The Alchemist's Daughter (23 page)

“Bianca, the alchemist’s daughter,” it said.

“Do you know Bianca?” John stopped, listening which direction to go.

“The poison runs thick in her blood, and she’ll end here again, mark my words.”

“Who goes there?”

A madman’s cackle pierced the air. “I go nowhere.”

John turned toward the voice. “What is your name?”

“Simon Slade, am I. Master locksmith and most innocently condemned citizen of this king’s realm.”

His words bounced and echoed, but after a moment, John found Simon Slade hunkered in the center of a dismal cell. A heavy chain shackled his ankle and, from its foul smell, had been eating away at the prisoner’s skin.

“You know Bianca?” asked John.

“I did know. Now I do not.” The man relished this newfound attention. “But I says nothing of what I knew—for nothing.”

“If you are a master locksmith, why haven’t you lost your shackle?”

The man took exception and howled loud and long enough to rattle John’s teeth. “I cannot lose a lock without a pick,” said the prisoner. He turned to speak to the thin air beside him. “This world is filled with asses. Look well on this latest.”

John peered into the dark, not seeing anyone or anything.

Slade faced John and leered at him. “Pox on you, fool. You lost me faith.”

Chagrined, John dug into his jacket for something of worth and withdrew several items. He picked through piddly coin, a key to Boisvert’s shop, an auger bit, and a nail.

“You say you are a locksmith. What say you to a pick?” He held up the nail.

Slade’s eyes grew wide, and his hand flew to his mouth, trying to contain his happiness. He moderated his enthusiasm and grew cagey. “I might reconsider.” He took a step toward the bars, then winced. “Bollocks,” he spat. “I needs more than that to spring this friend.” He lifted the cumbersome chain and dropped it.

“Then a bit with which to bite?” John held the auger bit between his thumb and finger for Slade to see.

“Aw now, if you give me both, I tells you all I know.” Slade’s voice turned hopeful, almost giddy.

“I shall gladly hand them over. But you must first tell me what you know of Bianca.”

“How do I know you won’t dupe me?”

“Sir, it is a case of mutual need. For you, the price of freedom has never come so cheap.”

“Do not tease me, lad. It would kill me as sure as murder if you denied me now.”

“Tell me where Bianca is, and I shall not deny you.”

Simon Slade didn’t take long to decide. He leaned forward as far as his ball and chain allowed. “She is no longer here.”

John’s blood drained from his face, and he thought the worst. “What is your meaning, Slade?”

“I simply mean she has been taken away. By one much older than you, and sporting a fine doublet and sheathed sword.”

“Who was it?”

“That . . . I know not.” Slade’s face twitched in the dim light.

“Did she know him? Did she recognize him?”

Slade guffawed as if that was the best jest he’d heard in a long time. He shook his head, then coyly looked on John. “She did not say. But then she couldn’t very well.” His eyes rolled up and away.

“Say what you mean, man!”

Slade’s eyes traveled down to meet John’s. “She was strung up to near senseless. The pain left her speechless.” He scratched his flea-bitten chest. “I’d say she was glad to go with him, come whatever may.” He winked. “Come whatever may . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Was it the constable who took her?”

“Nay. He was well dressed.”

“Not a guard or ward?”

“Nay, not such.”

“Then who? What office?”

“Hmm,” said Slade, considering. John could see him thinking through a catalog of middlemen until he found what he thought appropriate. “Mayhaps a lawyer type. Or mayhaps a merchant.”

It was all John needed to hear. He stretched his arm through the bars and tossed the nail and then the auger bit at Slade. The two pieces rolled to a stop near Slade’s feet, and the locksmith stared as if they were manna from heaven. He dove on the treasures and snatched them up as if someone might steal them away.

C
HAPTER
37

If Bianca weren’t in such agony, she might have whooped for joy at the sight of the Southwark sky overhead. Being beaten, then shackled to a wall had left her woozy, barely able to keep up with Robert Wynders. Her arms burned in pain, and his yanking and pulling her along didn’t help. She had not expected to see the streets of her neighborhood again, and since the opportunity now presented itself, she struggled to overlook her misery and instead think of how she might escape.

