The Alchemist of London

by M C Dulac

  Henrietta and Madame Rochelle were in the hall, speaking to the policemen. Madame Rochelle’s thick blonde hair was in a plait. She carried a candle as she faced the men and the light cast a sharp shadow on her determined face.

  “Excuse me, madam, but we hear you have a young lady in your house,” the policeman said. “We have been asked to bring her to the station, as there are matters we’d like to ask her about.”

  “May I see your authority?”

  The policeman took a paper from his coat. “It’s a warrant, madam, signed and in order, I assure you.”

  “You do have a young lady staying here?” the older man asked archly. “We have several witnesses who say they’ve seen her enter and leave these premises recently.”

  Madame Rochelle raised her chin. “She has come up from the country and I have been asked to look after her. Can I ask why the police wish to question her?”

  “I know it is very unfortunate for you, madam,” the policeman said. “I can see this is a very respectable house. But it would be better for all of us, if you just let us see the young lady and take her to the station. Is she upstairs?”

  “Henrietta, please fetch our guest,” Madame Rochelle sounded defeated.

  Elise slipped into her black dress. She pushed the midnight blue dress into her bag. She tied the pouch of coins around her waist and tidied the items on the dresser. Her frightened face stared back from the mirror.

  She picked up her bag and slid onto the landing. Henrietta was carrying a candelabra up the main staircase. Elise opened the door onto the servants’ staircase and began to run. The voices above were muffled.

  “She’s not there, ma’am,” Henrietta said.

  “She has not come down the stairs,” Madame Rochelle replied.

  “She’s disappeared into thin air,” Henrietta’s voice was full of surprise.

  Heavy boots sounded on the main staircase. Elise reached the kitchen. Opening the gate onto the mews, she ran into the cool night. Pulling her hood low, she walked fast under the gas lamps, away from the quiet streets of Knightsbridge and toward the flickering lights of central London.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For one brief moment in the hours before dawn, London fell quiet. The great city slept, all the traffic, citizens, ships and horses finally coming to a rest. The sinking moon glimmered behind the clouds and the river was still.

  The city twitched in its sleep. Lamps flickered in windows and a steamboat whistled on the Thames. In a courtyard, lights blazed from a gin palace. A carriage trotted along a silent street. Voices echoed up from the docks and masts of ships tapped together on the Thames.

  Elise reached a terrace near the river. Bundles of rags stirred in the darkness. Men, women and children were all asleep, taking shelter under a wall.

  The clean, bright rooms at Madame Rochelle’s and the sunlit conservatory in Little Bingham were a world away. She had the feeling that world was slipping from her grasp. She was alone and invisible, no different from the sleeping poor. She knew the secrets of life and gold, but like Albert Price before her, she had become a phantom and a fugitive.

  After an hour, there was a glimmer in the clouds. The moon shone its last light for the night. In the east, a glow was turning the clouds reddish brown. Boats were stirring on the river. The great city was waking.

  The cries of London street traders began. Vegetable carts rolled by, driven by farmhands in smocks. In a rundown shop by the markets, she had a breakfast of stale pie and cold tea. A sallow light lit the morning smog, revealing sagging roofs and mud-splattered walls and she realised the city looked better under darkness.

  The road was broken and the stones hurt her feet. If she were a real alchemist she would never feel pain or grow old. But the spell was broken. The enchanted time of the elixir was coming to an end.

  How would she find a carriage to Hampstead? And where would she stay now? As she walked ahead, she realised she did not know where to go next.

  Her head swooned. The footpath seemed to rise up. She held onto a muddy railing. Away from her garden and the fresh air, her decline was getting faster. The elixir of life was draining away.

  “Are you all right, Miss?”

  A policeman was standing over her. His eyebrows were knitted in disapproval.

  She nodded and moved on. Her old cloak was dusty from the smog. She had lost all her status and respectability. Worse than that, if the police questioned her, they might discover Wyatt’s warrant for her arrest.

