by Robin Jarvis
“Yes, he was my friend. He travelled with me to London.”
The young woman knelt on the floor and tightly gripped his hands. “Listen to me!” she began sternly, “I want you to tell me everything—from the very beginning. Do you understand?”
Will looked at her doubtfully—there was a dangerous light shining in her eyes and it scared him. He had never seen her like this before and the change was frightening. Her hands were hurting his wrists and though he struggled he could not get loose. Was she going to take him to the magistrate? “You promised not to tell anyone!” he cried. “You swore!”
“Just do as I say!” she shouted furiously. “Or it’ll be the worse for you!”
It was a busy day in the city; horse drawn coaches laboured between the countless, stubborn traders who thronged together. As the carriages ploughed by, the pedlars jostled with each other to reach the window and raised their wares for the occupant to inspect. Very often the milk-white hand of some great lady would throw them a coin or stop the coach altogether whilst she purchased some trinket or other. The narrow lanes were dreadfully congested and the going was slow for both horse and human traffic.
Doctor Spittle pushed his way down the crowded streets. He was like a great black thundercloud charging across the summer sky. Without a care for anyone else, he barged and shoved, kicking those who were not swift enough to get out of his path. Several angry street vendors whirled round when the toe of his boot struck their heels but on seeing his face they leapt aside and let him pass.
“Call me a beggar will he!” the old man fumed. “One day he’ll rue those words.” Scowling with an expression that would curdle cream he left Cheapside, marched up Ironmonger’s Lane and made for Throgmorton Street. After a brief walk, made the briefer by his impatient long strides, the building he sought came into view.
It was a ramshackle, dilapidated hovel, situated on the sharp corner of the road. Long ago it had been daubed a brash, bright blue but now the paint was peeling and cracking from its walls—it was the raghouse.
This was where all the second-hand clothes, curtains, bed linen, wall hangings, handkerchiefs, hats, sacks, carpets, wigs and slippers found their way. Anything remotely useful or even useless could be found within that scruffy little dwelling—but you needed a strong stomach to hunt through its flea-ridden glory.
Doctor Spittle had such a stomach—so long as it was cheap then he would wear it. He had discovered a number of bargains over the years and been the proud new owner of many a hardly used nightgown found in that establishment. Practically all the garments he was wearing that day were originally from there. He had a nose for finding just what he needed and would hunt through the grimy rag heaps like a pig snouting after truffles.
Eagerly he pushed open the faded blue door, stooped under the low lintel and stepped inside.
The old man blinked and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was always dim and gloomy in the raghouse; bundles of dirty material were piled up against the broken windows and blotted out the light, as if in sympathy for the moths that fluttered endlessly around. In this perpetually twilight world the alchemist gazed about him. On every side huge pinnacles of cloth soared up and touched the oak-beamed ceiling. They were great islands of rag, looming out of a tattered, filthy sea of shreds. Not one inch was left uncovered, even the beams had garments dangling from them, and strung from corner to corner, like the web of an immense spider, was a network of twine which in turn supported the weight of a thousand pieces of grubby linen. It was a bizarre spectacle, like the ghostly banners of some ancient coronation or perhaps the washing lines of a hundred witches. Doctor Spittle had often reflected with a wry smile that this place made his own cluttered attic look positively spartan. There was nowhere in London, or probably the world, to compare with this mass of neglected lumber.
He wiped his nose and ducked under one of the grotesque washing lines. The air was stale in here and it stank of rancid fat. On the rare occasion his feet came in contact with the bare floor, it was found to be sticky with the innumerable years of accumulated grease that smeared the endless supply of clothes. Doctor Spittle was used to this, however, and he merely wiped his sole on a nearby stack.
After venturing a little further into the ragged forest he put his hands to his mouth and called out, “Gobtrot?”
Instantly he heard a scuffling, followed by a series of excited barks. The alchemist peered into the gloom ahead and from the shadows there emerged a panting whirlwind of a terrier. It raced over the bundles, scattering handkerchiefs and old ribbons in the rush. Doctor Spittle backed away in alarm, this was not what he was expecting.
