The Alchemist of London Page 9

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Then I shall make arrangements. Do you wish to take any of these?”

  “I believe you can keep them here. They contain no secrets.”

  “No secrets,” he mused. “And yet they look so impressive.”

  “These books contain nothing that cannot be found in other sources. The book I seek is older. Albert Price wrote it in the 1600s.”

  “In the 1600s?”

  Elise nodded slowly aware she had given away a secret.

  Young Mr. Jasper broke into a broad grin. “So Albert Price was alive over two hundred years ago. You have confirmed my suspicions. Anne confided to me about an elixir she once saw Price make. We never spoke the word, for it seemed foolish in an age of industry and steam, but we both believed that we had crossed paths with an alchemist. Part of me wondered if we were daydreaming. But now I know what I suspected was right. There is an elixir of life. It is too late for me to drink it,” the old man smiled sadly. “And only a true alchemist can make the elixir. Such a man does not come along very often.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Nor such a lady. If Albert Price lived in the 1600s, I will not ask you how many centuries you have seen.”

  “Only this one,” Elise reflected.

  “This is really all too much,” Young Mr. Jasper closed the dining room doors and led her to the sitting room. “Be assured, your secrets are safe with me. I shall write to you when I have been to Hampstead.”

  Elise nodded and told him Madame Rochelle’s address.

  Elise left the house in high spirits. Since the fire in Paris, she had always been frightened that people would discover her secret. Albert Price was a haunted man, worn down by centuries of people obsessed with his ability to make gold. She herself had hidden her abilities, never thinking there was a safe way to share them. She had shied away from the world, fearing the base side of human nature. She had lived in a state of inertia, afraid to change. But now she had met people who were not consumed by greed or enthralled by the elixir of life, people who perhaps even accepted her talents.

  People who thought she was an alchemist.

  But a true alchemist never became physically tired. As the constant noise of carriages thudded in her ears, fatigue crept over her. People were all around her, hawking everything from pans to hot pies. A young boy was bawling something about parliament, with a pile of papers over his arm.

  “Illustrated News - news, today’s news!” the boy roared, his eyes darting around. A gentleman stopped him, bought a paper and moved on.

  Ahead was a pastry shop with sparkling clean windows. Well-dressed ladies sat inside sipping tea. Elise opened the door and took a seat. There was a newspaper on the table. While she waited for her tea, she began to read the Illustrated News. Her eyes scanned stories of people and places she had never heard of. On the back page, was a curious advertisement.

  Mr. Barnabas Wyatt, esq, is to address a public meeting of gentlemen in the assembly rooms in St. James, on the disturbing events of the current day, including the nefarious influences of the Chartist movement.

  The address and entry fee appeared below. Mr. Wyatt must be in London, as he was speaking at the meeting that night.

  Elise made her way home to Knightsbridge. Madame Rochelle’s house was calm and serene. A gentle tune came from the sitting room and she glimpsed Madame Rochelle playing a piano.

  As she started up the stairs, the maid gave her a message. Elise turned the note over and saw Young Mr. Jasper’s initials. She eagerly ripped open the note, but her brow crinkled as she read the spidery handwriting.

  “It is a day of great coincidences. Shortly after you left, I received a visit from Mr. Barnabas Wyatt himself, enquiring after my collection. It was most fortunate that you did not cross his path on the way out.

  He asked if I was aware of the existence of a green book dating from the 1600s containing the notes of a scientist called Albert Price.

  I said I may have heard the name and asked why his sudden interest. He said he was starting a collection of scientific works and had been visiting the greatest men of science in England, of which I am hardly one. I believe it more likely it was my father’s association with Price (he often accompanied him to the Scientific Institute) that has led Mr. Wyatt to my door.

  He assured me he would pay handsomely for the book or any information leading to it. The doors to the dining room were closed, so he did not see the other books.

