Wormwood

by G. P. Taylor

  Outside the room Agetta raised one eyebrow and tightened her lips to a scowl. She had heard everything. The threats of the observation room held no fear for her. She had seen his companions parading through the house dressed in their fancy costumes and chanting like gypsies, and she had listened to their magical dances and acclamations. It was Agetta who cleared away the burnt-out candlesticks with their black wax and the incense bowls filled with bitter myrrh. While they danced, she lightened their purses a coin at a time, a sovereign from one and a guinea from another. All done with a smile on her face and a ‘Thank you, sir’ as they tipped her for holding their coats, dispersing at midnight into the gutters like the London rats they were.

  Blake could believe of Agetta all that he wanted. He could fuddle her mind with stories of other worlds, mysterious charms and strange exhortations, but every day by midnight she had dripped one more piece of his wealth into her cup, and when it ran over she would be gone, for ever.

  Agetta left the men talking in the room and stealthily made her way down the stairs to the back door where Brigand was waiting, his tail swishing backwards and forwards. The servants’ entrance led into a narrow alley where even on the brightest day the sun never shone. It was damp and, in the chill of the morning, deathly cold. The mist from the river hung off the walls of the surrounding houses like giant cobwebs that clung to her face as she walked towards Holborn. The only other person in the alley was a derelict woman who was slumped against the gate of the house opposite. The bottle of gin in her hand was almost lost in the crumpled mass of ragged clothes, skin and bone which made up her human form. She was as ugly as the grave, with a lined face and blistered lips. She looked at Agetta through one open eye; the other was crusted shut with yellow flux.

  ‘Give a penny to your old mother!’ the woman cried out. ‘Just a penny so I can buy a bottle of Geneva.’

  Agetta ignored her and set off at a pace. Brigand ran over to the woman and sniffed at her face and then jumped back, unsure as to who or what she was.

  ‘Brigg! Leave her!’ Agetta shouted, her voice echoing along the dark alleyway.

  The dog leapt away from the woman and shook itself and shivered, every hair on its back standing on end. The woman dropped the bottle from her numb fingers, and it clattered as it rolled over the cobbles. Brigand followed Agetta down the gentle slope of the passageway, stopping every now and then to turn and look at the old woman. It was as if he could see her in a different way, could look beneath the dirty, stained clothes and see the creature within. A creature that he did not trust.

  The quiet of the alley quickly gave way to the bustle of Holborn. Wagons and carriages packed the street, heading for the safety of the Vauxhall countryside. Everywhere, throngs of people shocked from their beds by the quake were now mesmerised by the sun that was penetrating the layer of river mist. High above the dome of St Paul’s the bright red globe burnt in a pale sky. A fresh breeze blew through the streets and brought with it the smell of the tide, like roasted nutmeg. Agetta stepped out along Holborn, picking her way through the noise and the hordes of people gathered outside the shops and taverns. She took the dark, narrow alley that cut through from Holborn to the Ship Tavern and the gambling houses of Whetstone Park.

  Three nights before there had been a murder in Inigo Alley. Agetta could see the bloodstains on the wall from where the murdered man had tried to escape. His screams had been heard from the street, and even though people came quickly to his aid no one else was found. It was as if the murderer had simply vanished into thin air.

  Cold shivers ran down her spine as Brigand pushed by her with a rumbling growl. Then he stopped in his tracks and started to bark. There was no one in the alley and yet he growled and snarled at something visible only to the eye of a dog, something that walked in another world.

  Agetta knew they were not alone. ‘Stop it, Brigg, you’re frightening me!’ she shouted. The dog was now jumping up and down and snarling louder and louder. ‘Brigg, stop –’

  Without any sound, Agetta was grabbed from behind, and a hand covered her mouth. She was pulled through a doorway that she hadn’t even realised was there. The door slammed shut and she was trapped in complete darkness. Agetta could hear the heavy breathing of the person holding her. She could feel the dampness of the gloved hand that smothered her face.

