by Robin Jarvis
“I fancy you are wrong, mistress,” issued the silken voice from the hood, “for I myself witnessed this evil deed.”
A murmur of surprise rippled through the mob. “I hope you ain’t callin’ me a liar!” shouted Peg indignantly.
“I would not presume to,” came the softly spoken reply. “What I say concerns the murderer, not your romantic mythology—I cannot call it history.” Before she had time to understand the slight and rally with a coarse answer he went on. “There was indeed only one murderer abroad this night,” he said, “for I saw this jolly miller quarrel with him in the distance as I walked to my lodgings.”
Within the nearby building Will heard this and he looked up curiously. The light of the torches fell into the room, curving round countless bottles, jars, pots and bowls. Gingerly he got to his feet and crept closer to the window.
“Who was it then?” called the crowd excitedly.
The figure pointed at the ground where Jack Carver’s knife still lay, smeared with blood. “I will tell you what I saw,” he said, “even though I despise the thought of it. The murderer of that poor man was a mere boy.”
The mob gasped as one. Peg looked stunned. “It’s that thieving little brat what owes me three shillin’s!” she snarled venomously.
“Yes, good friends,” the man continued, “a child has committed this foulness—he pushed by me three minutes since, out in Cheapside. What horrors are we breeding now? I beg of you to find this monster.”
Will could not believe his ears; that man was practically condemning him to death. If they discovered him he would be swinging from the nearest gibbet. He rushed at the door to protest his innocence but a shadow fell on the steps. The figure had returned and barred his exit. “If I were you I would not set foot out there,” he said.
“How dare you, sir!” raged Will furiously. “Why have you done this—why did you lie so? John Balker was my friend, I must get by and tell them that or I shall be a fugitive forever.”
A strong hand shoved him back into the room. “Indeed, that was the intention. Wait, the rabble is leaving—soon the whole of London will be searching for you. I do believe that the only safe place is here.” He slammed the door and sent the bolt rattling home.
“Out of my way!” Will shouted. “Let me out of this dank little hole!”
The figure ignored him and took a candle from one of the shelves. “Tut, tut,” he muttered, “I can see I shall have to tame that tongue of yours. I can’t have you speaking in that tone to your elders and betters. This may not be the palace of Westminster but it is not a dank hole. Here is where wonders are made, where dreams are spun and lives saved. Alone in this teeming city this place stands proud—a beacon of wisdom and knowledge that shines through the murky pits of ignorance.”
Will remembered the weird explosion in the alley and his anger died down. “I thought it was just some kind of shop,” he murmured.
“Some kind of shop?” repeated the man in annoyance. “This is an apothecary!”
“Well that’s a shop, isn’t it?” Will muttered stubbornly. “Who are you anyway?”
Suddenly the candle spluttered into life and in the circle of pale light the figure cast back his hood.
He was an old man with a large, hooked nose and deep-set eyes. The fine white hair which sparsely covered his high, domed head contrasted sharply with his frowning, beetle-black brows. The full lips parted into a cruel smile. “I am a doctor!” he proclaimed grandly. “Doctor Elias Theophrastus Spittle! And you are now my servant.”
3 - The Apothecary
Will almost laughed. “I am no one’s servant,” he told the apothecary haughtily, “my father was a yeoman—”
“I have no interest in your life before this,” Doctor Spittle interrupted, “and you would do well to forget it yourself.” He moved away from the door and set the candle down on a counter. “There, if you wish to leave you may, but harken to my words—step outside this place now and the mob will surely string you up. There’ll be a new puppet dangling at Tyburn before the dawn.”
Will moved towards the door but he knew that the man was right. The night was filled with the angry clamour of the mob as they hunted for him. There was no way he could escape from the city without being captured. He turned back to the apothecary who was smiling conceitedly. “What is it you wish me to do?” Will asked.
