Death of an Alchemist (14 page)

“What I took as a wheezy chest when I put my ear to her back could have been a symptom. However, the elderly often have an accumulation of phlegmic humour. After examining her, I saw no other evidence for the diagnosis.”

The streets murmured with rumors of the dread disease, yet the physician did not consider Tenbrook's symptoms indicative of the sweat. Bianca remembered John's fatigue and worried she would not recognize symptoms of the illness. “Can you tell me, sir, what symptoms do you look for?”

“Do you question my expertise?” said Hughes, turning haughty.

“Nay, sir,” said Bianca. “I wish to understand the disease so that I may cure it.”

“How pretentious to claim such a feat. What else have you—cured?”

“I am flattered you should like to know. Perhaps we might discuss my remedies someday. However, now I wish to learn more about the sweat.”

Constable Patch's eyebrows lifted and his eyes shifted to Barnabas Hughes. Patch reveled in their brambly exchange. Apparently, he was not the sole recipient of the girl's impudence.

The collector snorted, breaking the strained silence.

Called upon, Hughes launched into an explanation, offering more information than anyone, except Bianca, cared to know. “The afflicted suffer from a stinking sweat,” he said. “It is as if the disease opens the pores and drives every foul humour, every evil thought, every pollution, out of the body onto the surface of the skin. Faces flush. Victims complain their heads feel gripped with a squeezing pressure. They often rant and claim fantastic visions.”

Amice wandered off, searching Tenbrook's cluttered living quarters for the key to her father's room. She picked through the woman's endless collections of scrap rope, torn pamphlets, and cracked pottery, certain that even a woman so disorganized must have a special place for keeping keys or other necessities.

“I have heard hearts beat with rapid, shallow pulse,” droned Barnabas Hughes. “I have seen the sick ask to have their thirst quenched, but it is never enough. They could drink a barrel of water and they would ask for more. But I have also witnessed the miraculous recovery of people so delirious that I suggested the family prepare themselves for their burial. Most often, by the time I am summoned, the short, panicked breaths and pressure in the chest have begun and there is nothing I can do to prevent the disease from running its course.”

Bianca was the only one listening. She thought of John, and besides his sweating, which she could attribute to the mercilessly humid weather, she did not believe he showed signs of the disease. Still, it was a concern and she wondered if John might have concealed a symptom to prevent her worrying.

Barnabas Hughes finished his discourse.

Bianca walked around to the other side of the bed. She got within inches of Tenbrook and studied her face. “Have you ever noticed anything peculiar about a victim's skin when they die of the sweat?” She kept her eyes pinned to Goodwife Tenbrook's complexion.

“Peculiar?” asked the physician.

“Have you ever examined their skin, or the eyes of one who has died of the disease?”

Barnabas Hughes exchanged looks with Constable Patch. They both looked at Bianca, puzzled.

“I do not see a flushed complexion, a hallmark of the disease, as you say.”

“If she died several hours ago,” said Hughes, “the febrile skin would have subsided.”

“How many hours does it take for the face to lose its color?”

“The process begins almost immediately.”

Hughes bent down to examine Tenbrook's face. “Do you see something I may have missed?”

Bianca did. She shrugged, watching Amice and Hughes for their reactions.

Amice didn't appear in the least interested. She was on a hunt, lifting jars and peering into them, biting her lower lip in distraction. Barnabas Hughes simply looked irritated.

Bianca expected Constable Patch to intervene. Aware she was overstepping the bounds of her station, she sensed both men's growing disaffection. She moved away from the body and feigned interest in the table, which was strewn with the possessions of a woman who apparently kept everything.

Constable Patch was baffled by Bianca's insinuation and utterly irritated with her. He waved the collector over. “Well nows,” he said. “I suppose we is done. It is too warm to further delay your duty.” He grimaced at the smell of excrement wafting from Tenbrook's bedding. “Ye may take the body.” He stepped aside so the collector could strip Goodwife Tenbrook of her night shift and the crucifix she wore around her neck. “Take that as payment,” he said to the collector.

The man brought it up to one eye and squinted at the center garnet. He lifted his brow in thanks and positioned Mrs. Tenbrook on the bedsheet.

“If you do not need my further services, I shall take my leave.” Hughes bowed from the neck to Patch and glanced at Bianca. As he strode to the door with his leather satchel in hand, Bianca suddenly remembered a final question.

“Sir,” she said, hailing him back.

