The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “Look at it,” he spat. “See how it gazes round. I hate the wretched, loathsome thing. ’Tis more of a slug than a cat! Leech is the name I give to thee!”

  Imelza put a paw round her weak child and comforted him. “Fear not, my dear one,” she purred. “I shall let no harm come to you.” The runt blinked, then his livid green eyes slid slyly towards the alchemist. Something spiteful and malevolent was kindled in those emerald depths but quickly he buried his face in his mother’s fur.

  The sound of footsteps came pattering up the stairs and the crimson door of the attic slowly opened. Will peeped in and was obviously relieved to find them all still alive. Doctor Spittle lifted his eyebrows and looked at the boy questioningly. “What is it, dog?” he grumbled. “Have you not got enough to occupy yourself?”

  “I was just... wondering how the cats were,” he replied.

  The old man sneered. “Wondering if I’d killed them, you mean,” he chuckled nastily. “Well I’ve been too preoccupied with my work to do that.” He dragged his hand wearily over his eyes and waved at the pot over the fire. “Another failure. For my very life I can see no way forward in this; my experiments have come to nought. It would seem that the Philosopher’s Stone will be eternally out of my reach.”

  He pointed at Imelza and said, “At any rate, madam there has been fed and so have her young. You can see they are all hale and hearty. The ginger one I shall train as my familiar. Jupiter is his name now, after the Roman supreme ruler of Heaven—Jovis Pater. Oh yes, and the runt is called Leech.”

  “What about the other?”

  Doctor Spittle turned his attention to the girl kitten. “The markings of the tortoiseshell are very beautiful,” he grudgingly admitted. “The subtle dabs and splashes of cinnamon on her lustrous coat are quite magnificent. And yet I have no interest in her. Jupiter I named because it is only proper for a familiar. Leech was a different matter. I hate the vile abomination—and you cannot curse what has no name.”

  He leaned back in his chair and took up a faded manuscript mumbling, “If you wish, you may name the girl yourself. I must pore over my work to see where my research has gone astray—perhaps there was something I overlooked.”

  The boy knelt beside Imelza and scratched behind her ear. She liked that and pushed against his hand for more. This human was better, she told herself.

  Doctor Spittle grunted to himself as he studied the scrolls before him. He was so engrossed that he was oblivious to everything, in fact he had forgotten they were there at all.

  Will patted the tortoiseshell’s head then tickled her under the chin. “I think because of your markings I’ll call you Dab,” he said.

  From the shop below there came an impatient cry. A customer had arrived. Both Will and Doctor Spittle ran out of the attic and rushed downstairs.

  Imelza breathed deeply; it was good to be alone at last with her children.

  “Hoy!” squeaked a voice from above.

  Imelza started and looked up at once. There was so much hanging from the sloping rafters that it was some time before she found where the voice had come from.

  “Hoy! You! Tigerstripe!”

  “Sshh!” urged another.

  At last her gleaming eyes fell upon the two cages and poking out of one of them was the furry face of a black rat. At once Imelza’s hunting instinct tingled through her. It was kind of the humans to provide her with live food. She rose and stretched herself before prowling beneath the cages.

  “Flesh,” she purred hungrily. “Flesh that dangles from above—most tantalising. I desire to prick it with my claws and let the blood spurt out.”

  “Hah!” scoffed the rat fearlessly. “You tigers always after Heliodorus’s bones. Well he not let you have them see, not never. I tell you now to keep well clear of him. He have long teeth to nip off your nosey.”

  “Why don’t you hush up, you daft ’ead?” came the cry from the other cage.

  “Pah!” snorted the black rat. “You cringey coward—I not afraid not never.”

  Heliodorus was a proud black rat. He spoke with a thick accent, picked up from all the characters he had met throughout his life. Before the alchemist had captured him he had been a nomad—one of those solitary individuals who make no place their home and who travel endlessly. There was nothing he liked better than starting a new journey, climbing the mooring rope of a great ship and scurrying into the dark hold. His bright, beady eyes had seen strange exotic sights and his ears had been scorched by tropical suns. Yes, Heliodorus could tell tales of the mysterious East and of the monstrous creatures that live in the boundless seas. But now he was a prisoner, trapped in a tiny cage.

