by Robin Jarvis
“He was my father,” she said quietly.
The dark eyes closed. “Then you must take after your mother,” he murmured with a black chuckle.
“Why did you kill him?”
“Let me rest... give me a moment’s peace here at the end.”
“What peace did you give to him?”
The man passed a hand over his sopping brow. “Very well,” he rasped. “Jessel an’ me were in the pay of another.”
“Who?”
“Some apothecary.”
“Which?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Was his name Spittle?”
“Yes, that were it, now let me be.”
Molly took the confession from her coat. “This is an admission of guilt,” she told him, “yet it also accuses the apothecary of hiring you to murder my father. Sign it and I will let you alone.”
Carver managed a faint laugh, but it led to a bout of coughing and when it was over his breath wheezed in his throat. “Why not?” he muttered. “I’m not going to linger in this world much longer. It might even do me a bit o’ good in the next.” He stared at the young woman and a gleam kindled in his eyes. Then he took the paper from her and said, “But it weren’t specifically yer father we were paid to dispatch.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, taken aback.
“‘Wait in the Sickle Moon and butcher whosoever you find with the boy’ were our orders,” said Carver, repeating the words that Doctor Spittle had uttered a year ago. “Then he says, ‘Once you’re rid of him chase the lad towards my shop.’”
“What!” exclaimed Will in surprise. And before Molly could prevent him he yanked his mask off also.
Jack peered at him and the ghost of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “So, it’s you is it?” he croaked. “A fine dance you led us that night, lad—good job fer you an’ all. I was gonna cut your throat no matter what he told us.”
“But why did Spittle want me?” asked Will in disbelief.
“I never asked, just got me money and did the job.” He coughed again, but this time the attack did not pass. Will backed away as the man balked and choked. Carver clutched his chest and strangled groans whistled from his windpipe. Then, even as they watched, it was all over. A shuddering spasm rifled through him and Jack Carver collapsed. The shadow of Death deepened in that place as Carver’s soul departed from his body going whither it was bound.
“No!” cried Molly in dismay. “The confession—he never signed it!” She tore the paper from the dead man’s hand and scrunched it into a ball. “All for nothing,” she wept. “It’s been all for nothing.”
“Here we are, my fine gentleman,” Mother Myrtle sang breezily as she entered carrying a steaming basin. She pattered over to them, her eyes fixed upon the water in case she spilled any. “Now, where would you care to begin, sir?” she began.
Molly turned and the old lady let out a coo of delight. “Why, what a lovely sweet face you have, my dear,” she said not in the least bit surprised, “and should you not be abed, young man?” she asked Will.
They were both too stunned by Jack’s death to say anything.
“Oh, my dears,” she tutted, “Jacky boy’s gone has he? I didn’t think he would see the night out. He must have been very special to you to affect you so.”
“Not ‘special’,” answered Molly, “but important, yes.”
The old lady patted her arm. “Don’t you worry yourself now, we are all earth when all is said and done. It is not this world that matters, but the next. If I did not believe in the kingdom of Heaven then I would have given up long ago. Without that there would be no point to it all, would there? My faith in the Lord is the only thing that keeps me going.”
“I wish I had your faith,” muttered Molly. “I can see no reason for anything that happens.”
“Oh the reasons are there,” chuckled Mother Myrtle, “we’re just not wise enough to see or understand them. Now, do you think you could help me with this basin, it is rather heavy?”
“Here,” Molly apologised, “I’ll take that, you rest for a while. I cannot cure these people but I can make their remaining hours more comfortable.”
“Rest?” repeated the elderly nurse. “I don’t think I’ve had any rest for, ooh I can’t remember when. No, I’ll help you, dear, if you don’t mind.” She rolled up her sleeves and her bare arms entered the light of the lantern.
“Your arms!” cried Molly suddenly. “Look at them!”
The old lady clucked dismissively. “Not very pretty is it?” she said. “But what can you expect, working here?”
Will leaned forward and there on the exposed flesh were the symptoms of the plague. Painful red boils covered Mother Myrtle’s arms entirely. His heart bled for her; she would shortly die.