Doctor Spittle waved a hand at the jars and bottles all around. I am a very busy man,” he told the boy. The needs of my clients use up a very great proportion of my valuable time. There are herbs to collect, substances to grind, compounds to make and pills to stamp. I have found myself woefully stretched of late—that is why you are here. You shall be my dogsbody. All those tedious and loathsome chores will now be yours and I can be left to pursue my other work. Think of it as an apprenticeship if you like—unpaid of course. Whilst you consent to perform these simple and menial tasks I shall shelter you from the cruelty of English justice. So long as you serve me then your neck will be spared the noose.” He sighed contentedly and chuckled to himself. “I find this a most agreeable arrangement and I promise that you will learn a great deal.”
Will remained silent. His mind raced over the alternatives; it was impossible to find his uncle now for the address was on the miller’s body. It was maddening to think that Samuel Godwin might be living next door and he would be none the wiser. He could only agree to the apothecary’s terms, but just until the murder had been forgotten. Perhaps after a week had gone by, and there was some new sensation to distract the attention of the city, he would be able to slip away unnoticed. With his mind made up he looked at Doctor Spittle. “So be it,” he said. “I agree to work for you.”
The man nodded, “Indeed you are a wise child. What a wondrous miracle it is that has brought us two together. I would thank the Lord for this happy chance—if I believed He existed. Pray be not alarmed; I am a man of science, not a heretic.” He took up the candle once more and pointed to a dim corner of the shop where the floor was covered by empty sacks and straw. “There is your resting place, boy,” he told him. “From now on that shall be your bed. Sleep well.”
Will stared at the dirty sacks. “I can’t sleep on those,” he protested.
The change in Doctor Spittle was immediate. A mad light flared in his dark eyes and he bared his teeth like a ravening wolf. His free hand shot out and struck Will savagely on the cheek. The boy staggered backwards from the force of the blow, his face stinging. “You will obey me!” the man bellowed.
“You must remember that now you are my servant you must live like a servant! I want none of your airs, boy! Your life is in my hands. Would you rather have the rope biting at your neck this night? The choice is simple—wooden boards or the gallows, which is it to be?”
Silently Will sat on the floor, but he stared at the apothecary mutinously.
“You had better get used to this if you are to survive in the city,” breathed Doctor Spittle as he calmed down. “The life of a servant here is no better than that of a dog. If your yeoman manners show themselves once more I shall beat them out of you. Now I must retire to my chamber upstairs. The night air is bad for me. My health is a fragile thing which requires much consideration.” He moved to the back of the shop where a small door led to a steep flight of stairs. Before climbing them the doctor glanced back. “Rest easy, dog,” he said. “I assure you there is nothing to fear here.” And then he was gone.
Will heard the wooden steps creak as the old man ascended. The room was now dark, the glow from the candle diminishing gradually as further up the stairs it went. There came the sound of a door closing and it was swallowed completely.
On his uncomfortable bed Will reflected on the past harrowing hours. Suddenly his old life seemed an age away—as though that childhood in Adcombe had belonged to someone else. Nothing was left of his previous existence and for the present it looked as though he would be forced to remain in this harsh new world.
He cast himself onto the sacks and
relived those last, dreadful moments with the miller. Somewhere in the city those two murderers were free, and though the blood of Mr Balker stained their hands. Will was the one accused. With the horrific image of his dead friend haunting him, he fell into an unpleasant, fitful sleep and tears streaked down his face. The hollow night engulfed London and no one heard the boy’s forlorn whimpers.
“Up, young dog!” shouted Doctor Spittle, kicking Will awake. “There are matters to attend to before we open shop.”
Will rubbed his head and tried to rise but his back was stiff from the floor and the draughts which had played over it. Yawning, he watched as the apothecary, still in a grubby nightgown, pattered to one of the shelves and returned brandishing a large pair of scissors.
“Can’t be found harbouring a fugitive,” the man told him. “One of my customers might come in and recognise you from last night—that wench from the Sickle Moon is often here looking for new paints with which to daub her ugly face.”
