Death of an Alchemist (26 page)

Constable Patch gave Bianca a sidelong glance. She avoided his eyes and ignored a sharp stab of regret at having thrown the journal in the river. But she pressed on. “Ferris Stannum refused to surrender the journal to you.”

Barnabas Hughes neither confirmed nor denied it.

“He was adamant to send off the journal,” said Bianca. “To prevent him from doing so, you went to Ferris Stannum's and smothered him with a pillow.”

Barnabas Hughes's eyes flashed. “Nay, you do not know this.” “But I do,” said Bianca. She walked out the door and left Constable Patch and Barnabas Hughes wondering where she had gone.

A few moments later Bianca returned with a scruffy-looking boy in tow. The gamin followed her, cap in hand, his eyes as alert as a tawny owl's. He surveyed the room and its occupants, his attention settling on the accoutrements of the chamber, the chain and shackles that ended in Barnabas Hughes, the physician.

Patch, unaccustomed to entertaining children in his workplace, balked at the boy's unexpected entrance. “What do you mean bringing a street waif to gawk at a murderer? How scrumptious. A child has no worth.”

“Unless you plan to have him for dinner, I believe the word is ‘presumptuous',” said Bianca. “I agree that a child has not accumulated the years that give him influence. But he has two eyes with which to see. A child's words are the truest spoken. They haven't the guile of a man's.”

Constable Patch puffed out his chest. “A child's word is impermissible in a court of law.”

Bianca looked around. “Sir, I see no barrister here.”

Constable Patch glared at Bianca, stewing with indignation. She was overstepping her bounds. He resented her trying to expose his incompetence. Still, thought Constable Patch irritably, he did not have an angle by which to question Hughes. He stalked to the door and called for his deputy to bring him more ale. Turning back to Bianca and the physician, he contrived a deferential smile. “Proceed.”

Bianca waited for him to settle in his chair.

“This is Fisk. He lives across the lane from Goodwife Tenbrook's building. He spends most of his time outside his mother's rent sitting on the stoop. He sees the comings and goings in the neighborhood.”

Bianca saw a muscle jump in Barnabas Hughes's neck. “He prefers the cooler air to the oppressive heat of his family's home these days. At night, Fisk sleeps on the threshold rather than toss in an airless room with his sisters. He is privy to everything that happens on the street.”

Fisk was at the right height for studying the physician's face, though Hughes stared at the floor, avoiding the boy's scrutiny.

“Have you seen this man before, Fisk?”

The boy nodded.

“When have you seen him?”

“I have seen him a few times at the old man's.”

“Do you remember the first time you saw me?” asked Bianca.

“Aye,” said Fisk. “You first arrived last Wednesday. And I saw him visit the alchemist that day, too.”

“Then let us begin there. When did you see this man next?”

“It was well in the wee hours of the morn. There was no one about. It was hot like you said, and I slept outside on the stone stoop. A dog started barking across the way and I woke. I saw the man pet the dog to quiet him. Everyone had their doors open a crack for air. He stood by Goodwife Tenbrook's, and seeing no one about, slipped inside.”

Constable Patch grumbled. “It was dark; how can ye be sure it was this man?” He was irritated just enough to try to make it difficult for Bianca.

“Because it was the day's first light,” said Fisk, addressing Constable Patch. “And I could see his face clear as I see it now.”

Bianca spoke. “So, he slipped inside. What did you do?”

“I got to wondering what he was up to. I thought maybe if I saw him thieving I might get him to give me a coin for not telling.” Fisk turned his cap around in his hands and his eyes darted at Hughes and up at Bianca.

“Go on, Fisk,” she said.

The boy swallowed and ran his eyes over the physician. His stare ended at the shackle and chain. He took a step back, distancing himself from the prisoner. “I crept along the wall outside the old man's rent and peeked through the open window.”

“What did you see?” prompted Bianca.

“It was dark inside, but I saw the old man on his pallet—just his legs, though. I couldn't see his face.”