The dog flew at him, leaping up as high as it could, his little jaws snapping and trying to bite the old man’s fingers. Once it must have been white in colour but its wiry fur was now grey with dust and dirt.
“Down!” wailed the alchemist raising his arms to avoid those needle-like teeth. The terrier yapped and barked at him, dancing on its hind legs to see where the fingers had disappeared to. Doctor Spittle would have run back to the door there and then if his hands had not become tangled up in the twine above and brought a smelly curtain down on his head. The dog loved this and he seized a corner of the cloth with his teeth then shook it ferociously.
“Bunter!” came a voice. “Stop that at once!”
The terrier took no notice and gave the curtain a terrific yank. The rotted fibres tore and the dog rolled head over heels into a pile of rags. A tatty heap crouched down and picked up the wriggling imp. “Just you behave now,” it said crossly.
Doctor Spittle dragged the curtain from his head and saw the walking bundle shamble towards him.
“Ah—Gobtrot,” he wheezed. “I did think you would not arrive in time. That little cur attacked me!”
From the summit of the unwholesome mass of cloth a face appeared through a tear in the material. The proprietor of the raghouse was a small, fat man. His many wrinkles were clogged with grime like the gutters of a tumbledown house and his pale eyes watered constantly. Wisps of fine, grey hair poked through the hood which covered his head and stiff bristles spiked out of his blobby nose.
“Why, Apothecary Spittle!” he exclaimed, bowing politely. “’T’as been a tidy while since you honoured us with a visit. Don’t worry none about Bunter. He just has a neat little way of welcoming customers he does. But what am I thinking of? I must fetch Mistress Gobtrot and smartish—she’ll be awful glad to see you again.” The exceptional-looking man bowed for a second time, then, with the terrier under his arm, he picked his way between the mountains of jumble that reared around him to an unseen part of the shop.
While he waited. Doctor Spittle fell upon the nearest pile and ferreted through it greedily. Over his shoulder flew all manner of garments as he frantically searched for something suitable. But the only interesting items that his rooting brought to light were several old bones. These he cast distastefully away.
“Ooh, I see Bunter has been up to his little tricks,” came a frail voice. “He’s a treasure really and keeps the rats down something wonderful.” The alchemist turned and there was Mistress Gobtrot.
She was dressed very like her husband, wrapped in the same shabby cloth that made them both resemble supernatural troll creatures from some darkling wood. From these filthy bindings only her head and hands ever appeared. She even looked like Mr Gobtrot, right down to the bristling nose. The only major differences between them were that she was very much thinner, and had also taken to wearing a wig recently. It was a large, wild rook’s nest of a creation that slipped over her eyes if she moved too suddenly. To prevent this happening Mistress Gobtrot had developed a habit of leaning her head back. But this artifice made her look as though she had either broken her neck or was gazing at something fantastically interesting on the ceiling.
Doctor Spittle staggered to greet her. “Madam,” he declared, “how good it is to see you once more. You are a definite tonic to this weary old man.”
S
he fluttered her dirty hands coyly before her face and lowered her eyes demurely. Immediately the wig slithered down and obscured her vision.
Her husband laughed beside her; this was the way Doctor Spittle always greeted his wife. He had heard it countless times but it never ceased to amuse him. “What’s this?” he chuckled. “Enough of your polished talk, sir. You’ll turn her pretty little head.”
The woman moved the wig back into position and continued the conversation, her grimy face cocked at an awkward angle to prevent further landslides. “Anyways, sir,” she addressed the ceiling, “what was it you wanted this day?”
“A spotless nightgown perhaps?” suggested Mr Gobtrot.
“Sheets maybe?”
“No, no, no!” Doctor Spittle told them, making a grand gesture with his arms. The terrier’s ears perked up as the alchemist’s sleeve brushed past. Doctor Spittle eyed the dog cautiously to make certain it was secure before he carried on. “I’m sick and tired of my mundane wardrobe,” he complained to the Gobtrots. “I want something special. Give me silks—or velvet if you have it.”
