Death of an Alchemist

by Mary Lawrence

  When Tait arrived at Thomas Plumbum’s, he found the alchemist poring over a book with such absolute concentration that Tait had to cough several times before he was noticed. Plumbum startled and slammed the book shut, draping his arms over the cover.

  “I’ve come to collect on the bond,” said the lender in a cool voice.

  Plumbum rose from his stool and came around the table to speak. “Remind me, sir, the amount that is required?”

  Joseph Tait flipped open his register and found the signed bond. He read, “Inventory of Thomas Plumbum, alchemist of Soper Lane, London, debt due to Joseph Tait, of London, by bond fifteen pounds, no shillings, to be paid to Joseph Tait at or upon sixth August next ensuing the date hereof. In witness whereof we have both hereunto set our hands this sixth March 1543.” Tait looked at Plumbum. “Shall I continue?”

  Thomas Plumbum responded neither yea nor nay, so Tait read on. “Inventory of Thomas Plumbum, alchemist of Soper Lane, London, debt due to Joseph Tait, of London, by bond two pounds, six shillings, thruppence, to be paid to Joseph Tait at or upon third July next ensuing the date hereof. In witness whereof we have both hereunto set our hands this third April 1543.” He turned the bond around and held it in front of the alchemist’s face.

  Thomas Plumbum blinked at the paper.

  The usurer tipped his head and peered around the edge of the note. “What say you?”

  Thomas Plumbum swallowed. “I haven’t got it,” he said softly.

  Tait drew down the note, staring hard at the alchemist. “You say you have not got it?”

  The alchemist’s eyes were wide with remorse. He offered not a word.

  “Sir, you are in arrears summa totalis of seventeen pounds, six shillings, thruppence, a not so minuscule sum. It is now the twelfth day of August and you have had five months in which to secure the funds. Am I to assume you have frittered my money with no forethought as to how you might keep your honor and repay me?”

  “Sir, I mean to meet your honor with my own. A spate of poor luck has but nearly trounced me, but lo, as I have come unto a most propitious bit of fortune”—Plumbum regained some of his former pluck—“it shall not be long before I have created an elixir, a rare and wondrous potion the likes of which has never been known.”

  Tait’s eyes narrowed. He had heard such claims before. And with Ferris Stannum’s demise, he questioned any alchemist touting a grandiose discovery. His patience for Thomas Plumbum was as meager as the money in his pocket. “Tell me of this discovery,” he said, preparing to discredit any addlebrained scheme the problematic alchemist might espouse.

  “I hope you will understand my reticence. Until it is in my hand I must not speak of my accomplishment.”

  Now it was Tait’s turn to blink, dumbfounded. Plumbum was more pretentious than most and for him to soften his bluster was unusual. Though, thought Tait, perhaps this claim was a bluff and a ploy to stall. The usurer had always been more guarded with Plumbum, knowing better than to lend him the excessive sums of money he had lent Stannum. Simply said, he was not the same caliber alchemist. Yet despite his posturing, Plumbum had, until today, always managed to make his bond. If he got his money paid by his success in alchemy or by some other means, what did it matter? Tait was almost drawn in, then remembered how Ferris Stannum had deceived him with a similar plea.

  “Your bragging does not pay your bond. And I have no time to wait for this success of which you speak.” Tait sorely regretted not collecting the lesser bond when it had come due. Such a trivial sum had not been worth the bother four months ago. Four months ago, Tait had not foreseen his current financial predicament. Still, he remained determined. “If not the payment in full, then what of value can you give me now?”

  Plumbum dug into the pocket in his doublet and removed two pounds and an angel. He offered the coins to Tait.

  Disappointed, Tait accepted the coins, but his eyes slid past Plumbum to the table behind him. “You are certain you have nothing more of value?”

  Plumbum lifted his chin, the muscles taut in his throat. “Nay,” he replied.

  The lender searched the alchemist’s face. “I shall take these and reduce your loan, but if you do not produce the balance in a day’s time, I shall have you thrown into debtors’ prison.”

