The Alchemist's Daughter (26 page)

C
HAPTER
42

The four stood motionless, each sorting through what they’d just seen and privately wondering why Wynders had allowed the warehouse to become home to a legion of rats. Their backs warmed in the morning sun, and eventually they shook off their reverie. Carts creaked down the quay, and horse-drawn drays arrived to cart away goods arriving to port. A muckraker strolled past, carrying a bucket and shovel. London was awake, and she called them back and deposited them on the steps of the normal and expected.

John draped his arm protectively around Bianca’s shoulder and glanced furtively at Patch. The constable had not shed his expression of shock and dismay. John wondered if he and Bianca might escape without his notice. It was worth a try to gain time to convince Bianca to leave London. John took hold of her hand.

Meddybemps hadn’t noticed John and Bianca silently backing away. He roused from his stupor and spoke of the one thing that could comfort him. “I could do with a decent pottle pot of ale.”

John and Bianca froze. They glared at him.

“Aye, that,” agreed Constable Patch. “But it’ll take more than one for me to feel right again. I’ve seen enough to last me a whiles.” He glanced at Meddybemps, then looked around for John and Bianca. Spying them, his brows knit together. “Bianca Goddard, I’m not finished with the likes of ye.”

John started to speak, but Bianca shot him a look and he kept quiet.

“I’ve gots to hash this one over,” said Patch, chagrined he was alone with no support to effectively arrest her. He was outnumbered, and he knew his threats were useless. At least for now. “I’ll join ye back to Southwark.” He sounded almost chummy.

No one dared object. Bianca’s fate was still in the officious public servant’s hands. It would do her little good to flee. With her legs still weak, she wouldn’t get far.

Meddybemps regretted ruining his friends’ chance to sneak away. He followed behind, mouthing silent words of apology as they traipsed back across London Bridge, passing through the gate in glum silence into Southwark.

Finally, the constable spoke. “Ye knows, Goddard,” he said, “I have been thinking ’bouts what ye told me. Seems it played out the way ye said. Wynders had a warehouse of vermin, and no telling what he was thinkin’ to do with them. Suppose the rats escape and overrun London? They be a dirty scourge for sure.” Patch shook his head.

“Perhaps it was easier to store the bodies in the back of a warehouse than give them a proper burial,” said John. “Certainly less expensive.”

“Perhaps he was hiding them until he got the
Cristofur
out of quarantine,” said Bianca.

Constable Patch considered this. “Possibly. Chudderly Shipping has been under scrutiny of late. They are in tax arrears and stand to have their license revoked. Their goods and warehouse are due to be seized. Perhaps Wynders expected the rats would deter its seizure.”

However, it was Meddybemps who put forth the best theory. “Given what I have learned from my inquiries,” said the randy streetseller, his one eye whirling with sentimental remembrance, “I believe the man might have had a contentious relationship with his father-in-law’s company. He did have a bastard child after he was married.”

“But to bring down the family business?” said John.

“Perhaps it was the weighted dice,” said Meddybemps, well schooled in winning at hazards. “A threat. Or, if not a threat, a distraction from his own scandal.”

No one commented until Constable Patch spoke. “I’ll have to inform the tax collector and a few others of his despise. In fact, the aldermen of London should know of his intents. It might fare me well.”

“You’ll have to enlist the city officials to rid the warehouse of the rats,” said Bianca.

Patch grimaced, thinking of the unpleasant task before him. “I’ve only time for one restorative tankard; then I must see to it the aldermen know what has happened.” His gaze settled on Bianca. “I haven’t time to dally with the likes of trivial murderes-sae—like youse,” he said, pointedly.

“So, she may go her way?” ventured Meddybemps.