“His face was obstructed,” said Bianca.

“What do ye mean?” said the boy, puzzled.

“You could not see his face.”

“Nay, I could not.” Fisk looked at Hughes. “He was next to him, leaning over the old man.”

“His back was to you?” asked Bianca.

The boy nodded. He looked longingly at the ale Constable Patch sipped. “Can I have a drink?” he asked Bianca.

Bianca held her hand out for the cup. Patch made to protest, but realizing his complaining only made for a longer inquiry, acquiesced, muttering as he passed it over. “Only to wet your tongue, boy.”

Fisk gulped, wetting more than just his tongue. He polished off the cup and handed it back.

“At first I thought maybe they was talking,” said Fisk. The boy's initial apprehension disappeared and his voice grew animated. “I heard some noise, and heard the man talk softly. I couldn't hear what he was saying. The alchemist brought up his knees. And the man kept leaning over him.” Fisk shook his head. “It did not look right.” He glanced at Bianca for reassurance. “Then the old man's legs went slack.”

Patch interjected. “Ye say ye heard some noise. Explain yeself, boy.”

Fisk hesitated a moment, then spoke. “It was a muffled sound. It wasn't a scream but was soft.”

Barnabas Hughes brought his bound hands to his face and leaned his forehead into them. Fisk paused, wondering if he should continue.

Bianca watched Hughes's shoulders start to shake as he pressed his head into his hands. Constable Patch raised his eyebrows and sat up.

“Ye say, ‘It did not look right,'” said Constable Patch. “What did ye see that did not ‘look right' ?”

Fisk was unashamed to explain. The urchin grew cocky from the attention. “I seen men doing it to each other. The thought crossed my mind.” He flashed an insolent look at Constable Patch. “But that was not it.” He shook his head. “Nay. When he stood up, I saw the old man.” He directed his words pointedly to Constable Patch. “And a pillow covered his face.”

Barnabas Hughes squeezed his eyes shut and rocked back and forth where he sat. He pressed his hands against his face but was unable to hide his torment.

Unaffected, Fisk kept on. “I heard terrible squawking. Loud shrieks. It was that bird the old man kept. It was bobbing its head and flapping its wings.” Fisk wiped his nose with his hand. He shrugged.

Constable Patch rose from the table and came around. “Did you see Ferris Stannum move after Hughes stood?”

“He was stone silent. He did not move.”

Fisk would have explained further, but his words were drowned by a sudden wail. The physician dropped his hands to his lap and threw back his head. All self-composure vanished and his face twisted with remorse. Barnabas Hughes wept.

C
HAPTER
32

“God forgives those who confess their sins without omission,” said Bianca, repeating the familiar words of a priest during confession.

Constable Patch scratched his goatee. He had to admit, the girl was cunning. Appealing to a man's conscience would not have occurred to him. It was faster to just beat a confession out of a man. He scuttled to the door and motioned in his deputy to witness.

The tipsy assistant sauntered through the door and with difficulty stood beside it.

Barnabas Hughes looked round at Constable Patch, Bianca, and Fisk. “It is true,” he said. “I smothered Ferris Stannum. I murdered my friend.”

He dropped his head and took a deep breath. “My daughter has not been well for months. I tried every remedy I could think of. The more Ferris told me about his elixir, the more hopeful I became. With every success, I grew eager to learn more. But when Amice left home, Ferris grew despondent. The man I had just attended, who left behind the cat and the parrot—his symptoms were quite ghoulish. He hemorrhaged from the ocular orbits, from the nose and the mouth. It did not occur to me to suspect the animals were carriers of a contagion.” Hughes looked at Bianca. “I gave the animals to Ferris so he would not be alone.”

Hughes sighed and shook his head. “And Ferris responded. Their antics cheered him. He became productive and interested in his work again. As Verity became increasingly ill, I grew anxious. I pushed Ferris to complete the elixir. I wanted it for my daughter.

