Death of an Alchemist (23 page)

Bianca covered the bird and got to her feet.

If Ferris Stannum had
not
been smothered by a pillow, would he have died of the same infection that had claimed Amice and Gilley?

Bianca thought back to Goodwife Tenbrook lying in her darkened room with the shutters closed. She had complained of the light hurting her eyes when Barnabas Hughes opened the shutter. She, too, had bloodshot eyes. But perhaps the infection had not reached the point that it had with Amice and Gilley. Perhaps the landlady had only the beginning symptoms. Bianca shook her head. According to the coroner, Goodwife Tenbrook had died from the sweat. And apparently Barnabas Hughes had not poisoned her when he gave her the sleeping draught. There seemed to be no clear reason why the landlady had died. Unless, perhaps, the combination of several factors contributed to her demise.

Some deaths might always remain inexplicable.

A shutter clacked against the house as a gust of wind blew through the window, startling Bianca. She shook off her contemplation. She would have plenty of time to ponder while creating the elixir. But for now, Meddybemps was expecting her.

C
HAPTER
29

Meddybemps stood beneath the drawbridge tower, peering up at the impressive display of heads impaled on pikes. He had done a good business at the Tyburn execution. The crowds had been raucous and irreverent. Minstrels entertained before the condemned were wheeled through to boisterous cheers. He had enjoyed himself thoroughly, until he realized one of the accused was his cousin. Seeing his sorry countenance trembling and terrified sobered the streetseller. He wished at least Winfred had shown some spine. Alas, he had not. Now Meddybemps spied his cousin staring down at him, his teeth glinting in a final grimace. “Poor Winfred,” said Meddybemps. “Dear fellow, you have not much to grin about now.”

The streetseller withdrew a pipe and turned his back to the wind, which had suddenly come up, blowing away the haze of humid, murky air that had plagued London of late. He huddled over the spark of a flint, igniting the bowl of dried tobacco, savoring the smell of its smoke. He had arrived with time to spare. Bianca was late but not so dramatically that he should be concerned. He whiled away the minutes in conversation with the rare passerby brave enough to cross the bridge at this late hour.

By the time he'd left the tavern the cart had been dragged from the lane and deposited at the edge of a wider one. A casualty of London's deterioration, it would cost the poor drayman plenty to repair the axle. He knew, for he had just repaired one on his pushcart not a month before. If King Harry weren't so intent on reclaiming his French land and proving he was more virile than King Francis, he might spend some money on patching the roads.

Bianca's satchel dug into his shoulder and he irritably shrugged it off, setting it beside him on the bridge. Why suffer needless discomfort? It would not be long before she arrived.

Meddybemps took another puff on his pipe and blew the smoke out over the water. A merchant vessel was mooring off Romeland, and he watched the crew haul up the sails. The great sheets of canvas billowed in the wind, tugging the ropes as the seamen lashed the sails fast. The hands furling the triangular sail off the foremast had particular issue with the gale. The line running through a block caught in the outermost pulley. The sail flapped about, and the sagging line flailed in the wind.

He listened to the crewmen curse and saw a young mate singled out to shimmy up the bowsprit. This made for great entertainment. Meddybemps puffed contentedly at his pipe as he watched the sailors and their antics.

Below, the water grew choppy and Meddybemps watched with increasing interest as the lad clung to the bowsprit, which dipped and rolled with the ship. The streetseller had little interest in sailing the seas. London was world enough for him. He had not a mote of desire to see the wonders of other lands. Even descriptions of women with their tawny skin and exposed bosoms did not entice him enough to take up such a life. If God had intended him to cross the seas, he would have been born a fish.

His interest drew the notice of another pedestrian walking the drawbridge as the moon lit the surface of the water and illuminated the poor sailor inching down the spar.

“They had better give him an extra ration if he makes it without falling in,” said the man, a bawcock by the looks of him. He was dressed in merchant's clothing and did not seem to mind sharing the view with the likes of a streetseller—at least for the moment. Meddybemps gave him a sidelong glance, sizing him up and deciding if it was worth trying to wrangle a coin from him in a bet. If he hadn't been tasked with meeting Bianca, he might have prattled on about some such nonsense, then followed him into the darker recesses of the bridge to put a knife on his neck and scare it out of him. The fellow was probably good for decent coin, for Meddybemps noted a heavy-looking purse swinging from his waist.

