The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  The alchemist regarded it peevishly then raised his eyebrows at the fat intruder.

  The man coughed and blinked his pale blue eyes. Then he held up a dumpy little hand and saluted. “Be you the apothecary?” he asked in a squeaky high-pitched voice that contrasted starkly with his bulk.

  Doctor Spittle pulled a face; he itched to get back to work. “I might very well be,” he answered tersely. “Whatever it is you require my apprentice can attend to it.” With the empty jar in his grasp he turned to leave.

  But the stranger was not to be put off so easily. “Is the lad skilled enough to prepare a remedy that can protect against the plague?” he demanded.

  The alchemist stopped in his tracks and whirled round. “What say you?” he shrieked.

  “Plague!” gasped Will.

  “Aye!” the man replied. “That’s what it’s feared to be. ’Tis said it has already claimed some poor soul—one Margaret Ponteous. She fell into the fever and never came out of it. This very hour I have passed a house outside the city walls that is shut up with the sickness. It was a wretched slum of a place and I crossed the street to be as far from it as possible.” He stared grimly at Will then turned back to the alchemist. “That is why I am here, in case the contagion of that house has in some way touched me.”

  Doctor Spittle let out a squawk and staggered backwards. “Get out!” he gibbered. “Take your filthy person away from my shop—I have no wish to die a raving death.”

  “But you are an apothecary, are you not?” squeaked the man in surprise. “I have come seeking help, surely you would not deny me aid?”

  “That I most certainly would!” the old man declared. “And I shall!” In an effort to shield himself he put his arm over his mouth and snatched the broom from Will, then he shooed and prodded the large man out of the door and threw the bolt home.

  Leaning against it he put his hand over his chest where his heart fluttered in alarm. There was nothing Doctor Spittle feared more than illness and disease and he took great precautions to avoid them wherever possible. “We are closed for the rest of the day,” he told Will with a trembling voice.

  “Shouldn’t we have done something to help him?” asked the boy.

  The alchemist’s face was pale as he steadied himself and wandered across the room. “Certainly not!” he said with a shudder. “You do not understand the nature of the sickness, boy, or you would never suggest such a thing. Now, I must retire. I do not feel up to resuming my work this afternoon. Remain here and see to it that no one enters.”

  “As you wish,” Will answered.

  And so the Great Plague began. Death, in all his guises, was a frequent visitor to the squalid homes of the capital. Smallpox, cholera, and countless other fevers were common enough, so, at first, the tales of one more sickness frightened few. But nobody could possibly imagine just how many would succumb to this sinister new arrival.

  Like some ghastly angel of Death the plague spread its dark wings over the city, moving stealthily from house to house. Nothing could stop the insidious flow of this silent assassin. It stalked the darkened streets and searched for the living, touching them with fatal caresses and breathing oblivion into their faces. No one was safe; it cut down the destitute and the noble with equal zeal and left only misery and emptiness in its wake.

  The pestilence struck as suddenly and unexpectedly as a lightning bolt—so swift a gatherer of souls that a strong man could wake up hale in the morning and be dead by nightfall.

  All quaked in fear lest it chose to call on them next. More and more buildings were sealed and boarded up, with red crosses painted on the doorways along with the words, ‘Lord have mercy on us’. Weekly mortality bills were posted and to everyone’s dismay the number of dead rose steadily. Church bells tolled with increasing frequency and the desolate sound was echoed throughout the land.

  In the apothecary shop. Doctor Spittle anxiously sat in his attic, fearing a visitation. He all but abandoned the great experiment and spent entire days worrying himself into a nervous frenzy. It would be just like fate to cut the thread of his life when he was on the verge of fulfilling his dreams. Not once did he step outside and walk through the streets in case the sickness was waiting to pounce. He entrusted to Will the management of the shop and, at times of particular anxiety, the alchemist would shout his instructions down to him so as to avoid contact completely.

