The Alchemist of London Page 3

  Dr. Barton and his wife were the only real friends she had ever made in the village. Elise had told them that she had trained in a monastery in France, and slowly had the courage to ask the doctor if the old potions were still used. Dr. Barton not only answered her questions, but also allowed her to read the latest periodicals. Charlotte was educated too, always bringing books for Elise to read.

  She did not have the courage to tell them about alchemy. But it pleased her to see that many of alchemy’s secrets were slowly being confirmed by science.

  Then Dr. Barton and his wife had moved to Warwickshire. The new doctor was a difficult man with no interest in conversing with women. The glimmer of discovery faded and Elise retreated to her house to continue her studies in secret.

  It was a shame the new doctor had no interest in her work. With no one to share her ideas, she feared she was making no progress. She had been repeating the same processes for years - tinkering with old potions and putting all her efforts into making the elixir of life each summer. Her dream had become static and unchanging. What good was she doing here, hidden from the world?

  Elise put the book back in the cabinet. She wondered if the Bartons still lived in Warwickshire. Maybe they had children - perhaps grandchildren. She wished she could visit. But how could she meet them again when she had not changed or aged?

  The mirror caught her reflection and she turned it away. Why was she so moody this year? She told herself everything would return to normal when Champillon’s letter arrived and she drank the elixir.

  After supper she went to the conservatory. She ground up the dried petals and sprinkled them into the dew.

  The liquid began to spin. She covered the glass, and turned to her easel, completing her study of the rose.

  A large butter-coloured moon rose over the woodlands. It was a moon as bright as the sun, creating a shadowy world of blues and violets. Elise took the cloth off the dew and placed it on the bench, ready to capture the moonbeams.

  But the petals had sunk to the bottom of the glass and the liquid had a lake-like stillness.

  She consulted a book. Usually after adding the petals the liquid would start to sparkle and shine and spin in a frenzy, beginning the change. She moved the glass. The moonbeams excited the dew briefly, before it slowed down again.

  Elise furrowed her brow and stared at the glass. After ten minutes she got up. Nothing would happen while she watched, not even the transformation of dew into the elixir of life.

  A strange whistle came through the night. She had heard such a sound many years ago when Albert Price was experimenting with his steam engine. It must be a train.

  She gazed at the woodland, wondering about the house beyond the trees and who her new neighbour might be.

  Chapter Three

  Elise did not want to disturb the elixir again, but she rose at dawn to check on it. The petals lay in the bottom of the glass. Perhaps the moonbeams had been too intense. She would try again that night. She covered the glass and placed it in the cabinet, pushing aside a nagging feeling of unease.

  Midmorning she set off on a walk. The sun was warm and the fields shimmered in the heat. She picked wildflowers until she had a large bunch. The colours lifted her spirits and her heart soon soared like the flitting sparrows.

  She adjusted her hat and wandered home along the riverbank. The wind turned the leaves of the trees a pale green and filled the air with soft whispers.

  But there was another noise, followed by a movement in the fields. Someone was driving a buggy fast along the narrow lane leading to the house.

  Elise hurried across the lawn. The stranger had ground to a halt on the drive just as she entered the house. She tossed her hat aside and smoothed down her white dress. She did not have time to change. Taking a deep breath, she ran across the hall, and opened the front door.

  The well-dressed man on the steps had half turned away. In the shadow cast by his tall hat, she saw he had a square jaw and a confident gaze, although his face was surprisingly youthful. He wore a dark coat and waistcoat and long trousers. His shoulders were broad and his arms were strong, and he was well over six feet tall.

  Upon seeing her, he stood up straight. “Excuse me, Miss. May I see Mr. Champillon?”

  Elise froze for a moment. “The master is not at home.”

  “But you are Miss Ellie Forrest, his ward?”

  Elise nodded, although it was strange to hear that name, which Champillon had arranged for her when she arrived in London.

  The stranger lowered his deep, lilting voice. “May I speak with you a moment? I will not take up much of your time.”

