Death of an Alchemist (20 page)

“I like it better outside.”

Bianca began walking up the road, expecting the boy would follow. “You never told me your name,” she said.

“Fisk,” said the boy, bending down for a stone, then hurrying to catch up to her. “You never told me yours.”

Bianca obliged. “Mostly you sit outside and watch the street?”

“Mostly.”

“Do you sleep well these hot nights?”

Fisk shrugged, wiping his hair out of his eyes. “Sometimes I get up and bring a blanket out on the stoop. I sleep by the door.” He had no sooner said this when a woman's shrill voice called after him. Fisk stopped walking and answered. “I've got to go, miss. Me mother wants me.”

Bianca watched him run down the lane and disappear inside his family's home. She wondered how much he had noticed of the various goings-on at Goodwife Tenbrook's. A minute passed as she considered this before returning her thoughts to Thomas Plumbum.

Besides nabbing a kerotakis, she hoped to learn the alchemist's intentions and in the process find out where he thought the book might be.

Bianca slowed on the street where Barnabas Hughes had said the alchemist lived, studying each shop front, every door she passed. She followed her nose, but no errant odors of liver of sulfur or putrefaction gave a clue to the alchemist's whereabouts. Finally, she was forced to rely on a neighbor leaving his rent partway down the lane.

“Might you know of Thomas Plumbum?” she asked. “I am looking for him.”

The neighbor's thin shirt snugged around his thick middle. In the crook of one arm was a blood-spattered apron. He had the thick shoulders of a man accustomed to hefting sides of beef. He screwed up his nose as if reacting to the peculiar smells of the alchemist's work, or perhaps something more offensive crossed his mind. “Aye, the man lives there.” He pointed to the decrepit exterior of the building opposite his. “The third door, the one with the crooked stoop.”

All three entrances were far from level, but one slanted markedly worse than the others. Bianca crossed the lane, and in order to stand on the block of stone, she bent one knee and kept the other straight. Balancing on the stoop required some attention, so that she failed to notice the door was unlatched. When she pounded on it, the door swung inward from the force of her knock, pitching her forward into the room.

“Master Tait,” she said, catching herself up.

The usurer was on his toes reaching behind a stack of crockery when he heard his name combined with the sound of her stumbling. He whirled about, narrowing his eyes at the sight of her. “It is a matter of courtesy to knock,” he said.

Bianca recovered and straightened her bodice. “And what courtesy are you exhibiting?” She swept her eyes around the room. “Where is Thomas Plumbum?”

The usurer's lips curved in an indulgent smile. “He is not here.”

“Sir, I question the liberty with which you riffle through alchemists' belongings when they are not at home.”

“I am afraid Thomas Plumbum won't be home anytime soon.” Tait shook his head with regret. “His body was found at the corner. Dead from an abdominal wound, imposed by a dagger, it seems.”

Bianca's mouth fell open. “When?”

“Last night. The time I cannot say.” Tait picked up a flask and sniffed its contents. One eye closed as he registered the smell. Apparently he found it objectionable, as he quickly returned the flask to the table. “I cannot say when it happened, because I was not there.”

“Then how did you learn of his death?”

Tait's dark eyes considered her a moment before answering. “It is a matter of business. The delicacies of which are complicated for a woman to understand.”

“Sir, you misjudge me.” Bianca stepped forward. “But perhaps you will not say because you have a guilty conscience.”

“My dear, I assure you it is not
my
conscience that is tainted with guilt.” His gaze ran over the strap crossing her chest.

Bianca shifted the satchel behind her back and their eyes met.

Tait continued. “I would advise you to stay to matters of medicants or whatever it is that you trifle with. These matters are not your concern.”

“I find it interesting that within hours of Ferris Stannum's and Thomas Plumbum's deaths you are busily rummaging through their belongings. It seems too much of a coincidence.”

“The only coincidence is that they were both alchemists. And as you know, I have made my living lending alchemists money. I am simply collecting my due before word travels of Thomas's death.”

“I should think the constable would secure the property pending proper investigation into his creditors, of which you may not be the only one.”

“One might as well open the door to looters as have a constable secure it. My dear, you are so innocent. I lent money in good faith to support Plumbum in his work. And I seek to recover what he owes. I have no time for incompetent men of law.” Tait turned to a shelf and lifted out a jar. He peered into it. “I can see you are ignorant in matters of business. I shall not waste my time explaining finances to you.” He reached into the vessel, withdrew some powder, and let it trickle through his fingers onto the floor.

Bianca regarded all moneylenders with skepticism. They spoke of their profession in terms of “service”—supporting individuals in their pursuit of self-sufficiency. But beneath their self-aggrandizing twaddle were men who profited off the hopes and dreams of others.

“Why would you lend money to an alchemist? Would not a more reliable venture prove more profitable? A wool merchant or a chain-mail maker is a more dependable and needed trade. I would think a man as prudent as yourself would avoid such a risky endeavor.”

