Death of an Alchemist

by Mary Lawrence

  “It’s an alembic,” said Bianca.

  “Alembic,” repeated Tait as if he were trying out the word for the first time. “These men try to convince others that they are special. That they alone are imbued with a unique destiny. Only they have been kissed by angels.” He set the still head on the table.

  “I have learned, unfortunately, that there are more charlatans than true alchemists.” Tait stepped away and wandered the room, running his hand over the equipment. “But Ferris Stannum was a true alchemist. He stood on the brink of glory. His miracle was the great elixir.” He stopped and turned toward Bianca. “The mythical potion of immortality. And I invested heavily to ensure his success. We were to share those rewards.” Tait paused to savor the thought of his unfathomable wealth. “But suddenly, he is dead.” Tait scanned the room. “I have lost every coin I ever invested in him. It has all been for naught.”

  “You have managed to avoid telling me why you are here,” said Bianca.

  “I need not explain myself to you. Who are you but some trug who came calling the day before Stannum died. What is it you wanted from him?” He took a few menacing steps toward her. “I will not stand here and be interrogated when I have every reason to be concerned with Ferris Stannum’s demise. What have you lost? How dare you treat me like a murderer?”

  Tait shouldered past Bianca, striding to the door. He turned, and his ostentatious codpiece struck a bizarre profile. “Do not suppose to accuse me,” he said. “I am undeserving of your recriminations.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Thomas Plumbum sat naked at his board, slumped and sipping Spanish sack, nursing his bruised kidney and ego. He had shed his ripped doublet and soiled clothing and they lay in a pile before him. They reeked of Jack Blade’s piss.

  Thomas no longer fit in his old doublet from three years before. A paunch cushioned his once svelte stomach and the buttons were already set against the edge, making it impossible to close the cumbersome fashion. His nose twitched from the odor, and with a pair of tongs he lifted the besmirched clothing and carried it out to his rain barrel. There he dropped it in and poked it under the surface. He would be without water until the next rain, but he did not care.

  The sun was high in the sky, and in spite of his pounding head, Thomas Plumbum thought about alchemy. Mostly he thought of what a mess it had made of his life, but then he reminded himself—if not this, then what? What else could he do? He had invested too many years in its pursuit. He knew the players. He knew the tricks. His whole existence was about alchemy.

  Forced to rethink his bungled plan, he hatched a new one.

  He knew a process by which he could turn copper into gold. Thomas grinned. Well, not actual gold, but a nugget that could look convincingly similar. This he could sell to the gullible who frequented the Royal Poke and other such boozing kens where he was not a regular. At least it could supplement his dwindling funds for the time being.

  Thomas finished the last of his drink and rose from the table. His head still throbbed, but the sack had dulled the pain of his sore kidney. Searching his shelves, he found a clean flask and bottle containing the remains of a wine that had soured months ago. He poured the wine into the vesicle, the vinegar stinging his eyes, and dropped in several small lumps of copper. He swirled the flask, ensuring the nuggets were evenly coated.

  If anyone passed his open window, they would have seen Thomas Plumbum perform his experiments in the nude. The alchemist was too preoccupied to care; the day was already uncomfortably warm. It did not matter to him that he might be considered lewd or even mad in God’s eyes or his fellow man’s. He found a measure of lye and cadmia and heated the two in a shallow dish. The noxious fumes stung his nose and he threw open the door for a breeze.

  It was a process he had discovered years ago. A process used on rare occasion. It would not result in the windfall that the elixir of life would ensure, but at least he would be able to pay Jack Blade, which for now took precedence.

  Fishing the lumps of copper out of the flask, he dried them thoroughly with a piece of chamois. He then plunked the lumps into the boiling solution in the shallow dish. He sat back and waited.

  Thomas Plumbum had never been interested in pursuing the elixir of life like Ferris Stannum. His was a more venal pursuit. The fame and riches that would come from transmuting base metal into gold seduced him like the sirens of Faiakes. He was drawn by alchemy’s seductive song into an impassable reef that could ultimately destroy him. But still, he could do nothing to free himself of the enchantment of his dark science.

