The Apothecary's Curse (12 page)

The medium had touched something elemental within Simon and dragged Sophie to him from beyond the grave. It was the final time he had encountered the now-elderly author. And even in the dim light of the séance, and with failing eyesight, Conan Doyle had
not
failed to notice that Simon was looking “not much older” than when they'd first met.

Now, nearly one hundred years later, Sophie draped her long legs across Simon's, leaning back in a seductive pose, one shoulder bared.
“If you want me gone, my dear Simon, just wish me away. You have pined so long, you know no other way, even when I wail and moan in the midst of night, depriving you of sleep, of any semblance of a life. Why do you not simply find an occupation and push me from you? Do you not know ‘The Unquiet Grave,' my love? ‘Make yourself content' and perhaps someday—”

“I am long past the remotest hope of a ‘someday' at your side, a day that shall never be, I fear. I cannot die; I cannot live. I dwell here in purgatory, neither heaven nor hell. When you are here, it is better, I confess, even when you are your most cruel self, but why must you ever harangue me? Your sharp tongue lacerates my heart. And then when you turn banshee and your soul aims only to terrify me—”

The red satin of her long skirt fell away to reveal the black fishnet of her stockings.
“And yet, my love, you refuse to supplant me. Admit it.”
She laughed a demon's cackle, incongruous from her scarlet lips.
“It is a bit warped and more than slightly masochistic, but you do not really want me gone.”

Simon picked up a paper clip, tapping it on the desk in annoyance. “Please leave me,” he pleaded. “I've enough to contend with—”

Sophie drew nearer, and Simon could almost feel her breath on the back of his neck, making the sensitive skin tingle with anticipation. He reached for her, grabbing air, pounding the table in frustration. She was gone. Head in his hands, he thrust his fingers through his short hair, breathing with relief.

He needed to reply to Dr. Gilles. But what to tell him?

CHAPTER 14

Gaelan awoke to the smell of freshly ground coffee. At least he'd somehow remembered to set the machine to auto-grind—better than a fucking alarm clock.

One eye, then the other, opened into the too-bright sunshine leaking through the blinds, reflecting directly into his bleary vision.
Bloody hell!
He winced at the entropy of papers, folders, books, and electronic paraphernalia sprawled across the floor. When had he done that?

Clearly, it had not been one of his better nights. At least he'd slept well—a rare enough commodity: no flashbacks, no nightmares, no dreams at all . . . the first time in the four days since the
Guardian
piece.
Thank you, god of tetra-hydro-cannabinol!

Gaelan's joints cracked with the release of tension as he unwound his limbs from the sofa, yawning his way through the mess. Coffee. Strong, black coffee. Dark roast, thick and rich—no sugar, no milk. He set his mug in place and pressed “Brew.” The fizz-pop-pop of the machine and the aroma of Sumatra Reserve absorbed the thundering in his head.

He stepped into the shower and let the hot liquid, sharp as needles, cascade through the knots in his shoulders and arms until the headache splintered into insignificance. He could easily spend the morning here until the water ran cold. But he had a business to run. He retrieved the steaming mug, glancing at the empty Lagavulin bottle with regret, and headed into the shop.

Simon was right. It was ridiculous to think that the pharmaceutical company would make a connection to him by studying insane asylum diaries of an insane doctor. His thoughts drifted to the ouroboros book. Was it really possible that Simon had located it after all these years?

That book had caused nothing but grief for him, for Simon, even for Simon's poor dead wife, who, but for the elixir, would be long at her rest, along with her husband. For all his interest in antiquarian books, for all his buying and selling of texts nearly as opaque and fascinating as the ouroboros book, all his searching for it, part of him recoiled from the very idea of ever seeing it again.

He opened the blinds, dusted the shelves, and opened the shop. Any occupation to distract his thoughts from the book, from Handley's diaries, from . . . A quicksilver flicker of a memory slithered through his mind. His toes curled instinctively as it took hold, and he told himself it wasn't real even as invisible flames penetrated the thin leather of his sandals. Exquisite agony burned into his soles, into his soul, unbound, blistered and festering. He was held down, shackled, impotent to stop it.