As Bianca was saying this, she noticed the usurer limp as he moved down the shelves, examining Plumbum's possessions. He had not shown a hitch in his walk the last time she had seen him. She might ask how he came by it. Had he been involved in last night's skirmish?

“Such condemnation coming from an alchemist's daughter. You ridicule the means by which you were fed?” He tutted with disapproval. “It is a well-known adage that risk garners the greatest reward,” he said. “I had a considerable amount of faith and money invested in Ferris Stannum. His death was an enormous disappointment to me.”

Tait grew thoughtful, appearing genuinely contrite.

“However,” he continued, “Thomas Plumbum was a dabbler by comparison. He was a conniver. Good alchemists often are. I found Plumbum to be a man of his word—at least when it concerned our agreements. He paid me on time and I made a modest sum of money from lending to him. But lately he had been negligent. I had hoped he would curb his less admirable inclinations and get back to the matter of alchemy.”

“And those less than admirable inclinations were?”

Tait pinched his lips, appearing coy. “You are venturing into dangerous waters, my dear.” He continued to sort through a collection of bottles, holding them to the light, uncorking them, and cautiously sniffing. After a moment, he continued, “Ferris Stannum believed in Thomas Plumbum's abilities. The old alchemist must have seen some potential in Plumbum. He would not bestow his attention on just anyone.” He shook a bottle of pickled cow eyes and watched them rearrange themselves in the fluid. “A man had to show merit. They had to prove themselves worthy of his attention. He had to believe in them.” He set the bottle back on the shelf. “And unfortunately, to my detriment, I believed in Stannum.”

Tait gazed across the room at Bianca. “And how was it that you earned Stannum's faith?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting. “You only knew him a day.” Tait picked up an alembic, turning it right side up and then flipping it over. “You must have made quite an impression.”

“I shall not speculate about his interest in me. Perhaps, as you say, he saw some potential.”

The usurer looked her up and down. “Indeed,” he said.

Bianca riled at his implication. Unable to keep silent, she said, “You favor your left side. I don't recall your limping the last time I saw you.” She watched his face.

Tait continued to feign interest in the copper still head.

“You walk as if you have been hurt,” she added.

“I suffer from gout,” he answered. The usurer set the alembic back on a shelf and calmly reached for a leather purse. “My footwear must be specially made.”

Bianca noted Tait's fine boots and decided he must have spent good coin on them. Such a pair would have cost her several months of earnings.

“My mother prescribed eating porridge of barley and vinegar followed by the application of a poultice of ground worm and pig's marrow.” She mentioned this as a way to gauge his interest. No one suffered the disease with resigned acceptance. Gout was painful and debilitating. Anyone afflicted with the condition was willing to try almost anything in the hopes of curing it.

Tait looked up. He did not ask how warm the poultice should be, or what type of vinegar worked best. He loosened the drawstring on the purse and stuck a finger into it.

Bianca found his lack of interest surprising. His indifference, while certainly unexpected, did not prevent her from trying to engage him. “Who found Plumbum's body?”

“I suppose some poor fool who happened upon it.” He plucked out a lump of cinnabar. “Never an enjoyable experience, I can assure you.” Having held the ore to the light and examined it, he dropped it back in the pouch and cinched it closed. “Have you ever come upon a shivved body in your travels?”

“I have not.”

Tait tossed the pouch back onto a shelf, frowning in disgust. “I am not fond of crimson.”

Bianca took advantage of Tait's disinterest and scanned the room for a kerotakis. If Plumbum had one, it was not sitting out for her to see. Feeling their conversation had reached an impasse, she backed toward the door. She might find out more about Plumbum's murder from just about anyone other than Tait.

“I shall leave you to your . . . business,” she said, taking a final searching glance around the room. The needed piece of equipment had eluded her once again.

C
HAPTER
25

Bianca did not believe in curses. Verbal profanity, however,
was
acceptable and at times necessary. She did not shirk from using it on occasion. In fact, she embraced the art of a well-placed expletive with gusto. It was the other definition of “curse” of which Bianca was skeptical.

She
did
believe in ghosts. Who didn't? Pinning down suicides with a knife through the heart seemed the only way to prevent them from wandering around and making life miserable for their loved ones. Nor did Bianca think Meddybemps's talismans and amulets were frivolous. Wearing a badger's tooth to prevent getting robbed served a useful purpose. The wearer conducted his affairs with more confidence under its protection.

But Bianca did not believe it was possible for a person to conjure evil and misfortune upon others. Truthfully, she had often thought a generous dose of bad luck humbled those needing a lesson in compassion. And while hexes, potions, and curses worried the average citizen, to Bianca the only one capable of heaping untold misery on a person was oneself.

Bianca believed that she was responsible for creating her present circumstance. Certainly, waggery was everywhere. One need only look around to see skullduggery and murder. But standing over a burning candle and summoning evil spirits to spite another person just because someone asked them to seemed a dubious proposition.