  The solution boiled off, changing the copper to a matte silver. To those satisfied with the lesser metal, unpolished and somewhat plain in appearance, he might have been able to pass it off as unpolished silver. In fact, he had seen lackadaisical alchemists do just that. But Thomas Plumbum was not lazy. He knew that added effort resulted in a better profit and he dropped the lumps into a pan of water and stoked his stove.

  As much as he hated adding heat to his already suffocating workplace, he pumped on the bellows like a madman. The little fire he had in his stove began to catch. Soon it roared and the flames worked their magic. The plebeian gray copper changed to a shiny gold.

  Had he successfully transmuted the base metal into gold? Of course not, but to the undiscerning eye—and Thomas Plumbum knew where to find them—it would appear that the alchemist had succeeded where others had failed. He would be able to sell the lumps for profit, and no one would know until the sheen wore off, which would be months from now.

  He was holding a lump up to the light, admiring it, when he heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. He looked over to the door.

  “Thomas Plumbum?” inquired a young lad, averting his eyes.

  “What is it?” answered the alchemist. He had learned his lesson, and the sight of the fresh-faced boy did not so much as register even a rill of interest in him.

  The boy remained outside the room of alchemy and held up a letter. “I’ve a missive for you.”

  Thomas Plumbum frowned with suspicion. He walked over to the boy and whipped it out of his hand. The boy took a step back and watched the man break the seal and read. In a moment, the alchemist’s face relaxed. “Aye, indeed. The answer is yes,” he said.

  CHAPTER 10

  Bianca sat in a corner at the Royal Poke waiting for Ferris Stannum’s daughter to finish serving a pair of laborers. From the splats of daub dried on their jerkins and bits of straw stuck in their hair, they appeared to be plasterers. The boozing ken was relatively quiet, allowing her to sit in peace. She always hesitated before entering such establishments, bracing for an onslaught of rude remarks and, if it was crowded, the sly groping that came as she squeezed past bodies and tables.

  She had left Ferris Stannum’s with an uneasy feeling after her confrontation with Tait, the lender. Perhaps Tait was truly disappointed about Stannum’s death. If he had invested a large sum of money in the alchemist’s efforts, then it would be discouraging to have the man die and never collect any of it back. What puzzled her was his sudden defensiveness. He assumed she had accused him of murder. But she had never even mentioned the word. He had.

  Bianca scratched her legs and glanced under the table. The floor was littered with bits of fallen food and mice dashing off with crumbs. She straightened, waving away the flies that pestered her as she sat in thought.

  The lender’s impertinent treatment of Stannum two days before was not what she would have expected from a man who said he believed in the old alchemist. Though, she reasoned, perhaps after years of investment, Tait was impatient to reap the rewards and unwilling to wait any longer.

  Amice finished serving the men and came over to Bianca. “Odd to see you here,” she said. “An ale for you?”

  Bianca shook her head. “Nay, just a little of your time.”

  Amice looked over her shoulder at the mostly empty benches and settled in opposite Bianca. “How did you find me?”

  “I asked Mrs. Tenbrook. She told me
you work here and live in a room above with your husband.”

  “She’s free with tellin’ folks about my life.” Amice removed her muffin cap and rewound her hair, coiling it in a bun to keep it off her neck. She replaced the cap and wiped her brow with her wrist. “It’s warmer in here than it is outside. What else did Goodwife Tenbrook tell you?”

  “She told me you married a man against your father’s wishes.”

  Amice looked away. “What a meddlesome old hag. She’d do better worryin’ about herself. Have you ever seen a more tiresome prattler?”

  Bianca reached into her pocket and pushed several coins across the table. “This is for the retorts.”

  The girl counted the coins. “Have you collected them?”

  “I have not.” Bianca had been so troubled over Tait’s break-in that she had left without the retorts. “Did you tell Tait that your father died?”