  When she had seen the city from the coach, there had been signs to-let everywhere. Now the signs were sparse. Passages led onto grim brick courtyards where faces peered down from dirty windows. She had a sinking feeling she had swapped one danger for another.

  When she reached St-Martin-in-the-Fields, the coaching inn seemed dirtier than she remembered and the well-dressed travelers reminded her of Wyatt. Perhaps it was not safe to stay there - a coaching inn may be the first place he looked when he discovered she had left Madame Rochelle’s.

  Two men in top hats were getting into a carriage.

  “Do you believe it’s possible?”

  “Albert Price was a real man. I know men who say they met him.”

  “And Wyatt believes he has found an alchemist’s apprentice?”

  “That is what he said in the club. There are only so many places a Frenchwoman can hide in London.”

  “Alchemy in this day and age. That would be an advantage.”

  The men snorted with laughter.

  Elise kept her hood low. Did Barnabas Wyatt know everyone in London? The secret was getting out, and the more people knew, the more their greed would grow.

  Her hand went to her belt. The coins were safe. But what value did they have in this city where she had no friends to trust? The crowds pressed in on her. Her head felt like it was about to burst. Her bag weighed on her shoulder. The road narrowed suddenly, creating a jam of carts and pedestrians. A street hawker cried out near her ear. The smell of horses, smoke and hot food was a nauseating mix.

  She squeezed through the crowds. Stately buildings rose above the sad crooked rooftops. She walked toward St. Paul’s Cathedral and entered the courtyard. She rested by a wall, fighting back a feeling that she had been defeated.

  A little girl was standing forlornly by the church doorway. Elise had seen so many urchins that day she looked away, unable to bear more pain.

  The little girl smiled and ran forward.

  Elise smiled faintly.

  The child stood a few feet away. Elise stepped across the courtyard. In the corner of her eye, she saw the girl scampering behind.

  “I am sorry, little one -” she said weakly.

  The girl looked sad. Elise took a deep breath and walked toward the church gate. Tiny footsteps followed.

  Elise sighed and turned around.

  “More forget-me-nots, Miss?”

  The girl gazed at her with big blue eyes. Elise realised it was the same girl she had bought flowers from a few nights ago.

  Maybe she did have one friend in London. It was too much to hope that this coincidence was a sign, but she had nothing to lose now.

  Elise knelt down. “I do not need flowers, little one, but I am seeking lodgings. Do you know somewhere I can stay?”

  The girl chewed her lip, as though pondering this unexpected request.

  “Where do you live?”

  “With my mama.”

  “And where does your mama live?”

  “In Mrs. Bell’s house.”

  “And does Mrs. Bell have other rooms?”

  The little girl considered this. Her eyes brightened and she nodded.

  “Could you take me to Mrs. Bell’s house?”

  “I am not due home yet. I have to sell more flowers to help mama.”

  “If you show me, I will give you two shillings. That way your mama cannot be angry.” Elise again pushed back her uneasiness about who this woman might be and why she sent her child out alone. It was true Elise mig
ht be getting into bigger trouble, but that was better than being arrested and captured by Barnabas Wyatt.

  After more lip chewing, the child nodded.

  “Is Mrs. Bell’s house far away?”

  “No,” the girl shook her head. “Do you really want to come and stay?”

  “I do, little one.”

  “All right. I’ll show you.”

  She slipped her tiny hand into Elise’s and led her through the churchyard. She gazed up shyly from time to time. As they passed beneath a row of leaning houses, Elise wondered where they were going, but at least in these narrow lanes, she was unlikely to meet Barnabas Wyatt.

  “You are very pretty, Miss,” the girl said. “Are you a duchess?”

  “Not quite,” Elise said.

  “You are not wearing your pretty dress today.”

  “No, not today. Are we going down here?”

  “Yes,” the little girl led the way down a set of dirty steps. They reached a rundown alley and continued through a series of gloomy courtyards. Timber and wagons cluttered the pavements. The signs that overhung the street were confusing and bore no connection to the trades that were carried on inside. The shop windows were obscured by dirt and steam. Each lane looked worst than the last. Voices rose from the tenements and Elise’s heart raced.

