The Alchemist of London Read online

  The

  Alchemist

  of

  London

  Book Two

  of the alchemist of paris series

  By

  M. C. Dulac

  Copyright © 2020 M. C. Dulac

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work can be reproduced, adapted, displayed, performed, distributed, scanned or transmitted by any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying or otherwise) without the express written permission of the copyright owner.

  * * * * *

  Cover Design by Adriana Hanganu, adipixdesign.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Cheyne Walk, Chelsea Embankment, London, England, Present Day

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Bond Street, Mayfair, London, Present Day

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chelsea, London, England, Present Day

  About the Author and other books

  Prologue

  London, England, October 1848

  The book was bound in green silk and the delicate threads captured the moonlight. When Elise opened the cover, the letters danced before her, glittering swirls rising from the loops and flourishes. The words skipped across the pages, as if guiding the reader through a wonderful labyrinth of secrets.

  For this was no ordinary book.

  The River Thames was flowing fast that evening. Along the riverbank, gas lamps blinked through fog and smoke. London echoed with the never-ceasing rumble of carts, carriages and coaches. Beneath the hum, came the distant sigh and whistle of steamboats, the song of a mechanical century.

  Elise stood on the high terrace. If she threw the book into the river, the water would seep through the paper and drain the ink from the pages. If the book did not sink, the tide would take it out to sea and the salt water would corrode any remaining secrets.

  She had no doubt she must destroy the book. Barnabas Wyatt’s men were searching London for it at that very moment. Wyatt would never give up the search, now he knew of the book’s existence. For him the book of alchemy held the promise of endless wealth, and the secret of the elixir of life. And hadn’t the book caused enough trouble already? She was a fugitive and had placed all her friends in danger. She had gone through many trials and challenges to find it. Returning the book to the elements was the best thing to do.

  She did not have long. She raised her arm, ready to throw the book into the black waters. She took a deep breath, concentrating on a spot in the middle of the river.

  But she could not do it.

  Far along the Thames, a clock tower was chiming the quarter hour. Soon she must meet the carriage in St. James - her only chance to escape from London. Reluctantly she turned around and began walking towards the West End. She hugged the book close, regretting that she had not thrown it into the water when she had the chance. She could not take the book with her on her journey, but she could not bear to destroy it.

  When she reached St. James, there was no carriage in sight. A gentleman tipped his hat curiously and she quickened her pace. A young lady in fine clothes was not usually alone at night.

  Her eyes followed the black railings of the grand townhouses. Ahead was a plaque on a wall. Her footsteps had taken her back to the Institute of Sciences.

  The door was open. Maybe fate had decided for her.

  She slipped into the hallway. Men’s voices murmured and plates clattered behind a closed door. To her right was a small library.

  One man was tidying the books in the far corner. Another man dozed in an armchair. No one had noticed her enter.

  The safest place to hide a flower was in a meadow. The safest place to hide a tree was in a forest. And therefore the safest place for a book was in a room full of them.

  Careful of her long skirts, Elise climbed a ladder. Her eyes perused the shelves until she saw the oldest spines, faded with age. She quietly opened the bookcase and tucked the green book into the top shelf.

  She patted the spine. The book had no title and no author name. Only a few people knew who had written it and fewer believed the author had ever existed. It was the only book ever written by Albert Price, the alchemist.

  If Elise had thrown the book into the Thames, it may have washed up on the riverbank or on an island far in the ocean. But here, in a quiet and obscure library, it could sleep for centuries.

  A clock in the hall struck nine. She ran quietly down the front steps. Coaches plodded leisurely along the street, delivering wealthy residents to their dinners and clubs.

  No one noticed a carriage as it pulled to a halt.

  “Miss Elise?” the driver said. He had a kindly face, obscured by his high top hat. “Long journey to the coast, but it’s a good night for it. There’s a full moon beyond those clouds.”

  Elise nodded and climbed inside. The carriage set off and Elise watched the city pass by. She was saying goodbye to London and England and did not know when she could return.

  Albert Price was a master alchemist, who knew the secrets of the elixir of life. And she - Elise du Bois also known as Ellie Forrest - was an alchemist by chance, an uncertain successor and apprentice, about to embark on new journeys and challenges.

  Barnabas Wyatt would never find the book, she told herself, but a tinge of doubt weighed on her mind.

  A doubt that stayed with her for many years afterwards.

  Cheyne Walk, Chelsea Embankment, London, England, Present Day

  Rare Alchemy Book appears at Auction

  Ellie paused as the message appeared on the screen of her laptop. She sank into the chair before her sleek desk, placing her glass of iced tea on the table.

