Death of an Alchemist (10 page)

C
HAPTER
11

In a profession considered an offense against the king, Joseph Tait trod lightly. The vice of usury was once left to those of a Jewish persuasion; however, Jews were scarce, having been expelled some 250 years before. Joseph Tait believed wholeheartedly in the Virgin's Immaculate Conception and considered himself a forcibly subdued papal-loving Catholic. His resentment of the king's Act of Supremacy and separation from the Roman Catholic Church simmered, but he knew better than to speak of it. To do so was treasonous. And although charging interest on a loan was a sin punishable by imprisonment, it was yet another penalty he firmly wished to avoid.

Joseph Tait had spent far too many days staring at the dank stone walls of Ludgate Prison to ever go back again. However, his desire to avoid a repeat visit did not result in his reform. What man chooses godliness if it means he must starve? Nay, incarceration only makes a man more cunning.

Before his present circumstance, Tait's facility at picking locks earned him a living—unfortunately, an illegitimate one. He was a larcenist. And while his manner of committing robbery was more sophisticated now, it was still considered ungodly and a dishonest way to enrich oneself. But, Tait would argue, destroying gentlemen by profiting on their misfortunes seemed part and parcel of the English way of life.

The usurer reasoned he was providing a valuable service to men in need of working capital. To those working in a reliable profession he wrote bonds so that his profits were modest and easily masked by the increasing cost of goods. Tait disapproved of King Harry's policy of selling the cathedrals and religious houses to line his already bloated pockets. What had Harry done for the men who had to live under his rule? Tait might be a sinner and a thief, but his crime was trivial compared to Harry's. Or so he believed.

Joseph Tait's lending was not limited to the tidy, humdrum transactions of familiar merchants. He rashly invested in more sketchy professions, hoping for a better return. Thus his interest in alchemists. Tait thought himself shrewd, but truly, he was as gullible as the next man.

And now a threat of bankruptcy loomed large. Over the past year, Tait had spent increasing sums on Ferris Stannum in the hope that the alchemist's recent discovery would shower both of them in gold sovereigns and angels. As he sat at his polished walnut table counting his remaining money, his gut gnawed at the realization of his folly. He stopped counting and studied the vase of roses centered before him. The blooms sagged from the heat and he swiped them out of their vessel and threw them in the street.

His fury with Ferris Stannum was unbounded. The old man's idea to send his recipe to some camel-eating Moor a thousand miles away was unconscionable. Not only was it irresponsible—it was absurd. Fortunately, Tait no longer had to worry about such nonsense. But his search of Stannum's room of alchemy had been futile. There was no elixir, nothing of significant worth. Only a pile of peculiar alembics and jars stuffed with pulverized boar brains and such. Frustrated, Joseph Tait dropped himself in the chair and resumed counting his silver, sliding the coins into his pouch. His investment in Ferris Stannum had been his undoing.

C
HAPTER
12

Bianca skirted the area directly around St. Paul's, avoiding the gangs of boys who could surround a person and pick a pocket faster than a knife fight in a barrel. Having been versed in the finer art of cutting purses, she knew their tricks. Often there was no avoiding the occasional lost coin. The streets could be crowded and the distractions many, and even though Bianca's kirtle was torn and eaten through from her chemistries and her shoes were worn, she could still be made a victim. Sometimes, appearance had nothing to do with being swindled.

Perspiration ran down her back from the summer heat. The grit from the roads settled in her throat, so she sought the conduit near Cheapside. Plenty of others had the same thought, for the street was congested with water bearers and citizens taking their turn to drink. Even stray dogs looked for a chance to lap from the fount, which resulted in their getting slapped, which did nothing to deter them. Bianca narrowly missed getting kicked when a dog skirted his punishment and she was left in its place.

When her turn arrived, she cupped her hands and dipped them into the trough, which was lined with a thin growth of furry moss. She wished she could remove her shoes and stand in the water, but a constable stood nearby to prevent anyone from pursuing that idea. Just the cool feel of the water in her hands was enough to quench her dull exhaustion. She stepped away from the conduit, and as she did, she glimpsed the familiar red cap of Meddybemps disappearing around a corner.

Bianca pushed through handcarts and pedestrians and dodged two stray geese honking and chasing a dog. She turned down the lane after the streetseller and stood on her toes to try to catch sight of him. His red cap blazed like a flame in the night.

She caught up as he struggled to move his pushcart down the crowded narrow lane. He was so intent on maneuvering his cart that she was able to jump up and snatch the cap off his head without his notice. She put it on.

Meddybemps did notice the sudden naked feeling of his balding pate exposed. He looked up, thinking a gull had swooped down and stolen it. Bianca shoved him from behind.

