The Alchemist's Daughter (20 page)

C
HAPTER
33

Constable Patch hobbled up the lane, leading his minions. The two ruffians had agreed to assist him for the promise of a beer afterward, but also, more importantly, for his dropping charges of swindling visitors at the entrance of St. Bartholomew’s. They had told gullible travelers that a relic of skin from the saint was enshrined therein, and for a penny they could kiss it for eternal good health. They now loped behind the constable, mocking him silently behind his back as he led them through the alleys of Southwark to find that murderess Bianca Goddard.

Patch muttered unintelligibly, skirting a mangy goose and a copious puddle, arguing with himself that he could not be sure the girl wasn’t a witch impersonating an apothecary. But he had no proof of this, so for now, he must be satisfied with the simple claim of murder.

If he succeeded in nabbing the villainess, he’d be one step closer to a possible commission in a better-paying district of London. The aldermen appreciated constables practiced in bringing miscreants to justice. They believed the need was greater on their side of the river, though Patch knew that assumption was patently untrue. Yet on the other side of the river lay “civilization” and the men with money and the status to go with it. Merchants and livery fancied living in a less-nefarious borough, and were willing to hire those who had proven themselves worthy of such commissions.

Worried the two scalawags might prove useless, Constable Patch spun to face them.

“I’ll not ’ave ye burgle this arrest,” he said, catching them in an obscene gesture. He fixed them with hard stares as they staggered to a stop, inches from plowing into him.

One of the men spoke up. “Sir, if ye mean ‘bungle,’ we don’t have a heart fer it. Nor would we filch a single strand of straw in this venture. We’ve a mind to see a murderer hanged. Aye, we would. We has a vested interest in treachery of all kinds.”

Constable Patch’s eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Let me be clear, it is not my treachery but hers.”

The one scalawag nodded vigorously and was joined by his partner. Their two heads bobbed in unison. He said, “Sirs, we do as ye likes. Character is for God to judge, not fer the likes of men such as we.”

Constable Patch pulled his beard as his eyes traveled up and down their persons. Two filthier, stinking knaves he’d never seen, but he knew the difference between men who wanted ale and men who needed it. They were the latter.

“This one is a clever sort,” Patch said. “She is as deceitful and conniving as any woman,” he added, unable to conceal his bitterness toward the fairer sex. “I would not put it past her to weevil her way out of this.”

“Aye, sir,” said the second man, the one most smelling like a goat. “Like a maggot in a sack of grain, she is.”

“Or a worm in fruit,” said the other.

Constable Patch wondered why they were drawing comparisons to insects. But his was not to ponder the logic of criminals. “Be ready to nab her and we’ll make quick about it. I should hope we’ll find her alone, but if not, I can’t imagine a crowd of admirers stuffed into that small rent. To be sure, I feel I must arm you.”

The men exchanged looks and bobbed their heads again with enthusiasm.

“For ye,” he said, handing one of them a length of rope, “the means to bind her wrists.”

The rope dangled from the man’s hand like a limp snake.

“Let me see ye bind your friend’s wrists.” Constable Patch was none too sure the rascal knew the first thing about such matters, and he was leaving nothing to chance.

Sure enough, the man proceeded to weave the length in and out and around with no sense of how to tie a secure knot. The rope hung loosely in a tangled lump. Constable Patch grabbed the useless snarl and proceeded to give him a proper lesson. He momentarily questioned whether it was wise to educate lowlifes in the finer points of criminal apprehension, then decided these fools hadn’t the wits to use any of it once he’d finished with them.

After he was satisfied the man could not completely botch his assignment, he gave the other a short dagger. “I assume ye know how to use this.”

The man looked as if he’d been given the Holy Grail. He turned the weapon over in his hand, studying its blade. After a long whistle the man looked up and smiled.

“I’ll be expecting that back,” said Constable Patch, to be sure the rascal had no delusions. He resumed his trek, touched his trusty anlace in its scabbard for luck (and a measure of assurance), then continued his grumbling and instructions.

