by Robin Jarvis
“He wanted herbs to put in the beak,” said Will. “They need it to keep the smell away.”
“Idiot dog!” bawled the old man. “How dare you allow someone who has been into one of those disease-infested places into my home! Are you so feeble that you thought nothing of it?” He lashed out and gave Will a mighty crack with the back of his hand.
The blow caught the boy across the mouth and he yelped at the force of it. A trickle of blood oozed from his lip and he glared at the alchemist with hatred blazing in his eyes.
“Get out,” Doctor Spittle commanded. “Must I do everything? It seems if I am to outlive this sickness I must take a greater interest in the affairs of the shop once more.”
Will closed the door behind him. He wished the old man would catch the plague—it would serve him right.
“Striking the lad will not aid thee, Elias,” chided Magnus softly.
The alchemist whirled round. “Silence!” he told the pile of books that screened the bottle. “When I desire your opinion I shall seek it.”
The spirit gave a quick laugh. “Then explain why a plague doctor watcheth thee,” he said.
Doctor Spittle stammered and wrung his hands. “I don’t know,” he burbled lamely.
“Surely no one bears thee such malice?”
“No, I am a respected apothecary. Why should anyone waste their time hounding me thus?”
“Then mayhap I was right after all,” chortled Magnus. “It is an omen, Elias, a sign of thy impending death.”
The alchemist was close to tears. He strode up and down biting his fingernails. Suddenly he stamped his foot. “Wait!” he announced. “There is one who hates me and would stop at nothing to torment me to my grave.” He straightened his back and swept his fine white hair over his bald patch. “Francis Lingley!” he declared. “He must still be in London. Can the King do nothing right? That fop of a man ought to have been clapped in the Tower—or exiled at the very least. Well, I have nothing to dread from the likes of him. The next time fancy Francis comes sniffing at my door in this pathetic attempt at revenge, I shall put an end to his pestering for good.”
The following day the alchemist was in a jovial mood. Now that he was certain no supernatural agency was hounding him he was almost back to his usual self. He pottered about the shop for the first time in ages, tutting at the decline in stock and scrutinising the contents of the pots.
Will’s lip still stung. A yellow bruise had formed at the side of his mouth and he went about his chores sullenly. Now that the old man was back downstairs he loathed it and wondered that he had ever been concerned for the vile wretch.
A tap at the window and the sound of a woman’s laughing voice made him look up hopefully. But the boy groaned in disappointment. It was not Molly who passed by and entered the shop, but an older and uglier customer—Peggy Blister.
She often came into the apothecary to purchase her cosmetics. The first time Will had served her his heart had been in his mouth in case she recognised him from that night at the Sickle Moon. But he need not have worried for not even his late mother would have known him. Although his hair had grown back he still looked like a beggar’s brat and Mistress Blister dealt with him in the same vulgar way that she did with any of the apprentices in the city.
Her sharp little eyes peeked out from her painted doll face and she managed to bare her mottled teeth, in that parody of a smile, without any of her garish mask cracking. “Good day to you, Apothecary,” she said, but with difficulty for it was hard to say ’apothecary’ without moving her lips.
Doctor Spittle nodded at her and moved away slightly. “And what are you doing here, mistress?” he enquired politely.
Peg tossed her dyed ringlets and wagged her finger at him. “I come for my spices,” she told him. “I done got me a licence to sell London Treacle.”
“The preventative against the plague?”
“That’s right. I don’t want to take no chances, especially now my circumstances have changed. Besides if folk sees me taking the stuff, and if I’ve still got enough wind in me to bawl at them, then they’d surely buy some—that’s what I reckoned anyway.”
The old man held up his hand to halt her prattling. “Forgive me,” he said, “I appear to be behind the times somewhat. Tell me good woman, what are you talking about—what are these changes of circumstance?”
