Lamenting the death of his friend Ferris Stannum, the physician gazed at the boundless heavens and thought about the elixir Ferris claimed to have projected. Had the old alchemist truly discovered the nectar of immortality? The clop of hooves on cobblestones broke his rumination. Barnabas returned to his chair by the window. Unfortunately, no one would ever know.
Even if he had possession of the journal, how would he interpret Stannum’s findings? How could anyone interpret those findings? Alchemists wrote in a convoluted language all their own. Sometimes only they understood their own scribbling.
Barnabas admonished himself for even thinking of the elusive philter. Its potential tortured him as much as the thought of his daughter dying. Still, what father could not imagine preventing his daughter’s death when faced with its possibility? A silky breeze touched his cheek and its gentle nudge briefly distracted the physician from his sinking despair. But the interruption was short-lived. Barnabas Hughes buried his face in his hands and wept.
His mind in a muddle, Thomas Plumbum escaped the stifling heat of London for its more crooked counterpart to the south. Wishing to avoid Jack Blade and his coven of cheats, he headed in the opposite direction. Though Southwark teemed with decadent options and was an invitation for its own kind of trouble, Plumbum knew he could not sleep and he sought a distraction to soothe his frenetic mind.
Unwilling to part with his second most precious possession, he strapped it against his chest and buttoned his doublet. He left his rent unlocked, preferring a thief to enter without fracturing his door—doors being irksome to replace. If a clipper were to ransack his rent while he was gone, he would find nothing of value for his effort.
Thomas Plumbum’s face and kidney still ached from his previous misadventure with Jack Blade, but with enough spiced ale he would sufficiently forget his discomfort. Besides, he needed to gather his wits and he could not do so at home.
He crossed the bridge, keeping to the center between the handsome homes and businesses of the wealthy. Every dark alcove harbored possible danger, so that even after he passed, he kept glancing over his shoulder, his head swiveling as if it were on a pike. He could not shake the feeling he was being followed. Relieved to be nearly halfway across, Plumbum approached the drawbridge and was glad it was level so he would not have to wait. He stepped onto its iron and timber cross members, careful not to catch his shoe in a gap. Below, the murky Thames flowed, creating the sensation that the bridge moved beneath his feet. Thomas Plumbum did not like being exposed to such height. Why had he taken the bridge? To save a mere sixpence in fare? Fool—he would take a ferry home later.
Thomas Plumbum was being followed. But his pursuer did not creep along behind the apprehensive alchemist as he crossed London Bridge. His stalker followed him from below.
In a cavern beneath the bridge a wherry clung to a support. For most, this would have been impossible with the water rushing by, squeezing past the constricting starlings, of which there numbered twenty. The water churned and boiled, but for this ferrier, the river’s capricious nature offered no hazard. Nor did it garner even a second thought.
What caught this ferrier’s attention was the unmistakable smell of alchemy.
As old as the river itself, this ferrier was not mortal. But, he was made from the stuff of mortal men. He was the vessel for thousands of souls; souls that had died of the plague, unwilling, and too young. He embodied their anguished pleas, their forgotten potential. The tears of a thousand mothers and fathers filled his psyche. Born from the plague but not of it, he had watched London for more than four hundred years, though time, for him, was inconsequential.
He had watched London endure bouts of epidemic and disease. He had seen fire rage through her streets, leveling homes and cathedrals. He had witnessed the destructive reign of brutal kings. But he did not choose this semi-existence, this purgatory, this limbus between the living and the dead.
He had gotten there by accident.
Every alchemist sought to understand the world around him. It was that curiosity that drove the inquisitive to experiment. While most alchemists sought the philosopher’s stone, there were others who understood that small discoveries could be just as useful. He had been such an alchemist—once.
He had also been more successful than most. Basic understandings regarding the noble art came naturally to him, and he had laid the foundation for discoveries that would come later. Until Ferris Stannum, no one had delved deeper into the dark science than he.
