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.’
The rotund gentleman, who wore a neat name badge proclaiming him to be W. Trussell, M. Pharm., studied Michael’s card, then beamed with delight.
‘People do like to see that display,’ he said. ‘How things were done in the old days. I change it every so often, of course, so as it won’t get too familiar, not to say dusty.’ He looked back at Michael’s card. ‘Well, now, Dr Flint, and …’
‘Nell West,’ supplied Nell.
‘You’re more than welcome to take a look at the book. We don’t leave it on open display, you understand, because it’s a bit fragile. But people like to see it there, and I like the reminder of the shop’s past. We’re one of the few independent pharmacists left in the county, you know. It’s always been in private ownership, this shop, right from the start. Of course, we’ve had offers from the big companies,’ he said, proudly, ‘and probably one day we’ll have to accept. But not quite yet.’ He produced a small set of keys, unlocked the display cabinet, and lifted the book out with care. ‘If I can’t trust a senior member of an Oxford University I don’t know who I can trust,’ he said, and Nell caught the ghost of a half-wink from Michael at this. ‘Is it for a thesis, Dr Flint? A paper?’
This was said hopefully, and Michael said, ‘It might be both in the end. It might not work out, of course – we might meet dead ends. But if it does come to something, I’d make sure you got an acknowledgement.’
‘Well, that would be very nice, although not at all necessary. I’ll leave you to it,’ said Mr Trussell. ‘It’s a fairly quiet time of day for us, so you’ll probably be undisturbed. There’re a couple of chairs over there – we keep them for people waiting for prescriptions to be made up. Feel free to use them. I’ll be around if you need any help.’
He took himself off, and Nell and Michael carried the book over to the chairs.
Nell opened it with care. The entries began on a page headed April 1870.
ITEM: 6d worth of arsenic, purchased by Mrs Trubb, housekeeper to Sir George Buckle.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: to get rid of rats at Boundary Hall, such being a pesky nuisance, and not fitting to a gentleman’s residence. Also for whitening solution for Lady Buckle’s hands.
ITEM: Belladonna and opium, one quarter teaspoonful, purchased by Mrs Trubb.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: to cure Sir George Buckle’s costiveness, it being a great trouble to him and everyone else, and not helped even by liquorice and rhubarb infusion or brimstone and treacle mixture.
Note by Mrs Maria Porringer: Mrs Trubb advised to allow Mr Porringer to make up a suppository from belladonna (atropa belladonna) and opium, by the addition of glycerin and theobroma oil, this method being a preferable method to a draught. Mr Trubb (butler to Sir George) shd be able to administer suppository, although must wash his hands very thoroughly both before and after the procedure. One bar lye soap added to order for this purpose.
‘Porringer,’ said Michael, staring at the page. ‘My God, we’ve found them. We really have. This was their shop.’
‘And,’ said Nell, ‘it sounds as if Maria was very much part of the set-up.’ She read the entry again. ‘What always fascinates me about the Victorians is their contradictions,’ she said. ‘That bizarre blend of extreme reticence – covering up chair legs and all the euphemisms they used for childbirth and sex – and then the robust way they’d describe what they used to call ailments. Poor old Sir George, though.’
‘Poor old Sir George’s butler,’ said Michael, grinning, and continued reading the book’s entries.
ITEM: pinch of hyssop (hyssopus officinalis), purchased by Ada Brittle.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: children’s cough, which is something chronic at this time of year, no one getting a wink of sleep, and Brittle having to be off to his work at Salamander House at half-past six of a morning.
Note by J. Porringer: Mrs Brittle advised to use only one small drop for each child, since hyssop known to cause convulsions or epileptic seizures if administered in larger quantities.
Note by Mrs Maria Porringer: Mrs Brittle told she would do better to feed her children on good wholesome food, not rubbishing pies from cookshop, with no nourishment in them, not to mention filling probably being made from all the unwholesome parts of the animal.
‘She doesn’t flinch from dishing out advice, does she?’ murmured Nell. ‘I’ll bet the customers in this shop used to pray she wasn’t around when they went in.’
‘It’s in her writing,’ said Michael, touching the page with a fingertip. ‘I recognize it from the letters in the Archives Office – and the papers Professor Rosendale had from Willow Bank Farm. The odd thing is that each time I’ve seen it, I’ve had a half-memory of having seen the same writing somewhere else.’
‘In Maria’s day most people would have written in very similar kinds of hands,’ said Nell. ‘All those pot-hooks and hangers they had to practise in copybooks. You’ve probably seen this style of writing quite often.’