“After we deliver the miscreant to gaol and she is safely disposed behind iron bars and three foot of stone wall, then we may breathe our ease that we have successfully delivered the dangerous killer off the streets of London.”

“But this is Southwark,” said the rope-bearing knave, trying to be helpful.

Constable Patch stopped in his tracks. He threw the rascal a look that would silence a guinea hen. “I’ll not have ye right me. By your office ye are nothing more than a drunkard at best and a charlatan at that. Ye do not have the office to right me wrongs or wrong me rights. Keep your tongue until spoken to, and dare ye not wag it before.” He looked the two up and down with a scouring glare, then resumed his walk, grumbling all the more and kicking a goose out of his way.

The two men said nothing more, but followed the foul-tempered constable through the grounds of a disbanded rectory to the area of Gull Hole.

Bianca Goddard’s room was down a narrow lane catty-corner to a yard of chicken coops, the sound and smells of which greeted them before they even turned the corner.

“Fie, I’ve not met such foul fowl in all me life,” said the man with the rope. He scrunched his face as if it should help filter the stink and prevent his eyes burning. “I’d not be a chicken farker if I were given a hundred crown.”

Constable Patch pointed out that this was an odd observation coming from a man who smelled of goats. He glanced over his shoulder and found the other cuffin still enamored with the dagger, waving it about with great sweeping swathes and engaging in a duel with an imaginary assailant. Constable Patch stopped.

“Before I get theres, I needs ye two to look mincing. I’ll not have ye cringing and parrying behind me back.”

The two men planted their feet together and threw their chests forward. They squared their shoulders as best they could, just like the king’s guard. The goat smeller wet his palm and slicked his hair away from his eyes. They each attempted a menacing stare.

“Ye goose this, it’ll be you who’s buyin’ me the drinks.” Patch could not hide his contempt as his lips pinched in disgust.

The two bobbed their heads in agreement.

Constable Patch muttered under his breath and turned the corner, where he was met by an unexpected sight. He stopped and put his arm up to keep his crew from stumbling over him. He was pleased to note it worked. He put his finger to his lips and, with stealth, tiptoed forward.

When he was within a step of the undercooked abomination of a young man, he drew himself erect and tapped the lad on the shoulder.

Banes whirled about and, seeing Constable Patch, took off running.

“Shoulds we run after?” asked the goat smeller.

But the lad had the advantage of youth and nimbleness and turned the corner before Patch got out a word. “Forgets it,” he said. “He’s already gone.”

Disappointed, Constable Patch pressed his ear to the door, listening for voices. Satisfied he heard the squeak of a female, he pounded the door.

He waited, listening for movement; then, when he heard an approaching footfall, assumed a pose of authority. The door swung open, and he found himself faced not with the murderess Bianca Goddard but with that irksome streetseller Meddybemps. The impertinent barnacle had the gall to smile.

“Ah, Constable Patch. To what do I owe this honor?” Meddybemps nodded in mocking deference.

“Honor? You, Meddybemps, speak to me of honor? I do not care for ye, nor do I owe the likes of ye an answer. Step aside.”

The smile slid from the streetseller’s face. “I suppose manners are a lawman’s failing.” He stood aside and let through Patch and the posse of bootlickers trailing behind.

Constable Patch scanned the room, ducking beneath the clusters of hanging herbs to better see. The putrid smell set his eyes watering, but there was Bianca, sitting on a stool with a bloodstained rag in her lap. Her hair needed a comb, and her eyes looked puffy, as if in need of sleep.

Unfortunately, she was not alone. That wheaten-haired fellow was next to her. He and Meddybemps looked as if to shield her, and Patch was glad at least for arming his minions, feckless though they were. He believed he had justice on his side, and that steeled his confidence—along with the thought of a promotion.