Rarely does nature allow her secrets to be broached without a cost.
The Rat Man lifted his nose, catching the essence of alchemy, and tasted it on his tongue. Someone had discovered something of import. Someone had come as close as he had once done. Perhaps even closer. He moved his skiff without concern, for the river was void of wherriers for the moment. No one saw his boat glide out from beneath the span and disappear again under the drawbridge. The boat moved with such efficiency that it would have disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Such a passerby would have missed seeing a hooded figure whose eyes glowed green like a cat’s. The creature’s skeletal body had not seen the light of day in so long that his skin was gray and nearly transparent beneath a black woolen cape. Known as the “wraith of the Thames” to some, the Rat Man to others, he had existed in the imaginations of those who swore they had seen him and who believed in such entities.
What drew the wraith under the drawbridge to watch a skittish man hurry across it? Resolution. The Rat Man sought a solution to the one law he never mastered. A law that had punished him for even trying. He could not live and he could not die. He was the abomination of an experiment gone badly wrong.
And as he watched the steps of an alchemist tread across the drawbridge above, he smelled on that alchemist the solution to that depravity.
Thomas Plumbum cradled the ale to his lips, pondering what to do.
A steady stream of muckrakers and swindlers flowed in and out of the Dim Dragon Inn—mostly in, though it was growing rapidly late and more should have been flowing out. He studied their wizened faces coated in mud from the flats. Their entire persons from head to toe were encased in gray muck. Only the whites of their eyes, and if they were young, the whites of their teeth, offered any contrast in their dismal costume.
He should not have liked being a muckraker. He straightened his doublet, realizing his attire set him apart from the denizens of the Dim Dragon. Even though he had gotten the smell of Jack Blade’s piss out of the worn garment and mended its tear, it was still a sad thing that he did not have a second one to wear instead. Such was the lot of a failed alchemist.
Spiced ale should have dulled his overactive imagination. His intent was to sooth his rattled wits and come to a solid decision. But as he quaffed one tankard after another, his mind grew more fearful.
He felt the appraising stare of three sets of eyes. Setting his drink on the board, he concentrated on reducing the number of sinister pairs to one and had almost succeeded when he felt the overwhelming urge to relieve himself of the abundance of brew sloshing in his bladder. Plumbum staggered to his feet and pitched himself in the direction of the door.
Fumbling with his codpiece, he momentarily forgot the strange sensation as he wended through the tables on his way to the back alley. He held his breath so his fingers could loosen the leather strings snug against his gut. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he noticed someone cupping his hand to a fellow’s ear while keeping his eyes on him. Plumbum freed himself of the leather pouch that constricted but accentuated his most precious possession and gave over to the torrent of relief that followed. Emptying one’s bladder after waiting overlong to do so was a kind of ecstasy. He could think of only one other act that was akin to such bliss.
But his felicity was short-lived, for as the alchemist’s last few spurts fell into the dirt beyond his shoe, the point of a dagger found the attention of his cheek. He froze for just a split second as his survival instinct primed h
is already scatty nerves. Unwilling to give over to any request or demand, Thomas Plumbum summoned his inner badger. With a sudden burst of grit he drove his shoulder into his assailant.
The man stumbled, putting out a hand to catch himself against the stone of the tavern. His eyes locked on Plumbum’s and the alchemist got a look at his face. In the instant it took for the man to draw back his arm, Plumbum connected the rogue to the man receiving the whisper inside the tavern. No doubt an angler looking for an opportunity to rob a man of his money. Perhaps the alchemist would have been relieved that the man had no further ulterior motive, but this did not occur to him. The man sprang with the force of a catapult and plunged the dagger into Thomas Plumbum’s chest.