  Will became increasingly concerned about the old man. It was not natural for even him to spend so long locked away. Entire days passed by without a sound coming out of that room, and with everyone he met talking of nothing but Death the boy’s spirits sank very low.

  Doctor Spittle swilled two chemicals around in a jar and examined the result. But it was only a half-hearted attempt to get back to work—he really wanted to take his mind off the plague, but that seemed impossible.

  Somewhere in the night-cloaked city a death bell rang out—another life had sweated and shivered its way to judgement. The alchemist set the jar down and clasped his shaking hands together.

  “What is it thou fearest, Spittle?” came a low voice. “Is it in truth Death—or what awaits thee on the other side?”

  The alchemist glanced at the bottle on the table and scowled at the spirit’s face. “I am not afraid,” he lied unconvincingly. “Death shall not gather me just yet, I have too much to live for to surrender to that gentleman.”

  “Ah yes,” Magnus chuckled, “gold—but where is thy fortune?”

  “Enough!” snapped the old man and he stuffed the bottle onto one of the shelves, hiding it behind some books. Rattled, he sat back in his seat. At once Jupiter came to him and the cat’s presence calmed his jangled nerves.

  The kittens were nearly adults now. Dab was almost as large as her mother but surpassed her by far in beauty. Leech was still scrawny and awkward-looking; any hopes Imelza might have had of him being an ugly duckling were grossly unfounded. Jupiter, however, was nearly twice the size of his mother; he was strong in both mind and body and Imelza felt that she no longer had any control over her wilful son.

  Doctor Spittle stroked his familiar’s head. “The pestilence will never invade our little territory, will it?” he muttered. “No, not whilst I am vigilant.” Jupiter mewed back at him and the old man managed a faint smile. “Are you hungry, my trusty assistant? Yes, it is late and you have not eaten—come.”

  He rose and took from a cupboard some strips of salted fish. He had no appetite for them himself so he doled them out to the cats who purred round him the instant the supper was produced. Only Leech hung back, watching warily from a corner. His stomach growled at the sight and smell of food but he would rather go hungry than suffer another vicious blow from those boots.

  “We must not forget our rodent friends,” said the alchemist as Jupiter stood on his hind legs to take the last morsels. Doctor Spittle reached up, tossing the scraps into the two cages, and the rats leaped on them.

  Heliodorus chewed hurriedly but without pleasure.

  “Eeuch!” he grumbled. “I has munched better victuals than this.”

  “Oh, I doesn’t know,” Beckett meekly replied, “it do seem quite a tasty bit of nosh.”

  “You Englishers got no taste for finer things,” commented the black rat, “not never.”

  Dab padded over to the corner where Leech cringed in the shadows. “Here,” she said kindly, “I saved some of my supper for you.” And she passed a piece of the dried fish to her brother.

  The runt snatched at it and gobbled it down, bones and all. “You’re the only one with any kindness,” he said with his mouth full. “If it wasn’t for you I’d starve to death.”

  The tortoiseshell shook her head. “It would never come to that,” she told him. “Mother wouldn’t let it happen—nor would Jupiter.”

  At this Leech snorted. “Yes he would,” he spat resentfully, “our darling brother cares for no one but himself and that evil old human.”

  “Well, I think you’re wrong,” Dab insisted.
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  Leech narrowed his eyes and gazed over her shoulder. “Really?” he asked. “Look at him now. There he sits on the lap of our gaoler, basking in the praise and the affection which gets poured upon him. It makes me sick!”

  Dab made no answer. Jupiter really was spending an awful amount of time with the old man—he hardly ever talked to them now. It troubled her and in silence she returned to their mother.

  Another distant knell proclaimed the passing of one more poor soul. Doctor Spittle’s agitation returned and he drummed his fingers distractedly on the table.

  “Dost thou hear it?” called a muffled voice.

  “Keep quiet!” the alchemist shouted at the pile of books on the shelf.

