The Alchemist of London Page 4

  Chapter Five

  “Have you heard of Mr. Barnabas Wyatt?” Elise asked Nell, when the maid was sweeping the courtyard a few days later.

  Nell’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Why yes, Miss. He is the gentleman who has purchased Bingham Manor. I hear he is going to pull it down.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Wyatt?”

  “Indeed I have! He came down from London a few weeks ago. He is an older man, quite short, and he has a wife and three young children. He has no eligible sons, I’m afraid.”

  “I was not intending to marry him, Nell.”

  “Well, it would be nice, Miss, if there was an eligible man for you in the district. Mr. Wyatt doesn’t seem the type to have dances either,” Nell added, regretfully. “Mr. Wyatt’s wife complained a lot according to Bessie at the inn. But I do believe Mr. Wyatt is a very wealthy man.”

  “And have you met his agent, Mr. Fitzgerald?”

  “The tall Irishman? He is a fine-looking man, but only an agent, as you say, with no money to his name. Bessie says he dines at the inn but keeps to himself. Each day he drives his buggy out to the manor. He is taking all the furniture from the manor to London to be sold. The cart left this morning.”

  “So Mr. Fitzgerald has gone to London?”

  “Bessie said the cart has gone, so I guess Mr. Fitzgerald has gone too. Good thing, as he was as stuck-up as Mr. Wyatt. People from London think they are too good for us country folk.” Nell whacked a rug against the wall of the courtyard.

  Elise waved away the dust. “And where exactly is Bingham Manor?”

  “Beyond the woods, Miss. Follow the field path by the river and then go through the valley.”

  “Thank you, Nell,” Elise said, picking up her sun hat. “I think I will go for a stroll.”

  Elise had explored the woods before, but no further than the bend in the river, where the path wound into the forest. She followed the path that morning and came to a bubbling brook. She jumped from stone to stone then climbed a meandering track that led over great twisted tree roots.

  Light fell in green swathes through the undergrowth and tall trees lined the slopes of the surrounding hills. When she reached the top of the hill, she saw green fields and the turrets of a house far below.

  She followed an overgrown path down the hillside and through a field of grazing cows. She came to a long drive lined by trees with branches so low they scraped the ground. At the end of the drive stood an imposing stone house.

  The gates were ajar. She stepped inside and followed the drive until she reached a great courtyard.

  Two towers adorned the wings of the house. Arched windows peered down on her and a parapet ran along the top of the roof. Many of the tiny diamond-shaped windowpanes were broken and weeds grew from the chimney pots. The main door lay beneath a grand stone porch.

  All was silent apart from the chirping of birds. She followed a shrubbery path around the back of the house. The windows were bare and old carpets and timber had been dragged onto the terrace. However the house was not deserted. Men were hammering and banging inside.

  Elise walked quietly through a sunken garden. When she reached the main drive again, a familiar horse and buggy had appeared in the courtyard.

  Before she could move, Fitzgerald strode out of the front door and stopped before her.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Elise,” Fitzgerald said politely, tipping his hat. His eyes were aloof, but she sensed he was surprised to see her.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I heard you had left for London.”

  “I did, but Mr. Wyatt needed me to return.”

  “Your story was so fascinating I had to see the house.”

  “Do not worry yourself, Miss. We have it all under control.”

  “This is Bingham Manor?”

  “Yes, built in the time of Elizabeth I. We have searched the West and East Wings thoroughly.”

  “And where is the laboratory?”

  “Over that way. But the steps are broken and it is far too dangerous a place for a lady.”

  Elise glanced over her shoulder at a stone folly but Fitzgerald was guiding her toward the main gates.

  “Has Mr. Wyatt found out anything else?” Elise began to stroll along the drive.

  Fitzgerald glanced at her reluctantly and his hand went to his pocket. “Perhaps, although it seems far-fetched to believe it’s true.”

  “Is that the reason you came back?” Elise spotted something inside Fitzgerald’s coat.

