The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Sir Francis squeaked with anticipation. “I cannot bear to wait,” he cried. “Oh, how I shall impress the court with my effortless grasp of the French tongue. The Lingley star will rise very high tonight, Spittle. Now I must be off and learn these divine morsels by heart.” With a rustle of orange satin and a wave of his frills he was gone.

  Doctor Spittle’s lips broke into a wide grin and he went laughing up the stairs.

  Alone in the shop Will scratched his head. “Now what was that all about?” he asked himself. “And why is old Spittle so happy?”

  A bitter smell met the alchemist’s nostrils when he entered his workroom. The air was thick with an acrid mix of noxious chemical vapours and a crucible glowed red hot over the fire. Taking a long pair of tongs he prodded the liquid metal within. It bubbled and blew out a hideous stench.

  “How much longer?” he cackled.

  “At midnight tonight the Stone shall be thine,” answered the spirit.

  “Midnight tonight!” echoed the old man.

  “Verily, and shouldst thou add merely a few grains of it to any base metal it shall surely transmute into gold.”

  “Never have I come this close to achieving my life’s work!” gasped Doctor Spittle, slumping into his seat. “I must take care; it would do me no good to overexcite myself and suffer a seizure just as the Stone is within reach.” He stared round at his cluttered attic as though it was the last time he would set eyes on it. “Gladly shall I exchange this poky place for a palace,” he chuckled. “What say you, Jupiter?”

  The familiar had leaped onto his master’s lap and the alchemist stroked him fondly. “Soon you shall dine off a gold plate,” he said. “I can scarce believe it myself—after all these years of scrimping and hardship to purchase the necessary equipment, the time has come.” A big, joyful tear trickled down the hooked nose and splashed onto Jupiter’s head.

  The remaining hours of daylight were painfully slow and Doctor Spittle remained glued to his chair, watching the bubbling substance in the crucible give off streams of foul fumes. When the evening came he was still there, his eyes fixed on the strange liquid. It had become transparent now and tiny crystals were beginning to form around the edges.

  The light died outside the small attic window but the alchemist was insensible to the growing dark. Only the fire and what simmered there existed to him; it filled his vision and his mind. The night crept by and as midnight drew closer the cats became restless.

  Imelza prowled around, anxious to escape this stinkful prison. Dab watched her timidly. Her mother was growing more agitated with every passing day—the tortoiseshell felt sure that if they were cooped up much longer then something disastrous would happen. Imelza’s yearning to roam abroad unsettled her and she crouched by the hearth, dejected and heavy of heart.

  Jupiter had moved from the old man’s lap and was engrossed in one of the open books which still littered the floor. From one of the topmost shelves Leech spied on them all. Slyly he observed his brother and watched as the material in the crucible gelled and become almost solid. It had turned white and looked like a thick, salty paste, yet green smoke continued to fly out of its gurgling centre. Leech peered out of the window and knew it was nearly midnight.

  “Not much longer,” breathed the alchemist in a hallowed tone.

  “No indeed,” said Magnus quietly. “’Twould appear thou hast succeeded, Spittle. That is a rare feat to accomplish. Once I was in possession of the correct formula it took seven years to find the Stone. The Almighty hath looked kindly upon thee.”

  “Rubbish!” hissed the old man. “It was my skill that blended the ingredients and my eyes that watched over the chemicals—no heavenly agency was at work. Man is the true lord of Nature, there is nothing he cannot achieve.”

  BANG!

  “Lord of Death!” cried Doctor Spittle jumping from the chair. “What was that?”

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  “’Twould seem that someone is most desperate to enter thy shop,” said the spirit.

  “Sounds like the Devil himself.”

  “I assume thou speakest from experience,” returned Magnus.

  The alchemist ignored him, and leaned over to the window where he peered down at the street below. A broad hat smothered in white feathers and gold lace obscured the figure hammering on the shop door. Doctor Spittle let out a hearty laugh when he realised who it was. “Ha, ha!” he hooted. “A dishevelled Lingley has come to call! Now what has fetched him from that toothsome banquet, I wonder?”

