The Alchemist of London Page 5

  When she got back to the house, even the cool sanctuary of the conservatory did not soothe her nerves. She walked around the sundial, tapping her finger against her lip.

  Price’s green book was not in Bingham Manor or the cellar. If it existed it must be in London. She had to make sure she found it before Wyatt. That meant going to London, a city in which she knew no one.

  She sat down and picked up her quill. But there was no point writing to Champillon. He was no longer in Paris in the very year when she needed him.

  The breeze from the open windows stirred the papers on her desk. A letter fell to the floor and she bent down to pick it up. She paused as she saw the writing at the top.

  She did not have Champillon’s address, but she did have the address of his agent, Monsieur de Fervaques.

  Bolton Street, Mayfair.

  She had a destination, the first stop on her journey. But how would she get there?

  In the house, Nell was humming a tune as she swept the floors.

  “How far away is the steam train to London, Nell?”

  “A long way, Miss.”

  “But it is the quickest way to get to London?”

  “Most people around here take the coach from Market Cheswell.”

  “And where is Market Cheswell?”

  Nell frowned. “Miss, I told you, you don’t go out enough. Market Cheswell is along the river, but the drivers can take you there from the village inn. Are you going to London, Miss?”

  “Maybe, Nell,” Elise ran up the stairs.

  She stopped before the mirror. Unease filled her stomach and she knotted her fingers together. She was unusually tired and the headache pressed down on her skull again. In two days time the elixir would be ready to drink. Then, with her strength restored, she could think more clearly about her journey to London.

  Two days, she told herself.

  That night she placed the elixir in the moonlight again, barely daring to look at it, beyond the moment she removed the cloth. The petals and salts appeared to have dissolved at last. After the moon shifted behind the trees, she placed the glass back in the conservatory. She spent the night wandering along the river and was awake to see the sunrise.

  The first day passed and then the second. She recorded the days in her journal:

  Morning walk through fields – brilliant colours in sky.

  Nell brought fresh milk.

  Afternoon - complete botanical sketch.

  Move plants out of conservatory to catch evening rain.

  Rain cleared. Strong moon.

  Woodland walk at dawn.

  Sketch by river – haystacks and clouds.

  Visited next farm for eggs – saw newborn puppies.

  No visitors.

  No letters.

  No news of – she had paused, unwilling to write the name of Fitzgerald, Wyatt, or Bingham Manor.

  In the tall bookcases in the living room she found a book on London. Her brow furrowed as she poured over the illustrations and tried to memorise the names of the streets.

  She read her notes on alchemy over and over. As the second day drew to a close, she realized she had never waited so patiently for the elixir of life to settle.

  On the final night, the moon was shining brightly. Elise carried the glass into the moonlight and took the cloth away.

  She gazed up at the sky and then at the elixir, raising the glass to the light.

  A fine powder shifted at the base of the glass. The liquid was cloudy.

  She stared through the glass. The elixir had not worked. Everything had been done correctly - the petals and the morning dew had been collected just at the right time. She had followed all the same processes, but this year alchemy failed her.

  She would have to wait another year.

  It was possible to survive without drinking the elixir, but this year with Champillon gone from Paris and Fitzgerald asking about Price, the failure of the elixir seemed ominous.

  Elise took the elixir outside and poured it on the garden bed. The liquid glistened for a moment, then sighed and sank into the earth. Any magic it contained was returned to nature.

  Now she was really on her own.

  Chapter Seven

  “Guess who I saw at the inn?” Nell said cheerfully, as she set a vase of fresh flowers on the hall table the next morning. “Mr. Fitzgerald. He is a surly gentleman but today he took his lunch in the courtyard and was almost friendly. Mr. Fitzgerald was asking about you, Miss,” Nell’s face lit up then clouded over. “He wanted to know how long you have lived in the village.”

  “I have lived here many years, as you know, Nell.”

