Death of an Alchemist (6 page)

C
HAPTER
5

If all men slept soundly, think on what tranquility their souls might enjoy. But this night, one restless soul could not sleep and sought peace through other means.

Those looking for ill-gotten gains benefit from stifling summer heat combined with the dark of night. Denizens with the luxury of windows open them wide, hoping for a breeze to find their beds. Others worry their open door might invite thieves or even rapists, and while some gamble they might be spared such crimes for a decent night's rest, others are not so complacent and lock their doors and windows. Ferris Stannum, the alchemist, was of the trusting kind.

What could befall a man who had discovered the secret to immortality? He alone had been granted that destiny. Most alchemists espoused their virtues and single-minded purpose trying to convince God (as well as themselves) that they deserved success. But Ferris Stannum had been blessed beyond all others.

Hope filled a puffer's heart but not his purse. Alchemists spent money that should have bought food for their families. They squandered their last coin; they squandered their future in a desperate pursuit to project the stone. Ferris Stannum smiled in his sleep. Yes, he, too, had squandered, but soon he would recoup every loss he had ever incurred.

All but one.

Though he was hopeful he might turn that around.

His mind was soothed by the knowledge that he had been blessed with a great destiny. However, there was one who crept into Ferris Stannum's rent who did not think about matters of destiny.

Stannum turned over on his pallet and faced the wall, the damp plaster spotted with mildew. Soon he might live where the sun could find him as he worked to make vial after vial of elixir. His journal of alchemy sufficed as a pillow, providing some comfort for his mind, but not particularly so for his head. His ear pressed hard against its cover. Still, exhaustion pulled him under, and in his repose, he kicked off a thin sheet. Even that was too much weight this hot night.

The black tiger returned from its nocturnal prowling carrying a limp shrew in its mouth. A dog alerted the entire neighborhood of its arrival and successful hunt. This proved a noisy and unnecessary announcement, requiring the feline to deftly skirt the dog's snapping jaws. Relaxing upon entry to its master's home, the cat found a suitable place to dismember the creature and set about doing so. Shrews were delectable except for their long, bony snouts.

Ferris Stannum began to snore, and his steady breathing filled the rent.

When he rustled, the footsteps stopped. When he settled, the footsteps started.

The cat abandoned its shrew.

All was at peace until a most unnatural sound disturbed the red parrot and set it squawking.

 

Across the river, Bianca and John left the door and their one window open. What little breeze they enjoyed was suffused with the smell of chicken manure from across the way. John thrashed, pulling a sheet over his nose to filter the awful stink. This lasted half a minute, until he grew too warm and threw it off.

Beside him, Bianca slept soundly. She was bothered by neither the smells nor the oppressive heat. Her dreams were soft, filled with visions of herbs and flowers, the combinations stoking her subconscious with ideas for remedies she would pursue later, when she woke.

John propped himself on one elbow and stared at her—willing her to wake and hear his complaints. But she turned away from him, a serene smile on her lips.

Restless, John sat on the side of the bed. He twisted his hair into a bun and stabbed it in place with a metal stirring rod from Bianca's wares. The room had not cooled. No breeze found their door. He went to open it wider, catching sight of the crescent moon hanging in the sky like a silver hook. Even the trill of a nightingale did not soothe his foul temper. John leaned against the jamb. They had been married for a few months now, and still he had not convinced Bianca to move. Nor had he convinced her to take his surname. She would rather stay a Goddard than be called a Grunt. Though, John had to admit, Grunt was an appalling last name.

What would it take to get her to leave this dreary hovel? John shook his head, thinking how stubborn she could be.

 

He remembered back to when it was rumored the king's fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, was to process through Bishopsgate, and even though it was a cold day in January, Bianca positioned herself within sight of the expected entourage and waited hours in the wind. It wasn't even certain, but a rumor passed from eager tongue to ear. She endured without complaint the sharp pelts of sleet on her face, hoping for a glimpse of the new queen. John had told her no woman was worth waiting for, especially if one must suffer physical pain in the process. But Bianca had shown remarkable tenacity, and even though her feet were numb and would take hours to thaw, she got her glimpse and was pleased.

In another year or so he would be done with his apprenticeship. His mentor, the French metallurgist Boisvert, would suggest where John might set up smithing. John wished to stay in London, with its ample supply of merchants and courtiers with deep purses. He could do a fine business catering to those with the means to pay him. But he would not be so brash as to compete directly with Boisvert. He owed his livelihood to the petulant Frenchman.