  Have no fear my servants are loyal, and to tell the truth, old Tibbs is quite deaf and possibly half-blind. It is unlikely he will remember your visit. Mr. Wyatt and his agent, a strapping young Irish fellow, are visiting many collectors, and there is no particular reason for them to visit me again.

  I believed that your arrival was the end of this mystery, and the closure of the chapter on Albert Price. But now it seems I am back when I started, dodging the avaricious of London. I tell you this, to ensure you take care. Be assured, I have betrayed no confidences.

  Yours

  Charles Jasper.”

  Elise’s heart brimmed with anger that receded like a tide, only to be replaced by icy cold fear. Wyatt and Fitzgerald were one step behind. What if Fitzgerald had followed Young Mr. Jasper’s servant to Madame Rochelle’s house when he delivered the note?

  Her heart was unsettled and she could not rest. The thought of spending hours in her room was unbearable. Perhaps rather than be pursued by Barnabas Wyatt, she would spy on him. For it was an hour before his appearance at the public talk.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gas lamps illuminated the grand facades of St. James as night fell. There were no carts or hackney cabs in this part of London, only smart hansom cabs carrying the wealthy to their evening entertainments. Elise walked along confidently, her new dress blending in with the crowd.

  Already people had gathered outside the assembly rooms. As she drew nearer, a familiar figure hovered in the lamplight. It was Fitzgerald, bowing to the patrons and guiding them inside.

  Elise paused, unsure whether to go on. He may not recognise her from a distance, but he would recognise her up close. Was the risk of going to the speech too great? If she turned around now would she attract his attention?

  Elise hesitated and placed her hand on a black railing. On the wall above, a golden plaque caught the light. Elegant letters spelt out the name of the London Scientific Institute. As Fitzgerald mingled with the crowd, Elise walked quietly up the steps, stepping through the open front door.

  The hall in which she found herself was warm and solemn. A rich rug lay under her feet. Voices floated across the marble floor and glasses and silverware clinked behind a closed door.

  Off the hall was a library with a high ceiling. A ladder reached the highest shelves and at one end of the room was a mezzanine, behind which were more bookshelves. Inviting armchairs lay around the room and a fire roared behind a grate.

  Elise wandered around the room, examining the collection. She took out a book on chemistry.

  Interesting, she thought, but not entirely accurate.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” she heard a voice behind her.

  A manservant was standing in the doorway with a look of pure shock on his face.

  “No ladies allowed.”

  “No ladies?”

  “Most certainly not.”

  “Even in the library?”

  “This is a private club, Miss. A club for gentlemen to discuss science.”

  “Is it an old club?”

  “One of the oldest, and the only one in the South of England,” the servant patted his thinning hair nervously. “But I must ask you to leave at once. I told you, Miss, no ladies allowed.”

  His face was so pale, Elise guessed he must fear some terrible punishment for allowing her inside. She went quietly into the hall.

  “Ted’s left the front door open,” the servant muttered. “Where has he got to? Foreign are you, Miss?”

  Elise nodded as she steppe
d outside.

  “Well you can’t come in here,” he said, closing the door firmly behind her.

  The crowd in the distance had diminished and Fitzgerald was nowhere to be seen.

  Elise strolled to the end of the street. She stood close to an elderly man and his wife as they entered the hall. An attendant muttered something about no women being allowed. Elise frowned. Being a wealthy woman seemed more restrictive than being a maid.

  But the man and his wife must have been somebody, for the servant apologised profusely and guided them inside. Elise slid in behind them.

  She took a seat in the back row. In her new dress, she seemed to be accepted into this rarefied social circle.

  The conversation in the hall gradually fell silent. The stage was empty. A wave of expectation swept over the crowd. Elise sensed the anticipation whenever there was any movement at the front of the hall.

  Minutes ticked by.

  Finally a solitary figure strode onto the stage, head bowed, chin firm, as though weighed down by a tremendous burden.

  Barnabas Wyatt gripped the lectern and surveyed the crowd with satisfaction. Another minute passed. Then his resonant voice filled the hall.