  ‘Don’t scream, girlie, not if you want to see your dog or the light of day again.’ It was the voice of the woman from the alleyway. ‘I’ve been watching you, day and night. I know your coming in and going out.’ The woman pressed closer to Agetta, who could feel the lice crawling from the hand and on to her face. ‘I could have snatched you whenever I liked but it’s not you I want. There’s something I need you to do. When you leave Blake’s house tomorrow night, come to Inigo Alley and you will find a message. It’ll tell you what to do. If you don’t, then I will get your precious dog and feed him to the rats … and then I’ll get you.’

  Agetta tried to speak but the strong hand kept her mouth firmly shut. She could see nothing, only smell the stench of gin, street dirt and rotten flesh. As the woman spoke her breath rattled through her body, sounding like she was on the verge of death.

  ‘Not a word to Blake or your father. They can’t help you, girlie. Tomorrow in the alley by the Ship Tavern, quarter past midnight. The clock of St George will tell you when. Don’t be late.’

  Before she could speak, Agetta was thrown into the alley and the door slammed shut. She landed face-down in the grime of emptied slop buckets. Brigg ran to her, barking. She turned. The doorway had vanished. All that was before her was the solid stone of the alley wall. Agetta gulped her breath as the mist was drawn around her and the light began to fade.

  In front of her was a dark figure silhouetted by the light of the lamp from the Ship Tavern. Silently it came closer. It was a man wrapped in a deep purple cloak; his face was white and featureless. Agetta jumped to her feet and pulled a knife from her waist band to protect herself. Without sound or sensation the spectre rushed forward, passing straight through her and then fading away. Agetta could not speak. It was the first time she could remember being gripped with fear.

  The noise of the street returned. Agetta looked around, dazed and unsure.

  3: The Apothecary

  As she ran through the chaos of Fleet Street Agetta could feel her heart pounding. She brushed the lice from her face, looking ahead through tear-stained eyes. Brigand ran beside her, turning to look round every few paces to check that they weren’t being followed, scenting the air for the damp, foul odour of the derelict woman.

  In the distance Agetta could see the lodging house owned by her father on the corner of Ludgate Hill and Fleet Bridge. The thick smoke from its three chimneys mingled with the fading mist from the river. Its narrow bricks and beamed walls jutted out into the street and held up the thick tiled roof.

  Agetta stopped to catch her breath, hoping that the fear would drain from her body. She didn’t want her father to guess from her appearance that she had been frightened. This was a secret she could not share with her father.

  Outside the lodging house three young boys wagered over two cockerels that fought in the dirt. Agetta watched as the birds danced backwards and forwards, throwing their spurs, trying to catch each other a fatal blow. They looked like two fat judges in powdered wigs.

  The larger, fatter bird had a fine black comb on the top of its squat head. This fell from side to side like a black cap as the cockerel jumped and ducked, kicking out its claws against the smaller fowl that had fallen into the mud. The boys squealed with excitement as the black-capped cockerel leapt on its victim, slashing with its claws and tearing with its beak. There was hardly a movement from its prey. Death had come quickly. The eldest boy lifted up the winning bird by its bloodied legs and in triumph threw it in the air. The dead cockerel was carefully picked from the mud and examined by tiny fingers looking for its weakness. Then it was dropped back to the earth. Its wings fell open and its head crumpled to the
side, a single drop of blood issuing from its beak.

  All thought and fear of the sky-quake seemed to have vanished from the people of Fleet Street. It had been something beyond understanding, like a terrible nightmare, but now it was over. Life had returned to the commotion of before. The slop-covered road was swathed with discarded news-sheets; horse carts jammed the street as coachmen lashed out with knotted whips. In amongst the mud ran the sedan men, lifting a box-chair with its shuttered windows and secret passenger. They shouted ‘By your leave’ as they pushed through the crowds, running for the city. Agetta was surrounded by haste; the noise of the street burst her ears. Her heart churned, and the scent of the gloved hand still clung to her face. She kicked the dead cockerel aside and pushed the boys out of her way. As the boys lashed out in return Brigg snapped at them, snarling, and they stepped back, knowing that he would love to bite their flesh. In front of Agetta was the faded red door of her house. The sign above it read: Lamian’s Lodging House – clean guests welcome!

