The Alchemist of London Page 6

  “You would not consider selling prior to Friday?” Ellie asked.

  Barney Wyatt’s pale blue eyes swiveled towards her. “Not a chance. I had no idea how valuable the old man’s books were. Been in the family for years, gathering dust.”

  “I believe your great-great-grandfather was Barnabas Wyatt of Little Bingham?”

  “Little Bingham? I think he had a place there. Family sold it off years ago.”

  “So he never built his new house?”

  “No, lived in London until the end, so I heard. Although he did own Bingham Manor at one stage - that’s the old Elizabethan manor house.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “It’s a health and wellness retreat these days, I believe.”

  “What a fascinating history,” the young woman said. “I wonder if it’s too late to put that in the catalogue.”

  “What became of your ancestor?” Ellie asked.

  Barney Wyatt’s phone was ringing. He gave Ellie a wolfish grin.

  “What became of Barnabas? You can find out if you dig around. It was all recorded at the time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Quite a scandal,” Wyatt raised his eyebrows. “We all know the story of poor old great-great-great-grandfather Barnabas. Excuse me, this is my broker.”

  He barked into the phone as he headed through the gold-framed door.

  “How fascinating! I wonder what did happen to Barnabas Wyatt!” the young woman called Saskia said.

  “So do I,” Ellie stared at the photograph of the green silk book.

  Chapter Eight

  The Village of Little Bingham, England

  September, 1848

  The spectre of that figure at the inn haunted her for a long time. The determined chin, the dynamic movements, the authority in his voice - all this suggested a man who would not give up his search. He had stumbled across Albert Price’s secrets and his mind was on fire. He had the ability to pull her whole world down.

  But if he did not find Price’s laboratory or Price’s book, he had no proof she was an alchemist, and without proof he could do nothing to her. She may have to stay in London for weeks, perhaps months. Long enough for him to exhaust his enquiries and abandon his investigations.

  The gold and silver coins weighed on her belt. She hoped the coins still had value in the world, for they were the only security she had.

  She kept to the path along the riverbank. Rain came again. The branches filtered the droplets and the water slid down the leaves. The reeds were still, disturbed only by the gently fanning circles created by the raindrops on the river.

  The rain eased and the woodland gave way to open meadows. Reaching the top of a hill, she saw a great city far in the distance.

  Above the city were massive clouds of smoke, darker than the rain that rolled across the sky. They sat dense and unmoving. She remembered the gritty air of Paris, full of soot from fires and chimneys. But these clouds were bigger than any she had ever seen. How had mankind made a new atmosphere above its cities in the time she had been away?

  She did not know exactly how to get there, but now she had seen London, she knew she was heading in the right direction.

  She came to a crossroads and chose the road heading to Market Cheswell. After walking another mile, she came upon a row of tidy houses near the river.

  Carriages surrounded the inn. A ruddy-faced woman was serving drinks to the drivers.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” the woman said, before pausing. “Excuse me, Miss. I thought you were much older. ‘Tis an unusual dress that you wear. Did you come from over the hill?”

  “Yes, I have been living in the country for some time. But I wish to go to London.”

  The woman listened with a half-open mouth. Elise realised her unexpected appearance, accent and old-fashioned dress must be confusing.

  “My benefactor has given me coins,” Elise took one from her pouch. “I am to go to Mayfair, to speak to his agent.”

  The woman’s face brightened as she took the coin. “All the stagecoaches have left this morning. There might be room in the mail coach. Hey, Mike.”

  The woman cocked her head and a heavy-set man in a gold-braided scarlet coat strode across the yard. He looked at the coin and said something to the woman that Elise did not understand.

  “Mike here can take you to Covent Garden. He’s going to the post office in St Martin-in-the-Fields.”

  Elise nodded. The names were unknown to her, but she liked the sound of a garden and fields.

  “Coach’ll leave in five minutes, Miss,” the man called Mike said.

  “Thank you. I am ready.”

