promised him to deliver the message, and after eating a chop at the_Cock_, I walked along to the Gaiety and there took a blue motor-bus,which deposited me outside a small, very dingy shop, a few doors up theWalworth Road from the _Elephant and Castle_, which bore over thelittle, old-fashioned window the sign, "Morris Lowry, Herbalist."Displayed to the gaze of the passer-by were various assortments oflozenges and bunches of dried herbs, boxes of pills guaranteed to cureevery ill, and a row of dirty glass bottles filled with yellow liquids,containing filthy-looking specimens of various repulsive objects. Theglaring cards in the window advertised such desirable commodities as"Lowry's Wind Pills," "Lowry's Cough Tablets," and "Lowry's HerbalOintment," while the window itself and the whole shop-front wasdirt-encrusted, one pane being cracked across.
As I entered the dark little shop, a mere box of a place smellingstrongly of camomile, sarsaparilla and such-like herbs, which hung indried and dusty confusion all over the ceiling, there arose from a chairthe queerest, oddest creature that one might ever meet, even in thediverse crowds of lower London. Morris Lowry, the herbalist, was astrange specimen of distorted humanity, hunch-backed, with an abnormallylarge, semi-bald head, a scrubby grey beard, and wearing large,old-fashioned, steel-rimmed spectacles, which imparted to him anappearance of learning and distinction. His legs were short and stumpy,his body rather stout, and his arms of inordinate length, while thewhole appearance of his sickly, yellow, wizened face was such as mightincrease one's belief in the Darwinian theory. Indeed, it wasimpossible to look upon him without one's mind reverting to monkeys, forhis high cheek bones and square jaws bore a striking resemblance to thefacial expression of the ancestral gorilla.
Dressed in black cloak and conical hat he would have made an ideal stagewizard; but attired as he was in greasy black frock coat, and trousersthat had long ago passed the glossy stage, he was certainly ascurious-looking an individual as one could have found on the Surrey sideof the Thames. He was no stranger to me, for on several occasions I hadcalled there with Dick, and had chatted with him. Trade in herbs haddwindled almost to nothing. Nowadays, with all sorts and varieties ofwell-advertised medicines, the people of Newington, Walworth, and theNew Kent Road did not patronise the old-fashioned herbal remedies,which, if truth be told, are perhaps more potent and wholesome than anyof the quack nostrums flaunted in the daily papers and on the hoardings.Ten years ago the herbalists did a brisk trade in London, especiallyamong lower class housewives who, having come up from the country, wereglad enough to obtain the old-world decoctions; but nowadays theherbalists' only source of profit seems to be in the sale of skin soapsand worm tablets.
Old Morris, with his ugly, deformed figure and shining bald head,welcomed me warmly as I entered, and at once invited me into the littleshop-parlour beyond, a mere dark cupboard which still retained the odourof the midday meal--Irish stew it must have been--and seemed infestedwith a myriad of flies. Possibly the fragrance of the herbs attractedthem, or else they revelled among the succulent tablets exposed in theopen boxes upon the narrow counter. These lozenges, together with hisvarious bottled brews, tinctures of this and of that, the old manmanufactured in a kind of dilapidated shed at the rear, which, be itsaid, often offended the olfactory nerves of the whole neighbourhoodwhen certain herbs were in the process of stewing.
"Lily is out," croaked the weird old fellow, in response to my inquiry,"but I'll, of course, give her the message. She don't get much chancenowadays, poor child! When her mother was alive we used to manage torun down to Margit for a week or fortnight in the hot weather. Butnow--" and he shrugged his shoulders with quite a foreign air. "Well,there's only me to look after the shop," he added. "And things are notso brisk as they were a few years ago." He spoke with a slight accent,due, Cleugh had told me, to the fact that his mother was French, and hehad lived in France a number of years. Few people, however, noticed it,for by many he was believed to be a Jew.
