by Robin Jarvis
Sir Francis sniffed. “I do not come here to idle away my time conversing with kitchen boys, Spittle,” he said huffily.
“Of course not, My Lord,” squirmed the apothecary. “And what may your needs be today?”
The nobleman lowered his voice. “Warts,” he whispered. “There is a rash of warts on the back of my neck. Je suis trés malade—have you a salve or a lotion which will rid me of the infernal things?”
Doctor Spittle nodded discreetly. “I shall prepare something for you. My Lord—a most uncomfortable ailment to suffer from. I shall set to work at once. If you return in an hour’s time all will be ready.”
“It had better be,” Sir Francis snapped. “If the wretched things are not dealt with soon I believe they shall spread.” He shuddered at the thought of it. “Can you imagine if they were to afflict my face?” he cried. “I would never be able to appear at court again.”
The apothecary bowed. “Rest assured,” he said confidently, “the ointment I shall prepare will not fail.”
“If that is true then you will not find me ungenerous. I go now to the coffee house to hear the news—I shall return in one hour. Adieu.” With that Sir Francis tossed his head and flounced out of the shop.
Doctor Spittle waved farewell to him through the window and when he was out of sight he scowled. “Yes sire, no sire,” the old man grumbled. “Well, my little Sir Peacock, there you go, strutting through the city in all your finery with your head held high, full of your own importance.” He paused, then a mischievous grin lit his face. “If only you knew that your affliction was a present from me in the first place.” He turned from the window and the mirth vanished, for there was Will standing by the counter.
“Did you really give him the warts?” the boy asked.
The apothecary hesitated for a moment, then tittered. “I did indeed,” he told him. “I have to keep myself supplied with customers, so when they are cured of one ailment I ensure they return to me with another. In My Lord Francis’s case I merely added a little poison from the skin of a large toad to the last ointment I made for him. I’m surprised the warts are only on the back of his neck. I was hoping for something a little more dramatic—I shall just have to squeeze the toad a little harder next time.”
Will was appalled. “That’s vile,” he said.
“I call it shrewd business sense,” shrugged the apothecary, “and that popinjay really deserves a blemish or two. Did you see his garments? Only the best for Sir Francis.” He looked down at his own clothes and pulled a sad expression for they were threadbare and grimy. “Alas I have not the means,” he sighed. “I am forced to purchase my gowns from the raghouse. No silks or velvets for Elias Theophrastus Spittle. No lace to wear at his throat, no ribbons to adorn his shoes and no merry periwig to conceal his baldness.” He passed a hand over his sparsely covered scalp and murmured, “Would you believe that once I had a full head of hair? Red as copper it was—like a lion from the Africas I appeared in my youth.”
Will doubted that and he thought ruefully of his own hair. Was that really why the old man had cut it off? Was he jealous of anyone who had something he did not? Surely no one could be that petty and envious? He watched thoughtfully as the apothecary reached up to take bottles and jars from the shelves—the more he found out about him the less he understood.
“We must hurry, dog,” Doctor Spittle told him brusquely. “A cure for warts is what we need. Hah!” He passed to Will a mortar and pestle instructing him to grind up the ingredients which he would measure out.
And so Will’s new life as the servant of the apothecary began. That first morning passed by without any further incident. When Sir Francis returned the ointment was ready for him and Doctor Spittle fawned and scraped before the nobleman in a revolting manner. Other customers came and went and the old man made sure that he was there to greet them all with sickening humility. Only when they had gone would he sneer and deride them. At noon he threw Will a crust of stale bread and some old cheese whilst he sank his teeth into an eel pie. For the rest of the day he kept the boy working hard, fetching, carrying and sweating over a boiling pot in which he made his infusions. When the afternoon was drawing to a close and the daylight began to fail, the old man bolted the door and told Will to sweep up and go to bed, giving him the last of the hard cheese for his supper.