Barnabas Hughes reluctantly turned.

“Do you know where Thomas Plumbum lives?”

His voice weary, the physician gave her directions. “If that is all, God keep you.”

The sound of his footfall echoed through the building as Constable Patch and Bianca watched him disappear down the stairs. They turned back to the bearer, who finished tucking in the ends of the winding sheet.

“Ha!” said Amice, holding up a key with a length of hemp tied to it. She went over to the bed, where Mrs. Tenbrook's wrapped body lay looking like a link of gray sausage. “Thought you could keep me from claiming my rightful due, did you? All your mean and miserly ways got you nowhere. Well”—Amice jutted her chin forward to suggest some cordial advice to the deceased—“it got you dead is what it got you.”

While Constable Patch watched Amice, Bianca scanned the table looking for the cup Barnabas Hughes had used to administer the sleeping tincture to Goodwife Tenbrook. It had a blue glaze near the lip, and she found it amid the jumble of objects on Tenbrook's table. She dropped it in her pocket. Also thrown onto the mess was the near empty bottle of wine Tenbrook had taken from Ferris Stannum's room. “Amice,” said Bianca, stepping away from the table. “Can you open your father's door so I may get the retorts?”

Amice finished chiding the sausage and looked over. “Aye,” she said. “Come on.” She trooped from the room with Bianca in tow, leaving Constable Patch to follow the collector as he started down the stairs carrying the body.

C
HAPTER
17

Bianca took a retort that looked like the head of an ibis with its long beak protruding from the side. She also chose two smaller retorts before leaving Amice to organize the leavings of her father's alchemy room. She told Amice she would ask Thomas Plumbum if he cared for any of Stannum's equipment, but that was not the only reason she wanted to meet with the man.

Tucking the smaller devices under her armpits and stashing the bottle of wine in her pocket along with Tenbrook's cup, she was able to carry the larger retort. She jangled as she walked, clattering with breakable goods. As soon as she took a precarious step into the lane, the boy across the way, who had spent the morning drawing pictures in the dirt outside his family's rent, skipped over to see what she was about.

“What's that?” he asked, pointing to the copper contraption she carried.

“It is a retort,” said Bianca and the boy fell into step beside her.

“What's it do?”

“It helps separate liquids when I heat them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it is what I do.” Bianca glanced at the child walking barefoot beside her. “I make medicinals.”

“Medicinals?” he echoed, quickening his step to keep up.

Bianca's mind was on Thomas Plumbum, and she walked briskly in spite of her burden, in an attempt to lose the grubby gamin. But he kept pace with her.

“Is you a conjurer like that old man who just dieds?”

“I am far from being a conjurer. I cook balms to help people overcome illness and disease.”

“Ah,” said the boy, skipping backward in front of her. “For a penny I'll carry those for you.” He pointed to the retorts under her arms. “You look as if your hands is full.”

“I can manage well enough.”

The boy ignored her rebuff. “I seen the collector carry out a body. Was it the old lady?”

“It was.”

The boy picked up a rock and hurled it as far as he could in front of them. “First the old man, then the old woman. What they die ofs?”

“It is not certain,” said Bianca, wishing the boy would lose interest. But she harbored a kindness to children, especially those with an inquisitive nature, having been so inclined herself. “Mayhap it was just old age.”

The boy became thoughtful. “Well,” he said at last. “I will miss the old lady.”

Bianca glanced at him. “Were you on familiar terms?”

“I was. She used to give me a penny to run errands for her.”

The two turned the corner and were thrust into the brilliant sunlight of a wider lane. With the sun came the cruel heat and their pace slowed. “What sorts of errands?”

“Delivering letters. Like I did when she found the old man dead. I guess I won't be making any more money from her.”

Bianca stopped walking. She turned to face the boy. “You say you delivered a letter for Mrs. Tenbrook the day Ferris Stannum died?”

“Aye. It was to that puffer on Soper Lane. I seen him visit the old man the day before the collector came for his body. You was there, too. And that man with the leather satchel.”

“Do you know what the letter was about?”

The boy shook his head. “But I was to wait for an answer after he read it.”

“What answer did he give?” Bianca watched him intently, hanging on his every word.

The boy shrugged. “He said, ‘Yes.'”

“Yes?”

The boy readily answered with a nod, hoping to win favor with her. But suddenly, those astonishing blue eyes bored into him, making him squirm under her scrutiny. He realized, too late, that he had shared too much of what he knew. He kicked himself for being smitten with her and for losing the chance to make some coin.

