‘If I change my mind I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘But I’m liking the idea more and more.’
‘I’m glad. Actually, I’m liking it more and more as well.’
‘Would my name go on the lease of the new premises?’
‘Would you want it to?’
‘Yes,’ he said, with unexpected firmness.
‘Good. So would I.’
He did not take his eyes from the road, but he smiled. ‘We understand each other, don’t we?’
‘As much as one person ever can understand another. Here’s the village now. Pity it hasn’t stopped raining.’
‘Never mind the rain, can you see anywhere to park? Oh, yes – over there by the war memorial. I hope I’m remembering this place accurately. I know I said there was a pharmacist’s shop, but now we’re here I’m not so sure.’
‘You did remember it accurately,’ said Nell, producing a 1920s-style hat from her bag and jamming it over her head against the rain. ‘The shop’s over there.’
EIGHTEEN
The shop was not, of course, called Porringer’s. Michael knew they had not expected that, and he reminded himself that it was stretching optimism anyway to think it might even be the shop that Maria Porringer’s husband had owned.
The sign over the main window said: ‘Trussell’s – dispensing pharmacist. Est.1860.’
‘Eighteen sixty. Would that fit for Porringer?’ asked Nell.
‘I think so.’ Michael fished out the untidy notebook which accompanied him wherever he went. ‘Maria’s letters start in 1878, when she was appointed as trustee or warden, or whatever she was, at Deadlight Hall. She refers to the death of Porringer then.’
‘And this shop was set up eighteen years before that,’ said Nell. ‘It sounds all right. What now? Do we just go in and ask if they’ve got any records we could see?’
‘I don’t see why not. We’re on a perfectly legitimate errand – research into the area in general. And this is Oxford, so they’re probably used to writers and academics researching all kinds of things.’
The shop had a pleasingly old-fashioned facade, but, as Nell said, it was not determinedly so. The displays inside were bright and clean, with familiar brand names strewn around, and there were placards about blood pressure checks and influenza jabs. At the far end were two large glass-fronted display cases with several old-fashioned scales and instruments, and a carefully arranged selection of old glass bottles inside.
‘Green for poison, I think,’ said Nell, pointing them out. ‘Oh, and look at this!’
‘What …?’
‘It’s an old Poison Book. If you wanted to buy an ounce of ratbane you had to leave your name and a signature. I don’t think it was a very foolproof system, though, because presumably there was nothing to stop you going to a shop where you weren’t known, and signing as John Smith or U.N. Owen, like the island murderer in the Agatha Christie book.’
The poison book was in good condition. The ink of most of the entries was faded, but the writing was legible. There was, though, the feeling that the light which fell over the pages was tinged with the flickering radiance of candlelight, wax-scented and dim, or even the bad-smelling gaslight that came later. Michael stared at it, and felt the elusive memory stir again, a little more definitely this time. Somewhere recently he had seen other books, strongly similar to this one – something about the writing, was it? But again, it would not come fully into focus.
Nell was leaning forward to study the entries more closely, when a small rotund gentleman bustled over to them, and asked if he could help.
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Michael, producing a card. ‘We’re interested in the history of your shop, and we wondered if we could have a closer look at this book you’ve got on display.’