Boisvert
had
rescued him from living in a barrel behind the Tern's Tempest tavern. He had been nothing but an abandoned waif living off his wits and kitchen scraps. If Boisvert hadn't taken him in, he might have ended with one less finger, or hand, for all of his thieving.

But the smells of Bianca's room of Medicinals and Physickes were not the only reason that John wished to move. There was hardly room to sit, and the board was always littered with the bowls and equipment from her experiments. The shelves were lined not with staples of food, but with jars of herbs and powders for her salves. And in the corner was the constant hiss of rats in cages stacked one atop the other.

Still, he could not convince Bianca to find a larger, better-ventilated rent in which to live and work.

John sighed as he headed back to the bed. “
La nuit porte conseil,
” he mused, sitting on the edge and listening to Bianca's relaxed breathing. “And a pillow is my best advisor.”

C
HAPTER
6

The next day, Bianca expected to find Ferris Stannum busy at work. Instead, she found Ferris Stannum busy being dead. She had hoped to spend more time with the brilliant alchemist, learning more about his methods, tapping his store of knowledge. Instead, she arrived to find him stiff on his pallet, surrounded by an ineffectual clutch of onlookers discussing his demise.

“Well nows,” said Constable Patch, surprised to see the young woman at yet another scene of death. “Bianca Goddard, strange to see ye here.”

“I might say the same of you,” said Bianca, unruffled. The sight of him conjured bad memories of when he had accused her of poisoning her friend. It had been only a few months since that ugly charge, and the thought of their paths crossing again so soon and for yet another death filled Bianca with apprehension, which she was careful to hide.

The constable straightened and tugged on his new suit of popingay blue, the shine not yet off his brass buttons. “Since last we mets, I was promoted. Southwark is in my past. Is it in yours?”

“I still live in Gull Hole.”

“'Tis a shame you have not improved your station.” Constable Patch picked at his goatish wisp of beard. “Methinks if I was you I would stay away from dead bodies.”

Bianca stood next to Barnabas Hughes, the physician she had met the day before. “It is not that I purposely seek them out.” She looked disconsolately at her lifeless mentor. “What happened?”

“Is it not obvious?” said Constable Patch. “He died.”

“He was quite alive yesterday,” said Bianca.

“Yesterday, you say?” said Patch, lifting an eyebrow. “You were here yesterday?”

Bianca did not answer. It took a concerted effort to remain silent and not comment on what he was insinuating.

“Oh, aye,” said the landlady, sidling up to Bianca. “She was here. And I never seen her before. It was like she came out of nowheres.”

“Indeed,” commented Constable Patch. An interested expression flickered across his face. “Mrs. Tenbrook, I am familiar with this maid and I agree. She is quite peculiar. However, if ye would be so kind as to repeat your story?” He watched her begin to speak, shifting his eyes to Bianca.

A flushed Mrs. Tenbrook looked round at the small gathering. The district coroner wore a bored expression and continued his examination, unbuttoning Stannum's nightshirt, exposing the alchemist's thin chest. Barnabas Hughes watched without comment.

“It was a warm night, it was,” started Mrs. Tenbrook. “Most everyone on the lane had thrown open their windows and doors for some night air. Ye would think, bein' as it was so steamy, that most cozens would respect a man's right to slumber and not go prowlin' about murderin' old men in their sleep.”

The coroner leaned over Ferris Stannum's neck, sniffing the skin. “I have not yet determined this is murder,” he said without looking up.

“Mrs. Tenbrook, it is not our place to jump to inclusions.” Constable Patch felt the need to demonstrate a newfound objectivity, as if it came with his newly acquired position.

The goodwife blinked at the constable, momentarily confused. Bianca understood what Patch meant, having dealt with him before. She thought the suggestion was more of a reminder to himself than to the landlady to remain impartial.

“Aw. I just think it is low for anyone to murder another in their sleep, especially an old man.”

“You had harsh words for your tenant yesterday,” said Bianca.

Mrs. Tenbrook took exception. “What you saw yesterday was just our daily dealings. I never mean nothing by words. I just wanted him to pay his back rent.” She looked anxiously at Constable Patch, who nodded for her to continue.

“As I said, last night, every window and door was open on the lane. He probably left his open, too. 'Cause that's how I found it this morning—wide open.” She appealed to Hughes and Bianca. “And he had it open all day. Both of you was here. Is it not true he had his door opened wide?”