Roughly he seized hold of Will’s long hair and pulled it till he yelped. “What a lush growth you do have,” the apothecary said almost enviously. “A shame it has to be cut. But no servant has the locks of a gentleman.”
“Let go!” cried Will as the man’s long, yellow nails tangled themselves in his hair and pulled viciously. He was dragged to his feet and the bump he had received the previous night began to bleed again.
“Be still,” barked Doctor Spittle, “or you’ll lose an ear.”
In the dreary light of the new day, Will’s shoulder-length hair was snipped and hacked from his head. A soft heap lay about his feet when the apothecary was finished. Gingerly he drew his fingers through what was left. It was very stubbly and short. He ran to the window to see his reflection in one of the diamond panes but hardly recognised the face that stared back at him. “I look like a beggar’s brat,” he murmured.
“Not quite,” the apothecary said critically. “But get some soot from the hearth and rub it well in—that ought to finish it.”
Will bit his tongue, knowing that if he refused then he would be whipped. So, shaking the hair from his shoulders, he knelt by the fireplace and wiped his hand over the blackened bricks.
“A proper little urchin you are now,” sniggered Doctor Spittle when the boy had smeared dirt onto his face. “What does it feel like, dog, to stand on the other side of the fence?” He rubbed his hands together then took hold of the boy’s arm and dragged him away from the hearth. “Now does your apprenticeship begin,” he said importantly. “Behold my apothecary shop in the light of the morning—one day you shall know the virtues of all the herbs and plants on those shelves. What a fortunate young dog you are to have so wise a master.”
The shop was one long room, crammed from floor to ceiling with pots and vessels of all sizes. There were drug jars with diamond patterns in the glaze and covered with lids of parchment; one glass bottle contained slimy black leeches, another some dark liquid—the smell of which made Will want to retch; there were oils and spices, different coloured powders, bunches of dried leaves, numerous shrivelled objects pickled in alcohol and an assortment of lotions and preserves.
Proudly Doctor Spittle showed all these strange things to Will. “This,” he said picking up a ceramic tile shaped like a shield, “is my pill slab. On this you will roll out the pastes which I have carefully prepared and stamp out the pills for my customers. Do you see the coat of arms here? This shows that I am a licensed member of the London Pharmacopoeia. With every pill you stamp it shall remind you of my superior intelligence.” He placed the tile on the counter then took a fist-sized ball from one of the shelves. “Here is a Goa stone,” he said. “With this I can cure complaints of the stomach. It is made from musk and calomel in the Far East. And this,” he chuckled, rattling a bottle containing yellow lumps of earth, “is what I chased your assailants away with last night. Sulphur is a most useful element; it can put the fear of the Devil in the ignorant.”
He crossed to the doorway and drew the bolt back. “I have talked too much,” he muttered, “time is wasting—I should have opened already.” The apothecary then realised that he was still dressed in only his nightgown. With a look of scandalised horror he dashed upstairs shouting, “Idiot! Why did you not tell me I was still arrayed thus. I have important clients who would never come here again if I appeared to them so rudely. You have a lot to learn, young dog! And get that mess of hair cleared away before I come down.”
Will stared up at the ceiling; he could hear the old man stumbling about as he hastily pulled on his clothes. Doctor Spittle alternated between extreme arrogance one minute and ludicrous behaviour the next. It was difficult to judge which mood he would swing into and that in itself was frightening as you could never be sure what he was going to say or do. But Will did not have time to speculate further for he heard the upstairs door slam shut and he hurriedly searched for a broom to sweep the floor with.
Soon all the clippings of hair had been cast into the street. There was no longer any noise coming from the room above, so he peered through the doorway which led to the steep flight of stairs. There he found another door. This led to the yard at the back of the building in which a tall yew tree stood, and against the far wall there was a small border for growing herbs. But the apothecary was nowhere to be seen.