“Ain’t you ’eard?” she cooed. “My alehouse is shuttered up. It were the stable lad. Found ’im a retchin’ an’ a vomitin’ they did—and covered with the sores. Thank God I were out when it ’appened or I’d ’ave been sealed in there an’ all. Forty days the quarantine lasts—can yer think of it? All that time locked in with the sickness, not able to get out and with guards on the door to make sure you don’t escape. No thank you. Plum ’orrid it is.”
Doctor Spittle moved even further away from her. “How fortunate for you indeed that you were absent at the time,” he said fighting the urge to flee from her presence.
Peg nodded vigorously. “Not ’alf. Still I got me a better paid job. Fourpence a body I gets now.”
“Fourpence a what?” he squealed.
“A body,” she repeated. “‘Honest and discreet matrons’ is what they wanted, and if that ain’t me to a shillin’ I don’t know who else.”
The alchemist clutched at his throat and swiped a nosegay from the counter. Shoving it under his own hooked nose and trying not to breathe too deeply, he asked in a choking voice, “So what is it you do?”
“Searches them, o’ course!” she replied. “Well, they needs to know who died o’ what don’t they? Not everyone drops down with the plague you know and them death bills have to be as accurate as they can make ’em.” She patted her curls proudly and fluttered her lashes. “If it’s not certain how a particular person has snuffed it, us nurses have a good look and find out. Coining it in I am—’bout time too, if you ask me. This plague has been the best thing that’s come my way since the day them naughty cavaliers drank at the alehouse.”
“I... I’m pleased for you,” Doctor Spittle croaked. He jabbed a desperate finger at Will and rasped, “Attend to this customer’s needs at once.”
“Course,” Peg continued, “it takes a strong nerve to go ferretin’ through the dead. Take this very morning, now if that wasn’t a sad an’ sorry spectacle. Cried my eyes out I did.” As her make-up was undamaged this was patently a shocking lie. “Makes yer think it does, there’s them—poor as aught—an’ then there he was. Yes, it makes yer think.”
The old man twitched his eyebrows in an effort to tell Will to hurry up, then he realised that Peg was waiting for him to comment. “Hmm?” he mumbled through a fence of dried flowers and herbs.
“I was tellin’ yer about those I searched this mornin’,” she said with relish, “side by side they were, bless ’em. Lived on the corner of Throgmorton Street—in the raghouse there.”
“Not the Gobtrots?” gasped the alchemist lowering his aromatic defence in astonishment.
“That’s them,” she replied. “Took me a while to find ’em too in that place, specially as some mutt of a terrier kept snappin’ at me. Oh, but when I did—it fair broke my heart to disturb ’em. Ever so peaceful they looked, a-lying next to one another, like an old pair o’ well worn slippers. They were hand in hand an’ such sweet smiles on both their faces. When I go that’s the way I’d choose.”
“Was it the plague?”
“Lor’ bless you yes, but it weren’t easy to discover, I can tell you. Not with that perishin’ little dog yappin’ and bitin’ at my heels. Still, he won’t be barkin’ any more.”
“Why not?” This question was from Will.
“You got ears ain’tcha?” she snorted. “What d’you think all the racket’s been about this day? They’re killin’ all the dogs an’ cats they can find—in case it’s them what’re spreadin’ the disease. Givin’ ’em a good wallopin’ they are. Hoo, hoo, there’ll be some nice furry mittens to be ’ad by the end o’ the week I can tell
you.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Not as ’orrible as what I ’ad to deal with after I’d done wi’ the Gobtrots. Ooh, what a stink and what a sight! Would you believe it—there’s all these folk droppin’ like flies wi’ the plague and he goes an’ swigs venom just like that.”
She put her hands on her hips and advanced towards Doctor Spittle. The old man took a few steps backwards and banged his head against the wall. Peg came closer and he waved the nosegay to and fro until it fell to pieces.
