by Ian Morson
‘I shall be part of the King's court for Christmastide. You may please yourself for the next few days.’
The old man allowed a faint smile to cross his normally sour features. Perhaps he could have the Christmas he had promised himself after all.
‘Just ensure that the fires do not die in the hearths.’
Sweat poured from the brow of the alchemist as the heat in the room became almost insufferable. He had stoked the furnace until the centre of the flames seemed almost white, then placed the fire-clay crucible on the spout that projected from the top. The rush of heat at that point was almost too much to bear, and he could only position the crucible by holding it in a pair of long metal tongs. The chemicals began to melt as the heat transmitted itself through the wall of the fire-clay.
He scurried to the bench at the back of the room, where a clutter of glass flasks and metal mortars lay around the texts he now consulted. He was familiar with Aristotle's theory of the four elements - earth, water, fire and air - and the four properties of material bodies - hot and moist, cold and dry. It was obvious that cold water, which was wet, could be transmuted into hot air, which was still wet. The question was, could other bodies be transmuted into their primordial matter? He pushed aside the translation of Aristotle he had possessed for a number of years, and drew towards himself the unbound sheaf of papers he had recently procured. His excitement when he had originally recognized their value was rekindled now as he scanned the information contained in them.
He had been visiting one of his colleagues when he saw the bundle of papers lying on the man's desk, bound with cord. From seeing just the first page, he had instantly realized what they were. Trying to contain his impatience, he had enquired whose property they were - the man in whose house he stood was a dullard who could barely understand Talmudic law. He learned that they had been left as a pledge by a master of the university in return for a few shillings. He had no difficulty in persuading his dull friend to pass the pledge on to him in return for a small profit. Hurrying home through the market, he had clutched the papers tightly for fear of losing such valuable alchemical texts.
Now he scanned the instructions again in order to continue his experiment. The secretive alchemist who had drafted the text had written everything in cryptic terms, but the terminology was familiar to the alchemist and he translated it as he read. White Queen was the term for sophic mercury, and Grey Wolf was antimony, a powerful purifier. He carefully measured out the required quantities from the array of jars that cluttered the shelves in front of him, and turned back to the glowing furnace.
At first he tried to ignore the thunderous knocking at his street door, but when it continued, and was like to burst the door open, he cursed and decided he must respond to it. If anyone entered and discovered him at his present task, he could not vouch for the consequences. The valuable papers he quickly wrapped in their cloth and thrust behind a loose stone in the cellar wall. Crossing to the furnace, he reluctantly picked up his tongs to lift the crucible from the heat. Then he stopped - perhaps the interruption would not be long, and the chemicals would be ruined if he removed them now. Leaving them to blend, he rushed up the smooth stone steps from his laboratory. He slammed the cellar door behind him, and turned the key in the massive lock. Dusting specks of chemical powder from his robes, he walked down the passage and opened the front door to be confronted by three burly men. Behind them, he could see an impromptu crowd of leering citizenry gathering, eager to see the discomfiture of another Jew. The man in the centre of the three spoke.
‘Are you Zerach?’
Zerach - doctor, herbalist and secret alchemist - nodded in resignation, his shoulders slumped.
‘I am arresting you in the name of the King.’
The message from Jehozadok had been urgent, and Falconer hurried down the back lanes south of the High Street, oblivious of the students and traders who flattened themselves against the cheap plaster walls of the houses as he passed. Turning down Jewry Lane, and thence into Fish Street, he paused momentarily before the two houses that served as the Jews' Scola and meeting place, which was also Jehozadok's home. Bursting anxiously through the door and up the stairs, he found the old man in his usual place, surrounded as always by books. Jehozadok's face was filled with alarm, but a smile of relief came as he peered at the new arrival.
‘Ah, William, I knew it would be you. Everyone else treats me with a reverence I find irritating. As though I am elevated to holiness already, and they are just waiting for my body to leave this mortal world. Whereas you .’ He motioned for Falconer to sit down. ‘You treat me unceremoniously, as an old friend should. But you will want to know why I asked you to come. I have found your alchemist.’
