Read The Apothecary's Curse Online
Authors: Barbara Barnett
The Apothecary's Curse
Contents
Chapter 1 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 10 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 13 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 19 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 21 London, Present Day
Chapter 22 Bethlem Royal Hospital, London, 1842
Chapter 27 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 29 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 33 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 41 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 44 Chicago's North Shore, Present Day
Chapter 55 Northern Highlands, Scotland, Present Day
Published 2016 by Pyr Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
The Apothecary's Curse
. Copyright © 2016 by Barbara Barnett. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopyÂing, reÂcordÂing, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, exÂcept in the case of brief quotations emÂbodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover illustration © Galen Dara
Cover design by Jacqueline Nasso Cooke
Cover design © Prometheus Books
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Barnett, Barbara (Barbara Shyette) author.
Title: The apothecary's curse / by Barbara Barnett.
Description: Amherst, NY : Pyr, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016013613 (print) | LCCN 2016029865 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781633882331 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781633882348 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: PhysiciansâEnglandâFiction. | PharmacistsâEnglandâFiction. | ImmortalityâFiction. | Historical fiction gsafd | GSAFD: Regency fiction | Fantasy fiction
Classification: LCC PS3602.A77568 A66 2016 (print) |
LCC PS3602.A77568 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6âdc23
LC record available at
https://lccn.loc.gov/2016013613
Printed in the United States of America
To my soul mate and best friend, my husband Phillip Barnett.
LONDON, 1902
PROLOGUE
“My dear friend, hold fast the doctrine: when all impossibilities are eliminated, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Nothing could be so improbable that I must now and forever address you as
Sir
Arthur!”
Dr. Joseph Bell stood at the head of the dining table before twenty assembled guests, offering a robust toast to the guest of honor, his student and friend, the newly knighted Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in London for the first time since the honor had been bestowed on him. His confidante Jean Elizabeth Leckie was at his side.
“Do tell, Sir Arthur,” Mrs. Wilder said with a giggle, “is it not true that our dear Joseph is in actuality your Sherlock Holmes?”
“Indeed not, Mrs. Wilder!” The author twisted his mustache a bit more at each mention of Holmes's name.
Miss Leckie patted Conan Doyle's arm tenderly. “My dear, your mustache shall soon be as fine as a strand of silk. Besides, you well know he is! They even smoke the same sort of pipe!” The entire table joined her in laughter, despite Conan Doyle's protestations.
“Ah,” interrupted Joseph, coming to Conan Doyle's rescue. “Alas, I do not share Holmes's preference for cocaine, nor does my mind crave the constant stimulation of work. I am quite at peace come Sunday afternoons with nothing to do but read the
Times
.”
“I wish my consulting detective could
rest
in peace.” Conan Doyle scowled at Mrs. Wilder, as she inquired when a new Holmes story would be published. “Did you not read âThe Final Problem,' my dear Mrs. Wilder? Holmes died at Reichenbach Falls! However, since no one will allow him to be at his rest”âhe sighed dramaticallyâ“I can tonight announce a new adventure for the
Strand
come next year. âThe Empty House,' it is called!” Conan Doyle laughed, yet it was darkened with an unmistakable note of vexation.
“But how should you have him come back, Sir Arthur?” Mr. Cranford inquired. “If he is indeed, as you say, dead?”
“Do let us change the subject, Mr. Cranford.” Conan Doyle lifted his glass, taking a long draught of his wine, his eyes closed.
Miss Leckie smiled. “Oh! I've something! Have you heard of that apothecary? Lentine is his name. In Covent Garden. The line to enter his shop goes on and on. Can you imagine?”
“And why might that be, Miss Leckie?” Conan Doyle asked.
“Why, his amazing Reanimating Mercuric Tonic, of course! To hear his patter, the medicine âshall restore life, even in the event of sudden death!' Can you imagine? An apothecary, of all ludicrous things!”
Mr. Cranford laughed. “They should hang them all, the thieving rogues. I've never met one I can trust, always trying to hawk the latest patent medicines.”
Gaelan Erceldoune glared at Miss Leckie, his dark, mirthless eyes hard as basalt. Beside him, his companion, Joseph's cousin Dr. Simon Bell, laid a calming hand on his sleeve, an urgent plea to forbear; Gaelan snapped his arm away.
With a peevish edge to his voice, Gaelan steered the topic from the dubiousness of the apothecary trade. “What if your consulting detective
cannot
die?”
