The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “No key is necessary,” put in Jupiter. “There are many spells concerned with breaking and releasing. I could easily open the chest for you and seal it again when you have done. My master need never know.”

  “But why should you help me?” asked Will.

  “You have been wronged,” the ginger cat said simply, “and you helped me when I needed you. This is but a debt repaid.”

  “Very well,” Will declared, “open it.”

  Jupiter closed his eyes and pressed his paws together. The wooden box began to tremble and then, with a snap, the hasps sprang apart.

  Gently, Will lifted the lid and his face was lit by a rich, golden radiance.

  The chest was filled with sovereigns and he gazed at the fortune, speechless.

  Jupiter peered at the contents impassively—money had no dominion over him. There was however something else inside the box.

  “What is that?” he asked, pointing to a scroll of parchment half buried amid the treasure.

  Will took out the document and unfurled it. “I do not understand what is written,” he told the cat.

  “Then show it to me,” said the familiar, “I shall read what it says.”

  Jupiter narrowed his eyes and commenced reading. “It is a deed of sale,” he murmured quietly, “between my master and an agent in a place called Adcombe.”

  Will started. “What has Spittle bought there?” he cried.

  “Nothing,” returned Jupiter, “but he has sold a farm, plus its livestock and all its lands.”

  “Not the Godwin estate?”

  “The very same; it would seem this is the money from that transaction. Is it important?”

  “My father laboured all his life on that land,” the boy sadly answered, “building it up with his blood and sweat. Spittle had no claim to it—the farm was mine, this is my inheritance. Is that what he wanted then? Has all this misery and murder been brought about merely by greed? Does he think of nothing but gold?”

  “Oh yes,” whispered a familiar voice.

  Both of them whirled around and there, standing behind them, tall and forbidding—was Doctor Spittle.

  The candlelight flickered over the old man’s face. Not a trace of the plague remained; he was fully recovered and a sinister, evil gleam shone in his eyes.

  “I have learned that there are many cravings more satisfying than wealth,” he hissed in a silken, menacing tone. “Since your arrival, my young dog, you have taught me much.” He stepped forward, the flame illuminating his face from below, sending up deep shadows, like two horns spiking from his eyebrows. “I see in you all the weaknesses of Daniel my hated brother. He was a fool also—gullible and ignorant—yet our father made the estate over to him instead of me—the elder son.” The alchemist’s face was terrible to look on and Will shrank away from him, horribly afraid.

  “If I had succeeded all those years ago my life would have been very different,” the old man continued. “I ought never to have stayed my hand. Daniel would have been easy to kill.”

  His voice trailed off as that remote and distant night unfolded before his eyes once more. The long years fell away and he raised his hand just as he had done then. His younger self crept up behind his infant brother and the knife glinted in his grasp, poised to cut the baby’s throat. He shuddered and snapped back to the present.

  “I should have done it then!” he snarled through gritted teeth. “All my life his very existence has infected me with weakness—I even changed my name to escape the bonds of his innocence and purity. But still the thought of him, living and breathing, hounded and persecuted me—never whole, never complete, always thinking of him! I have been crippled and thwarted in all my designs just because he was out there!”

  He slammed the wardrobe shut and his lips pulled back in a hideous grin. “And then he died,” he cackled. “I felt it the instant he perished. At last, I thought, I can be free and what was mine by right shall be so again. Then I sensed your wretched presence—dog! Not only would you claim the estate but you were just like your devout father and I could almost taste the reek of your piety.”

  “You’re mad!” stammered Will in fright.

  “Oh no,” returned the alchemist softly, “but I was. The elixir is a miraculous compound in many ways; finally I can think clearly and my mind is no longer divided between hatred and guilt—I have been purged of all distractions forever. Now it is time to begin my new everlasting life, but unfortunately for you, you shall not be a part of it.”

  His hand grabbed Will by the hair and dragged him to his feet. “How fitting that your life will end just as mine starts afresh,” he muttered coldly. “The Godwin line shall finish here!” and he brought his fist swiftly down, hitting Will on the jaw and sending him flying across the bedchamber.

  Jupiter watched all this in fear. What was he to do? He did not dare to turn against his master.

