Free Death of an Alchemist by Mary Lawrence

cricket until morning, until that bird started squawkin’ and carryin’ on.”
    The coroner pulled Ferris Stannum’s nightshirt below his shoulders and down his arms. He stood back for a full view. No bruising or ligatures marked Stannum’s skin. “And you attended him yesterday?” asked the coroner of Barnabas Hughes.
    â€œI visited him,” said the physician. “I found him overtired. From lack of sleep. I encouraged him to rest.”
    â€œAs I was saying,” said Mrs. Tenbrook importantly, “that bird was screeching like it was being beat. Bobbin’ its head . . .” She imitated the parrot’s gesture, which garnered everyone’s attention.
    â€œUsually the old man could get it settled and I wouldn’t hear but a few shrieks every once in a while. But it kept up its shrieking. After a time, I came down to see why he couldn’t get it to shut its beak. I don’t want the neighbors complaining. It sounded like Stannum was trying to kill the thing.”
    The attention went to the parrot, which was sitting passively on a limb that served as its perch. The macaw appeared untroubled by the roomful of strangers and cocked its head, peering at them through one eye.
    â€œAnd that’s when I saw him,” said Mrs. Tenbrook. “Frozen stiff in his bed. Like a winter gale had blown through.”
    The coroner pulled up Ferris Stannum’s nightshirt, leaving it open at the neck. “He died of natural cause.”
    Bianca was stunned by his quick pronouncement. “How can you be certain?” she asked.
    â€œThere are no signs of strangulation or poisoning.” The coroner was assured of his office. “I see no stab wounds. What has happened internally, I know not. However, it appears he died in his sleep.”
    â€œLook how white his lips and nose are.”
    â€œI would not expect rosy lips on the dead,” said Constable Patch.
    â€œHe lived his life in this alchemy room. He rarely saw the sun,” said Hughes.
    â€œBut white?” said Bianca. “And his face. It has a bluish cast. Don’t you see?”
    Everyone peered down at Ferris Stannum.
    â€œNay, I do not see,” said the coroner after a moment. He looked at Hughes, who shrugged and shook his head. “Sometimes we see what we imagine,” said the coroner.
    â€œI do not imagine,” said Bianca. She bent over the alchemist’s face and studied his glazed expression. “His eyes are bloodshot.”
    â€œThe man worked in dim conditions. My eyes would be bloodshot, too, if I worked in this cave.” The coroner stepped away and sat before a folio at the table. “He was an old man.” The coroner opened the folder, ran a hand over a page to smooth it down. Missing a requisite pen, he looked around. “Constable, hand me that quill.” He pointed to an inkwell and pen beside it.
    Bianca stared at her mentor. How could the coroner be so sure Stannum had died of natural cause? He had been full of life the day before. True, his hands had shaken, but he had been excited about his discovery. Though perhaps, she thought, he could have been fatigued and his trembling could have been from lack of food and sleep.
    The coroner began writing and Constable Patch hovered near his shoulder. Bianca bore a healthy distaste for public officials. They thought more about collecting their pay and where they might spend it than about performing their duty. The only thing that saved the common man from officials was their inefficiency.
    As Bianca thought of this and watched the two functionaries, she noticed that Ferris Stannum’s journal of alchemy was not on the lectern.
    She walked over to the writing desk. She looked around, searching the floor and bench beside it. “I do not see Stannum’s alchemy journal.”
    Neither Mrs. Tenbrook nor Barnabas Hughes answered. Constable Patch had no interest in her comment and continued to