Barnabas Hughes and Bianca agreed.

“It was a fitful night for most, but I slept like the dead.” Mrs. Tenbrook looked round at them, glanced at Stannum, and crossed herself. “I didn't hear a cricket until morning, until that bird started squawkin' and carryin' on.”

The coroner pulled Ferris Stannum's nightshirt below his shoulders and down his arms. He stood back for a full view. No bruising or ligatures marked Stannum's skin. “And you attended him yesterday?” asked the coroner of Barnabas Hughes.

“I visited him,” said the physician. “I found him overtired. From lack of sleep. I encouraged him to rest.”

“As I was saying,” said Mrs. Tenbrook importantly, “that bird was screeching like it was being beat. Bobbin' its head . . .” She imitated the parrot's gesture, which garnered everyone's attention.

“Usually the old man could get it settled and I wouldn't hear but a few shrieks every once in a while. But it kept up its shrieking. After a time, I came down to see why he couldn't get it to shut its beak. I don't want the neighbors complaining. It sounded like Stannum was trying to kill the thing.”

The attention went to the parrot, which was sitting passively on a limb that served as its perch. The macaw appeared untroubled by the roomful of strangers and cocked its head, peering at them through one eye.

“And that's when I saw him,” said Mrs. Tenbrook. “Frozen stiff in his bed. Like a winter gale had blown through.”

The coroner pulled up Ferris Stannum's nightshirt, leaving it open at the neck. “He died of natural cause.”

Bianca was stunned by his quick pronouncement. “How can you be certain?” she asked.

“There are no signs of strangulation or poisoning.” The coroner was assured of his office. “I see no stab wounds. What has happened internally, I know not. However, it appears he died in his sleep.”

“Look how white his lips and nose are.”

“I would not expect rosy lips on the dead,” said Constable Patch.

“He lived his life in this alchemy room. He rarely saw the sun,” said Hughes.

“But white?” said Bianca. “And his face. It has a bluish cast. Don't you see?”

Everyone peered down at Ferris Stannum.

“Nay, I do not see,” said the coroner after a moment. He looked at Hughes, who shrugged and shook his head. “Sometimes we see what we imagine,” said the coroner.

“I do not imagine,” said Bianca. She bent over the alchemist's face and studied his glazed expression. “His eyes are bloodshot.”

“The man worked in dim conditions. My eyes would be bloodshot, too, if I worked in this cave.” The coroner stepped away and sat before a folio at the table. “He was an old man.” The coroner opened the folder, ran a hand over a page to smooth it down. Missing a requisite pen, he looked around. “Constable, hand me that quill.” He pointed to an inkwell and pen beside it.

Bianca stared at her mentor. How could the coroner be so sure Stannum had died of natural cause? He had been full of life the day before. True, his hands had shaken, but he had been excited about his discovery. Though perhaps, she thought, he could have been fatigued and his trembling could have been from lack of food and sleep.

The coroner began writing and Constable Patch hovered near his shoulder. Bianca bore a healthy distaste for public officials. They thought more about collecting their pay and where they might spend it than about performing their duty. The only thing that saved the common man from officials was their inefficiency.

As Bianca thought of this and watched the two functionaries, she noticed that Ferris Stannum's journal of alchemy was not on the lectern.

She walked over to the writing desk. She looked around, searching the floor and bench beside it. “I do not see Stannum's alchemy journal.”

Neither Mrs. Tenbrook nor Barnabas Hughes answered. Constable Patch had no interest in her comment and continued to attend the coroner.

“Perhaps he sent it off to Madu in Cairo,” said Hughes. “That was his wish.”

“But it was late when I left and he was tired. I would have thought he would have waited until today.” Bianca checked the shelves and tables. Puzzled, Bianca addressed Mrs. Tenbrook. “Do you know if Ferris Stannum left yesterday evening?”

“I do not watch his comings and goings,” said she. “I am his landlady, not his wife.”

As Bianca continued her hunt for the missing journal, she came across a square of linen. She picked it up off the floor. It was speckled with dots and smears of blood. Yesterday she had noticed Stannum occasionally wiping his eyes. Glancing up to see Mrs. Tenbrook and Hughes watching the coroner and Constable Patch, she stuffed it in her pocket.

Unable to find the journal, Bianca concluded that Stannum had probably sent it off. But, she thought, it was also possible someone had taken it. Unfortunately, she had no proof either way.