  “Be careful, Miss.”

  Elise stepped around an open hole in the pavement.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rosie.”

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters, Rosie?”

  The girl nodded. “I have a little brother, Johnny.”

  “Does Johnny live with you and your mama?”

  The little girl wiped her nose. Her smooth brow crumpled. “No, Johnny died.”

  Elise took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too. He was a lovely baby brother,” the little girl said.

  “But you have your mama. Your mother looks after you,” Elise said reassuringly.

  The little girl nodded but her eyes were sad. “Here we are.”

  A low archway led onto a courtyard. Steaming puddings lay behind a dirty shop window and an unpleasant meaty smell wafted from the door. Young boys clustered around a coffee cart, furtively eating bread and butter. Clerks shuffled by alongside labourers, and children played near a water pump. A middle-aged woman was sweeping the front steps of one of the brick houses.

  “This lady needs a room,” Rosie said, with a child’s bluntness.

  “Mrs. Bell? I will only be in London a few days, but have found myself without lodgings. I heard that you might have a room.”

  The woman’s eyes roamed Elise’s face shrewdly. “Rosie, you have found a new business, bringing me lodgers now.”

  “She is a nice lady. She gave me the crown.”

  “So you were the lady who was so generous. Couldn’t believe it when Rosie showed me that crown. Your coin made up for all Rosie and her mother’s unpaid rent. Do you have any more coins?”

  Elise took one from her belt.

  Mrs. Bell raised the coin to the light and smiled. “I’ve only got the garret at the moment. It’s simple, but it’s a roof over your head. Will that be enough for you?”

  “That’s all I need.”

  “Good. No trouble mind and no gentleman callers. This here Cramley Court is a respectable area.”

  The woman shuffled inside. Rosie had not let go of Elise’s hand and accompanied her up the stairs. On the first floor, Elise glimpsed a velvet settee and a table with a bright cloth. A thin bespectacled man in office clothes emerged from a door on the next floor. On the floor above there were no rugs on the landing. Elise had a feeling the house got worse with each floor. They ascended another flight of stairs. Mrs. Bell took out a key and opened the door. The room beyond was nestled under the sloping ceiling. Hay protruded from the mattress and the washstand was cracked. The floorboards were worn and the air was musty and smelt of horsehair.

  Mrs. Bell gave her a resigned look, as though there was nothing else she could say.

  “There is a view of the Cathedral,” Elise said brightly, peering through the dirty glass. The dome of St. Paul’s rose above a grim line of chimneys. Rosie stood on tiptoe, resting her hands on the chipped windowsill.

  “Well I never, so there is,” Mrs. Bell squinted. “Will have to put that in my next advertisement,” she chortled. “Well, Miss. I run a respectable house and as I said, I don’t put up with any trouble. Coin will come in handy,” she said. “Rosie, you’ve earned your keep today. Come downstairs and keep me company. We’ll check on your mama.”

  “Does your father live here too, Rosie?” Elise said.

  “Papa has a farm in America with horses and cows and apple trees. America is a long way from here. Mama and I will go there soon. When I sell more flowers,” the little girl smiled, as though this was the most logical thing in the world.

  Mrs. Bell frowned grimly and patted Rosie on the head.

  “Come and meet mama,” Rosie added.

  “Your mother is sleeping,” Mrs. Bell said quickly. “Let our new lodger rest as well. I’ll get my girl to bring you fresh water. The pump is in the courtyard, and should be working today. Is there anything else you need, Miss?”

  “I will need to order a carriage tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Bell’s eyebrows rose. “A carriage? There’s a coach stand at the end of the street. I suggest you enquire there.”

  Elise nodded. She did not say anything else, for even in this part of London people might talk. Rosie smiled and waved as Mrs. Bell guided her out of the room. A few minutes later, Elise saw her in the courtyard, arranging her box of forget-me-nots. Cramley Court was a grim yard of stone. Occasionally a carriage rolled over the broken stones or an oyster man went past, bawling out his song.