  Imelza laughed at his threats and paced restlessly beneath him. Her muscles tensed and she leapt into the air. The cage lurched and tipped as her sharp claws hooked round the bars. The ginger cat dangled precariously from it, but the thrill of the kill was burning in her now. It had been too long since her last hunt.

  “Prepare for death,” Imelza gurgled.

  Heliodorus stood back as the large ginger head reared into view. The golden eyes flashed maliciously at him, but to her consternation he seemed unafraid. She glanced at the other cage and saw there a fat brown rodent who was visibly shaking with terror. That was more like it—she’d teach this foolish one that that was the proper way to behave.

  Imelza pushed her nose through the bars and bared her fangs. The black rat did a strange, brazen sort of dance then lashed out with his claws, slapping her nostrils and roaring with laughter. “Away, foul Tigerstripe!” he boomed. “You not chew on me today!”

  The cat let out a startled squawk at this assault to her nose and lost her grip on the bars. With a wail she tumbled backwards and fell to the floor.

  Heliodorus crowed with glee and blew a loud raspberry. Imelza glared up. She had never met with such impudence before.

  The rat turned to the other cage and chattered to its occupant. “There!” he proclaimed. “That is the way to face the enemy. I snap my fingers in its face and defy it! Heliodorus knows—he strong. Tigerstripe not eat of him. He not be in cat belch—not never!”

  Imelza curled up before the hearth with her children. One day, she promised herself, she would grind that rat’s bones.

  Days and weeks slid by and the calendar moved into January. During the day the apothecary shop was very busy. All manner of folk streamed in to find cures for colds or agues brought on by the bitter weather. Whilst in the dead of night, the only window illuminated in the whole of London was that of the attic room. There Doctor Spittle pursued his alchemical dreams, but all to no avail. Experiment after experiment ended in failure and his disgraceful language was hot enough to melt the frost on the windows.

  Will witnessed a gradual change in him as time went by. He became more desperate and despairing as each attempt to find the Philosopher’s Stone resulted in disaster. His black tempers became more frequent and sometimes the boy would awake in the middle of the night to hear the old man crashing round the attic room screaming at the top of his voice. Then he would hear the screech of a cat as it was kicked from corner to corner. There was nothing he could do to prevent this, for he knew better than to go against Doctor Spittle when he was in such a mood. Instead he would block up his ears and try to think of something else, some fairer time when his parents were still alive and he had never heard of London.

  All this while the kittens grew and flourished, but they learned to mistrust the old man who brewed his formulae over the fire. Except perhaps Jupiter—the alchemist was kinder to him than to the others. As he measured out the ingredients for his doomed quest he would talk to the ginger kitten, explaining what he was doing. And Jupiter would sit on the table beside him listening, fascinated and intrigued by the great knowledge the human possessed. He wished with all his heart that he could know only half as much.

  Imelza was not sure if she liked her son taking such an interest in human affairs but she said nothing while the winter was still upon them. Dab was content
, like her mother, to sit before the hearth and bide her time. She was already becoming a graceful and beautiful creature and her lustrous coat grew more lovely every day. Doctor Spittle left her alone so she had no strong dislike for him. Leech, however, despised the old man with every waking moment. He often bore the brunt of a failed experiment and came to fear the alchemist’s slippered feet. Never was a kitten more afraid of its master, yet a further shadow was beginning to blacken the runt’s heart. Leech was jealous of the way Jupiter was being instructed and he began to harbour a bitter grudge against his brother.

  Then, one day, fate stepped in and events began to take a more ghastly turn.

  It was a bright wintry morning in the apothecary’s shop. Will was just sealing a large jar of preserves when Sir Francis Lingley sauntered in. He was dressed more richly than usual, having had good fortune of late and rising higher in the esteem of the King. His silks that morning were the colour of daffodils and his velvet cloak a luxuriant wine red.