“Bianca Goddard, with the power vested in me by the just and honorable citizens of Southwark . . .” He took a breath and began his long-winded pronouncement like the wheezing exhale of a bellows. With nose pointed to the rafters he recited and embellished his speech. He had nearly finished when he glimpsed the disemboweled rats lined up on the table. He stopped midsentence and gawked. “My God,” he exclaimed. “What manner of evil
are
you?”

“I’ve discovered what poisoned Jolyn.” Bianca walked over to the table and pointed to several rats whose veins had been slit open. “The coroner discovered Jolyn’s blood was tinged purple. I was able to re-create the effect. It was rat poison that killed her.”

Constable Patch stared down at the display and the alarming purplish tinge of rodent’s blood. “This is your confession,” he affirmed.

Bianca shook her head. “I’m merely showing you the cause of her death, not who caused it.”

“But ye are practiced in rat poison.”

“I do deal in such.”

Constable Patch glanced over his shoulder at his appointed guards, who seemed even more horrified than he. They clamped shut their hanging jaws and watched him with bugged eyes.

“I taint my rat poison with tincture of terebinth resin—a noticeable additive.”

“Noticeable—how?”

“As in its odor. A smell of pine.”

“Are ye saying she would not have eaten it?”

“I am saying it would have been difficult to mask the odor in food.”

“But a murderer can be clever,” said Patch. “If one has the desire to see another dead . . .”

“True,” said Bianca. “Desire has its own life, separate from our moral, conscious one. It can drive one to ignore consequence. It has no remorse. It feels nothing but the satisfaction that comes with completion.”

“It is not surprising that murderers feel a certain satisfaction.”

“But motive is the means to satisfaction. Murder is always an act of passion. It can be born of jealousy, retribution, or defense. The reasons are varied, but the intent is always to end the murderer’s own personal suffering.”

Constable Patch looked on in amusement. This girl could certainly weave a tangled tale. “Pray tell, what do ye suppose was the motive?” he asked.

Bianca placed the stained rag on the table next to the rats. “Jealousy.”

Constable Patch searched her face. Was this her confession?

“Jealousy over another lover,” added Bianca, showing no indication of her own guilt.

“Another lover,” Patch groaned. “How pedestrian.” He’d never understood how love could incite a person to murder—especially when one considered the inevitable consequence. Was love worth the cost of a public hanging? “And who do ye suppose this other lover to be?”

“Jolyn was the last woman to receive Robert Wynders’s attention. But before Jolyn, there was another. A woman who suffered his poor treatment and was driven into a jealous rage. A woman living at Barke House, abandoned by Wynders and forced to watch him lavish affection on Jolyn. A woman with no choice but to take purgative to rid herself of the consequence of their failed passion. She did this in the hope of winning back his flagging attention, but it did not work. Left with no other choice to staunch her outrage, Pandy murdered Jolyn.”

Constable Patch’s brows shot up. “Pandy?” He glanced round. “Hmph. An interesting concussion.” He studied the expressions of John and Meddybemps. Apparently the crippled lad hadn’t informed Bianca Goddard of the news. Strange he had kept it quiet. After all, Banes had been there when he had visited Barke House to tell Mrs. Beldam.

“That is an interesting theory,” he continued, “though highly unlikely.”

John spoke. The color had drained from his face, leaving him as pale as Bianca. “What do you mean, ‘unlikely’?”

Constable Patch answered genially. How likely would a murderer become a victim so soon after committing a crime? Patch pulled the hair on his chin and watched Bianca’s face carefully when he told her.

“Pandy Shaw of Barke House is dead.”

He was not disappointed.

C
HAPTER
34

Bianca recalled her mother’s counsel, “Imagine the worst possible outcome, then work backward.” Sage advice when the worst scenario was something other than death.

“Are you going to die if you learn to stuff a goose?” she had asked when Bianca had preferred to run the streets with John. Bianca had grudgingly agreed to help her mother with the cooking that time, and she had learned a useful skill—if ever she wanted to serve roast goose.