  Outside traffic murmured on the Chelsea Embankment. The Thames glided under the bridges of London and the city shimmered in the late evening haze. Warm light streamed through the windows of the rooftop apartment and classical music drifted from the speakers in the corner. The apartment was bright and airy, furnished in a modern style that belied but strangely complemented the exterior of the 17th century townhouse in which it lay.

  A few months ago, Ellie had stopped in London on her way to Paris, where she had been asked to find a house. She had not suspected what she would find there, or maybe she had, but that was another story.

  Now her old life was ending and she was preparing to start anew. Items had been shipped and lists ticked off. A suitcase lay open on the floor. Everything was ready for her return to Paris.

  A droplet of water streaked down the side of the glass. Ellie bit her lip as she opened the message.

  The email came from ‘Sebastian Worth’ although the man who wrote it signed off as J-LC. Usually any message from Jean-Louis lifted her spirits, but seeing these
words made her uneasy, as though something sinister was stirring.

  Her phone rang. His voice was deep and reassuring, with an alluring accent that made her heart grow warm.

  “Mr. Worth,” she said with emphasis.

  “Ellie,” she sensed a smile in his voice. “I’ve just forwarded you an email from an auction house.”

  “So should I call you Sebastian or Jean-Louis?”

  “Sebastian Worth is a well-known collector of rare scientific books. Jean-Louis Champillon’s arrival in the auction world may raise eyebrows.”

  “If only they knew the real truth.”

  “I wanted your opinion on this book.”

  Ellie ignored her unease. She clicked the link and arrived on the webpage of a London auction house. There was a photograph of an antique book with a green silk cover.

  “The book is going to auction in London in a few days time.”

  “Where did they find the book?”

  “It is part of a deceased estate.”

  Ellie’s heart quickened. “There is another picture.”

  “Yes, a photograph of the first page.”

  All her doubts were dispelled once she saw the distinctive cursive writing. “It is Albert Price’s.”

  The bright light in the photograph had hidden the strange qualities of the ink. But the handwriting was Albert Price’s and she remembered reading this very page, years ago. Seeing it again awakened strange memories. So much time had passed. What had happened to the book since then? Why was it being offered for sale and why had it surfaced in London now?

  “I thought so. I did not know Price wrote a book,” Champillon went on.

  “Have you spoken to the auction house?” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

  “I made a discreet enquiry. The auctioneer said he has several offers already. Unfortunately that means the book might go for a very high amount.”

  “Because it is written by Albert Price?”

  “I don’t know which book is attracting so much interest.”

  Ellie scrolled upwards. The page was headed:

  A Victorian gentleman’s collection

  A unique opportunity to acquire the private library of a prominent Victorian gentleman. This outstanding collection dates from the 17th century and includes notebooks and working papers of Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon, Paracelsus and notable figures in the field of science.

  Clicking on the green book, she noted the description:

  A 17th century book containing scientific observations and what appear to be alchemy symbols. Author unknown.

  History had given a special place to Isaac Newton and Paracelsus. Albert Price was long forgotten, except to those who knew him.

  Ellie read the description of the estate again and shivered despite the bright sunlight.

  “Who owned the book?”

  “A man called Barnabas Wyatt,” Champillon said.

  Time seemed to stand still.

  The music had stopped. Traffic buzzed outside and a horn sounded on the Thames.

  “Barnabas Wyatt,” Ellie murmured.

  “Barnabas Wyatt or B. J. Wyatt, died recently. The ‘Victorian Gentleman’ is his ancestor. The 19th century Wyatt was a lawyer by profession and not a very pleasant man, judging by his writings. Later in life he was intrigued by alchemy and presented some papers to the Academy. He was wrong on many points, but he must have stumbled across genuine alchemy at some time.”

  The wind was rustling the flowers in the window box. There was a change in the evening air, similar to a change she had experienced long ago. A sense of danger shattering this blissful illusion, jolting her from safety. Long forgotten images filled her mind. Of entering a silent library and placing a book on a shelf, safe and forgotten.

  How had Barnabas Wyatt found the book?

  “Ellie?” Champillon said with concern.

  “I’m here. When did this man die?”

  “In January.”

  “This year?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And he did die?”

  “I saw the death notice.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing more than that? This family owned a book that contains the secret to the elixir of life. Barnabas Wyatt had the ability to live forever.”

  “I believe these men died naturally. It is mere coincidence the descendants have the same name. So you believe the book is significant?”

  “Very.”

  Champillon’s voice was calm, but thoughtful. “Ellie, you sound distressed. I will be in London at the end of the week. I will make sure I am successful at the auction - no matter what I have to bid.”