“But his beloved cat became sick. About that time, Ferris complained of his own sensitivity to light. His eyes were intensely bloodshot. I wondered if he had the same disease that I had seen before. If that were true, it was only a matter of time before he, too, would succumb to the ghastly malady.

“But I said nothing of my suspicion. We had discussed testing the elixir of life on my daughter. Ferris had reservations. He feared giving a sick child the philter. I begged him—it was my only chance to save her.”

“But he refused?” interjected Patch. The constable wanted to remind Bianca that he was still the official authority in the room.

“I thought I'd convinced him. I swore I would not hold him accountable if it failed. He said he had more to do but it was nearly ready.” The physician's face darkened. “I returned later to collect the elixir. Instead, I learned he had given the entire mixture to his cat.”

“The entire elixir?” said Patch, hardly believing it.

“You can see how deceived I felt. How could he give the elixir to a cat instead of my child?” He looked round at them indignantly. “Who is guilty of the greater sin? Ferris Stannum condemned my child to die.”

“Perhaps he could not bear feeling responsible for your daughter's life. What if it had killed her outright?” said Bianca.

“Refusing her was as grievous as condemning her to die. He committed murder as sure as I did,” answered Hughes sharply.

Bianca and Constable Patch said nothing in response. To do so would have further provoked the man. Instead, they waited for Hughes's flare of resentment to die down.

“The fool.” Hughes brought his hands to his face and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “Imagine how I felt.” He looked up at Bianca and Patch, searching their faces for some indication of empathy. Finding none, he continued, “If that wasn't cruel enough, Stannum was sending the journal to Cairo for validation.”

“And would not be making a second batch of elixir,” said Bianca.

“Nay,” said Hughes, bitterly. “His health was waning. The journal containing the process was my last hope. I sought to prevent him sending it to Madu Salib.”

Hughes addressed Bianca. “The day you came to Stannum's alchemy room, I knew I needed to act. That evening I agonized over what had happened. My anger, my resentment, consumed me. I went to his room of alchemy to steal the journal. I would find another alchemist to perform the process. There isn't an alchemist alive who wouldn't want to know Ferris Stannum's recipe for the elixir of life.

“There was still a chance I might save my daughter. He was not going to take what little hope remained in my heart. When I got to his room I searched for the journal. He slept soundly from his earlier celebration and didn't know I was there. But my search revealed nothing. I could not believe he had succeeded in sending off the journal. The more I searched, the more disheartened, the angrier, I got. I could not find it. I was wild with frustration.

“Ferris began to stir. He turned in his sleep and I went over to him. He murmured in content. I thought, ‘You foolish old man. You condemned my child to die.' I picked up the pillow on the floor.” Hughes stared ahead, unblinking, reliving the moment. “He condemned my child to die,” he repeated. “I placed the pillow over his face and leaned on top of him. He was old and weak.”

The room went silent but for their breaths.

“Two days later I tended Goodwife Tenbrook. A neighbor summoned me and I saw that she, too, was suffering from symptoms similar to Stannum's. While there, I saw the journal under a pile of clothing. She had taken it! My hope returned. I gave her a sleeping draught and planned to visit later.”

“So you poisoned her?” interjected Patch.

Hughes's face jerked up. “Regardless of what you say and think, I did not poison her.”

“But you gave her a sleeping philter,” said Bianca. “You gave her too much.”

“I gave her a sufficient dose to aid her sleeping.”

“The wine alone would have assured that.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Sir, I only suggest that perhaps the addition of sleeping draught was ill-conceived. You said yourself that she was showing symptoms of Ferris Stannum's illness. Mayhap she was not well enough to recover from drink and sleeping draught both.”

“I have little control over my patients' actions. If the woman was fool enough to partake in drink with the philter, then how am I responsible for her recklessness?”

Constable Patch plucked at his wispy chin hair. “So, the tally rises,” he said. “Luckily for you, sir, you can only hang once, as you only have one neck. It does not matter the additional number of bodies.”

