Death of an Alchemist (13 page)

Fortunately, the ale dulled Plumbum's perception of pain. The alchemist looked down at the knife protruding from his doublet. He gazed up at his aggressor, bewildered. This man had meant to maim him. With a growl, Plumbum viciously butted his forehead into his attacker's vulnerable crown. The cozen staggered backward and Plumbum hooked his foot behind the rascal's knee, forcing him down. Plumbum nearly fell on top of him but managed to spring away and remain standing. The alchemist wheeled about, growling and scanning the shadows for more flicks. Satisfied the rogue acted alone, Plumbum did no further damage.

Grasping the hilt, Plumbum pulled out the dagger and felt the tip for blood. It was dry and he patted his chest where it had protruded. All was safe inside. Now his only doublet had a new hole in it. He sighed and pocketed the shiv inside his bootleg. One could never have too many knives.

Before heading for the waterfront, Plumbum paused to get his bearings. He considered what the night had brought him. His survival had to be a propitious sign. If before he had been fraught with doubt, his decision now was certain. His spirit rose and his step quickened as he congratulated himself on a brilliantly conceived plan.

C
HAPTER
16

The black tiger cat sniffed Bianca as she slept at her table, her head buried in her arm. She had fallen asleep while working on her sublimation. The cat pawed at her tangled hair, trying to find her face beneath it. Bianca stirred to the sound of rough purring and a wet nose touching her own.

“Hello, tiger,” she said, lifting her head and letting the cat nuzzle her cheek. “I suppose you think it is time I paid some attention to you.” Bianca scratched the cat under the chin and it closed its eyes, tipping back its head and pointing its chin toward the ceiling. Finally, it flopped on its side and exposed a striped belly for more petting.

“You aren't a dog,” she said. “But I suppose you don't even know you are a cat.” She stroked its stomach and it stretched, rubbing its head on the board and looking at the world upside down.

The day shone brightly through the window and Bianca realized she must have slept past early morning. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and looked over at John. If he had stirred in the night, she had not heard him. Concerned, she went to him and sat on the edge of the bed.

Her sitting did not rouse him. She laid her hand on his forehead. He felt damp and cool to her touch. “John,” she said. Getting no response, she leaned closer and shook him. “John, wake up.”

An eye popped open, focused on her suspiciously, then snapped shut.

Bianca shook him more vigorously.

John groaned, rolling away from her.

“Well, at least you are with the living,” she said, standing.

She found a pot and was about to go outside to the cistern when John rolled back to face her.

“Where are you going?”

“Ah,” she said. “You do live. It is not my wishful thinking.”

“I do live, but just barely.”

Bianca returned and peered down at him. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.”

“Perhaps another day of rest is what you need.”

“I am fine.” Glancing around, John saw the room brightly lit with a midday sun. “Why didn't you wake me sooner?” he said. “Boisvert will be in a French snit.”

“I didn't stir you earlier because I was sleeping, too.” Bianca turned back to the door. “I'll cook some porridge.”

“No need,” said John, kicking off his sheet. “I haven't the time.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.

Bianca saw his face grow ashen, and he paused as if the room was telling him a secret. “John, you don't look well.”

John focused on a fixed point across the room. In a moment he stood, but not with his usual vigor. Bianca watched him steady himself and, when he had stopped his slight weaving, checked her sublimation experiment. It had failed. She had been unable to stay awake and keep the heat constant.

John picked his way gingerly to the back alley door. When he returned he sat down at the board instead of getting dressed. “I'm already more than late,” he said. “I think I will rest a little more before I go to Boisvert's.”

“You should stay home,” said Bianca. “It is hard labor at Boisvert's and he can manage another day without you.”

“Are you going out?” asked John.

Bianca had planned to return to Ferris Stannum's to collect the retorts she had bought from Amice. She had been so distracted finding Tait there that she'd forgotten to take the alchemy equipment. But she couldn't let John know where she was going. “I need to go to market,” she replied.

“To Newgate?” asked John.

“I can.”

“Will you stop in and tell Boisvert I will be along?”

