The Apothecary's Curse (27 page)

“Yes. The red planet with Venus just beneath it and to the left—”

“Indeed!” Her face in the starlight was no longer gloomy, but beatific.

Somehow, she had drawn very near, and he could see the gooseflesh beneath her diaphanous sleeve. “I have no doubt you would make a fine astronomer, my lady. However, we should go in before you catch your death.” An incandescent heat flared in his loins, a counterpoint to the chill as the delicate fabric of her gown fluttered against his shoulder. The blessed return of desire, so long absent from his life, sent a thrill through Gaelan. Yet, this particular woman—it must not be. It could not be. He chased away all argument to the contrary.

She nodded, rubbing her arms. “We should go in. You are quite right. And I could probably do with a brandy.”

The drawing room was a welcome relief from the damp night air—and the beautiful, dangerous intimacy of the night sky. Gaelan poured a brandy for Eleanor, another whisky for himself. Her attention drifted to the settee, inviting him to sit beside her. After handing her the brandy, he took a seat, instead, in Simon's wingback chair. He had already allowed her far too close.

An air of tranquility had replaced her earlier disquiet, and she nipped at the brandy—tiny sips, each followed by a delicate sigh; she was no longer shivering. Their nearness and two tumblers of Simon's fine Scotch had worn away his caution. “Forgive me for saying, Lady Braithwaite, you seemed quite distressed this afternoon . . . when you arrived. And with your sleeplessness . . . I don't presume to know you, but even I could perceive—”

She said nothing; instead she pulled at a loose thread in the settee's brocade. Another approach, perhaps. Gaelan rose from the chair and crossed to the far side of the room, his back to her. “It helps, my lady, to talk of what pains us, and better still . . . easier still . . . if I may be so bold . . . with a stranger, than one whom we hold dear.”

There was little he had not heard over the course of decades in the way of cruelty endured by wives and children, when they would pour out their troubles to him in the shop's back room as he tended their battered bodies and broken spirits. And he more than suspected Braithwaite was behind Eleanor's burden.

Her voice quivered as she finally spoke. “Lord Braithwaite . . . my husband . . . he is . . . I fear, not what he seemed upon our betrothal. We were married a year ago and . . . I'm sorry. I cannot—” The glass fell from her hand as she fled the room, faltering every few deliberate steps, steadying herself against the wall.

And he knew.

CHICAGO'S NORTH SHORE, PRESENT DAY

CHAPTER 33

Anne Shawe lay back into the “luxury sleep” hotel mattress as she reread her notes. At least she no longer had to camp out on the pavement like a university student waiting in line for concert tickets.

Who are you, Gaelan Erceldoune? Besides being bloody attractive.
She sighed. He wasn't
handsome
. Not exactly, but that hippie renegade from the '70s thing quite fit him: unshaven, too-long, too-straight, floppy hair, leather waistcoat, billowy shirt. There was something out of step about him; a formal politeness seeped through his considerable ire and brought to mind BBC costume dramas and Charlotte Bronte. Yeah, so he was fucking attractive—for a middle-aged bloke.

Anne returned her attention to the
patient
Gaelan Erceldoune—equally fascinating. She opened her old-school lab notebook to the first page, reading over her neat script. “Triage reports serious injuries upon admission to the trauma unit, including third-degree burns. Doubts he'll survive long enough to enter the surgical suite, but by the time they're ready for him in the operating theatre, burns do not appear serious, and the internal injuries, although present, do not match the scans. Concerns all round at first about whether they've got the right patient at all.”

The hospital must be thanking the stars above that patient records were immune to—what did they call it?—“freedom of information,” because disclosing anything close to the truth, to the media or anyone else, would make them all look like blithering idiots. Even admissions of instrument failure and high-level human error provided a more politic explanation. Samuelson thought it was all “a crock of shit,” and she suspected so did the trauma team, the ER doctors, and everyone else who saw what they saw. And all were bound to silence. Ah, but how long would it take for “anonymous hospital sources” to be quoted in the mainstream press? So far as she could tell, the media was quoting “citizen journalist” tweets and YouTube posts. Everyone “wants to believe” the unbelievable, but if it's true, chalk it up to mass hysteria, loads of error—and move on.