  Elise bit her lip. If she turned the gentleman away he may return again. She opened the door and led the way to the sitting room. She wished she had changed into her black dress. She looked like a girl with the ribbon in her hair and her flowing skirt. She stood by the mantelpiece with her hands folded.

  The stranger cast an appraising glance over the room, his eyes resting on the paintings and the candelabra. He took off his hat, revealing luxuriant dark hair. He was a handsome young man, although his expression was stern. He looked like he was about to move at any moment and his energy filled the room. His manner was restless and dynamic as though he were used to physical action.

  “Forgive me, but is it Miss Ellie or Miss Elise? In the village they told me both names.”

  A headache crossed her brow. “Elise is my French name. The English call me Ellie.”

  “Let me introduce myself, Miss Elise. My name is Edmond Fitzgerald. I am the agent of Mr. Barnabas Wyatt of London. Mr. Wyatt has purchased the house across the hill. The large Elizabethan house, Bingham Manor.”

  “I have never seen the house, but I have heard it was sold. Then you are my new neighbour.”

  “Mr. Wyatt and his wife will be your neighbours. I was sent here to make a list of everything of value in the house. It is to be pulled down, as Mr. Wyatt wants to construct a new house for his family.”

  “Although I have lived here many years I know nothing of Bingham Manor nor its contents. Nor as you can see, am I need of any items.”

  “I wasn’t here to sell you anything, Miss Elise,” Fitzgerald’s eyes were cold. “I came here because of a great coincidence, which I was hoping your master may shed some light on.”

  “A coincidence?” Elise wandered toward the window, with an unpleasant feeling that whatever Fitzgerald had to say was not good news.

  “As I said, I was sent to Little Bingham to search for valuables. Mr. Wyatt told me to look for secret panels in the house, in case a previous owner had hidden anything. One week ago, I found a compartment in the wall. Inside was a leather satchel full of notes and letters. Although another man would have thrown the letters in the fire, I read them closely and found there were illustrations attached.”

  Fitzgerald’s arrogant manner slipped for a moment and she was aware again of how young he was. “The illustrations were of the strangest things. Lions and dragons and snakes, and the sun and moon and stars. But they were not just drawings. They were instructions. Knowing how Mr. Wyatt has an eye for old things, I took the letters to him in London. I thought little of it, but Mr. Wyatt had the most curious reaction.”

  “He did?” Elise suppressed her unease.

  “Mr. Wyatt said he had seen these sort of pictures before. It seems these letters were between Sir John Bingham and a friend who was staying at the house in the late 1600s. Mr. Wyatt believes that this friend was not just a scientist but an alchemist.”

  “An alchemist?” Elise tried to keep all emotion out of her voice.

  “Alchemists are a secret sect of scientists. Apparently some of them can make the elixir of life and change metal into precious gold and silver.”

  “I believe I have heard of alchemy,” Elise glanced at the conservatory. “But isn’t alchemy just a fairytale? No scientist today has ever discovered these things.”

  “Not that we know of, Miss,” Fitzgerald said seriously.

&n
bsp; “Do you have any idea who this alchemist was?”

  “Yes, Miss, the letters were signed by a man named Albert Price.”

  Blood rushed to her head and coursed through her veins. The floor seemed to shift and the walls close in. She reached for a chair to steady herself. Fitzgerald regarded her curiously.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Elise smiled calmly. “It has been unusually warm today.”

  “Please take a seat, Miss.”

  “Thank you. Do go on.”

  “So Mr. Wyatt made a special journey down from London. An old manservant overheard what we were saying and told us there was another secret place in the house. He got a candelabra and led us through the gardens. Below the Elizabethan house is an even older place. My master said it might be as old as the ancient Romans.”

  “And how does this involve the alchemist?”

  “The manservant said that the underground room was the old laboratory. The servant before him had told him about it, but none of them had ever dared to go there, for as long as there had been servants in the house they had been told to stay away. The servant hoped Mr. Wyatt might brick it up forever, because it was a strange and eerie place.”