“Ooh,” remarked Mistress Gobtrot, clasping her mucky hands in front of her as she pictured the spectacle in her mind. “You’ll look a real diamond in that.” She enthused, “We’ve got a trove of velvet, ain’t we? Just you stay here a moment, Apothecary.” Eager to please, the woman hitched up her grimy skirts and clambered over the tall heaps nearby.
The Gobtrots knew the exact location of everything in the raghouse—nothing existed in that place without their being aware of it. So in tune with their environment were they that they could find the smallest button within five minutes of its being asked for—even if they had not seen it for a year or so. As trees and rivers possess in-dwelling spirits so the Gobtrots were surely the genii of that establishment.
She knelt upon one of the great piles and began dredging into it like a demented rabbit digging a burrow. “Here we are,” she piped up, “lovely green curtains. No? Well here’s a delicious purple cloak—look.” She held it up for the alchemist to see.
“What is that gash down the side?” he inquired.
“’Tis only where a sword stuck into the previous owner, sir,” she replied brightly. “I could easily sew that up for you and I should think those blood stains would come out.”
Doctor Spittle declined the offer.
“What about this then?” she asked holding up a coat of royal blue. “Still got most of its buttons too.”
“That seems to be adequate,” agreed the alchemist.
The woman threw it over to her husband and Doctor Spittle inspected it. The coat was just what he wanted—he would certainly cut a dash in that. Mind you, it did give off a very strong and pungent odour. He shot an accusing glance at the terrier but the little dog wagged its tail innocently.
“Nevertheless, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,” he told himself and, sighing with resignation, he thrust his arms into the sleeves. “Devil take it!” he bawled. “The wretched thing is far too small—do you think I am a dwarf?”
“Don’t you worry now,” assured Mr Gobtrot respectfully, “we’ll scour the shop from top to bottom to supply you with your needs.”
His wife resumed her delving. “There’s an opulent red piece here—oh sorry, it’s a dress. Here’s another cloak—a black one this time.”
As she lifted it up a vast cloud of moths flew from the folds. They were the fattest the alchemist had ever seen and had obviously gorged themselves on the proffered cloak. All that was left of it was a series of tattered strips. “Ooh my!” exclaimed Mistress Gobtrot falling backwards and losing her wig altogether. “They’ve had a good nibble of this.” She rummaged further down and wailed. “They must have been a chomping for years, there’s nothing but scraps under here now.”
“Don’t throw anything away, wife!” called her husband anxiously. “You never know when a certain bit might be wanted.”
“Have you nothing else?” asked Doctor Spittle, swatting the bloated insects which flitted overhead.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” returned Mr Gobtrot glumly. That were all the quality stuff we had in that pile. We’ll be clean out of velvet now. Them moths know a good thing when they bite it.”
“Hang your horses, husband!” called Mistress Gobtrot as she retrieved her rook’s nest and waded back to them. “You’re forgetting that load what came in yesterday. We haven’t shown the apothecary that yet.”
“Well strike me down for being a dullard!” he cried, slapping his temples. “I pure forgot about that. Come with us, sir, we’ve not given up yet.”
So the three of them, not forgetting the terrier, wound their way deep into the heart of the ragged landscape.
Through a range of squalid mountains they trailed, until they came upon a small open space which served as the Gobtrots’ living quarters. It was covered by a canopy of rat-chewed silk that hung from the ceiling. This bizarre awning gave the impression of some windswept tent, pitched in a high, craggy pass. Beneath it there were two stools, a threadbare rug and very little else. The Gobtrots had no bed, for they slept each night upon a different cloth heap. Their wants were simple and few and this way of life suited them admirably.
In the manner of one proudly showing another his home the proprietor showed the alchemist theirs. Then he pulled a heavy metal chest from beneath some sacking and prised the lid open. “Now, sir,” he said, “I’ll not embarrass the gentleman what brought this to us by telling you whence it came. Just take a peep at this.”
Doctor Spittle looked down into the open chest. A mass of dark red velvet met his eyes. Drooling, he caught it up and hastily tried it on.