Falconer leaned forward eagerly in the low chair, his knees almost on a level with his chest. The rabbi continued. ‘Having told you to look close to home for the man Friar Bacon sought, I thought I had better do the same myself. Enquiring of my many visitors, I discovered this morning that one of our community has been purchasing many strange elements recently, including something referred to as Red King and White Queen.’
Falconer nodded - these were alchemists' names for sulphur and mercury. It sounded promising, and he listened carefully as Jehozadok spoke.
‘I would have thought nothing of it, for this man is a doctor and uses all sorts of peculiar remedies. Many work, but some don't and I recall that some years ago he was in dispute with a student who sought a cure and was not satisfied. There was talk of necromancy even then. He draws attention to our people, and times are difficult enough for us already now the Caursins are offering moneylending services too. We depend for our existence on your Christian distaste for profiting from loans, coupled with your Christian need to borrow money. I remember when the Lateran Council's ruling that no Christian soul should speak to us or even sell us provisions was almost invoked here. There were a few anxious and starving weeks .’
The old man was rambling, and Falconer, anxious to trace Bacon's alchemist friend, gently broke into his reverie. ‘How can you be sure it is the man I am seeking?’
Jehozadok returned to the present, and gazed triumphantly at Falconer with his half-blind eyes. ‘Because he fits the clue you were given by the friar.’
‘And the name of this man?’
‘Ah, didn't I say? His name is Zerach de Alemmania, and he lives in Pennyfarthing Street.’
Despite his conviction that John Peper was the culprit, Peter Bullock was going through the motions of checking all other possible avenues. He doubted that William Falconer could keep away from the investigation for long - indeed he had been astonished that anything could have kept him away from it at all. Sooner or later, his friend would be asking questions and Bullock wanted to be certain he could answer them. He would show Falconer he could apply Aristotle's deductive logic himself, even if he had had no education at all.
As the watery winter sun struggled to rise above the yellowed town walls, and left dark shadows in the narrow lanes, he made his way towards the temporary stage in front of St Frideswide's Church, where the troubadours' wagon now also stood. He chose not to go to the inn where they were staying, guessing, rightly, that Stefano de Askeles would still be abed at this time of day.
His aim was to speak to each of the troupe separately away from their master, and compare their statements later.
Entering the silent yard below the steps of the church, he spotted a figure near the rear of the wagon, and saw from the bald pate that it was the halfwit, Will Plome. He was dressed in the green and yellow parti-coloured jerkin of a Fool. His coxcomb cap with bells was tucked into the belt round his waist. He seemed to be talking to himself, and Bullock sighed at the appropriateness of his costume. It was only as he began to cross the yard that he heard a low cluttering in reply to Will's soft-spoken words. Suddenly the man capered away from the back of the wagon with something small, yet shaped like a human, bouncing on his shoulders. Bullock suddenly realized Plome had been talking to the monkey
. Standing in the centre of the yard, he watched as monkey and man performed an impromptu dance, both clearly enjoying themselves. Will had a fur-trimmed robe in his hands and was whirling it around his head. Suddenly he drew a long thin object from his belt and repeatedly thrust it into the folds of the gown. He gibbered with delight as he let the gown fall to the ground, and the monkey's voice redoubled the rejoicing. Then Will became aware of the observer and stopped his capering abruptly. His brilliant smile fell away, and he clutched the wriggling monkey to his breast. He dropped his weapon, and stood stock still as Bullock approached him, his eyes downcast like someone caught stealing.
Bullock smiled at him and tried to reassure the man that he meant him no harm. In his mind he wrestled with the thought that Will might have been re-enacting Brother Adam's murder. But had he taken the central role? Still, he had to come round to asking the obvious question some time. Might as well get it over with straight away.
‘Will Plome, can you tell me where you were when the monk was killed yesterday?’
The shaven-headed Fool shook his head.
‘Nowhere.’