  “Who is Tait?” asked Amice, biting at a nail.

  “You don’t know who he is?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I knew, would I?”

  Bianca disregarded her impertinence. “He’s a usurer. He lent your father money.”

  “A usurer? I know nothing about any lender.”

  “He said you told him your father died. That is how he found out.”

  “Did he, now? I don’t even know who he is. Nor have I told anyone about my father’s death, except my husband.”

  “Could your husband have mentioned it to Tait? Perhaps he knows him?”

  “You can ask him yourself. He’s upstairs.”

  A patron called to Amice, waving an empty tankard in the air.

  “Keep your wits—I’ll be there in a minute,” said Amice.

  “It doesn’t make for an easy life, being the daughter of an alchemist.”

  “I agree with that. And so would my mother,” said Amice. “If she were alive. Once she died, I was left to my own. My father was too distracted to properly think about me. He expected me to cook for us but hardly gave me any money for market. After a couple of years, I got tired of pottage made from a turnip and a stolen carrot. At least when I came here, I was able to eat. Imagine a father giving me grief for wanting to eat solid meals. And now he has left me with a mountain of debt.”

  “If you haven’t the means, they cannot collect. It is his debt, not yours.”

  “I wish life were as reasonable as that. Certainly Tenbrook will hound me to my grave.”

  Bianca did not mention the landlady taking ill. Instead she reminded Amice that her father’s equipment should make her some money.

  “And when do I have time to sell it? My hours are spent fetching men ale and plates of mash.” Amice rose from the table and put her hand against the small of her back to stretch backward. “Well,” she said, straightening. “Is your father still alive?”

  Bianca nodded.

  “Be glad he hasn’t left you with his mess . . . yet.”

  Bianca watched Amice snatch the empty tankard from the patron’s hand and disappear into the back. After a minute, Bianca ventured into the kitchen, which was hazy with smoke. Amice was busy filling several mugs from a barrel.

  “What is your husband’s name?” asked Bianca.

  Amice secured the stopcock and gathered the brews. “Gilley,” she said. “Just Gilley.” She motioned to a back stairwell.

  No one had bothered to light a lantern, so Bianca pressed her hand against the wall as she made her way up the stairs in near darkness. The treads creaked as she consciously placed her foot in the center, mindful not to trip on their bowed surface. At the top, a shaft of light from a small window lit a short hallway. She had a choice of two doors opposite each other. After a few steps, she listened for voices.

  An outburst of boisterous gibes and swearing came from the room to her left.

  The banter briefly quieted at the sound of her knock but was quickly followed by a hearty welcome summoning her from within. Bianca opened the door. In front of an open window, a gaggle of men sat around a table, apparently having just finished a round of cards. Bianca scanned the room and the men’s faces.

  Two of the men were clearly disappointed Bianca had not brought four mugs of fresh ale. “Where is Amice?” said one, whose face lacked a definitive chin. Another rose from the table, excusing himself to go water some roses. He brushed by Bianca on his way out the door. A third man shuffled the deck of cards, taking his measure of her, and the last, most likely Gilley, swept up the pool of stakes. He was younger than the rest and somewhat dashing in a roguish sort of way. Clearly, he was the source of the vociferous good cheer. He looked up and, seeing Bianca, his enthusiasm faded.

  “I might ask who you might be, but suppose you just tell me,” he said.

  “Amice said I would find Gilley here.”

  “How might you know Amice?”

  “I knew her father.”

  The man sat back in his chair. “And how would you know the old man?”

  “I only recently met him. I asked his advice to solve a problem I was having with my chemistries.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up in a cynical smile. “You a puffer?”

  “Certainly not,” said Bianca, taking his question as an insult. “I do not dabble in the dark art like your father-in-law did.”

  The man did not deny that he was Gilley. “If you don’t send metals through their paces, then what do you do?”

  “I create medicinals.”

  Gilley rolled his eyes at his mate sitting next to him. The two burst out laughing.