  “But when did you arrive? Mrs. Smith said there was a lady with your name living here when she was a girl. But that was over twenty years now. Was that a different lady?”

  Elise’s cheeks burned. “Did Mrs. Smith say this to you, Nell?”

  “Oh no, she was telling Mr. Fitzgerald. I never thought you were much older than me, Miss, but you have lived here a long time.”

  “I am fortunate to look younger than I am, Nell. I will leave you to your work.”

  Nell curtseyed. But her eyes were watchful as Elise left the room.

  Elise stared in the looking glass upstairs. She had never thought of what they said about her in the village. No one had ever noticed that she hadn’t aged. Except now, when Fitzgerald had come full of questions. Logical questions, which she did not want to answer. And if Fitzgerald had returned, Mr. Wyatt and his wife must be on their way.

  She must prepare to leave Little Bingham and go to London as soon as possible. Fitzgerald and Wyatt would be away from the city for several days. In their absence she must try to find the house in Chelsea, where Price had his laboratory. The book had to be somewhere, and it was most likely in this hiding place.

  She had the same clues as Fitzgerald, and she knew Price’s character. She was certain she could find his laboratory, but she must act quickly.

  She rested her hands on the windowsill and breathed deeply. The tranquil gardens calmed her heart. She must be methodical now and push her fears aside. She had a duty to protect Price’s secrets.

  After Nell had gone, Elise went into the conservatory. She arranged the bottles on the shelves and straightened the boxes of seedlings. There was nothing to hide here.

  The elixir had been poured away. The only thing that she valued was her garden and she could not take it with her. She reminded herself she was not leaving forever. When she found the book, or satisfied herself that it did not exist, she would return.

  But worry darkened her mind. She may be away longer than she planned. She took Champillon’s letters from the cabinet. She had read them so many times she knew them off by heart. She lit a fire in the courtyard and watched as tails of flame consumed the papers. She added the letters from Mayfair to the flames, so that no one would find Monsieur de Fervaque’s address.

  She left the alchemy books in the cabinet. The real secrets of alchemy were in her mind. Even if by some chance Wyatt found the books, he would learn nothing.

  She took the pouch of coins and carried them upstairs. In her room, she counted the coins again. She took out her sewing basket and unstitched the hem of her cloak. She sewed a gold coin inside the hem.

  When she lay down to sleep that night, she wondered where she would be the next evening. Would the Thames look the same as the silvery river at the end of the lawn? What would she see from the window of her new room? What sort of city was London? Would the streets look like Paris? What would Monsieur de Fervaque and his family say when she arrived? Would she stay with them or somewhere else?

  Worries piled up like storm clouds. She turned her head into her soft pillow and tried to sleep.

  She woke to an overcast sky. Her heart pounded, as she quickly got ready. She changed into her black silk dress and slipped on her cloak. She tied the pouch of coins to her belt with a strong ribbon. She took a large tapestry bag and went downstairs. She placed fresh bread, a cake, and an app
le inside.

  She said a silent goodbye to her conservatory and garden. She closed the door to the house and then stepped into the dim morning.

  I’ll be back soon, she told herself.

  As she walked along the muddy road to the village, the enormity of the world stretched before her. Huge clouds rolled across the sky. As the clouds darkened, she noticed the birds had taken cover and the fields were empty. The cows must be in the barns and there were no workers in the meadows.

  The morning was ominously still.

  Then a noise drifted over the fields. Horse hooves thundered in the distance. Her heart sank. Fitzgerald was approaching.

  “Morning, Miss,” he said, as his horse slowed to a trot.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Are you going to the village?”

  “No, I am returning home - after my stroll,” she said quickly.

  “Cold morning for a walk, Miss,” Fitzgerald squinted at the horizon. “And a storm’s coming. I am going to collect Mr. Wyatt from the inn.”

  “I shall not keep you,” she looked up from beneath the hood of her cloak.