  Having dispensed his threat, Joseph Tait thought Thomas Plumbum a fool not to notice his darker intent. He had given the silly alchemist a chance to settle his debt, not with coin but with something perhaps more valuable. It was an offer Thomas Plumbum should not have refused.

  CHAPTER 14

  Bianca stopped on Old Fish Street to buy from her favorite fishwife. Meg Kant was a stout woman with a delicate nose that nearly disappeared between the folds of her ample cheeks. Beneath her bountiful chest was a pair of lungs that could outbellow a bull in heat. She did a good business. Her offerings were the freshest. Because her voice carried above all others, she attracted more attention. If a customer could endure her sudden outburst of promotion, then he could come away with a catch that wouldn’t make him sick later.

  “ ’Allo, lass,” she said when Bianca approached. Her brown eyes looked like small seeds buried in a fleshy apple. “Nelson just brought me some fresh cockles.”

  Bianca looked over the mollusks. “I’ll take thirty.”

  “Ye don’t have your basket?”

  “I’ll just put them in my pockets.”

  Meg Kant didn’t think twice. She didn’t warn Bianca her kirtle would stink of fish later. Who was she to tell anyone they would smell like fish? She counted out the thirty cockles and watched Bianca stuff them in her pockets.

  “My cat will like these.”

  “Well, save some for yourself. Cats can take care of themselves.”

  Bianca took a wherry to Southwark, avoiding a walk across London Bridge. Even though the sun had dropped in the sky, she preferred the cool thought of water beneath her to the oppressive heat above.

  She landed at Molestrand Dock and walked the final distance to Gull Hole thinking about Amice and her husband, Gilley. Perhaps if she returned to Goodwife Tenbrook’s and the old lady was recovered from her malady and in a better mood, Bianca could collect the retorts from Ferris Stannum’s alchemy room. She could further question the landlady about Amice and especially Gilley. Not much escaped the meddlesome biddy, and with the right questions, Bianca might discover more.

  The chickens startled when she turned the corner to the narrow lane where she lived. Her neighbor had let them run loose, and Bianca thought it was only a matter of time before a dog nabbed at least one of them. She arrived at her rent and found the door wide open. Expecting to see a couple of chickens pecking through the rush, she found, instead, John asleep with the cat curled next to him. He roused and sat up on his elbows.

  “You are home early,” said Bianca, clearing a space on the board to deposit the cockles.

  John dropped back onto the bed. “I didn’t feel well.”

  “How so?” Bianca went over to him.

  “I am tired. I can barely muster the desire to get myself a drink.”

  Bianca found a mug and opened the stopcock to a barrel of ale to fill it with warm brew. She brought it to John. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since noon or thereabouts. Boisvert didn’t have much ambition either. This heat is the devil to deal with.” John took a long drink. He looked up at her. “Where have you been? I expected to come home and find you working on your latest concoction.”

  “I visited the fishwife and bought cockles.”

  “It took you four hours?”

  Bianca stroked the cat while thinking of an excuse. John had asked her not to get involved in Ferris Stannum’s life—or death, as it were. “I ran into Meddybemps and we had a long talk.”

  “About what?”

  “He was on his way to Tyburn Hill to spend the night. A goodly number will be executed tomorrow. He didn’t want to miss a business opportunity.” Bianca rustled about trying to find a pot to boil water.
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  “As long as you are finished bothering over that old alchemist dying.”

  Bianca didn’t answer but pretended she could not hear him for all the clattering of bowls. She hurried out the back door into the alley and removed the lid off their rainwater. Tonight she would begin a new sublimation using what Ferris Stannum had taught her about the process.

  The pot filled with water and she swatted an insistent wasp. It wasn’t usual for John to come home early from Boisvert’s two days in a row. It was abominably hot, but Boisvert didn’t usually care how hard he drove John. The silversmith saw a young man with endless strength and stamina and used him no better than a draft horse. John tolerated the Frenchman’s callous handling as a means to an end. He would soon be finished with his apprenticeship, and afterward he could set his own work habits.