  Bianca waited for their hysteria to subside, watching them with a level stare. She noticed Stannum’s great parrot sitting on a perch, lifting one foot and stretching it.

  Gilley gestured toward the bird. “You want a bird? I’ll sell him for a good price.”

  “I’m not interested,” said Bianca.

  The parrot began to squawk. Its piercing call took precedence until finally, Gilley rose from the table and moved the creature to a back room.

  The fourth man returned from his “gardening,” carrying four tankards of ale past Bianca. He distributed one to each player, then dropped into his vacant chair.

  “So why are you here?” asked Gilley, returning to the table.

  “Do you know a lender named Tait?”

  Amice’s husband sat and began stacking his winnings. “The name is not familiar. Why?” He continued counting his money without looking up.

  “He told me he learned of Stannum’s death from you.”

  “Did he, now?”

  Bianca went on to describe the usurer. “The man is of medium build and favors the subdued colors of a delicate palette. He has smallish black eyes and a neatly trimmed beard.” She refrained from mentioning his codpiece. “So you can say that you know him not?”

  Gilley shook his head and straightened the stacks of coins. “The man you describe is none I know.” He watched Bianca as he chuckled meanly. “Was the old dog on the books? For how much?”

  “I do not know, nor is it my purpose.”

  The parrot kept up its cackling and shrieks from the back room. Bianca raised her voice over its loud screeching. “Ferris Stannum was a kind man. Most husbands would be thankful to have a talented and generous father-in-law.”

  “Phaa!” said Gilley, spewing out his sip of ale. “Generous? Ferris Stannum didn’t care a tiddle about anyone but himself. He left Amice to raise herself while he frittered away his life and money on the noble art.” The last two words he weighted with unrestrained contempt. “A father should assure his daughter a proper dowry first. Afterward he can pursue his pleasure.”

  “And I should think a husband would ensure his wife’s comfort before his pleasure.”

  Gilley’s chair scraped the floor as he rose from it. “I would thank you to leave. I believe we have nothing left to discuss.” Gilley’s sculpted face turned ugly with ire. If the other men had not been present, he looked as though he would have tossed Bianca down the stairs, and would have enjoyed doing it. />
  Bianca held his stare. The man with the disappearing chin tugged on Gilley’s shirt in an effort to break the menacing silence. He consoled his friend, speaking reasonably to him in a low, calm voice. The parrot’s unrestrained squawking further aggravated the already tense mood. Finally, Gilley relented and eased himself into his chair. Attempting a more temperate tone, Gilley announced he had nothing more to say.

  Bianca tucked her chin in a clipped gesture of respect and removed herself from the room. Here was a man who purported to love and hold Amice above all others. Yet Amice toiled long hours as a tavern wench, enduring the caviling clientele of the Royal Poke, while he gambled their money upstairs.

  Bianca passed through the kitchen and nodded to Amice, who was chatting up a pair of newly arrived patrons. Amice responded in kind. She held up a finger for Bianca to wait and crossed the tavern floor.

  “Is he winning or losing?” she asked.

  “It appears he is winning.”

  Amice’s face relaxed in relief. “That’s a change.”

  CHAPTER 11

  In a profession considered an offense against the king, Joseph Tait trod lightly. The vice of usury was once left to those of a Jewish persuasion; however, Jews were scarce, having been expelled some 250 years before. Joseph Tait believed wholeheartedly in the Virgin’s Immaculate Conception and considered himself a forcibly subdued papal-loving Catholic. His resentment of the king’s Act of Supremacy and separation from the Roman Catholic Church simmered, but he knew better than to speak of it. To do so was treasonous. And although charging interest on a loan was a sin punishable by imprisonment, it was yet another penalty he firmly wished to avoid.

  Joseph Tait had spent far too many days staring at the dank stone walls of Ludgate Prison to ever go back again. However, his desire to avoid a repeat visit did not result in his reform. What man chooses godliness if it means he must starve? Nay, incarceration only makes a man more cunning.