  The colour drained from Fitzgerald’s face. His knuckles tightened over the reins. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

  The horse whinnied and reared. Fitzgerald loosened his grip and the horse bolted. Elise watched as horse and rider disappeared along the road to Little Bingham.

  For a moment she stood still, confused. Then as she gazed across the shadowy fields, her blood ran cold.

  The clouds were so dark, the morning looked like midnight. She walked slowly to the ditch by the side of the road.

  In a puddle by the roadside, she saw her dim reflection. Two points of light wavered in the pool of water. Her glowing eyes had betrayed her secret. She had carelessly gazed at Fitzgerald and confirmed what he had suspected.

  His face had said it all. The unearthly glow had even terrified his horse.

  He had not seen a ghost, but an alchemist.

  She began to walk fast, pushing aside thoughts too disturbing to contemplate. In one second, everything had fallen away. He had seen her. And he knew.

  And he was on his way to meet Barnabas Wyatt.

  She rubbed her eyes resentfully. Could she explain away the phenomenon and make him doubt what he had seen? The sky was so dark now, she was certain her eyes were glowing as brightly as a cat’s. She could not go straight to the inn, but nor could she return to the house. She must wait for Fitzgerald and Wyatt to leave the village and then try to find a coach to London.

  She climbed over a stile and walked across the meadows, taking the long way to the village. Rain began to fall just as the first cottages came into view. It was dark as night. Her heart thudded. What if the villagers noticed her eyes?

  When she crossed the bridge into the village, she stood under a huge oak tree. The inn glowed brightly in the rain. The well-lit rooms were not far away. If she ran fast, she could reach them before anyone saw her.

  But then she saw shadowy figures standing under the dripping eaves. Her heart quickened. Fitzgerald was still there, talking to another man.

  “The family cannot travel in this rain,” the man’s voice was full of determination and authority. “Wait here.”

  “Not more waiting,” a woman inside spoke with an unpleasing whine.

  Elise glimpsed the woman’s beak-like profile and the silhouette of several children crowded in the doorway.

  Fitzgerald and the shorter man took a few steps away from the inn.

  “And where does this young woman live?”

  “In a house near the river, sir. I thought she was an ordinary young lady. But this morning, her eyes, sir, they glowed.”

  “This is a trait of an alchemist. The bankers said Albert Price’s eyes also glowed.”

  “I saw it in the cellar, but I thought I’d imagined it.”

  “Of course she would seek out the cellar. It is the old alchemist’s laboratory. She is one of them.”

  “You mean she is an alchemist too? I never suspected, sir.”

  “I will soon have an alchemist’s book and now I have found an alchemist’s apprentice.”

  “So she is Elise du Bois?”

  “I am certain she is the maid who went missing twenty-five years ago. Along with Albert Price and Jean-Louis Champillon. Both wanted gentleman. Let us pay a visit to this lady.”

  “In the rain, sir?”

  “Yes, in the rain. I want to see this conservatory. Get the buggy ready.”

  Fitzgerald harnessed his horse. Wyatt climbed into the back of the buggy and pulled the cover over his head. Fitzgerald sat on the front seat, shaking the rain from his hat. The buggy lurched away from the inn.

  Barnabas Wyatt raised his chin triumphantly. He folded his hands over his round stomach. He did not seem a man motivated by justice or morality. Instead his eyes gleamed with excitement and his fingers tapped victoriously. Elise slipped away under the trees, her heart pounding faster than ever.

  If she had any doubt before, now she was certain.

  That sort of man must never find the green book.

  Bond Street, Mayfair, London, Present Day

  But how had Barnabas Wyatt found the book?

  Ellie stood before the windows of the Bond Street auction house. The reflection of fast-moving black London cabs and white courier vans flickered in the dark glass. Champillon had told her not to worry, but she couldn’t sleep all night. She must find out what had happened to the book. She slid her blue-tinged sunglasses over her head and approached the main door.