  When Doctor Spittle hastened to assist him Sir Francis stepped back in disgust. “Mon Dieu!” he cried. “Look at you, man! Vous avez l’air d’un mendiant. Are your finances so bad that you needs must dress so shabbily?” With his forefinger daintily extended, he pointed at the alchemist’s grimy clothes. They were stained with chemicals and burned by acids. “Vous êtes une disgrâce!” he laughed scornfully. “I might just take my custom elsewhere—it is not fitting for someone in my position to be seen dealing with the likes of you. Bonjour!” He turned on his heel, took a sniff at a lace handkerchief as if dispelling the memory of so odious a confrontation, then left.

  Doctor Spittle’s face was terrible to behold. His lips were drawn back in a hideous snarl and his cheeks flushed a dark purple. Will thought he was going to burst. As soon as Sir Francis passed out of sight the alchemist bellowed and the force behind his voice made the very pots on the shelves shake and clink together.

  “How dare he!” he stormed. “How dare that poxy Jack-a-Dandy come in here and ridicule me with his simpering French phrases!” He coursed through the shop, kicking over jars and bottles until one smashed and a quantity of black syrup oozed over the floor.

  “I’ll give him something to worry about! It’ll take more than a toad squeezing to fix him this time. I’ll have to think up something truly uncomfortable for him to suffer from.” The old man shook his fist at the door then paused as he caught sight of his frayed sleeve. “Alas,” he moaned, “my garments are indeed the worse for wear. Too long have I been absorbed in my work.”

  A smile quickly lit his face as though he had come to a sudden decision. “Yes, that would do it—better than a thousand warts. But I shall have to be patient.” He crossed to the door which led upstairs. “Clean this mess!” he ordered Will before rushing up to his bedchamber.

  Will could hear him dragging all his clothes from the wardrobe and flinging them around, screaming at the top of his voice. “Tat!” he bawled. “Nothing but threadbare rags—that’s all I ever wear! I’d burn the lot if the flames would deign to take it. Hang the Lingleys of this world! One day I’ll have money enough to buy more silks and frills than his miniscule mind has ever imagined.”

  The boy knelt down and busied himself cleaning the floor. He did not hear the door open, so when the friendly voice said, “A merry morning to you,” he jumped and fell flat on his face, right into the sticky syrup.

  “Oh, forgive me!” Molly apologised helping the boy to his feet. Will groaned; treacly, black goo covered his face and dripped from his nose. With a shiver he felt it slide under his collar and down the back of his neck. The young woman gasped at the state he was in; but gradually a grin appeared which in turn was replaced by a titter, then a giggle, until she was laughing and holding her sides.

  Will glared at her indignantly but then he too collapsed in a fit of laughter. All the tension and strain vanished during that mad moment and for a short time he felt like a young boy again. He was seized by that carefree joy which he had not felt since the day he had assumed the mantle of adulthood in Mr Balker’s parlour. Molly’s laughter was infectious and every time she caught a glimpse of his glistening, syrupy face a fresh, uncontrollable fit took hold of her.

  Their mirth was suddenly curtailed when Doctor Spittle raged downstairs. “What—you again?” he yelled at Molly. “Have you no better occupation than pestering my apprentice?”

  The giggles subsided and Will hid his smiling face in case the old man thought they were making fun of him.

  But the alchemist was too preoccupied to notice as he hurried to the door with a look of grim determination. “See to this customer then send her on her way, dog!” he said with a scowl. “Only take care she pays for what she takes!” Then he strode out of the shop and hurried down the alley.

  “Nice to see you too!” Molly called after him. “What’s rattled him this day? I ain’t seen ’im in such a hot temper for a year or more.”

  “He’s feeling sorry for himself,” Will explained.

  “Sir Francis Lingley was in before.”

  “Oh that one,” she tutted.

  “Do you know him then?”

  “I did once,” she replied and the smile faded from her lips. “When I first came to London he was... a friend of mine.” She fell silent and stared out of the window, remembering those days as a wide-eyed girl seeing the great city for the first time. A lot of things had happened since then; her heart had been broken three times by men who had deceived her, and those beautiful eyes of hers had cried themselves raw on many occasions. Molly finally knew the cruel ways of the city and how to deal with the harshness of life. She had been forced to learn the hard way, yet somehow had managed to survive. She was wiser now, and a little older. No man would take her for a fool any more and her fractured heart was impervious to honeyed words and a dashing smile.

