Clive had never seen anyone move so fast—Isabella blew the candles out and all three of them dived for cover behind the workbench!

Clive stole a glimpse between two stacks of books. Two figures were entering the room, one clothed all in red, the other in head to toe white.

“The laboratory’s this way, fair traveller...” The Alchemist ushered his guest into the room, and slid the door to. He moved up the aisle adjacent to where the three trespassers were hiding. “Verily, you made remarkable time from Salisbury, my young acolyte! I was not expecting my summons to be answered for some days...”

Jerry tapped Clive on the shoulder and pointed carefully towards the man in white robes. “’At’s a druid, that is!”

“Ooh!”

Isabella silenced them with a look.

The druid made a complicated set of gestures with his hands.

The Alchemist nodded in comprehension. “Ah, I see! You happened to be in Londinium already. How fortuitous! But how, then, pray tell, did you receive my message? I sent it direct by carrier pigeon to the elders at Stonehenge...”

The druid had an answer for that. He reached into his robes and rummaged about a bit with both hands. At length his hands returned – a dead pigeon in the one, a compact crossbow in the other.

“I see!” said the Alchemist. “How efficient of you! I will of course be deducting the cost of such... fowl play... from your fee... Alas, poor Hermes! He shall be missed; though sadly, it seems, he was not... by you.”

The druid nodded in assent.

Clive had to ask. “Why doesn’t he speak?”

“They’ve been sworn to silence ever since the Romans invaded,” said Jerry, “–and they don’t write nuffin’ down, neither! I hear their education system’s top notch!”

“Wish you two were sworn to silence!” hissed Isabella.

“So!” the Alchemist pressed, eager now. “Do you have it! The means by which to tear out the bitter weed of Anbury by its very root!”

The druid nodded. He reached into his robes again. Another rummage. At length, a package emerged of nondescript shape, wrapped in paper and twine.

The Alchemist took it gingerly in his hands. “Ah! At last! I threw my previous tincture away years ago, after The Incident, and swore never to dally with such power again! But now I see that fate has yet one more great task for me to perform!”

He placed the package upon the workbench, inches from Isabella’s lowered head, and began to unwrap it.

“Of course, you understand, I could make my own,” the Alchemist rambled amiably, “but it’s such a toil! So many stages, all that calcination, sublimation, fermentation, exultation... and the ingredients! It’s like cooking all 666 varieties of curry at once! Sometimes, it’s just so much easier to buy ready-made!”

The druid nodded understandingly.

The twine was off now and the paper was fast unwinding. Clive watched in the reflection of a condenser opposite. First to emerge was a red, conical hat; next a jolly mien in a white beard, hands clasped in prayer; a blue tunic; and little yellow boots.

The Alchemist stopped. There was a long silence. He rounded on the acolyte. “What is this? I sent for a philosopher’s stone!”

The druid made a series of nervous gestures.

The Alchemist translated. “A philosopher’s gnome? Is this a JOKE? Some convoluted folly at Anbury’s behest?”

The druid’s gestures grew more frantic.

The Alchemist listened, clearly deeply sceptical. “Rebranding? You turned the most sought after relic in human history... into a garden ornament?”

Nod.

“I see. How enterprising! Selling well, are they?”

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Nod.

“How many?”

More gestures.

“Really? Lead into gold, indeed! Very well! We care not for its popish headgear, or the rosy hue to its cheeks, but it matters not! All that is of consequence is the miracles it shall engender!”

The druid rubbed his fingers together. That one, Clive understood.

“Of course. Your fee! But you won’t mind if I... break it in, will you? After all, it is a little... outside of expectations.”

The druid shrugged sanguine.

“Excellent! Now...”

Without warning, the Alchemist raised the gnome high, and smashed it down hard on the countertop close to Clive’s head.

Clive yelped!

The gnome’s head fell off the counter and spun to rest beside Clive’s feet. The gnome smiled sweetly up at him.

Jerry and Isabella held their breath...

The Alchemist looked suspiciously at the broken pieces. No stone had ever yelped before... but gnomes were an unknown quantity...

Using a pair of tongs, the Alchemist took a small shard of gnome, and placed it in a crucible. Taking the crucible over to a large cylindrical stone burner set into the middle of the room, he sat the crucible in a stand on top, and carefully measured charcoal from a bag into the arched furnace on one side, along with a little kindling from a box. The device he withdrew from his robes looked like nothing so much as a pistol.