“Bianca, my prodigy, my dove,” said Meddybemps, looking over his shoulder. “I should have guessed it was you.”

Bianca handed him his cap and he set it on his head at a rakish angle.

“Where are you going?” she asked, joining him by his side.

“I am taking my cart to Tyburn Hill, where tomorrow there shall be an execution.”

“It's a bit early. Why go now?”

“So I may have a preferred place to sell my wares. It promises to be a popular spectacle. I believe twelve will be hanged. A variety of offenses. Robbery, treason, murder . . .”

“Are you going to sleep under your cart? You can't just leave it. Someone will make off with your talismans, not to mention my balms and salves.”

“Unless I find a trustworthy soul to guard it, I'll be sleeping under the cart.”

Bianca watched the talismans swing wildly as he avoided a particularly deep rut filled with stagnant water. Flies rose and dispersed; a few tagged along behind them. Bianca had always been fascinated by the trinkets Meddybemps sold. She had often accompanied him when she was younger.

 

By the time she was nine, Bianca had learned to take advantage of her mother and father's not speaking to each other. She would lie to one that she was running an errand for the other, while doing as she pleased. Rarely was she caught, and her education on the streets proved useful. She learned to cut purses and steal food off carts. There were no alleys or lanes in all of London that she had not explored, and she knew every shortcut home.

A girl wanting much and possessing little was a recipe for mischief, and the sight of Meddybemps with his cart of necklaces glinting in the sun was impossible for a young Bianca to resist. It wasn't so much that she cared to adorn her neck with his offerings; she just wanted to touch them and hold them up to the light. She studied him from afar, watching his mannerisms and learning his habits. Finally, when she had grown familiar with his every inclination, she was ready to snatch a necklace for her own.

She watched him set up his wares at Cheapside Market and waited for the busiest time of day, when the vendors were practically accosted by customers. Meddybemps relished the attention his cart brought him. Bianca noticed whenever a well-endowed woman paid his goods any mind, Meddybemps would lavish his attention on her and think up a rhyme or patter on the spot. This usually assured him a sale, or at least a repeat customer. (Of course, now she knew his ulterior motive was a romp at a future date. )

Bianca waited until Meddybemps became overrun with customers. He engaged several women, each asking questions and fingering amulets hanging from crosses of wood erected for display. Meddybemps was a masterful charmer and lavished attention on each woman without snubbing another.

A carved butterfly with a body inlaid with mother-of-pearl caught the sun as if it were the only object that existed in the entire world. Bianca could barely keep from running up and snatching it. But experience had taught her that a more measured approach was needed if she was to be successful. Bianca neared the cart, casually blending in with the crowd.

Meddybemps graciously engaged each lady in turn, breaking into rhyme to tout the benefits of buying a charm from his collection—

Meddybemps doffed his cap and bowed, delighting the women, who showered him with attention. Bianca saw her opportunity.

She appeared at the front of the cart, opposite Meddybemps, and while the women were focused on the streetseller, Bianca lifted the prized bauble and turned away. But she had not anticipated a butcher hanging his sausages directly behind her.

Bianca bounced into him and landed backward, falling squat in a puddle of blood from his slaughtering. Disgusted by the feel of it seeping through her skirt, she scrambled to get her feet under her. The butcher took her arm and helped her up.

Meddybemps heard her yelp and saw her clutching his talisman. “Hold there,” he said to the butcher. “I believe you have nabbed a cutpurse!”

The butcher looked down at Bianca and gripped her arm more tightly.

The streetseller came round to the front of his cart. “I cannot let you have a trinket for nothing. I know how enchanting my amulets are, and sometimes a girl might lose her good sense desiring one.” He looked at her, and one of his eyes started to roll independently of the other. “Have you a coin you've neglected to hand over?”

By then, a constable had caught sight of the commotion and moved closer. Bianca was keenly aware of what might happen if a constable intervened. No thief was ever granted mercy in this man's kingdom. Not even a young girl. Bianca gulped.

Luckily, she did have a coin in her pocket, one filched earlier from an old woman. She dug it out and held it up.

Meddybemps glanced at the constable. He picked the shilling out of the young girl's palm and deposited it in his pocket. “I knew you just momentarily forgot to pay for it.” He ruffled her head as if she were a good dog and nodded to the butcher to let go of her arm.

Bianca stood in silent astonishment. She was too surprised to think of anything that might have saved her situation. Meddybemps could have made it worse and she would have been in a great deal more trouble than just a public shaming. She could have lost a finger for her trouble. She owed the streetseller some gratitude.

