Chapter Three
THE POISONER
N auseous.
Alcohol threatened to make a reappearance due to my inability to gauge my own limits. My head swam until memories from the night before resurfaced in my murky brain.
Those dead eyes were still burned onto the back of my eyelids, haunting my nightmares as well as my daydreams.
My stomach finally released some much-needed reminders into the water closet, though all those memories in particular had turned to bile.
The hangover and whiplash from remembering the events made me sick, disgusted .
I wish I could say that it was directed entirely at that man, but the guilt weighed on me the moment I left that girl there in the grasp of that human bear trap. My self-preservation overpowered my need for justice at that moment, and I will never forget how filthy it felt.
I had not fully understood what I saw, but knowing that it wasn’t a dream was enough. That hungry look in his eyes could only be described as uncouth, carnal, even.
My fingers gripped the edge of the sink as I hesitantly glanced at my reflection, hoping the image would just jump out and slap me. Dark streams of stray hair were splayed in every direction, knotted from a night of unrest.
Get ahold of yourself. You have work to do.
I was to meet Phoebe today, but I was having difficulty making it out of the confines of the bathroom with this guilty sickness that riddled me.
Alas, I was able to pull myself halfway together by my seams. Moving through the town house, I looked for particular clothing items somewhere lost in the scattered chests waiting to be unburdened of their contents.
Not too long ago, Phoebe and I were racing these halls with our wooden horses, pretending we were adventurers who made this home our very world, with infinite possibilities to explore our imagination.
The Eastwater Manor was my temporary home for now. This place belonged to Phoebe’s family. I was merely a tenant until I could acquire something else.
The estate was a beautiful Georgian town house with three stories and too many rooms. It was located at the end of a quiet street, surrounded by abodes just as elegant.
A lush walled garden awaited in the back, hidden from neighboring views.
My favorite was the humble greenhouse tucked away between the overgrown ivy.
I was grateful to be staying in the most excellent area of London.
The house was covered in soft creams and whites, and a warm wood lined every banister and corner.
It was my favorite place to visit when I was young.
Even then, it was just as much of a labyrinth as it is now. Nothing had changed.
I dressed myself in the first sturdy walking suit I could find upon opening my trunks of clothing. My mood was just as grim as my attire. I think a skeleton would look cheerier than I.
My hand traced over the intricate carvings along the banister.
The morning light leaked through a unique circular window, watching over the foyer like an eye, illuminating the soft gold-leaf patterns in the ivory wallpaper.
The circular window hung above the landing, separating the stairs from the next floor and bringing light into an otherwise dark space.
I rubbed the back of my neck to relieve the tightness of my muscles. The thin black lace of my collar tickled under my jawline.
I approached the doorway to check the mail basket and to open the door for any parcels.
The breeze that greeted me reminded me of how close we were to the end of autumn.
The trees lining the street were shedding and nearly bare.
The bustling of horse hooves and chatter of crows rang with rampant nostalgia for the season.
When I closed the door behind me, the click of the lock echoed back into the home, bouncing around like a rumor against the walls. The sound dissipated once it fled far enough away. A reminder of the loneliness that held my heart so fondly.
“I promise I would have stayed longer! I don’t know what happened. A fever overcame me. There was no predicting it!” I smiled sheepishly while tearing off another piece of my pastry.
Phoebe and I met for breakfast at the park to make up for my sudden departure last night. There was a small café with little chairs and tables set outside, a quiet place for people to watch or read. In our case, it was the perfect place for morning gossip.
“I was just glad to receive a call from you, to hear that you were all right. You worried me terribly when you disappeared into thin air.” Phoebe huffed but knew she couldn’t stay mad. “Did you at least mingle a little? Meet anyone? Any details to spare?”
I shook my head before pausing, remembering the strange creature of a man. My cheeks must have given it away because Phoebe released an excited squeak. Though my flushed state was from anger, not bashfulness.
“You did , didn’t you? Why didn’t you say so?” She squirmed in her chair as if settling down for a long juicy piece of hearsay. “Well?” Her gloved fingers squeezed her teacup in anticipation.