  Bianca returned the lid to the barrel and carried the pot back inside. Besides, John would say the benefits of being Boisvert’s apprentice far outweighed the sore shoulders and long hours. He was proud of learning French. Bianca wondered why any Englishman would want to speak the flowery tongue, but she supposed it could be useful. How so? She could not say.

  Bianca positioned the pot on top of a tripod that served as an easy place to cook in the summer. It sat just inside the calcinating furnace, allowing the smoke to escape through a chimney outside. Though not all the smoke escaped. Cracks in the mortar allowed fumes to snake through the gaps, often filling the rent with a haze that was worse when the doors were closed. But for a meal of cockles, it was worth the inconvenience. She laid a fire and struck a flint.

  John lethargically got out of bed and relieved himself in the back alley. He dragged himself to the bench and watched Bianca chop an onion and carrot for the broth.

  “You don’t look well,” she said. “Your face is flushed.”

  “It is the heat.” John sat in a daze, his eyelids heavy.

  “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll fix this and bring it to you.”

  John shoved a fist under his chin, propping up his head. He fought to keep his eyes open, but his battle was lost to exhaustion. Bianca dumped minced onions and dried parsley in the water. “Come on,” she said, pulling his fist out from under him. “You need rest.”

  John did not argue. He rose from the board and shuffled back to their pallet, his shoulders slumped, barely lifting his feet. Bianca plumped his pillow and helped him lie back. She stood over him, watching until his breath evened out and he dropped asleep.

  The cat smelled the steamed cockles and twined itself between her calves. “Come, tiger. You must eat. Even cats that live forever need food.”

  Bianca ladled some broth into a bowl and pried open a couple of shells to pull out the meat. She gave the dish to the cat and it sat watching the steam rise. She fixed a second bowl for herself. Like the cat, she studied the steam curling into the air and waited for it to cool.

  Four people wanted money from Ferris Stannum. She counted them out on her fingers. His landlady, his usurer, his daughter, Amice, and her husband, Gilley.

  One person was angry with Stannum for a different reason. Thomas Plumbum. The alchemist took exception to Ferris Stannum’s sending the alchemy journal away for validation. She didn’t think Plumbum was going to benefit monetarily from the old alchemist’s discovery. Bianca lifted the bowl to her lips and slurped the broth. Unless he dispatched the old man and took the journal for his own glory. Bianca set the bowl on the table and fished out a cockle. She pulled the meat out and dropped it in her mouth. Tomorrow she would return to Ferris Stannum’s and collect the retorts she had bought. She would ask Goodwife Tenbrook more questions about Amice. And she would also ask where Thomas Plumbum lived.

  The cat chewed the flesh of a cockle, working the small piece of meat around in its mouth like a bit of gristle. “There, my friend,” said Bianca. “A bit of a chore, but it is good for you.” She stroked the cat affectionately. “Promise me you won’t run off like the other.”

  Across the room John lay silent in bottomless sleep. She’d never seen him so weary. She ladled a bowl for him and set it aside to cool. Once he stirred awake, she would give it to him. But for now she would let him rest.

  She collected the flasks and ingredients for a new decoction. Mindful of Ferris Stannum’s advice, she would test what she had learned and see if her try at sublimation might finally work. She would be up the entire night, but she would not have slept well even if she tried.

  Later, while Bianca’s experiment cooked, she watched John twist in sleep. He had woken once and she had gotten some broth down him, but she worried. His exhaustion was so complete. The signs of sweating sickness would be evident, the threat becoming more possible as the night drew on. If it were the sweat, he could succumb to its horror within hours. She admonished herself for thinking the worst. John was simply tired. He worked so hard. His body was simply telling him to rest. Still, Bianca found some solace in that he had not complained of headache—yet.

  The cat jumped on the table before her, groomed itself, then stretched out among the flasks and bowls. Had Stannum found the elixir of immortality? She glanced at John, unable to stop from thinking how quickly the disease could take him and change her life forever. She had known him since she was twelve. They had watched out for each other, and what started as a kind of sibling affection had grown. John was her history and her future. She sucked in her breath, trying to imagine her life without him.