  The alchemist opened his hand and the tufts of hair that had been wrenched from the boy’s head fell to the floor.

  Will groaned as he raised his pounding head. Blood dribbled from his mouth and he spat out a tooth as he propped himself upon his elbows.

  “You want more?” sniggered Doctor Spittle slowly advancing, his fists clenching in readiness.

  Will tried to stand but the blow had weakened him and the old man laughed.

  Confused, Jupiter ran forward and stood between Doctor Spittle and the boy. “Master!” he cried. “The child saved your life—you would not have returned were it not for him.”

  The alchemist glared at the cat. “It gratifies me to see how mighty you have become, my familiar,” he growled, “although how much more pleasing it would have been if you had deigned to speak to me first of all. Out of my way, if you want to remain here and learn from my genius!”

  Jupiter knew that he could not withstand the powers of his master so, reluctantly, he stepped aside.

  “Save my life did you?” cackled Doctor Spittle to Will. “A most pretty irony—still, we must not let Death leave empty-handed must we? A life he came for and a life he shall receive!”

  But the intervention of Jupiter had been long enough for Will to regain his strength. He shot to his feet and fled down the stairs.

  The alchemist thundered with rage and sped after him.

  In the apothecary shop Will tore towards the door, but before he reached it, it closed of its own accord and invisible fingers threw the bolt home.

  “No!” he yelled, fighting with the unseen force as he struggled to escape.

  A soft, mocking laugh hissed behind him. “You cannot leave that way,” Doctor Spittle murmured, “I have laid spells upon it.”

  Will abandoned the attempt and pressed himself against the wall. “Keep away from me!” he shouted.

  The old man raised his eyebrows wickedly. “How shall I murder you?” he mused in a calm, dispassionate voice.

  He clicked his fingers and a stool rose from the ground. For a moment it hovered in the air then, with one nod from Doctor Spittle, hurled itself straight at the frightened boy.

  Will ducked and the stool crashed into the wall then tumbled to the ground, scattering pots from a shelf in its downfall. The vessels smashed and exploded all around him, showering the shop with splinters of ceramic and splattering their contents over the floor.

  The alchemist clapped his hands with amusement and Will grabbed his chance. He seized the stool and threw it at the window. The diamond panes shivered away from the lead and the boy kicked a hole through what remained.

  “Oh no!” bellowed the old man striding forward. “You must stay here!” Just as Will was scrambling out the alchemist snatched at him and dragged the boy back inside.

  “I always thought magic was too antiseptic a method!” he shrieked, flinging the lad against the counter. “The personal touch is far more enjoyable.” And he punched Will fiercely in the ribs.

  The boy doubled up; with the elixir of life coursing in Doctor Spittle’s veins his strength was that of a hundred men. Th
e back of his hand dealt Will one vicious and brutal blow after another.

  “Down!” he commanded, beating the boy to the ground. “Grovel at my feet, scion of Daniel!”

  Will’s legs buckled under him and, as the punches continued to hammer and bludgeon, his eyes rolled upwards until only the whites showed. With a lurch, he sprawled onto the floor—unconscious. Then he knew no more.

  Doctor Spittle gave him a malicious kick and brayed like a donkey. “No more purity to infect me,” he muttered, “but just to make sure...” He marched over to a high shelf and reached up to take down a bottle of dark blue glass.

  “What are you going to do with him?” asked Jupiter suddenly.

  The alchemist spun on his heel and clutched the bottle to his chest. “What business is it of yours?” he barked.

  The familiar stood in the doorway by the stairs, his golden eyes looking appealingly up at his master.

  “Can you not let the boy go free?” he pleaded. “Has he not suffered enough at your hands?”

  Doctor Spittle drew himself up to his full height and he stared down at the ginger cat indignantly.

  “How dare you speak to me like that!” he cried. “Do not meddle in your master’s affairs, my pet—you cannot begin to understand the subtle workings of his mind.”

  “Are you going to kill the child?” Jupiter persisted.