“It wasn’t like that,” I scolded, though her excitement tugged at the corner of my lips. “It was just in passing. Nothing happened.”
Phoebe gave me a displeased look, her nose wrinkling as she did so. Then, something over my shoulder captured her attention, and she quickly forgot her previous interrogation.
Her elegant smile returned. “Look! We caught the attention of an illustrator right over there!” She gestured, tilting her head in his direction as if not to give away that she had spotted the artisan.
It would not be the first time, as our contrasting styles usually caught the eye of the wandering artists of the city. Phoebe was always bright, elegant, and clean. Myself, on the other hand, preferred the dark and ominous.
Due to my work, I had a personal ritual of wearing black.
I was the cause of many funerals, such events that I could not and would not pay any respect to—it was only fitting that I always dressed for the occasion.
An homage to my peculiar talent. There was no need to change out of funeral attire, as men die every day—a cause for celebration.
As for spiritual reasons, I had none. Black would always be fashionable, mourning or not. Plus, black tended to keep my interactions with people to a minimum, an added gratuity. If anything, I was sure it would look like gloating if the spirits saw me now. A poetic thought.
We sat for a few more moments, allowing the illustrator a chance to get a good look before we embarked on our morning stroll.
“Murder! Body dumped at the docks! Ripper among us! A monster out for blood!” a paper boy shouted, prints and bag in hand, shoving them out for people to view.
I tossed a coin to the boy and snagged a paper, quickening my pace as Phoebe struggled to keep up.
“A body at the docks? Why, that’s not news at all.” She frowned, trying to peek at the paper as I unfurled the front cover.
“Not just any body,” I muttered, mostly to myself.
I could barely make out the face when looking at the illustration, possibly due to the actual corpse not having an identifiable face to begin with. It was a silhouette of a woman wearing an elegant dress.
It might have just been black ink on paper, but I knew I specifically recognized that dress in baby blue.
My fingers crushed the paper between them as I shoved it in a bin while passing by, wiping my hands nervously on my skirt as if to rid them of the guilt that stained them.
My new subject has reared his ugly head again.
Phoebe and I parted ways at this point so that we could embark on our separate errands for the day. My first stop was the florist.
Caldwell’s Flora and Botanicals , the sign read.
I’ve known Mrs. Caldwell since I was a little girl.
My father always riddled her with strange requests.
Her shop was one of the only ones that imported flowers and plants upon special request. Her husband was well-connected to the freight and import industry.
This was a must for my father, who was constantly experimenting with odd flora for medicines, tinctures, and whatever else he was engrossed with at the time.
She eventually became reliant on her for anything I needed for my work until I left the city a year ago. She didn’t ask questions unless it was “How much?” or “How soon would you like it?” Over the years, she had grown on me, an extended family of sorts.
“Did my special order come in? The one I telephoned last week?” I asked, looking over the counter at the short, plump woman.
“Alina! Yes. It looks like they sent more than necessary, but I have no use for your odd little plant, so just take the whole bunch!” She bumbled around, pulling up a flat crate and slapping it on the counter. Removing the top, she revealed a generous amount of white snakeroot.
I inspected it, keeping my hands away from the shrubby plant, though it was hard to restrain myself from running my fingers over the lush leaves.
It was a rich green color with little white flowers dotting the tops, similar to a hogweed.
It was an unimpressive-looking plant, but the chemical inside was something magnificent.
Within this uninspiring weed was a chemical called tremetol. It took a few days for symptoms to register and could quickly bring down men and beasts alike if given enough through subtle means. It was quite a nice piece to hide in the perfume collection for the right buyer.
“It is perfect, Mrs. Caldwell,” I breathed. I couldn’t hide my grin any longer.
“You and your bizarre choice of flower arrangements. I don’t understand it, but it’s nice to see you happy.” She chuckled. “It’s just good to see you back home. How are you settling back in?”
She gave me a look that I had been seeing all too often since my return from solitude. That look of pity, condolences. I was waiting for that shoe to drop when I saw an old face, a never-ending reminder that I’d returned with one less family member than I had before.