The Alchemist's Daughter (9 page)

C
HAPTER
16

Once she heard the door close behind Robert Wynders, Jane Beldam lifted the cup of ale to her lips and downed the remains without stopping. She turned the cup upside down on the table and laid her hand on its bottom.

Her efforts to perpetuate the lie had reached an impasse. Without more drastic measures, she and the women of Barke House were destined to return to their more sordid occupations in order to survive. Doing so would pique the interest of the exchequer, constable, and other lowlifes, something Mrs. Beldam had hoped to avoid.

She rested her cheek on her fist and stared vacantly at the shelving opposite. The flour and grain stores were dwindling, along with the rat poison and everything else. While she preferred her newfound respectability, it didn’t mean she couldn’t “flip the coin” if she had to. The girls depended on her for refuge and advice, and if they had to step up their filching and other endeavors, they would. But she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Barke House wasn’t so desirable that the girls couldn’t go elsewhere if she became too demanding. Then she’d be left with nothing.

With her youth and beauty faded, Jane Beldam relied on wits and cunning instead. No convents would accept the likes of her, nor would any man marry an old whore. She’d never find work again, anywhere—her reputation ensured that. But she had always managed to remain one step ahead of the authorities and avoid the Clink—she’d never live through such dour environs at her age.

Mrs. Beldam was deep in contemplation when Pandy strolled into the kitchen.

“Why ye let that eel-skinned bombast in this house mystifies me,” said the girl, observing Mrs. Beldam’s long face. “He never fails to leave misery in his wake.” Pandy dropped onto the bench opposite her.

“I believe ye loved him once,” said Mrs. Beldam.

Pandy had hoped Wynders’s affections for Jolyn had been buried along with the beautiful muckraker. His cool reaction to news of Jolyn’s death had left Pandy hopeful, but then his equally cool reaction to Pandy had left her bitter. “And I was a fool. There is no need for him to come ’bouts anymores.”

“Ye may gets your wish,” said Mrs. Beldam. Pandy’s indifference didn’t fool the veteran callet. She still wanted Wynders, and Mrs. Beldam knew it.

Pandy was of little use, having failed to complete even Mrs. Beldam’s most simple requests. Upon arrival, Mrs. Beldam required new girls to turn over their coins and trinkets as a good faith contribution in running Barke House. If one refused or hid anything of value, then Pandy was to “remove” it and promptly deliver said item to Mrs. Beldam. More than once Pandy had claimed failure when all the while she had kept an item for herself. But Mrs. Beldam had a keen eye, and nothing escaped her notice—not even the malevolent glint in Pandy’s eye.

“Methinks ye’d better to leave off the man,” said Mrs. Beldam. “He’ll come up against what he deserves. Ye’ll see.” Then Mrs. Beldam, feeling she might not have sufficiently impressed the girl, added, “Besides, if it is a husband ye want, there are better men to choose. Robert Wynders is as married to Chudderly Shipping as he is to his wife.”

Pandy’s lips pinched, and she looked away.

“Now get on with it,” admonished Mrs. Beldam. “No need dwellin’ on the past.” She stood up and got Pandy a cup of ale. “Ye need to not let yeself get parched. Ye need time to heal what all ye been throughs.”

Pandy dutifully drank down the quaff and stood. She lifted her chin, but failed to hide the tears welling in her eyes.

“Go on now. Ye be all right,” said Mrs. Beldam, and she watched Pandy straighten and march from the room.

Mrs. Beldam had never approved of Pandy’s affair with Wynders. She knew it would end badly for the girl, especially once Jolyn arrived at Barke House. She had been at a loss to discourage either girl from involving herself with the man. She couldn’t understand why anyone would want the arrogant whoremonger. But, she thought with regret, they had not been the only women to fall prey to his charms.

C
HAPTER
17

It was hard enough pouring a bucket full of molten metal over delicate molds, but to do it while a meddlesome Frenchman lectured him on matters of love was too much for the young Anglais to endure. John tried to concentrate as he tipped the scalding silver, then hauled on the chain to move it to a new mold. He didn’t fancy burning himself.