“Is that a gun?” Clive asked.

“Nah! S’just a lighter. You’ll see!” whispered Jerry.

The Alchemist placed the lighter into the furnace, and pulled the trigger. Sparks flew from the flint. A few triggers later and the sparks had become a flame. Taking a set of bellows, the Alchemist expertly coaxed the nascent tongue into a roaring blaze. The crucible above was beginning to glow. The Alchemist waited patiently (the interlopers rather less so) while the clay inside melted and congealed into a bubbling slime. Using tongs, he moved this over to another counter, this one occupied by a compact alembic, and heated by a simple candle. He tipped the hot contents of the crucible into the cucurbit, itself half full of an intense golden brown liquid. Mist poured from the surface of the liquids as they mixed. Working swiftly, the Alchemist added the flask head with its downward dripping tube into the second flask, the receiver. A glowing vapour filled the cucurbit, and a luminous blue liquid began to drip down into the receiver.

Finally, when the receiver was a quart full, the Alchemist was satisfied, and closed a tap on the tube. Taking the receiver, he poured the cerulean contents into an exquisite glass baluster, pinched and tapering, taken from a shelf below the workbench. Taking a spoon and opening a jar, he withdrew a measure of golden treacle and stirred it into the distilled perfection.

Turning to the druid, who had been watching with rapt fascination, the Alchemist offered him the glass. The druid looked from the glass to the Alchemist to the glass. “Honey. For the taste,” the Alchemist explained as to the final ingredient.

The druid hesitated. Clearly, tasting the goods was not something he had bargained for.

“Come now!” said the Alchemist. “Surely you stand by the quality of your wares? What harm one small sup of immortality? And I hear it’s good for the digestion, besides!”

The druid looked around. The folding door behind him was shut; for all he knew, locked too. The only other exit was the window. His face was hidden by the hood, but his chin and throat were not. He gulped visibly.

Taking the glass daintily in one hand, he raised it to his lips and sipped the smallest sup that ever soul did sip.

“Hmmm. Good!” the Alchemist said. “How do you feel?”

The druid shrugged and smiled. Amazingly, he was still alive.

“Excellent!” The Alchemist withdrew the lighter from earlier, flicked a catch, pointed it at the druid’s chest, and fired. The druid dropped like one of Jerry’s treacherous stones. The Alchemist leaned over his unmoving body. “And now?”

Clive nudged Jerry. “See! I told you he was packing a piece!”

“Nuffin’ peaceful about it...” mumbled Jerry.

The druid did not move.

The Alchemist gave the dead man a vicious kick. “Ha! I knew it! None who partake of the true Elixir of Life need fear death’s embrace! Philosopher’s gnome indeed! Charlatan! Thought you’d just take my money and run, did you? Well, it’ll take more than an innocent-looking garden ornament to fool me!”

The Alchemist yawned. “Truly, it’s been a long day, and we are much wearied by the fruitlessness of our labours. All can wait. We shall have the nipidits clean up this mess, on the morrow...”

And with that, he sloped over to the folding doors, and was gone.

With sighs of relief, the three interlopers got to their feet and worked out the cramps in their legs.

“That was close!” said Isabella. “You saw what he did to that poor fool – can you imagine what he would have done to you if he’d caught us!”

But Jerry was unconcerned. In fact, he was rubbing his hands and looking at the druid’s body with gusto. “Issy! I got to hand it to you! You said death: I doubted you, but, sure as mud, death there is! Clive, we’re back in business! Now, you want heads or tails?”

Clive looked at the dead body, and then at Isabella’s. She was biting her lip again. That did it.

“I... think someone better remain behind and help Issy... clean up, don’t you?”

Jerry gave him a level look. “Like that, is it?” He sighed. Speaking to the dead man: “Looks like it’s the goat farmer for you then...” With surprising strength, he squatted down and pulled the dead druid onto his shoulders. Standing with a grunt, he made for the door. “Clive, don’t be out all night: work begins tomorrow. You know where to find the parlour; ask around if you get lost.”

Isabella made to follow him, “I need to operate the exit mechanism for you on the...”

Jerry shook his head. “No need. You have er, ‘clearing up’ to do. I’ll show m’self out.” He turned and made off down the corridor, leaving the two penelovers to their own devices.

And that meant Clive and Isabella were alone together, finally, at last.