“Imagine it,” she said, her scarlet lips almost smiling at the gruesome memory, “all that time locked away and no one knowing he was dead. Must’ve been there for months by the state of him. Never ’ave I seen a corpse like it an’ I hope never to again. He should’ve been in the ground a long time ago. When I pulled back his bed curtains I nearly died meself and almost fell on top of him. There he was, all laid out regal like, his clothes were still lovely—must have had a bit of money from the feel of ’em. An’ all around him were heaps o’ other fine clothes. I tell you it was as different from the other place I’d been to as it’s possible to be. There were golden silks, wine-red velvets, silver lace, boots of the best Spanish leather—coo, I wish I’d known him when he was alive.”
“No doubt,” interrupted Doctor Spittle. “Now I must bid you good day, mistress, we have much to do.” He ducked out of her reach and busied himself at the counter.
Peggy Blister shrugged. “Took poison he did,” she concluded. “There was a bottle of the stuff on the table by the bed. Still, maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t know him. If we’d have wed I’d ’ave been Peggy Lingley—sounds like a pig being sick, dunnit?”
Will held his breath and Doctor Spittle stood stock still. “What did you say?” muttered the old man. “Who took the poison?”
“Feller called Lingley,” she replied. “Only someone told me he’d been a Lord or summat once.”
“Then he’s dead!” cried the alchemist in disbelief.
“Was when I left him,” Peg laughed.
The significance of this was not lost upon the old man. If Francis was not disguised as a plague doctor—then who or what was? With a wail he ran from the shop and raced to the attic.
“What’s ailed him then?” asked Peg.
Doctor Spittle flung the crimson door wide open and pelted inside. “You’re right!” he shouted, snatching the bottle from the shelf. “I am doomed—Death has set a watch upon me. One night soon he will drag me away!”
“Death comes to most of us in the end,” returned the spirit.
“What do you mean, most?” shrieked the alchemist. “All must perish at some time—but I had thought I could stave off that day for a while longer.”
The blue light welled up and the face of Magnus Zachaire took on a cunning and crafty look. “I meant what I said,” he told him, “there is a way to cheat Death.”
The old man ceased his frantic babblings. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“There is only one way thou canst spare thyself from the Black Death, Elias.”
“Is this a trick?” Doctor Spittle howled. “How can you mock me so?”
“I speak only the truth,” assured the spirit. “Hast thou never heard of the elixir of life?”
“It is an alchemical myth!”
“Was the Philosopher’s Stone also a myth?”
“Can it be true then?” breathed the alchemist.
“Verily. Discover the elixir and thou wilt be saved.”
Doctor Spittle slumped into his chair and cradled his head in his hands. “But how am I to find it?” he wept. “All my life I have pursued the Stone and given no thought to the elixir. A man can only devote his time on this earth to one dream.”
“Exactly,” returned Magnus craftily. “Thou wert foolish to chase the Stone. I was wiser, however.”
The alchemist took his hands from his face. “You?” he stammered. “Are you saying that you discovered it—but you died?”
“I died in water,” the spirit told him. “The elixir is made from the elements of fire and water—and as such either of these retain the power to kill.”
“Tell me more!” insisted the old man.
By the hearth, Imelza stared at the door which Doctor Spittle had neglected to close. For the first time since her arrival she saw a chance to escape. She tensed her muscles and glanced quickly at the alchemist—he was too engrossed to notice her.
At her side Dab felt her mother stiffen. Curiously she raised her head. “What is it?” she asked.
“Look, child!” Imelza hissed. “The way is open to us now.”
The tortoiseshell stared at the door then turned back to her mother. “What... what do you mean?” she murmured.
“Escape, child,” returned the ginger cat. “We can flee from this place and follow the wild way. You can be a hunter at last.”
Dab’s heart sank; this was the time she had been dreading. The attic was the only place she knew.
Imelza pushed her with the tip of her nose and urgently whispered, “Tell your brothers. We leave at once, before the human can lock us in again.”
Dab stared at her unhappily. “Must we go, Mother?” she asked. “Are we not safe here? Are we not fed?”