“I refuse to burden my conscience with that woman's death! I take responsibility for Ferris Stannum, but not for her. She was a shrew and London will miss her not.”

“Who misses whom is not for you to say,” said Patch, enjoying this outburst of emotion. Nothing interested him more than seeing a fellow of high esteem fall from his marble tower.

“Constable, let Hughes continue.” Bianca abhorred Patch's attempts to antagonize the physician. It was a tendency familiar to Bianca and one that delighted the constable.

Patch glared at Bianca. He sought to put an end to her self-appointed charge in the matter. “I would appreciate it if you kept your commentary to a minimum, my lady.” He turned a smug face to Barnabas Hughes. “Continue, sir.”

“My intention was to secure Ferris Stannum's alchemy journal. When I returned I could not find it.”

Patch glanced at Bianca and broke in before she had the chance to open her mouth. “You did not ask Goodwife Tenbrook why she had it?”

Hughes shook his head.

“So she was already dead by the time you got there,” said Bianca.

Constable Patch shot an angry look at her. He had wanted to say that.

Barnabas Hughes said nothing.

“Sir, your silence is suspect.” Patch waited for Hughes to speak. After a moment, Patch sighed. “So's, you went to her room and could not find the book.”

“It was gone. The journal simply disappeared.”

“Why did you not wait for her to fall asleep, then take it?” asked Bianca.

“Do you not remember? I could hardly take it while you were there,” he said bitingly. “Besides, I needed to return to Verity. I had left her alone.”

“When did you next learn of the journal's whereabouts?” Patch asked.

Hughes looked at Bianca. “When she summoned me to bleed her husband.”

Two days ago, Bianca had sat at her table studying the book when Hughes arrived. In her exhaustion she had not bothered to conceal the journal or even consider that the physician could have wanted it. “So it was you who followed me to St. Benet's,” she said.

Hughes nodded.

Bianca's belief that Tait had wanted the journal was ill founded. But why did she associate the smell of roses with the night she was attacked? She had remembered a rosebud tucked in a buttonhole on Tait's doublet and mistakenly directed her suspicions on the usurer. “You were not successful in taking the journal,” she said. “Someone stopped you.”

“Thomas Plumbum intervened on your behalf,” said Hughes. “The idiot.”

“But he did not take the journal,” said Bianca. “He left it in the satchel.”

“He did not want it. He had his chance to take it. Why else would he have left it? He wanted you to have it.”

“He must have been the one who threw it into my rent. How else would he have known I had it?”

Hughes looked up. “Is that how you came into possession of the book?”

“I found it one morning on the floor of my rent.”

Hughes sniffed. “It is becoming clear to me.”

Fisk, having remained unusually attentive and respectfully quiet, spoke. “Goodwife Tenbrook had me deliver a note to Thomas Plumbum, the alchemist.”

“Plumbum acquired the journal from Tenbrook,” said Bianca.

“For a price, I am certain,” said Hughes. “Goodwife Tenbrook was a shrewd woman.”

“But why would Plumbum give it to me?”

“Plumbum was more accomplished in lying than alchemy. He was probably unable to decipher Stannum's method. I imagine he sensed you had more ability. Or assumed you had greater knowledge of the process since Ferris Stannum had taken you into his confidence. But make no mistake, if Plumbum had not met an unhappy end, he would have found a way to profit from your success.”

“But why throw it through my window and hope for such an outcome? Why not approach me directly?”

Constable Patch believed Bianca was vying for control of the inquest again. “Perhaps he was unable to,” he said, looking pointedly at Hughes.

“I never knew Plumbum had the journal,” said the physician.

“If Plumbum feared being followed, he may have supposed it was because he had the journal,” said Bianca. She remembered her own skittish feelings and concern that the journal may have been cursed. “But we know Plumbum was being followed for reasons unrelated to the alchemy journal.

“You followed me and Meddybemps to the tavern last night.”

“You gave him the satchel,” said Hughes.