  “Lucky you were in time for the mail coach,” the woman remarked. “Otherwise there’s no more coaches until morning. Been to a funeral, have you?”

  Elise’s hands went again to her black silk dress. Children were peering at her from behind a water pump. She must indeed be a strange apparition.

  “Long ago,” she replied.

  Wheels sounded in the yard as a black coach with a bright red undercarriage stopped before the inn. Sacks were loaded onto the back and Elise took her seat alone in the carriage. The horses ran fast along the high road. A fresh breeze blew over the wet meadows. The countryside gradually gave way to more inns, streets and houses.

  Elise peered out the window. Mike looked down from his seat. “There it is, Miss, London Town.”

  Ghostly domes and towers rose above a formless sprawl of buildings. In the dim day, pinpricks of light shone out. They joined a road and the great city got closer and closer.

  The coach rolled on and crossed a bridge. Below was a wide river. Elise had never seen such congestion. The masts of ships knitted together and the riverbank was crowded with warehouses, barrels and pulleys. All along the river, boats puffed out smoke and steam. People poured down rickety wooden steps to board the steamboats. Along the river were low bridges and grand buildings. But every time she glimpsed a tower or a dome, leaning houses obscured the view.

  She heard the city before they entered it. There was no single distinct noise, just a deep roar. Part of it came from the river, the clink of chains and rolling of barrels, the splash of boats pulling into the wharves and the cries of men. Part of it came from the streets and the windows, one steady cry of street sellers, shopkeepers, and animals, the echo of horses’ hooves and the slicing metal of carriage wheels. Voices rose and fell as the traffic crammed the streets.

  Something inhaled and then let out a high-pitched whistle. The whistle of a steam engine, louder than she’d ever heard.

  There was a commotion ahead. Two carriages were trying to fit through a passage. A child darted under the wheels of the coach. Elise’s heart skipped a beat before the urchin appeared on the opposite side of the road.

  People carried baskets on their heads or sold goods in boxes hanging from their necks. Noises were so loud she feared the houses were collapsing or some great calamity lay ahead. But the mail coach found its way through and descended into a warren of even denser streets.

  The smell of the city filled her nostrils - manure and horses, dust and grit, coal smoke and roasting food. The air was smokier than it had ever been in Paris and her eyes smarted. As they passed close to the river again, she held her handkerchief over her mouth.

  “Traffic’s always terrible in Cannon Street,” Mike said as she peered out of the carriage, when they were delayed once more. “St. Paul’s Cathedral is there ahead. Right next to Newgate Prison.”

  A white dome rose above an imposing brick building. The coach rocked, and someone seemed to be physically moving it to get by. Mike shouted. They were on their way again, descending on a road of stone, where the noise was deafening.

  Among the fine buildings were dirtier streets. The tottering houses led to shadowy courtyards. There were dirty windows and mud splattered doors and men idling in the shadows, watching the hawkers with a keen eye. Grubby signs advertised rooms for let. Elise saw no landmarks or street names.
Her heart sunk as she realised how large London was.

  Another steam whistle cut through the air.

  The carriage slowed again. Elise leaned out of the carriage, catching Mike’s eye.

  “St. Giles,” he shook his head. “A right slum. Nothing but thieves and criminals in there. Should clear it out. Same with the Devil’s Acre.”

  “Devil’s Acre?”

  “The slum near Westminster Cathedral. Down the river, Miss.”

  Elise glimpsed sagging rooftops and a forlorn jumble of streets, cowering in the shadow of a grand Cathedral.

  “Don’t worry, Miss, you’ll be in the West End soon as this traffic clears.”

  At last the mail coach passed into a great courtyard and came to a stop. Other mail coaches stood empty as men passed back and forward loading and unloading the sacks. Huge stables lay around the edge of the yard. Men gathered around carts selling bitter-smelling coffee.

  Elise stepped carefully out of the carriage, lifting her skirt above the congealing puddles on the ground.

  “Mayfair is that way,” the driver tipped his hat. “Head up to Piccadilly and keep walking.”