  “Indeed I am!” raged the alchemist angrily. “I hold here a most lethal poison! Enough to slaughter an entire herd of elephants. One drop of it and the young dog will wither away and corrode from within. I believe it is the only death I can contrive which is more horrible than the plague. Now go away and let me savour this moment in peace.”

  Jupiter wavered. His heart went out to the boy; he was the only human that had ever really been kind to him and his family. If it were not for Will they would have all died in the graveyard. The cat scowled but the old man was insistent.

  “Begone!” he shrieked. “Before I use this on your miserable skin!”

  With one last glance at Will, Jupiter turned and ran upstairs.

  Doctor Spittle sucked the air in through his teeth.

  “My familiar grows above himself,” he murmured. “There is no longer room for him at my side. Some accident shall have to be contrived for him also.”

  Grasping the bottle of poison he raised it over his head and let out a harsh, cruel laugh. Then he bent over Will’s senseless body and his hands reached out menacingly.

  As the alchemist turned the lad over, an ugly, black head peered over the glass-strewn window-ledge. Leech’s green eyes glowed between the damaged lattices and he gazed fearfully at the stooping figure of Doctor Spittle. Then, when he was certain the old man could not observe him, the runt leapt through the wreckage and darted upstairs.

  In the attic Jupiter sat on the chair, feeling dismal and dejected. Outside, the great fire appeared to have diminished and the aura of scarlet was fainter in the sky.

  Leech pelted into the cluttered room, but when he saw his brother his pace slowed and he sneaked over to the shelf where Magnus Zachaire waited for him.

  “I am indeed glad to see thee, friend runt,” said the spirit eagerly, “and what tidings hast thou brought for me?”

  The black cat shuffled and twitched uneasily.

  “Little news,” he answered.

  Magnus’s face grew stern. “What sayest thou?” he rumbled. “Did the ground not open and my restored body not come forth, awaiting only the return of my soul?”

  “No,” muttered Leech, “believe me I waited and waited but nothing happened, except..

  “Except what?”

  The runt looked bemused. “The grass turned orange,” he spluttered, “though why it should do so I have no idea.”

  “Fool!” shouted the spirit and his ghostly light blazed cold and fiercely. “Thou didst take the wrong potion to my grave—that was the hair restorer!”

  Leech looked down shamefully. “But I was confounded,” he whined self-pityingly. “There were two bowls, and I was so afraid I would be caught that I did not have time to discover which contained the elixir. So I took some of each—I did not think it would matter.”

  The spirit pressed its hands against the bottle and glowered at him. “Then the strength of the elixir was diluted!” he cried. “I cannot guess what will be the outcome of such folly. Thou hast torn my plans to shreds, perfidious and dunderheaded creature that thou art!” He drew away from the glass and considered this disastrous turn of events. “Only one road lies open to me now,” he whispered. “Leech—call thy brother over to me.”

  “What do you want him for?” asked the runt sullenly.

  “Just do as I say!”

  Leech sulked but he crept from the shelf and scuttled over to the alchemist’s chair. “Brother,” he called in an unpleasant voice.

  Jupiter roused from his troubled thoughts and he stared down at Leech in surprise. “What is it?” he asked. “What do you want?”

  “It is not I who requests your company,” Leech snapped crossly, “but the soul in yonder bottle. He would like to talk with you.”

  The ginger cat flicked back his ears in astonishment. “Magnus wishes to speak with me?” he said. “But why?”

  He received no answer for Leech had given an annoyed lash with his tail and strutted away. Jupiter jumped from the chair and wandered over to the shelf where the bottle pulsed and throbbed with icy light.

  In the shadows Leech was listening, furious with jealousy and his pride rankling by his curt dismissal. It seemed that even the spirit had abandoned him in favour of his brother.

  “Hail Jupiter—Lord of All,” greeted Magnus humbly.

  “Why do you call me by that title?” Jupiter asked.

  “I speak only of that which assuredly shall come to pass,” returned Magnus. “Thy realm will last for hundreds of years and thy powers shall extend over the whole earth and finally beyond.”

  Jupiter stared intently at the tiny form that bowed within the bottle. “Why do you say this now?” he inquired. “When you have never spoken one word to me before.”