“So this matter of the Bianca,” mused Boisvert, watching from a safe distance, “she is still not sure of you?” The master silversmith chuckled. “These
jeunes filles,
they are splendid creatures,
n’est-ce pas?
” He adjusted his codpiece with a faraway look in his eye. “Well, so your lovemaking skills must be
négligent
.”

“That is not the issue,” sputtered John. His patience with the round-bellied foreigner was wearing thin. True, the man had rescued him from living in a barrel outside a boozing ken, but he, too, had had a part in Boisvert being able to conduct his business with some modicum of peace. It wasn’t easy for a Frenchman to navigate the social customs of the Anglais, even if he was a master in his craft and widely sought for his casts of plates and even coins. “She is accused of murdering her best friend. Instead of asking for help, she is pushing me away.” John worked the chain, easing the iron bucket back into the orange coals of the foundry.

“That is enough for today,” said Boisvert, putting up his hand. He wandered to the rear of the forge and returned with a bottle of wine.

John dampered the chimney, but he still had the casts to recover, and so he carefully moved a mold with heavy tongs over a trough of water. He tried to push the aggravation out of his mind, but Bianca was like a splinter—under his skin and irritating.

Boisvert, refusing to let the matter go, poured himself a glass of wine and pulled up a chair to watch his young apprentice. He had no qualms assuming all men of English descent were boors in the bedroom.

“John,” said Boisvert, swirling the glass of wine under his nose, “if it isn’t your love skill, then why the Bianca doesn’t run away with you?”

John dropped the mold of coins into the trough, sending a cloud of steam hissing into the air. The mold fell apart with a satisfactory crack, and the coins clinked to the bottom. John fought the urge to grab Boisvert by the collar and dunk his French face into the water. “I told you. She has been accused of murder.”

Boisvert sipped his wine and considered this. “Perhaps this Bianca is not the one for you. Maybe you should find a lovely
fille
more amenable.”

“I don’t want another
fille
. I want Bianca.”

Boisvert’s eyebrows skipped in appreciation, and he chuckled softly. “My poor boy. This is not the first time the Bianca has found trouble. It wasn’t so long ago that she was running about in the Tower
Blanc,
trying to rescue her father from a charge of treason.” Boisvert undid the last button of his doublet, releasing his belly from the constricting fashion. “I would say, you must be careful the company you keep.”

John retrieved a long-handled ladle to scoop the coins from the bottom of the trough. He fished about for the silver and deposited it with a loud clank in a metal pail. “It isn’t as if she goes about seeking this sort of trouble,” he said. “She just seems to have come across some unexpected twists of fortune.”

“You call it ‘twists of fortune.’ I call it a plague of
mis
fortune. And it is best to avoid that sort. Bianca is misery.”

“She is not misery.”

Boisvert polished off his glass of wine. “Suit yourself,” he said knowingly. “You would be much happier without the Bianca.”

John deposited the last coins into the pail, then hung the ladle back on its hook on the brick wall. He thought about Bianca this morning, in the vaporous gloam of Cross Bones graveyard. Her eyes keenly brilliant in the gray murk. She had been preoccupied; perhaps he had been too quick to anger. All he wanted was for her to acknowledge him. Show a hint that she cared. He dropped onto a stool and stared at the forge. Perhaps he should offer his help. Then, just as quick, his anger flared and he thought to hell with it. Her eyes had been on some other fellow. She had hardly said two words, much less cared that he had come to apologize for his snit. If she needed or wanted his help, she’d seek him. He would wait. He would wait for her to show that she wanted him.

“Are you going to let in whatever is pounding at the door, or are you going to sit in a stupor for the rest of the day?” Boisvert crammed the cork back into his bottle, sorry for the interruption. A good bottle of wine should never wait to be finished.