“Did the alchemist give you anything to return to Mrs. Tenbrook?”

The boy forced himself to look away. He might still have a chance to make a penny. He clamped his mouth shut and made no indication one way or the other.

Bianca repeated her question.

Still he remained silent.

She moved up against the side of a residence, set down the beaky-nosed retort and alembics. Feeling around in her pocket, she dug out a coin and held it up. “Does this help you remember?”

The boy snatched the coin from her hand before she could reconsider. “Nay,” he said. “He gave me nothing for her.” Gleeful he had made enough for a loaf of Carter's bread, he couldn't control his sudden appetite and skipped away, leaving Bianca to ponder what she had just learned.

Bianca tucked the retorts under her arms and stepped into the flow of pedestrians. What could have been in the note to Thomas Plumbum? Maybe Tenbrook sent word that Ferris Stannum had died. Bianca sniffed. Tenbrook was not the sort to inform people of Stannum's death out of consideration for those who loved him. Nay, she would contact others only if in some way she could have benefited.

Tenbrook had taken exception to Amice selling her father's equipment because she believed she had the right to collect Stannum's back rent. The landlady purposely kept the key from Amice. If Amice wanted into her father's room of alchemy, she had to go to Goodwife Tenbrook first. It made sense that the landlady would contact Plumbum to see if he was interested in buying any of Stannum's paraphernalia.

Bianca regretted not having paid more attention to the boy. He was observant and keen to use his wits to make coin. She wondered what more she could have learned from him. At least she knew where to find him.

Overhead, laundry stretched between facing buildings, hanging limp in the languid summer air. Bianca would pay a visit to Thomas Plumbum once she deposited her retorts at home. She hoped John had recovered and gone to Boisvert's. If he had, then she could concentrate on finding answers to Ferris Stannum's death without inciting his comment.

She took a ferry back across the river, enjoying a rest from toting the awkward fittings. The tide had changed and the ferrier poled his skiff diagonally, landing near the bridge. A crowd of onlookers had gathered at its entrance to see the fresh display of miscreants enhancing the upper rim of the gate. The heads were bloody and exposed, probably because no one cared to heat tar on a hot day to dip them. A throng of ravens and gulls fought over torn bits of flesh, their screeches drowning out the shouts and jeers of onlookers below.

If the crowd was any indication, Meddybemps probably enjoyed the spectacle as much as they. He probably did a brisk business and she hoped he managed to sell some of her remedies in addition to his amulets. Avoiding the boisterous revelers, Bianca took a back alley to her room of Medicinals and Physickes.

When she arrived, her hopes sank when she saw the door wide open. John would have closed it if he had gone to Boisvert's. But the air was leaden and John's consideration for her collection of laboratory equipment was often contingent upon his mood. Perhaps he had thought it more important to circulate the air than to protect a few of her crocks from crooks.

Alas, when she stepped inside her eyes were drawn to the neighbor's chickens scratching through the rush that covered the floor. It looked to be the entire flock. Oblivious to their clucking and messing, John lay asleep on their bed with the black tiger cat sprawled beside him.

The sight was enough to make Bianca forget that John may have been too ill to shoo the fowl from their rent. She would have wished for a more responsible cat, but perhaps it had learned a long time ago that chickens were too large to bother with.

“John!” Bianca dropped the retorts where she stood and set upon the chickens, running after them. With arms windmilling, she chased them about, herding them out the door. Two particularly stubborn chickens managed to elude her. One scurried behind a stack of crockery and the other scooted under the table. Both refused to come out. Bianca grabbed a broom, a good scaring being a language the one hiding behind the pottery understood. Finally, Bianca got on her hands and knees and crawled under the table to catch the final holdout. She tossed the last hen into the air outside their door and slammed it shut. Removing her muffin cap, she hung it on a nail and picked up the retorts and the empty bottle of wine to carry them to the table.

John had propped himself on his elbows to watch the excitement.

“Didn't you hear them clucking and knocking things over?”

“I did, but I thought I was dreaming.”

“You never made it to Boisvert's?”

John lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I did not.”

“Have you even gotten up?”

“Not much.”

Bianca sat on the bed beside him. The black tiger, never one to refuse an opportunity to be petted, stretched and stepped on her lap.

“My head is pounding,” said John. “It feels as if horses are galloping back and forth inside my skull.”

