“I am not apologizing,” she said.
“Nay, I don’t suppose you would.” Meddybemps shook out his cap, glad it was not lost. He looked at his young prodigy, who was clearly unconcerned about their friendship. She continued to thumb through the pages of the journal, ignoring his tirade.
At last, his ire vented, Meddybemps sighed. “Well, at least you saved the journal from being destroyed. Now I suppose you can go back to your room of Medicinals and Physickes and conjure the elixir of life for John.”
Bianca said nothing. She continued to flip through the pages, stopping at the process for the elixir of life.
“You cannot read in the dark,” said Meddybemps.
Bianca fondly ran a hand over the page, as though savoring this particular one. She snapped the book shut and looked up. “Nay, I cannot.” The side of her mouth turned up in a faint smile. Without another word, she walked to the side of the bridge and stepped on the lowest railing.
For a moment, Meddybemps feared she might throw herself off. One never knew what morose thoughts ran through that mind of hers. He started forward, ready to tackle her if that was her intent. Instead, she teetered on the railing, the flats of her feet balancing on the wood. The wind caught her skirts and they rose in front of her. She leaned out over the river.
“Bianca!”
Holding the alchemy journal against her chest, she ignored his alarmed cry. She cocked her arm and released the book, spinning it over the water like skipping a stone. It whirled and the cover opened. The pages fanned like the feathers of an exotical bird and the wind held it suspended, just for a second.
Meddybemps ran to the railing. The covers folded back like a gannet diving. The journal fell, landing on the surface of the water. For a second it rested, as if deciding its next venture. Then, as if its decision had been made, the book disappeared beneath the choppy waves.
Bianca hopped off the railing.
“I am stunned,” said Meddybemps. “Pray tell me—why?” He caught Bianca’s arm, forcing her to face him. “All of this effort. I was nearly killed. And you throw it in the river?”
“I realized something when Barnabas Hughes broke down.”
“What conceivable revelation has suddenly enlightened you?” Meddybemps could not keep from voicing his frustration. Instead of wasting his evening on London Bridge and being strangled, he could have enjoyed an evening of entertainment at a certain boozing ken in London where men willing to gamble away their money were in plentiful supply and agreeable women even more so.
“Hughes tried to interfere with the natural order of life. I remember he once mentioned that his daughter was ill, but I didn’t know she was dying. Apparently he believed God was calling his daughter and he did everything in his power to prevent His taking her. Hughes desperately wanted the means to make the elixir. How he was going to create it I do not know, but he nearly killed you because of his desire. And I expect we shall soon learn if he smothered Ferris Stannum and gave Goodwife Tenbrook a lethal dose of sleeping draught. Ultimately, Hughes valued his daughter’s life above all others. We are not so supreme as to determine whose life is more valuable.”
“And you believe God makes that determination?”
“I am not saying that it is God who decides. I am saying there is a natural order in all of life and death and we must not impose our will over that.”
“What about your salves and medicinals? Does this mean you are finished creating them?”
“Nay, I still want to relieve people’s suffering.”
“But saving John with the elixir of life would not harm anyone. You aren’t planning on murdering anyone to create the elixir, are you?”
“Of course not. I will do what I can to help John, short of granting him immortality.”
Meddybemps looked askance at her. “You speak as if you have faith in God’s decisions instead of being the heathen I know you are.”
“You misunderstand me. If John fights his malady and survives this particular illness, then I believe he will live as long as his body serves his soul. But if his soul is finished with his body, should I concoct an elixir to prevent it from ever leaving?” Bianca fixed Meddybemps with her deep blue eyes. “Does it serve his soul to never part from his physical body?”
“So where do you expect his soul will go?” said Meddybemps. “Heaven or hell?” He gave her a sly look. “Because if he is bound for hell, you should do what you can to prevent such a journey.”
“Who knows where souls wander off to,” said Bianca. “I don’t know why their destination has to be either heaven or hell.”
“There is always purgatory.”