“Ah, just who I was hopin’ to find,” said Constable Patch when John opened the door. He stepped inside, nodding to Boisvert, then turned back to address John. “I was hoping ye might know where your friend is.”

“Whom do you mean?”

The corner of Patch’s mouth slid up in a half grin. “Your friend Bianca, of course.”

“She is not my friend.”

Patch tilted his head and glanced at Boisvert and winked. “Well then . . . acquaintance?”

“I haven’t seen her since the cemetery. We aren’t speaking.”

“Not speaking,” repeated Patch. He studied John with surprise. “Why might that be?”

John ignored the question. He might be upset with Bianca, but he wasn’t prepared to make it easy for Patch to find her. He stared innocuously at Patch until the constable blinked.

“I have something of import to tell her.”

“And that is . . .”

“It is between her and me.”

“Like I said, I haven’t seen her. She certainly hasn’t sought me out.” John turned his back on him and went to finish his work.

Patch glanced at Boisvert and then gazed around the brick-lined forge. The place was pleasantly warm and dry. He appreciated the brief reprieve from the dreary weather outside. A bucket of silver coins sat near a trough of water. He wondered if the coiner ever clipped the king’s currency for a little extra in his pocket. He sized up the little Frenchman sitting like a toad in his comfortable chair. It wouldn’t take much to wield his authority over the silly snail-eater. But the question would have to wait for another day. He had a murderess to nab.

Patch studied John. The poor idiot was bitten hard by love, or probably lust, he mused. Look at him so determined to stay honorable and protect this girl. He’d not learned the better part of valor was to save his own skin first. Patch rested his hand on the hilt of his poniard as he casually crossed the room. The girl was playing a tiresome game of cat and mouse, running here, hiding there, avoiding arrest. If this boy was helping her in any way, he needed to stop it.

Patch stepped up to the lad, who was organizing tools on the back wall. “If ye should be party to hiding her, it wouldn’t take much to clap irons on ye.” Patch raised his head. “Why so gallant? I’ve got a murderess to remove from the streets, and I do not take kindly to those who interfere.”

“Why are you so certain that it was Bianca? She may have knowledge of poisons, but that doesn’t make her a murderer. I wager you haven’t considered anyone else.”

“I welcome suggestions.” Patch’s eyes narrowed while he considered John carefully.

“Why are you so certain she died of poison? She could have died of natural cause.”

“What natural cause would turn her blood purple?” Constable Patch sensed a slight desperation in the boy’s voice. “The coroner determined only a poison could have killed her.”

The wine in Boisvert’s belly began to curdle as he watched these two. If he could get the shambling official out of his forge, then he’d cuff some sense into the lad later. Rising from his chair, he tugged his doublet down over his gut and wandered to the pail of coins to inspect them. He picked one up and polished it against the velvet of his sleeve. “
Gendarme,
it is obvious the Bianca girl is not here,” he said. “Nor has John seen her.
Monsieur,
if that is all, we have other matters to attend.”

At first, Patch took insult at the Frenchman’s curt dismissal. Then he saw the shiny coin in Boisvert’s hand. Yes, that would go a long way in buying them the peace they desired. Besides, he had yet to be paid by the royal treasury for his duties this month. But the little propriety he possessed did not allow him to ask for the coin outright. No, he could not do that. His eyes flicked back and forth from the coin to the silversmith’s face. This Frenchman knew how to play the game.

 

Patch strolled leisurely toward the door, patting his pocket. He turned and gave the two a final nod before exiting. His honor might be slightly tarnished, but the coin in his purse was decidedly not.

C
HAPTER
18

Bianca slogged up the lane away from the Dim Dragon Inn, passing a group of revelers leaving the bull-baiting at Paris Gardens. Bianca had been to see the sport once with John, and that was enough for her to leave off the bloody pastime. She had watched a dog relentlessly taunt the poor beast into charging. Over and over the dog crept close, keeping a vigilant eye on the creature, gauging its chance to dart forward and seize the bull’s nose—the most tender and vulnerable spot. The bull turned and turned, always facing its foe, exhausting itself as the dog sprang away just as it charged.

