By the time the woman left the building, Owens was a gibbering wreck, sputtering apologies and wringing his hands repeatedly.
He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. We’ve never had this sort of…situation in over a quarter of a century. I deeply regret—
It’s not a problem, Cynda said, choking back the laughter.
She dabbed at her mouth with Alastair’s handkerchief to keep the giggles inside. The man withered, misreading her emotions.
Before her control evaporated, she scurried for the front door.
Behind her, Mr. Owens continued his litany of apologies. Alastair commiserated to no avail.
Blast that abominable woman, Alastair grumbled. He had gone to such effort and she had ruined it all.
He found Jacynda leaning against a lamppost for support.
Agonized, he murmured, I am so sorry. That had to be horrible for you.
She looked up at him. Instead of the devastated grief he expected, he saw something entirely different. Something that puzzled him.
Come on, she said, tugging on his uninjured arm. I can’t hold it in much longer. She dragged him into the closest passageway.
That was so… She clamped a hand over her mouth, tittering, her eyes sparkling over the top of her fingers.
I don’t know how I can make it right, but I shall try, Alastair said, sincerely aggravated. I wanted that to be so perfect and—
She dropped her hand and shook her head. No, no, you don’t understand. Chris would have loved it!
Pardon? he asked, bending nearer. That made little sense.
You didn’t know him, she said. He was a clown. Any chance he had to make people laugh, he went for it. He absolutely detested funerals.
You have totally confused me, he admitted.
It couldn’t have been more perfect! He would have loved it!
And that song of hers…about the rigging and all…I about died.
Alastair blinked in confusion. You’re not upset?
No! What did she say? ‘I bet he was worth liftin’ yer skirt for.’
She got that one right. Jacynda winked libidinously. Chuckles followed, then deep, unrepentant belly-laughs. She clutched her stomach and rocked back and forth, oblivious to the scene it presented.
Astounded, Alastair watched her revel in the mirth. When she seemed to gain control of herself, a smile crept onto his face.
After she stole the rose, she pinched my bottom, he revealed.
You’re kidding!
No, right on the buttock, bold as brass.
Well, your bum is quite nice. I can see the attraction.
He cleared his throat, fighting the embarrassment. Was there nothing this woman wouldn’t say?
She continued on, Poor Mr. Owens. I thought he was going to have a stroke.
He is quite convinced you’ll file a complaint with his father and he’ll get the sack.
Oh, God, no. He was great. She looked around the alley and wrinkled her nose. Let’s go somewhere and find food. I’m hungry.
Alastair opened his mouth to protest, but stopped the moment she raised her hand. My treat. Don’t argue, or I’ll start crying again. She waggled an eyebrow and grabbed onto his arm, tugging him toward the street. He yelped in pain; she’d chosen the injured one yet again.
First stop, Owens and Sons. I want to reassure Owens Number Two that he’s not in hot water. And then, I want lots of food. And maybe some wine. We’ll lift a glass in honor of Chris,
she said.
Alastair gave an approving nod. I deeply regret I never met him.
His companion’s face saddened. I have regrets, too, she said, her voice darkening at the end.
I pray you can bury yours with your lover. Mine haunt me every day of my life.
The mullioned windows displayed a myriad of storage vessels.
Above them, a gold-lettered sign proudly proclaimed: Oswander Dispensing Chemists.
Keats hadn’t stepped inside the shop during his previous inquiry, preferring instead to interview the neighbors as to the chemist’s character. Once he’d peered in the shop windows and noted Oswander’s severely limited eyesight, that had been the end of the inquiry. Now he had no choice but to enter the shop and face old memories head on.
Opening the door elicited a merry tinkle from the bell above him. The scent of the place brought forth a vivid scene from his childhood in Canterbury: a seven-year-old Keats standing on his tiptoes, calves cramping, peering eagerly over the wooden counter while the chemist sifted, weighed and wrapped his mother’s numerous medications. His father stood nearby, impatiently tapping a finger on the top of his cane.
As a child, the chemist’s shop had filled Keats with wonder. So many incredible sights, not the least of which was the huge blue earthenware jar full of leeches that sat on the counter. He’d so wanted to have a look inside, but his father wouldn’t hear of it.
Instead, he’d amused himself by trying to sound out the strange names on the bottles and carboys, like Aqua Rosea and Veratrum Albo. His mother had died a few years later, the chemist shortly thereafter. He’d heard the shop had closed. There’d never been a chance to peer inside the big blue jar.
Oswander’s voice pulled him back to the present. May I help you, sir? To Keats, he appeared like an albino mole, his blue eyes accented by pale skin.
Clearing his throat, Keats stepped toward the dark wood counter. Behind it sat an astonishing array of bottles and bins all carefully labeled and in immaculate order. He’d decided at the tender age of eight that he would be a chemist when he grew up.
By the time his mother died, that desire had vanished; now he avoided anything to do with lingering illness and death.
Sir? the chemist asked again.
Sorry, I was woolgathering. Keats placed the bottle of laudanum on the counter. I need to ascertain who purchased this medicine.