  “We are at a turning point in history.”

  He let the words fall like rain. Some craned their necks, while other gentlemen sat back comfortably.

  “The forces against which I have fought all my life are rising again. But in this year, 1848, they are more dangerous, more violent and more treasonous than ever before. And the heart of this current threat is one cry - the right of every man to vote.”

  A rumble went through the crowd.

  “In 1832, the parliament of this great country conceded to some of our adversaries’ demands. But these dark forces of chaos push harder. I assure you, any extension of the right to vote, is nothing more than a conspiracy for the ordinary man to control his masters.”

  Barnabas Wyatt’s eyes blazed. “They say they have an ancient right, a natural right. They wave the Magna Carta. But when the founders of our constitution gave the vote to the people, they did not mean the people,” Wyatt paused as scoffing laughter rolled over the crowd. “They meant the class of people who were entrusted to govern. Would you trust your servant with the right to vote? Have you ever heard the nonsense that comes out of his mouth?”

  For the first time, Elise saw Fitzgerald standing with the attendants at the side of the stage. He watched Wyatt obediently and his gaze did not waver. His face was impassive and showed no emotions.

  “There is a natural order to our world,” Wyatt went on. “And if that world changes, be sure, that there will be nothing but chaos. We have seen revolution in France and America - a half century of turmoil and violence. We must remain resolute.”

  Wyatt breathed deeply. “The public is weak. When I was part of the prosecution of George Loveless and the so-called Tolpuddle Martyrs there was much protest. They were Christians, churchgoers, law-abiding, fine fathers, sentenced to transportation to Australia. They were not violent. But what did they do? Sowed discontent. Told men to ask for higher wages. They did not need to be violent. It is their ideas that are violent. What of the carpenters and blacksmiths who joined the Swing Riots? Also complaining about their working conditions. We were right to round them up and arrest them. There is plenty of work for five hundred of them now, I’ve heard - in chains in Australia.”

  The woman next to Elise chuckled.

  “And like the many-headed Hydra, we slay one of the movements and another rises. Now men across England rally behind the Charter - a document promising every fool and farmer the vote! The right to determine who sits in our parliament. The right to determine your future, instead of you to determine theirs!

  “It is not necessarily the foolish ones that are dangerous. Many of these Chartists have a quick tongue and a turn of phrase. They quote the Bible to justify their treason. If I have one word of advice - which also applies when choosing a wife,” Wyatt said. “Please choose stupid servants.”

  The audience laughed.

  Fitzgerald blinked but remained still.

  “We have right and power on our side. But I can only urge vigilance. When 200,000 workingmen gathered on Kennington Common, in this great city of London, demanding the right to vote, we are in dangerous times. Who can forget the violent riots in St. James this summer?”

  Wyatt lowered his head, as though battle-weary. “My friends, these ideas of equality and enlightenment are meaningless. There is no point to these wretches’ lives. Encouraging otherwise is evil. Unfortunately the people are stirring. I assure though, we are ready for them whatever they do next.”

  Wyatt went on. When he finished the room erupted in applause.

  The aristocratic woman beside her swiveled her eyes and Elise pretended to clap. She felt uncomfortable, that somehow Wyatt had twisted all the facts. Who were these men who were sent in chains to foreign lands because they asked for better working conditions? The world seemed to have got worse since she had left France.

  But something else bothered her. Wyatt had presented a world of black and white, of power and earthly concerns. If he didn’t think there was any point to people’s lives, why was he so intrigued by alchemy? What did he intend to do with it?

  Wyatt strode confidently into the crowd, while Fitzgerald gathered Wyatt’s notes and ran after him. Elise rose from her seat.

  The crowd was surging through the doors and it parted suddenly. Wyatt and Fitzgerald were just feet away. Wyatt did not look at her and Fitzgerald hung his head.

  “Most inspiring, sir,” a man beside them said.

