Death of an Alchemist (24 page)

True, Bianca might never know the identity of Stannum's killer. Perhaps this thief was the old alchemist's murderer, but how was he to know for sure? Certainly, the man had wanted the satchel. But a man dressed as fine as this did not seem the dastardly type.

He would note the man's dress and his features so he could describe him to Bianca when she finally showed. He would tell her of the attack and that he had fended him off. He would tell her how the man ran away. Mayhap she would know who he might be from his description. Mayhap she would revel in the knowledge of Stannum's killer. Let her go to the foolish constable or justice of the peace and tell him of her thoughts. They would never find the man, and though Bianca might worry that he would be after her, in time, her fears would fade. And she would forget.

Meddybemps stepped beside the body, nudging him with his boot to roll him over. He would get a long look at the man's face and remember it to Bianca.

Meddybemps was mistaken. The man was not dead.

His arm shot out, holding Meddybemps's ankle with a firm grip. Before the streetseller could regain his balance, the man had pulled him down. Meddybemps fell straight over, like a tree given the axe. His back slammed onto the bridge.

The man jumped on Meddybemps's stomach, pinning his arms to his sides. Unleashing a spate of pent-up fury, he pummeled Meddybemps in the jaw.

Meddybemps thrashed about, trying to avoid the man's determined fist. The taste of blood filled his mouth; his neck became damp from it. The man kept to his merciless assault for longer than Meddybemps had kept up his.

But Meddybemps sensed the man tiring. The punches slowed and they lost their brutal edge. It would take more than a nattily dressed professional to do him in. Stirred by indignation, Meddybemps rose in a surge of strength. He spewed blood and saliva in the man's face and threw him off.

“Now,” said Meddybemps, scrambling to his feet. He spoke between heavy gasps of breath. “Suppose you tell me who you are and why you have issue with me?”

The man struggled to his hands and knees. He brought his legs under him and staggered to his feet. He wavered before Meddybemps, breathing heavily before speaking.

“Nay,” he said. “That would serve no purpose.” His eyes flicked to Meddybemps's waist, then met the streetseller's stare.

Meddybemps would have preferred the dirk in his hand, not sheathed at his waist. But he knew the rogue sensed it, too.

With a vicious whoop the man rushed at him. Meddybemps desperately tried to pull the dirk from its sheath, but his assailant got to him first and pushed him into the railing. Meddybemps felt the man's hands close around his windpipe.

The rogue bent him backward over the railing. Meddybemps gripped the man's wrists, trying to pry the man's thumbs off his windpipe. But with his blood flow constricted, an excruciating pressure began to build behind his eyes. He gasped repeatedly for a precious ounce of air. Unable to find the strength to throw off his aggressor, Meddybemps felt his consciousness begin to wane.

A burst of red was all he saw. His struggle was over. His arms dropped and his body went limp. The satchel slid down his shoulder.

C
HAPTER
30

Bianca closed the door to Amice and Gilley's and dashed down the stairs. Bursting through the back door of the Royal Poke, she ran into the alley, leaving the discovery of the dead couple to someone else. She hoped Meddybemps had not lost his patience and that she would find him waiting for her on the bridge.

In an attempt to take the most direct route, she cut through back alleys, avoided derelicts, and jumped over heaps of refuse. Meddybemps would be watching the time. If the bridge was about to close to curfew, he would not wait.

At Thames Street, Bianca took the broad avenue to London Bridge. The moon lit her way as she barreled down the road, panting and holding the stitch in her side. Ahead, the clock by St. Magnus showed minutes before ten. She turned the corner onto New Fish Street within sight of the bridge.

The gate hung suspended over the entrance, not yet lowered for curfew. By the entrance, a gibbeted woman seemed to taunt and call after her as she scurried past.

Candles flickered behind windows on the bridge, affording her just enough light to see. Few people were out walking and soon the tallows and lanterns would be extinguished. Shopkeepers had closed, retreating to their residences in the upper stories. She kept a wary eye on dark recesses and hurried her step.

Bianca clamped her mouth closed and tried to keep her panting from announcing her arrival. It would have been best if she had paused long enough to catch her breath and calm her pounding heart. She did not know if Meddybemps would be followed, but she had sensed someone watching her up until they had gone into the alehouse. If her plan went as hoped, she would soon know the identity of her stalker.

Though she had seen no familiar faces, it was possible her pursuer could have avoided her notice. It was a bet she was willing to take that
she
was not what the murderer was after.

She entered the last section of bridge before the open span. Plunged into complete darkness, Bianca lifted her skirt to avoid tripping over its hem and charged ahead despite a rising sense of unease. Her eyes trained on the tower gate opposite, she kept to the center of the lane. The stones of the turret glowed blue in the moonlight.

Near the opening, Bianca heard a strange guttural sound coming from the drawbridge. Hesitating, she tried to identify the noise.

It was the unmistakable sound of a person choking.