Fortunately, the ale dulled Plumbum’s perception of pain. The alchemist looked down at the knife protruding from his doublet. He gazed up at his aggressor, bewildered. This man had meant to maim him. With a growl, Plumbum viciously butted his forehead into his attacker’s vulnerable crown. The cozen staggered backward and Plumbum hooked his foot behind the rascal’s knee, forcing him down. Plumbum nearly fell on top of him but managed to spring away and remain standing. The alchemist wheeled about, growling and scanning the shadows for more flicks. Satisfied the rogue acted alone, Plumbum did no further damage.
Grasping the hilt, Plumbum pulled out the dagger and felt the tip for blood. It was dry and he patted his chest where it had protruded. All was safe inside. Now his only doublet had a new hole in it. He sighed and pocketed the shiv inside his bootleg. One could never have too many knives.
Before heading for the waterfront, Plumbum paused to get his bearings. He considered what the night had brought him. His survival had to be a propitious sign. If before he had been fraught with doubt, his decision now was certain. His spirit rose and his step quickened as he congratulated himself on a brilliantly conceived plan.
CHAPTER 16
The black tiger cat sniffed Bianca as she slept at her table, her head buried in her arm. She had fallen asleep while working on her sublimation. The cat pawed at her tangled hair, trying to find her face beneath it. Bianca stirred to the sound of rough purring and a wet nose touching her own.
“Hello, tiger,” she said, lifting her head and letting the cat nuzzle her cheek. “I suppose you think it is time I paid some attention to you.” Bianca scratched the cat under the chin and it closed its eyes, tipping back its head and pointing its chin toward the ceiling. Finally, it flopped on its side and exposed a striped belly for more petting.
“You aren’t a dog,” she said. “But I suppose you don’t even know you are a cat.” She stroked its stomach and it stretched, rubbing its head on the board and looking at the world upside down.
The day shone brightly through the window and Bianca realized she must have slept past early morning. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and looked over at John. If he had stirred in the night, she had not heard him. Concerned, she went to him and sat on the edge of the bed.
Her sitting did not rouse him. She laid her hand on his forehead. He felt damp and cool to her touch. “John,” she said. Getting no response, she leaned closer and shook him. “John, wake up.”
An eye popped open, focused on her suspiciously, then snapped shut.
Bianca shook him more vigorously.
John groaned, rolling away from her.
“Well, at least you are with the living,” she said, standing.
She found a pot and was about to go outside to the cistern when John rolled back to face her.
“Where are you going?”
“Ah,” she said. “You do live. It is not my wishful thinking.”
“I do live, but just barely.”
Bianca returned and peered down at him. “How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
“Perhaps another day of rest is what you need.”
“I am fine.” Glancing around, John saw the room brightly lit with a midday sun. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” he said. “Boisvert will be in a French snit.”
“I didn’t stir you earlier because I was sleeping, too.” Bianca turned back to the door. “I’ll cook some porridge.”
“No need,” said John, kicking off his sheet. “I haven’t the time.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.
Bianca saw his face grow ashen, and he paused as if the room was telling him a secret. “John, you don’t look well.”
John focused on a fixed point across the room. In a moment he stood, but not with his usual vigor. Bianca watched him steady himself and, when he had stopped his slight weaving, checked her sublimation experiment. It had failed. She had been unable to stay awake and keep the heat constant.
John picked his way gingerly to the back alley door. When he returned he sat down at the board instead of getting dressed. “I’m already more than late,” he said. “I think I will rest a little more before I go to Boisvert’s.”
“You should stay home,” said Bianca. “It is hard labor at Boisvert’s and he can manage another day without you.”
“Are you going out?” asked John.
Bianca had planned to return to Ferris Stannum’s to collect the retorts she had bought from Amice. She had been so distracted finding Tait there that she’d forgotten to take the alchemy equipment. But she couldn’t let John know where she was going. “I need to go to market,” she replied.
“To Newgate?” asked John.
“I can.”
“Will you stop in and tell Boisvert I will be along?”
