwale.’ And when that received no response from her or Theo, he added, ‘Deadly nightshade.’
Of course! Henrietta knew the berry-producing weed well enough – she’d been warned as a child never to touch or eat it, but she and her brothers had been curious, so warnings only served to stoke their interest. Once, she and her brother Edward had gathered some of the poisonous berries using their handkerchiefs. Edward had said they’d make a good pigment – even as a young child, he’d been an artist – so they’d smashed the berries into a purplish-black pulp. Edward had taken up a brush and used the substance to draw fantastical monsters in his sketchbook as she’d giggled over his shoulder. Years later, they’d gone through Edward’s old drawing books, laughing over the memories; the nightshade monsters had faded somewhat, but even then, they’d had a distinctive purple cast.
‘But nightshade isn’t colourless?’ she said. ‘In a light-coloured wine, it would be discernible?’
The apothecary narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you talking about wine for? I thought you needed to poison a dog. If you have a nefarious purpose in mind, I won’t be aiding you.’ His tone grew increasingly hostile and Henrietta’s palms prickled. ‘Now, do you intend to pay for that handkerchief at your breast? ’Cause it’ll cost you fourpence. The girls make ’em at the charity school.’
Theo hastily removed his coin purse from his pocket. ‘A groat for the handkerchief, my good man, and how much do I owe you for the benzoin and bandages?’
They left the apothecary shop soon after with more questions than answers.
The muddiness of the roads slowed their progress to London somewhat, but, due to their early start, they still managed to stable their horses off Newgate Street and arrive at Theo’s lodgings just as the bells of St Paul’s pealed the ten o’clock hour.
In London, Henrietta hid her face with her bonnet brim. Anyone might recognise her, even in her dirt-splattered clothes. Her fears proved justified at the lodgings when, despite Theo’s attempt to shield her from prying eyes, his landlady took great offence to ‘a filthy streetwalker’ entering her house.
‘She’ll give you the clap or the French pox, my boy.’ The woman yanked Henrietta’s arm and shoved her towards the door. ‘Or both of them together, like as not.’
Henrietta gave her assailant a scathing look. When the landlady saw her face, she gave an almighty gasp, turned a brilliant red and released her arm. Clasping her hands to a mountainous bosom, she fell upon the newel post.
‘’Pon my word! If I’d known it were Your Gr—’
‘ Shh , Mrs Ford,’ Theo whispered. ‘You cannot reveal her identity. She and I are investigating the murder together.’
The landlady burst into violent tears, declaring she wouldn’t do anything to harm the widow of ‘that blessed man’. Henrietta assured her repeatedly that she was not in the least offended by the misunderstanding.
Mrs Ford dabbed at her eyes with her apron. ‘To think, you are in my house and more beautiful up close than all the times I viewed you from afar. But we must get you out of that muddy, tattered frock.’
From that moment, Henrietta found herself treated with the utmost care.
While Theo vanished on mysterious errands, Mrs Ford drew a hot bath, sprinkled with rosewater, in her own rooms. She insisted on attending, washing Henrietta’s hair and brushing it dry over the fire until it shone like gold, and reapplying benzoin and fresh bandages to the much-improved wounds.
Theo returned with new clothes and then went upstairs to tidy himself. As planned during their ride from Millford, they would dress as a middle-class man and wife, to blend in while conducting their investigation.
The clothes he had purchased for Henrietta fitted surprisingly well. They included a serviceable chemise, wool stockings and pink garter ribbons. She wore her own stays, but added a new petticoat, followed by a dark-blue cotton dress with a smart spencer. After Mrs Ford arranged her hair in a simple chignon, Henrietta completed the ensemble with a wide-brimmed hat ornamented with a huge bow and a lace face veil.
‘I purchased that hideous hat only because I hoped the veil would keep your identity hidden,’ Theo said later, when she joined him in his parlour. He had shaved and bathed, and had clothed himself in a brown wool suit. The trousers and tailcoat hung beautifully on his broad frame; he wore a fresh shirt, smelling lightly of starch, an undyed linen waistcoat and a brown cotton cravat. His wavy hair was still damp, darkening the gold tones into a tawny-brown, and he was so devastatingly handsome it made Henrietta’s heart ache. ‘I hope the rest of the clothes are serviceable enough.’
‘I love them.’ And though they were the least lovely clothes she’d ever worn, she meant it wholeheartedly. They were clean, comfortable and serviceable – and Theo had chosen them for her.
He dismissed her assertion with a wave of his hand. ‘You are being kind. Of course, they are nothing like you are accustomed to, but I can’t afford to buy even a ribbon from one of the shops you frequent. Besides, we don’t want you to look like the Duchess of Severn. This is a disguise.’
‘A perfect disguise.’ She observed herself in the looking glass over Theo’s mantel. ‘I look exactly like any regular woman, leading a normal life. No one will give me a second glance.’