  The security guard gave her a close look as she entered. The room beyond was cool and silent. Small paintings were mounted behind glass cases, illuminated by brass lamps.

  A slender woman looked up from her desk. “May I help you?” she smiled.

  “I was interested in the Barnabas Wyatt estate. Are there any items on display?”

  “I am afraid they are in our storehouse in Surrey. I can show you the catalogue,” she rose from her seat and gestured to an iPad mounted on the wall.

  Ellie slid her finger across the screen, resting on the green book. “Do you have more photographs of the interior pages?”

  “No, but I will tell my boss that you asked. Perhaps we should have brought these books up to London to display. We’ve had several enquiries about this estate.”

  “From whom?”

  “I couldn’t say,” the young woman said, as though she knew a great secret. “But the auction will be exciting.”

  Ellie scrolled on through the other notebooks and journals.

  “Are you here on behalf of a buyer?”

  “I believe my boss, Mr. Sebastian Worth, has registered as a bidder,” Ellie said. “Is it true the owner isn’t accepting offers before the auction?”

  The young woman’s eyes lit up. “That’s right, even though we have had offers from Moscow and San Francisco already. We really didn’t expect so much interest. We haven’t been able to identify all the items,” she slid her finger across the iPad, coming to rest on the green book. “This one for instance - we had to describe the author as unknown.”

  “I see,” Ellie crossed her arms. “Did you find any letters or papers with it?”

  “No, the book came to us with all the other items from the Wyatt collection. I can see that it is pretty and the illustrations are very detailed. But I’m not familiar with this category of collectibles. Do you know much about it?”

  Ellie smiled and shrugged.

  “I thought the post-modernists would be the most successful auction this summer,” the young woman said. “But now my boss says these books might be even more valuable.”

  “And they are all from the same estate?”

  “That’s right, the entire collection. I went to the Wyatt house in Grosvenor Square myself.”

  “You mean Barnabas Wyatt still lives in London?”

  “Yes, the house has been in the family for years,” the young woman smiled.

  �
�When did Barnabas Wyatt die?”

  “He didn’t,” the girl said brightly.

  Ellie’s heart skipped a beat. “He didn’t?”

  “No, in fact, he’s just over there.”

  Time seemed to stand still.

  Ellie’s eyes turned to the group of men at the end of the room. In their identical dark business suits it was hard to tell them apart. With a thudding heart she looked from one to the other, expecting to see Barnabas Wyatt.

  The young woman went on. “Not the original Barnabas of course. Barnabas Wyatt was the Victorian who amassed the collection. Because the library was created in the 1850s, we called this auction a Victorian Gentleman’s Collection. His great-grandson, Barnabas J. Wyatt passed away last year. But Barnabas - Barney - Wyatt, has just come to sign some papers.”

  “These men all have the same name?”

  “Yes, a family tradition I suppose.”

  Had Barnabas Wyatt concocted the elixir of life after all? He had Albert Price’s notes. Champillon said in each generation of Wyatts there was a man called Barnabas. Was it a descendant, or was it the same man?

  As the huddle of men laughed and moved, Ellie felt the ground shift beneath her feet. Slowly the group was starting to break up and turn around. A tall man returned to his desk. Another slipped through a back door. A third man turned to face her. He was stout and confident with greying hair.

  She took a deep breath.

  It was not Barnabas Wyatt.

  The last man smiled broadly as he slipped a paper into his suit jacket. His face was familiar. But it was not the firm jaw and smug expression of the man Ellie had seen in the carriage. Instead this man had the lean, bird-like look of Barnabas Wyatt’s wife, who must have been the man’s great-great-grandmother.

  “Is everything in order, Mr. Wyatt?” the young woman asked.

  “It certainly is, thank you, Saskia. The papers are signed and ready for Friday.”

  “It will be a thrilling auction.”

  “As Alastair was telling me. He’s expecting some high prices.”