Death of an Alchemist (21 page)

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26

Constable Patch leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, intoxicated by the smell of its leather upholstery. How had he managed so many years without? Only a few months into his new position and its novelty (the leather, not the job) still had not worn off.

In his mind, the promotion had been long overdue. Patch had spent years patrolling the unsavory ward of Southwark for little pay and even less notice. He had often gazed across the river at the seductive skyline of London and dreamed what it might be like working on the other side. He imagined the crimes and misconduct to be more sophisticated, less unseemly, less unruly in nature, since that was Southwark's domain.

He grimaced with distaste remembering London's wanton sister. The bear-baiting and dogfight venues had grown in popularity and number. So had the number of brothels and the foolishness that went along with them. He had done his best to recruit men willing to help enforce the king's law, but without enticement such as pay, he had had to appeal to their more charitable inclinations. And in Southwark it was nearly impossible to find a man of altruistic disposition.

No one of any scruples lived in Southwark by choice. Only divs and lowlifes called it home. How he came to be a constable there was another story. But a better one was how he came to be a constable in a peaceful ward within sight of Christ Church with mainly candlemakers to protect.

Less than half a year had passed since he had discovered the cause behind a disturbing influx of rats. To be truthful, he had not made the discovery, only reported it. But by doing so, he had saved London from a scourge of vermin and pestilence the likes of which the citizenry had never seen. And, thanks to him, they never did.

It began with a muckraker. A young woman who benefited from a spate of fortunate circumstances—fortunate, of course, until she was murdered. The corner of Constable Patch's mouth turned up in a snide smile.

She was friends with Bianca Goddard, an alchemist's daughter who fancied herself industrious creating remedies by dubious methods she had learned from her atypical parents. Goddard lived and worked in the area called Gull Hole, claiming she could afford the rent there. But like most residents of Southwark, her type would not have been welcome across the river in London.

A woman alchemist in London? Patch snorted. She would have ended in the dunking chair.

Bianca Goddard had said her friend had suddenly dropped dead while visiting her. He'd found her explanation fraught with emotion and he had left unconvinced. But the entire story unfolded in a rather astonishing way, and he had been the recipient of an unexpected windfall of useful information that he was able to leverage for his benefit.

Thus the rich popingay blue doublet and shiny brass buttons.

Patch turned one button to examine its insignia and ran a finger over its embossment. To think he had scrounged for years to put food on the table in that vile ward. He had never seen his wife move faster than when he announced they were leaving. The bribes he enjoyed these days kept her well fed—which was necessary since she was immoderate in appetite.

He propped his legs upon the table before him, clasping his hands across his stomach. He wished the woman could rid herself of her lice, but as long as she allowed him to dock her once a week, he could squeeze his eyes shut and imagine she was that saucy Catherine Howard. (When she was alive, of course.)

Patch thought he might take a nap before strolling the streets. Nothing of any great importance ever seemed to happen. Robberies and occasional assaults kept him from growing bored, but most often he arrived too late and merely had to assure a distraught shopkeeper or citizen that he would do his best to find the culprit. Luckily, Patch had not been there so long that the citizens could accuse him of indolence.

He positioned himself so that a breeze might find him and closed his eyes, content with the world. Street sounds lulled him into a mild, languorous respite. A horse clopped by; a boy shouted after another; a mongrel barked just to hear its voice. It was a sure measure better than hearing sots shouting at whores and the women's lurid banter in reply. Aye, he had come up in the world.

Constable Patch was in that dreamless state of sleep, jerking and twitching as he tumbled into its soft embrace, when he heard his name buzzing around his ear. Aware of sounds but not cognizant of them, he swiped it away as if it were a bee. But the mind has a way of calling one back when needed. And it was needing him now.

The calling persisted, and with a groan, he opened his eyes. Before him stood the source of his annoyance.

“Constable Patch,” she said. “If I may speak with you.”

Patch stared a moment to get his bearings. Aye, he was still in his quarters—that part was good. He looked out the window and saw it was still daylight. He had not slept very long. He removed his feet from the table and sat up in his chair. Yes, it still smelled of leather. He was still in London.

But before him stood a reminder of Southwark.

“What brings ye to these parts?” he asked. “Out of your elements, I would say.” He eyed Bianca Goddard suspiciously. It did not matter that she was the source of his promotion to this ward on the opposite side of the river. The girl still had a way about her that made him wary.

“Is it true that Thomas Plumbum has been murdered?” Bianca wasted no time in niceties. She had just come from the alchemist's rent and needed to confirm what Tait had told her.

Constable Patch leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, and rested his chin atop his steepled hands. He paused before answering, appraising her and the motive behind her asking. The coroner had pronounced the alchemist dead of a stab wound to his stomach. He saw no reason to withhold this information. “It appears he has been murdered, aye.”

“Have you any suspicion by whom?”