  Inside, the smell of roast lamb filled the air. From the kitchen the sound of chopping entered into the hall. Brigg found his place by the fire opposite the stairs, scratched and then settled down to stare at the flames.

  Agetta dusted herself down, brushing the dirt from her clothes before she faced her father. Above the crunch of metal slicing through meat and dividing flesh from marrow his voice rang out: ‘Agetta, is that you? Agetta! Come here, there’s food to take to Newgate Gaol, half the town has gone mad and the other half is hungry, now get in here!’

  Cadmus Lamian had a harsh, roaring voice. There was nothing gentle in his tone or appearance. He was a tall, brutish man with long, thin fingers a span in length. On the side of his temple was a large bulging growth that disfigured his brow and pulled the skin tight over his face.

  Agetta went quickly into the kitchen. Cadmus stood by the long wooden table in the centre of the room, his apron smeared with blood and grease. The black oven bellowed out its smoke and heat. It softened the wax candles and scorched the eyes with the blistering fat that awaited the side of mutton he was now preparing. Next to the oven was the fireplace with its thick wooden mantel, a cauldron for boiling water and an iron log-rack. The fire burnt brightly, sending waves of hot amber light into the dark corners of the room.

  Cadmus didn’t look up as he chopped a stubborn leg bone that refused to be broken. ‘What a night, hardly in bed before the madness struck. Rattled to the floor, shaken down the stairs and since then every man-jack has been to the door wanting to be fed.’ He smashed at the bone even harder, spraying splinters across the room. ‘Strange start to a day, lass. Don’t like it, don’t like it at all.’ He stopped and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a bloodied hand. He saw the look in Agetta’s face as a question about her mother appeared on her lips. ‘She is in bed, says she has a fever – I say she drank too much gin.’

  At that he raised the thick flat blade above his head and with all his force chopped through the remaining shard of bone, which snapped in two as the cleaver sliced into the table. Cadmus gave out a relieved grunt and laughed. ‘All they want is meat wrapped in bread, and for the price of a penny that is what they will get.’ He looked at Agetta. She was never this silent. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I need to sleep. It’s been a long day and a short night. Blake will want me back by dusk, he hates doing candles.’ Agetta couldn’t tell her father what had happened. He would never believe her story. She thought he would laugh at her, he always laughed at her. She hoped her father would leave her be, leave her to sleep and face her future alone.

  ‘There’s plenty of time for sleep. Now there’s work to be done and work means money.’ Cadmus drooled over the words as he slipped the side of mutton into the hot fat of the long cooking pot. The flesh sizzled as the fat exploded the skin into crispy blisters. With one hand he opened the door of the black oven, from which bright red embers sent a surge of heat into the room. Cadmus slid the dish across the table, gliding it gently into the oven and slamming the door in a satisfied way. ‘Done,’ he said as he turned to Agetta. ‘How is the old dog, Blake? Still got plenty of money?’

  Agetta dropped her purse on to the table; it landed with a soft thud and a clatter of coins.

  ‘Two shillings, that’s all I dared take. He had no visitors today. I found one coin in his coat pocket, the other I took from his purse.’ Agetta smiled, pleased with herself.

  ‘And he pays you for doing it,’ her father laughed. ‘In the jar, with the rest. One day we will leave this fine London mansion and retire to the country.’

  ‘He did have one visitor,’ Agetta continued. ‘Isaac Bonham. He was chased by some dogs when the earthquake happened. Just managed to escape. I heard them talking, said something about a star in the sky and a book. Stupid talk, that’s all they ever do.’ Agetta placed the two coins in the wooden box that they kept on the shelf over the fireplace. ‘Said the book was full of secrets, would tell them if the star would crash to earth. I think they called it a comet.’