Constable Patch studied the three of them. It did seem to Patch that Bianca, while still the easiest to convict in the murder of Jolyn Carmichael, was probably not the most likely culprit. The whole matter seemed inconsequential now, compared to what he had just seen. The debacle of Wynders and Chudderly Shipping would garner the attention of more than just the aldermen of London. The import to the king’s most precious coffers could catapult him to a coveted position in a London ward. And if he couldn’t impress the aldermen that he’d just saved London from pestilence, he could always pursue Jolyn Carmichael’s murder at a later date. Bianca would not be difficult to find.

However, it would not do to let a miscreant think she’d gotten off scot-free. Patch never shied from the opportunity to instill a healthy dose of fear in anyone. To neglect doing so would be remiss.

“I’ll not bother with ye,” he said, then added, “for now. But,” he warned, ticking his forehead toward Bianca, “do not try to leave London. I’ll have every guard from here to Spitalfields watching.”

A weight fell from John’s shoulders. He saw the opportunity, and would start convincing Bianca of the importance of thinking on her future straightaway.

As they neared the Dim Dragon Inn, an acrid smell permeated the air, and the sky over Southwark grew dark.

“I smell smoke,” said John.

Meddybemps noted the formation of the billowing cloud. “It’s coming from Bermondsey Street.”

People began to come out of their rents and gather in the streets, sniffing the air and scanning the sky. The smell of smoke was a death knell in this warren of rents. Fires could spread from one thrush roof to another in seconds, consuming entire rows of buildings and burning them to the ground.

The four hurried toward Bermondsey and arrived as curious spectators lined the road, gawking at the conflagration. Flames licked the sky and a haze of gray smoke began to settle. Bianca pushed through the crowd to better see.

Barke House was in flames.

The recent fog had not dampened the dry tender of thatch, and the entire roof roiled in flame. Skeletal crossbeams and roof timbers burned with abandon, and heavy buttresses snapped—booming as they cracked and fell upon the second floor, unleashing even more fury.

A few men with buckets sloshing with water from Morgan’s Lane stream waited for a ladder to be leaned against the adjoining residence. One brave soul attempted to climb, but the heat and smoke proved too much and he retreated, knowing the effort was like trying to put out the flames of hell with a thimble of water.

Constable Patch ran forward, trying to organize a second effort to contain the flames, but when that proved futile, he contented himself with shouting at people to stay back.

John found Bianca standing too close and grabbed her arm, pulling her back to a safe distance. “Is anyone inside?” he shouted, over the roar of fire.

“God help them,” answered Meddybemps.

“But Banes and Mrs. Beldam . . .” Bianca looked about at the faces in the crowd. “Did they get out?”

Meddybemps glanced around, and after a moment he shook his head. “I don’t see them.”

“They may be inside. And who knows how many women there might be in there.”

“Hopefully, none,” said Meddybemps. “There’s no sense in running in to find out. The building is going to collapse any second.”

“But we can’t stand here and do nothing.” Bianca looked desperate, as if she might be considering dashing toward the house.

John held Bianca’s arm, preventing her from bolting forward. “Bianca, surely you know as well as I that it is useless. It would be mad to run inside and search for anyone. Besides, your legs are still weak.” He had no sooner spoken when the door flew open, and out stumbled a figure, clothes and skin black from smoke. He managed a few steps, then collapsed, choking and clutching his throat, gulping for air.

C
HAPTER
43

“Banes!” gasped Bianca.

She broke free of John’s grip and pushed past the gathering onlookers. Her legs ached, but she ignored the pain along with the heat and menacing blaze. She dropped to her knees and lifted Banes’s head into her lap.

John and Meddybemps ran after her just as an inner wall gave a loud, ominous crack. They each grabbed an arm and dragged Banes toward the crowd, and Bianca followed, avoiding a spray of smoldering debris as more timbers snapped and the structure began to fracture.

“Is anyone else inside?” asked Bianca.

Banes’s chest heaved for breath, and he managed to answer with a simple nod.

Bianca looked over her shoulder. Rents up and down the row had been vacated, and people looked on, some staring in shock, others weeping, some praying and some cursing an unmerciful god. Fate would have her way, and they were helpless to stop her.

