The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “And you never saw him since?”

  “Only once,” she murmured. “About five years ago he found me and tried to drag me back to the village. He was a pig-headed man in some ways you know. Fortunately the gentleman I was with at the time saw him off. I can still hear my father cursing and damning me; he said then that I was no longer his daughter and he would never return—I was... dead to him.” She fell silent and lowered her moist eyes.

  “But he did return,” Will put in. “He did come back for you and when he died your name was on his lips.”

  “Was it?” she asked in a husky voice.

  “Yes,” assured Will, “and I remember that in the tavern when he mentioned you it was with regret and remorse.”

  Molly wiped her eyes. “Then maybe he had changed. Perhaps this time, if he had asked instead of demanding, I would have returned with him. I certainly have nothing to hold me here. I am not proud of the life I have been leading, Will, but I do what I can to relieve the misery of others. At least I have my wits and am not afraid to use them; there are doxies enough with only fluff in their skulls.

  “When you told me that my father was dead, I knew that I was responsible, for he would not have come if I were not here. Ever since that morning when I treated you harshly and demanded to know everything about that fatal night, I have taken it upon myself to find his murderers.”

  “Jessel and Carver?”

  “Yes—although it was not easy at first. Questions are never welcome amongst thieves and knaves. I met with many a sharp rebuke and on one occasion I feel sure that had I been a man I would have had my throat cut. Jack Carver and the one called Jessel went to ground once they got word that someone was looking for them. It was as if they had never existed; no trace of them could I find and the folk of the streets would clam up tighter than a Tyburn noose when they saw me coming.”

  “So you never found them?”

  A curious light gleamed in her eyes. “I despaired of ever bringing them to justice,” she replied, picking up the grotesque mask and turning it over in her hands. “And then the sickness began,” she murmured. “I took up the mantle of plague doctor merely to aid those stricken, but, wonder of wonders—I discovered that I could go anywhere, into any house without question or suspicion. Then, one night fortune smiled on me. There was a mean lodging house in Smithfield shut up with pestilence and I went to give them aid. Nine people there were locked in that building and, to my astonishment and delight, amongst their number was one of the men I sought.”

  “Carver?” Will gasped.

  “Jessel,” she corrected. “He was close to death but in his ravings I gleaned what information I could.” Molly paused and nibbled her lip distractedly. “It was not pleasant work, listening to his crazed rantings, but what I learned was worth the vigil.”

  Will leaned forward, enthralled by her tale. “So do you now know where Jack Carver is?” he asked.

  The young woman shook her head. “No, but Jessel told me that both he and Carver were in the pay of another—somebody had employed them to kill my father.”

  The boy stared at her in disbelief. “But why?” he cried. “John Balker had no enemies; he was shrewd in business and liked his ale, but no one hated him enough to want him dead. It makes no sense.”

  “I don’t know why,” Molly replied, “but I do know who.” She looked Will squarely in the face and said, “Jessel informed me that an apothecary had paid them to do the deed.”

  “Spittle?” Will whispered in surprise.

  “Who else?”

  “But that is not possible, he didn’t even know John.”

  Molly gave a weary sigh. “This is a muddy business,” she said, “and the more I find out the murkier it becomes. Yet in time I am certain all things shall become clear.”

  “So that’s why you’ve been watching him!” Will declared.

  “Yes, once I knew he was involved I began to keep an eye on old Spittle. Remember when I told you that he would not harm you? Well I believe I was wrong in that judgement. I am only just learning about our precious apothecary and the knowledge is far from comfortable. You had better take care.”

  The boy shifted uneasily. “I can look after myself,” he mumbled.

  Molly stared at his bruised lip and arched her eyebrows. “Yes, I can see that,” she said, “but hear me when I say that I believe you are in great danger if you remain at that shop.”

  Will gave a grim laugh; if she only knew about the powers the man possessed. “I have no choice but to stay there,” he said.

  “If I could find Carver,” Molly muttered, “I would certainly learn the truth then. Unfortunately there is still no word of his whereabouts. If I could only contrive a way of getting him to confess to the murder whilst incriminating Doctor Spittle. Then we could get the old monster arrested and brought before a Justice.”