  ‘Bonham, eh? Fellow of the Royal Society. A rich man, richer than Blake.’ Cadmus mused over the thought of two wealthy men in one place. Agetta could see that his mind raced as he planned how to exploit this situation. ‘That Blake is full of his own importance. He wants to discover the secrets of the universe,’ Cadmus said as he pulled a tray of bread from the oven. ‘Take care to remember everything he says; there’ll be those who would give good money to know what goes on in that house.’ He looked up from the table and smiled. ‘Remember, Agetta, good things come to those who wait, and we have waited for long enough. Now come and help, we have guests waiting to be fed, and that quake might not have been the last.’

  Agetta looked around the kitchen. She had known no other place. This room had been her world since she was born. Every smell, every mark on the stained walls, every cobweb that had hung off the ceiling for all her fourteen years were known to her.

  She remembered the day when as a young child she had burnt her hand on the oven door. From then it had been the black monster that lurked menacingly in the corner of the room. She had stoked its fires with kindling and driftwood picked from the Thames at low tide when she mudlarked with her friends. As night came she would sit by the washtub that was always filled with pots and lard-crusted water. It reminded her of a ship she had seen sunk in the mud at Rotherhithe. The spines of the barrel stuck up like the planks of the vessel filling with the tide. In the corner of the room she would wait for the rats to scamper from their hole, searching for supper. With one crack of the fire poker she would smash at their heads as they peered from the darkness. Brigg would chase them across the dirty stone floor, catch them in his teeth and throw them against the wall like rag dolls. When they were dead he would prod them with his nose, hoping they would return to life to play a never-ending game of chase.

  Her father’s rough voice jolted her from her dream. ‘Did you see the book that Blake spoke about? It could be valuable, and maybe we could relieve him of it …’

  ‘He’d know it was me. Anyway, I don’t know where he keeps it.’ Agetta hesitated as she spoke.

  ‘If we timed it right, when the chimney boy –’ Cadmus was thinking aloud.

  ‘We should just keep doing what we are doing and not bother,’ Agetta snapped.

  ‘Losing your nerve, are you, girl? Don’t want to help your father any more, getting too fancy for thieving?’ Cadmus stepped towards her, meat cleaver in hand.

  There was a heavy knock on the kitchen door. Cadmus Lamian slammed the cleaver into the table. The door opened and a man stepped slowly and gently into the kitchen. Agetta noticed that his once fine clothes were now tattered and torn. His long frock coat bore the stains of the street, and its lining showed at the elbows and collar. On his feet she saw that the leather of his boots was gossamer thin, allowing the calluses of sixty years to push through. He was thinner and taller than her father; his worn, lined face was tanned and weathered by a fo
reign sun.

  ‘Mister Lamian,’ he said in a gentle voice, just louder than a whisper. ‘If I might be so bold as to talk to you alone?’

  Lamian gave Agetta a look that told her to leave quickly. She turned and walked to the door. ‘I’ll see to the other guests, father. They may need entertaining.’

  The man made no effort to move from the entrance. Agetta squeezed uncomfortably past him as he grinned at her, obviously seeing her discomfort.

  ‘A pretty girl, so young,’ he said as she left, knowing that she would hear his words.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mister Sarapuk?’ Cadmus asked as he offered his friend a chair at the table. They sat together; Cadmus could see the whites of Sarapuk’s eyes blazing red in the reflection from the fire. On his face wisps of fine white hair clung neatly to his chin, intertwined with crumbs of ship’s biscuit.

  ‘It’s about my shop,’ Sarapuk whispered. ‘I have purchased a small property on Seething Lane, near to Hart Street. There are rooms above, so at the end of the week I will be moving in.’ He paused. ‘I will of course still require your fine food – say, every evening at seven?’ He paused again and looked back to the door, listening intently. ‘I wonder if it would be possible for Agetta to call on me? I seldom get to talk to anyone, she is such a charm and would bring a pleasant distraction to an old man’s life.’

  ‘Anything is possible … for the right price,’ Cadmus replied with a smile that was filled with the prospect of money. ‘This shop of yours, what will it sell?’ he asked, eagerly searching for an opportunity to do business.

  ‘I will not sell, Cadmus, I will cure. I am to be an apothecary and surgeon, so medicines, teeth and skull-tapping are my business. I have an interest in anatomy, but willing subjects are so hard to come by.’