The coroner laid down the quill and blotted the wet ink. “I'm finished here,” he said, handing the paper to Constable Patch. “I would not delay in the body's removal. The height of summer is an unfortunate time to die.”

The coroner left, dismissing Bianca's further questions. Mrs. Tenbrook wandered around the room, lifting jars and sniffing them, peering into tubes and retorts. Hughes stood silently next to his friend, reticent in his grief. Bianca looked askance at Constable Patch, who was surreptitiously studying her. She wished the ineffectual plod gone.

As Mrs. Tenbrook shamelessly picked through Ferris Stannum's belongings, it seemed to Bianca that her nonchalant curiosity was more of a determined search. Though she stood next to Stannum and appeared to be thinking of her mentor's untimely departure, she kept an eye on the impertinent landlady.

“So, Bianca Goddard,” said Constable Patch. “What brings you to Ferris Stannum's?”

“I sought him for advice,” she answered, avoiding his gaze. She imagined his mouth twisted in an obnoxious smirk. A glance at him confirmed the sneer. “Meddybemps recommended I ask Stannum for help.”

“Meddybemps, you say? How is the knave? Is he still vending his talismans and your medicinals?” He said “medicinals” as if it had as much credibility as a rumor.

“Aye, he does well by his business.”

“So's ye came to Stannum for help? What sort of help?”

A familiar pang of unease settled in Bianca's gut. Only a few months earlier, Constable Patch had accused her of murdering her friend Jolyn, and her quest to prove him wrong had been a difficult and deadly undertaking. Patch had had her thrown in the Clink, where she had been beaten. Bianca had recovered from the ordeal, but losing Jolyn was a loss with which she still struggled.

“Constable, you know I endeavor to help the sick. Sometimes I concoct my medicinals using methods I've learned from observing alchemists. Ferris Stannum taught me how to sublimate my tinctures.” She hoped her directness would prevent his suspecting her of rascally intents.

But Constable Patch had a tendency to provoke before backing off. “I just finds it peculiar how ye show up when there's a death in an alchemy room.” He raised an eyebrow, anticipating her response.

Mrs. Tenbrook found a bowl of something that suited her and dumped its contents in her apron pocket. She set it back on a ledge and looked up to see Bianca steadily watching her.

“Ferris Stannum was old,” repeated Bianca, facing Constable Patch. “He died of natural cause.” She repeated the coroner's findings as if she had finally accepted them.

Patch stroked his beard.

“Did you find what you needed?” Bianca called to Mrs. Tenbrook, who was shaking a vessel and listening to its contents. The landlady quickly returned it to a shelf. She wiped her hands on her skirt as though she was trying to remove evidence of her snooping.

However, Mrs. Tenbrook's embarrassment was soon forgotten when a mournful cry cut through the prickly silence. A young woman stood at the door, her hands covering her mouth. She was about Bianca's age, around eighteen, with copper hair poking out from beneath a cap. She wore a tavern maid's greasy apron and looked as though she had just left her workplace. Her apron reeked from spilled ale and her blouse clung to her damp torso. She was of small bone structure but blessed with curves in the right places. The maid dropped her hands. Her mouth agape, she ran to Ferris Stannum's side.

“Your father's dead,” said Mrs. Tenbrook, abandoning her search and quickly coming round to stand next to the alchemist. She sounded as if she had coveted the chance to tell the girl for a long time.

The girl's face registered dismay. She stood over the body, staring in disbelief. “When did this happen?”

Constable Patch began to explain the circumstances, but Mrs. Tenbrook spoke over him. “I found him, I did,” she said proudly. “That bird of his was louder than the parish bells this morning. I came down and there he be. Dead as wood.”

The young woman looked up at Constable Patch. “Who are you?” she asked in alarm.

“I am the constable of this ward. Patch is my name.” He swept off his cap and bowed. “And ye are . . . ?”

The girl's stare darted from one face to another. “Amice. His daughter.”

“Ah,” said Constable Patch, “then his death comes as a surprise?”

Amice did not answer. Her reticence visibly annoyed the constable. His eyes narrowed and he wondered whether all alchemists' daughters were chary. Perhaps they were taught from an early age to disrespect authority.

“Your father was unwell,” said Barnabas Hughes. He said this gently, but Bianca heard a slightly accusatory tone.

“He was an old man,” Amice said, glancing at Hughes. She returned her attention to her father.