  At the sound of his voice the man tossed back his head and glared upwards. “Spittle!” he screamed. “I’ll see you hang for this!” The old, guffawing head withdrew from the window and Sir Francis was left fuming on the step. He pounded on the door again and the worried face of Will peered through the glass to see who it was.

  “Open!” screeched the man. “In the name of all that is holy, unbolt this door or I shall break it down!”

  The boy quickly obeyed and was thrust aside as the man barged into the shop. “Sir!” Will exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this? The hour is late—”

  “Silence, lad, if you value your head!” Sir Francis stormed. He threw up his arms and shouted until he turned a violent shade of beetroot. “Come down Spittle, let me face the fiend who has ruined me this night!”

  “I am here,” said a soft voice.

  The man whirled round and there, with a candle in his hand, stood the alchemist. A triumphant gleam shone in his eyes and he studied Sir Francis keenly. “Well, well, My Lord,” he whispered quietly, “pray tell me the reason for this riotous disruption. See, you have woken my apprentice, and I myself was immersed in important work which should not be left unattended.”

  “My Lord?” spat Sir Francis contemptuously. “Oh yes, you black villain, you know full well that I am disgraced and no longer bear that title!”

  Doctor Spittle pretended to look shocked but he could not prevent a smirk stealing over his face. “Why, my dearest sir,” he began with just the hint of a snigger, “what can you mean—what unhappy event has occurred to rob you of your nobility?”

  Sir Francis—or rather plain Francis Lingley as he was now—took off his hat and threw it at the old man with all his strength. “You occurred, you deceitful felon!” he shrieked. “I curse the day I ever set eyes on this hole of a shop! It is you who have brought this calamity upon me! I should kill you where you stand!”

  Doctor Spittle tittered to see the man so distraught but this only made the poor fellow worse and he tore off his periwig and stamped it into the dusty floor.

  Will was astonished and confounded. “What has happened?” he asked. “What has he done that is so terrible?”

  Francis rounded on him and waved a piece of paper under the boy’s nose. “This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “is what brought about my doom! These ‘conversational’ sentences have consigned me to the life of a pauper! I am utterly destroyed!”

  “I don’t understand...” Will stammered glancing at the giggling alchemist. “How could they?”

  “Because he has cheated and lied to me!” snarled the man. “Oh yes, the banquet began well enough. The guest of honour, the Comte de Foybleau, arrived with His Majesty and we were all there ready to greet him. All day I have drummed these hateful French sentences into my head so that I would be word-perfect tonight—my God, how I shudder now to think of it, that I should have played such a determined role in my own downfall!” He paused for breath then continued, “When the feasting was complete we rose to dance and the Comte was introduced to those of note. I pushed myself forward and gave my most gracious and becoming bow. The Comte had by him a manservant versed in both French and English. This person informed me that His Lordship expressed a delight in my attire. I saw this as my chance and hastened to compliment the Comte and his charming wife in their own tongue. This I managed adroitly; they were both well pleased and wished to speak at greater length. With my pride soaring I began to use the sentences you
had furnished me with, but to my consternation they both stared at me in puzzlement.”

  “Why?” asked Will. “What was wrong?”

  Francis snorted and pointed accusingly at the alchemist. “Only later did I discover that I was not actually flattering them but was in fact uttering the most odious insults.”

  Doctor Spittle burst out with a great horse-laugh.

  “Yet that was not the end of my disgrace,” Francis persisted. “The more I tried to retrieve the situation the more I dishonoured myself.” He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and tears sprang to his eyes. “In my madness I apparently told the Comte that his wife had the face of a barnacle goose and the figure of a butchered sow and if his children took after her then they must be hideous beyond imagining.”

  Will drew his breath. This was terrible—greater men had lost their heads for less. His sympathy went out to the once proud and haughty lord—no one deserved such humiliation. He hardly dared to ask what happened next but Francis needed no prompting.

  “Their horrified expressions told me that I had made some nightmarish mistake, yet in my stupidity I thought I had mispronounced some word or other—never did I dream that what I said was one long list of rudeness. Like some moon-kissed buffoon I gabbled on until the Comte slapped me with his glove and his wife spat at me. The whole court was listening by this time and the King himself came over to see what the commotion was.”