Bianca rushed into the open. She saw the back of a hulking figure strangling Meddybemps against the railing.

The streetseller clung to his attacker's wrists, trying to pull his hands from his neck. His back arched perilously over the railing. Moonlight glinted off the whites of his eyes.

Bianca screamed. Her arrival had no effect on the man's determination to finish her friend. Horrified, she witnessed the final agony of Meddybemps's struggle. His tongue extended from his mouth and his eyes rolled upward.

Bianca ran forward, digging into her pocket, and pulled out the kerotakis. She wielded the weighty metal cylinder as if it were a cudgel. With a bloodlust even she found surprising, she bludgeoned the back of the attacker's head.

The man flinched, hunching his shoulders to protect himself. Bianca hit him a second time and he staggered backward, releasing Meddybemps. Bianca put every ounce of weight and strength into her third effort.

The assailant fell, his heavy body knocking the kerotakis out of her hand. It clattered on the grate, bouncing on the metal rods. Recovering from the surprise at seeing his face, Bianca spied the precious piece of equipment rolling toward the edge of the bridge. She lunged to save the kerotakis, threw her body toward it, but was too late. The kerotakis fell through a gap and tumbled into the river.

Bianca dropped to her knees. She stared through the trusses at the water beneath the span. It was not the loss of the crucial piece of equipment so much as the realization of what it meant. Her efforts were for naught. With the kerotakis gone, she could no longer save John. She could not make the elixir of life.

Bianca squeezed her eyes closed.

Dull with disillusion, she got to her feet. She wrapped her arms around her chest and held herself, remembering John's embrace. So much of her life was entwined with his. How would she survive?

Fear flashed through her mind. The pain of loss stabbed at her heart. A second of sorrow lengthened into what felt like a lifetime.

Overcome with grief, Bianca opened her eyes.

Before her, Meddybemps tottered over the railing. His assailant lay at her feet. She leapt over him and grabbed onto the street-seller as the satchel slipped down his shoulder. Bianca pulled Meddybemps off the railing and reached for the strap. She was a second too slow. The satchel freed itself from his arm and plummeted toward the water.

Meddybemps dropped onto the deck like a sack of flour.

Beneath the shadows of the bridge, the river swallowed the satchel like a hungry beast. Bianca turned away from the railing and knelt beside her friend.

“Meddy!” she cried, shaking his shoulders. The thought of losing him was more than she could bear. She had lost her friend Jolyn not five months before, and she might have already lost John. Now Meddybemps's life was wavering and she had herself to blame. “Breathe! For God's sake and mine—breathe!” She reared back and searched his face for signs of life. Frustrated, she balled up her fist and hit him square in the chest.

To her astonishment, Meddybemps took a loud wheezing breath and began to cough. He rolled to his side, clutching his throat, coughing and gasping for air.

Bianca sat back on her haunches and wept.

The bridge was silent but for her sobbing and Meddybemps's wheezing. A gale drowned the sounds of their struggles, blowing their anguished cries over the river, where they faded into the night. Finally, Meddybemps's color returned to his face and he lay on his back, blinking up at the sky. He looked over at her. “I lost your satchel,” he said in a barely audible, hoarse voice. “I know you had your mind set to save John. I've lost Stannum's journal. I am truly sorry.”

“Nay,” said Bianca, wiping away her tears. She shook her head. “I am truly thankful.”

Meddybemps looked confused. “You have a peculiar way of showing it.”

“You are alive—you foolish knave!”

“I am alive as you. Because of you.”

“You were nearly dead because of me.”

“I shall be content with my version.” He turned back to stare up at the sky. Then mustering what little strength he had, he pushed himself to his elbows and propped himself against the railing. “I am a bit wobbly just yet.”

“There is no need for you to try to stand. Sit and rest.” Bianca found his cap and brushed it off. She waited until another bout of coughing stopped and he was sitting fairly comfortably before handing it to him. “I'd give you a drink if I had one to offer.”

He attempted a faint smile of appreciation. “Never you mind. I don't think I could swallow it just now.”

Bianca sat next to him until his dazed expression began to subside. His breaths lengthened and he began to look like himself again.

The still unconscious body lay in a heap before them. Bianca rolled him onto his back. “So, it was him.”

“Who is ‘him'?” said Meddybemps, his voice a soft croak.

“Barnabas Hughes, the physician.”

“Well,” said Meddybemps, rubbing his neck. “He certainly wanted the satchel. Do you think he murdered Stannum?”

“It is possible.” Bianca felt for a pulse and jumped when Hughes moaned. “We shall learn the truth soon enough. He is not very dead.”

“What did you do to the man? He had the better of me, last I knew.”

“I hit him over the head.”

“Pray tell me, with what?”

“Never mind,” said Bianca, disconsolately. “It is water under the bridge.” She looked up at Meddybemps. “Meaning, it is in the water under the bridge.”