  “The countryside is full of intriguing tales,” Elise smiled. “But I do not know how this concerns my benefactor?”

  Fitzgerald paused, considering his next words. “I admit, Miss, that what I am about to say was as surprising to me when I first heard it, as no doubt it will surprise you. Mr. Wyatt had heard the name Albert Price before. An alchemist called Albert Price went missing in Paris twenty-five years ago.”

  Elise ignored the blood now throbbing in her temples. “It can hardly be the same man as the one who stayed at Bingham Manor.”

  “But it might be, if this man knew how to make the elixir of life. When I found the letters, Mr. Wyatt made some more enquiries. He discovered that in 1810, Albert Price lived in London. In 1820 there was a fire in Paris. Albert Price disappeared, as did a nobleman called Jean-Louis Champillon and a maid, whose name we cannot find. Mr. Wyatt matched up the handwriting with a sample given to a banker years ago. It was almost exactly the same as the writing on the letters.”

  “Your master is quite resourceful.”

  “You cannot stop Mr. Wyatt when he sets his mind to something.”

  “But this Albert Price appears to be an imaginary figure,” Elise stroked non-existent dust from the table. “How can he be in Little Bingham in the 1600s, then London in 1810, and then Paris in 1820 - where, you say, he disappeared?”

  Fitzgerald shuffled his feet, as though he was not entirely comfortable with the story. “I know, Miss, that this is a strange tale. You have asked me why I have come here. Mr. Wyatt’s enquires turned up something most curious. He discovered that this very house is owned by the Champillon family, and the last known owner was Jean-Louis Champillon.”

  Elise’s knees were weak. Her mouth was dry and her head was light. She tried to concentrate on the view from the window.

  “The master has never spoken of these things before.”

  “With respect, Miss, there are many things men don’t tell their lady-folk. I realise science is not a topic that would interest you.”

  Elise nodded politely, glad for once to be underestimated.

  “So, as you can see, Mr. Wyatt is very interested to meet Mr. Champillon. May I leave my card?”

  “You may, but Mr. Champillon is away.”

  Fitzgerald eyes narrowed. “Away? But you said he was not at home.”

  Elise’s cheeks flushed with annoyance. “Did I? I meant to say away. When he returns I will tell him that you called, but I cannot say when he will reply. I am certain he knows nothing of your story and does not wish to be troubled.”

  “I’m sure he does not,” Fitzgerald smiled, casting a quick look around the room. “I thank you, Miss, for your time.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Elise nodded demurely.

  She took a deep breath and guided Fitzgerald to the door.

  “I look forward to seeing you again soon, Miss Elise,” Fitzgerald said.

  Elise lowered her eyes demurely. She closed the door behind him and leant against it, waiting until the sound of his carriage faded into the distance.

  Chapter Four

  Nothing had changed, neither the warmth in the air nor the scent of the rustling grasses. The wind whispered through the trees and ducks glided on the river. In the meadows, farmhands were loading the last hay onto carts and returning home. The sun was sliding in the sky, burning brightly as usual.

  But as Elise walked through the garden, everything felt different.

  Her senses were alert. No longer was the garden her dream and sanctuary. Just when the past had faded away, Fitzgerald’s visit jolted her into sharp reality.

  He knew everything. Albert Price’s secret, the fire in Paris, Champillon’s involvement. He even knew that Albert Price had a maid. He had the keen eyes of a hunter who would not give up. How long would it be before he realised something was unusual about the house by the river?

  And who was Barnabas Wyatt, the man so intrigued by Fitzgerald’s discovery? Albert Price had dreaded his secrets falling into the wrong hands. What did these long-forgotten letters reveal?