  But the spirit laughed back at him. “Listen to the sounds of Death, Elias,” it taunted. “The bells that ring compass thee round. Thou art enclosed within a circle of disease; how much longer before it tightens and closes upon thee? When will thy bell ring?”

  The alchemist thumped the table and demanded peace.

  Magnus’s response to that was simple. “Why should I permit thee what thou withholdest from myself?” he uttered.

  But Doctor Spittle was not listening. A new sound had reached his ears. Horses’ hooves were slowly clopping down the street outside the alley and a loud rumbling of cart wheels as they bumped over the cobbles followed behind.

  A blue light shone out from behind the books and Magnus’s voice was soft and tormenting. “Hark!” he whispered. “There go the pest-waggons, taking the dead to be buried. How many bodies are carried tonight, Elias? Two—three? How much longer before more waggons are needed? How much longer before one of their number comes for thy boil-covered corpse?”

  The alchemist peered out of the window to see if he could spot the grim vehicle as it passed by. Immediately he dragged himself back and stumbled over the chair.

  Down in the shadows of the alley something moved; it was too dark to tell for sure, but for an instant he thought he saw the figure of a man step backwards into the gloom.

  “Someone is out there!” he spluttered. “In the alley below, a figure wrapped in black—he was staring up at me!”

  “Perhaps the gentleman thou dreadest hath arrived at last,” suggested the spirit.

  Doctor Spittle swallowed nervously and edged towards the window once more. “Nonsense!” he said. “’Twas only a trick of the dark, nothing else—my fancies are sending shapes to delude me.” Yet his lips were quivering when he squinted down again.

  The alley below was empty. “There,” he reassured himself, “the product of my addled and overheated genius, that’s all it was.” But the alchemist had no sleep that night.

  Time dragged on. Only on the third of June were the minds of the populace briefly diverted from their woes. The distant report of guns boomed out over the River Thames; somewhere the English fleet was doing battle with the Dutch and prayers were, for once, concerned with matters other than the pestilence.

  Will heard the far-off explosions and looked up from the spices in his hands. He envied those mariners; out there on the open sea there was no plague—only adventure and excitement and a freedom he could not begin to imagine. The noise grew fainter and he continued with his work.

  Out of necessity, he was kept busy preparing nosegays from sweet-smelling herbs and dried flowers. They did nothing to ward off the sickness but when walking through the streets they were a vital relief from the reek of the pest-houses. A flourishing trade of dubious cures and phoney preventatives was springing up everywhere. Some of the other apothecaries and even a few physicians preyed on the fears of the gullible and desperate by selling these fraudulent concoctions. Most were alcohol-based, so even though they were of no use against the disease, people invariably felt better for taking them.

  Doctor Spittle, however, was too preoccupied to apply for a licence to sell these mixtures. He was being watched.

  That first glimpse he had had of the figure in the alley had only been the beginning. He was convinced that someone lurked in the shadows each night, spying on him. On many occasions since, he had caught a movement in the corner of his eye. But every time he turned to confront it, the figure had melted into the darkness. It was most alarming and the words of Magnus Zachaire constantly came back to haunt him and strike terror into his heart. What if it really was Death himself?

  The old man became obsessed; he had to find out who or what it was and he began to lie in wait. For hours he would crouch under the window-sill until his back complained and all the feeling disappeared from his legs. Then he would pop up like a Jack-in-the-box and glare down expectantly.

  It was on one of these uncomfortable nights of vigil that his patience was finally rewarded.

  The hour was very late. Doctor Spittle was hunched under the window, hugging his knees and keeping his ears alert for any footsteps on the cobbles outside. Imelza was prowling about the room as she usually did and getting on the alchemist’s nerves.

  “Why can’t the poxy creature settle?” he bawled throwing a book at her.

