Chapter 8

8

Caroline

Present day, Monday

When I woke later that night, the nightstand clock showed 3:00 a.m. I groaned and turned away from the dim red light, but as I tried to fall back asleep, my stomach began to churn and an unsettled sensation left my skin damp and hot to the touch. I pushed the covers back, wiped sweat from my upper lip and stood to check the thermostat. It was programmed in Celsius, not Fahrenheit, so perhaps I’d accidentally set it too warm the day before. I shuffled my feet along the carpeted floors, stopped to steady myself and threw my hand against the wall.

Suddenly, I heaved.

I dashed for the bathroom, hardly making it to the toilet before vomiting up everything I’d eaten the day prior. Once, twice, three times I retched, my body limp over the toilet.

Afterward, as my stomach unclenched and I caught my breath, I reached for a washcloth on the counter. My hand knocked over something small and solid. The vial. After I’d returned to the hotel, I’d taken it out of my purse and set it on the bathroom counter. Now, to prevent myself from nearly shattering it, I tucked the vial safely at the bottom of my suitcase and returned to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Food poisoning in a foreign country, I thought to myself, groaning. But then I covered my mouth with trembling, damp fingers. Food poisoning, or...something else. Hadn’t I been queasy a couple times yesterday, too? I’d hardly eaten anything, so I couldn’t blame that nausea on bad food.

It felt, at once, like a terrible joke—if I was indeed pregnant, this was not how I imagined it happening. I’d long dreamed about the moment that James and I learned the news together: the happy tears, the celebratory kiss, rushing out to buy our first baby book. The two of us, together, celebrating what we’d made. And yet here I was, alone in a hotel bathroom in the wee hours of the morning, hoping that we hadn’t made anything at all. I didn’t want James’s baby, not right now. I only wanted to feel the uncomfortable, heavy ache of my imminent period.

I fixed myself a cup of hot chamomile tea. Sipping it slowly, I lay in bed for a half hour, wide-awake and waiting for the nausea to pass. I couldn’t bring myself to consider the idea of taking a pregnancy test. I’d give it a few more days. I prayed travel and stress were to blame—perhaps my period would start later tonight, or tomorrow.

My stomach began to settle, but the jet lag left me awake and alert. I spread my hand over the right side of the bed, where James should have been, and twisted the cool sheets in my fingers. For a brief moment, I couldn’t resist the truth: a part of me missed him terribly.

No.I released the sheets from my grip and turned onto my left side, away from the empty space next to me.I would not let myself miss him. Not yet.

As if James’s secret hadn’t burdened me enough, there was something more: so far, I’d only told my best friend, Rose, about my husband’s infidelity. Now, awake in the middle of the night, I considered calling my parents and revealing everything. But my parents had paid for the nonrefundable hotel stay, and I didn’t have the courage to tell them that only one of us had checked into the suite. I’d tell them when I returned, after I’d had time to think things through—after I’d decided what the future of my marriage looked like.

At last I gave up on sleep and turned on the nightstand lamp, then pulled my cell phone off the charger. I opened up my internet app and hovered my fingers over the keyboard, tempted to search London attractions.But the big sights, like Westminster and Buckingham Palace, were already listed inside my notebook with opening times and entry fees—and still, none of it appealed to me. I could hardly stomach James’s absence in the spacious hotel room; how could I possibly stroll the winding paths of Hyde Park and not feel the empty space beside me? I’d rather not go at all.

Instead, I navigated to the website for the British Library. While chatting with Gaynor in the Maps Room, I’d seen a small card advertising the online database search. Now, jet-lagged and feeling unwell, I burrowed deeper into the cotton bedsheets and decided to do a bit of digging.

Tapping my finger on Search the Main Catalogue, I typed two words: vial bear. Several results appeared, varying widely in subject matter: a recent article from a biomechanics journal; a seventeenth-century book on apocalyptic prophecies; and a collection of papers retrieved in the early nineteenth century from St. Thomas’ Hospital. Clicking on the third result, I waited for the page to load.

A few additional details appeared, namely the creation date of the documents—1815 to 1818—and the acquisition information about the documents. The site noted the papers were acquired from the south wing of the hospital and included documents belonging to both staff and patients of the ward.

Toward the top of the search result was a link to request the document. I clicked the link and sighed, expecting that I’d be required to register with the library and request the physical document. But to my surprise, several sample pages within the document had been digitized. In moments, they began to materialize on the screen of my phone.

It had been a decade since I’d last done this sort of digging, and I couldn’t help the sudden rush of adrenaline in my chest. To think that Gaynor spent day after day in the British Library with full access to archives like this left me nearly writhing in envy.