Patch leaned back in his chair, considering. “Suspicions?” He grimaced as if the notion pained him. Which it did. No family member or paramour had shown up distraught and demanding justice. It was not unusual to be on the wrong end of a blade. Wrong time, wrong place; it was so common as to be ordinary. Patch was disinclined to delve further into the matter. But he took exception admitting his negligence and anticipated her wanting to know why he had not investigated further. “Nay, I have not pursued the matter. Apparently it was a robbery. “

“A robbery resulting in murder?”

“It happens,” said Patch defensively. He had no idea why Thomas Plumbum was stabbed.

Bianca said nothing in response, but Constable Patch read her expression of disbelief. He reached for a quill and dipped it into an inkpot. There was a proclamation lying on the table and he whisked it in front of him and signed his name at the bottom of it. “Now, if you have no further business with me, I must get back to my work.” Patch kept his head down, scribbling his name a second time on the document, the only words he knew how to write. He found a second document and wrote his name, clueless as to what he was agreeing. Why would she not leave?

Patch glanced at her from under his brow. She waited patiently for him to finish.

He laid down the pen, releasing a long, audible sigh.

“What is it you want?” he said, exasperated.

“I want to know more about Thomas Plumbum.”

“Ye should have befriended him when he was alive. He isn't much of a conservationist now.”

“Conversationalist?” corrected Bianca, annoyed by the smirk on his face.

Patch's face fell. “Perhaps ye would do well to question the patrons at his boozing ken of choice. I am still just learning the ward. I am not privy to blether and gossip. I can be of no more help to ye.” Patch decided there was no better time for his stroll than now. There seemed to be no getting rid of her, other than leaving. The legs of his handsomely appointed chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back and stood. He straightened his doublet and rearranged his bollock dirk on his belt.

Bianca did not move. He started to come around the table, then stopped.

She had pinned him with that piercing blue stare.

“There is something you must do for me,” she said with an earnestness that he could not ignore.

C
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27

Bianca stood outside Constable Patch's, deciding which direction to take. The sun was dropping in the sky, prodding her with urgency beyond what she already felt. She looked toward Southwark on the other side of the river and thought of John. She had already been gone too long.

Strange how volumes of feelings could be crammed into a single moment. Overwhelmed by the intimidating stab of realization that she could do nothing to prevent time's passage or the changes that inevitably accompanied it, Bianca wavered in indecision, paralyzed with doubt.

She regretted not being with her husband. Her mother was right. She should be with him. What had she accomplished by leaving John to look for a piece of equipment? He could be asking for water this very minute. And she was not there to give it to him.

All for a piece of equipment her father claimed she needed. Her lack of faith in her own methods had prevented her from trying to create the elixir without it. Perhaps her inability to secure the necessary kerotakis was a sign. Should she just abandon the idea of trying to create the elixir? Or was her inability to secure the equipment an indication that she should believe in her own technique?

Again her mind wound through the convoluted logic of whether she possessed the destiny, or even deserved the chance, to manipulate nature's plan. Or was it God's plan? She sniffed. She was wasting precious time.

Besides, John might still be adrift in a deep sleep. He might not have broken its spell. She didn't know what it would take to rouse him, nor could she reasonably expect that he would ever return to her. Or return to her complete in body and mind. He might just wither away. She had heard of similar cases where the victim had lain in such a state for weeks, refusing to die and, yet, refusing to live.

Admittedly, she was scared to return home. Scared at what she might find. Bianca drew herself straight. For the moment at least, she would push away her morbid thoughts and focus on finding the kerotakis. She would find the required cylinder and she would create the elixir.

Bianca looked away from Southwark, up the lane toward the Royal Poke, where Amice and Gilley lived. If she hurried she might at last secure the needed piece and return to Southwark before dark.

Along the way, prentices were shuttering up shops and clearing the stalls. The bustle of activity declared an end to the day, and Bianca quickened her step. She again experienced the eerie feeling of being followed.

She glanced over her shoulder and, seeing no one suspicious, hurried on. At one point a cart lumbered toward her and she pressed herself into a doorway occupied by a woman bearing a basket of eggs. A whiff of chicken manure stirred her to full attention like a slap in the face.

Emerging from the alcove, she let the trundling cart shield her and took a long look at the street beyond. She wasn't sure whom she should be looking for, who could be trailing her, but Tait's name kept whispering in her ear.

The strum of a lute floated over the discordant clamor of street noise, taming the sound of shouting children and bleating goats, reminding Bianca of what peace there is in song. She longed to stand beneath the window and listen to the tune—but such leisure was not possible.