“Sit down,” Molly told her, “you must be in agony. How long have you been liked this?”
“The sores appeared on the second day we opened our doors,” she said slowly. “That would make it about seven months ago now.”
Molly shook her head. “That isn’t possible,” she breathed. “No one survives that long.”
“Did I not tell you I trusted in the Lord? When He is sure my work here is done no doubt He will permit me to leave. Until then I am needed; that is why He has sustained me, and why He will sustain you also.”
Molly stared, then flung her arms about the old lady’s neck as she understood. “You make me feel ashamed!” she cried. “Let us set about caring for these poor folk.” Then she turned to Will and told him to leave the place and go to her room in Trinity Lane.
“I can’t,” he protested. “Now that our hopes have failed I must return to the apothecary shop.”
“But after all you heard from Carver?”
“Even so,” he shrugged, “I have to go back.”
“Then be careful,” she said. “Whatever purpose that old sinner had in catching you, he hasn’t revealed it yet. He wouldn’t lay such elaborate plans just to get a lad to work for him. Be forever on your guard.”
Will nodded, “I shall.”
“Then go now,” she told him. “I doubt if we shall ever see each other again. It would seem that I am to stay here, and after all the things I have done in the past, this is no bad way to end. Goodbye, Will.”
“Goodbye—Margaret.”
And so they parted; and, as he ducked under the curtain, the last sight he had of Molly was her tending the sick, her hair burning like a golden flame and at her side Mother Myrtle doing all she could to assist her.
Yet through his misery and desolation one perplexing question rose and dominated his thoughts—how did Doctor Spittle know that he was coming to London in the first place?
12 - The Fall of Adonis
Another cheerless Christmas passed and the winter faded into spring. The plague decreased in the cold months but when the warm weather returned it flared up again. Doctor Spittle continued with his work however and if he noticed Will’s unease during this time he did not refer to it.
Beckett gazed glumly from his cage; below him the alchemist was pacing about the attic and stirring a colourless solution with a long glass rod. Jupiter sat on the chair and watched all that was done. The rat scratched himself unhappily—he knew what was coming. It was going to be a most miserable night.
“Oh beggar me,” he whined. “’Tain’t right an’ natural it’s not. Glad my old mum can’t see me now—she’d thwack me round the chops and give me what fer she would. Oh the shame of it.” He peered down at his body and shivered; perhaps this time he could die like Heliodorus had done—that would be better than this. At least he went out with a bang.
“Pink!” he blubbered forlornly. “Who ever ’eard of a pink rat? Oh I wish I could drop down dead!” And he buried his snout in his claws dreading what was to come.
With no help from the spirit of Magnus Zachaire, Doctor Spittle had pursued the elixir of life unceasingly. There had been many times he thought he had succeeded, but each
new concoction had been fed to Beckett with exceedingly strange results. The first time the brown rat had been forced to digest a potion, he immediately began to bark like a dog and growled at Jupiter and Leech. After a second formula had been prepared and given to him, his ears grew to an incredible length and trailed across the floor of the cage, tripping him up whenever he tried to move. The effects of that potion had not lasted very long, thank goodness; but since then he had been purple, a sickly green, black with livid yellow freckles and now, to his disgrace, his fur was a beautifully delicate shade of pink.
It embarrassed him no end and, to his distress, it had so far shown no sign of wearing off. The others had only lasted a week or two at the most, but he had been pink for three months now. All through the summer of 1666 he had been forced to endure the jibes and rude comments of the cats below and, although he was not a brave or conceited rat, it stung his pride nonetheless.
Doctor Spittle tapped the glass rod on the side of the jar that contained this latest experiment and looked up at the cage. “Are you ready my little rosy rodent?” he chortled. “Let us see what effect this mixture has upon you.” He raised the rod and thrust it through the bars.
Beckett clapped his mouth tight shut; no way was he going to taste it this time. He folded his arms resolutely and shook his head, defying the drops that ran down the glass towards him.
