The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “I demand to know!” shouted Doctor Spittle.

  “Ho ho, that I’ll not tell,” chortled the man. The terrier under his arm growled and bared its teeth. It didn’t like anyone shouting at its master.

  The alchemist grabbed Mr Gobtrot’s filthy clothes and shook him violently. Bunter yapped and wriggled forward, his jaws straining to bite. Doctor Spittle spat at the dog contemptuously then mumbled a string of Latin words under his breath. At once the terrier began to shake and its tail drooped. With a yelp it fell to the floor and scampered under a stool where it buried its snout in its paws.

  “You will tell me, you imbecile!” stormed the alchemist furiously.

  “You let Mr Gobtrot alone!” squeaked his wife in outrage. “I’ll tell it—you black-hearted villain! That hoard came from a big house in the city.”

  “Which house?” pressed Doctor Spittle turning on her. “Was there any more to be had there?”

  The woman shrugged. “Don’t know which house and that’s definitely all there was to be had. We don’t ask too many questions of our suppliers—it’s rude to be over-inquisitive,” she said pointedly.

  “You must know something!”

  “Only that it had been empty and shuttered up for many years. No one had wanted to buy the place see. Not with the memory of him what lived there still fresh in memory.”

  “Who—Magnus Zachaire?”

  “Mm, a wizard or witch he was, so they say. I doesn’t believe in such things myself. We haven’t never seen anything out of the ordinary, have we Mr Gobtrot?”

  “That we never have, wife.”

  Doctor Spittle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was obvious that she knew nothing more. He took a deep breath then his manner changed and he was wreathed in smiles. “Pray forgive me if, in the urgency of my asking, I forced you to surrender any informations which you were unwilling to part with. I humbly apologise and crave your pardon, kind sir and most gracious lady. Now, I should like to purchase this handsome garment. What is the price?”

  “One shilling,” said the woman.

  The alchemist counted out the money and bowed when he gave it to her. Then he courteously made his farewells and found his own way through the labyrinth of rag heaps.

  When he heard the door close, Bunter sidled out of his hiding place and gave a tentative bark. Then, when he was sure the stranger had indeed gone, he charged round the tattered mountains and yapped to his heart’s content. After that he methodically marked out his territory once more.

  The Gobtrots looked at each other.

  “He’s an odd one that apothecary,” he observed.

  “Yes, but what a precious way he has with words,” she sighed dreamily twisting the hair of her wig between her fingers.

  “I can see I shall have to keep my eye on you, Mistress Gobtrot,” he chuckled. “You’re too pretty to be left on your own—I don’t want someone stealing you away, do I?” And he put his arm round her shoulder and lovingly kissed her dirty cheek.

  Doctor Spittle burst into the apothecary shop and charged up the stairs. He did not see Will sitting unhappily by the counter. Into the attic the alchemist barged, cats scattering before him. He threw the robe over the back of a chair then disappeared down to his bedchamber from where he dragged a long looking glass. This he positioned against one of the walls so that he could read what was written on the robe’s lining and hunted for a quill and paper.

  Imelza sniffed at this interruption and resumed her position before the hearth, gathering her daughter to her once more. Dab gave the old man a curious stare but settled down with her mother. “Why is he so cross all the time?” she asked.

  “He is human,” Imelza explained.

  Leech prowled round the room, slinking from one corner to the other, not daring to show himself in case he was kicked once more. From the shadows he watched as his brother padded towards the alchemist and began clambering onto the table he was working at.

  Jupiter crawled over the edge of the table top and gave a small miaow.

  Doctor Spittle was busily copying down the cryptic message but he glanced up and cackled to his familiar. “I have it,” he crowed. “At last the secret is mine.”

  Jupiter put his head questioningly on one side and twitched his whiskers.