Consumed with what or who might be behind her, Bianca scarcely considered what danger could lie ahead. She rounded a corner onto a narrow lane where houses jutted over the road so close that neighbors across the road could pass a pottle pot between them. Immediately it was as if the light of day had been secreted away. She strode purposefully, but each step took her deeper into the lengthening shadows. The lane grew darker and became more congested. Its suffocating lack of air was another unwelcome reminder of her poor decision. A crush of bodies soon pressed against her, slowing her progress until she could barely move.

Ahead, word spread that an overturned cart blocked the lane. There was no turning back, as others who had made the same mistake pushed in behind her. An unsuspecting driver followed with a second cart, further preventing escape.

No gap between buildings or intersecting alleyways could relieve the congestion. Those who had sought the lane as a shortcut began to grouse. No one moved forward and there was not much movement back.

“God's tooth, if I had wanted to feel the press of bodies I would'a gone to the Addle Hill stew!”

“Methinks you might enjoy a similar experience here, without having to pay,” another answered helpfully.

At least one man could see a possible advantage to the bottleneck.

Bianca could not tolerate standing in one spot, doing nothing. She thought of John, which was all the prompting she needed.

“By your leave,” she said, squeezing through the crowd. When refused, she squashed toes and poked ribs with her bony elbows. Leaving a wake of bruises and outcry behind her, she worked her way to a cart tipped across the lane. It lay on its side, its back axle snapped and a wheel off the rod. A load of grain had tumbled out and was strewn about the road. Bianca hitched her kirtle, exposing her ankles, and scrambled up the sacks to reach the other side.

“Ho there!” said a man, peeling her off like a beetle whose claws had caught in fabric. “You shall wait like the rest of us.”

“I need to get through. I cannot wait.”

A woman tipped her chin to be heard. “Wait she must,” she shouted, still sore from Bianca's aggressive campaign. “She punched me in the ribs.”

“Aye! She punched me, too!” called another.

“I did not punch,” declared Bianca emphatically. She looked at the burly man holding her arm. “I nudged.”

“Oh, that was not a nudge,” said the woman stepping forward. “If that were a nudge, a blow is a bump and a clouting is a clip.”

“If everyone were to scrap their way out, what an utter muddle we would have.” The man yanked Bianca's arm to underscore his point. “You will wait doubly long since you have not the sense to behave civilly.”

Bianca started to object, but her voice was drowned by another.

“Nay, let me through,” proclaimed a man, a red cap waving at the end of a thin arm.

A group of men cursing the driver as he unhitched his horse stopped their sport and listened to the new distraction.

“This matter does concern me. I am responsible for her rude temperament.” The cap flounced as if it were indicating the start of a race, and a group of men trying to rock the bed of the cart upright paused to see who was creating the commotion.

“I agree her impertinence is shameful, but allow me to dispense her punishment,” said Meddybemps, tripping the last few feet and arriving to stand next to them.

“And by what right? Who are you?”

Meddybemps removed the man's hand from Bianca's arm and drew her behind him. “I am her father.”

There was a reason Meddybemps placed himself in front of her. Bianca began to protest and received a painful pinch for her effort. The streetseller's insistent if not theatrical objections successfully covered her yowl.

The man eyed them skeptically. “She favors you not.”

“Sir,” said Meddybemps, looking wounded. “What are you implying?” He glanced round at the interested faces leaning in. “Are you questioning her mother's honor? Because if you think my dear . . . Bess . . . strayed . . . well, sir, that is a slander I shall not allow you to indulge.” The streetseller straightened and met the man's eye. “My dear . . . Bess . . . good sir, let me tell of her attributes so that you may know how very mistaken you are. Her breath whispers of fresh-picked mint and her kisses are cool and as stirring upon my brow as if she had laid such sprigs upon it. She would want for none other, for she hath told me, my dear . . . Bessie, my . . . Bess . . . that I love her like none other. That I pluck her as sweetly as a daisy's petals so her face shineth like the sun. Her flower doth smell as sweet as a violet in purple display, her petals so colored and primed for me to inhale. Bess, sweet Bess. There is no more faithful . . . whore . . .”

Meddybemps felt the skin twist painfully beneath his jerkin. “—ible, aye, horrible how this cart has caused such an inconvenience.” He smiled, then glanced over his shoulder to glower at Bianca.

Their drama gained more interest now than the overturned cart. The man, who was not a constable or even a deputy, was not inclined to encourage Meddybemps in more purple prose, and sought to end the confrontation quickly since he had no authority to do anything about Bianca's behavior.

“My good fellow, I merely sought to bring some order to this unfortunate situation. Your . . . daughter . . . was likely to cause an uproar. I was trying to impose a sense of order.”

“And well you should,” agreed Meddybemps, clapping the man on his shoulder. “It is the proper, indeed, the commendable citizen to inflict order on his neighbors.”

The man, nonplussed, responded with a weak smile.

“My dear . . . daughter,” said Meddybemps, turning to Bianca. “Let us take our leave and wish this fine fellow a good morrow.” He nodded amiably to the parting crowd as he roughly pushed Bianca back through it.

