Death of an Alchemist by Mary Lawrence

eyes ache and me head pounds and I have no one to look after me.”
    It was an oft-heard complaint. If Barnabas Hughes had a groat for every time an old woman sought him for attention . . .
    â€œMrs. Tenbrook, it does little good to worry over your circumstances. You have shelter and some coin, which is more than most. Be glad you are not living under a tree.” His patience thin, he grabbed her under the armpits. Ignoring her moaning and attempt to beat him about the head, he pulled her to an upright, sitting position. “I must listen to your heart and lungs.” Instead of laying his ear against her chest and leaving himself vulnerable to further clubbing, he laid his ear against her back.
    â€œI hear no congestion.” He looked around for her chamber pot. “I must ask for your waters.”
    â€œI’m too weak to stand,” she whined.
    So Barnabas Hughes found her slop bucket and helped her onto it.
    Â 
    Ignoring John’s warnings, Bianca waited until he had left for Boisvert’s before setting out for Ferris Stannum’s room of alchemy. If John asked later, she would tell him she was collecting the retorts Amice had set aside for her. Which was partly the truth, but Bianca did not accept that her mentor’s sudden death was from natural cause. She had a few questions for Mrs. Tenbrook. Her first priority was satisfying her curiosity.
    She walked down Bankside toward the bear-baiting venues in Southwark and waited at Molestrand Dock for a wherry. The day promised to be another steamy one; the sky had a gray, lifeless hue. A few swans dabbled in the reeds, their white feathers dingy from the muck. A ferrier poled his skiff to the landing and Bianca climbed in.
    The sun bore down as they angled across the river to Paul’s Wharf. Bianca almost wished she had taken a ferry closer to London Bridge, where she could have ridden across in its shadows even though it would have made for a more rolling ride. The shallows on the other side harbored biting flies when she disembarked, and she hurried up the steps to escape them.
    Taking the narrow Paul’s Chain, Bianca walked toward St. Paul’s parish. Along the way, it seemed every door of every rent was thrown open for air, allowing her a rare peek inside as she walked past. Bianca was privy to wailing babes and shouts of domestic life, reminding her she had not seen her parents in several months. They lived one street over, but she had not forgiven them from her last visit. News of her marriage to John should have been met with joy. True, her mother had responded with cheer, but her father’s pale eyes had shown as cold as quartz in January. She should not have expected more from her father, but his disinterest had burned her worse than any caustic remark. Since then she had stayed away. Hadn’t her father once told her to be cautious of fire?
    Nearing the lane where Ferris Stannum lived, Bianca attempted to shake off her feelings of disappointment with her father. Instead, she thought of her tutor and his untimely demise, but the dreary lane and its despondent inhabitants further added to her gloom.
    At Tenbrook’s building, Bianca pushed open the outer door, leaving it unlatched for light. Ahead, the door to Ferris Stannum’s room was closed. She rapped on it, tried pushing it open, but found it locked. A faint sound of conversation ranged from the second floor, so Bianca abandoned Ferris Stannum’s to climb the stairs. Ahead, Goodwife Tenbrook’s door was ajar.
    Bianca called through the gap and was answered by Barnabas Hughes.
    Inside, Bianca was surprised to find the interior only slightly brighter than the stairwell. She paused, noting the maze of hoarded possessions. On the other side of the room, the physician stood next to Mrs. Tenbrook. The goodwife sat on the edge of her bed wearing a shabby night shift. Her hair hung loose and uncombed, a wild gray nest. Her whole demeanor surprised Bianca,