“There is always nothing and nowhere.”
“I don’t fancy any of these choices,” said Meddybemps, feeling petulant. “I prefer heaven. As long as it is my own version.”
Bianca refrained from telling Meddybemps she had lost the kerotakis when she saved him from Hughes. Without the piece of equipment, the book was useless to her. “Besides,” she said, “what if everyone lived forever?”
“I suppose believing in heaven is as good as living forever.”
“I think I should graciously accept whatever happens.”
“So you do believe in God.”
“Faith in God is the ultimate superstition, is it not?” said Bianca. “We hedge our behavior in case He exists. And I’m not superstitious.” Bianca glanced around. In a more contrite tone she added, “Well, not very.”
Being the primero player that he was, Meddybemps said, “So, you are hedging your stake?”
“Nay, I’m placing it and calling.”
“Come what may?”
“Come what may.” Bianca took a deep breath and gazed over the Thames at Southwark beyond. Her words sounded bolder than she felt. She scattered them like seeds, hoping to grow some courage.
The two parted ways and Bianca headed home to Gull Hole. The breeze brought a welcome relief from the sweltering heat of the past week, reminding her that summer would end. The season would change. Impermanence was a certainty in life, and for the moment, she preferred not to be reminded of it. Such thoughts had an effect on her, as she had an abundance of black bile in her veins, always nudging her toward melancholia and introspection. She knew the perils of her somber thinking.
When contentment was abundant, why dwell on its ephemeral nature? Why consider for longer than a moment that this joy would not, and could not, last? Even when she was happy, morose thoughts lurked in her subconscious, waiting to dance unfettered.
Aware of what she might find once she reached her room of Medicinals and Physickes, Bianca trudged down Tooley Street. With her head down and hands plunged deep in her apron pocket, she gave no thought to her safe passage. Instead, her mind pondered her mother’s advice—“Imagine the worst possible outcome, and work backward from there.”
The worst possible outcome was one she mulled over as she neared her rent. What would she do if John had died while she was gone?
Regret pooled in the pit of her stomach. John might not be dead, so why even consider it? Days moved one second at a time. She would survive each second and so would he, until she, or he, did not.
A few candles and lanterns winked in Gull Hole. She continued to wrestle her fears until she faced the door that separated her from reality. She could stand on its threshold with her hand on the latch or face her future. Staring straight ahead, Bianca banished her conjured misgivings and pushed open the door.
Moonlight squeezed past and lit the interior. The black tiger dropped to the floor, and as she looked in the direction of the bed, it leaned against her legs. The cat offered a quick greeting and began to purr. She did not move, but stared across the room at John. It was impossible to tell if he was breathing. She listened for his breath—for the sound of soft sleeping.
Bianca took a step and the black tiger ran ahead of her. It gracefully leapt onto the bed and walked across John’s chest. Bianca softly gasped. Such weight would have stirred anyone in
the deepest of sleep. The black tiger rubbed its chin against John’s cheek. There was no response.
The cat sat on the other side of him, staring up at her. Bianca lowered herself next to John and laid her hand upon his chest. The rhythmic rise and fall of breath lifted her hand. Beneath her fingertips his heart beat slow and steady.
Bianca leaned over his ear and whispered his name. “John.”
But he showed no sign of hearing her.
Weary from all that had come before, Bianca crawled into bed beside him. She curled against his body, finding comfort in just touching him.
CHAPTER 31
She could have slept a day. Bianca woke to a crash and heard the frenzied scurry and terrified squeak of a mouse. She heaved herself up on one elbow, rubbing her eyes. Particles of dust danced in a sunbeam streaming through the window. Another crash sent Bianca leaping out of bed to shoo the black tiger and its quarry outside.
“Eat it out there,” she said, slamming the door.
She looked over at John, who lay oblivious to the commotion. He had not moved once in the night, though she might not have noticed, she was so tired. All trace of his worrisome rasp gone, John’s breathing sounded unfettered and remained even. Bianca went back over and sat beside him.