But as Bianca made her way to the Royal Poke, the subject of curses did cross her mind. Could the alchemy journal be her ruination? Had Ferris Stannum or even the force of nature—or dare she admit it—God, in His infinite wisdom, imbued the journal with a way to prevent the elixir of life from ever being projected again?

Was the journal, or perhaps the path to creating the elixir, a cursed undertaking? Bianca could think of no other word to describe the accumulating difficulty and deaths associated with the book. Ferris Stannum's death, or, as Bianca believed, murder, came soon after his discovery of the elixir of life. Now
she
held the recipe for the secret of immortality and someone had made an attempt on her life. Whoever had the journal before her must have known or experienced its inherent danger and chose not to jeopardize his life by keeping it.

But why toss the journal through
her
window? Did the person expect her to succeed in creating the elixir, or had the person wanted her to die trying?

If John's bloodletting had helped relieve the pressure in his skull like Hughes believed, she might be able to save him. She saw how he was sleeping more soundly, but there was no sign that he was any closer to recovering. John seemed to be trapped in a state of quiet suspension. How long would he have? How long did she have to find the kerotakis and concoct part of the elixir?

Bianca snaked through the stalls of Cheapside Market and, without slowing, filched a plum while the tender was busy with a customer. She bit into the fruit and paid no attention to the juice trickling down her chin. Should she heed these warnings and rid herself of the journal? Was she being dissuaded from creating the elixir by unknown forces or, dare she think it—a curse? Then again, it could be mere coincidence that someone tried to steal her satchel while the journal just happened to be in it.

Her other thought was that someone might be killing alchemists. The killer might have a profound distaste for those practicing the noble art. First Ferris Stannum was murdered; then Thomas Plumbum met his end. “I'm not an alchemist,” she said aloud, eliciting a curious glance from a passerby. But perhaps someone mistook her for one. Bianca glanced over her shoulder. “Nay,” she said aloud, admonishing herself for letting her imagination get the better of her. She finished the plum and tossed aside the pit.

Bianca wiped her sticky chin on her sleeve and thought about Tait, the usurer. It was the second time she had caught the man going through an alchemist's belongings within hours of his death. True, he may have only been trying to recoup some of his loss. But his avowed strategy of knowingly investing in more risky ventures seemed ill-advised. Being the daughter of an alchemist, she knew what it was like to wrap strips of wool around her feet for shoes or to go without eating because her father had melted the last coin for some alchemy experiment.

Could Tait have suffocated Ferris Stannum with a pillow and murdered Thomas Plumbum? Was he after the alchemy journal? Bianca relieved the weight on her shoulder and crossed the satchel to her other side.

He had run his eyes over the strap as if it were of interest to him. Could he have been the one to attack her? Had he known she had the book and carried it in the satchel?

But if Tait had wanted the book, why didn't he try to take it from her in Thomas Plumbum's alchemy room? Bianca kicked a stone and sent it careening off the wheel of a passing cart.

Gout could flare, creating intolerable pain. Mentioning her mother's remedy barely elicited an acknowledgment. Sufferers were desperate to learn what could relieve them of the excruciating pain. No matter what the topic, all pretense was forgotten when a new remedy was mentioned. But Tait had remained aloof.

Perhaps he had lied about his gout. Perhaps his limp was caused from something else. Had he been involved in the brawl over the satchel the night before? She tried remembering the details of the attack. The feeling of being followed was similar to the one she had now. Again Bianca stopped and whirled about to face the crowd behind her. No one caught her eye; no one suddenly pretended to be interested in the plaster of a building. Bianca resumed walking.

She had felt a tug on her shoulder strap and had instinctively hung on to it, pulling against whoever was trying to steal the satchel. She had stumbled and fallen forward, rolling to her side, still clasping the satchel in both hands. When she had tried to stand, her outstretched hand had been crushed under the heel of a boot. A heel that had delivered a painful blow. A heel of hard wood, she thought.

With her other arm, she had wrapped herself around the assailant's leg, trying to prevent a repeat stomping. The satchel was wrenched over her head and savagely used against her.

Bianca leaned against an oak tree and concentrated. She closed her eyes as a finch squeaked from a branch overhead. It had been dark at the time of the attack, making it difficult to see any distinguishing features of the attacker or the fight that had followed. She ran through the order of events.

The bark of the tree was rough against her cheek. The leather of the boot had been soft against her face. The leather had the smooth feel of a supple hide.

As she remembered the feel of the leather in her hand as she clung to her assailant's leg, she placed herself in the scene again, experiencing the smells of that street in London on a warm summer's night.

She could smell the river, the brackish mix of silt and decomposition. Across from where she lay, the smell of refuse merged with the contents of a dumped chamber pot. Moldering timbers and thatch permeated the air. She tasted the gritty dirt of the road in her mouth.

But as she stood with her eyes closed, a smell filtered through her memory that was more distinct than the others. The scent of roses.

Bianca opened her eyes. She had smelled roses when she was attacked.