Bianca saw John back to bed and propped open the door so he would get a cross breeze. Taking the bowl she would have used to make porridge, she dipped it into the cistern and washed the sweat and grime from her face. A looking glass hung on the wall, exposing her rebellious head of hair to her scrutiny. She found a comb and started working on the snarls but lost interest and tossed the comb on the table. Appearance was of little concern to Bianca, but she had the benefit of youth on her side. Tousled hair could be covered with a muffin cap, and as long as she put on a fresh smock, she was presentable.

With a kiss planted on John's forehead and a gentle head butt bestowed on the cat, Bianca set bread and ale next to the bed. She headed out the door. Seeing John out of bed lessened her concerns. She told herself it was a combination of heat and fatigue that had momentarily slowed him. John had given her a task and an excuse to leave for a while, and she was not about to squander it.

A number of questions still bothered her regarding Ferris Stannum. She would collect the retorts and ask Goodwife Tenbrook if she knew where Thomas Plumbum lived. The alchemist had been conspicuously absent since Ferris Stannum's death. Perhaps he did not know his friend had died, but she would ask Tenbrook if she had seen him since Stannum's death.

Again it was low tide as Bianca rode the ferry across the river. The sun, as relentless as the day before, made for an uncomfortable ride. Stirred by the warm, damp air, the sand flies at Paul's Wharf attempted to make a meal of her as she stepped out of the boat. She hurried up the steps and quickly put some distance between herself and the river.

The air lacked its usual tang of iron when she turned down Foster Lane, home to other smiths besides Boisvert. She supposed the sweltering summer had slowed the ambitions of most journeymen. Firing up a forge and working in its suffocating heat would make for more misery than any coin or bauble was worth.

The door to Boisvert's shop hung open, which surprised her, as Boisvert was a finicky man. An open door was an invitation for stray animals, both four-legged and two-, to wander into his shop. The amount of time and aggravation he spent chasing them out generally defeated any pleasure he gleaned from an occasional breeze. Bianca poked her head inside and saw the silversmith organizing his tools, a tumbler of wine in one hand, iron tongs in the other.

“Boisvert,” said Bianca, stepping into the shop.

The silversmith wheeled about. “Ah,” he said. “I was expecting your husband, not you.”

“He is overly tired. The heat seems to have exhausted him.”

“It is never this unpleasant in France.
C'est vrai,
we may have the heat, but it comes without the unpleasant stink of the river.” He looked at her accusingly, as if she had created the disagreeable conditions.

“John will be along later.”

“
Il est malade?
Because if you think it true, then home he should keep to. I do not want any
anglais
disease,
merci beaucoup
.” He swirled the tumbler under his nose while watching her.

“He thinks it matters more that you not think him lazy.”

Boisvert huffed. “Lazy. I think nothing of the kind. John does much of the heavy work. I am not so insensitive.”

“Can I tell him you wish he would stay home until he is well?”

“As long as he is ill, as you say, and not looking to set up his own shop.”

John's apprenticeship was nearing an end, but it was premature for him to consider leaving Boisvert now, anyway. “Of course he is ill. John still plans to work with you until he earns his license.” She didn't know what else to say to reassure the peevish Frenchman, who eyed her skeptically. “Well,” she said, backing toward the door. “Shall I tell him you wish him a quick recovery?” She dipped in a brief curtsy but did not wait for his answer.

 

With St. Paul's in sight, Bianca cut through a chain of alleys to the street off Ivy Lane where Goodwife Tenbrook lived. The shadowed way offered relief from the sun, but as Bianca neared the rent, she saw the disconcerting sight of a collector's cart next door.

The cart held one shrouded body, but there was room for more. Bianca approached, glanced around, and, seeing no one watching, pulled the linen back from the corpse's face. The face was still preserved, and belonged to no one she knew. As she tucked the cloth back in, she noticed the door to Goodwife Tenbrook's building open to the street. Voices carried from the second-floor window.

Down the lane, a child wailed and a door slammed. A cat watched a spot in a foundation, but other than a young boy across the way drawing pictures in the dirt, there were no signs of life, no activity in the lane. Alarm settled in the pit of Bianca's stomach as she stepped inside Tenbrook's building.

Again, Ferris Stannum's rent was closed, but this time she ignored the door and listened to the sound of conversation coming from Goodwife Tenbrook's quarters. All she heard was the muffled drone of men talking.