  The young woman stirred and shook her blonde hair, banishing those painful times with one quick movement. “Still, that was an age ago,” she told Will, “and I’m right glad of that. Thought more of his own looks than he ever did of mine. He ain’t no proper gentleman either—meaning he ain’t got no land nor nothin’. All he owns is a chest full of fancy clothes and a couple of rooms near Whitehall. That’s how the court works see—you gets all these hangers-on who flatter and fawn till they get noticed by the King who shows his pleasure by givin’ ’em titles and whatnot. No, that Frank is no better than you or I—worse most like, seein’ as how he was born the son of a Stepney innkeeper.”

  “Stepney?” Will echoed. “But I thought he was French—the way he talks.”

  “French! Him?” gurgled Molly. “If he’s French then I’m the Queen of Spain! Bless you Will, that’s just a fashion at court. The King lived in France for some time you see, whilst old Crommel was still alive. So His Majesty likes things to be Frenchified. Frank might spout a few easy phrases here an’ there but he couldn’t hold a proper conversation with a true Frenchy. Nothing is what it seems, Will lad—that’s a lesson you ought to learn if you work for old Spittle.”

  A cold shudder passed through the boy. “Nothing is what it seems,”—that was what his father used to say. It unnerved him hearing it now in that dank shop.

  His reaction was not lost on Molly. She put her hand on his and asked gently, “You all right? Did I say summat I shouldn’t? I’m not saying’ old Spittle’s a saint but he wouldn’t hurt you I’m sure. Don’t fret now.”

  Will wiped the syrup from his face. “It wasn’t that,” he said. “I was just thinking of my family.”

  She wrinkled her pretty nose at him. “Ahh, won’t that old skinflint let you go an’ see them? I knowed you were here at Christmas—couldn’t he have spared you even then? I’ll bet your mother misses you something dreadful. Whereabouts do your folks live then?”

  The boy coughed back a sob and hastily dragged his sleeve over his eyes. “I come from a village called Adcombe,” he mumbled.

  There was a pause; for the briefest of moments Molly seemed taken abac
k. Then she collected herself and breathed, “Adcombe—sounds a small enough place. I’ll wager nothing much happens there.”

  “All my family are dead.”

  Molly stared at him. “Oh Will,” she sighed, “I’m sorry. It’s not easy when you’re alone, is it? Here, let me get the rest of that stuff off you.” She took a cloth from the counter and dipped it in some water. Then, very gently, she began to clean his face.

  Will gazed levelly at the young woman and decided to tell her all about the tragic circumstances which brought him here. “Can I trust you?” he asked abruptly. “Trust you not to tell another living soul what I’m about to say?”

  “Course you can,” Molly replied. She was surprised by his earnestness but could see that he was desperate to tell her something. “I cross my heart and hope the Devil gets me if I break a confidence.”

  Will stared at the treacly floor. “You know that story about the miller?” he began.

  “What, the one where he gets done in by that wicked lad? Oh yes, that’s a favourite of mine that is—gruesome little tale ain’t it? I’ve no liking for millers, they’re always fat and richer than they ought to be. I liked the way this one got...” Her voice faltered as she saw Will turn a deathly pallor. “What is it?” she asked.

  “The boy in it was me!” he sobbed. “But it wasn’t like it says. I never killed him. It was those two men. They did him in.”

  Molly frowned. “What do you mean. Will? Are you saying that story was about you?”

  He nodded fiercely, the choking sobs racking his body. “It was months ago now,” he confided miserably, “but that first night in London was awful. First the horses were stolen and then the miller was murdered. There was nothing I could do and now I’m trapped here and Mr Balker’s dead!”

  Molly pulled herself away and the face she turned on Will was paler than his own. “This Mr Balker,” she began in a thin, bleak voice, “was he from Adcombe too?”