  Fitzgerald relented, drawing out an old parchment. “There’s no harm showing you, I suppose. It was among the letters,” he said. “Mr. Wyatt believes it was written by Albert Price.”

  Elise unfolded the brittle paper.

  It was Albert Price’s handwriting. She recognised the fine strokes, loops and flourishes. When he wrote notes his writing was meticulous, but when he was in a hurry, as in this letter, the writing raced as fast as his mind, and ink spots splashed the page.

  The letter was to a man called Sir John. Elise read aloud:

  “Thank you for arranging my departure to London. My new lodgings are most comfortable and the attic room is perfect for my laboratory. I would like to have a place in London to which I could return. As you know, I travel abroad frequently.

  You will find the coins in the cellar in Bingham Manor. The potion you requested to soothe your joints is almost ready.

  Chelsea is a most pleasing neighbourhood. The noise from the Thames is incessant but it is pleasant to sit by the window and watch the boats glide by on the river. Being close to the physicians’ garden and apothecaries is most useful.

  I am sure no one has followed me and have noticed no one watching.

  I also have an urgent request. I have misplaced a book - a book with a green silk cover.

  It is, I stress, most important to me. I believe I left it at Bingham Manor. This book contains my notes. You can appreciate how valuable it is.

  This book is most essential to me -”

  He had underlined ‘essential’ several times.

  “- and I would go to Little Bingham myself if I were not in danger of being found by your enemies. I stress and plead, please search your house and bring this book to me at once.

  Your faithful servant,

  AP”

  “It is most mysterious,” Elise said. “But as Sir John received this letter, the book was most likely sent to London.”

  “Between you and me, Miss, that’s my opinion too. Mr. Wyatt wants me to ensure there are no more hidden compartments. The men are looking now.”

  Elise gazed in a window, where two men were tearing down the wooden wall panels.

  “They’re going through the place again, top to bottom, although we had already searched thoroughly. When they are finished, I’ll tell Mr. Wyatt to continue the search in London.”

  “Why London?”

  “The letter, Miss. It is clear that’s where this alchemist had a hideout.”

  “This letter is from the 1600s. Do you think such a place still exists?”

  “Albert Price came back to London in 1810. No one knew where he lived and no one heard of him taking a lease. But he was often seen in the neighbourhood of Chelsea, near the Thames. Mr. Wyatt believes he must have returned to his old laboratory.”

  “But how can you find the exact place?” she wanted to read the letter again, but did not want to arouse Fitzgerald’s suspicion.

  “Mr. Wyatt will find it, if anyone can,” Fitzgerald declared.

  “Your master is most determined,” Elise knitted her brows. “Why is he so interested in alchemy? The pursuit of gold and eternal life sound quite wrong.”

  “I agree, these secrets could be very dangerous if found by the wrong person. Mr. Wyatt is an upright and God-fearing man. That is why he has such a sense of duty to find the book.”

  A sense of duty or greed? Elise thought to herself.

  “These alchemists must be caught,” Fitzgerald stared ahead. “They must be strange and unnatura
l looking men.”

  “I believe an alchemist would look quite ordinary,” Elise sighed as they reached the main gates.

  “I regret I have told you too much, Miss,” Fitzgerald folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. “I must ask you to keep this a secret.”

  “Of course, sir. Who would believe me?”

  “True, Miss. And if you do hear from Mr. Champillon, please let him know that Mr. Wyatt is most anxious to meet him.”

  “I will, sir,” Elise nodded.

  As she wandered through the trees, her head throbbed. If only Fitzgerald had thrown the letters away. Instead they had fallen into the hands of a man with the determination and resources to pursue the mystery. She knew the allure of alchemy and the type of men who sought its secrets for material gain.

  Weaving her way through the meadow, she allowed her thoughts to wander. Albert Price had often said London was a safe place for him. Perhaps he had a secret hiding place in the city, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Chelsea. She had read about Chelsea in novels and books. The letters suggested his laboratory was in the attic of a house on the Thames, close to a medicine garden and near apothecaries.