Instead, Meddybemps forced himself to look away from the man's wealth and contented himself with conversation. “And if he does fall, and if by chance they manage to haul him out before he drowns, I say he deserves another three rations on top of the two.”

The man nodded solemnly. “Have you ever stepped aboard one of those beasts?” he asked.

“Nay, no opportunity,” replied Meddybemps. “Nor have I any desire.”

“I have gone as far as Deptford,” the man offered. He seemed happy to tell of his adventure, and Meddybemps did not mind listening, as long as he was not long-winded and humorless.

“Deptford is not so overly far,” commented Meddybemps, wondering why the man would think that a worthy adventure.

“Far aplenty if you haven't the love for sailing.” The man kept his eyes on the poor lad struggling with the line on the bowsprit. “I grant you, I most enjoyed watching the countryside roll by. But the life of a sailor is not for me.”

“Why so brief a float?” Meddybemps held his pipe near his chest to keep the bowl burning. The wind blew, then died and blew again.

“I delivered a missive to the Royal Yard. The ship was to be refitted with a block of cannons.”

“Ah, for our king's latest conquest?”

“To be at the ready. Aye, it is the desire of the Crown to call upon his merchant vessels when needed.”

“And when might they be needed?”

“When the king is ready to take back his beloved Boulogne.”

Meddybemps took a long draw on his pipe and tipped his chin skyward, blowing the smoke overhead. “Why does our king desire French land? Is their soil superior to ours?”

“I think one finds each a suitable surface to walk upon. The French till and piss on it the same as us.”

“Then why desire it so?” Meddybemps cupped his hand around his pipe's bowl. The leaves were struggling to remain lit. “Be it so magical?”

“It is our liege's pleasure to think so.” The man could not be lured into disparaging Harry or his policies. He was canny enough to know to keep his counsel. Meddybemps cared little for a man who so cautiously curbed his tongue. He decided to offer a wager.

“I've a pouch of leaves that says the boy does not return to deck,” said Meddybemps. He had noticed the man's interest in his pipe and knew a covetous look when he saw it. He waited for the man to ante.

“I'll stake a crown,” offered the man.

Meddybemps chuckled indulgently. Not only was this man niggardly with his words; he was stingy with his stakes. “Nay, my leaves are worth more than that. An angel and we shake.”

The fellow considered this. He glanced at the boy wrapped desperately around the bowsprit. “Well matched,” he said, putting out his hand to shake.

The two gamblers watched the lad fumble with the pulley. The gusting wind caused the ship to bob and yaw, and the lad frantically worked to be done with his task.

At one point the boy lost his footing and hung by his hands, dangling precariously over the surf. Meddybemps became excited and started shouting for him to let go. An angel in his pocket would be a nice addition. But Meddybemps underestimated the capacity of youths to engage their more limber abilities. The boy swung himself up like a monkey. Working his hands and then his legs, he inched down the spar to the waiting hands of his crew.

Meddybemps grumbled and removed his pouch of tobacco. It would be a while until he would secure more, if even there was any in London to find.

Delighted, the man pocketed his newly acquired cache. “A good eve,” he said, touching a finger to his hat, spun from expensive silk. Whistling a discordant air, he disappeared through the dark interior of the bridge tower.

Meddybemps stifled the urge to follow. It would have been so easy to get back his pouch of smoking leaves.

A loud cheer went up from the deck of the merchant ship, and the monkey was made a hero. Meddybemps watched the crew heft him over the side and dangle him over the water in reward. Odd humor, these sailors. It confirmed his belief that days spent on the ocean with nothing but blue water before him made a man strange, if not mad.

Meddybemps tapped the ash out on the railing and tucked the pipe back into his jerkin. The Thames needed replenishing, and in a momentary lull in pedestrians, Meddybemps loosened the stays of his codpiece and aimed between the grates at his feet. He heard the tread of an advancing bypasser and turned his back on the approach.

It is a bodily function that cannot be hurried. Nor is the act of tying one's stays a quick exercise. Meddybemps floundered with the slippery cords, hoping the traveler was a man, because as such he would be sympathetic to the travails of securing these complicated fashions. Of course if it was Bianca, she would not much care, but the streetseller did not want to embarrass either of them.

Meddybemps did get his wish. A man stepped onto the grate of the drawbridge. However, instead of passing him by, the man strode up, grabbed the satchel, and made haste to be off with it.