When she learned the handlers cinched the bull’s bollocks in iron cramps, then stabbed its back with knives to provoke it before leading it into the ring, she wanted to leave. But John wanted his full money’s worth and would not budge. So Bianca started shouting, cheering for the bull to gore its handler instead of the dog. The crowd turned on her and started yelling that maybe
she
should be gored next. When she looked at John, he merely shook his head and shrugged.

“Why don’t you say something?” she had demanded.

“Because this is what they paid to see.”

“This is cruel. Don’t you see it?”

“If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

Furious, Bianca stood, rousing the crowd behind her to shout at her to sit.

Bianca left in disgust, uncertain if she was more upset about the bull-baiting or with John. Animals had no say in what they were forced to endure. They only knew loyalty to their masters, no matter how poorly they were treated.

Though Bianca was troubled by the brutality, that did not make her soft of heart. She’d seen plenty of criminals hanged in the gibbets at Aldersgate, their bodies blackened and skeletal thin from beatings and starvation. She’d witnessed public executions, and even stolen into the Tower grounds to see Queen Catherine beheaded. To her reckoning, though, most people were responsible in some way for their predicaments. No doubt the innocent were persecuted more often than the guilty, and while she was sorry for this injustice, she saw it as typical and the unfortunate occurrence that went with this king’s reign. And while she worried of becoming a victim herself, she believed that her fate was still in her hands. It was up to her to find who poisoned Jolyn, and so save her own neck.

She wondered what business the ship’s agent had with Henley. Perhaps the muckraker had seen the man had money and seized the chance to cheat him. To sell him something? No, it appeared the man had sought Henley, not the other way around. The two would not have dealings with each other unless it was for a reason. It could not be an accident that the two had been deep in conversation.

What could a muckraker and a ship’s agent possibly have in common? Was the agent Wynders? Could he be Jolyn’s love? He seemed officious and full of himself, not the sort Jolyn would have had much patience with or interest in. Bianca dismissed the idea as fast as she skirted a cutpurse sizing her up from ahead.

Though the days were lengthening and should have afforded some warmth, the air was chill. The smoke from cheap fires hung low over the lane, merging with the moist air from the Thames. The thick stew was as unpleasant to walk in as it was to inhale. Bianca squelched through the mud, wishing for a pair of pattens to lift her above the muck and keep her feet dry. Her ankle-length boots were worn through at the toe, and she hated sitting in the alley behind her room, washing her feet in cistern water nearly as cold as ice.

She was thinking of what to do next, whom to question, when just ahead she saw the red cap of Meddybemps as he pushed his cart of wares toward London Bridge. She hurried to catch him.

“My dainty dove,” said Meddybemps, stopping to watch her galumph through the mud toward him, “I dropped by, but you weren’t in.” He maneuvered his cart to the side, allowing a man balancing a yoke of water buckets to pass.

“You’ll have to wait if you want more salves. I’ve other things to take care of.”

“Like saving your neck?” said Meddybemps, scratching an armpit.

“I’ve just seen Henley, a muckraker who accused Jolyn of stealing from him.”

“I don’t know him.” Meddybemps’s eye quivered. “But that is no matter,” he said, brightening. He leaned in as if about to impart a wondrous gift. “I know something outrageously interesting. That overbearing cock who wanted rat poison for his ship? I followed him.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Bianca, I know you prefer not to dangle at Aldersgate, so do not assume my reasons are always for personal gain.”

“I’ve never thought otherwise.”

Meddybemps could not be sure if she’d just insulted him, but he continued on in good cheer. “I thought there was something knavish about the man, and I intended to find out more.”

Bianca wrapped her scarf another turn around her neck. This talk of hanging made her anxious.

“So I followed him, and where do you think he went?” Meddybemps didn’t expect Bianca to answer and paused for effect, as if imagining a brass fanfare playing out. “He visited Barke House.”

Bianca’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you know why?”