  A horse was cantering along the road when she reached the house. Wary of more visitors, she ran to the front gate. As the rider drew nearer, she breathed easily. It was young Mr. Martin, a local farmer. He leaned down from his horse, holding out a letter.

  “Bessie at the inn said to give you this. Came in the mail at midday,” he said and tipped his hat.

  “So soon,” Elise said. “Thank you.”

  She took the letter to the conservatory and eagerly melted the seal. However the note inside did not come from Champillon, but Monsieur de Fervaques, his agent in London.

  “Mademoiselle,

  I have received your letter and will attempt to deliver it to Monsieur Champillon. As you will be aware, the dramatic events in Paris have caused much upheaval. I believe Champillon is no longer in the capital. Please therefore understand my delay.”

  What dramatic events did he mean? The year was 1848. Elise realised she had no idea what was happening in the world beyond the tranquil garden of Little Bingham. So there was a reason why Champillon did not write that year.

  At least if Champillon had left Paris, Barnabas Wyatt would not be able to find him. Unfortunately neither could she.

  A ray of light fell on her hand. For the first time she noticed how tightly the skin was drawn over the bones. She glanced in the looking glass. Was there a line on her brow? These small changes were fleeting. Why was she beginning to change?

  She went to the conservatory and took the cloth off the elixir of life. It swirled quietly. The petals and salts had finally dissolved and the process was underway. In another three days it would be ready to drink.

  Three days in which she must decide what to do about Barnabas Wyatt.

  Chapter Six

  As she lay awake that night, the green book began to haunt her. She had never seen a green book among Albert Price’s possessions in Paris. Was it hidden somewhere in London? Perhaps Price intended to collect it, not knowing he would never return.

  But where should she begin searching? The only clue she had was the description of the attic in Chelsea.

  The moon cast a shadow on the wall. She turned her face to the pillow and closed her eyes. Maybe the book was still in Little Bingham. Not in the manor house but in the ancient cellar. Her heart quickened at the thought. She tried to sleep, anxious for the next day to begin.

  Shortly after breakfast she set off for Bingham Manor. When she stepped through the tall gates all was quiet. Passing the windows, she saw piles of timber on the floor and gaping holes in the walls. She wondered if the house had yielded up any more secrets.

  But she had a strong feeling about the old laboratory. Behind the folly a set of cracked steps led down through earthen walls to a rough-hewn door. She pushed the door gently and a damp smell rushed up from below.

  The dim ray of light from the doorway revealed the shadowy forms of old columns and small alcoves.

  The cellar was much older than Bingham Manor and probably dated back to the Ancient Romans. There were signs of later habitation - a chair, shelves, discarded bottles. Bright circles glowed on the surface of a table in the middle of the room. With her alchemist’s eye she recognised the remains of elixirs.

  She wandered over the uneven stone floor. Tiny particles of silvery powders shone in the ashes of the old hearth, visible to no one else but an alchemist.

  Suddenly the ray of sunlight wavered. A shadow had appeared at the top of the steps. Someone was descending into the cellar with an oil lamp.

  Elise slid behind a wall. The footsteps stopped.

  “Who’s there?” Fitzgerald boomed.

  The lamp caught her cloak. She pulled it quickly.

  “Who is there?” Fitzgerald repeated.

  Elise sighed and peered around the wall. Fitzgerald’s face was distorted in the glow of the lamp. He had taken off his coat and the outline of his strong muscles was visible under his loose shirt.

  “Miss Elise?” he said. “How did you get down here?”

  In the reflection of a glass bottle, she saw her eyes were glowing. She hung her head, her heart pounding at the thought that Fitzgerald might notice.

  She looked away. “I was curious to see the laboratory.”

  “I was about to return to London. If you’d twisted your ankle you’d be alone down here for days. Why ever did you come?”

  “I was wondering if the book was here,” she said truthfully.

  Fitzgerald lowered the lamp. “I wondered too. There are lots of nooks and shelves.”

