The Poisonous Seed by Linda Stratmann Read Free Book Online Page A

Frances with controlled politeness. ‘May I ask what line of business you are in?’
    He whirled around to face her. ‘Money,’ he said. ‘That’s all there is. Money. Look at all your other businesses and whatever they say and do, be they a butcher or baker or —,’ he looked around him having just noticed where he was, ‘or a chemist – and there’s only one commodity – money. See that?’ he pointed to a bottle of Elliman’s Universal Embrocation. ‘If you know your business, Miss – and you look to me like someone who does – you would know to the farthing exactly how much that bottle cost and how much you can sell it for. And if you’re clever enough – and I’m not saying you aren’t because I know a great many ladies who are very clever with the shillings and pence, and there’s many a house would be bankrupt without them – then you will know how much this premises costs, in rent and gas and coal, and then you will know exactly how much profit you will sell that bottle for, to the last tiny part of a farthing. That, Miss, is not a bottle of embrocation. It is money.’
    ‘Would you care to purchase it?’ asked Frances, sweetly.
    Chas put his hands in his pockets, but seeming to find nothing of value there, frowned, and took them out again.
    ‘We’ve had expenses,’ said Barstie, regretfully. ‘Tomorrow we may be men of millions, but today – we’re a bit short.’ He pressed his nose against the cold glass of the door. ‘All quiet,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time we were off.’
    Chas rushed to the door, looked out, rushed back, and passed a sleeve across his forehead, staring at Frances. ‘Right – got to go now – urgent business – not a second to waste!’ Nevertheless, as he opened the door he paused, and looked back, almost as if he was treading water, arms flapping at his sides. ‘You’re … an uncommon-looking girl, if you don’t mind my saying it!’ He turned and hurried down the street so fast that he was obliged to hold his bowler to his head to prevent it sailing away. Barstie, with a shrug and a smile, touched the brim of his hat politely before he followed.
    Frances shook her head and went back to the accounts. When she looked around to give Tom another task, she found that he had slipped away, though when and where to she could not be sure. He did not come back for another hour, and when she tried to ask him where he had been, he scampered quickly out of the way.
    When Herbert returned to the shop Frances was able to excuse herself, saying that she had household duties. After seeing that her father was resting, and reassuring him that his presence at the counter was not required, she entered the room where her brother had slept and studied and died.
    As Frances touched the sleeve of her brother’s suit she felt, for a moment, too full of emotion to move. Grief had been something she had not permitted herself to show openly. It was bundled and knotted tightly inside her, bound hard lest it break out and render her incapable of function. Merriment, too, was a thing of the past. She felt sure she would never be merry again. Her life was determined by duty; duty to her sick father, duty to the household, keeping the accounts correct to the last farthing and grain of rice, and the never-ending cycle of work in which she assisted Sarah where two pairs of hands were needed, battling the constantly encroaching London grime, boiling and pounding and starching and drying what seemed like acres of linen; and duty to the business, her father’s one remaining treasure, the thing that gave meaning to his years of study and toil. From the earliest moment of the day, when she polished the mahogany counter, something that had been her task since the age of seven, to the last piece of mending as she sat by the parlour fire, her eyes beginning to close with sleep, it was her efforts and her attention that ensured the smooth running of home and business. Had Frances succumbed to