Meddybemps grinned knowingly. “Why do most men go to Barke House?”

“It’s not like it used to be,” said Bianca. “It may have been disreputable once, but Jolyn assured me Mrs. Beldam had only the most honorable of intentions now. She was helping women start anew.”

“My dear girl, how you survive in Southwark amazes me.”

“Not everyone is out for themselves.”

“Of course they are!” Then, hoping to shake some sense into his young charge, he said, “Don’t assume everyone has noble intentions. The only person more gullible than Jolyn . . . is you.”

Bianca colored to a shade darker than his cap. “Did you follow him inside?”

“Nay,” said Meddybemps, taking up the arms of his pushcart and leaning into it. The display of talismans and trinkets swung wildly as a wheel rolled through a deep rut. “I didn’t want to leave my cart unattended for so long. I am not so foolish. The streets crawl with criminals.” A particularly full-bodiced woman strode past, and Meddybemps’s eye whirled in appreciation.

“I should visit Barke House and find out what business he had. Find out if he is the man Jolyn loved. Maybe they could tell me where to find him.”

“If I was you, I’d stay at Boisvert’s until I figured out how Jolyn died. Or until Constable Patch lost interest.”

“He won’t lose interest. He has nothing better to do but hang me for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“Exactly why I believe you should seek John for protection.” Meddybemps hoped his young friend would take his advice—at least for now. But he knew Bianca would likely do the opposite of anything he advised. She merely shrugged and began to wander off in the direction of Barke House, distracted and obviously brooding over her predicament. She had shut herself off from anyone offering help or opinions. Resignedly, Meddybemps took up his pushcart and headed to market.

 

Barke House appeared no different from any other boarding hall or stew on Bermondsey Street. A mix of residences and squalid stews, the street was not so well traveled as it was just another lane running north and south. But for those wanting to avoid the rank sights and smells of the stream along Morgan’s Lane, it was a preferable thoroughfare. And for those wanting a discreet romp, the relatively quiet lane afforded a man the semblance of privacy. A man could sneak down Bermondsey Street and slip into the arms of a waiting trollop as easily as he could slip into the arms of his coat.

Green moss clung to the wooden front door and shingles of Barke House. The shutters were closed, two akilter from broken hinges and woefully unable to keep out the cold. Bianca rapped at the spongy door, the sound of her knock muffled by the rotten wood.

After a moment, she put manners aside and pushed open the door. She entered a vestibule where an unlit candle sat on a small table. A slit of light from the interior leaked under a second door. She found it unlocked and peered into the quiet residence. She was about to call out when a girl, busy tying the laces of her bodice, startled to see Bianca.

“I didn’t hears anyone come in. What do ye want?” she asked, regaining her composure.

Bianca recognized her from Cross Bones. She and another girl had accompanied Banes and Mrs. Beldam at Jolyn’s burial. She fit Jolyn’s description of Pandy. Wide-set eyes on a face as round and flat as a platter. Her figure, though, was decidedly unlike a platter as the laces in her bodice required a double knot to perform their duty.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Beldam.”

“She’s not here.” The girl stepped within a foot of Bianca and looked her up and down.

“Do you know where I might find her?”

“Not my day to watch her.”

“I saw you at Jolyn’s burial. You must be Pandy?”

The corner of the girl’s eye twitched. “I mights be.” She seemed to be measuring if there was anything to gain by admitting it.

“I’m Bianca Goddard.” Seeing the blank expression on the girl’s face, Bianca added, “I’ve been accused of poisoning Jolyn.” She hated to introduce herself as a suspect in a murder, but with these types she hoped the news might put her in good stead.

“Sorry that,” said Pandy with such indifference it was as if she’d just pronounced that water was indeed wet.

Bianca staunched her irritation, though it was hard for her not to match the girl’s insolence with some of her own. “Do you know if Mrs. Beldam is interested in a muckraker named Henley?”

“Why would ye think she’s interested?”