  “Ha!” exulted Doctor Spittle. “So you uttered that last sentence, did you not?”

  “Just so!”

  “Hee hee! And did you compliment him on his noble choice of friends?”

  “Pouvez-vous remettre un bouton à ce veston?” screeched Francis, the veins on his temples throbbing with rage. “What possessed me to trust you? Vile, loathsome creature that you are! Only then did I realise I had been betrayed! If those sentences had been provided earlier I should have had time to work out what they actually meant. Idiot though I was, I actually put my faith in you!”

  The alchemist leaned against the counter for support. He was so helpless with laughter that he shook uncontrollably, making one of the pots on the table jiggle off the edge and smash to the floor.

  Francis’s face was awful to look on; his lips were white and his nostrils were flaring like those of a mad horse. “You think it is funny?” he bawled. “You think that my asking the King if he can sew a button on my coat is a great jest, do you?” His hand flew to his belt and in an instant produced a small, deadly dagger.

  The laughter died in the alchemist’s throat when he saw the blade advance. He glared at the man wielding it and snarled, “Sheathe your dagger, Lingley. Would you make a fool of yourself twice in one night?”

  “I will be avenged!” the other declared fiercely.

  The alchemist smiled. “Very well,” he said calmly. “Come and gut me.”

  Francis ran at him and the dagger was raised.

  Not knowing who to help, Will rushed forward. If this man killed Doctor Spittle he could escape and his heart leapt at that—he could return to Adcombe with no fear of pursuing demons hunting after him. For a vital second he wavered as the delicious idea took hold; he would finally be free to till the land on the Godwin estate and run it as his father had done till the day he died. What a heavenly release from this cruel and grim city.

  Will recoiled suddenly—had he really become so callous? Could he in truth stand by and let Francis commit murder?

  As he was struggling within himself a cry of anguish and fear resounded through the shop. The knife clattered to the ground and Francis fell back in terror.

  “His eyes!” he spluttered. “Look at his eyes!”

  Will turned to see. Doctor Spittle was cackling and an orange glow now illumined the room. It was brighter than the light of the candle and with a shiver the boy saw where it came from. The alchemist’s eyes were blazing with flame; they were like two burning coals and they glared at Francis with evil intent.

  “You dare to raise your hand against me?” the alchemist cried, seeming to grow in stature. “Begone, before my anger consumes you!” He held out his hand and the tips of his fingers dripped yellow flames.

  “Aaiieee!” wailed Francis. “You’re a demon!” And he hurried out of the door as fast as his feet could take him.

  Doctor Spittle chuckled and crossed the shop to close the door. He was his usual self again. “I do not think we shall ever see him in here after tonight,” he said mildly, “not now he is déclassé. I wouldn’t be surprised if His Majesty hounds him out of the kingdom altogether.” He stopped abruptly when he saw Will’s astonishment. “Fear not, young dog,” he assured him. “That was only a party trick—nothing more—but it put the wind up our Francis, did it not?”

  Will nodded feebly; this horrible old man frightened him more and more.

  “Now get you back to rest,” the alchemist instructed. “I have my work to return to.” And he left Will staring after him.

  With a light heart Doctor Spittle entered the attic; from now on nobody would deride him. He had suffered the scorn of others for too long; tomorrow he would be richer than all of them and he hummed a merry ditty at the notion.

  Locking the door behind him he turned to the crucible over the fire and looked blankly down. It was empty.

  “The Stone!” he murmured. “Where is the Stone?”

  “The clock has struck midnight,” said the voice of Magnus Zachaire. “The Stone was here then, but thou wert not.”

  “I... I do not understand,” the old man said slowly. “Then where has it gone?”

  The spirit laughed. “The heats took it,” he crowed. “Did I not warn thee of the dangers involved? The Stone must be removed from the fire at the precise moment or it withers and is no more. All that work was for nought—thou wert too busy seeking vengeance to heed thine own ambition. Thy malice blinded thee to all else.”