Bianca saw John back to bed and propped open the door so he would get a cross breeze. Taking the bowl she would have used to make porridge, she dipped it into the cistern and washed the sweat and grime from her face. A looking glass hung on the wall, exposing her rebellious head of hair to her scrutiny. She found a comb and started working on the snarls but lost interest and tossed the comb on the table. Appearance was of little concern to Bianca, but she had the benefit of youth on her side. Tousled hair could be covered with a muffin cap, and as long as she put on a fresh smock, she was presentable.
With a kiss planted on John’s forehead and a gentle head butt bestowed on the cat, Bianca set bread and ale next to the bed. She headed out the door. Seeing John out of bed lessened her concerns. She told herself it was a combination of heat and fatigue that had momentarily slowed him. John had given her a task and an excuse to leave for a while, and she was not about to squander it.
A number of questions still bothered her regarding Ferris Stannum. She would collect the retorts and ask Goodwife Tenbrook if she knew where Thomas Plumbum lived. The alchemist had been conspicuously absent since Ferris Stannum’s death. Perhaps he did not know his friend had died, but she would ask Tenbrook if she had seen him since Stannum’s death.
Again it was low tide as Bianca rode the ferry across the river. The sun, as relentless as the day before, made for an uncomfortable ride. Stirred by the warm, damp air, the sand flies at Paul’s Wharf attempted to make a meal of her as she stepped out of the boat. She hurried up the steps and quickly put some distance between herself and the river.
The air lacked its usual tang of iron when she turned down Foster Lane, home to other smiths besides Boisvert. She supposed the sweltering summer had slowed the ambitions of most journeymen. Firing up a forge and working in its suffocating heat would make for more misery than any coin or bauble was worth.
The door to Boisvert’s shop hung open, which surprised her, as Boisvert was a finicky man. An open door was an invitation for stray animals, both four-legged and two-, to wander into his shop. The amount of time and aggravation he spent chasing them out generally defeated any pleasure he gleaned from an occasional breeze. Bianca poked her head inside and saw the silversmith organizing his tools, a tumbler of wine in one hand, iron tongs in the other.
“Boisvert,” said Bianca, stepping into the shop.
The silversmith wheeled about. “Ah,” he said. “I was expecting your husband, not you.”
“He is overly tire
d. The heat seems to have exhausted him.”
“It is never this unpleasant in France. C’est vrai, we may have the heat, but it comes without the unpleasant stink of the river.” He looked at her accusingly, as if she had created the disagreeable conditions.
“John will be along later.”
“Il est malade? Because if you think it true, then home he should keep to. I do not want any anglais disease, merci beaucoup.” He swirled the tumbler under his nose while watching her.
“He thinks it matters more that you not think him lazy.”
Boisvert huffed. “Lazy. I think nothing of the kind. John does much of the heavy work. I am not so insensitive.”
“Can I tell him you wish he would stay home until he is well?”
“As long as he is ill, as you say, and not looking to set up his own shop.”
John’s apprenticeship was nearing an end, but it was premature for him to consider leaving Boisvert now, anyway. “Of course he is ill. John still plans to work with you until he earns his license.” She didn’t know what else to say to reassure the peevish Frenchman, who eyed her skeptically. “Well,” she said, backing toward the door. “Shall I tell him you wish him a quick recovery?” She dipped in a brief curtsy but did not wait for his answer.
With St. Paul’s in sight, Bianca cut through a chain of alleys to the street off Ivy Lane where Goodwife Tenbrook lived. The shadowed way offered relief from the sun, but as Bianca neared the rent, she saw the disconcerting sight of a collector’s cart next door.
The cart held one shrouded body, but there was room for more. Bianca approached, glanced around, and, seeing no one watching, pulled the linen back from the corpse’s face. The face was still preserved, and belonged to no one she knew. As she tucked the cloth back in, she noticed the door to Goodwife Tenbrook’s building open to the street. Voices carried from the second-floor window.
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