‘Come now, you must have been somewhere. God is everywhere, but we mere mortals have always to be somewhere.’
The monkey clambered around Plome's shoulders, its long tail working like a third arm. Bullock noticed with fascination that its privy parts were red and blue. Finally it squatted with its arms around Plome's bald head, its chin resting on the hairless dome. To Bullock it resembled some bizarre living piece of headgear. Two pairs of eyes stared at the constable, the lower ones limpid and full of pleading.
‘I ... I was on that side of the stage, where the Devil comes out. But I didn't see anything.’
‘How can I believe that? The murderer must have passed you to get on stage, and off again. You don't expect me to accept that he could do that without your seeing him, do you? Perhaps you were the murderer.’
Will Plome's wail was echoed by the monkey, who leaped from his shoulders, scuttled across the yard, and disappeared into the back of the wagon. The Fool would have followed him, but Bullock grabbed his arm.
‘You didn't kill him, did you?’
‘I wanted to,’ screamed the frightened man, his face red all the way to his bald crown. ‘He hurt Ham.’
‘Ham? Who's Ham?’
‘My monkey.’ He pointed at the wagon. ‘He swung Ham by his tail and hurt him. So I wanted to hurt him in return. He should have died.’
Plome wrenched his arm from the constable's grasp, and with a gait that resembled Ham's followed the monkey into the wagon. His head popped back out almost immediately, and he called to the stunned Bullock, ‘Don't tell Stefano I was here. He says I shouldn't take Ham out of his cage. Says he's too valuable to lose.’
As the constable paused to pick up the weapon Will had dropped, which turned out to be no more than a twig, a female voice hailed him.
‘What have you done to poor Will?’
He turned, to be confronted with the sour-faced woman Agnes Cheke. She stood hands on hips, her stocky, peasant frame seeming to grow out of the packed earth on which she stood.
‘And why should I have done anything to “poor Will”?’
‘I heard him scream - and you upset the monkey. I heard that too.’
Bullock warmed to this ugly woman, who stood up for those she deemed incapable of defending themselves. In other circumstances he might have sought to bed her. He liked strong women, and did not care about their looks - he was no manuscript illustration himself, with his crook back and leathery, wrinkled face. But he was here on official business, and this was the opportunity to question Agnes about her movements yesterday. Perhaps he would get on to the other matter afterwards.
‘He'll be all right. It's you I want to talk to.’
‘Oh? And what about?’
'tell me where you were yesterday when someone was pushing a chisel into the heart of that unfortunate monk.’
Falconer hastily took his leave of Jehozadok, and left the serenity of the Scola to enter the bustle of Fish Street again. Fletchers' and cutlers' shops occupied the ground floor fronts of the houses that lined the east side of the street, though many of the houses actually belonged to Jewish families. The street itself should have afforded easy passage to a cart, but at this time of the day the route along it was made perilous by the innumerable ramshackle stalls of the fishmongers and greengrocers that lined each side. Down the centre of the street ran the stinking channel that took human ordure and the rubbish of the market down to the river. A similar stew of humanity occupied the west side of the street, but on that side most of the shops were vintners.
Negotiating the hurly-burly, Falconer entered the narrow lane in which Zerach de Alemmania's house stood cheek by jowl with Bull Hall, where students of Civil Law resided. Passing the entrance to the hall, Falconer stopped at the next building, a substantial stone house on two floors with a solid oak door. He immediately realized there was something dreadfully wrong - the door was open wide to the street. No Jew in England, living in day-to-day fear of the community surrounding him, would leave his door open like that. Cautiously, Falconer put his head inside the dark passage and called Zerach's name. There was no reply.