  Elise walked quickly into another alcove. “Yes, many places to lose a book.”

  “Careful, Miss, don’t you need a candle?” Fitzgerald swung the lamp, revealing matted cobwebs and ancient arches. “What’s that up there?”

  “It is only a ledge,” Elise kept ahead of him. She must get out of the cellar before Fitzgerald noticed her eyes.

  “This place gives me the shivers,” Fitzgerald said, as his lamp illuminated a carved pillar.

  Elise weaved her way around the columns, watching Fitzgerald. She could not get to the steps without passing him. As he came closer, she paced across the room, careful to keep her back to him.

  “Have you found anything else about your mystery, sir?”

  “Oh, Mr. Wyatt is busy.”

  “Surely this is an impossible task. Too much time has passed,” the more she looked, the more certain she was the book was not there. She stopped in the beam of sunlight. Dust rose in a swirling column.

  Fitzgerald had moved again. He swung his lamp, reaching up to a crevice. He pulled down some dead moss and leapt backwards. He strode across the cellar, blocking the way.

  “Mr. Wyatt has found out one more strange fact.”

  “And what is that?”

  Fitzgerald was peering up the chimney of the hearth. “Do you remember that Albert Price had a maid, who disappeared with him?”

  Elise shrugged, although her pulse quickened and her mouth was dry. “I had forgotten.”

  “Mr. Wyatt wrote to Paris. He discovered Albert Price’s maid was called Elise.”

  Elise hung her head. “That is curious.”

  Fitzgerald circled in the darkness. “A child often takes her mother’s name. Is it possible, Miss, that this maid was your mother?”

  “My mother died when I was a child. That was not her name,” Elise said truthfully.

  “I am sorry, Miss. But it is another coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Elise is a common name in France.”

  Fitzgerald moved again. “Have you ever met this Jean-Louis Champillon, the master of your house? The villagers say you live there all alone and the master has never visited.”

  Elise fought back a feeling of annoyance. “The master writes often.”

  “But you must agree it is suspicious that you have never seen the gentleman.”


  “It is not my place to question my benefactor,” Elise said, feeling the headache come over her again.

  Fitzgerald reached up to a high shelf. “The villagers say the garden at your house is extensive. Mr. Wyatt says alchemists have a need for many plants.”

  “I have overseen the creation of the garden myself,” Elise lifted her head without thinking.

  Fitzgerald had been moving around but now he froze. Had he seen her eyes?

  “I feel faint,” Elise said quickly, crossing to the doorway.

  Fitzgerald was close behind her. She ran up the cracked steps, almost stumbling on the slippery moss.

  She reached the daylight, thankful to be back on the overgrown lawns. She walked ahead, gulping the fresh air.

  “Are you returning to London now?” Elise saw the horse and buggy in the distance.

  She swung around and blinked. If Fitzgerald had noticed the glow, he had not had time to think about it. In daylight the effect was not noticeable.

  Fitzgerald ran his hand through his thick hair, as though he were still confused. “Yes, tomorrow.”

  “And you will continue your search in London?”

  Gradually the confusion faded from his face. “If Mr. Wyatt wishes me to. But I will return with Mr. Wyatt and his wife to Little Bingham at the end of the week.”

  “They are coming here?”

  “To meet the architect and discuss the new plans.”

  Elise breathed deeply. “It is a beautiful old house although neglected. It is shame to pull it down.”

  “Mr. Wyatt will build a fine new house, I’m sure. Mr. Wyatt will send you a formal card when he arrives, but he has asked if he and his wife may visit you.”

  “I assure you I know nothing of this mystery.”

  “I have told him as much. But they would like to ask you about Mr. Champillon.”

  “Certainly,” Elise smiled, although her skin prickled. “Good day, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  She walked fast towards the woodland. Barnabas Wyatt would not give up. She must find a reason not to be at home when he called. She had a feeling it would be harder to avoid his questions than Fitzgerald’s. How long before he realised that she was the alchemist he sought?