However, in this particular case, the worst scenario
was
death. It was not imagined. On the contrary, it was inevitable.

Bianca had not been able to convince Constable Patch of her innocence—nor had anyone else.

Despite the futile protests of John and Meddybemps, which included a scuffle and fistfight, Bianca had been bound at the wrists and marched from her room of Medicinals and Physickes. Constable Patch led the way as two dubious guards alternately pulled her along. To her annoyance, one was particularly keen to nudge her forward with the point of a dagger he brandished at her backside.

Bianca sought to engage the constable in conversation in the hopes that the guards might stop tugging and prodding her. “Pandy must have known something,” she said. “Otherwise why would she be stabbed?”

Patch ignored her. Nothing could dissuade him from throwing Bianca Goddard in the Clink and trying her for murder.

“Am I to be tried for Pandy’s death, too?” she asked.

“Maybes there is something ye’s not telling us,” he said over his shoulder.

Bianca opened her mouth to protest, then wondered if he meant for her to be tortured once she was confined. Her knees buckled and she nearly fell but was caught up by the elbow and dragged forward by one of the guards.

Constable Patch turned to see what had happened, and his expression hardened. “Don’t tarry, now. Ye’ll have plenty of time to think on it once yer confined.”

But Bianca’s imagination got the better of her, and she heaved the contents of her stomach onto the guard.

“Gak! I’d not agreed to this,” he said, letting go of her arm and looking to rid his sleeve of her sick. Finding nothing suitable, he proceeded to examine the damage she’d done, then snatched the dagger from his mate and scraped the fabric with its blade.

His mate protested, and when Patch saw what was happening, his neck bloomed an exceptional shade of rose.

“Hand over that knife,” he said, unable to stand by while his favorite dagger was irreverently used to scrape sick. He snatched it away and pointed it at the ruffian’s chin. “I’ll not have ye abuse me edge.” He nicked the man’s jaw to prove his point, spit over his shoulder, then handed the blade back to the other. At least his companion had had the good sense to hang onto the prisoner so as not to lose her.

“Constable Patch,” said Bianca, desperate to dissuade him from taking such a narrow focus on the murders, “have you looked into the business dealings of Robert Wynders?”

“He is of noble employ with the Chudderly fleet, I knows that. It does not concern us.”

“But it does,” said Bianca. “I saw him send a rower to a moored ship in quarantine last night. I watched to see who would be setting out from shore at that late hour. It wasn’t long before a fire raged in the skiff next to the ship’s hull.”

Constable Patch marched on, although his pace slowed.

“Wynders was on shore. Once the fire died, he turned and left. If it were an accident, he would have acted alarmed.”

“Dids ye follow him?”

Bianca knew she had piqued his interest and seized her opportunity. “I did. He went to a warehouse in Romeland. After he left, I slipped inside.”

Constable Patch stopped. She thought he might say something about entering a property where she had no business. Instead, he encouraged her. “Go on.”

“I found something quite disturbing. Something of great import to the citizens of London.”

“If ye thinks ye is going to tempt me with something that has no bearing on my parish ward, then ye are mistaken. If it is of no interest to Southwark, I’ve not a care for it.”

“It does interest Southwark. What happens in London happens to Southwark. After all, we are two sides of the same river. The king might even want to know what I found.”

Constable Patch spun about and lowered his face inches from hers. “I’ll not have ye play me, girl.”

“Sir, I do not toy.”

“The consequences of which could be worse,” said Patch, his eyes narrowing in warning. “You’ve been duly reminded. But pray, do tell.”

“The smell was not of this world.”

“Odd
ye
should say it.”

“I heard snarling and rasping. It was dark as pitch, but I found a rushlight. Crates from Italy and bales of woolens and silks crammed every inch of the warehouse. I picked through the stacks to the interior.” An involuntary shiver skipped down her spine as she recalled the memory. “What I saw should not be taken lightly.” Bianca took a breath, watching Patch to be sure she had his attention. “The back of the warehouse was overrun with rats. Hundreds of them. All fighting and feeding off a pile”—Bianca opened her eyes wide and leaned forward—“of rotting corpses.”