“Ho there!” yelled Meddybemps, abandoning his project. He came about, snatching the strap of Bianca's satchel, and hauled back against the fleeing cutpurse. He was surprised to find his strength evenly matched. The thief would not let go. A tug-of-war ensued and the streetseller clung to the strap, hoping it would not fray from the strain.

In the dim moonlight, Meddybemps glimpsed the man's face but did not recognize him. His dress was not that of a typical scrounging vagrant. In fact, his attire implied a man of some professional station. His neatly clipped beard and ringed fingers certainly bespoke a man of refined taste. For the life of him, the streetseller could not figure what a man of such standing would want with an old satchel.

But whoever he was, Meddybemps was surprised with the man's determination. The thief clung to the rucksack like daub on a wall.

Still holding the strap, Meddybemps maneuvered them to the middle of the drawbridge so that the man had his back to the river. He then charged forward, yelling through gritted teeth, pushing the man into the railing.

“Leave off the satchel!” cried Meddybemps, yanking the strap. The motion tugged the man's arms so that Meddybemps drove his knee into the rascal's gut. But the move was not delivered well and the cozen fended off the bony appendage with his forearm.

Meddybemps stumbled. His grip lessened. The crook saw his advantage and quickly slid one hand up the strap and wrenched it away. As Meddybemps recovered his balance, the man turned to run. If he did not act, the satchel would be gone forever. Growling with a burst of strength, Meddybemps launched himself at the man's back.

Fortunately for the streetseller, the scoundrel caught his toe in the drawbridge grate. He fell forward, taking Meddybemps with him. Their bodies hit the grate with a thud. The satchel skidded inches out of reach.

Meddybemps scuttled after it and got his side punched. The thief scrabbled after it and got his arm bit. The two grabbed on to each other. They tussled, they grunted, they cursed. Finally, Meddybemps managed to get the better of the man, seizing his wrists and pinning them down. But the rogue bucked the streetseller off and rolled free. Meddybemps swiped after his ankles as the man threw himself over the bag. Incensed, Meddybemps dove onto his back. This time the streetseller pushed the man's head into the grate and held it there.

“ 'Tis a shame your nose isn't as thick as your head,” said Meddybemps, feeling his hands grow wet with blood. “Maybe you might leave off that satchel, like I asked.” For good measure, the streetseller grabbed the man by his ears and drove his face into the grate.

The crook said nothing in response. He offered no resistance when Meddybemps lifted his head for a third bashing. Remorseful, but not sorry enough to be gentle, Meddybemps let go. The thief's head fell heavily on the grate.

Heaving for breath, Meddybemps stood and picked up the satchel.

No pedestrians or travelers witnessed their scuffle. Only the wind, the stone façades of the bridge, and the river Thames attended the brawl. Meddybemps looked down at the filcher and felt a twinge of panic. The man lay motionless. Not even a moan escaped his lips. Had he killed him?

Meddybemps hadn't thought his strength was superior. He had dashed the thief's face into the grating only enough to stun him. His intention was merely to stop the scoundrel's frenzy. His heart thudded. Nay, that was not true and he knew it. He had enjoyed his moment of unbridled ire.

Meddybemps looked around. Had anyone seen him? He swiped his hat off the grating and pulled it down low over his brows. He pulled the collar of his jerkin up under his chin. If someone had come upon their struggle, surely they would have intervened. Surely someone would have stopped them. He stared down at the lifeless body in disbelief.

But a witness might have fled to find a constable. Meddybemps looked back in the direction of London, peering at the dark passage through the tower. In fact, they might be on their way now. Where was Bianca? He couldn't just stand here with a dead man at his feet and wait.

She had told him he might be followed. He had expected that. She had told him to protect the satchel. And he had. But she had not told him he had to kill a man in order to keep it.

“God's wounds!” he exclaimed. “From now on, I only sell your godless salves!” Since Bianca was not there to hear him, he voiced his rancor to the Queen Moon smirking at him from her lofty perch.

It would not do to stay a moment longer. His better sense told him to run. He glanced in the direction of London, willing Bianca to appear. In that still moment, the sound of sloshing water gave him an idea.

Meddybemps slung the satchel over his shoulder and went to the railing to peer over the side. It was far enough down and the tide was high enough that a body could be swept out to sea by morning. And if the man were not quite dead, a fall into the drink would surely finish him. No one would know the better, and he would bear the secret to his grave.