Maryrose Wood - The Poison Diaries

“So you took the child as an unpaid servant,” Father observes. “A slave, to put it bluntly.”

“Better that than freezing by the roadside!” Pratt retorts. “I could tell right off he was an odd one, but he did his work without complaint. After he got his bearings, one day he asks if he might start bringing in the afternoon tea for the patients. Like a fool I let him.”

“A fool?” Father interjects sharply. “In what way?”

Pratt wrings his hands as if he is trying to wring the words out of himself. “A fool, yes…I wonder what you will make of this, Luxton – the wretched brat cured my inmates!”

“ Cured them – of what?”

“Of their madness! What else is there to cure a madman of?” Pratt rises from his chair and paces around the small room. “Mind you, these were hard cases. Babbling, gibbering maniacs who’d wrap their hands around your throat if you looked at them sideways. Women who cackled like hyenas and tore their hair from the roots. But within a fortnight after the boy arrived, the worst of the lot were lolling about the garden, reading The Times and exchanging pleasantries!” He leans close to Father. “Here’s the meat of it, Luxton: I’m convinced the brat put something in the tea.”

Silence, except for the crackle and sputter of the fire.

“Fascinating,” Father finally says, in a level voice. “What do you suppose it was?”

“Who knows? Who cares? Straightaway I told the witch boy, ‘Whatever tonic you’re brewing in that kettle of yours, I order you to put an end to it now. If England runs out of madmen I’ll soon go out of business, and that means you’ll be out of a home once more; how would you like that, you wretched pup?’Well, I thought I’d made my point clear as day, and that’d be the end of it – but the lad said nothing, just stared at his feet nodding.”

“And then?”

“That was two weeks ago. My inmates – those that are left – are docile as doves, but half the town has gone mad.” Pratt wipes the sweat from his forehead with his soiled sleeve. “Respectable matrons running unclothed in the streets. Grown men jumping off rooftops, screaming, ‘I can fly, I can fly!’ Now people are starting to look upon my business with suspicion. As if madness were contagious!”

It might only be the play of firelight on his features, but to me it looks almost as if Father is trying not to laugh. “Shocking,” he remarks, not sounding particularly surprised. “And did the boy have anything to say about this development?”

“I asked him, you may be sure,” Pratt says, clenching his fists. “I had to find him first; the guilty wretch had disappeared. I searched high and low, until I found him lying in a hayfield, happy as you please. I lifted him up by the shirtfront and shook him hard, and demanded to know what devilment he’d wrought this time! And hear what he says, in his smug, simpering voice: ‘I know nothing of devils, Master, but I did speak to an angel once.’ The cheek! So I shouted at him, right in his face so there’d be no mistaking my mood, ‘Don’t talk to me of angels! The whole town has gone loony!’And the imp shrugs his bony shoulders and says, ‘Business will be picking up then.’ You see what I’ve been up against.”

Exhausted, Pratt collapses into his seat at the table again, and props his head in his hands.

The light from the fire leaps and flickers. I burn too, with curiosity; what does Father make of this outlandish tale? He says nothing for a long time, and then gestures to me.

“I believe I am ready for that tea now, Jessamine.”

I leap up and pour. Father stirs his cup idly for a moment and then raises his eyes to Pratt.

“Who is this boy? Where does he come from?”

Pratt shakes his head. “No family that anyone knows of, or that he’ll admit to. As I said, he was living with a local friar when I came into possession of him. He answers to the name of Weed. It suits him, if you ask me.”

“And where is the friar now?”

Pratt glances at me, then looks away. “Dead. The friar died in his sleep, with no sign of illness as warning and only this boy as witness.”

Father stands. I can see from his face that he has had enough of this man. “It is an outlandish story, to be sure,” he says. “But I am confused; you mentioned something about a gift?”

“I mean the boy, Luxton. That’s him tied up on the back of my horse. I want you to take him off my hands.”

I bite my lip so as not to let out a yelp of surprise, but I bite too hard and the taste of blood fills my mouth. But Pratt called him “monster” , I think. Surely Papa will say no ?

Father crosses to the fire. He does not warm his hands, but stands gazing into the leaping yellow flames. Without turning his head, he answers, “After all that you have just told me, what reason could I possibly have to give this Weed of yours a home?”

Pratt glances at me again, then turns back to Father and speaks in a low voice. “I know a bit about you, Luxton. People in my line of work, we talk to one another. I’ve heard about what your interests are, the research you do, your potions, your ‘experiments’—”

“Enough!” Father snaps. “I will not listen to this gibberish. Go, and take your miserable stray with you.”

Pratt rises and slaps his hat on his head. “The boy seems to know a thing or two about brewing a pot of tea. From what people say about you, I thought that might be reason enough to pique your interest.” He turns as he reaches the door. “Tell you what: you take him in and find out for yourself if he’s any worth to you. Then we’ll talk price. Once you’ve satisfied your curiosity, I don’t care what you do with him. Nor will anyone else; he’s a weed to be sure. Dispose of him as you wish.”

“A strange gift, indeed,” Father says, stroking his chin. “Very well. Only time will tell whether thanks – or payment – are in order, so you will excuse me for not offering either just yet.”

“You’ll take him, then?” Pratt seems both relieved and incredulous.

“For a while at least.”

“You’re not afraid?”

Father smiles. “From what you say, Pratt, he’s only a youth, and a dimwitted one at that. The deeds you accuse him of would require knowledge that few people possess, not to mention a deceitful and murderous spirit. The poor wretch hardly sounds capable.”

Pratt shakes his head. “For your sake, Luxton, I hope you’re right. But if you want my advice – keep him out of the kitchen.”

With that, Pratt strides to the door. Father and I follow him outside. The huddled figure still teeters and sways on the back of Pratt’s horse. Without offering so much as a word, Pratt unties the bundle from the saddle, lifts it off the horse, and heaves it to the ground.

As he does I catch a glimpse – a tangled mess of black hair above a pale, high forehead.

Pratt untethers his horse and swings himself up and astride. He looks down at Father and me, and then at the piteous figure in the dirt. For a moment it seems as if he might say some words of farewell.

“Hey-ah!” he grunts, then kicks his horse hard, and they are off.

Father and I stand wordlessly as the hoofbeats fade into the distance. A passing cloud covers the sun and sends a sudden chill across the courtyard.

“It is a shame your former master left in such a hurry,” Father remarks to the mysterious figure on the ground. “It seems he was eager to be rid of you. Yet with a few minutes of friendly conversation we might have persuaded you to tell him exactly what it was that you dumped in the village well.”

There is movement, wriggling. The mummylike wrapping loosens. First the dark, tousled hair emerges, followed by the high, pale forehead. Then two wide emerald green eyes appear.