  Will shrugged doubtfully. “He’d find a way out of that,” he said. “You haven’t seen him when he’s angry; that wretch is as artful and as full of deceit as the first serpent. It would take more than prison bars to hold that one.”

  A plaintive mew from the table interrupted him. Dab was lapping the milk from the saucer and Will watched her in silence—he had almost forgotten she was there.

  “I must get back to the shop,” he said quickly. “If I am missed, Spittle will make my life even more miserable than it is now.”

  “Must you return?” asked Molly. “He won’t find you here—why go back to that terrible place?”

  “I must. Trust me when I tell you that he has ways of finding me—he will search me out and once caught... I daren’t think what might happen.” Tenderly he took Dab in his arms and made for the door. “Should you discover Jack Carver,” he said, “I would like to know. Your father was a dear friend.”

  Molly smiled. “If I hear anything. I’ll tell you,” she promised.

  Will pulled at the door—it was still locked. Molly laughed and threw him the key, then he was gone.

  Fortunately for Will the alchemist had not stepped out of the attic since Imelza and Dab had escaped, and for the first time his wrath had been vented on Jupiter.

  “Turn against me, would you?” he screeched, hurling a book at his familiar. “Well, I’ll not stand for such rebellion.”

  Jupiter howled in surprise as the toe of a boot struck him hard in the stomach and forced the breath from his lungs. He leapt away and hid under the table, quaking with shock.

  The alchemist scowled and sat in the chair. “This is the thanks I receive for saving their miserable lives,” he grumbled rubbing the back of his legs where Jupiter’s claws had dug into him.

  “Does it matter?” asked Magnus. “Are there not other, weightier concerns to attend to now?”

  Doctor Spittle glanced up. “The elixir you mean?”

  “Thou ought to commence thy labours at once, for the sickness shall surely find thee.”

  “Yes,” the old man agreed, staring out of the window as his old fears returned. “I must begin—tell me what I should do.”

  In the shadowy corner by the door Leech laughed to himself. He could see his brother cowering under the table and it gladdened his heart. “Now you know how it feels, brother dear,” he gloated. “What merry sport it was to see you running with his boot up your hind parts for a change.”

  Jupiter heard the runt’s scorn but took no notice. Leech could be dealt with later—when the old man had retired to his bedchamber.

  A knock at the door broke into all their thoughts. Doctor Spittle looked up from his notes. “What is it?” he barked tetchily.

  “’Tis only me sir,” said Will upon entering. “I’ve brought this one back.” He held up Dab for the alchemist to see. The old man’s brows bristled at the sight of the cat and Will knew he meant to punish her. Quickly he told him the lie that he had prepared.

  “Nearly got out she did; I couldn’t stop her mother but I managed to prevent this one. How dare she try to leave—after all we’ve done for her too. Did
you hear the rumpus we had, sir? I was very cross with this scrawny little moggy, battered her I did—only maybe I went too far. She’s broke her leg, see. I never meant for that to happen; still, I don’t think she’ll try it again.”

  Doctor Spittle pursed his lips and regarded the boy for a long time. “So, you bandaged her damaged limb,” he said drily.

  “Yes,” assured Will, “I did the best I could, though I fancy you could have done better.”

  The alchemist reached out as if to inspect the bindings more closely; instead he gave the injured leg a vicious squeeze and yanked it hard.

  Dab screamed in agony, leapt from Will’s arms and hobbled over to Leech.

  A satisfied smile crossed the old man’s face. “Merely testing your story,” he said, “and I see that that much is true. She has indeed suffered a grievous blow. I did not realise you had such cruelty in you, my young dog.” His tone was sarcastic but he waved aside his doubts. “At least she did not venture outside,” he muttered, “for I would never have allowed her back had she done so. Now hearken to me, dog, if the mother returns then you are to deny her entry. She must not be permitted to bring the contagion into this place. Kill her if need be but she must not come in.”