  “I need thy help,” answered Magnus, “for art thou not deep in wisdom and mighty in all sorceries?”

  The familiar was tired of all this flattery. “Come to the point,” he said. “What is it you want me to do and why can’t you do it? Were you not learned in the secret arts yourself?”

  “Yea, and thrice times more noble than thy detestable master!” the spirit proclaimed. “Yet in this my skill may not be used; to recall one’s own bones from the cold grave is forbidden.”

  “Your bones!” exclaimed Jupiter. “Why should I do that?”

  “To give aid where it is requested,” came the swift reply. “This is now my only chance—if I could but bind my soul about those mortal remains I could kindle the power of the weakened elixir which thy foolish brother poured into the grave. Flesh and sinew would creep over the rotted cadaver and new blood would pump round the body, imbuing it with life. I would live again!”

  “You want me to recite a spell that will animate your corpse and bring it here?” muttered Jupiter in horror. “I won’t do it—the notion is obscene.”

  “Just give it the slightest spark,” pleaded Magnus, “enough for it to crawl from the ground, after that I can bend my will upon it and guide it hither myself. I beg thee!”

  But Jupiter turned away disgusted. “Never!” he said. “I perceive your true purpose Magnus Zachaire! Two things you crave—one is your freedom but the other is the destruction of my master. I will have no hand in that.”

  “Thy master!” shrieked the spirit with scorn. “Listen to thy words, most gullible of felines. Dost thou not realise the extent of Elias’s iniquity? Knowest thou of all his evil wickedness? Is it wrong to turn against him who hath no pity in his foul heart?”

  Jupiter was about to leave this bothersome sprite but he faltered as the words rang true. He thought of the scene in the apothecary shop, of the boy beaten to the ground and
of the poison in the alchemist’s hand.

  “Thou knowest I speak justly,” goaded Magnus. “Why keep faith with one who understands nothing of loyalty and virtue? Even now Elias is uncorking the poison; shall that child’s death be on thy conscience for ever, Jupiter?”

  A pained expression crossed the familiar’s face as he thought of Will lying helpless with an agonising death being prepared for him by Doctor Spittle. Yet if he intervened and the old man was overcome, how would he ever be able to learn anything more?

  Jupiter cast his eyes down and uttered, “I must not meddle in the affairs of mankind, their troubles are their own.”

  The phantom light flared up and Magnus screamed. “Are they indeed?” he shrieked. “Then I say unto thee Jupiter, go to the cupboard which Elias keeps locked and tell me again that thou canst not interfere!”

  Puzzled by the earnestness of this command, the cat padded over to a small cupboard. It was partially hidden by books and papers. He looked round at the spirit bottle and Magnus urged him on. Jupiter cleared the mess from one of the doors and tugged at the handle.

  “It is locked,” he said.

  “Then open it!” hissed Magnus furiously.

  Just as he had done before, Jupiter put his paws together and closed his eyes. The cabinet rattled and, with a click, the lock turned. Both doors opened a chink.

  Jupiter hesitated. He did not know why but for some reason he was afraid to look inside and he glanced at the spirit nervously.

  “Proceed,” spurred Magnus. “See now the cruel nature of thy beloved master!”

  The cat took hold of the brass handles and cautiously pulled one of the doors fully open.

  The cupboard was full of sealed glass jars—the results of Doctor Spittle’s half-hearted studies in anatomy. Each vessel contained a yellowish liquid and immersed in this was a sorry collection of serpents and other small creatures in various states of dissection. Jupiter shuddered, for in the nearest jar was the shrivelled body of Heliodorus.

  The rat floated in the preserving alcohol forlornly, his once proud head submerged just below the surface. It was a nauseating sight. The eyes of Heliodorus were open, the lids fixed back by pins; his mouth gaped wide as though frozen in a perpetual scream and all the way down his chest to his navel ran a long and jagged scar. Doctor Spittle’s curiosity had been too much—he had desired to peek inside and see how the false elixir which had killed the rat had worked. But his skill as a surgeon was minimal and the botched job he had made of the operation had forced him to consign the hacked-up body to his anatomy cupboard, there to be discarded and forgotten—pickled for eternity.