  “She is a creature of the night,” came the answer from the shelf. The bottle which contained the spirit was now permanently tucked out of sight, for Doctor Spittle could not bear the insufferably smug face of that wretched spectre. “The essence of darkness calls to her,” Magnus continued, “it sings in her blood and beckons her to roam through the shadows.”

  “Well she isn’t going anywhere!” retorted the alchemist. “Once out she’ll only want to come back in and I won’t have her bringing the contagion to me.”

  “Elias,” said the spirit abruptly.

  “What is it now?” he grunted.

  “Thy friend hath arrived; I sense a presence outside.”

  The old man sprang to his feet and held a lantern over his head. The light fell onto the alley and there it was.

  “Lord of Death!” he cried.

  A nightmarish figure stared back at him. It was dressed from head to toe in a long black coat. Heavy boots were on the feet and leather gauntlets covered the hands. The old man uttered a little cry of dismay when the lamplight fell upon the mysterious man’s face—it was not human.

  A long, sharp beak pointed up at him from the centre of the head and the eyes that shone in the yellow beam were large and round like those of some monstrous fish. The figure made no attempt to hide itself, but stayed in the open, regarding the attic window and the alchemist framed within it with a horrible, glassy stare.

  Doctor Spittle found this more disconcerting than when it hid in the shadows. He squealed and fell to his knees.

  “He has come!” he cried. “Death is here!”

  So loud were his shrieks that he woke Will in the shop below and the boy hurried up the stairs to see what had happened.

  “Are you well, sir?” he called through the door.

  The alchemist rushed forward and put his full weight against it. “Who’s there?” he gibbered.

  “It’s me, sir—Will.”

  “The young dog,” Doctor Spittle breathed with relief. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door a crack. “Out there,” he explained, “in the alley, someone watches me.”

  Will stared at him doubtfully; the old man looked terrible. With his wisps of thinning hair standing on end he appeared mad. “Shall I go and see who it is?” the boy suggested in an attempt to humour him.

  “Yes!” the other agreed. “No! It might get in! But if it is Death then a mere door would be no barrier. Yes, go out and discover what it is.”

  Will hurried down to the shop and ran to the entrance. For a moment he hesitated and searched for something to use as a weapon in case there really was some villain out there. Seizing the broom he unlatched the door and crept out.

  The alley was dark and deserted.

  “Come out, wherever you are,” Will piped up brandishing the broom as though it were a sword.

  There was no reply; only the plague-ridden wind moved through the darkness and brushed against him.

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sp; Shivering, in spite of the warm night, he returned to the shop.

  Doctor Spittle heard the returning footsteps and he pressed his eye to the keyhole. “Dog,” he hissed, “did you see him?”

  “There was no one out there, sir.”

  The door was flung open and the boy dragged inside.

  “What say you?” demanded the alchemist. “Are you lying to me, boy?”

  Will tried to shake his head but the old man had him by his hair. “No, sir, I swear,” he cried, “when I got outside whoever it was had gone.”

  Doctor Spittle released him and dashed back to the window. “Umm,” he muttered, “the creature has departed.”

  “Creature?” repeated Will. “What do you mean?”

  The alchemist sat down and passed his hand wearily over his face. “It was terrible,” he said. “Some frightful demon has come for me, or perhaps it is the pestilence clothing itself in human form. A great beak it had and large round eyes that gleamed at me. What manner of body did it hide under that great coat, I wonder, and what talons were concealed by the gauntlets?”

  To his annoyance the boy in front of him grinned. “That’s no demon,” Will told him, “it sounds to me like one of the plague doctors. I don’t blame you for being afraid, I was the first time one came to the shop. They’re the only ones who can enter the pest-houses—they wear those garments to protect themselves, but I reckon they’re frightening enough to scare any disease away. I shouldn’t like to meet such an outlandish figure on a dark night.”

  Doctor Spittle looked at him blankly, then a frown crossed his brow. “And what was one of them doing in my shop?” he roared.