‘I know. I wish I could pin down the precise memory, though.’
ITEM: Valve pump syringe purchased by Mrs Trubb.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: Administration of enema for Sir George Buckle (glycerin solution also purchased).
ITEM: Half teaspoon of ergot and rye, purchased by Polly Mabbley.
PURPOSE OF PURCHASE: Miss Mabbley refused to state the purpose, saying it was nothing to do with interfering old besoms, since her private life was her own affair, and what folks chose to write down in some silly book was up to them.
‘Ergot?’ said Michael, looking questioningly at Nell.
‘It was used to bring on a miscarriage, I think. Agonizingly painful though, and not necessarily effective. And it could be dangerous.’
‘There were a couple of girls called Mabbley mentioned in those statements,’ said Michael, opening his notebook again. ‘I remember the name. Yes, here it is – it’s the two girls who vanished from Deadlight Hall. Polly’s daughters?’
‘They might have been. Maybe she didn’t take the ergot and rye, or it wasn’t successful,’ said Nell. ‘And she produced a couple of bastards who were placed in Deadlight Hall. As for vanishing, it sounded more to me as if they’d simply run away. But whatever happened, this is a remarkable thumbnail sketch of village life, isn’t it? And I see Maria’s contributed to flighty Polly’s predicament again.’ She pointed to a further entry on the page.
‘That sounds like the title of a girls’ school story from the 1930s,’ said Michael. ‘“The Predicament of Promiscuous Polly – A Cautionary Tale”.’
‘Whatever she was, Maria seems to have given her short shrift.’
‘I wonder if Mr Porringer ever had a say in anything,’ said Michael. ‘Maria seems to have dispensed advice and disapproval in about equal measure, and she’s made sure it’s all recorded, as well.’
‘She’s even noted down some arsenic she had for her own use,’ said Nell, pointing to an entry on the next page.
‘“Half grain of arsenic for proprietor’s use. Purpose: rats and mice in cellars.” Half a grain sounds quite a lot,’ said Michael.
‘We can check on quantities – we might even ask Mr Trussell. Oh, look at this,’ said Nell eagerly, and read the next entry. ‘“November 1877. To supply tincture of opium for use as soporific. Quantities: opium, two ounces.” A few other ingredients, as well – oh, and a half pint of sherry wine, “if permitted”, and a note about macerating and filtering. Then it says, “Account presented to H M Prison, The Governor.” Probably Porringer had a standing arrangement with some local gaol to supply sedatives for the poor condemned wretches destined for the noose,’ said Nell. ‘Are we at the end of the book? Oh, yes, what a pity – no, wait, there’s a loose sheet of paper tucked between the last two pages.’
‘It’s probably a receipt for the supply of the opium.’
But it was not a receipt at all. It was a handwritten letter, addressed to Mrs Thaddeus Porringer, and it was headed Governor’s Wing, H.M. Gaol, followed by the name of the village. The date was November 1877.
Dear Madam
I am in receipt of your letter of 10th inst. and would express my gratitude that you have accepted our request to attend at the prison on Wednesday, 16th, to accompany the prisoner in her last hours. As explained to you, our female wardresses would normally undertake the task as part of their regular duties. However, both are unable to do so, one being very unwell following an inflammation of the lung, and the other declaring herself so unwilling to attend this particular prisoner, she has given notice of her intention to leave.
In addition, the prison – by which I mean all inmates and staff – will shortly be transferred to the new gaol on the other side of the county. This, while it will provide better quarters and facilities, is already causing much disruption.
You will appreciate, I know, that this has been a most difficult and distressing situation for us all, particularly with this being a local case, and with so much unfortunate publicity in the newspapers.
The execution date is Wednesday 16th, and I suggest that you and Mr Porringer spend the previous night (Tuesday 15th) as my guests here in the governor’s apartments. I fear the prisoner will need much patience and understanding during those hours. She is already in a very distressed state, and has had to be restrained several times. I should therefore wish, very particularly, that she has a lady at her side during her last hours.
In regard to your suggestion that you keep your own record of the event, I would have no objection. We have our own official records, of course, and two doctors will be in attendance, who will make medical records. However, a further and objective account will not come amiss.
Very truly yours,
E. M. Glaister.
‘So,’ said Nell, ‘Maria was called in to attend a condemned female. To see her through execution – keep her calm prior to being hanged. But that isn’t likely to help us, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’
Nell was rereading the letter. ‘It conjures up a bizarre scenario, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘I can’t somehow see Maria providing what Glaister calls “patience and understanding”. You’d think she’d be the last person they’d call in.’