  She lay down on the lumpy bed, thankful to have a place to rest. The exhaustion she had fought that morning consumed her. She lifted her pale hand aware the veins were standing up like a dying rose.

  It is beginning, she thought, the end is beginning.

  But I must find the book before I go.

  A rasping noise woke her. For a moment she was confused by the rough ceiling and the worn walls. It was not night, but all the light had faded from the courtyard. She sat up and blinked. The terrible cough went on. It was coming from the floor below.

  When she walked down the staircase, the door to the room was ajar. Rosie was sitting on the floor, humming to herself as she played with a pile of ribbons. A pale young arm draped over the edge of a bed.

  The cough rattled Elise’s bones.

  Rosie looked up and beamed. She scampered across the floor and held Elise’s hand.

  “Come and meet mama.”

  Elise stepped into the room. The air was close and heavy. The woman who lay on the bed was pale and barely opened her red-rimmed eyes. Her damp brunette hair lay across the pillow and her breath was uneven. Around the room, hats lay in various states of assembly.

  Elise had feared Rosie’s mother was ruthless, imagining a cold-hearted woman who sent her child alone onto the streets to make money. Now she realised this woman was deathly ill.

  The young woman smiled weakly and a trace of her former beauty crossed her face.

  “Who is this, Rosie?”

  “The lady who gave me the coin the other night. She has come to stay upstairs.”

  “My name is Elise.”

  “My name is Georgia. I do not know who you are, but I thank you,” Georgia tried to sit up. “You really were our angel.”

  Rosie carried a cup across the room and placed it by her mother’s side. The child’s face went from confident to forlorn.

  “Tea, Miss Elise?”

  “No, thank you, Rosie,” Elise said, watching Georgia take painful gulps.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” she said with concern.

  Georgia nodded as she swallowed. “He said I must rest. Last week I was very ill. But I am much better now,” her eyes widened. “Because of the coi
n you gave to Rosie, I do not have to worry about the rent. I am sure I will get better soon. All I need is rest.”

  “And fresh air,” Rosie added. “When we get to daddy’s farm we will have fresh air. All the horses are happy there too.”

  Georgia stroked Rosie’s hair. “Yes, the horses are very happy on the farm.”

  A shadow appeared in the doorway.

  “Rosie, you know your mother isn’t well enough for visitors,” Mrs. Bell said. “Come on, Miss Elise.”

  Elise said goodbye to Georgia and joined Mrs. Bell, who closed the door quickly.

  “That child shouldn’t have let you in there. The fever can spread. I can’t have all my lodgers getting ill,” Mrs. Bell shook her head. “Mind you, that’s an awful business. The young woman on her own. The child shouldn’t be in that room either.”

  “I understand the father is in America. Are they waiting to join him there?”

  Mrs. Bell snorted. “The father’s dead, Miss. The family came to London last spring. They’re from up north, got involved with the Chartists. Not my place to say what’s right and wrong, but the mill owners do treat the working people badly and them in Westminster don’t do anything about it. Anyway, the husband said he was saving up to join a brother in New England. The young man took a job as a carriage driver, but there was a terrible accident, in all the newspapers it was. He died at once they say. Then the baby died, the little boy. Scarlet fever. Too much grief for a family. Georgia tried to get by by making hats, but that doesn’t pay. Still thinks she’ll get to America. Then she falls ill, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she passes away. Then what am I to do with that little one? Send her to the workhouse, I’m afraid. I can’t be responsible for every waif and stray in London.”

  “The workhouse?”

  “They’ll give the orphans a roof over their head. What else can I do?”

  Elise’s temples pounded.

  “But Georgia has survived the worst,” Elise said. “Is there a doctor?”

  “You’ll find him in the tavern,” Mrs. Bell scoffed. “No use he ever is. You either pull through or you don’t, is my opinion. And I won’t be surprised if I’m calling the undertaker in a few days time.”

  Rosie had crept down the stairs and peered over the bannister.