  “Jean-Louis, this book is important. It should have been destroyed long ago,” Ellie murmured.

  “It was remiss of Price to leave it behind.”

  “It was not Albert Price’s fault,” Ellie said. “And it is such a beautiful book. I can understand why he did not destroy it.”

  She looked at the illustration of the sun and moon in harmony, shining down on a tranquil garden.

  Below were the words:

  Selected items on display at our rooms on Bond Street.

  “I will keep it safe this time,” she said.

  Champillon paused. “Have you seen the book before?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Many years ago. I haven’t thought of those years for a long time,” Ellie rubbed her temples. Her heart raced and she felt dizzy. “The book contains Albert Price’s writings. He was a young alchemist then and had no one to confide in except his notebooks.”

  “I did not know.”

  “We need to buy it.”

  “Ellie, please do not worry. I merely sought your opinion. I am used to finding this sort of material. Too many powerful people are interested in alchemy these days. Most of what they buy is useless, but anything from Albert Price -”

  “He was a true alchemist.”

  “Let us forget it for now. Have you finished packing?”

  Ellie glanced around the apartment. Boxes stood in the corner. “Almost.”

  “I am so glad you are coming home to Paris.”

  “Yes. I’m glad too. How is the house?”

  “The restoration work is almost complete. Your garden is waiting. And of course we have other things to plan.”

  “Yes,” Ellie touched the ring on her finger and tried to smile.

  “I will see you at the end of the week.”

  “Good night Jean-Louis,” Ellie said. She stared at the photograph of the green silk book and her head ached.

  * * * *

  Ellie looked over the list of items she had to send to Paris. She tried to return to her work, but her concentration was broken. She rose from her seat and crossed to the window. The wind was colder now. The sky was turning deep purple. A few stars glittered through the haze.

  The electric streetlights glowed. The paving stones below were neat and scrubbed. A young couple walked along the street, speaking French. For centuries, London had been a city of foreigners and exiles, the crossroads of the world. And now for the second time it was the crossroads of her own life. She had forgotten the past until it had found her again recently. Suddenly the past did not seem such a terrible place.

  But just as a new future beckoned, a wizened past was tapping her on the shoulder.

  If only she had thrown the green book into the Thames that evening. The river was ready and the current would have taken it far out to sea. She couldn’t do it, even though it was her duty to protect the book. And now that doubt which had ebbed and flowed like a stream over the years, flooded through her veins.

  Tonight there was no current on the river. The Thames moved slowly, unruffled by the wind. Along the Embankment, the wind rustled the leaves of a huge tree. She thought of other trees and a lawn that stretched down to a flowing river on an evening much like this one, under a sky just as clear. An English sky, although far from London.

  She was ready to move to Paris, but perhaps she had to close a ch
apter in London first.

  She must ensure the book and its secrets were safe, once and for all.

  It had all happened so unexpectedly, so long ago...

  Chapter One

  The village of Little Bingham, England,

  September 1848

  Dusk was Elise’s favourite time in the garden. The sun cast a golden glow over the lawns leading down to the river. On each side of the lawn, a maze of flowerbeds bloomed in luxuriant layers. From the meadows to the south came the sweet scent of freshly cut hay, while to the north, the wind rippled through dense woodlands. Beyond the silvery river lay more fields, divided by hedgerows.

  The skirt of her long white dress trailed in the grass and her loose hair caressed her cheek. Elise had tended this garden for so long, to wander its paths was like reading a well-loved book. Each stem and leaf revealed the secrets of the season. Tonight, when the first stars were glittering and the moon was soon to appear above the treetops, she had a special task.

  She knelt down to collect petals, carefully placing them in the glass bottles in her basket. The petals were as soft as silk and warm from the heat of the day.

  There was a plonk in the river, and an otter swam out from the bank. The reeds played a tune in the breeze. Far in the distance, the last cows murmured as the farmers drove them home.

  After Elise had collected what she needed, she walked toward the sinking sun.

  She had grown sensitive to daylight lately, just as Albert Price had warned her. Sunlight danced on her eyelashes. She stood by the water’s edge until the gentle rays began to burn her skin, and she reluctantly turned around.

  Behind her was a white house. The facade was pink in the sunset and the windowpanes blazed orange. It was an English house, very precise and square, and different from the majestic houses in the French countryside. But in the gardens and conservatory, she had created part of France, the gardens of a French monastery that held all the secrets of nature. This garden was a dream - Reveille - a recreation of her memories, or maybe better than her memories, as here she had complete reign.