She touched her hand to his cheek, rough with stubble. “Forgive me for not telling you of my love,” she said. “I never said it often enough. I hope you never doubted. If you can hear me, know that I love you, John. I always will.”
Her breath caught from the crushing pain of loss and she looked away. Her room was as before. Herbs dangled overhead. The table was strewn with bowls. The abandoned attempt to create the elixir of life. She smiled ruefully.
She realized he might not improve. He might never return to her. Slowly, silently, John would step into death. She could either watch helplessly as he did so, or she could commit the ultimate sin in the name of mercy. In the name of love. She bent and kissed his lips. Her tears dropped on his skin.
The clatter of street noise filtered through the window and she sat up. It was later than she’d thought. She rose from John’s side to gaze down at him. He was not so unlike himself. She dipped her fingers into a bowl of water and dribbled it over his lips. Ending his suffering would change the feel of her own. It was still murder. She would have robbed him of the chance to live. The decision would no longer be his. She did not know if she could shoulder that burden. And ultimately, she lacked the courage to say good-bye.
Apparently finished with its midday meal, the black tiger observed Bianca from its perch on the windowsill. It dared not bring the remains of its meal to share with the people and left the hind legs and tail outside the door in case they got hungry later.
“Hello, my tiger,” said Bianca, offering the top of her head so the cat could bump it. She ran her hand down its back. “Soon, it may be just you and me.” It rubbed its chin against her cheek, appreciating the affection. “At least I shall have your heartbeat to keep me company. My little house spirit.” She smiled and stroked its back. “I have never given you a name.” She gazed earnestly into its green eyes. After a minute of thought, Bianca remembered a tale she once heard as a child, a story about house spirits. A hob was a magical, helpful creature but could become a nuisance if offended. “Of course,” she exclaimed. “Hobs. I shall call you Hobs.”
Pleased to have given him a suitable name, she lifted Hobs from the sill to feed him shaved cheese. It would not do for her to sit by John’s side, waiting. Waiting for him to improve, or not. Perhaps she was a coward, but she could not bear it. She could not sit idly by. Seizing her ewer of washing water, she cleaned her face and went to pay Barnabas Hughes and Constable Patch a visit.
A hint of autumn replaced the heat of the past week. The air had lost its heaviness and the sky had lost its pewter cast, returning to a vivid blue. At the parish ward, Bianca was met by one of the minions Constable Patch paid in ale.
“By what business have ye come?” he asked, his eyes ranging over her. This took some concentration, as his eyes had a glazed appearance from too much drink. Instead of one Bianca, he saw two.
“I have come about Barnabas Hughes. I summoned the constable to help me last night.”
This met with his interest. “Ah,” he said. “Ye be the alchemist’s daughter.” He ignored her narrowing eyes and allowed her entry, closing the door behind her.
“Expect a visitor,” she told him. She placed a groat in his palm. “For your trouble.”
The underling pocketed the inducement and became chatty. “The physician refuses to speak until he has garnered certain assurances.” He led her down a short hallway. “But miscreants are in no position to bargain,” he said over his shoulder, punctuating his remark with a belch. He opened another door and held it for her, simpering with satisfaction as she passed.
The room was suitably austere, a holding cell. Once the accused had been interrogated to the satisfaction of the attending constable, he would be hauled off to one of the city’s prisons. A narrow barred window allowed a shaft of light to fall on a patch of floor, insufficient to see by. Making its own contribution to the dim interior, a tallow burned in a wall sconce, reeking and spewing smoke.
Barnabas Hughes slumped on a stool, an ankle chained to an iron staple driven into the stone wall. His formal overcoat gone, he sat in his hose and shirt, soaked in perspiration. A thick wad of rope bound his wrists in a zealous attempt at restraint. Hughes looked up at Bianca’s entrance, his face bruised and swollen. She wondered if he had received lacerations beyond those bestowed on him by Meddybemps.