  An hour ticked by at the end of which the alchemist threw down the quill and clapped his hands together. “Here it is!” he gurgled, clutching the paper delightedly. “My life’s work is almost ended.” So pleased and happy was he that he patted Jupiter’s head. “I knew I had heard the name of Magnus Zachaire before; he was a noted mystic and conjurer of the last century and immensely wealthy. Unfortunately his reputation as a dabbler in the black arts was too great, for he frightened the London mob and one morning they dragged him out of bed and drowned him in the River Fleet. What a tragic waste of all that wisdom and knowledge. Still, at least he had the foresight to create this robe—and now it has come to me.”

  He studied his own copy of the instructions and nodded enthusiastically. “It has been written in code,” he told the attentive kitten. “Such was the practice of the ancient wise men; they would veil the true meaning of their work in case of discovery. Should the wrong person get hold of their formulae all was safe because they would never be able to decode the complicated ciphers that had been used.” He slapped himself on the chest confidently then coughed. “However,” he cried, “I have studied the intricacies of this art for the whole of my life—it should prove no problem for Elias Theophrastus Spittle.”

  The alchemist leaned over to the row of shelves and snatched down every volume that touched upon the subject. By the time he was finished the table groaned under the weight of them.

  “Now,” he mumbled, glancing at the paper, “I already know most of the terms described here. The dragon we all recognise as mercury. Then there is the king, his son, the grey wolf, the black crow, the lion, the unicorn and the royal marriage. Yes, those I am already familiar with—but these others: the withered tree, the divided circle, the halt-footed mare and all the ones that follow I am not aware of.”

  He took the first book from the pile and eagerly turned the pages. Jupiter watched him, absorbing every word and every action. All afternoon Doctor Spittle pored over his books, making notes and consulting his manuscripts—but, little by little, his confidence began to wane. At one point he shrieked, “Listen to this meaningless drivel! ‘When the crowned king marries the red daughter beware the leper that rides upon the lion’s back.’ Just what in thunder is that supposed to signify?”

  The hours rolled by and the pile of books grew less, but behind him discarded volumes littered the floor. He was no closer to solving this nauseating little riddle and the truth of it galled him. That he could be confounded by the cunning of someone who had lived in the last century was almost more than he could bear. How could such a thing be possible? He had devoted most of his life to studying this very subject—it was infuriating to be thwarted when success was a hair’s breadth away. Doctor Spittle pulled at his own thinning hair and thumped the table despairingly.

  Creeping out of the shadows. Leech summoned up all his courage and approached one of the books. The esoteric symbols intrigued him and, with his sickly green eyes opened wide, he stared at the pages. But the writing was meaningless to him and he could not guess what it all signified. Enviously he glared up at his brother and wished it was he sitting there. “Why can I not be trained also?” he whispered to himself.

  In the shop below, Will sat before the fire and gazed at the glowing embers. The evening was drawing in and he had already locked up. He did not hear the ranting and raving of the alchemist upstairs—he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

  That morning he had told Molly everything, from the time he and Mr Balker had left Adcombe to that night in the street where the miller had met his end. She had listened to everything with a cold and impassive face, making no comment and offering him no comfort. Only once did she interrupt him and make him repeat a
portion of the tale, and that was the description of the two murderers. Then, without saying a word she had left the shop and he had not seen her since.

  For a while Will wondered if she had believed him. He was half expecting the Justice to turn up to arrest him but the remainder of the day had passed uneventfully. Perhaps she did not want to be associated with someone suspected of murder, even if he was innocent. Whatever the reason, he had seen a side of her today that he did not like and found himself wondering if he actually wanted to see her again. The expression on her face when he told her about the miller’s death was something he could never forget and the memory of it made him shiver.

  The fire fell in upon itself and Will stirred. It was dark outside now and even darker in the apothecary shop. He foraged for a candle and lit it by the dying fire.

  “Damn it down to the depths of perdition!” bawled the voice of Doctor Spittle from above. The attic door slammed, followed by the sound of something being thrown down the stairs, then the heavy footfalls of the old man stomped into his bedchamber.