‘No, I think it’s understandable,’ said Michael. ‘Porringer was the local chemist, remember. Not a doctor, but a man of some medical knowledge. He’d have had a modest standing in the community. Maria would have shared that, even if she does come over to us as a bossy do-gooder. I think if E. M. Glaister had to cast around for someone – a female – to take care of that condemned woman, Maria would have seemed a very good choice.’
‘I wonder, though, how she got from this shop to running Deadlight Hall,’ said Nell, thoughtfully.
‘No idea. Is there any more?’
‘Just this,’ said Nell. ‘Folded into the end papers.’
There were two small newspaper cuttings, creased and yellowing. The first said:
Suddenly at his home, Mr Thaddeus Porringer (60), dearly loved husband of Mrs Maria Porringer. Funeral service at St Bertelin’s Church on Monday next, at midday. Friends welcome at church and at Wotherbridge’s Tea Rooms afterwards.
‘Death notice,’ said Nell. ‘Poor old Thaddeus.’
‘Living with Maria probably blighted his life.’
‘Or,’ said Nell, ‘Maria deliberately blighted it for him. Let’s not lose sight of the arsenic she booked out to herself.’
‘You think she might have helped him on his way?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a curious character, isn’t she? A mix of dutiful and disapproving. Archetype Victorian.’
The other cutting was more formal.
NOTICE OF CLOSURE.
The undersigned wishes to advise all customers to Porringer’s Chemist and Druggist (purveyor of perfumes, essences, soaps, spices, and all medicinal provisions since 1860), that she is under the necessity of closing the premises since the sad demise of Mr Thaddeus Porringer.
Inquiries as to reopening of the establishment can be made with Messrs Hollinsdale & Sons, Solicitors. Inquiries as to fiscal and credit matters should be addressed to Chubbs Bank.
‘So they closed down,’ said Nell. ‘Was that because Maria couldn’t – or wasn’t allowed to – run it on her own, I wonder?’
‘Or because she couldn’t keep it afloat. Let’s go to the pub and consider,’ said Michael.
They sought out Mr Trussell, explained that they had made some very useful notes, and would be in touch if any more information was needed.
‘By all means,’ he said. ‘This shop has been a pharmacy for more than a hundred and fifty years, you know. It was owned by a family called Porringer for three, if not more, generations. Father to son, usually. They nearly lost it once – in the mid-1800s, I believe – but then a cousin or something turned up and the name continued. The family died out during the Second World War, though.’
Nell said it was sad when family businesses did not continue within a family, and they walked across the square to the pub.
‘Do you think,’ she said, as their food was served, ‘that we’re any further on?’
‘Not really. And I still don’t know whether the professor’s right about Deadlight Hall being haunted,’ said Michael. ‘There’s no way of telling.’ He glanced at her. ‘Short of spending the night in the house.’
Nell had been eating moussaka with enjoyment, but she looked at him in disbelief. ‘You aren’t serious, are you?’ she said.
‘No. For one thing I can’t think how I’d get into the place,’ said Michael. ‘And yet, I can’t help wondering what would happen if I was there. “Once upon a midnight dreary” and all that.’
‘You’re starting to enjoy this,’ she said, half accusingly.
‘I’m not. But I’d like to know a bit more about Maria and the rest.’
‘So would I. And,’ said Nell, ‘I’d like to know what the professor’s not telling us about that house, because, sure as taxes, there’s something. Are you ready to go? I ought to get back to the shop. And if you’ve got time to come in, I’ve had an email from Ashby’s that you might want to see.’
The email was from Nell’s contact in the sale rooms.
Hi Nell,
As you know, we’ve placed a preliminary ad for the upcoming sale, with the silver golem as lead item. (You should have had the page proofs, so you know how terrific the photos look!) This morning a letter came in from a Polish buyer, expressing what sounds like definite interest. See attached – although I have, of course, had to delete the address for client confidentiality. I’ve left the sender’s name though (bit of a breach of the rules, but as it’s you … ) Also, it seems to link up with the archive stuff I sent you recently – the gentleman who wrote to us back in the 1940s. So I thought on all counts you’d like to see it.
Looking forward to seeing you soon. If you deliver the silver figure to us yourself, let me know beforehand, and we could have lunch.
The letter, scanned and sent as an attachment, had a slightly more formal note.
Dear Sirs
I see with interest that you are advertising a forthcoming Auction Sale of a silver golem, believed to date to the 18th century, and thought to have been brought to England in the early 1940s.