“It’s useless,” warned John.

Barke House was the first to fall. The joists gave with a sickening, fractious moan and the trusses—no longer supported—swung loose and fell. The entire structure buckled, as if the building was dropping to its knees. Unable to further support its weight, Barke House collapsed to the ground with a deafening violence. A percussion of smoke and debris spewed forth, catching some spectators in a shower of flying cinders and burning rubble. Barke House would not surrender without a last word, it seemed.

John draped himself over Bianca, protecting her, and when the fallout subsided, he looked around at the house, a bonfire of its remains.

Meddybemps crossed himself. “God have mercy. They’ll not survive.”

Most realized they could do no more than wait until the fire had run its course. Even Constable Patch fell silent and retreated to the throng of bystanders held spellbound by the wild conflagration. Beyond a few whimpers and shrieks of outrage, a heavy pall settled over the onlookers. The fire raged on, consuming three more homes before finally subsiding and dwindling to a smoldering heap of ruin.

John and Bianca helped Banes sit up, and Meddybemps offered him a drink from his wineskin. Banes stared at the wreckage of Barke House, his face taut with emotion. “She was my grandmother,” he said. “All these years of her treating me as a burden and a cripple. Never once acknowledging that I was of her blood.” His voice faltered with anguish. “I was the embarrassment, the mistake she used to bleed money from Wynders. I am the grotesque creation of that man’s indiscretion and sordid love affair. Shunned and dispassionately used by my own grandmother.” Banes struggled to his feet, his incredulity giving him strength.

“But, Banes, your last name?” asked Bianca.

“Perkins,” he answered. “She made it up.” Banes smiled cynically, then continued.

“As long as she possessed the Chudderly family ring, she could manipulate him. She always kept it on her body in a purse attached to a rope around her waist. Her constant fretting, the incessant patting and checking of the pouch, wore the wool thin and the ring was lost. But she kept the threat alive with her lies to Wynders, knowing full well that without the ring she had no proof that I was his son. She kept the missing ring a secret for as long as she could.

“Then Jolyn, with an eye for valuables, found the ring in the mud of Southwark. And my grandmother in the course of her dealings saw it hanging about her neck. So she schemed to get it back,” said Banes. He motioned to Meddybemps for another swig of wine, then, staring round at each of them, continued. “She offered Jolyn a home at Barke House.” He smiled cynically. “How could a muckraker refuse a pallet on which to sleep?”

John shook his head. “The poor girl,” he said. “She believed the ring had brought her luck.”

Banes snorted. “And then Wynders met Jolyn and saw the ring dangling from her neck. He saw his chance to gain it back, along with his freedom.”

“The two vied to secure it,” said Bianca. “But it wasn’t around her neck when she died.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Banes.

“Because I found it in her glove.” Bianca looked round at the four of them. “Apparently someone had put a good measure of rat poison in her gloves. Jolyn didn’t have to ingest the poison for it to kill her.” Bianca looked pointedly at John. “Remember how her hands were red and chapped from chores? Mrs. Beldam had her scrubbing floors and doing laundry in the cool spring water. She made sure Jolyn’s hands became cracked and raw, then sprinkled rat poison in the gloves Jolyn got from Wynders. Jolyn would not notice a fine powder being absorbed into her skin. A smell of terebinth would not trouble her since she had never known the feel or smell of fine leather.”

“She wagered that Jolyn would die at Barke House,” said Banes. “Then she could retrieve the ring and continue her extortion.”

“But Jolyn didn’t die at Barke House,” said Bianca, thinking of the visit from Mrs. Beldam soon after Jolyn’s death. “Mrs. Beldam came to my room of Medicinals and Physickes with the pretense of grieving for Jolyn. I remember her acting queer. Distracted. Now I know why.”

“She was looking for the ring,” said Meddybemps.