The two guards exchanged glances.

Constable Patch’s upper lip quivered. “Well nows,” he said, “when ye says a ‘pile’—exactly what does ye mean?”

“I cannot say for sure. I did not stay to count them. Perhaps thirty . . . or more.”

Constable Patch blinked.

“I cannot imagine for what purpose Robert Wynders stores bodies in a warehouse. But if he does have a reason, there is a risk posed by doing so. Is he fattening the rats of the city and sending them forth to multiply?” Bianca could see she had given the constable pause. She was not going to abandon her advantage and made sure he’d have plenty to think about.

“Wynders came by my room of Medicinals and Physickes to acquire rat poison for his ship two days ago. I gave him a measure suitable for ridding a merchant vessel of a problem. But, sir, the amount I gave him would not be nearly enough to vanquish the problem in that warehouse.” Bianca noticed Patch was stunned into silence. His mouth opened and closed as if he were a carp gasping out of water.

“What if they overrun the city?” she said. “Why, you have to be blind not to notice their increased numbers.”

“It is true,” said one of the guards. “I has noticed. I have seen with me own eyes the bands of vermin on the streets of late.”

The other guard nodded while Constable Patch recovered enough to tug the wiry strands of his beard. He skittishly glanced around as if this talk of rats might actually summon them. “Wells,” he said, “it is not my jew’s diction.” He tossed off the responsibility, but Bianca could tell he was troubled. Whether he pursued the tidbit for his own glory, she did not care. But if she must hang, at least she would not take the information to her grave.

“I’ve got a murderer to deliver. I’ll not have ye waylay me further from my public duty. Come ahead, now. We haven’t all night.”

Constable Patch turned and with a purposeful stride set off, but Bianca saw him glancing this way and that, as if checking the lane for errant vermin.

A mantle of fog crept up from the Thames, and Bianca thought how she might never again see the sun once she was thrown in a cell. She sighed, and a harsh reality sank in. Would the next time she saw the sky be the day of her execution?

Her conveyance stirred the interest of curious passersby. A girl set down her yoke of buckets to watch them pass. Theatergoers, dray drivers, and goodwives all noted the entourage and drew their own conclusions—some quietly and others not so. Though her emotions churned, Bianca forced herself to lift her chin and meet their stares. She believed in her innocence even if no one else did, and she wanted others to see it in her face. She had little hope, but she clung to the notion that she’d be vindicated at trial.

The high tower of St. Mary Overie disappeared beneath the fog’s unsavory broth. Day was fading, and Bianca imagined that once inside the Clink, it would be blacker than any dark she’d ever known.

On they trudged, their boots sucking in the squidgy mud and Constable Patch’s mumbling the only discourse between them. Bianca hoped Patch was thinking about what she had just told him. Her conclusion that Pandy had murdered Jolyn for revenge had fallen on deaf ears. But even if she was correct, no matter of argument could convince Patch otherwise.

She needed to untangle the threads of her logic and rethink where they took her. Whatever her conclusion, ultimately, the judge would decide. She had to be convincing, and the only way to be that was to be right.

They arrived outside the moldered stone enclave, and Bianca gaped up at its menacing façade. Small arched windows dotted the front, the iron crossbars bleeding rust down the stone. Inmates stretched wasted arms through the gaps, their palms outstretched for alms or a crusty end of bread that a pedestrian or relative might charitably press into it.

“Those are the lucky ones,” said Constable Patch, gesturing to the prisoners begging.

Bianca knew he was right. No doubt the constable had a less jovial welcome in mind for her. They came to a halt, and one of the guards threw her forward. She stumbled into the muck, coating one side of her kirtle and sleeve. Patch glanced down at her unsympathetically, then pounded the hulking door.

“Stand her. I can’t kick her through the door,” he said.

