“I know you,” he said. “I saw you go into the house.”
“My name is Cleo Fox.” I put out my hand and he shook it, introducing himself as William. “Have you come to tell me you’re giving up?”
“No, miss! I want to report in about the mistress of the house. She went out this morning and I followed her.”
I stood a little straighter. “Go on.”
“She went to a shop in Shoreditch. Real small place, tucked away in a court behind a pub. She was inthere for a few minutes and came out with something in a paper bag. She went straight home again.”
“What does the shop sell?”
“Potions, as near as I can tell. I reckon the shopkeeper’s a witch.” He pulled a face. “She sure looked like one.”
He gave me the address on Sclater Street and I paid him for his trouble.
He squirreled the money away in his pocket. “Any time you need a house watched, I’m your man.”
“I can see that. Thank you.”
“Working in an office or a fancy hotel ain’t for the likes of men like me. I’ll leave that to Peter and folks like him.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. I didn’t think William even knew what he meant. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. He winked at me and went on his way, whistling.
Smiling, I returned to the hotel to fetch my coat and an umbrella. Ten minutes later, I caught a hansom to Sclater Street, Shoreditch. The shop William had seen Lady Wrexham enter was difficult to find. Accessed through an arched walkway beside the pub that opened to a small court, it had a single, grimy window with the word HERBALIST painted across the top.
I could smell burning incense before I even opened the door. There were so many scents mingled together, it was difficult to discern individual ones. The shop looked like a Medieval apothecary’s laboratory. Bunches of drying herbs, flowers and berries hung from the rafters, some so low they skimmed my hat as I passed beneath them. Behind the counter was a large cabinet with small drawers, while the counter itself was covered with small pots of lotions, as well as soaps and sachets. A set of brass scales stood at one end beside a basket filled with dried rabbit’s feet.
I bent to inspect the contents of a collection of glass jars on a table only to reel back when a pair of dead eyes stared back at me. The jars were filled with severed animal heads and entire bodies of small creatures suspended in fluid to preserve them.
“They’re not for sale,” came a crackling voice from behind me.
The elderly woman must have come from the adjoining room, accessed through the door near the counter. She’d not made a sound. It was no wonder William referred to her as a witch. She had the classic storybook profile with the hooked nose, sharp chin, and beady eyes. All that was missing was a broomstick and pointed black hat.
“You don’t have an appointment,” she said.
“You take appointments?” I asked. “What for?”
She went behind the counter and pulled out a ledger from a lower shelf. “Private consultations. You tell me what ails you, and I tailor a treatment to your specific needs. The consultation is free and there’s no obligation to purchase anything.”
“And what do your treatments entail?”
“Tonics, creams, tisanes, emetics…it depends on the ailment.”
“What sort of ailments can you treat?”
“Everything.” She opened the ledger and scanned her finger down the page. “I’m expecting a client any moment, but I can fit you in after her in thirty minutes. Will that suffice?”
“How long does it take for the cure to work?”
“It varies.” She eyed me narrowly. “I see you’re a skeptic. That’s understandable. Many people come to me despite having reservations. Usually I’m the last resort. I suspect that deep down, however, you believe modern medicine is failing us. Doctors scoff at the ancient science of herbalism, but it works.” She tapped the lid of a nearby jar with a boney finger. “My cures are based on recipes passed down through the female line of my family over hundreds of years. They don’t fail, as long as you come to me early enough.”
It was a sales spiel if ever I heard one, but I could see how it would work on the desperate who’d tried everything else. Desperation and hope were powerful weapons in the charlatan’s armory.
“Do your customers often return after their initial consultation?”
“Of course, when their supplies run low. No follow-up appointment is necessary, unless one is requested.”
The door opened and a woman entered. Oneside of her face was covered with a red rash which she tried to hide upon seeing me.