An oft-frequented boozing ken was tucked into an inconspicuous building on the lane, not twenty feet from the overturned cart. Meddybemps pulled Bianca through the door. He had hoped for a chance to sit with her and tell her what he had learned; however, other pedestrians looking to escape the congestion were successfully creating a new one inside the tavern.

Afforded the gift of above-average height, Meddybemps spotted an open bench and motioned her to follow.

They jostled their way to a back corner and sat opposite each other next to a boisterous group of men, possibly fishermen or workers from the fish market. Their close proximity bothered Meddybemps more than it did Bianca, but he put on a brave face and angled away from them.

After several attempts to wave down a serving wench, he took off his cap in exasperation and set it on the board in front of him. “Zounds,” he said. “I could do with an ale.” He scratched his thinning scalp.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“Methinks you are not particularly pleased with me. I could not stand idly by while that jackdaw made an example of you. I suspect he wanted some sort of lewd favor before giving you leave.”

“Not every man thinks like you.”

“Ha! You defend him?” Meddybemps's left eye circled while the other held her with a contemptible stare. “I shall not take issue. But unless you sit inside a man's skull, you cannot know why he does what he does. And one thing every man does, that may not be what every woman does, is think of how to profit in any given situation. That man saw a chance to have sway over you. I will not mention what could have happened if I had not intervened.”

Bianca looped the strap over her head and set her satchel on the table between them. She rested her hands palm down on top. “If it should please you,” she said. “Thank you for saving me.”

The streetseller duly noted the sardonic edge to her voice. He laid a hand on top of hers and nodded, accepting her appreciation and knowing full well she gave it grudgingly.

“Do tell me the source of your worriment,” he said. “Your impertinence does not serve.” He removed his hand and distractedly looked about for the serving wench again.

“John has fallen into a deep sleep.”

Horrified, he looked at her straight on. “A deep sleep? Meaning the kind from which you may never wake?”

“He has not died. Not yet, anyway.” She glanced toward the door, a rueful expression settling on her face. “He is unresponsive to my touch. He doesn't react to my voice.” Bianca absently ran her fingers over the coarse material of the rucksack. “Perhaps it is the sweating sickness but I am not sure. I have not heard that victims linger so.”

“It could happen. I have heard it,” said Meddybemps. “He is a strong lad; he may well recover.” He knew no words that could comfort her. He had always liked John and thought them a suitable pair. They both had a bit of rascality about them, and since marrying, they had tamed their reckless behavior and pursued more respectable, if somewhat dull, livelihoods. Ventures definitely not to his taste or desire. “You have left him alone?”

Bianca's throat became tight. “There is nothing I can do for him, so, aye, he is alone.” She glanced over his shoulder and leaned in. “I am seeking the final piece I need to create the elixir of life. And I fear someone is after me.”

Meddybemps scowled. “Who should want to follow you?”

Bianca lowered her voice. “I believe someone wants Ferris Stannum's alchemy journal.” She patted the satchel between them. “The journal contains the complete process for creating the elixir of life.”

“Ah. Perhaps another alchemist would want it,” whispered Meddybemps. “Or someone who could sell it to an alchemist.”

“I had thought perhaps that Ferris Stannum's friend, Thomas Plumbum, could have wanted it. However, Tait, the usurer, told me Plumbum was stabbed last night near Soper Lane. And Constable Patch has confirmed it.”

“Constable Patch,” said Meddybemps with a shudder. “Not him again.” He stuck out his tongue as if the man's name had left a bad taste in his mouth. “Must you bring that iron-witted doddy-poll into it?” Reading the look of chagrin on Bianca's face, he saw that she must. Meddybemps sighed. “I was going to tell you what I knew, but it seems you already know. But, aye, Plumbum is dead.”

“Tell me everything. Tait has been less than forthcoming and Patch doesn't know much.”

Meddybemps lowered his face so no one could see his lips. “You had mentioned Plumbum and I became curious about the man. It seemed to me that perhaps he had the most cause for seeing Ferris Stannum dead. Being a less than accomplished alchemist, I figured he might be jealous of the old man's discovery. I had no difficulty finding the man, and with a little more inquiry, I learned he owed a sizable sum of money to Jack Blade—the rampallian who frequents the area around the Crooked Cork. Apparently Plumbum had a few obsessions he was known for.” Meddybemps's eye began to skitter. “One is a traitorous offense. I shall suffice it to say, he was a man whose wanger was most wanton.” Meddybemps tittered with contempt. “His other disgrace was playing primero. And this he played badly. He gambled more than he should have and had a debt that followed him from one table to the next. His reputation on both counts was less than sterling.” Meddybemps snickered and glanced around. He finally caught the eye of the serving wench and she made her way over. “Have you a thirst?” he asked Bianca.