Will ate the frugal meal hungrily. Tonight he was glad of the sacking and straw on the floor. He knew that he would sleep extremely well and he threw himself down, thankful that the day was over. As sleep crept upon him he stared at the ceiling and wondered at the silence above—Doctor Spittle must have gone to the attic.
“What can he be doing up there?” he murmured drowsily to himself. “Still, I won’t be here for much longer—I’ll give it a week...” And the boy fell fast asleep.
The following days went by much as the first and during this time not once did either of them venture outside. Poor Will hated working there; the windows were kept shut and the only fresh air that entered his lungs came in through the door with the customers.
In that short amount of time he became accustomed to the old man’s strange habits. Despite his dishevelled and threadbare appearance, the apothecary continually preened himself. Will discovered that he was terribly vain and caught him gazing at his reflection many times. He also had a very sweet tooth and devoured great quantities of marzipan and spicecakes which he kept for himself and shared not a crumb with Will. Another of Doctor Spittle’s weaknesses was his passion for gossip and he listened to the scandal of the court with his tongue almost hanging out of his mouth. From Sir Francis and a few other clients he would hear of the marvellous parties thrown by the King and he gurgled with delight if they told him in detail of the feasts that had been prepared at the palace. Yet even these tales of exquisite desserts could not sweeten his nature, for after the customers had departed he would grumble about them and hurl insults their way. It was at times like these that Will had learnt to keep his head down and get on with his work, for the old man invariably found fault with him and gave vent to his envy and malice with cruelty directed at the boy. Several times Will went hungry because some customer had told of a magnificent syllabub or an apple mousse of surpassing excellence.
“Curse their tongues!” Doctor Spittle would shriek jealously. “If I can’t afford to savour such things then why should you taste my bread and cheese? Dogs eat scraps in the street, you should do the same! Here am I forced to eat biscuits to appease my cravings when there’s folk like that plaguey Lingley stuffing his gullet with pear tarts or delicious cubes of jellied milk.” And so Will would get no dinner that day and the apothecary would storm upstairs to the attic room where the boy was forbidden to go.
Doctor Spittle spent all his spare time locked behind the crimson door. In that secret room he spent most of the night and Will wondered if the old man ever slept. The mysterious attic began to dominate the boy’s thoughts. When he was not thinking of how he could escape from the city he found himself pondering on this mystery. While he toiled in the shop his mind turned increasingly to that subject. It became an obsession with him and once, when the apothecary was busy with a customer, he slipped upstairs to see if it was unlocked. Once more he heard the faint scratchings from within but the door would not open and he darted downstairs before he had been missed. Now he was more determined than ever to find out Doctor Spittle’s secret and any fear he had at first felt was overcome by this driving curiosity.
A whole week passed by and Will was still stamping out pills and mixing lotions. The chance to return home had not yet presented itself, and besides the talk on everyone’s lips was still of the dead miller. Peggy Blister had invented such a tragic story of thwarted lovers who were separated in their youth then briefly reunited until a wicked child murdered the hero that someone had printed a broadsheet about it. Just about everyone knew the tale now and Will’s description was at the forefront of everybody’s thoughts whenever they saw a street urchin dash by. It became so ba
d that when customers came into the shop the boy was forced to skulk in the corner to avoid prying eyes.
Another week slid by and before Will realised, it was December. The nights became colder and he moved his sack bedding closer to the hearth, warming his hands by the fire’s embers. He really did look like a beggar’s brat now and he smelled like one as well. He hadn’t had a wash since his arrival in London and on the odd occasion he had to stir some herbs or essences into a potion, the hands that came dripping out of the perfumed water were so white compared to the rest of him that it looked as though he was wearing gloves.
It was the thirteenth of December and Will was on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Doctor Spittle was absorbed in filling a large Delftware jar with preserves, but his attention seemed to be somewhere else. He kept pausing and gazing out of the window at the sky, as if wishing for the night to come.