  Fitzgerald’s arrival had disturbed her in other ways. He was so energetic and young. He moved with the pace of the city. He was handsome and arrogant, brash with the power of his wealthy master. His clothes were new and unfamiliar and his sideburns were long. He did not wear breeches, like the men of her time, but trousers that reached over his boots. Was this now the fashion? She had been away from the world for so many years, she did not know.

  Now when she looked towards the horizon, she realised there was a great city not far away. A city she knew nothing about, but where people knew about her.

  She entered the conservatory and sat down at the writing desk. She took out a piece of paper and dipped her quill in an inkpot.

  She began a letter to Champillon, telling him about Bingham Manor, the letters Fitzgerald had found and this man called Barnabas Wyatt - a name she disliked already - whose enquiries had led to her door.

  She finished writing. It was like 1820 all over again. Rich men dazzled by the promise of alchemy, searching desperately for the secrets of Albert Price.

  She glanced at her journal. In Little Bingham, one day blended into the next and the phases of the moon mattered more than the months or the years. Now she realised it was Monday. That was good fortune - the Royal Mail carriage only came to the village on Tuesdays. She would give the letter to Nell to send the next day.

  Her head felt tight and her temples pulsed. Everyday aches and fatigue had never plagued her since she had drunk the elixir. The sensation of discomfort was new and the more she considered it, the stronger her headache became. She opened the windows to let in the summer breeze.

  The elixir would be ready in a few days. That would take away the pain. But she thought of Fitzgerald and her head clouded over again.

  She knelt down and unlocked the bottom door of the cabinet. She took out a small velvet pouch. She untied the string and spilt the glittering coins onto the desk. Alchemist’s gold and silver, which she and Champillon had made in a furnace in Paris. She had not used the coins since she arrived in England.

  Now she counted the coins carefully, peering at the unfamiliar crests and markings on the crowns, shillings and sovereigns. Would there come a time when she had to use these coins to survive?

  She placed the pouch of coins in the cabinet, carefully locking the door.

  She took out a book on alchemy. The real secrets had never been written down, but she liked to read what others thought and lose herself in the familiar illustrations.

  She opened a page and saw a picture of a set of steps, the Ladder of the Wise, which an alchemist must ascend in order to reach perfection.

  On the next page was an illustration of a man at a furnace, watched over by a sun and moon. A great fire raged in the furnac
e and a lion and snake stood behind the alchemist as he worked. The fire was the first stage of the ladder, in which all scheming and dishonest feelings had to be destroyed in the flames.

  Elise thought of the fire in Paris that had consumed Price’s laboratory. She and Champillon had survived, but they were broken and humble. Albert Price had offered them the elixir of life as he lay on his deathbed. Then he had gone, and they had been left to face an uncertain dawn on their own.

  Turning the page, she came to the next stage of the alchemist’s journey - the dissolution. The time when the alchemist must learn to observe nature and respect the elements. It was a stage of tranquility, but one that could not last.

  Reading on, she saw pictures representing separation, a time of danger and challenges, of swords and conflict. At this time, the soul and the elixir are not in harmony. Before the soul can renew, it must face great adventures and overcome great obstacles.

  Elise closed the book. She did not feel like reading tonight. Instead of calming her, the book had intensified her headache.

  Night had fallen. She took the cloth off the elixir. The petals had dissolved.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. The previous night must have been a coincidence. Perhaps it had taken longer for the petals to dissolve in the past, but she had only noticed this year.

  She crossed the room and took a jar from the topmost shelf.

  She opened the jar and sprinkled the mineral salts into the liquid. The grains sank to the bottom of the glass.

  A minute passed.

  Tonight there was no movement in the elixir at all. Elise stared at it, willing it to move - but it was as still as a pond in the forest.

  Feelings of frustration bubbled up. She was surprised at the way her heart boiled and her body grew tense. The conservatory suddenly seemed smaller. She had not felt any negative emotion for years.

  She felt – angry.

  She paced the room, telling herself to be patient.

  It was all Edmond Fitzgerald’s fault.

  She had to stop him, for he had no idea what secrets he had uncovered.