  Will could hear his curses and wondered what had gone wrong this time; he had not given the alchemist much thought all day. An unpleasant idea started to creep up on him. What had been hurled down the stairs? He prayed it was not one of the cats. Taking the candle, he went to see.

  The stairwell was pitch dark when he ventured to look and the candle flame sent a host of tall and severe shadows towering over the boy’s head. Will walked up to the steps and glanced at the mysterious thing that the alchemist had cast down.

  The robe of Magnus Zachaire lay sprawled over the steps. Will picked it up and brought the candle closer so he could inspect it. The splendid arabesques on the shoulders caught his attention and he marvelled at the detail. With his finger he traced the scaled spine of the dragon that twisted in and out of the stitched foliage, then he held his breath.

  The shining stones of the dragon’s eyes threw back the guttering candlelight so that they seemed almost alive. Will moved the flame to and fro and the stones blazed back at him, sparkling and dazzling. It was a terrific game and he would have continued, only—he looked at the shape of the dragon once more. Why did it remind him of something?

  A figure moved through the darkness beyond the circle of light, descending from above.

  Will racked his brains. Somewhere he had seen this same dragon before—but where?

  The face of Doctor Spittle floated into the circle of light. His glowering eyes were fixed upon the boy, wondering what he was doing.

  “Where have I seen this?” Will said aloud.

  The alchemist flew down the remaining steps in one leap. He fell upon the boy, grabbing his arms and shoving him against the wall.

  Will was too startled to resist; hot wax splashed over Doctor’s Spittle’s face as the candle fell from the boy’s grasp. The old man snarled at him and Will found himself staring into his mad eyes.

  “What do you mean, you’ve seen this before?” demanded the alchemist.

  “I... I don’t understand.”

  Doctor Spittle shook the robe under the boy’s nose and squeezed him by the throat. “Tell me where you have seen this before, dog!” he commanded.

  “I can’t remember!”

  The alchemist screeched with rage, “Then I shall make you!” He flung back his arm and made a fist ready to strike him.

  Will closed his eyes anticipating the blow. The fingers about his throat tightened as the alchemist tensed in readiness—he had imagined such a sensation before—then it came back to him.

  “Stop!” he shouted, ducking and flinching. “I remember!” The fist was lowered but the throttling grip around his throat remained. The black brows of the old man raised expectantly. “It was in the churchyard where I found the cats,” Will told him gasping for breath. “This dragon was carved on a gravestone there.”

  Doctor Spittle released his vice-like grip. Digesting this news he rubbed his hands together as he considered what to do. As if seeking divine inspiration he raised his eyes and stared up into the darkness of the stairwell, then a horrible smile lit his face. The old man took up the robe and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Then, dressed in a fashion that was a hundred years out of date, he rushed up the stairs to the attic.

  Will slid to the floor and rubbed his neck where the imprints of the alchemist’s fingers were already turning to bruises. Why was he so interested in that dragon anyway? “He must have gone completely mad,” he whispered croakily.

  “Mad!” hissed Doctor Spittle returning down the stairs. He was laden with bags and sacks and in the crook of one arm carried a bewildered Jupiter. “Oh no, my young dog,” he sniggered wickedly. “Far from it. Here, take this.” He thrust the bag into Will’s hands and snapped his fingers. “Come,” he urged, “this cannot wait.”

  “What can’t?” asked Will. “Where are we going at this time of night?”

  Doctor Spittle grinned unpleasantly. “You are going to take me to this churchyard,” he muttered. “The time has come for me to call on Magnus Augustus Zachaire.” Then he gave a hideous laugh and extinguished the candle.

  6 - Necromancy

  Jupiter purred with excitement as the sumptuous and mysterious scents of the moonless night tantalised his nose and whiskers. Like little lamps shone his eyes as he peered out from the arms of Doctor Spittle. The deeply shaded streets were intriguing for he could sense the teeming life which crawled through the darkness and heard the pit-a-pat of innumerable tiny hearts. The ginger kitten longed to stalk through the secret lanes and savour the delicacies that the night brings forth; but there were other, more urgent matters to attend to.