  Will nodded. “Have no fears, sir,” he answered with a curious certainty, “she will not be coming back.”

  The alchemist dismissed him and the boy bowed, closed the door behind him and went down to the shop, pleased that he had saved Dab a further beating.

  Doctor Spittle stared at the tortoiseshell and his eyes narrowed. “And yet,” he murmured, “I should dearly like to know where the lad learnt to bandage and splint an injury so expertly, for I did not teach him.” With a twitching brow he bent over his papers and resumed work.

  Dab drew close to her brother, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Leech stepped slightly away. “Are all humans cruel then?” he asked. “Would that I could claw both young and old to shreds.”

  Through a series of sobs. Dab told him the truth. “It was not the boy who did this,” she choked, “he said that to spare me the old one’s anger. You see Leech, I did escape into the wide world—but it was a horrific nightmare.” And she relapsed into a further fit of weeping.

  “Then what really happened to you?” the runt asked.

  Dab sniffed and rubbed her raw eyes. “It was the people,” she said. “A great crowd of them tried to kill me. They had sticks and were mad with the lust for murder.” She hesitated, searching for the words in which to tell him the terrible news. “I... I was not the first to suffer at their hands,” she uttered in a small voice.

  Leech stared at his sister, until his sly green eyes widened as he guessed what had happened. “Where is Mother?” he cried in alarm. “Where is she?”

  The tortoiseshell took his paw and her tears fell upon it. “Mother is... dead,” she breathed. “The humans seized her and beat the life from her body.”

  “No!” came a strangled shriek.

  They both turned and there was Jupiter. He had heard everything that had been said. “It cannot be!” he shouted. “You lie, sister—Mother lives, tell me that is so!”

  “It is no lie,” Dab said bitterly. “I saw them toss her into the air like you would a mouse.”

  Jupiter crawled away, too shocked to say any more.

  Leech sneered. “What does he feel the most I wonder?” he muttered. “The loss of our mother, or dismay at the behaviour of his beloved humans? Our brother disgusts me.”

  “We should not quarrel at a time like this,” Dab said sadly. “We ought to support one another. We have only ourselves now; we are alone in the world, three orphans.” And she cried into her paw.

  The shining green eyes of Leech glowed with menace. “One day,” he growled, “I shall avenge you. Mother, and all humankind will pay—this I swear.”

  In the following weeks the plague continued to rage. All the dogs and cats were destroyed and the loss of their voices left the night woefully silent. Only the death bells spoke in the hollow darkness now.

  July came and with it Will’s twelfth birthday, but the occasion passed without any celebration and Will stared sorrowfully at the gloves he had received the previous year from his late mother.

  Under the guidance of Magnus Zachaire, Doctor Spittle worked unceasingly on his experiments. A dreadful sense of doom and foreboding had fallen on the alchemist and he felt that time was running out. To his astonishment, preparing the elixir was comparatively easy and, at the end of the third week since he had begun, all was ready.

  Another blazing hot day scorched London. It was not an uncommon sight to see the abandoned carcass of a pig or horse lie neglected in the road. Eventually they swelled and burst in the blistering heat and the stink rose into the clear heavens.

  In his workroom Doctor Spittle poured a golden liquid into a jar and watched the steam rise off it. Sitting in the chair, he rested his chin in his hands and a look of wonder resided on his features.

  “Can this truly be the elixir of life?” he breathed with reverence. “Does this jar now contain the essence of eternity? To think that the dream of the ancients is now before me. This is a most holy moment, my familiar.”

  Jupiter sat at the old man’s feet. Since the day of Imelza’s escape, the love between the alchemist and his cat had been cooler than before. But in the end, due to his yearning for knowledge, Jupiter had swallowed his pride and fawned once more to his master.

  “Verily this shall protect thee from the pestilence without,” came the spirit’s voice. “Thy span of life shall be increased a thousand-fold. Through the long ages yet to come thy feet shall tread and miracles undreamed of will unfold before thee.”

  A delighted gurgle, like that of an amused child, erupted from the alchemist. He clapped his hands together and nodded joyously.