Banes grew uncomfortable keeping silent about his complicity on the night of the storm. He felt compelled to admit his involvement—as trivial in the overall scheme though it seemed. Banes forced the words from his mouth. “The night of the storm we came to your room, Bianca. We broke in, and before I knew why, she had clubbed you over the head. We searched for the ring. She would have beaten you to death if I had not stopped her.”

“I didn’t know I had the ring. John found Jolyn’s glove buried under the rush just yesterday. I hid the ring in an empty flask for safekeeping.”

“And I retrieved it,” said John. “No one would think that I had it.”

“I would have been spared a trip to Wynders’s warehouse if you had left it there.”

“Aws, now,” said Meddybemps. “Don’t begrudge John his help. His finding the ring served a purpose. And a fortunate one at that. The streets of London might be swarming with rats if Wynders hadn’t dragged you to his warehouse and we hadn’t found you there. Wynders died by his own doing.”

“But the rats . . .” said John. “At least they are locked inside the warehouse . . . for now.”

Constable Patch listened intently, tugging his scraggly goatee. “Well, as I saids,” he said to Bianca, “looks to me ye was sayin’ the truths all along.” Patch had a satisfied look on his face—perhaps one of relief at not having to further deal with Bianca Goddard, daughter of the ignoble alchemist.

“Wynders dragged me out of Barke House expecting I would take him to the ring,” said Banes. “I assumed it was in your possession and told him you were in the Clink.”

“Dangling from manacles,” said Bianca.

Constable Patch glanced back at the charred remains of Barke House. “So where is Madam Beldam?”

“After Wynders left me battered in the road, the last thing I wanted to do was go back to Barke House. I only just returned,” said Banes. “When I got here, smoke was streaming from the windows, and I cannot deny that I stood in the street, savoring the thought of watching Barke House burn to the ground. But as I stood watching it wheeze and spew, I knew I was not the soulless wretch of my kin. I rushed in. The smoke made it impossible to see, so I felt along the wall and called out. There was no answer. Beds were burning, blankets blazed. I ran down the stairs, a falling timber just missing me.” Banes fell morosely silent.

“Ye didn’t answer me question,” said Patch. “Is Mrs. Beldam still inside?”

“Aye,” said Banes, softly.

Bianca and the others exchanged looks, but Constable Patch, being naturally curious and interfering, persisted. “Ye left her there?”

Banes roused. “Wynders had struck her. I started for the kitchen . . .”

“Ye left ye own grandmother to burn?” Patch indignantly puffed out his chest as if he’d just gotten Banes to confess murder.

“I may be bred of treachery, but I am not of it. I dropped to the floor and crawled toward the kitchen. I was blinded by smoke and choking, but I made my way there.” Banes glanced at the constable. “I found her. She did not respond when I tried to rouse her.” A defiant look came over Banes’s face. “I did not abandon her as she had willingly done to me. I dragged her body toward the door.” Banes held up his foreshortened limb. “A not so easy task. We had cleared the door when a floor joist let go from above. . . .” Banes’s voice trailed off, and his expression appeared pained. “The joist fell across her legs.”

Meddybemps offered Banes another drink from his wineskin, and Banes greedily drank. He handed the skin back. “I could not free her.”

Sympathy had never been fully cultivated in Constable Patch, and while the latest incidents in the warehouse had left him subdued, he still could not suppress a certain urge to challenge Banes. “So ye lefts her to burn,” he said.

“Should I have burned with her?”

Bianca turned on Patch. “Surely you do not suggest that he stay and die along with her?”

John riled at Constable Patch’s presumption. “How long does one try to free a dead woman from a burning house before it is acceptable to leave her? Is one’s own death the only proof of innocence?”

“She may not have been dead,” said Patch.

“And are you to make that determination?” said Bianca.

Constable Patch read the outrage on their faces and so withdrew his argument. But his stare lingered on Banes. “I have matters I must attend. Ye may not be bound to answer my question,” he said to Banes, “but I woulds not think ye should never have to. For now I shall stay my inquiry.” He glanced round at them and gave a curt nod, never one to leave on friendly terms.