  Jupiter was learning a great deal—his knowledge was increasing with each passing day. He took in everything his master told him and thirsted for more. He gazed up at the alchemist and pressed his head into the velvet of his robe.

  The old man’s face was grim—he was deep in thought, running over ancient rhymes and incantations in his mind. There was much to do this night and he prayed that before dawn he would have the answer. A twinge of fear thrilled through him for a second but he shook himself crossly and banished the sensation. Such emotions were for the ignorant and foolish—he was neither of these. No, there was nothing to shiver at; so long as he did the thing properly and did not balk at the crucial moment all would be well. He stared at the boy in front of him and his black brows knitted together: there was the only weak link in tonight’s drama—he would have to keep a close watch on him.

  Will walked ahead with the bags slung over his shoulder and a dark lantern in his hand. It was not far to the churchyard now. He had no idea what the alchemist was going to do but he was wise enough to be afraid. Looking cautiously about them the boy hoped they would not meet anyone for the hour was late and they were a suspicious sight. A nightwatchman would ask questions and these would be very difficult to answer.

  Soon the tower of St Anne’s church rose above the trees. Will steeled himself for whatever ordeal lay ahead and slowly approached the gates.

  Pausing on the threshold of the graveyard. Doctor Spittle surveyed the rambling jungle beyond. “Interesting,” he mused, scratching Jupiter’s ear, “that there should be such an untamed corner in the heart of the city. Can you feel it my familiar—can you sense the wildness which reigns within? Almost as if some power older than man has reclaimed this once hallowed plot of land.”

  Jupiter stirred in his arms as he recognised his birthplace. He had no liking for that knotted tangle of tombstone and briar. The memory of hunger and suffering was still fresh and his tail twitched in agitation. What was his master bringing him back for? Had he done something to anger him—was he going to be left here?

  “Let us enter,” the alchemist said. “Show me the headstone.”

  Will nodded and they passed inside.

  The cemetery was quiet and still. There was no breeze tonight to stir the branches and no moonlight to shimmer over the brambles, yet a restless and brooding atmosphere cha
rged the air. The instant Will crossed into that country of the dead he was aware of it. It was as though the churchyard knew he would return and had been waiting. This was an unpleasant idea and he quickly applied himself to the task of finding where the kittens had been born.

  Doctor Spittle glanced round with a surly fascination for everything. “A most curious location,” he muttered. “I do not profess to have a scientific explanation for the disquiet which I feel. There are many forces abroad in this world, Jupiter, few of which we understand. Science is still a very young flame, as yet it has only illuminated a fraction of the great mysteries. But so long as men are driven to discovery then they shall feed that feeble fire until it shines into the darkness like a beacon.” He smiled at the kitten and said softly, “Until then the likes of you and I will be forced to use whatever methods are at our disposal to pursue our goals.” He glowered at the bags Will was carrying and sighed, “Even if we stray occasionally from the straight path of science and revert to cruder but equally effective routes.”

  “Here it is,” Will hissed quickly. He drew back the brambles and there was the ornate tombstone he had briefly glimpsed once before.

  Doctor Spittle moved forward and uncovered the lantern. Its yellow beam spilled out over the grave, chasing the shadows which fled into the thorny depths of the bushes nearby. The soft light curved over the twisting body of the dragon that twined about the headstone, picking out the weathered detail of the scales and the black hollows of its eyes. The alchemist grunted; it was indeed identical to the one on the robe. “Clear more of the thorns away, dog,” he commanded. “I must be certain Magnus Zachaire is buried here.”

  Will did as he was ordered and the suspicion that had been growing now seemed to be confirmed. “God’s mercy,” he whispered to himself, “let my fears be unfounded. Surely the old devil isn’t going to dig him up. I may have taken a dead man’s hair but I shall not rob a grave.”