  “Then I shall begin again!” Doctor Spittle growled defiantly. “I have accomplished it once, a second time will be easier still.”

  The spirit said nothing but as the face faded within the bottle an odd glitter stabbed from his dark eyes.

  9 - ‘Lord Have Mercy on Us’

  Days and weeks passed by, until March settled in, bringing with it warm winds and fair weather. The spring came with an abundance of lush green growth and perfumed blossom rained down from the trees which grew in the courtyards and small gardens of the city The winter had been an extremely mild one and many thanked the Lord for His leniency. A lazy, contented air lay over London and the gentry delighted in taking strolls around Hyde Park where they studied the latest fashions and talked of the recent scandals. The horrendous spectacle that Sir Francis Lingley had made of himself was all but forgotten and, as no one knew where he had taken himself off to, he was old news and the court tongues wagged to different tunes.

  The war with the Dutch continued, but to the common folk it was only a rumour which had little effect on their lives. Only when the ships came to port and the haggard sailors rampaged drunkenly from one tavern to the next did they become aware of it.

  Under the blue, hazy shadow of St Paul’s, March turned to April and the clement weather continued. Soon those who had thanked the Almighty for the temperate winter were muttering against Him. In the warm sun the smells of the city gradually worsened; the meat in the butchers’ shops went rotten more quickly and the sludge of the open drains flowed thick and slow in the heat. It was the ideal breeding ground—for vermin of all kinds. Rats multiplied in their thousands and armies of ants invaded houses, crawling into kitchens and marching into pantries. Hosts of large, black flies swarmed through the cramped lanes and everyone closed their windows against them.

  Will was bored. He stared out of the leaded panes and fanned his face with a sheet of paper; the air inside the apothecary shop was sticky and close. It had been a quiet morning for customers—only two had come in and of those only one had purchased something. A cloud of insects buzzed past the glass and instinctively he ste
pped back.

  “If only Molly would come,” he sighed wistfully. The pretty young woman had not set foot inside the shop since that morning in January. Will missed her cheerful and irreverent manner; a visit from her would certainly brighten his day. “I wonder what can have happened to her?” he murmured.

  A thunderous noise crashed overhead but the boy took no notice. “He’s at it again,” he simply muttered.

  There followed a quick succession of sounds: bottles smashed, heavy footsteps stamped up and down and a high screech cut through the stifling atmosphere. Will had been expecting the latter but he winced anyway. “I don’t know how that poor cat stays alive.”

  Since that night when he had brought about the ruin of Sir Francis Lingley, Doctor Spittle had been trying to recreate his experiment. At first his confidence was overwhelming but as each attempt ended in failure he became increasingly impatient and frustrated. This had a disastrous effect upon his work: his concentration would fail at a crucial moment and the entire procedure would have to begin again. Even the arrival of a new comet in the sky failed to grab his attention and it was left to other astrologers to suppose what this would portend.

  From the spirit of Magnus Zachaire Doctor Spittle had little help; it merely repeated what he already knew and on occasion the alchemist was driven to distraction by the unnecessary remarks it made about his competence.

  Will kept out of his way as much as possible, for the old man’s temper boiled as viciously as the chemicals in his experiments.

  A door slammed and the boy glanced upwards; quickly he made a grab for the broom and when the alchemist entered he was busily sweeping the floor.

  The old man looked drawn and the bags beneath his eyes were grey from the sleepless nights he forced himself to endure. He glowered at Will and crossed to one of the shelves. From this he took down a large jar and emptied the contents on the ground. “Be sure and clean that also,” he said curtly.

  At that moment the door to the shop opened and a large ox of a man squeezed inside. His face was round as a cannon ball and purple with the heat. The tufts of black hair which sprouted on the top of his head lay flat against his scalp, plastered down by the sweat which constantly cascaded over his corpulent features like salty waterfalls. A fly that had followed the stranger into the shop landed on his dripping brow and crawled down his heavy jowls. The man squashed it with an expert thumb and flicked the dead insect off his streaming skin. It landed directly at the feet of Doctor Spittle.