  What if she had Ferris Stannum’s alchemy journal? Would she be able to decipher his Decknamens and secret language? It was a rhetorical question, but one she let herself contemplate. As the sun began to fall, Bianca finally dismissed her musings as wishful thinking and concentrated on the experiment before her. She sealed her alembic with the flux Stannum had taught her and settled in to attend the process. But when her mind wasn’t thinking of John or the elixir of life, it flitted from one acquaintance of Ferris Stannum’s to another. Unless she was dissuaded, she believed the old alchemist was the victim of murder.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sweltering heat makes for a terrible bedfellow. Bianca was not the only one stirring in the darkest hours of that night. On the opposite side of the river, Barnabas Hughes sat by his window staring up at the sky. A celestial river spilled across the black. A few stars winked seductively. He wished he could be so easily enticed to forget his distress.

  Like Bianca, he sat in vigil over the one he loved. Her decline had come in small, almost imperceptible signs. Signs so subtle that at first he had dismissed them. He’d convinced himself his imagination was raving. Such was the fate of a man constantly asked to piece together symptoms into a named disease so that he might cure it.

  Such was the fate of a man refusing to accept that his daughter might die.

  It is a monstrous injustice to make a man endure the loss of his wife, then watch as his only child grows weak. Had he not suffered enough? Barnabas Hughes silently cursed his God. He could not see the purpose in being put to such trials. Was he not God’s faithful servant, tending the sick in times of plague and outbreak? He was not like some who refused their duty when circumstances were uncertain or even perilous.

  And for what reward? More pain and heartbreak? A merciful God should not allow his most principled disciples to be constantly cast into a hellfire of grief with no hope. Did God not want him to attend the sick and suffering?

  The physician pondered the ethos of such a God and could think of no reasonable explanation. He believed himself a compassionate caregiver. An educated man. A thoughtful man. A man who worked tirelessly for the sick.

  He rose from his chair and went to his daughter, asleep on his bed. Verity would be five next week. Her perfect skin appeared alabaster in the blue shadows. Every time he looked at her he saw remembrances of his lost wife. His wife was in his daughter’s face, in her gait, her carriage.

  His concern had begun when his daughter lost balance as she rose from the table one day. He thought she had caught her foot on a chair leg,
and in the endearing logic of a young child, she scolded the chair for tripping her. A child’s balance is never so assured as an adult’s. Children had to grow into their sometimes awkward-fitting body. What parents didn’t hold their breath and nervously watch their child navigate the top of a stone wall?

  But the stumble was accompanied by dizziness, and Barnabas saw the skittering eye of one whose balance was impaired. And when her falls became more frequent and difficult to excuse, he became worried.

  He left her in the care of neighbor Ann, the wife of a bread maker, who often put Verity to good use kneading dough and doing simple chores. She enjoyed the girl’s sweet nature and never saw her as an inconvenience. His heart sank when he returned from tending a man with a broken leg to find Verity not at the bread maker’s, where he had left her, but passed over to a second neighbor. “Verity lost her stomach a couple of times,” complained Ann. “I couldn’t have her in the shop like that. No customer is going to buy from a place that smells of sick.”

  Barnabas Hughes carried his daughter home, gave her a simple beef broth, and put her to bed. She recovered from her upset and the physician tried to remember what he had fed her. He suspiciously threw out their staples of barley flour and oats and bought new. However, he wondered, could he have unknowingly exposed her to the contagions he regularly came in contact with? Had he carried disease on his breath so that when he kissed Verity good night, he unwittingly contaminated her? He refused to give weight to these thoughts. How could he be the cause of his daughter’s illness? God could not be so unmerciful. A father is a daughter’s greatest protector. But Barnabas Hughes privately feared that he might have been her greatest betrayer.

  However, Verity showed great strength of spirit. She improved to the point of tame routine. The falls and upset stomachs were committed to the past and to memory. All was forgotten. All was well.

  When Verity took ill again, Barnabas believed that with his loving help she would again respond to his care and recover. But her strength waned. She stayed in bed, not having the strength even to sit up. Hughes bled her, covered her torso in every healing poultice he could think of. He sought syrups from the apothecary and forced them down her throat. Still, each day she grew increasingly weak.