Bianca blinked in alarm. She ran through the symptoms Barnabas Hughes had mentioned about the sweat. Pounding head, fever, shortness of breath . . . “Are you feverish?” She placed her hand on his temples and felt his cheeks. He did feel warm to her touch. “You will become parched if you do not drink. My mother believes one must drink to keep the river flowing inside.”

She found a cup and poured John some ale from the cask they had gotten from the Dim Dragon Inn. “If you have a fever and you are losing your water to perspiration, you must drink.” She reached for her pillow and wedged it behind John as he sat up.

“Where have you been?” he asked. His eyes closed as if he hadn't the strength to keep them open.

“I collected the retorts I bought from Amice.” She watched John take a sip of ale. She could not expect him to gulp it down—only the most brave could guzzle that tavern's brew. “I thought I would have to ask Goodwife Tenbrook to let me into his rent. But when I got there, she was dead.”

“Small favors,” said John. “At least you were spared the inconvenience of having to convince her to unlock the room.” John finished the ale and handed the cup to Bianca. “I know you wanted to collect those retorts. However, now that you have them, I see no reason for you to return to Ferris Stannum's alchemy room. The place seems to have a dangerous effect on anyone spending time there. I am rather fond of you and would prefer that you not drop dead. Now, if you have no objection, I shall rest.” He removed the pillow propping him up and dropped onto his back.

“Are you having difficulty breathing?” asked Bianca, but John's breath had already lengthened into slumber. Bianca sat on the edge of the bed and watched him rest. His current fatigue was disturbing. True, the heat sapped everyone's strength. All of London operated at a more sluggish pace.

Bianca began to think about a tincture to cure the illness. Or, if not cure, then at least ease its ugly symptoms.

In the meantime, John's complaint took precedence. Bianca took down a bunch of dried feverfew from her collection tacked on an overhead beam and decided to make a poultice for his forehead. If he could sleep restfully he might be able to ward off the disease should it be trying to wear him down.

Finding her mortar and pestle, she ground the aerial parts until they were a fine powder. To this she added a measure of water and honey to make a paste. She slathered the mixture on a piece of thin muslin and laid it on John's forehead. Much to Bianca's disappointment, he did not stir when she put it on his skin.

If this was the precursor to the sweating sickness, she must be prepared. The shortness of breath that Barnabas Hughes spoke of could mean the victim's lungs were filling with phlegm. If the secretions were thick and yellow, a “hot” phlegm, she could use silverweed and elder. She had never combined the two, but the silverweed could help dry perspiration. Elder was an expectorant, so mixing them together should help with the copious secretions that the disease was known for.

But as Bianca checked her shelves for elder, she remembered that elder could induce sweating. It would counteract the drying effect of silverweed. The two would not mix. Disappointed, Bianca ran through other combinations of ingredients.

The black cat roused from its nap beside John and jumped to the shelf in front of Bianca. “If I had Ferris Stannum's elixir of life, I wouldn't have to figure this out.” She stroked its back while thinking. Looking the feline in the eyes, she said, “I hope you don't mind living forever—though you have no choice in the matter.” The cat butted her head affectionately as if in agreement.

“
Morus alba,
” said Bianca, snapping her fingers. She reached past the black tiger and felt around on the shelf behind it. “Ha!” she said, pulling out a chunk of mulberry root and sniffing it to be sure. She had seen the tree growing near a field in Horsleydown and had insisted John help her dig for some roots. He had not taken kindly to her using his knife to saw off bits of the stubborn plant, grousing that he had just sharpened it and now he would have to do it again.

“I can dissolve this and add the silverweed tincture to make a tea,” she told the cat.

Confident she had the basis for a remedy, Bianca found the tincture of silverweed and made a decoction of root bark. Soon, a pleasant smell filled the room and Bianca hoped John might notice and sit up to comment. Instead, his sleep grew increasingly restless. He tossed about, briefly lying still before flipping over again, dangling his leg off the edge.

Bianca retrieved the feverfew poultice and asked if it had helped the pounding in his head. When he didn't respond, she shook his shoulder and spoke in his ear. His eyes blinked open and he moaned what she took to be an “aye,” then turned away from her.

The tea finished steeping and Bianca wondered if it would benefit him if he took it now. However, doing so before symptoms appeared might be premature. The tea was not made as a preventative, and giving it too soon might have an undesired harsh effect on his system. So Bianca strained the infusion and set it aside, ready in the event that John's health declined.