She assumed Wynders had bribed the gaoler for her release. The gaoler had pretended to look the other way as Wynders marched her past and out the massive front door. While she didn’t welcome Wynders’s brutish handling, she didn’t object because she knew this was her chance, maybe her last, and she’d better be ready for it.

Wynders said nothing as they trudged toward her room of Medicinals and Physickes. With darkness came the rotten rain of chamber pots emptied out windows onto the lanes below. So far, they’d been lucky to avoid a bath. While Wynders was averse to stepping in suspicious puddles, he didn’t mind dragging Bianca through them.

At last they stood opposite her front door, and after Wynders found it locked, he threw her against it, demanding entry.

“I haven’t the key,” she said. “Someone else must have locked it after Patch arrested me.”

Wynders brushed her aside and reared back to land a solid kick. He was a brick of a man, and with his first try the wood planks snapped and splintered. He reached through the hole and worked the bolt to a chorus of barking dogs and someone hollering out a window to pipe down.

The door fell open crookedly, and he shoved her inside.

“Where’s a light?” he asked, looking about.

Bianca moved along a wall and stopped under a sconce, unable to lift her arm to point. Perhaps in time she would regain some strength. She couldn’t bear to imagine it if she couldn’t.

Wynders snatched the tallow and withdrew a flint, and soon a yellow orb illuminated the room.

“You will get me my ring.”

How had he known with such certainty that the ring was in her possession? Meddybemps and John would never have told. Then she remembered Banes. She and John had avoided admitting they had it. Even if he knew they had it, she was disappointed he would snitch. “You’ll never find it without my help. It could be anywhere.” She ran her eyes about the room, a jumbled mess. Jars and crockery lined her shelves. Dirty bowls were stacked in teetering towers. Coils of copper and discarded flasks littered the tables and floor. Dissected rats lined the table, waiting to be disposed of. “I will not cooperate until you answer my question. Did you poison Jolyn?”

Wynders stared at the interior of her room and knew it would take him hours to search it. Threatening this girl with more violence only proved to strengthen her resolve. He spoke through clenched teeth. “It was not I.”

“Do you know who did?”

Wynders said nothing, so Bianca tried another tack. “Why must you have this ring?”

“We’re not here to discuss the matter. I simply want what belongs to me. I’ve waited a long time for its return.” The blade of his rapier sang from its sheath, and he pointed it between her eyes. “You will get it for me.”

Bianca edged along the wall as Wynders followed her with the sword’s tip, their eyes holding each other in mutual suspicion. She slowly stepped away from the wall, first looking that she might do so, then backing toward the table where the monstrous distillation apparatus towered. The last few steps she slipped behind it, feeling a small margin of safety.

Its long stretch of metal felt cool beneath her fingers as she lightly traced the metal down to a juncture of coils splitting in different directions. Her shoulder protested at even such a simple exertion, but her eyes never left Wynders’s. Nor did the end of his rapier wander from her face.

The red cat jumped to the table and leaned against Bianca for attention. She brushed him off, fearing Wynders might dispense with him more permanently. The distraction only ratcheted the tension, and she wondered if she might venture a question since she felt some measure of protection with the metal apparatus now between them.

“I’ve seen your warehouse,” she said.

“Its location is not a secret.”

“No, but its contents might best be kept that way.”

Wynders lifted his chin slightly. He waited.

“I sold you rat poison. Enough to handle a problem on a ship . . . but not enough to handle the vermin in your warehouse.” Bianca moved her hand down the final length of tubes to an end spout. She had dropped the ring into the earthen receptacle beneath it for safekeeping. She rested her hand on its lip. “Why haven’t the bodies been buried?”

He trained the point of the rapier on her mouth, its metal cold against her skin.

She tipped back her chin. “What is your business with Mrs. Beldam? If she had the ring, could she use it to ruin you?”

With the flick of his wrist, Wynders sliced her bottom lip and drew blood. She sucked in but resisted touching the wound. Blood coursed down her chin.

He took a step forward. “You can ill afford any more stalling. The ring!”

Bianca lifted the flask and waved it. “Here,” she said, holding it up. She held out the flask, offering it to Wynders.

He refused to take it. “I’ll not pour acid in my palm,” he said. “You are the daughter of an alchemist. You invert it.”

Wynders had no idea how she resented being referred to as an alchemist’s daughter. Bianca turned the flagon upside down over her hand. Nothing. Not even a dribble of liquid fell out.