Meddybemps shrugged and made to stand. He thought better of it after his head started throbbing. “Well, I am grateful you finally decided to come along.”

“I had to pay a visit to Amice and Gilley. Unfortunately, they never heard a word I said.”

“A man might listen and ignore your good word, but it is rude when they refuse to hear you.”

“Nay, it was not from being rude. It was from being dead.”

Meddybemps shook his head. “It is a miracle I have survived this long in your acquaintance. You leave bodies in your wake.”

Bianca ignored his comment as a connection suddenly became clear. “Hughes gave Ferris Stannum a parrot and a cat. He thought their company would ease Stannum's loneliness from his estranged daughter. But the bird and Amice and Gilley all suffered a horrible end.”

“How could an end be anything but horrible?”

“This one was particularly so. I have never seen such hideous symptoms. And I hope I never shall again.” Bianca met Meddybemps's inquiring stare. “They bled from every orifice.”

“What do you mean? I don't understand.”

“I found them in pools of their own blood. I could have thought their eyes had been gouged, but it was obvious they bled from their ears, nose, and mouths. Then, when I heard the parrot in its death throes and saw its eyes blinded with blood from no one's hand, I realized the sickness had started with the bird.”

“The bird may have only been another victim.”

“I do not believe so. The parrot bit Goodwife Tenbrook and Ferris Stannum. When I had spent the day with the alchemist, he kept dabbing his eyes. The cloth he had used and his pillow had two bloodstains, separated by the width of a nose.” Bianca watched Hughes slowly stir. “I have a few questions for him concerning that pillow.”

“Continue with this theory,” said Meddybemps, interested in spite of feeling nauseated. He rubbed his eyes, then examined his fingers.

“Like I said, the parrot also bit Goodwife Tenbrook. She complained about being sensitive to light. She later died, but the disease didn't have time to ravage her before she died from another cause.” She glanced down again at the physician. “Hughes gave her a draught to help her sleep the night she died. In combination with all that was ailing her, I believe he may have administered a high enough dose to have killed her.”

Meddybemps glowered at the physician. He gave Hughes a peevish jab with his foot.

“Amice took the bird because I suggested she might sell it. I suspect the bird bit Amice and Gilley and the disease ran its course, unfettered.”

“How can a bird bite make them sick?”

“The same way those who come into contact with plague victims might contract the disease. Granted, it is a mystery. I don't presume to know how the contagion is spread, only that it does. And you increase your chances of becoming infected if you come into contact with a victim. Some believe the contagion is in the air surrounding the sick and the dead and that you inhale the disease. But the contagion could be on the skin. The contagion could be in the saliva. We can't see it. But I can certainly speculate that it is there.”

“In this case, you believe the contagion was carried in the saliva?”

“I believe so.” Bianca turned her back against a sudden gust of wind. “Who knows from where this bird came? It is not of our native land. Likely, some sailor brought it back from the new world. And perhaps the bird could not adapt to our clime.”

“I have heard descriptions of strange-shaped trees and heat that would make this sweltering summer feel cool by comparison.”

“An environ different from ours,” said Bianca.

Meddybemps held on to the railing and got to his feet. He continued to be unsteady, weaving and gripping the rail for support. He began to cough again and Bianca went over to him and patted his back.

“It appears Hughes was unaware the bird would create such havoc.” Meddybemps held up a finger and cleared his throat. He continued, “Unless he knew it would eventually spread contagion and kill whoever came into close contact with it. It seems the satchel was his first concern.”

“Or what was in it,” said Bianca.

Barnabas Hughes opened his eyes and stared up at the two of them. Confusion spread across his face. He looked about, trying to place himself.

“Should we bind his hands?” suggested Meddybemps. “I should rather not wrestle him again.”

“He is still dazed. Truth be told, I enlisted Constable Patch's help. He should be along.”

Meddybemps groaned as much from the thought of dealing with the vainglorious Patch as from his overall soreness. Still, he continued their discussion. “Why would a physician give his patient too much sleeping draught?”

“More to the point, why would he give Goodwife Tenbrook too much draught? I don't believe he had much sympathy for the widow, but is that reason enough to kill her?” Bianca pressed down her skirt, which was trying to billow in a gust of wind. “We don't know if Hughes suspected she had the contagion from the parrot. I doubt he purposely gave her enough to put her out of her misery. I suspect this may have had something to do with Stannum's journal. Why else was he following me?”

“So, perhaps the journal was in her possession?”

“The journal was missing the day Ferris Stannum was found dead. She could have taken the journal, thinking she could sell it.”

Bianca looked over her shoulder in the direction of London. “I hear someone approach.”

Constable Patch and a night watchman appeared from the dark overhang and stepped onto the open span. They were an odd pair, Patch with the buttons on his uniform shining in the moonlight, the watchman dressed in a doublet of rough cloth with only a sash of finer taffeta to trumpet his marginal authority.