  “Piccadilly?” Elise said.

  “Big high street, Miss, you can’t miss it.”

  “This way?” she asked again.

  Mike was drinking his coffee as he talked to another man. “Yes, Miss, end of the road, keep going that direction.”

  Elise had not expected the indifference of the big city. In Paris, she had learned her way around slowly. Here she was in the centre of a maze.

  A cart passed and she was pushed with the other pedestrians against the wall. She kept her hand on her pouch of coins. A hollow fear rose in her throat. How would she find anything in London?

  She asked a woman the way to Piccadilly. The woman opened a toothless mouth, said something and pointed. Elise kept walking, avoiding the street peddlers selling everything from oysters to saucepans. She came to a huge thoroughfare where the buildings rose like phantoms in the smoke. She headed westward, guided now by a sickly sun.

  It was some time before she found the way to Mayfair. In this part of London, the townhouses faced leafy green squares, but the backstreets were used for stables - a place the Londoners called a ‘mews’. Elise stumbled into a mews several times before finding her way back to the main streets.

  After an hour of wandering, she reached a row of houses with black railings and shiny front doors. At last she found Monsieur de Fervaque’s house - the house to which she had addressed letters for almost twenty years. She took a deep breath and felt a wave of relief, although her heart was thudding.

  The curtains of the house were drawn. A solitary lamp glowed in the kitchen on the basement floor. She knocked at the door. Rain began to fall and her spirits sunk. A minute passed by then another.

  At last a maid opened the door.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she said.

  “Bonjour. May I speak with Monsieur de Fervaques?”

  “He has gone, mademoiselle. They all have.”

  “Gone?”

  “There is great turmoil in Paris because of the revolution.”

  “But the revolution was fifty years ago.”

  “Not 1789, mademoiselle, the revolution this summer. There was much fighting on the streets. Monsieur de Fervaques has gone to save his house and to work with the new assembly.”

  “Fighting on the streets?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle, haven’t you read the newspapers?”

  Elise’s head pounded. “I am the ward of Jean-Louis Champillon.”

  “Oh, Monsieur Champillon,” the maid pursed her lips. She opened the door but her brow remained furrowed.

  “Wait for Auguste to return. He is Monsieur de Fervaques’ valet. He is arranging his own passage to Paris, but will return for his luggage.”

  The maid led her to an elegant sitting room. As the hours ticked by, Elise ignored the fear growing in her heart. Even if Barnabas Wyatt was not looking for her, she had no idea how to find the coach back to Little Bingham. Where would she stay in London? She knew no one here. What if the valet did not believe her? She had burnt all the old letters and had nothing to prove who she was.

  Her heart turned and twisted, until the door opened and a flustered young man appeared, wearing a waistcoat and a long coat. His trousers were tucked under his boots like Fitzgerald’s. He was French, but different from the young men she had last seen in Paris.

  “Mademoiselle,” he bowed.

  “Monsieur. I am Elise du Bois, I mean, Ellie Forrest. I have been living in Little Bingham, by the river.”

  “I am aware of the place,” Auguste said. “Monsieur de Fervaques attends to all the payments. I believe all is in order.”

  Elise nodded, again realising how oblivious she had been to her existence. Who had paid for the house all these years? The garden had been a dream for too long, and now she had woken up.

  “It is an unfortunate time for you to arrive in London,” the young man said. “The family has gone and I am due to join them. My steamer leaves tonight. What is your purpose here?”

  “I need to stay in London for a week, maybe longer.”

  “If only we had known earlier,” the colour rose in his cheeks. “Have you money for your stay? I am afraid I have no authority over the accounts and cannot arrange credit.”

  Elise heart sank. She had no idea how much money she needed. She hadn’t assumed she needed any.

  “I have gold coins,” she added brightly. “Sovereigns and crowns.”

  “Good,” Auguste said. “And have you any lodgings?”

  “No. I hoped you might assist,” Elise realised again how unprepared she was. Auguste was barely older than twenty and probably thought she was younger than him.