“Don’t be churlish, my blushing beauty,” coaxed Doctor Spittle, “there’s nothing to fear—you won’t feel a thing.”
But for once in his timid life Beckett refused to obey and he covered his mouth with his claws.
The alchemist glared at the rat angrily and shoved the rod in even further until it poked Beckett in the eye. He smacked it away from him and took some steps backwards.
“Abandon hope, Elias,” came Magnus’s gloating laugh, “thou art a bungling amateur. Why even the rats of thy laboratory have no faith in thee. Return to thy pills and paltry remedies. The Hermetic Art is beyond thy cloddish wits.”
Doctor Spittle scowled. “Be silent,” he snapped. “Perhaps this time I have discovered the elixir.”
“But how canst thou be certain?” scoffed the spirit. “Why not sample what thou hast made thyself?”
The alchemist ignored him but his black brows twitched craftily. Returning his attention to the pink rat he prodded it once more. Beckett waddled a little further away until he pressed himself against the bars of the cage and his tail dangled down.
A smirk flickered over Doctor Spittle’s face. In a trice, his free hand snaked out and he gave the tail a fierce tug. Beckett threw back his head and yelled. At once three drops fell from the tip of the glass rod and vanished down his gullet. The old man roared with laughter and rubbed his hands together to see what would happen.
Beckett kissed his bruised tail and patted it gently. “Dirty rotten trickster,” he complained with a grumble, “now that just ain’t fair—cheatin’ I calls it.” He turned his back on the alchemist and pouted peevishly.
Before long a tingling sensation began to prickle the back of his neck. “Ere we go again,” he whined.
His pink fur stirred as though invisible snakes were slithering through it, then all the hairs writhed and the fleas had to cling to his skin to remain on his body.
The pale rose colour deepened, slowly at first and then the change increased in speed. Beckett howled as the potion took control of him and he was lifted into the air. Desperately he clutched at the bars to stop himself hitting the roof of the cage. Then he clenched his teeth and it seemed that the room was filled with all the colours of the rainbow. Sparks flew from his fur, spitting green and blue stars at the astonished alchemist.
Beckett’s howl soared to a piercing shriek as the brilliant hues stampeded over him, and then it was over. He slid to the floor with a groan and put a trembling claw to his dizzy head. Cautiously he opened one eye to see what disaster had befallen him this time.
To his surprise, the effect wasn’t bad at all—in fact he thought it was rather dashing. “Lumme,” he mumbled, “I does look a dandy.”
The rat was now a delicious orange, not a florid, citrus shade, but a rich warm apricot that contained tints of copper and was covered by a wonderful, lustrous sheen. Delighted, he stumbled to his feet and combed his claws through the lush new coat. “I fink I could get used to this,” he said admiringly.
Doctor Spittle studied him carefully, then pulled a sour expression.
“Another failure,” Magnus told him. “The elixir of life does not alter the colour of thy hair.”
The alchemist snarled and was about to say something in return when he blinked and a wide grin split his face. “Oh no, Magnus,” he whispered, “I have not failed at all. In fact I rejoice.” He poured the remaining mixture into a pewter bowl then unlocked the attic door. “It is time for me to retire,” he said. “Goodnight Jupiter, and goodnight to you my little rodent friend.” With that he left the room and descended to his bedchamber, taking the bowl with him.
Jupiter stared up at Beckett and frowned; why was his master so pleased? he wondered. He pulled a book from the table and opened it at the page he desired. The alchemist’s familiar had learned many things over the past year and a half and Doctor Spittle was extremely pleased at his progress. Yet he did not realise just how knowledgeable Jupiter had become, and the ginger cat chose not to demonstrate to him how powerful he really was.
Stifling a yawn, Jupiter curled up with the book and started to read.
Leech kept his ears pressed against the floor. When he was certain that the old man had gone to bed he crawled out of hiding and crept to the shelf where the spirit bottle was kept.
“And how art thou?” asked Magnus as the runt approached. “Does the hatred for all living creatures still burn inside thee?”
