A Mystery Of Errors

“What did you expect to find in the middle of London?” Burbage asked, with a smile. “Some dotty, wild-haired old woman living in an overgrown and tumbledown, ramshackle cottage hidden in a stand of trees?”

The poet grimaced. “But the apothecaries have a guild, do they not?” he said. “And I have never heard of any guild that would admit a woman.”

“Nor have I,” Burbage replied. “But I never said that Granny Meg was the apothecary, did I?”

They rang the bell and, a moment later, a small eyehole appeared in the heavy, planked front door. Elizabeth gasped slightly as an eye filled it briefly, then the plug was reinserted and the door was opened slowly with a long, protracted creaking sound. Elizabeth convulsively seized hold of Smythe’s arm. He patted her hand reassuringly and they entered.

What struck them first was the heady fragrance of the place, for they could see next to nothing in the darkness. It seemed to be composed of a cacophony of smells all wafting through the air and mixing together, subtly changing from moment to moment, depending upon where they moved.

“What is that smell?” Elizabeth asked.

“Herbs,” said Smythe. “Drying herbs, hanging from the beams up in the ceiling.”

The door behind them creaked shut slowly and now there was almost total darkness in the shop, save for the glow coming from a brass candle holder that looked like a little saucer with a ring attached. The tallow candle stuck in it was nearly burnt down to a stub, with lots of melted wax caked upon it and the holder.

As the man holding the candle came away from the door and moved toward them, his candle brought illumination and they could see in the dim light the bunched, drying herbs hanging from the ceiling. It looked almost like a thatch roof turned inside out. There was vervain and rosemary and thyme, bay and basil and chive, elder, fennel, lemon balm and marjoram and hyssop and many, many more. Earthenware jars of various sizes filled the wooden shelves on all four walls. In front of one row of shelves there was a long wooden counter, laden with mixing bowls and mortars and pestles and scales with weights and measures and cutting boards and knives and scoops and funnels and all the other common tools of the apothecary.

“Good evening, Master Richard,” the old man said as he approached them, in a voice that sounded surprisingly strong and resonant.

If he was the apothecary, as Smythe surmised, then he certainly looked the part. Tall and gaunt, he had an almost sepulchral aspect with his deeply set dark eyes, prominent cheekbones and high forehead. He wore a long black robe and wisps of long and very fine white hair escaped from under the matching, woven skullcap. His beard was also white and wispy, reaching down to the middle of his chest. Smythe felt Elizabeth squeeze his arm and huddle close to him. In the dim candlelight, in the dark and heavily herb-scented shop, the old man seemed the very image of a sorcerer.

“Good evening, Freddy,” said Burbage, dispelling the illusion with the entirely prosaic name. “The hour is growing late, I know, but we have come to see your wife, if we may.”

Freddy, for all the amiability of his name, appeared to have an expression that was perpetually grim and somber. He nodded gravely and replied, “Meg is always pleased to see you, Master Richard. Allow me to light your way.”

They went to the back of the small shop and passed through a narrow doorway covered with an embroidered hanging cloth, the poor man’s tapestry. Freddy had to bend over as he pushed aside the cloth and went through the doorway to lead them up a narrow flight of wooden stairs against the back wall. They climbed single-file behind him as he lit their way. Smythe noticed that Elizabeth was looking more and more apprehensive. Her nerves were already frayed from the day’s events and Freddy’s appearance had unsettled her. The cadaverous apothecary towered over her, as he towered over all of them save Smythe, and Elizabeth was doubtless thinking that if this was Granny Meg’s husband, then what must Granny Meg herself be like?

At the top of the stairs, they came to the private living quarters just above the shop. It was a small, narrow, one-room apartment longer than it was wide, with whitewashed walls and a planked wood floor that was, unusually, not strewn with sweet-smelling rushes, as in the shop below, but swept clean. The straw bed was back near the front window, the only window in the place, and partially hidden by a freestanding wooden shelf that also functioned as a divider and a screen. The furnishings were simple and rough-hewn. There were a couple of plain and sturdy chairs, several three-legged wooden stools and a number of large chests, a wood planked table and a fireplace in which hung several black cauldrons of various sizes on iron hooks over the flames.