Conan Doyle stared him down. “Whatever do you meanâ
cannot
die?”
Simon worried a loose thread in his linen napkin, his hands knotted with tension.
“Yes,” Gaelan continued, ignoring Simon's disquiet. “Well, after Reichenbach, Holmes is, of course, presumed dead, his body not found. Unsurprising, given the terrain, but I assume your new story finds him quite well. Might you not suggest, therefore, that Holmes's invulnerability extends beyond the intellectualâthat he, in fact,
cannot
die by any natural means, improbable though it may seem? Already, you have toyed with the notionâyour Sorsa in âThe Ring of Thoth.' You needn't ever be explicit of course; allow your readers to speculate and draw their own conclusions. Holmes's devotees will be so elated that none shall even question how it is possible.”
He mimed a vaudeville marquee with his hands high above his head, commanding the attention of the entire table. “The immortal Sherlock Holmes lives on in a new series.” At once self-conscious, Gaelan thrust his deformed left hand into his trouser pocket. “He'll live forever, by Jove, your creation shall. Perhaps long after you, sir, have gone to your grave.”
Conan Doyle's enthusiasm seemed tepid at best. But Gaelan pressed further. “As well, do you not imagine, sir, whilst giving new life to your most popular creation, you might also draw upon your truest passionâthe supernatural world? Would that not, as it were, be killing two birds with one stone?”
“Ha!” Conan Doyle pointed an accusatory finger at Gaelan. “
You
, sir, sound too much like my publisher.”
Joseph broke in. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, let us go through to the drawing room. We might continue our conversations there in more comfortâ”
But Conan Doyle was not to be stopped. “In a moment, Dr. Bell,” he said, holding up his hand to forestall the company. “I've a question for Mr. Erceldoune. Our dear Joseph made mention that you are an apothecary?”
Simon backed farther into his chair, cursing himself that he had disclosed even this small fact to his ever-curious cousin. He twisted his napkin, eyes pleading with Gaelan to be still.
Gaelan leaned toward Conan Doyle, a vague threat in the set of his jaw. “That I am, but why is that of concern to you or anyone here this evening? Do you mean to put me in my place as amongst the same company as Lentine, whom Miss Leckie has just now vilifiedâand with ample cause, I might add?”
“I mean no disrespect, nor to dishonor you amongst the fine physicians at this table. . . . I am curious, and that is all.” Conan Doyle paused a moment, as if to consider something. “I understand, sir, that many apothecaries in eras past were adept in alchemy, even magic.”
Gaelan settled back into his chair by a degree, coiled as a snake. “That, sir,
may
have been more the case, say centuries agoâa blurring of the lines. However, Sir Arthur,
I
possess no personal knowledge, for example, of any apothecary or druggist nowadays claiming to hold in his hands the secrets of life through alchemical abracadabra, if that is what you are suggesting. As for myself, I am quite well tutored in chemistry and toxicology, and a disciple of Paracelsus. Many of his dicta still ring true for me.
Sola dosis facit venenum
 . . . the dose makes the poison. Paracelsus coined that in the sixteenth centuryâtoday it is an axiom of modern pharmacy. He was both an apothecary and an alchemistâand a physician. I would consider myself in esteemed company to associate myself with his understanding of alchemy. He had neither desire to make gold from lead, nor to find the elusive lapis philosophorum, but only to reveal the medicinal science it concealed by its art.”
Conan Doyle leaned forward confidentially, as if the rest of the company had vanished. “I have no desire, sir, to offend you. Forgive me if my questions seem more interrogation than polite dinner conversation. I am first and foremost a journalist, but my ardent interest is personal and much to do with my curiosity about the occult, as you may have guessed. I am quite sad to think about how much of the ancient arts were lost or have gone into hiding, along with their knowledge. Our ideas must be as broad as nature if they are to interpret nature, and if ideasâno matter how unusual they seem to our modern sensibilitiesâare destroyed and visionaries burnt either literally or metaphorically at the stake, we stand not a chance. And by the way, sir. I must aver that you are only one of a very few to have read âThoth.'”
“But to your point regarding our natural fear of the . . . unusual . . . On that, sir, at least,” Gaelan said, “we might agree.”
“Let us, then, if we may, Sir Arthur,” Joseph repeated, clearing his throat, “go through to the drawing room. Miss Leckie, would you do us the honor of leading the way?”
“But of course,” she agreed, patting Conan Doyle's hand affectionately. “Shall we, my dear?” She rose, and the rest of the company followed her from the room.