But the unbelievable was true—or so it appeared. But what was it about Mr. Erceldoune's genetics that defied the laws of human physiology? Something to do with fibroblast growth? Infinitely regenerative telomeres? Mitochondrial anomalies? Something with the immune system?
What do you know, Mr. Erceldoune, that makes you so adamantly refuse to let us test your DNA?
What are you hiding?

On the other hand, there were lots of reasons people didn't consent to genetic testing. Good ones, too, especially in America where a genetic condition could screw you out of health insurance one way or another. Perhaps Erceldoune refused to avoid being identified. Immigration woes? Was he an illegal? Or a criminal? One with a DNA profile he'd rather not make public? She laughed. She had to stop reading crime novels. Seriously.

She tried to push Gaelan Erceldoune from her mind, realizing she'd avoided her e-mail for nearly two days.
Fuck.
Sighing as she opened her laptop, she confronted reality: three e-mails from Lloyd Hammersmith, two from Salk, five from Samuelson, and one from Paul Gilles, his labeled with red exclamation marks and three heart emojis. Brilliant.

She opened the most recent from Lloyd. “Why are you not at Salk? And why are you not answering your mobile? And what's this I hear about you consulting on a medical case in
Chicago
? It isn't that crazy story about that so-called Miracle Man, is it? It's all over the tabloids here!! If it is, bloody brilliant on you. If not, and you're still in Chicago, would you mind checking it out, and let me know if there's anything there to help our work?”

Oh yes, Lloyd, there is a very
big
something to it. But what would you do to Mr. Erceldoune should you get your greedy little hands upon him?
She wasn't ready to hand Gaelan Erceldoune over to Lloyd Hammersmith or anyone at Transdiff; they'd pick apart the poor man, right down to his chromosomes.

She continued reading: “By the way, you will not believe what we're finding in those Bedlam diaries. You'll be quite envious of Paul and regret not taking the lead on the project when I offered it to you first. Admittedly, the Bedlam doctor was some sort of proto-Mengele, but his notes are amazingly detailed. Five years' worth of dated journals! It appears that this unnamed inmate, if it is to be believed, could be broken, sliced, and diced. A few hours' downtime and he was ready for more. Fascinating read. We're scanning the whole works. I can send it to you as soon as we're through. I'd love your take on it.”

No!
She wanted nothing to do with those diaries. Ever since Transdiff Genomics, Ltd. had gotten five pages into the first journal, they'd become obsessed. Some sort of holy grail. But what ill-conceived holy grail would come to light by way of torture? She shoved the thought from her mind. Whoever wrote those diaries was likely deranged himself; who knew if any of it was more than fabrication? Or confabulation, at the very least?

And Paul, of all people . . . Dr. Paul Gilles heading the effort. “Darling,” he'd rationalized, “the man was already tortured; I'm merely giving what he went through some meaning.” It was morbid. And obscene. A sort of mental grave robbing in her humble opinion, whether he'd asked for it or not. And he hadn't. She hated Paul for a callousness she'd never known he possessed. But she was far from innocent. How many times had she looked the other way at a notation in a human research project file, not stopping to ask the questions she well knew ethics demanded? How different was that poor sod's torture a century and a half ago than what Transdiff . . . And where did silence end and complicity begin? Yeah. She was guilty, and it ate away at her.

Her mobile buzzed from somewhere beneath the bedcovers. She unlocked it on the fourth buzz, immediately wishing she'd let it go to voicemail.

“Hallo, Paul.”

“Darling, where are you? I thought you'd be sunning yourself beneath the palm trees of La Jolla by now.”

“I'm taking some time, seeing the sights of Chicago.” She ratcheted up her iciest Dr. Shawe voice. “What might I do for you?”

“Did he tell you what we're finding?”

She responded with silence, her finger poised on the end button, until finally giving in to curiosity. “What do you want, Paul? I'm bloody tired.”

“Sorry. Time difference, I suppose. Besides, it is a well-known fact, my darling, that you never sleep. I've a guy who's interested in that weird book of yours.”