‘Your veil would have to be thicker for that to be true,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘And you’d need to cover your figure with a sackcloth. Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll clean the mud from our boots.’
After he left with the footwear, Mrs Ford brought a tea tray and then Henrietta was alone in Theo’s rooms. For the first five minutes, she contented herself with savouring a well-brewed cup after two days without tea, glancing down to the court behind the lodging house. Seeing little activity there other than Mrs Ford emptying the bathwater, Henrietta’s eye wandered around the lodgings. Though reluctant to pry, she was curious about Theo’s life.
His living quarters consisted of only two rooms. The plank-floored parlour she occupied was sparsely furnished with a sofa, two armchairs and a small dining table. A large desk dominated one corner, laden with stacks of papers, various writing implements, a half-empty bottle of gin and a nearly full French brandy.
The adjoining bedchamber was even more modest. A tidy bed with a downy quilt, a pine wardrobe, an undyed wool rug and a wash table with shaving basin and mirror were the only objects it contained, but the room was clean and neat, with the pleasant scent of shaving soap.
She closed the door to that room and glanced again around the parlour, struck this time by how impersonal it was. There were no books other than two or three on his desk. Theo was clearly a well-read man; she’d imagined he’d have shelves of books. How odd that he didn’t.
Then she realised why. It was the same reason no art decorated the walls, no knick-knacks ornamented the mantel and why everything was serviceable but spartan. What sort of wages could Theo possibly earn, writing his gossip column and packing newspapers, as he’d told her he did on occasion? She looked down at the clothes he had purchased for her. However much he’d spent, it probably represented a greater sacrifice than her most lavish court dress or diamond necklace from Edmund, yet Theo hadn’t even mentioned the cost.
A pang tugged at her heart. She’d tried so hard the day before to suppress her warm feelings for her old enemy. Today, the task seemed impossible. Was it as Theo had said, that once a certain intimacy was shared, sentiments would arise to complicate matters? And, if so, should she not be building up walls to protect herself, rather than letting him seep into her heart?
She should. She knew she should. But she didn’t want to. She liked him. Not only because of all they’d shared the night before – both that thing and then sleeping in his arms – but also because he possessed a steadiness of character and a kindness that she found both extremely attractive and deeply comforting. For the five years of her marriage, she’d kept many secrets bottled up inside her – things she hadn’t even told her mother – and it felt so good to have shared them with a friend.
Urged forward by a desire to know more about him, she walked to his desk to read the titles of the handful of books he did own, but before she could peruse the volumes, her eyes fell to an article lying atop the other papers: On a Way Forward After the Death of Severn .
She sat in the chair to read. Not even one paragraph in, she knew the voice – it was that of the political journalist who published anonymously, whose musings always gave her so much food for thought. Whose article on universal suffrage she’d been reading the afternoon of Edmund’s death. The author she’d wanted to seek out, to offer financial support.
Of course it had been Theo all along. She’d read both the anonymous author and The Hawke’s Eye for years – she must have unconsciously recognised some stylistic similarities. No doubt that had fed her weekly frustration with his beastly gossip column – because the real Theodore Hawke was a thoughtful and progressive journalist in search of meaningful truths. His anonymous articles represented his capabilities, if he only had the chance to earn a living outside of gossipmongering.
The door from the corridor opened and she swivelled in the chair to face Theo as he entered with their newly polished boots. A powerful wave of emotion washed over her. Impulsively, she closed the distance between them in a flash, threw her arms about his neck and offered her lips.
He dropped their boots, gathered her close, and then kissed her with wild, consuming passion. ‘Please tell me what I did to deserve such a greeting,’ he said when they stopped for breath. ‘So that I can make a habit of it in the future.’
Henrietta replied by squeezing him until her heart ached, yet even that wasn’t enough to convey the depth of her feelings. She yearned for something she couldn’t even define.
A surprised squeak pierced the air; Theo pulled away and his absence left her so cold and bereft she embraced herself, rubbing her upper arms through her spencer.
Mrs Ford stood in the doorway, mouth agape, eyes darting between them, face reddening. ‘I’m sure I wasn’t meaning to interrupt anything, but I had an idea, Your Gr … I mean, ma’am. For your disguise.’ With a tentative smile, she held a small round squab cushion aloft. ‘I thought to make you appear with child.’
In the ensuing awkwardness, Henrietta peeked at a stone-faced Theo, and she was utterly ashamed she’d ever considered using him to fulfil Edmund’s wish. His admirable, endearing characteristics were the very things that would prevent him from siring a child without being a father.
One can never have things both ways . She’d had romantic feelings for two men: one eminently suitable for her station in life, but unable to offer the love she craved; the other, perhaps everything she’d ever desired from a romantic partner but despised by her family and her society.
With a heavy heart, she answered Mrs Ford. ‘The cushion is an excellent idea.’
Because while Henrietta doubted she would ever hunt for a man to father a child for Edmund now that her feelings for Theo ran so deep, she was extremely keen to give Perceval the fright of his life.