  “How much longer till it is ready?” he asked impatiently.

  “The time is now, Elias,” whispered Magnus. “Drink of that nectar and become immortal. There is naught thou canst not achieve—the world shalt be thine.”

  Doctor Spittle held out a quivering hand. The jar trembled when he took it and a precious drop spilled onto the table. The light that streamed through the small attic window flooded through the golden liquid and played upon the alchemist’s face. It was a tremendous moment; he would rise above everyone, nothing would he fear and anything he desired would be his. The old man’s lips were dry as the jar drew close to his mouth. The fulfilment of his heart was nigh and all his senses were timed to this one action.

  “Drink, Elias,” urged the spirit.

  The alchemist tilted the jar to let the miraculous solution disappear down his throat. As the elixir seeped over his lips, a faint chuckle sounded from Magnus.

  Doctor Spittle’s half closed eyes snapped open. He saw the eager smile on the spirit’s face and suspicion engulfed his mind.

  The jar slammed onto the table and the old man spat onto the floor then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Whatever is wrong, Elias?” asked Magnus innocently. “Can it be thou hast no faith in me?”

  The alchemist opened his mouth and aired his tongue—there was something faintly bitter on his lips and they began to sting.

  He grasped the spirit bottle and shook it violently. “Have you betrayed me?” he cried. “Would you murder me with poison, you untrustworthy soul?”

  But Magnus replied, “Peace Elias, thou knowest that to achieve immortality thou must endure an ordeal. Perfection is only attainable by taking great risks—the blackened beast will only be filled by the scarlet hue of life everlasting after severe hardship.”

  “I know that!” screamed Doctor Spittle kicking back the chair and jumping to his feet. “But I doubt if one is meant to be poisoned first. Death is a strange route to immortality.”

  “Thy lack of faith wounds me, Elias.”

  “I am only cautious,” the alchemist replied. “There have been many times when my circumspection has saved me.” A cunning grin
stole over him and he glanced up at the two rat cages. “You must not grudge me my eccentricities, Magnus,” he said. “Indulge me in this, I crave.”

  He crossed to a cupboard and took out a strip of dried meat. This he dipped into the elixir and, standing on tiptoe, threw it into one of the cages.

  Heliodorus was half asleep and dreaming of his exotic youth. A tropical sun shone down on him and his snout was filled with the aromatic scent of eastern spices. The timbers of his ship creaked and groaned on the foaming waves and the sea sparkled all around like silver fire.

  He grunted contentedly, enjoying the lurch and swell of the vessel beneath him. This was the life, the only real vocation for a rat: to sail the high seas, journey to uncharted lands and taste undiscovered fruits.

  In his slumber the black rat dived into a ripe melon and burrowed into its juicy heart, devouring the delicious flesh and spitting out the seeds. With shoals of tiny darting fish he swam and basked on baking white shores. As he lay there, breadcrumbed with the sand, a great fish rose out of the sea and launched itself at him.

  With a startled yelp Heliodorus awoke.

  The piece of dried meat landed with a bump on the floor of his cage. For a brief second he thought he was still asleep and shuffled backwards in case it really was a sea monster. But the turgid waves of his dream rippled and ebbed away as he slapped his face to gather his wits.

  “What is this?” he chirruped, snouting the air and glaring at the morsel before him. “Has it nibblesomeness and is it crunchmaking?” he asked, giving the object a tentative prod. Heliodorus looked across to the other cage and called to the brown rat within.

  “Hoy, English!” he shouted. “It is time for victuals—yes?”

  Beckett stared dolefully back at him. “Not fer me it ain’t,” he whinged. “There’s you wi’ that girt dollop o’ stuff and here I am wi’ me guts aching an’ me belly grumblin’. “’Tain’t fair it’s not. Why ain’t there none fer me?”

  The black rat clicked his fingers. “Hah!” he chortled. “Heliodorus not eat all. He know how to share even split; on ship he learn this. Tit for tat and sharey share. I save some for you—oh yes.”