“Legally?” Pitt asked with surprise.
“Of course! Prescribed for all manner of ills.” The apothecary ticked of his fingers. “Rheumatism, diabetes, consumption, syphilis, cholera, diarrhea, constipation or insomnia.”
“And does it work?” Pitt asked incredulously.
“It kills pain,” the apothecary replied sadly. “That’s not a cure, but when a person is suffering, it’s something. I don’t approve of it, but I wouldn’t deny a suffering person a little ease—especially if there’s no cure for what’s wrong with them. And God knows, there’s enough of that. No one gets better from consumption or cholera—or syphilis for that matter, although it takes longer.”
“And doesn’t the opium kill?”
“Babes, yes, as like as not.” The apothecary’s face pinched and his eyes were weary. “Not the opium itself, you understand? They get so they’re half asleep all the time, and they don’t eat, poor little mites. Die of starvation.”
Pitt felt suddenly sick. He thought of Jemima and Daniel, remembering them as tiny, desperately helpless creatures, so fiercely alive, and he found his throat tight and a pain inside him so he could not speak.
The apothecary was looking at him with sadness creasing his face.
“There’s no use prosecuting them,” he said quietly. “They don’t know any different. Sickly, worked to their wits’ end, and don’t know what way to turn, most of them. Have a child just about every year, counting the ones that miscarry—no way to stop it except tell their husbands no—if they’ll take no for an answer. And what man will? He has few enough pleasures, and he reckons that one’s his by right.” He shook his head. “Not enough food, not enough room, not enough anything, poor devils.”
“I wasn’t going to prosecute them,” Pitt said, swallowing hard. “I am looking for someone who poisoned an adult man by putting opium in his whiskey.”
“Some poor woman couldn’t take any more?” the apothecary guessed, biting his lip and looking at Pitt as if he knew the answer already.
“No,” Pitt said more loudly than he had intended. “A woman well past childbearing age, and a perfectly sober husband. She had a lover …”
“Oh—oh dear.” The apothecary was taken aback. He shook his head slowly. “Oh dear. And you want to know if she could have obtained the opium with which he was poisoned? I am afraid so. Anyone could. It is not in the least difficult, nor is it necessary to register one’s name for the purchase. You will be extremely fortunate to find anybody who recalls selling it to her—or to her lover, should he be the guilty party.”
“Or anyone else, I suppose,” Pitt said ruefully.
“Oh dear—the poor man had others who wished him ill?”
“It is possible. He was a man with much knowledge and authority.” Since he had voiced his suspicions of the widow, and of her intimate affairs, he chose not to name Judge Stafford. If it were Juniper, it would be public knowledge soon enough, and if it were not, she had more than sufficient grief to bear as it was.
The apothecary shook his head sadly. “Dangerous stuff, opium. Once you begin with it, there’s little stopping, and few that can manage to do without ever greater doses.” A flicker of anger crossed his mild, intelligent features. “Misguided doctors gave it to their patients in the Civil War in America, thinking it would be less addicting than ether or chloroform, especially if given by the then new invention of hypodermic syringe, into the vein rather than the stomach. Of course, they were wrong. And now they have four hundred thousand poor devils slave to it.” He sighed. “That’s one war where we both won and lost, I think. Perhaps we lost the more.”
“The American Civil War?” Pitt was confused.
“No sir, the opium war with China. Perhaps I did not make myself plain.”
“No, you didn’t,” Pitt said agreeably. “But you are perfectly correct. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Not at all. Sorry it is so little use to you. But I am afraid anyone with a few pence to spare could purchase sufficient sticks of opium to dissolve and put in the poor man’s drink, and there would be no record of it, and nothing illegal in the mere buying of it anyway.” He looked at Pitt discouragingly. “You could waste a year in going to every apothecary and corner shop within forty miles of London—or farther if the lady you suspect has the means and the opportunity to travel. As I said, opium is available with great ease all over East Anglia and the fen country, which is a mere hundred or hundred and fifty miles from London.”
“Then I shall have to return to other means of learning the truth,” Pitt conceded. “Thank you, and good day.”
“Good day, sir, and good luck in your search.”
It was not until mid-afternoon that Pitt obtained an appointment with Judge Ignatius Livesey and was shown into his chambers. It had turned colder outside and he was pleased to go into the warmth of the room with its well-stoked fire and rich carpets, the velvet curtains richly draped against the outside world, the ornate mantel speaking of solidarity, the leatherbound books, the bronze figures and Meissen china dishes adding touches of grace and luxury.
“Good afternoon, Pitt,” Livesey said courteously. “How are you proceeding in the matter of poor Stafford’s death?”
“Good afternoon, sir,” Pitt replied. “Not very fruitfully so far. It seems opium is very readily obtainable by anyone with a few pence to spare. Indeed it is much purchased by the poorest people, I am informed, in order to ease their wakeful children, and treat a number of extremely diverse illnesses, sometimes even mutually contradictory ones.”
“Is it indeed?” Livesey raised his eyebrows. “How very tragic. Public health is one of our greatest problems, coupled with ignorance and poverty. So endeavoring to trace the opium has profited you little?”
“Nothing,” Pitt corrected.
“Please sit down, make yourself comfortable,” Livesey invited. “It has turned cold outside, so my clerk informs me. It is a trifle early, but would you care for tea?”
“Yes, very much,” Pitt accepted, sitting in the large leather-cushioned chair opposite Livesey, who was at his desk.
Livesey reached out and pressed a bell on the wall near him, and a moment later a clerk appeared, enquiring what he wished. Livesey requested tea for two, and then leaned back and regarded Pitt curiously.
“And what brings you to me again, Mr. Pitt? I appreciate the civility of your telling me of your progress, or lack of it. But I imagine that is not all you came for.”
“I would like you to tell me all you can recall of the evening Judge Stafford died, sir,” Pitt asked him. “From the time you met him in the theater.”
“Of course, although I am not sure it will be helpful.” Livesey sat back in his chair and rested his hands across his stomach, his heavy face calm. “I reached the theater about twenty minutes before the performance was due to begin. It was extremely crowded, naturally. These places usually are, if the play is any good at all, and this was a popular work, and performed by a fine cast.” He smiled, an expression of indulgence and very slight contempt. “Of course there were the usual prostitutes of one degree or another, parading in the balconies and the gallery at the back, attired in a wonderful array of colors. Gorgeous, at a distance. And the men ogled them, and a good many did far more. But that is all quite customary, and no doubt you observed it yourself.”