“I saw her speaking with him at the cemetery. It seems odd she’d be speaking to a muckraker.”

“Wells, maybe he knew Jolyn and was expressing his condolences.”

Bianca’s level stare let Pandy know she knew this was not so. She wondered how best to approach this girl, as she was getting nowhere. “I’d heard Jolyn had a tiff with a muckraker.”

Pandy placed a hand on her hip. “Don’t knows nothin’ ’bout it.”

And then Bianca took a chance. She didn’t know how Pandy would respond. If what Mackney had told her was true, Pandy would be her measure. “I heard Henley wanted a ring Jolyn had found.”

Pandy shrugged. “That don’t surprise me. Fat and gold it was. She never took it off. Some rot ’bout it bringin’ her luck and all.” She smirked. “Didn’t work so well—did it?”

“Why do you think he wanted it?”

“I don’t knows. Nor do I cares. Like I said, it was fat and gold. Probably worth more than a month’s pickings.”

“Have you ever seen him come around here?”

Pandy lifted an eyebrow. “I’s seen my share of men comin’ and goin’. But nay. Can’t say I have.”

As Pandy started past, Bianca lobbed one last question: “Has Jolyn’s suitor been by today?”

Raw fury replaced the girl’s insolent expression. Pandy flung open the vestibule door and yanked a woolen shawl off a hook. Not bothering to drape it around her shoulders, or answer Bianca’s question, she stomped out the door and flung it shut.

“Touchy subject, that,” said Banes, appearing from a room off the entry. He held a candle in his good hand and clutched a rag against his chest with the other. “Would you mind holding this?” He handed Bianca the candle. “In answer to your question—aye, Wynders was here.” Banes swabbed out the runny tallow from a wall sconce and pushed the fresh candle in the holder. It had grown dark and Banes lit the candle, but not before nearly setting his sleeve on fire from an ember he retrieved from a smoldering hearth.

“Did Mrs. Beldam tell him about Jolyn?”

“Pandy told him.”

“He must have suffered a shock.”

Banes shrugged. “Captains are as cold as the waters they sail.”

“He’s a sea captain?”

“Does it matter? He deals with ships and such. They are a breed apart.”

“What did he say when he found out?”

Banes lowered his voice to a whisper and furtively glanced over his shoulder. “He came in puffed as a rooster, and after Pandy waylaid him made straight for the kitchen.”

“Did he speak with Mrs. Beldam?” Bianca kept her voice low, thinking there must be good cause to do so.

Banes tucked the cloth under the armpit of his bad arm. “They spoke,” he said; then, in a louder, more distinct voice, he added, “I was not privy to their conversation. I was busy tending my chores.”

Bianca pondered what he had just said, and Banes took advantage of her distracted gaze to study her. It didn’t look like she ate much. Her long, bony fingers clutched the dangling end of her scarf. She was as thin as frost. He wondered if this was an indication of her struggle to survive or if she preferred dabbling in potions to eating.

“Does he come here often?”

“It is not my business.”

“Did Wynders visit Barke House before Jolyn took up residence?”

“Aye,” mumbled Banes. He flushed from Bianca having caught him staring at her bubbies.

“Did Wynders come here for the . . .” Bianca thought how best to say it without embarrassing either of them. She knew Mrs. Beldam had tried to redeem Barke House’s reputation. And, after all, Banes did live there and suffered its scandalous reputation along with the rest of the occupants. “Did he come here for the . . .”

Banes’s eyes narrowed, daring her to say it.

“. . . entertainment?” finished Bianca, putting it diplomatically. Now it was her turn to flush.

“Always.” Banes knew that was not entirely true. Wynders did come for women, but his presence over the years had been long-lived. Most men patronized Barke House for a while, then disappeared. He didn’t know if this loyalty to Barke House was built from a trust between Wynders and Mrs. Beldam or whether the man just preferred the pickings here. But Banes’s allegiance was first to Barke House. It was his home, and he instinctively knew to protect it. Besides, he enjoyed seeing Bianca squirm.