The door to the shop opened and when Will chanced to look up he saw a pretty young woman standing there. She was a truly lovely creature and though her striped dress was not made of silk she carried herself as though she were a countess. Her golden hair was curled upon her forehead and cascaded softly about her bare shoulders. She waved the fan in her hand at the apothecary who looked up from the jar and chuckled to himself.
“Missed me, you old rogue?” she asked with a laugh.
“Molly, my dear,” he welcomed smarmily. “It’s been a while since you visited me last. I thought you had become dissatisfied with my humble shop.”
“Get away, you old devil!” she giggled. “Save that fancy talk for the gallants and the fainting ladies that come in here. You an’ I ought to know each other well enough by now. You haven’t seen me of late because I ain’t been here—I been away on business.’ And she gave the apothecary a meaningful wink. “Still, that’s all done with now. Molly’s been dumped again but she ain’t complainin’.”
Her voice was light and sweet as a bell. Will thought she was the most beautiful thing on God’s earth and in that dingy place she seemed like an angel to him. He gawped at her and it was then that she became aware of him.
“What’s this?” she laughed teasingly. “Don’t tell me you’re taking in strays now, Spittle? I had you marked down as a rascally old skinflint—please don’t tell me I was wrong.”
The apothecary assumed a dignified air and replied, “I have taken on an apprentice.”
“Pooh!” snorted Molly irreverently. “I’ll believe that the day I turn Quaker.” She curtsied to Will and gave him a warm smile. The boy stood up and bowed shyly in return. “Treatin’ you bad is he?” she asked, cocking her head at the old man. “You want to watch him you know. Not to be trusted is old Spittle.”
“You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Will piped up.
The young woman stared at him in surprise then laughed once more, but it was not done in mockery. “Well bless us all,” she cried, “this lad’s got better manners’n most I could mention.”
Doctor Spittle frowned; the woman was too frivolous. “Get back to work!” he told Will. The boy knelt down obediently and resumed scrubbing the floor.
Molly sighed. “You are a villain,” she scolded the old man, “I bet you work that poor lad till he’s spent.”
“If you please,” the apothecary began, “have you come just to annoy me and distract my apprentice or will you purchase anything?”
The woman did not answer; instead she wandered over to a shelf and peered at the bottles there. “Do you have any rue, camphor or henbane?” she asked eventually.
“What tricks are you up to now, Molly?” inquired Doctor Spittle.
“Same as before,” she answered sweetly, “taking care of my friends—there’s no one else who will and shame on them for it.” The woman picked up a jar and shook it. “These ginger roots are past their best,” she commented.
The apothecary muttered an oath and hurried forward. “Enough!” he said. “I shall not stand for your tampering, I have told you this before. I am the apothecary, not you!”
He speedily brought out the things she had asked for and as she paid him an insolent smile curled on her face. Turning to Will she said, “Have a care, young apprentice, old Spittle doesn’t like to think anyone is as wise as he. If you learn too much of his trade then feign ignorance for the sake of his moth-eaten pride.” With that she gave an impudent laugh and trotted out of the shop.
From the window Doctor Spittle watched her step jauntily down the alley. “Devil take her,” he grumbled. “Too smart for her own good is Molly—it’ll be the undoing of her one day. Well, she might think she knows a thing or three about physic but nothing she’s got stuffed in that pretty little head of hers is a match for my brains.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and a quick grin lit his face. “Night will fall soon,” he whispered excitedly. The apothecary stuffed his hand into the pocket of his coat and brought out a large bunch of keys. “Call me if anyone comes in,” he told Will, “but I doubt if we shall have any more custom tonight.”
But even as the words were spoken a small figure burst into the shop. “Apothecary!” the man wailed. “Come quick, my master needs you! He lies ill of fever and the physician is nowhere to be found.”
Doctor Spittle wavered. He hated visiting the sick—he was always afraid that he might catch their illnesses. Usually he refrained from making such calls but this man was known to him; he was the servant of a rich merchant whose cook was renowned for her splendid confections. He stole a glance up the stairs and decided that his other work would have to wait that night. This was a job that would undoubtedly pay well, unless the patient died, of course, and he might even get the chance to taste a syllabub.