Stepping over the threshold, he trod on a hard, angular shape hidden in the shadow cast by the half-open door. Bending down to pick it up, he realized it was a large and well-worn key, its surface pitted and scratched. He wondered if something had happened to Zerach as he sought to lock the street door, but when he tried the key in the lock it did not turn. He pushed open one of the doors leading off the passage, and peered into a large, dark room. The shutters were tightly closed across the only window, giving out on to Pennyfarthing Street, and the only light was from a single rushlight. By the feeble flickering flame, Falconer could see a stack of books sitting on the end of a large table that dominated the centre of the room. Scattered across the surface of the table were other books and papers. He crossed the room, and leafed through the chaos that spread out from the chair set at the table. To one side lay the Abecedarti Danielis Prophete - the Book of Dreams - and to the other were several texts of Aristotle which were quite familiar to him. In the centre, and clearly the text that had occupied Zerach's mind most recently, were several sheets of paper with spidery writing all over them. Falconer had only to glance at one to realize they were part of the Secretum Secretorum of Aristotle, a copy of which Roger Bacon had given him. Knowing how his friend cherished the rare document, its presence in Zerach's house only served to confirm that the Jew must be the alchemist he sought. Now all he needed to do was to find the man. Perhaps if he found the lock the key fitted, he might discover some clue to his disappearance.
Returning to the main passage, he spotted another door at the far end. Despite being an internal door it had a heavy metal lock, and Falconer felt sure this must be the partner to the key he held in his hand. It fitted perfectly and turned smoothly. Pushing the door open, he was met by a blast of heat and was aware of a red glow at the bottom of the steps that descended from where he stood. He briefly recalled a time he had descended into another cellar, when an accidental ingestion of a drug had convinced him he was entering hell. This time he was in full control of his senses, but still he went down the steps with care, in case some human agent reacted unpleasantly to his presence.
There was no one in the low-ceilinged room, and the source of the heat and infernal glow proved to be a clay furnace that still burned hot despite being unattended. On top of the funnel above the fire, a clay dish was filled with the ashy remains of some chemical. Whatever experiment was being conducted here had failed because the experimenter had been interrupted and unable to return to his work. Falconer crossed to the bench that stood against one wall, above which was a remarkable collection of vials, jars and pitchers. Each one was carefully labelled, the contents named in a bold and clear hand. Falconer scanned the labels: mercury ... vitriol ... sal ammoniac ... saltpetre.
It was trul
y an alchemist's collection of materials, but where was Zerach? Someone meticulous enough to label all the jars, and to lock the cellar door behind him, surely would not have voluntarily left an experiment half done. Finding a pitcher of water on the floor beside the furnace, he doused the glowing coals to prevent a fire. They spat and crackled like a horde of demons from hell, but then sank back into a blackened mass that could only steam impotently.
Falconer carefully locked the secrets of the cellar away and hid the key inside the Book of Dreams on Zerach's table. He stepped outside the house, shutting the door firmly behind him, and wondered what he should do next about delivering Roger Bacon's letter.
Solomon dropped the bolt on the little hut that he used as his sentry-box each night and wedged it fast with a heavy stone. The stone was a corner from a larger monument and had ancient letters carved on it. But they meant nothing to Solomon - the satisfying weight of the stone was what he needed. Happy that his meagre possessions were safe in the hut, he pulled his rags around him and set off towards East Gate. It did not occur to him that the hovel was made of weak daub, and if anyone wanted to steal his possessions they could push their way through the side wall of the hut more easily than breaking down the door. Nor did it cross his mind that no one would want to steal his possessions anyway, consisting as they did of a cheap mutton- fat lamp and a blanket as tattered as his clothes. All he knew was that in this world you could not trust the Christians, and there were Christians all around.
The roadway leading into East Gate was churned and muddy, for the sun was high enough to have melted the nightly frost. Oblivious of the filth that squelched up through his cracked and worn-out footwear, Solomon plodded along at the roadside thinking only of his bed in his sister's house. Saphira had looked after him from the days of his sickly childhood. It had not made her marriage a very happy one, as her big brute of a husband Covele had resented the attention she paid her brother. Solomon had secretly rejoiced when he died, and his sister had not remarried. He and Saphira were getting on in years now and rubbed along together in a set routine. And that was what he liked - unusual occurrences frightened him.