“Spittle!” cried a voice from the shop. “Where is the poxy man? Does he think I have all day to waste here? I have appointments! Spittle!”
Will drew back into the shadows of the stairwell nervously. What if the customer were to recognise him somehow? The impatient call came again—he had to attend to the man. Taking a deep breath he stepped into the shop once more. “A good morning to you, sir,” he began politely. “Can I be of assistance?”
The man looked at him in surprise and Will returned the curious gaze. The customer was richly dressed in turquoise silks and gold brocade; upon his dainty shoes there were bows to match and in his hand he carried a long walking cane tipped with silver. His face was oval shaped, with dewy eyes and a thin mouth. All this was framed by the thickest and longest hair Will had ever seen on a man; he did not realise that the fashion at court was to wear periwigs.
“Who—or what—are you?” asked the stranger, fluttering his lace collar between his hands.
Will was about to tell him when he checked himself just in time. “I... I work for the doctor,” he said simply.
The man regarded him as though he were something he had trodden in. “Do you indeed?” he murmured. “Well he would do well to teach you some manners, you impudent knave. Servants never stare at their betters. Now go and fetch your master—tout de suite. I dislike your squalid company.”
Reluctantly the boy gave a bow, then went in search of the apothecary.
Up the stairs he went, cursing the customer with each step. By the time he came to a small landing his face was burning with indignation. Will raised his hand to knock on the apothecary’s bedroom door.
There was no answer so he knocked again. Still nothing. Will tried the handle and looked inside.
It was a small room with an unmade bed in one corner and a large wardrobe dominating the furthest wall. Books were strewn on the floor amongst piles of old clothes and the grease of candles formed frozen drips down the sides of the low bedtable.
Will was puzzled, but behind him, on the landing, he saw yet more steps leading upwards. These ended at a door which was painted a dark crimson. For some reason the sight of it made him catch his breath and butterflies fluttered in his stomach. The paint was the colour of blood and the memory of the miller’s murder flashed before him once more. A sweet and sickly smell floated down from the room beyond. It was a nauseating stench which turned the boy’s skin to gooseflesh. Something evil lay through that door, he told himself. Yet Doctor Spittle must also be there and Will forced his legs to move forward and climb.
The stairs here were narrow and the wood rotten in places. There was no window on the landing so it was filled with gloom and Will had to
strain his eyes to find his way.
“What are you doing up here?” cried Doctor Spittle suddenly appearing before him.
So intently had Will been staring at the steps that he had not seen the crimson door open and the sound of the apothecary’s voice startled him.
“This place is forbidden to you!” raged the old man. “Do you understand? Never come up here!”
Will nodded quickly then cried, “There’s a customer downstairs. He wants to see you most urgently.”
Doctor Spittle swore under his breath and brought a large key from a pocket in his coat. “Why did you not say so at once?” he shrieked, locking the door behind him. “Describe him.”
“Lots of silk, walking cane, pasty face and big hair.”
The apothecary pushed him aside and tore down the rickety steps with his hands in the air. “Lord of Death!” he wailed. “That is Sir Francis Lingley! My wealthiest and most influential client. Why did you not call me sooner?” And he disappeared down to the shop faster than Will had thought possible.
Alone on the narrow staircase the boy turned to look at the glistening red door. It really did look as though the whole thing had been freshly steeped in gore. With a wavering hand he reached out and touched it with his fingertips. He was expecting it to be wet and sticky, but it was dry as a bone. What secrets lay beyond this, he wondered? What foulness was kept inside to make such a howling stink that it rivalled that of the city itself? Cautiously he tried the handle; the lock rattled loudly but held firm. From within the sealed room there came a muffled screeching and scratching.
Will backed away in fear. There was something in there! Was the door locked to stop him entering or to prevent something escaping? Quickly he jumped down the steps and ran after the apothecary.
In the shop Doctor Spittle breezed towards his customer with his arms flung open in apology. “I crave your pardon, My Lord,” he grovelled.