Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“What? How? How can they possibly be connected?”

“This preacher. It can’t be a coincidence that he knew of the dead apprentice. He spoke of a man hung by his heel like a traitor, and he also spoke of the signs carved all over London as signs of the Devil. And finally, he accused me of being an alchemist … although now that I think about it, I am not so certain he did.”

“But he did call you that, sir,” said Jack, handing Crispin a steaming bowl of wine. “I heard him.”

Crispin drank and licked his lips, sighing as the hot liquid warmed his throat and chest. “The ‘alchemist’s lair,’ is what he said. He knew. He knew that an alchemist lived there. How did he know if Master Flamel’s being here was a secret?”

Jack fell silent, thinking.

“Master Flamel,” said Crispin, “where might one obtain arsenic? An apothecary?”

“Of course. But one might also obtain it from an alchemist. But such men who sell these poisons … well. Alchemists of any caliber do not sell poisons to men they do not know.”

“Perhaps he did know the man. I should query the local alchemists. I do know of at least one such man.” He looked at Jack, whose mouth firmed to a stern line.

“Aye, Master. Let us ask this Bartholomew of Oxford.”

Jack kept a keen eye on Crispin as they moved through the streets of London. He was grateful for the boy’s concern, but his constant anxious looks frayed Crispin’s nerves to the edge.

At last they found the sign of Mercury and slogged through the dung-soaked mud to the door. The shop was empty as usual, but they heard the telltale rustling of the man in the back room. When he stuck his carbuncled nose past the curtain, only his face emerged, and he kept the curtain around him like a shield.

“Master Guest,” he said cautiously. “What is it you want- Oh! What happened to you, man?”

Though the swelling was down, he had no doubt that his face was a rainbow of purple and yellow bruises.

“A run-in with several disagreeable fellows.”

“Perhaps you bedeviled them, too. Why have you returned?”

“You’re the only other alchemist I know, Master Bartholomew. I wonder if you can tell me something.”

The man gave a harried sigh. “Master Guest, you seem to think that men should feel compelled to cooperate with you. That they are at their leisure with nothing else to do. All this without charge. I do not. I must sell my goods in order to keep a roof over my head. And so it does not follow that I may give to anyone-whoever they may be- free information. My material is hard earned over many years of toiling. And my time is equally valuable. Surely you can appreciate that.”

Crispin looked around the strange room. His nose flared at the unpleasant smells. “You want payment, then.”

“Not so crude a transaction as that. Perhaps in exchange for my useful information you could make a purchase.” Crispin grimaced, but the alchemist brightened at his own thought. “How about this?” He ducked away behind the curtain for a moment and then returned. He held aloft a small gauze bag tied with a leather thong as a necklace. “A fragrant sachet.” He pressed it to his nose and inhaled. “Ah. Lovely. Surely a pleasant smell about your person could be most enticing.”

“I don’t need to be enticing,” he growled.

“It will help soothe the pain you must surely feel. By my Lady, Master Guest, I do not know how, with a face like that, you can walk about at all.”

Crispin snatched it from the man’s hand. “How much?”

“Two pence.”

“ Two pence? That’s robbery!”

The man shrugged and smiled, revealing one sharp, grayed tooth.

Swearing under his breath, Crispin dug his hand into his scrip, produced the coins, and slapped them into the man’s hand. “Now will you answer my questions?”

“Put it on, sir. I would see my handiwork for what it was meant for.”

After glaring at the man for several heartbeats, he pulled the necklace over his head and let it rest on his chest for only a moment before, annoyed by the scent, he stuffed it through the collar of his shirt. “Happy?”

“Most happy. That is my first sale of the day. And now. You wish to ask a question.”

“Yes.” He leaned in, feeling the bag rustle against his coat. It sent a musky floral aroma up through the cloth. He was reluctant to admit that it was more pleasant than he’d originally thought. “Do you sell poisons, Master Bartholomew?”

The man blinked, taken aback. “Poisons? What a question. Why should I sell poisons?”

“The question was not why, but whether you did or not.” He leaned farther, within grabbing distance should the man decide to bolt. “Did you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I take the measure of the man, Master Guest. Not everyone is up to no good. The use of some poisons is quite legitimate. Many alchemists use them in their experiments in the Greater Circulations. If a man will pay, I will sell.”

“Have you sold any lately?”

His downcast eyes looked at his fingers fiddling with the loose threads on his robe’s sleeve. “I … might have.”

“And what might this worthy look like?”

“Well, let me see. His hair was of auburn color, and he had a way about him.”

Coldness touched Crispin’s heart. For the first thought that came to mind was Henry of Lancaster.

“Was he young?”

“Oh, no. I should not say he was young. A man of about my age.”

Relief flooded him. “I see. You would not by any chance know his name?”

“No. We did not exchange such pleasantries.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, sir. I did not. He convinced me that he knew what to do with it and I sold him the quantity he desired.”

“How much?”

“A goodly amount.”

“Enough to do … alchemy?”

“I should say so. Why? What’s he done?”

Instead of answering, Crispin sneered. “Would you recognize him again should I bring him here?”

“I … well, yes. I think so.”

“Good. Then plan on seeing me again. Much thanks, Master Alchemist.” He turned away, then swiveled his head back. “I won’t be buying anything when I return. Understood?” He made a show of resting his hand on his dagger.

With an audible swallow, the man backed away toward his curtain. “U-understood, Master Guest.”

With a swirl of his cloak, Crispin passed through the doorway and onto the street, with Jack on his heels. “The nerve of him, Master.”

“Yes. But it might be worth it. His description. Who did it remind you of?”

Jack nodded. “Auburn hair. Well-spoken. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say … Robert Pickthorn?”

“Could be. I wonder if that was the reason Avelyn sent us here. She knew of this Pickthorn spending coin at this shop.”

“I don’t trust her, sir.”

“What’s the matter, Tucker? Does she seem too wily for a servant?”

“Aye! I mean, no! Some servants are just as wily as they need to be.”

Crispin smiled and patted Jack’s shoulder. “Never fear. I’m rather fond of wily servants myself.”

Jack gusted a relieved laugh. “You do have your jests, don’t you,” he muttered. “Where shall we look for this preacher, Master Crispin?”

“We shall ask around. That’s a lot of ground to cover, but we might get lucky. And Jack, if you encounter him, do not engage him in any violence.”

“You take the fun out of everything, Master Crispin.” He smiled with a lopsided grin.

“Go on. Meet me at the Boar’s Tusk in about an hour’s time. I have a feeling I’ll be needing a drink about then.”

Crispin watched Jack walk away before he headed out alone along the Shambles until it became Newgate Market. He turned south on Old Dean’s Lane with the intention of checking outside the walls. This man might be preaching in London’s outskirts, along Holborn or Shoe Lane. He passed out of the walled part of the city at Ludgate, glancing again at the sigils inscribed on the stone of the arch that had begun their hunt.