Leech did not reply; sullenly he twisted his ugly head and glowered at Jupiter. Then he turned to the bottle and said, “What is the lesson tonight? What mysteries of the unexplored arts will you teach me now?”
For some time now, after Doctor Spittle had gone to bed. Leech and the spirit had talked together in the darkness. The runt had learned many secrets from the tormented soul, yet all the knowledge was useless, for only his brother was capable of wielding magic.
Magnus Zachaire’s face glimmered through the dark glass of the bottle. A peculiar expression formed over the ghostly features and a smile appeared amid the neat little beard. “The time draws closer, Leech,” he said in a solemn voice. “The trap is set and soon I shall have my freedom. Once Elias is dead his enchantment shall no longer imprison me and I can return to the oblivion of the cold void.”
Will rubbed the sleep from his eyes and unlocked the shop. The cries of the street traders were already clamouring in Cheapside. At least the sickness had decreased enough to permit some measure of normal life. He gazed wistfully out of the window and remembered that night, nearly a year ago now, when he had said goodbye to Molly. He had not heard from her since and he presumed that meant she was no more, her bright young life must have burned itself out in the dark Southwarke pest-house.
“A merry morning, my young dog,” came the cheery voice of Doctor Spittle.
Will looked round and then his eyes widened.
The alchemist airily waved his fingers at him and twirled about on tiptoe as if he were a dancer at court. “Am I not elegant and dignified?” he announced, delirious with glee. “See how the sunlight picks out the glints of red. Who needs an elixir when you are as handsome as I?”
Will struggled to keep from laughing out loud. Upon the old man’s head there was now a thick growth of auburn hair. It flowed over his shoulders in luxuriant tresses and he ran his fingers through it adoringly—he looked ridiculous.
“Am I not the most ravishing spectacle?” he cried. “I make Narcissus seem toadish by comparison.” He raised his left hand and for the first time Will noticed that he held Beckett in his grasp.
“Oh noble, brave and faithful rodent,” the alchemist crowed, “a
trusty, dependable creature you have been to me. Without you I might never have discovered this most marvellous mixture. Who can gaze at me and not be consumed with envy? No periwigs do I need, for my crowning glory outshines all others.”
The orange rat wriggled in his grasp and squirmed wildly. It had been a long time since he had been out of the cage in the attic and the sights and smells of the shop were strange and unfamiliar.
Doctor Spittle squeezed him tightly and Beckett gasped, fighting for breath. “Never let it be said that Elias Theophrastus Spittle is ungrateful,” he said, hugging the rat against his cheek. To Will’s disgust, and to Beckett’s dismay, the old man puckered his lips and gave the rodent a big kiss.
“Yeuch!” spluttered Beckett wiping his face.
With a light, silvery laugh, the alchemist crossed to the door and opened it wide. “Here we are,” he told the rat, “this is the greatest reward I can bestow upon you. In return for your invaluable assistance I give to you your freedom.” He set the rat on the ground and let him go.
Beckett sniffed the air of the alley suspiciously. “What be this then?” he muttered. “Some nasty trick is it?”
“Go on,” urged Doctor Spittle, nudging him with his toe.
The rat gave one last scratch, then dashed over to a pile of weeds, darted through them and disappeared into the city.
The alchemist hummed a merry tune to himself—it pleased him to be benevolent occasionally. “And now,” he said addressing Will, “I shall take the air of this fine, first September morning and stroll through the streets.”
“You’re going out there?” stammered Will. “But you haven’t stepped outside the shop since the plague began.”
The old man chuckled and tossed his head. “Yet I hear that the sickness has decreased and now only a small number die of the pestilence each week. It will do me good to breathe the fresh air once more. I have been cooped up for far too long, I might even partake of something sweet in a coffee house to celebrate the return of my Samson-like mane.”
He swept the hair from his face and strode down the alley. Will watched him go; the vanity of the old man knew no bounds—it had even overpowered his dread of the Black Death. The boy laughed at the idiotic sight then set to work.