  “The house is being closed up,” Auguste said. “And you cannot live here alone.” He paced the room. “Perhaps I can arrange rooms for you with Madame Rochelle in Knightsbridge.” He took a quill and began writing a note. “Monsieur de Fervaques has good credit with her and the house is a fine one. Have you any friends in London?”

  “No,” Elise admitted.

  Auguste bit his lip. “Madame Rochelle will look after you,” he said, although his eyes were not as certain as his voice.

  “I also need to visit Chelsea. Do you know how I might get there?”

  “Chelsea? Why that is just a village on the river. Do you know the address?”

  Elise shook her head. She realised how ridiculous her words sounded.

  “Do you have luggage?”

  “Only what I have in my bag,” Elise gestured to her small tapestry bag.

  Auguste raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly but did not say any more. “Let me take you to Madame Rochelle’s.”

  They set off through the streets. Auguste said little. At first she wondered if her arrival had concerned him, but she sensed his worries ran deeper. She wondered what was happening in Paris.

  She was glad he did not ask questions. She did not know how fast rumours traveled and she feared Barnabas Wyatt had a way of finding out everything. The streets they now walked through were spacious and the carriages that rolled by were shiny and clean. She tried to look out for landmarks, but soon felt as lost as she had been in the tumult in Ludgate Hill.

  The wind was blowing the treetops and the leaves whispered a peaceful tune. As they reached the end of another street, a great park came into view.

  “That is Hyde Park,” Auguste said. “And here we are, at Madame Rochelle’s.”

  They stopped before a tall house. A maid answered the door and said the lady of the house was at home. Shortly afterwards a middle-aged lady appeared. Auguste spoke rapidly. Elise understood Madame Rochelle had been in London many years and let rooms to visiting noblemen. Champillon’s name was mentioned and the lady’s eyes flickered approvingly. She gave Elise a thorough glance and said she had a room on the second floor.

  Auguste took a deep breath, as though glad to have completed this unex
pected duty, on a day on which he already had too much to do. “I will tell Monsieur de Fervaques to write to you from Paris and give you his new address.”

  Auguste bowed. She saw him loosen his cravat as he hurried along the street.

  Madame Rochelle guided her upstairs. Elise sensed her eyes drift to the black dress.

  “You must get new clothes now you are in London, mademoiselle,” she murmured. “But rest for now. The maid will bring supper.”

  She opened a door onto a room with a four poster bed, wardrobe and a writing table. The ceiling was high and the furnishings slightly French. Tall windows looked over the green expanse of Hyde Park. A gentle breeze shifted the light curtains.

  “It’s lovely,” Elise said, with relief.

  Madame Rochelle nodded and smiled.

  When she had gone, Elise went to the washstand and wiped the grit of the city off her face. People were riding in the park. The sun was beginning to set beyond the clouds. She stared over the unfamiliar city. At least Barnabas Wyatt could not find her here, for she barely knew where she was herself.

  Chapter Nine

  Elise opened her eyes the next morning. The bed in which she lay was soft and the canopy was decorated with delicate flowers. Through the windows, the wide meadow of Hyde Park was dotted with large trees. Horses and their riders trotted in the distance. In the street below milkmen wearing smocks lowered milk cans over the black railings, while the calls of pie men summoned the servants up from the basement kitchens.

  Elise got dressed. Downstairs, a breakfast of eggs, sweet meats, pies and fresh fruit was laid out on Madame Rochelle’s polished dining table. Bright flowers rippled in the window box. Knightsbridge was a world away from the dark streets in the heart of London.

  Although the morning was quiet, Elise was aware of the tall clock ticking in the corner, as if counting the hours until danger found her.

  Barnabas Wyatt had correctly guessed that she was an alchemist. By now he would know she had left Little Bingham. He may trace her to Monsieur de Fervaques’ house in London, but from there, it was unlikely he would find Madame Rochelle. For now, she was several steps ahead of him.