Licking his lips he hastened to the counter and pulled his seldom-used apothecary box from beneath it. “Take me to him,” he told the anxious man and in a moment they were both gone.
Will scratched his head. It wasn’t like Doctor Spittle to venture near a sickbed. He put down the scrubbing brush and stretched. That was enough; the floor had never looked so clean. The boy sat on the counter and wondered when the old man would return—if he put the leeches on the patient then he might not be back for hours. He stared about him in a bored sort of way until his wandering gaze rested upon something which made him jump off the counter with amazement. Beside him was a large bunch of keys.
Will picked them up in disbelief. In his fluster Doctor Spittle had forgotten to take them with him.
In a trice the boy dashed up the stairs—this was his chance to discover the apothecary’s secret. Breathlessly he stood outside the blood-red door and placed one of the keys into the lock. It turned with a smooth click and Will gulped as he tried the handle. Already he could hear the scratching sound from within. Gingerly he opened the door and looked inside. With his mouth open in amazement Will looked around him.
The attic was a tiny place, made even smaller by the equipment the apothecary kept there.
A vast number of ancient leather-bound books and parchment scrolls covered the walls and reached up to the sloping ceiling. The skull of some large animal grinned down from a high ornate shelf and its macabre stare was mirrored in a silvered ball of glass which hung from the rafters, next to which was the shrivelled body of a puppy and two wooden cages. There were scientific instruments of gleaming brass with which to study the heavens, bunches of strange plants that the boy had not seen in the shop below, bottles of acid with skulls painted on them and small bags, which to his disgust he found contained human teeth. A chart depicting a five-pointed star was pinned to a rare space on the wall and a long telescope pointed out of the window. In the small fireplace a black pot bubbled, giving off bright green smoke that trailed and curled up the chimney.
Will coughed. So that was where the dreadful smell originated! He covered his nose and tried to find out where the scratching noise was coming from. There over his head! He stood on tiptoe and peered into the two wooden cages he had assumed were empty. Inside each was the furry body
of a rat: one was brown, the other black. They had been frantically scratching at the floor of their cage but now they stared at him in surprise.
The boy laughed, so there was no monster up here after all, this was just Doctor Spittle’s study where he read his books and examined the stars. But a doubtful voice at the back of his mind whispered to him, “Are you certain? Look again.” A coldness suddenly washed over Will—this was no ordinary place. He looked once more at the magical symbols on the wall, at the bottles containing eyeballs and the esoteric patterns gouged into the sill of the window. Now he understood. Only a magician would keep such things. Doctor Spittle was a sorcerer!
The boy shuddered. Everyone knew that magicians were in league with the Devil. The imagined fear he had felt before now congealed into a very real terror. Of all the horrors in the world. Will was most afraid of witches and wizards—yet here he was living under the same roof as one. Doctor Spittle’s apothecary shop was just a cover for his real, evil work. It was too much. Will would rather take his chances in the city than remain here one more night. It was well known that wizards used the blood of children in their spells. Will put his hand to his throat and strangled the cry of panic that was welling up.
“I’ve got to get out! I’ve got to get out!” he squeaked in fear. Spinning on his heel the boy rushed to the door, but it was too late. There within its crimson frame stood Doctor Spittle.
The old man’s black brows bristled with fury and a deadly glint flashed in his dark eyes. He ground his teeth together and growled, “Dog! Why have you dared to defy me?”
Will could only stammer and gabble in reply. “I won’t tell anyone,” he cried. “I promise. Let me go, please!”
“Only my eyes have ever beheld this secret chamber!” stormed the apothecary wildly. He drew himself up to his full height and his shadow stretched menacingly up behind him, reaching over the rafters and towering above the boy’s head. The fire in the grate crackled and the flames blazed more fiercely than before. From the pot the green smoke billowed into the room and wound about the old man’s legs, spiralling up to his chest until he was wreathed in a glowing mist.