Why do you wish to know that, sir?
Keats positioned his card next to the bottle. I’m Sergeant Keats, Special Branch. I am conducting an investigation.
The older man placed a monocle in an eye-socket. The card brushed the end of his nose as he studied it. Tilting his head in thought, the chemist asked, Are you the young jack who’s been asking about me, wondering if I go about all hours of the night?
Keats had anticipated that. Neighbors talked, especially when a copper came calling. Yes. I assure you that the answers have been most satisfactory, Mr. Oswander. You may rest assured that line of inquiry has been closed.
How’d you hear my name in the first place?
You were one of many I was assigned to investigate.
Apparently, you’ve upset someone.
The man nodded. Old lady Barstow, probably. I keep telling her I won’t add rat poison to her husband’s sleeping powders, but she still badgers me every time I fill the order.
Keats’ mouth fell open. But sir, if she’s trying to kill her husband—
No, no, nothing of the sort. Just her way of complaining about him. The two of them are like peas in a pod. She’d be lost without him. But that doesn’t keep her from making threats.
If you’re certain, Keats muttered. He filed the name for future reference, lest the unfortunate Mr. Barstow failed to wake one morning.
The chemist put the card on the counter and picked up the bottle, repeating the monocle maneuver.
It’s one of mine, all right. How’d you know?
The filigree on the label. I saw one exactly like that while conducting my inquiries. One of your neighbors was quite put out by my questions, and insisted on showing me all her medications, even the empty bottles.
The eye regarded him with increased respect. Mrs.
Grimshaw? Keats nodded. A corker, that one, Oswander replied, shaking his head. Takes all kinds. He returned the bottle. See those numbers amongst the garland at the upperright corner?
It was Keats’ turn to hold the bottle close to his nose, the numbers were so miniscule. Yes. What do they mean?
It’s the order number. That was filled sometime this week.
Keats frowned in confusion. Certainly given your… He hesitated, not wishing to antagonize the fellow. Your limited eyesight would make it impossible for you to inscribe that on the label.
Ah, you’re right there. My daughter has a fine hand and excellent eyes. She inscribes a number on each label. I use them in turn. That way, we can reference back if there is a question.
Why make the numbers so small? Keats asked, intrigued.
Had someone try to change one so he could claim I gave him the wrong powder and sue for damages. Now we do it this way so there’ll be no messing about.
Does this number correspond to some sort of ledger? Keats prompted.
Right it does. You seem to know a bit about a chemist shop, lad.
I spent a lot of time in one when I was a child.
Oswander pulled a thick leather-bound book from underneath the counter and flipped it open to a page.
Order number 88-1551, he said, skimming his hand over the page. The first two numbers tell me the year, and the next tells me the actual order. Bending over until it appeared as if he were worshipping the print, he announced, Order filled four days ago, on the 23rd: a bottle of laudanum. Oswander squinted harder.
88-1552, as well, for chloral hydrate.
Were they signed for? Keats asked, trying to see around the man’s semi-bald head. Oswander straightened up and turned the ledger in his direction.
Keats trailed his index finger down the page to the two numbers. On each line, a wide, flowing hand met his eyes. His mouth fell open.
He closed the book with a pronounced thump.
Do you remember this gentleman? Keats quizzed.
Yes, as best as I can see a person, that is.
How tall was he?
About your height.
Not taller? Keats pressed.
No. I can judge height pretty well; I just can’t see details.
Coloring?
Lighter than yours.
Right-or lefthanded?
The man pondered. Left. He took his time signing the ledger; that’s why I remember.
Did he pay for the medicines or put it on account?
Paid in cash. Seemed to have trouble counting out the money.
Really? That’s odd. Was he a foreigner?
No, still something didn’t feel quite right about him, if you know what I mean, the chemist said, shaking his head.
The bell announced a new customer. Keats stepped aside to allow a lady to make her way to the counter.
Thank you, Mr. Oswander, you’ve been very helpful.
Good to hear it, Sergeant, the man replied. Be sure to come back if you have need of my services.
The new customer gave Keats a quick glance, followed by a shy smile. Disconcerted by what he’d discovered in the ledger, he tipped his hat and left the chemist to his work. It was only later that he wondered if Oswander possessed a jar of leeches.
The dining room hadn’t changed, except that the giraffe was nowhere to be seen. Around them, patrons spoke in hushed tones and cups rattled in saucers.
I believe we mollified Mr. Owens, Alastair observed while arranging the napkin in his lap. You were extremely considerate of his feelings.
It’s not easy being the second son.
Alastair gave her a penetrating look. I detect the voice of experience, though you are hardly male.
My brother believes he rules the world, and never lets me forget it.
Does your family approve of what you do?
Cynda shrugged. Sort of. They don’t live inside anymore, so it’s hard to judge.
Inside?
She gave a quick wave of her hand. Never mind; it’s hard to explain unless you’re from there.
I see.
The server appeared with two bowls of beef soup. The scent was heavenly. Cynda launched into its consumption.