“Yes?” And
she
had no interest in hearing about this “guy.”

“He's really quite keen on it. Willing to pay quite a fortune for it and—”

“No. And what the fuck are you doing—”

“I know you've no interest in selling, but I thought he might be useful . . . you know, in helping you decipher it. I saw his advert and thought of you. . . . Consider it a parting gift to aid you on this quest of yours. I figured if he was interested enough to advertise for it, he must know something about it. If it's the same book, at any rate.”

Bloody hell. What was this about? Was Paul trying to endear himself, worm his way back into her good graces?
Not gonna happen.
Especially when he was at his most ingratiatingly smarmy.
Oh, Christ!
Why had Lloyd told him where she was?

“I sort of promised him I would send him scans from it so he might verify it's what he's looking for. Sought it for eons, he said. Name's Anthony Danforth, the author. So, I was wondering if you might . . . scan a few pages. Fax them to him. You've got the book and—”

“No. I have zero interest in selling it. You bloody well know that.”

Anne hurled her mobile to the floor. She'd had enough of Paul, of Lloyd, Transdiff Genomics, Ltd., and the whole lot of them.
Wankers!
As soon as he'd seen the double helices engraved on the book's cover, he'd been hot for it. Yeah. Just before he proposed.

The book.
It had baffled and consumed her since she'd rescued it from Cousin Agatha's attic six months ago, beneath a stack of old 78 RPM records, a yellowed fancy dress costume, a hideous ratty old wig, and three neglected photo albums. “Take what you fancy,” the elderly woman had told her. “The rest will be going to charity.”

And then there was the letter, tucked inside, sealed with wax. In the six months she'd had the book, she'd never dared to break that seal. She never would.

CHAPTER 34

Simon stared at his phone. Another bloody dead end. And this chap had seemed so certain of it when he'd answered the advert.

“I had no right to offer you the book. It belongs to my fiancée,” he'd said on the phone. “She's not especially keen on letting it go, and I cannot say I really blame her. It's quite an interesting find. Found it rummaging around in some relative's attic or some such thing. Although I have to say, it is quite the strange manuscript. You say you may know something about it—perhaps you might be able to help us crack it? Once her curiosity is satisfied, perhaps she'll sell it to you, and we'll all be happy.”

It was worth pursuing—
if
Gaelan was willing. And right at this moment, he was unlikely . . . But what if this was
it
? Finally, the bloody book? How could he let it slip through his fingers? “I might be able to help you,” Simon responded. “Not myself, mind you, but an . . . associate . . . acquaintance of mine. A rare books dealer, an expert, particularly in antiquarian scientific manuscripts—”

“I see. Would he—”

“We would need the book itself. I do not believe he would be willing otherwise. . . . But if you fax me scans from it, I will show them to him and we shall see.”

Simon held his breath. All Gaelan needed to do was read. Just as easy with scans. If he could be convinced to do it. And
if
it was the right book and if . . .

Might it finally—finally—be over? Might it now be possible to end it, to wrest himself from his lonely purgatory and let himself—and Sophie—finally be at rest? How many times had he been led down this path before over the years: an answer to an advert, a random phone call, a chance meeting at a book conference? Rarer and rarer had been the leads over the past few years, but now the e-mail from this Gilles chap . . . and his phone call.

But for all Gilles's promises, it seemed he was no closer to getting his hands on it. Scans and faxes. Gaelan would never agree to help him without the book in hand, and this would be yet another drawn-out exercise in futility. Patience. He needed patience. He could feel it in his bones. This chap was the real deal.

“You, my dear, are ever the Pollyanna when it comes to that bloody book.”

“Can you not leave me alone in my misery? The way he described it . . . how could I not be optimistic?”

“Described it? How would you even know if his description was remotely related to that book? You've laid eyes on it exactly once!
And, even then, only the cover.
Just bloody get on with it, Simon. Live, for heaven's sake! Forget me. Let me go finally to my eternal rest. So what if you live forever? You can keep on writing those best sellers ad infinitum. Just think of the riches to be had.”