I nodded. I could see that the trade done there was infinitesimal andquite insufficient to pay the rent; besides, was not the fact that Lilyhad been compelled to go out and earn her own living proof in itselfthat the strange-looking old fellow was the reverse of prosperous? Theherbal trade in London is nearly as dead as the manufacture of that oncepopular metal known as German silver.
"Lily has gone to see an aunt of hers over at Battersea," the old manexplained. "But she'll be home at five. She's got her holidays now,and, poor girl, she's been sadly disappointed. She expected to go downto her married sister at Huntingdon, but couldn't go because hersister's laid up with rheumatic fever. So she has to stay at home thisyear. And this place isn't much of a change for her."
I glanced around at the dark, close little den, and at thestrong-smelling shop beyond, and was fain to admit that he spoke thetruth.
"I suppose your friend, Mr. Cleugh, is busy as usual with his murdersand his horrors?" he remarked, smiling. "He's a wonderful acute fellow.I always read the paper every day, and am generally interested in theresults of the inquiries by the _Comet_ man. Half London reads hisinterviews and latest details."
"Yes," I answered. "He's kept hard at work always. There seems to be anever-ceasing string of sensations nowadays. As soon as one mystery iselucidated another springs up somewhere else."
"Ah," he answered, his dark eyes gazing at me through his heavy-rimmedglasses, "it was always so. Never a day goes past without a mystery ofsome sort or another."
"I suppose," I said, "if the truth were told, more people are poisonedin London than ever the police or the public imagine." I knew that allherbalists were versed in toxicology more or less, and had a vague ideathat I might learn something from him.
"Of course," he answered, "there are several poisons, the results ofwhich bear such strong resemblance to symptoms of disease, that doctorsare very frequently misled, and the verdict is `Death from naturalcauses.' In dozens of cases every year the post-mortem proves disease,and thus the poisoner escapes."
"What causes you to think this?" I inquired eagerly, recollections ofthe tragedy in Kensington vividly in my mind.
"Well," he said, "I only make that allegation because every herbalist inLondon sells poisons in smaller or greater quantity. If he's an unwiseman, he asks no questions.--If he's wise, he makes the usual inquiry."
"And then?"
"Well," the old man croaked with his small eyes twinkling in thesemi-darkness, "the customer generally jays pretty dearly for thearticle."
"Which means that an entry is made in the poison-register which is notaltogether the truth--eh?"
He smiled and nodded.
"When poisons are sold at a high price," the old herbalist answered,"the vendor has no desire to know for what purpose the drug is to beused. It is generally supposed that it is to kill vermin--youunderstand."
"And human beings are more often the victims?" I hazarded.
He raised his grey, shaggy brows with an expression of affectedignorance, answering--
"Who can tell? The herbs or drugs are sold unlabelled, and wrapped inblank paper. As far as the herbalist is concerned, his liability is atan end, just as a cutler sells razors, or a gun-maker revolvers."
"And do you really believe that there is much secret poisoning in Londonat this moment?" I inquired, greatly interested.
"Believe it?" he echoed. "Why, there's no doubt of it. Why do peoplebuy certain herbs which can be used for no other purpose than thedestruction of human life?"
"Do they actually buy poisons openly?" I exclaimed in surprise.
"Well, no, not exactly openly," he responded. "They are most of themvery wary how they approach the subject, and all are prepared to payheavily."
I looked at the odd, ugly figure before me. For the first time I hadlearned the secret of this trade. Perhaps even he retailed poisons tothose who wanted such undesirable commodities, charging exorbitantprices for them, and entering fictitious sales in the poison-book which,by law, he was compelled to keep.
"Have you actually ever had
dealings with any poisoners?" I inquired."Remember," I added laughing, "that I'm not interviewing you, that weare friends, and that I don't intend to publish this conversation in thenewspapers."
"That's rather a difficult question," he responded, with a look ofmystery upon his face. "Perhaps I'd best reply that I've before nowsold poisons to people who could want them for no other purpose than theremoval of superfluous friends."
"But do they actually ask openly for this herb or that?"
"Certainly--with excuses for its use, of course," and he went on