As the image sharpened, my screen flashed with an incoming call. I didn’t recognize the number, but my caller ID said the call originated from Minneapolis. I frowned, trying to remember if I knew anyone from Minnesota. I shook my head; must be a telemarketer. I declined the call, settled deeper into the pillow and began to read the sample pages of the document.

The first several pages were irrelevant: names of hospital administrators, a lease document and a signed copy of a will—perhaps signed while the patient was on their deathbed. But on the fourth page, something caught my eye: the word bear.

It was a digitized image of a short, handwritten note, the writing jagged and faded in several places:

22 October 1816

To men, a maze. I could have show’d them all they wish’d to see at Bear Alley.

That a killer need not lift her long, delicate hand. She need not touch him as he dies.

There are other, wiser ways: vials and victuals.

The apothecary was a friend to all of us women, the brewer of our secret: the men are dead because of us.

Only, it did not happen as I intend’d.

It was not her fault, the apothecary. It was not even mine.

I lay blame unto my husband, and his thirst for that which was not meant for him.

The note was unsigned. My hands began to shake; the words bear and vial were present, meaning this was definitely the page that hit my search keywords. And the author of this note, whoever she was, clearly meant to share a heavy secret while she was indisposed at the hospital. Could this have been a deathbed confession of some kind?

And what of the line all they wish’d to see at Bear Alley? The author of the note alluded to a maze, implying she knew the way through. And if there was a maze, it seemed only logical that something valuable—or secretive—would be at the end of it.

I chewed at a fingernail, at a complete loss over the meaning of this strange wording.

But it was something else that struck me the most: mention of the apothecary. The author of the note said the apothecary was a “friend” and a“brewer” of secrets. If the secret was that men were dead—and clearly not by accident—it seemed the apothecary was the common thread among their deaths. Like a serial killer.A chill ran through me as I pulled the sheets closer.

As I examined the note again, an unread message notification on my email inbox flashed. I ignored it, instead jumping over to Google Maps and quickly typing Bear Alley, London, as mentioned in the first phrase of the note.

In an instant, a single result displayed: there was, indeed, a Bear Alley in London. And to my utter disbelief, it was close—veryclose—to my hotel. A ten-minute walk, no more. But was it the same Bear Alley referenced in the note? Surely some streets had been renamed in the last two hundred years.

The satellite view of Google Maps indicated the Bear Alley area in London was built up with massive concrete buildings, and the businesses listed on the map consisted mostly of investment banks and accounting firms. Which meant that even if this were the right Bear Alley, I wouldn’t find much beyond crowds of men moving about in suits. Crowds of men like James.

I glanced over at my suitcase, inside of which I’d placed the vial. Gaynor had agreed the image etched on its side was a bear. Could the vial be tied to Bear Alley? The idea of it—unlikely, though not impossible—was like bait on a hook. I couldn’t resist the pull of the mystery—the what if, the unknown.

I checked the time; it was nearly 4:00 a.m. As soon as the sun came up, I’d grab a coffee and venture over to Bear Alley.

Before setting my phone aside, I jumped over to the unread email waiting in my inbox and gasped: the email was from James. My jaw clenched as I began to read.

Tried calling from MSP. I can hardly breathe, Caroline. The other half of my heart is in London. Must see you. I’m about to board for Heathrow. I land at 9 am, your time. Will take a bit to get thru customs. Meet me at the hotel, 11ish?

In stunned silence, I read the email a second time. James was on his way to London. He didn’t even ask me if I wantedto see him, nor was he allowing me the solitude and distance I so badly needed. The unknown call a few minutes ago must have been from James at the airport, perhaps from a payphone—he likely knew I wouldn’t pick up if I had seen his caller ID.

My hands began to shake; it felt like I’d just learned about his affair all over again. I hovered my finger over Reply, prepared to tell James, No, don’t you dare come here. But I’d known him long enough; tell him he couldn’t have something, and he would work twice as hard to get it. Besides, he knew the name of the hotel, and even if I refused to meet with him, I had no doubt he would wait in the lobby for as long as it took. And I couldn’t stay holed up in my room forever.

Sleep would now be impossible. If James meant to arrive at eleven o’clock, there were just a few hours left without the burden of his presence, his excuses. A few hours left to avoid dealing with our damaged marriage. A few hours left to venture over to Bear Alley.

I stood from the bed and began to pace by the window, checking the sky every few minutes, searching desperately for the first early rays of light.

The sun could not rise soon enough.