Wynders smiled sardonically. He returned his rapier to its sheath, then reached across the table, gripping her by the collar and pulling her across, upsetting her apparatus, so that their noses touched. “You dare to lead me thus? You’ll get the ring, and you’ll be quick about it.”

“By my honor, this is where I put it.”

“Do not play daft, or I shall send you back to the Clink so you can hang for murder.” He shook her, and Bianca’s exhaustion was so consuming not even nerves or fear of death could summon her strength to resist.

Wynders released her, and she fell on the table, then slid to the floor.

“I swear to you, that is where I hid it.”

Wynders snatched the empty flagon and shook it. He smashed it against the stonework of her stove, sending shards of pottery raining down. Then, with a roar of frustration, he overturned the table. He stared at the wreckage, panting, as rivers of perspiration streamed down his face.

Bianca sat against the underside of the table, listening. She looked about for something to defend herself. A thick shard of pottery lay beyond her reach. She crept toward it, still mindful of Wynders’s fury. She had just laid her hand on top of it when his boot came down and drove her palm painfully into the shard.

Wynders shifted his weight, driving the sharp pottery deep into her flesh. “Since you have an interest in my warehouse,” he said, stepping off her hand and hauling her to her feet, “I think we should visit it.” He forced her out on the street, pulling her by the arm toward the bridge. “Perhaps it will stir your memory.”

Her hand dripped with blood as the shard protruded. Bianca mustered every ounce of strength and screamed, which only proved to further infuriate Wynders. “Silence.” He reminded her of his rapier’s sharp edge by jabbing it in her ribs and nudged her forward.

Perhaps a night watch might have heard her cry. If not, she’d try again as they crossed the bridge, where reputable merchants lived above their shops. She’d save her strength for that.

Bianca stumbled along, took a breath, and quickly yanked out the shard, sucking in her cheeks to keep from crying. A sorry sight she was, her hand and lip bleeding, her arms nearly useless. And now she was on her way to Wynders’s warehouse of horror. Her sluggish brain began to come round, even if her body didn’t. Ahead lay the bridge with its grim display of beheaded criminals. She could see the outline of pikes appear and disappear in the mist.

What had become of John and Meddybemps? She wished she had not been so brusque with John. He had put up a valiant effort to defend her from arrest. She vowed she’d never take him for granted again—if she should ever live that long.

The heavy air kept the acrid combination of smoke and low tide from escaping into the night sky. The mudflats stretched beside them, stinking in sullen silence. No muckrakers wandered the banks at this hour. Only stray dogs searched the soup for scraps of worth.

It was after curfew, and the bridge gate was closed.

Wynders scanned the river for a ferryman. No wherry plied the Thames at this late hour. He grabbed Bianca’s wrist and pulled her farther along the shore, stopping opposite an empty skiff lashed to a piling.

“My luck isn’t so black after all.” He ordered her through the muck and into the boat, then cut it free. If he hadn’t so abused her, he might have made her drag it to the water’s edge. But as it was, she sat in the bow and he pushed the boat through the sucking mud and shoved it into the river.

“I’ll not have my back to you,” he said, stepping in. The skiff tipped as he made Bianca move so he could watch her as he rowed. Her hand throbbed as she held the gunwale to steady herself as she moved to sit in the stern.

Once they had pushed off, water seeped through gaps in the hull, pooling at her feet. “It’s leaking,” said Bianca. “Perhaps we should find another skiff.”

Wynders ignored her comment and pulled on the oars, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging with every stroke. Perhaps if he rowed fast enough they might make it to the other side before capsizing. Bianca gathered her skirt into her lap. She didn’t fancy the thought of a swim.

She gazed over Wynders’s shoulders at Romeland and its warehouses and cranes dotting the waterfront. London Bridge towered over the river beside them, like a sleeping serpent, silent yet powerfully present.

The thought of mortality weighed heavy on her mind. She might have died in those manacles if Wynders had not intervened. Strange to think he had saved her. She sniffed at the futility of his rescue. Now he was rowing her across the river to possibly kill her on the other side, if they even made it that far.

But as they passed the timber starlings jutting into the slack current, neither Bianca nor Wynders noticed a figure lurking in its shadows. A figure watching them with interest.