Imelza snarled and her eyes shone fiercely. “Hearken to me, daughter,” she spat, “if I have to spend another night in this foul den then I shall go mad. It is bad enough that I am penned in, but that rat up there tortures me to the brink of despair.” A shudder passed through her and her tail switched back and forward. “Would you see me driven insane, child?” she cried. “You have never seen a hunter lose control. I have; he is not responsible for his actions. He kills wantonly and without thought.” She lowered her eyes and in a strained voice sobbed, “If it were to happen to me then I would surely murder anything my claws could rip apart—even you, child, though it would rack me with remorse. There is no reason in madness. Now, do as I say—tell your brothers.”
Dab hurried away; she was too terrified to disobey. Jupiter was sitting by the alchemist’s feet and she swerved round the old human to call to him.
“What is it?” her brother grumbled when he heard his name. “What do you want?”
The tortoiseshell wiped her nose with her paw and sniffed. “Get ready to leave,” she told him. “Mother says we’re to escape.”
Jupiter flicked his ears. “I’m not going,” he said. “There’s too much for me to learn in here; the outside world cannot teach me the things I want to know.”
“But you must come!” she insisted. “We can’t split up.”
“I will not leave my master,” he said flatly. “Now go while you have the chance.”
Dab shook her head; she hardly knew Jupiter any more. If he did not want to come then she could not force him. Reluctantly she left and ran to the far corner of the room.
“Leech!” she called into the shadows.
A pair of livid green eyes appeared in the depths of the gloom.
“Come quickly,” she cried, “Mother and I are leaving.”
The eyes widened then became narrow. “Is Jupiter going?” the sneering voice asked.
“No,” returned his sister.
“Then neither am I.”
“But why? I thought you would be glad to get away from him.”
“I will not leave him to discover more of the magic arts,” the runt replied. “Those secrets should be mine. No, I remain here.”
Large tears tricked down Dab’s lovely face. “Please,” she begged.
“Hurry, sister,” Leech warned, “the human has noticed his error. I see him take the door key from his pocket—your escape will be shortlived indeed.”
Dab spun round. Sure enough Doctor Spittle was rising from the chair and a key was in his hand.
“Mother!” she cried.
Imelza glanced up as the old man ran to the exit. Swiftly she leapt to her feet and sprang for the door.
“No you don’t!” bawled the alchemist as he gave
the door an almighty kick.
But she was too quick and was already racing down the stairs.
“Wait!” shouted Dab hurtling forward.
The door smashed into its frame then bounced out again. Doctor Spittle cursed and thrust it home. A shrill scream issued from the tortoiseshell as it trapped her back legs and held her firm.
“Another one who’d like to run?” squawked the old man furiously. He stooped down to drag the cat back inside.
“Help!” cried Dab as the strong hands gripped her.
From his place by the chair, Jupiter dashed forward and wasted no time—he could not let anything happen to his sister. Heedless of the consequences he ran headlong into the alchemist’s legs. Doctor Spittle yowled and toppled backwards.
Dab was free; without pausing to thank her brother she pelted after Imelza as fast as she could.
Peggy Blister handed Will the money for the spices she had bought and he counted it carefully—it was a penny short.
The woman sucked the air between her clenched teeth and gave it to him grudgingly. “Oh well,” she said huffily, “I’ve a whole family in Fish Street to see next. With any luck they’ll all be dead and I’ll get pots o’ money.”
She sauntered to the entrance and, with a toss of her head, opened the door.
At once two streaks hurtled over the floor and darted between her legs.
“Eeeee!” screeched Peg, her face cracking and falling in powdery fragments to the ground. “What was that?”
Will hastened to the door and looked down the alley. “Our cats,” he cried. “They were two of our cats.”
Peg let loose a raucous laugh. “Well they’ll not last long out there!” she hooted. “Not today they won’t.”
Imelza ran like the wind; out into the great wild world she bolted. The warm sunshine burned on her back and the humid air of the city streamed through her fur. Down the lanes she sped—a blur of orange tearing over the cobbles. It was wonderful to be free. She could hardly believe it. After all those months of imprisonment her head became giddy with the joy of it all and she threw back her head in rapture.