A safe distance apart, Constable Patch sat at a table eating meat pie and sipping ale. His face brightened at the sight of her. “Bianca Goddard. How suspicious. Perhaps we shall make some progress now that ye have arrived.”
Bianca hesitated at his odd choice of words, but his smile appeared genuine.
Patch continued, “Unfortunately, our prisoner is not cooperating. His confession is contingent on our agreeing to minister to his sick child.” The constable stuck a finger in his mouth, dislodging a piece of meat caught between his teeth, and spat the offending morsel on his plate. “I, however, am not in the business of nursing ailing children. Nor do I care to find someone to do it.” He patted his mouth with the end of a napkin tucked in his collar. “He has the misguided notion that there is money in this king’s realm to provide care for the sick.” Patch looked directly at his prisoner. “I assure you, sir, there is no such account.”
“I shall look after her,” said Bianca without hesitation. It was not the child’s fault her father had erred. Meddybemps could bring her to Southwark and Gull Hole on his cart. Bianca sympathized with Hughes’s overwhelming urge to save his loved one. She might not have murdered, but she understood how obsessive love could surmount moral judgment and prudence.
Barnabas Hughes responded to her offer. “She is not well. I do not see how she will recover. Promise me she is given a proper burial in consecrated soil. I fear she will be condemned to an orphan’s grave because of me.”
“Sir, I understand your desire to save your child. It is not for me to condemn her on your account. I shall do my best.”
Hughes’s eyes softened with gratitude. He drew his spine straight and looked pointedly at Patch. “I do not fear my punishment. Without Verity, my life is meaningless. I will see her again in the other realm.”
Constable Patch exchanged glances with Bianca. He finished off his ale and dropped his wadded napkin on the plate. “I regret to remind you, sir, there is no place but eternal damnation for murderers.” He rose from the table and came around to lean against it. “We should proceed with questioning now that your daughter’s welfare is settled.” He adjusted his sword so it did not jab him. “Let us start at the beginning,” he said. “Why did you try to strangle that”—Patch glimpsed at Bianca and graciously replaced the word “scoundrel”—“streetseller . . . Meddybemps?”
“Constable, that is not the beginning,” said Bi
anca. “Perhaps the physician might tell us of his connection to Ferris Stannum. That is where I first met him.”
Constable Patch lifted an eyebrow at Bianca’s interruption. From the look on her face he could tell she had come for some answers. He relented. If she wanted to pursue a direction in questioning, perhaps he should let her. She had a curious, if unconventional, mind, and her revelations had benefited him before. Indeed, he would not have made it out of Southwark without her. For the moment, he did not mind allowing her to ask questions, as long as she did not try to usurp his authority.
Barnabas Hughes dropped his gaze to the floor. “I had known Ferris Stannum for years. He often asked me for ingredients that he could not acquire elsewhere. I first met him ten years ago when I was summoned by his wife to treat him for a stye on his eyelid. Later, he asked me to attend his wife in her final hour. He was a man of extraordinary inquisitiveness.
“Our friendship developed over time. I believe Ferris enjoyed my company, but perhaps he enjoyed my interest in his work more. Alchemists rarely share their findings with each other, but I believe Ferris appreciated discussing his science with a learned confidant. His last discovery, the elixir of life, was years in the making. Of course I was skeptical and thought nothing would come of his dalliance. At the same time, I grew intrigued with its possibilities. Such a powerful antidote could have far-reaching import. I admit I was conflicted. I questioned whether he should even pursue such an objective. The implications reached far beyond what we mortals should be given the power for. But when I saw the miraculous recovery of a cat that was nearly dead, I could not deny my astonishment and fascination.”
“Was it you who gave him the cat?” asked Bianca.
“His daughter, Amice, had left her father to be with Gilley. She and her husband pestered Ferris for a dowry. But there isn’t an alchemist alive that has the ability to provide for a daughter’s marriage. There simply is no family wealth.”
Death of an Alchemist Page 25