The next chance she had, Bianca sought him out. If he was pushing his cart to market, she walked alongside him. If he was already selling, she came by and kept him company. Theirs was an unlikely friendship, and except for a time when he had seduced her mother, causing untold havoc, their fondness for each other grew. Meddybemps was a gossip and capable streetseller, and when Bianca eventually struck out on her own, he sold her concoctions. And he proved to be a reliable ear on the street. Meddybemps kept Bianca abreast of any news worth a listen.

As for Meddybemps, not only did he profit from Bianca's expanding repertoire of remedies, but his affection for the girl grew like that of a father for his daughter. It seemed her own father cared not a whit, and she could use a voice of reason. Not that he possessed much of it, but he tried.

 

“So what brings you out on this sweltering day?” asked Meddybemps as they passed beneath a shady overhang. “Shouldn't you be working on a cure for the sweating sickness? Did you take my advice and seek Ferris Stannum?”

“I did,” said Bianca, nabbing a plum as they squeezed by a cart going in the opposite direction. She took a bite of its sweet flesh and spoke with her mouth full. “It has ended in a bad way.”

“I fear to ask.”

“No need, because I was planning to tell you.” They came to the end of the lane and turned onto a new one. The sun managed to find them and beat down from above. “When I first met him he was in a tiff with Goodwife Tenbrook.”

“Who might Goodwife Tenbrook be?” asked Meddybemps.

“She owns the building where Ferris Stannum lives. Or rather, lived.”

“On my conscience, I do not like how this is unfolding.”

“Goodwife Tenbrook claimed he owed several months' back rent and was badgering him to pay it when I arrived. He promised her he would soon have the money and then some.”

“Of course he did. It is the expected response from a tenant in arrears.”

“She was quite spiteful. Apparently, she had heard his excuses before. Just as she was leaving, she said to me, ‘Lucky ye came today, because he may not be here tomorrow.'”

Meddybemps's errant eye quivered. “A threat. Though she could have meant she was kicking him out.”

Bianca continued. “There was another who took issue with Stannum.”

“Wait,” said Meddybemps. He stopped pushing his cart, causing those behind him to curse as they tried to pass him on the crowded street. “Is Ferris Stannum dead?”

“Aye. Of course.”

“How could I hope otherwise? It seems you have a gift for finding people dead.”

“It is not that I actively seek those who will soon die.” Bianca finished her plum and tossed the pit in the road. “You must hear my entire story. It helps me sort it out.”

Meddybemps took up the handles to his cart and leaned into it. “Carry on. I shall listen.”

Bianca told Meddybemps about Stannum's belief that he'd discovered the elixir of life and about his sending the journal to Cairo. As they trundled toward Holborn Hill, she explained the chain of events and her suspicions about how the old alchemist must have been murdered. She detailed the motivations and physical descriptions of the people involved. When she had finished, Meddybemps stopped his cart next to a stone wall in front of Ely's Place. He removed his cap and sat down.

“You say Stannum believed he had discovered the elixir of life. Do you agree?”

“I have no proof one way or the other. It is a bold claim.”

“Then how can he make such an assertion?”

“He says he gave it to his dying cat and the cat now lives.”

Meddybemps looked askance at Bianca. “And where is this immortal feline?”

“It's with me.”

“And you have not tried to strangle it?”

“Certainly not!” said Bianca, aghast. Bianca settled down on the stone wall beside Meddybemps and removed her coif to fan herself with it. “And don't you think of doing such a deed.” She scooted over into the shade, glad for the small relief it afforded her.

Meddybemps leaned back on his elbows and squinted up at the sky, hazy with heat and humidity. “So what do you conclude?”

“I cannot conclude anything. I need more information.”

“Is that where I come in?” Meddybemps turned his gaze on Bianca.

“Mayhap,” she said. “I'm not sure what you can learn. You don't even know who any of these people are.”

“I shall keep my ears and eyes open and do a little inquiring where possible.” Scuttlebutt and hearsay were Meddybemps's specialty. To him, one tawdry tidbit was as coveted as a bounce with his favorite tavern wench. He plucked his wine flask off the cart, took a long pull, and offered it to Bianca.

“I must be on my way,” said Bianca, taking a sip to wet her mouth and handing it back. She stood and picked her smock from her damp skin, allowing a puff of air to reach it.

“Wait,” said Meddybemps. “Have you done any work on a remedy for the sweating sickness?”

“I have not had a chance to try what I learned from Ferris Stannum.”

“Methinks it might be prudent to start.”

“Have you seen evidence of people taking ill with the sweat?” asked Bianca.

“I've heard of a few falling victim.” Meddybemps hopped off the stone wall.

“John says it is spreading.”

“Perhaps near Boisvert's there has been more of it. Rumors are abundant. But it would not hurt for you to spend your efforts working on a palliative. It is summer and the sickness is never far from making an ugly return.”