Death at Apothecaries' Hall by Deryn Lake Page B

any particles that might have fallen. No disrespect to your housekeeping, Madam.’
    Jane sniffed a little, but said nothing as John continued his search, joined after a few moments by an ever more astonished Michael Clarke, who had given up asking and now just followed the Apothecary’s lead.
    Opposite the fireplace, taking up most of the wall space, stood a rather unusual piece of furniture known as a dog kennel dresser, the name deriving from the arched open cupboard beneath. Laden with plates, the dresser’s purpose was purely functional, namely aiding service at mealtimes. John sat back on his heels to examine its solid symmetry, thinking that in earlier times such a piece might well have stood in the dining room, bursting with silver to impress the guests. Then he glanced, almost without thinking, at the open cupboard, the so called dog kennel, situated between the two closed ones.
    A mouse lay within its dark recess, unmoving and quite dead, a pathetic little figure despite its nuisance value. Taking out his handkerchief, John gently removed the corpse and wrapped it up.
    â€˜Well, I can’t think where that came from,’ said the Butler, sniffing more than ever.
    John raised an admonitory hand. ‘Madam, please. If this poor creature died because of something it ate from the floor, it might well be the key to the whole wretched affair.’ He looked across at Michael. ‘Mr Clarke, may we go to your compounding room?’
    â€˜Certainly. It will be …’ Once more he lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘… private there.’
    The Society had its own laboratory, situated beneath the Great Hall and of much the same size, but the shop manager clearly did not want anyone else to know what was afoot at this stage.
    The Apothecary turned to the Butler. ‘Do you want me to come back to tell you what we find?’
    â€˜Please do. But remember that I go off duty and home for the night at six o’clock.’
    â€˜Where do you live? Perhaps I could call on you there?’
    â€˜In Pater Noster Row, close to St Paul’s. Number twenty.’
    â€˜I will make a point of seeking you out, though it may not be until tomorrow evening.’
    â€˜Good. Then you can also meet my husband, the Beadle.’
    â€˜I look forward to it.’
    Both men bowed politely, Mrs Backler curtsied, then they parted company, the two apothecaries hurrying back through the gloomy afternoon to the compounding room at the back of the shop. There they laid the mouse on a cloth on the scrubbed wooden table and, taking a sharp knife from a drawer, the shop-keeper made a neat incision, parting the skin to reveal a small, somewhat bloated stomach. This, too, he cut open, delicately removing the contents.
    â€˜Flour!’ said the Apothecary excitedly. ‘The poor little wretch ate some flour.’
    â€˜What are you saying exactly?’
    John looked up from where he had been crouching over the minute corpse, admiring Mr Clarke’s skill with so tiny an autopsy.
    â€˜I’m saying that it is my belief we are going to find white arsenic mixed with it.’
    The manager’s bulging eyes positively ballooned. ‘What?’
    â€˜There is something a little too glib about this outbreak of poisoning. Something that doesn’t quite ring true. I have a premonition.’
    â€˜Shall I do the experiment?’
    â€˜Yes. It would be an education to watch you.’
    Picking up the lumps of flour with tweezers, Michael Clarke placed them in a copper pan which he held above an oil-lamp, breaking them up and slowly drying out the fluids of the mouse’s stomach. Then, when all the moisture had gone, he put them onto a sieve and gently shook the lumps till they turned into grains. These he returned to the pan, adding a cup of water before he heated the contents. Vapour began to rise as the water slowly evaporated.
    â€˜Wait till it has all gone and then we’ll