  “I fear I preach to the converted,” Wyatt sighed. “The Chartists are arranging another march.”

  “I’m sure the authorities will deal with them.”

  “Shall I arrange a carriage to the club?” a small anxious man with spectacles rushed to Wyatt’s side.

  “My servant can do it,” Wyatt jerked his head and Fitzgerald hurried to the front door.

  “Several ladies here tonight,” the man said. “Don’t think it’s a place for a wife. Next thing women will want the vote.”

  “That’ll never happen.”

  “God forbid,” Barnabas scoffed.

  “You have been very mysterious, Barnabas,” another man said. “Full of plans for the new house in Little Bingham and now I hear you haven’t even begun work. I’ve heard that you have made a strange discovery there,” he chortled. “What is it?”

  “Only a small matter of historical interest, Henry.”

  “Never been much a historian, though, Barnabas?” the man called Henry lit his pipe. “And word around town is you’ve been asking about a French gentleman - Jean-Louis Champillon was the name. A spy you reckon?”

  “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

  “And there’s a certain young lady - French - you’ve been asking about. Eh, what’s that about, Barnabas?”

  “I shall tell you all in good time, Henry,” Wyatt waved his hand.

  Henry’s eyes fell on Elise. Beneath his moustache, his lips narrowed into a leer. Elise reddened and turned away.

  Barnabas Wyatt ignored her. “Where is that boy? Edmond!” he bellowed. “Edmond!”

  Fitzgerald emerged through the crowd. Although he stood a foot taller than Wyatt, his shoulders were slumped and his head drooped obediently.

  “Where’s my carriage?”

  “There’s an accident outside, sir. Looks like they’ll have to kill the horse.”

  “I need to get to the Club at once.”

  “A cab has overturned and blocked the street. The driver’s in a bad way. There’s quite a crowd, sir.”

  “Get my carriage at once, boy,” Wyatt turned away.

  Fitzgerald ran out to the street. Elise weaved her way through the crowd and stepped outside.

  The accident was serious. Street sellers, urchins, cab drivers, hawkers, and the well-to-do, had all gathered to watch and give advice. Several men were lifting an upturned ca
rriage. A man was being carried out of the wreckage. The horse lay twitching on the ground. A woman and two children were weeping.

  Fitzgerald elbowed his way through the crowd. Elise thought he was going to move the carriage. Instead, he knelt by the side of the whimpering horse. The horse relaxed as he stroked its gleaming face. His hands passed along the horse’s back. The driver bowed next to him, but Fitzgerald shook his head.

  Someone produced a pistol and the barrel glittered in the darkness. Elise walked quickly away, wincing at the shot behind her.

  She looked back once. Fitzgerald stood with his hand over his mouth.

  The horse was still. The road was already being cleared. The butcher’s cart was circling. Wyatt could go to his club.

  Faces bobbed up and down in the lamplight and the air was thick with a smoke that never lifted. A passing driver gave her a cold stare. As more carriages rolled by, she wondered if Barnabas Wyatt was watching from inside. Perhaps it had been brazen to go to his speech, even in her new dress. As another carriage slowed alongside her, her pulse began to race. Perhaps Fitzgerald had seen her and reported it to Wyatt.

  She crossed the street. Figures glided in and out of the darkness. A man who was lounging by a wall rose like a puppet and began to walk behind her.

  Her heart quickened as the irregular light cast strange shadows on the uneven pavement. She came to a busy intersection. She breathed a sigh of relief when she lost sight of the man. She turned a corner, expecting to see the townhouses of Mayfair. Instead she had reached another quarter of London.

  Her heart pounded. With no stars to guide her, it was hard to tell which way was west. The rumble of the city confused her. She reached a blazing thoroughfare, which she thought was Piccadilly. She walked for half an hour but saw nothing familiar.

  The great sea of London pedestrians pushed her forward. Steam clouded the dirty windows of coffee houses and pubs. She had gone in the wrong direction and was heading east into the city.