Bianca crept softly up the stairs, pausing to hear Barnabas Hughes speak. Amice responded. Another man, whose voice she did not recognize, asked a question. Unfortunately, Constable Patch enthusiastically chimed in. Bianca groaned at the thought of dealing with him yet again. Before ascending the final risers, she prepared herself for the inevitable scorn he would probably lob at her.

“Well nows,” said Constable Patch, looking past the physician when she stepped inside. A third man stood apart from the others, trimming his fingernails with a knife. He had the grubby attire and insolent air of a man used to performing unpleasant work. Bianca took him to be the bearer. “What an incidence to see you here,” crooned Patch.

“I came to collect some equipment from Ferris Stannum's. I paid Amice for them.”

“That so?” He looked to Ferris Stannum's daughter.

“Aye, it is true,” confirmed Amice.

Patch continued, “We seem to have another peculiar death on our hands. Two deaths in as many days at the same address. Do you not find that special?” The constable's eyes widened. “Or, if not special then at least—interesting?”

Surprised and doubting it possible, Bianca shouldered past the physician and Constable Patch for a better look at Goodwife Tenbrook. The landlady had drawn her hands near her chin as if pulling up her sheet. Her body lay in rigid repose; her eyes stared fixedly on a jagged crack running along the beam overhead. Flies inched along her frame, exploring her ears and nose, landing in her mouth. The lips had thinned, exposing Tenbrook's front teeth, her mouth forming an
O
. Could her final expression have been one of astonishment? Or perhaps she had taken a last gulp of breath. “Who found her?”

“I did,” said Amice. “She has the key to my father's rent and if I wanted to get in, I had to see her first.” Amice rested her fists on her hips. “It's my duty to tend to my father's belongings. The old bit wanted the last say on every move I made. Serves her right.” She spoke directly to Tenbrook's corpse. “Ye reap what ye sow.”

Bianca hoped Constable Patch recognized Amice's frustration and would realize the words were spoken in anger. She still cringed when she thought about her own interrogation at his hands. And though Amice was feisty, she did not think the girl would be adept in proving her own innocence. “How did you get in to find her?”

“The door was open. I imagine she kept it cracked last night like everyone else did. 'Twas another mucky one. I doubt she worried that anyone might do her in while she slept.” Amice pinched her face in distaste. “Who would want to touch such an ugly old shrew?”

“So you found her this morning?”

“Aye, that. I have a rare day to myself. Shame to spend it chasing after a key and having to fetch a constable and all.”

Bianca turned to Hughes, the physician. “Did Constable Patch send for you?”

“I arrived as the coroner was finishing. I had told Mrs. Tenbrook I would return and see how she was faring. I didn't expect to find her dead. My daughter is ill. I chose to care for her rather than indulge an old woman whose malady, I believed, stemmed from loneliness.”

“Has a cause of death been determined?”

“The sweat,” pronounced Constable Patch.

Bianca had thought Hughes had considered this when he attended her. He had not been concerned the disease was to blame for Tenbrook's complaints. She looked over at the physician. “Do you agree with the coroner?”

Hughes straightened and pressed his palms together, bringing the tips of his fingers to rest on his lips. “Patch and I were just discussing my visit with Goodwife Tenbrook yesterday. I suppose it is possible. The disease can act swiftly.”

Bianca's distress was momentarily forgotten by her need to clarify the physician's findings. “But you did not suspect the sweat when you visited her, I thought.”

“I took it under consideration. However, I believed she was exaggerating her symptoms in a play for sympathy. Nothing gave me pause to think her complaints life threatening. She had been drinking heavily and I believed her malaise was a result.” The physician interjected a smile of assurance. “I often see this in older women, especially widows. A little attention and some kind words are a great consolation. When they get to be that age, they are often overcome with loneliness. Minor concerns can overwhelm them.”

“You gave her a draught,” said Bianca.

“I gave her a sleeping philter. You saw how agitated she was. A restful night's sleep is a great balm for an unquiet mind.”

Bianca glanced at Constable Patch, who listened without comment. Just a few months before, he had accused her of poisoning her friend Jolyn, when all she had done was give her a tea to settle her nausea. Was this not similar? Yet Patch accepted Hughes's explanation without question. Perhaps being a physician had its advantages. More likely, thought Bianca, a man's explanation carried merit, while a woman's did not.

“I recall Goodwife Tenbrook had said she could not breathe. You were not concerned that she had the sweating sickness yesterday?”