A moment passed, and the door groaned open, and standing in its shadows was an ox of a man wearing a stained rough coat with a bollock dagger tucked in his leather girth. “Ah, Patch,” said the gaoler, his ring of keys jangling from the crook of his elbow. His broad face perused their party. “Whats ye gots fer me today?”

“A murderess,” answered Patch. “And mayhaps a witch—but a delinquent just the same.”

The gaoler scrutinized her with round pinholes for eyes, then stepped back and addressed Patch. “Such a young bess to be settin’ about murderin’. ’Tis a shame. Catch them up with babes to feed and a drunken cuff of a husband, I don’t blame them none.” He tsked. “What’s her story?”

“Poisoning another young bess, she dids.”

“Ooo, jealous of a lover?”

Constable Patch leaned in. “Ye may remember the alchemist Albern Goddard?”

“Ach! A puffer set to poison the king. I remember him well. Not every day a man would chance that.”

“Her father he is.”

The gaoler reared back and studied her. He looked as if this presented Bianca in a new light. “Wells then. I am privileged. I mights be able to makes some coin from this.” He clapped Constable Patch on the back. “Ye always looks out fer me, Patch. A worthy public servant.”

“See that she is treated suitably for a murderer,” added Patch. “Methinks she may not be tellin’ all she knows.” He paused as a shriek from the depths therein grew in intensity and disconcertingly echoed off the walls. “A confession helps the cause.”

The gaoler tilted his head. “That cause being?”

“Mine,” said Patch.

The gaoler handed Patch a torch and led them down a hall. Sconces sputtered from drips snaking down the limestone walls. They descended stairs to an underground section even more dank and dark. The smell of mildewed straw mixed with the ammonia of human waste and sick. Even Bianca reacted to the putrid air.

It wasn’t just the stink of human suffering that was so disconcerting but also the sound of it. Disembodied moans and ignored pleas accompanied their passage, occasionally interrupted by the treacly cackle of madness or bloodcurdling shriek.

Constable Patch and the gaoler trundled on. Bianca supposed they’d grown accustomed to the place, though she could sense the two guards were doing their best to appear untroubled. Finally, the gaoler stopped in front of a welded iron door and searched through his ring of keys, trying one in the rusted lock and then another. After several misses, he found the appropriate key and the door creaked open.

Constable Patch swept the smoking torch in an arc, illuminating the interior. It was a small hold. If Bianca could have raised her arms from her sides, she might have touched opposite walls while facing the door. It was more deep than wide.

“Go on now,” said the gaoler. He pushed Bianca forward and swung the iron door closed behind her.

“Am I to be kept bound?” Bianca held up her wrists.

“Until a time when I send a man to shackle ye,” replied the gaoler.

“Sees that ye treat her fittingly,” Constable Patch said. “No special considerations.”

“When will I be tried?”

“Whenever they deem fit,” said the gaoler, snorting in laughter. Patch chuckled, and the guards offered wan smiles.

The party left, their torchlight fading, and Bianca’s only light was a guttering tallow in the passageway. She squinted at her surroundings, choking down a rising panic. The cell was a desolate, putrid affair, windowless and damp from the Thames. No rush or mats covered the dirt floor, nothing to push into a pile on which to sleep or even sit. She had no stool to sit on, and definitely no chamber pot was provided for her necessaries. The only adornment was a pair of chains hanging from a wall, ending in manacles.

She stood next to the iron bars, taking advantage of what little light there was, and immediately set about trying to wiggle her hands free. With her teeth, she rotated the bindings knot side up. The tallow sputtered, reminding her that time was running out. She held up her wrists to study the knot. Tug the wrong bump, and instead of loosening the bindings, she would tighten them.

Bianca visually traced a length as it looped over and under, then brought her wrists to her mouth. With her teeth she tugged at the binding, then dropped her hands to see if it had loosened.

As she tilted her wrists toward the dim light, a final
ftt
signaled the candle had expired, plunging Bianca into darkness.