It was a magnificent long robe and, although it was rather old-fashioned in style, the quality was superb. Swirling arabesques of fruit and flowers were sewn onto the shoulders, twining about the scaled body of a long dragon whose eyes were set with shining stones. Even the lining was richly decorated, being silk and heavily embroidered with a curious pattern. The glorious effect was further enhanced by a trimming of silver lace which edged the wide sleeves and ran all around the hem. Doctor Spittle felt marvellous. He stroked the soft velvet and almost wept with the unbearable bliss of it.
“An immaculate fit, sir,” applauded Mr Gobtrot.
“Why it could have been made for you,” agreed his wife. “Makes you look positively royal it does. A proper prince indeed.”
“I must view myself!” gabbled the alchemist. “Quickly, have you a looking glass?”
“I have the very thing,” nodded Mr Gobtrot wandering off for a moment. With Bunter still under one arm, he returned carrying a large oval mirror in a damaged gilt frame. “Now then, sir,” he breathed, “gaze and be amazed.”
Doctor Spittle stared at his reflection and let out a squeal of delight—it was true—he looked magnificent. Striking noble postures he regarded his mirrored self and adored what he beheld. Flushed with conceit he turned to one side and admired the effect from a different angle. He was breathtaking. Craning his neck he gauged the rear view and was satisfied that that too was gorgeous. He was beside himself with glee and gave little hops as he preened and pouted.
It was then that he noticed his thinning hair and he scowled at the looking glass. “Why must age rob you of your finest features?” he cried. The Gobtrots looked at him sympathetically. “It really was thick and plentiful once, you know,” he informed them, “and a fierce, fiery red too.”
“How about a periwig, sir?” suggested the woman cheerfully. “I could always run and have a look for you. Bunter’s been playing with them of late so they’re a bit scattered but I could quickly find them.”
“No,” he replied with consummate sadness. “I have a very sensitive scalp—I do not think I could wear one all the day.”
“Pity,” she clucked, unconsciously scratching her own, “they make them so well these days too. No one would know you was wearing one.”
Doctor Spittle said nothing but drew his fingers through his w
hite locks. Then he peered more closely at the mirror and his face assumed an awful aspect.
“Whatever is it, sir?” asked Mr Gobtrot. “Have you been taken ill?”
The alchemist certainly did not look well. For a while he remained in exactly the same position, then he moved and pointed at his reflection. “See there!” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. The Gobtrots stared in the direction he was pointing, but all they could see was the lining of the robe. “Do you not realise?” he cried. “Look! Can you not see the writing? There in the embroidery!”
They looked again and to their surprise the old man was right. Hidden amongst the fancy sewing that spread over the lining there were indeed words. They were cunningly placed in and around the decorated vines but they were there sure enough. “Why so there is,” admitted Mr Gobtrot. “Why didn’t we notice that afore?”
“Because it can only be read in a mirror,” Doctor Spittle muttered. “It’s been painstakingly done in mirror writing—but why and by whom?”
He swept the robe off his shoulders and exposed the rest of the lining to study it more keenly. Very slowly he began to read.
“I Magnus Augustus Zachaire, by divine grace and everlasting mercy, herenow set down the true and actual definition of that which is called The Tincture of the Philosophers in all other wise known as the Philosopher’s Stone...”
His voice failed as he grasped the significance of what he had discovered. With his hands quivering he read on. The passage purported to be a translation of a medieval manuscript which gave the exact formula for making the Philosopher’s Stone. Doctor Spittle choked back a cry. He had in his hands the solution to all his problems. The dreams he had dared to crave were now within his reach. If what this said was true then nothing could stop him becoming fabulously wealthy.
Trembling with excitement he turned to Mr Gobtrot. “Where did you get this?” he cried.
“Hah now, sir,” the man answered with a wink, “you knows I can’t divulge that. As I said before. I’ll not embarrass my sources. Why I’d not get any new stock if folk didn’t trust me to hold a confidence. So I’ll just keep mum if you please.”