The doorbells jangled, and the vision was gone. “Good morning,” he breathed shakily, forcing a smile. He nodded to the young woman perusing jars of tea on a low shelf. “They . . . they are all dried in-house. Fresh each week. Select what you fancy, and I can bundle them in silk sachets for you, or if you like . . . bulk is nice too; I've a good selection of infusers, and—” He hoped she would take it in bulk, not certain his trembling hands could manage the dexterity needed for the sachet ribbons.

She paused at a large, inset bookcase, removing an eighteenth-century volume:
Antipodean Art and Artists
. “Are you all right, Mr. Erceldoune?”

Gaelan blinked. Mrs. Frayn. Of course! Where was his mind this morning? The glare—he'd not seen her for the glare. That must be it. Either that, or he was finally losing what remained of his sanity. “Yes, luv, of course,” he said too quickly. “A late night.” He winked as he managed a knowing grin. “I've your order right here.” He fetched a brown bag from beneath the counter. “Tangerine-spice tea, three ounces. Perhaps you'd like a cup now. Kettle's hot—”

“Is this a first printing?”

“It is at that, Mrs. Frayn. The plates are in perfect condition—”

“My husband's birthday is Sunday—”

“The art history professor, of course. It's a handsome gift, if a bit pricey . . . but for you, luv, three hundred dollars.”

She didn't flinch. “Can you put it aside for me? I'll pick it up tonight while Charles is teaching—”

“Of course. Sure you wouldn't want to stay and . . . ? I've another book, even better . . . upstairs.” She paid for the tea and the book, turning to leave. How might he delay her departure, at least for a bit? The vision had vanished when she'd entered, and he'd really rather not be sucked into it again. As long as he was not alone . . .

“Sorry, Mr. Erceldoune. Class in half an hour, and I need to finish grading way too many exams before my students descend and demand their inflated As. You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Let me know how you like the tea.”

By noon, the too-vivid flashes of memory had yet to retreat. An endless horror movie in short cuts that would have chased Guillermo del Toro under the bed trembling with terror. A new vision materialized, this time a flail slicing into his arms, his legs. Horrified, Gaelan observed as his skin peeled away, and then muscle and sinew flowered open, revealing the white of bone, before it, too, broke away to expose the black gelatin of his marrow. He heard a scream, not knowing whether it was memory or imagination . . . or real.

Oh for Chrissakes, Gaelan, get a grip! No one will come for you. Don't be such a fucking twit! Who would care now about a man, no matter the overblown claims about him, hanged in Newgate nearly two centuries ago?

A walk. He needed a walk, the fresh, clean, cold air courtesy of yesterday's snowfall. Gaelan flipped the sign in the window to “Closed” and stepped into the midday throng of Northwestern students, surprised to feel the warmth of the sun, as if yesterday's freak blizzard had been a momentary meteorological memory lapse.

The remains of snowdrifts had melted into puddles and slush; water dripped from the L tracks. A train clattered overhead, leaving in its wake a wall of mist and steam embedded with rainbows of bent sunlight dangling midair. Gaelan reached out as if he might capture one in his hand.

Sandaled college students hurled dripping snowballs at each other, like late-season skiers in sleeveless tank tops, enjoying the paradoxes of a Chicago spring. He barely noticed them, blurs in a post-Impressionist painting, as he wended his way through puddles, skateboarders, and bicycles.

He needed to drown the visions, the screams, the memories from his mind; for that he knew the perfect place: a secluded patch of rock and sand up the shore near Simon's house. He'd spotted it a year or two ago, beneath a high bluff as he'd hiked along the beach, not realizing how far north he'd ventured, surprised to spot Simon's promontory one hundred feet above him and ten miles from home. There, he could lose himself to the crash of waves upon the rocks, and dive into the bracing chill of Lake Michigan in spring. He fetched his Triumph Sportbike from its parking space, and took off north along Sheridan.

The alabaster gleam of the Baha'i Temple loomed to his left as he rounded a turn, the shoreline snaking westward. He stopped the bike, picturing the temple's gardens edged with snow as they surely would be. Maybe he'd end the ride here, and lose himself in the great seven-sided hall, surrounded by centuries of wisdom echoing with each footstep, expansive as the building itself. Gaelan aborted the idea as a school bus pulled up to the building—a tour.
Damn.
What if he lost it there right in the middle of all those kids?
Bad idea.