My great-uncle, Maurice Bensimon, spent many months trying to find a silver golem that I believe could be the one you are selling. The story of his search for it has long been a part of my family’s folklore.
It may not be possible for me to actually purchase the figure – my means may not allow it – but I should be grateful if you could let me know the reserve figure when it is set.
I hope to travel to England to be present at the auction. If the golem should be sold by a private arrangement before the date, I would be very grateful if you would let me know.
Kind regards,
David Bensimon.
‘I think Ashby’s are right that David is the descendant of the man who wrote to Ashby’s in the 1940s about finding the figure,’ said Nell, as Michael laid down the printouts. ‘Bensimon is probably a fairly common Jewish name, but it’s a bit of a coincidence if there were two people of that name both trying to trace the golem in the same year.’
‘Maurice Bensimon wrote to Ashby’s and all the other auction houses, didn’t he?’ said Michael, frowning in an effort of memory.
‘Yes, and there was some shady character doing the same thing around the same time,’ said Nell. ‘Ashby’s reported that one to the police. They seemed to think Bensimon’s enquiry was genuine, though. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Part of the golem figure’s background in a way. Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘I’d better not. I’ve got to be back in College for half-past four. That photographer – Rafe – is going to make a second attempt to photograph Wilberforce for the publishers’ website.’
‘God help him,’ said Nell.
The photo shoot for the website turned into quite a lively session.
Wilberforce regarded the photographer with thoughtful malevolence, before ensconcing himself out of reach on a top bookshelf, where he succeeded in dislodging a set of Ruskins, an early edition of George Borrow’s Romany Rye, Michael’s DVDs of Inspector Morse, and a folder containing notes for a lecture about the metaphysical poets, which had unaccountably found its way on to that particular shelf. The whole lot tumbled to the floor, with Wilberforce watching with pleased triumph.
Rafe helped tidy up most of the debris, agreeing that the broken DVD cases would probably not affect the actual playing of the discs and that the leather covers of the Ruskin volumes could certainly be rebound, after which Wilberforce retired to the top of the window ledge, and had to be tempted down by a dish of his favourite tinned herring. He regarded this with contempt, then tipped up the dish with a paw, sending the contents over Rafe’s light meter and splattering it on to Michael’s lecture notes into the bargain.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Michael, grabbing a cloth, while Rafe surveyed the light meter, whose screen was completely obscured by tomato sauce, with dismay. ‘He isn’t usually this disruptive. No, that’s a lie, he’s always this disruptive.’
In the end, Rafe managed to clean the light meter sufficiently to get several shots of Wilberforce scowling at the camera. The best shot, Rafe thought, would be the one where Wilberforce’s whiskers and front paws were covered in tomato sauce from the herring. It was a pity the publicist would probably not use it, on account of it looking as if Wilberforce had just killed something in a particularly gruesome fashion.
After Rafe had gone, Michael threw away the remains of the herring, sponged the carpet, and sat down to write a chapter for the Wilberforce Histories, in which the Tudor Wilberforce was mistaken for the Royal executioner, and found himself on Tower Hill, complete with headsman’s axe and block. The publishers would not be able to use that either, but writing it made him feel better, and he then embarked on a more moderate episode in which Wilberforce, adorned with gold earring and bandanna, sailed the seven seas, braving a tempestuous storm and discovering an unknown island, on which he planted a flag. Michael followed this up with a lively scene in which Elizabeth Tudor announced the island would henceforth be known as Wilberforce Island. He rifled the atlas to make sure there was not actually a real Wilberforce Island somewhere, then described the Queen presenting the intrepid explorer (now richly clad in doublet and hose) with a casket of doubloons (which would make for a good illustration), and a churn of best dairy cream. Or was cream a bit too lush in today’s cholesterol-conscious, five-a-day climate? Michael deleted the cream, and then, with the idea of imparting a few vaguely educational facts to his youthful readers, allowed Wilberforce to be borne off to The Globe, where he met luminaries of the era, one of whom was a certain Master Will Shakespeare. Master Shakespeare was so entranced with the tale of Wilberforce’s exploits on the high seas that he declared his intention to one day write a play in which a massive storm – ‘A veritable tempest!’ exclaimed Master Will with enthusiasm – caused a group of people to be shipwrecked on just such an island as Wilberforce had found.
Michael emailed the pirate/playhouse version to his editor, added the Tower Hill one just in case, and pressed Send before he could change his mind.
He then turned his attention to the lecture on the metaphysical poets which he had been trying to compile for the last three days. The melancholic allegories and intensities came as something of a rest cure after the brooding darknesses of Deadlight Hall and Salamander House.