The terrain changed dramatically, and now he rode high above the lake through bluffs that wound into blind curves, steep rocky ravines on either side. He could hear the wind-whipped waves crashing sixty, eighty feet below, into the base of the cliff. Stopping at the top of a bluff, he looked down, watching the last vestiges of snow clinging to the boulders melt into waterfalls cascading down to the beach below.

Gaelan dismounted the bike and picked his way through trees and rocks, descending a forested embankment, thinking better of it when he lost his footing on the ice, one sandal slipping from his foot. He'd have to bike it.

Carefully, he climbed through brush and loose boulders and back onto the Triumph. He started it up and put it in gear, about to make the turn down a narrow dirt road to the beach. Startled by a sound close by, Gaelan turned, and then he saw it: a hand, disembodied and wielding a jagged knife, its metal gleam blinding him.
Bloody hell!
Spooked, he slammed on the foot brake just as the bike began to roll down the sharp incline, skidding badly on an icy patch. And then, he was in freefall, no longer on the bike. The sudden exhilaration of flight was soon replaced by the realization he was plummeting down the embankment.

Rock and ice, sharp as daggers, sliced through his clothing as he tried reaching out with his good hand to gain purchase on the slippery outcropping or grab onto a tree branch. The Triumph followed, hurtling through the bluff, hitting it, not five feet above him, bursting into flames, shrapnel raining down on him as he continued to descend the steep rock. The pounding of his heart thundered in his ears and melted into the crackle of flames and the roar of the waves as he plunged the rest of the way to the boulder breakwater below.

An echo from high above floated just beyond his ability to protest, “Someone call 911!”

LONDON, 1837

CHAPTER 15

Daylight seeped through a small crack at the cellar ceiling as Gaelan awoke, groggily realizing where he was, his small refuge beneath the ruins of his apothecary, his home. How long had he slept? An hour? Perhaps two? Fatigued and weary, he glanced at Timothy, still asleep on his pallet, before creeping up the ladder and into Smithfield. Despite an early-morning rain, the smoke yet clung to the market, the acrid perfume of charred wood and smoldering straw intermingling with sweet aroma of fresh breads and pastries and the foul stench of raw meat, diseased water, and horse dung.

Morning revealed the extent of the fire's damage. Twelve stalls reduced to piles of smoldering, steaming matchsticks, along with the apothecary shop, and Gaelan had no doubt that Lyle Tremayne would walk away from it unscathed, his connections too highly placed, his clientele too well-connected. Already vendors were rummaging through the mud and ash and charred remains to salvage anything not burned to cinders. Silently, he headed to the livery stable to retrieve his horse. The gentle Fell had been Gaelan's gift to Caitrin just after Iain's birth; they'd loved riding through the countryside together, but Caitrin didn't care for hired horses, and had missed having her own mount. He seldom rode anymore, leaving it to the stableboy to keep the horse fit and well cared for.

“Here ya go, Mr. Erceldoune,” said the stableboy, handing Gaelan the reins. “It's a relief to see you alive this morn, sir. After what happened last night with the shop and all. Dad and I thought for sure you were done for. The horses were restless all night long, but your Fell will do right by you. Not very big, but he's strong and quick as the devil.”

Gaelan managed a weak nod, unable to form a coherent sentence. Time to move on, he knew. Leave this place and recommence life elsewhere—maybe America this time. But he couldn't leave England without saying good-bye to Caitrin and wee Iain.

Following the Thames westward, Gaelan flew down the road, thankful for the swift, agile horse. The brisk wind restored his energy as city gave way to countryside, and the smoldering stench of Smithfield gave way to the freshening aroma of the riverbank. Yet every strike of horseshoe upon the gravel throbbed through his exhausted body, and into his head.

The horse protested at the relentless pace, slowing periodically despite Gaelan's efforts. He'd no choice but to grudgingly acquiesce, lest he tax the Fell beyond its endurance.

The last time Gaelan had been to the Kinston estate was after Caitrin and Iain had been ripped from their beds to be “treated” there by the earl's personal physicians.

“Bled with leeches,” he'd been told upon arrival, the door then slammed in his face. He pictured his wee son, just a few months old, frightened and alone, screaming out in pain with no understanding. Gaelan had stood in the wind and rain for hours praying for a kindhearted servant, or the vicar perhaps, to come to him with news—any news. He'd shouted their names until his tongue was parched and breath left him, and Kinston's men dragged him away at the point of a sword.