The Alchemist's Daughter (17 page)

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29

John wasn’t about to search for Bianca. He knew she sought rats for her experiment, and while part of him thought he should help her, the repulsed part of him knew that he couldn’t. Nor would he try to stop her. Bianca would do as she pleased, and it was useless to try to convince her otherwise. His stomach complained. It protested as much from hunger as from the thought of Bianca on the waterfront, trapping rats.

Finding little comfort in these thoughts, he resolved, instead, to settle his hunger at the Dim Dragon Inn with a detour of food and swill. The fog was settling, and a meal would give him a chance to warm himself and think.

He pushed open the door beneath a sign of a blue beast and stepped into a wall of cheap smoke and stale air. A few patrons lifted their gaze, but most continued their business, unconcerned. John found a space within sight of the door and settled between two bleary-eyed patrons.

“A tankard, luv?” asked the tavern wench when she got to him.

“Aye, and stew.” John watched her saunter off, and saw the blocky rogue he recognized as the muckraker who’d caught Bianca’s interest at Cross Bones. He eyed him suspiciously and decided to speak with him after he’d polished off a draught.

John couldn’t have chosen a better post from which to watch the sullen brute. From his vantage he observed the muckraker shovel mash and gravy into his mouth and down a pottle pot of ale. Then down a second one. Conversation burred around him, but he remained uninterested and insular, averse to camaraderie or social revelry. John felt no stab of jealousy. The rascal was purely business.

After John filled his gut and slaked his thirst, he squeezed his way over to Henley, who was now intent on devouring his second plate of food. After standing for what seemed an awkward length of time with no acknowledgment, not even a simple lift of the eyelid, John spoke.

“You are the muckraker Henley.”

The muckraker responded with a twitch of the eye before speaking. “Is that a question or a statement?” He continued eating without glancing up.

John wedged himself in between two men sitting opposite and stared intently at the hulk until he stopped chewing and returned the stare. “I don’t suppose you might tell me what it was you wanted from Jolyn Carmichael.”

Henley snorted and dug into his dinner for another bite. “I don’t suppose I would,” he said with his mouth full.

“Methinks it might be important to someone who could be taking the noose for a murder she didn’t commit.”

Henley chewed with his mouth open, studying John as he did so. He swallowed, then wiped his lips on his wrist. “Not my concern.”

“I could make it yours,” replied John, congenially. He patted a breast coat pocket as if a groat nestled there with his name on it.

Henley’s gaze dropped to the pocket, then rode back up. “Show me.”

John was not about to remove what lay in his pocket, certainly not in a public venue. The apprentice might have lived a less dastardly life under Boisvert’s tutelage, but it didn’t quash his cunning. He ticked his head. “We can finish talking outside.”

An eyebrow lifted as Henley considered him. Without a word, he laid his fork beside his platter and rose from the bench. John felt suddenly puny by comparison but led the way to the back alley.

When the tavern door closed behind them, John turned.

A look of surprise, then mild amusement spread across Henley’s face. It wasn’t a coin in John’s pocket. His eyes fell to a dagger, its point now firmly against his stomach.

“I would like you to answer my questions,” suggested John. He would not have undertaken such a risk if he hadn’t judged his odds favorable on its success. He had watched Henley down the second ale laced with sleeping philter he’d bribed the tavern wench to dispense. He could see the brute’s eyelids grow heavy with befuddlement and hear his voice begin to slur.

John shoved him up against the wall and pricked the buttons off of Henley’s jerkin, the better to encourage cooperation. He cut the cloth beneath and poked the knife into the paunch of gut, drawing a line of blood.

“Mrs. Beldam of Barke House wanted something from Jolyn Carmichael. If you want that mash to stay put, you’d best tell me what that something was.”

Henley wobbled unsteadily. He’d already lost the strength in his arms. They hung useless at his sides like two timbers waiting to be moved. He fought to control his legs to keep from falling into the muck and piss of the alley.

But John was persistent. He flicked his wrist enough to make Henley yowl at the burn of blood.

Henley drew in a sharp breath, his sense dulling by the second.

“Tell me! It’d be a shame to take a nap in this squalid bed.” Henley’s head was beginning to swim—John could see it dip on the muckraker’s thick neck. He’d soon lose his chance to get an answer. “Say it!” John abandoned the soft gut and drew the blade under Henley’s chin. He pressed the metal against his windpipe, effectively collapsing it.

This got Henley’s attention. His eyes flew open, rolled down at the blade, then over to John leaning into him. But his strength was at an end. He started to crumple, and his legs buckled from his great bulk. John rode down with him, not wanting to slit the rascal’s windpipe before getting an answer. He released the pressure off Henley’s throat.

“A ring!” Henley wheezed. He gulped and, with a final breath, gasped, “Wynders’s ring!”

C
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30

Bianca threw herself against the chained door and screamed loud enough to set every dog in Romeland barking. Perhaps the commotion might draw notice—she hoped so. At this point, she didn’t care if she was arrested for trespass; she just wanted out. The nightmarish sight and smell had thoroughly unnerved her, and she rattled the door like a madwoman. Exhausted, she slid down the implacable door to her haunches.

“Now what?” she asked the dark. She relit the stump of rushlight and peered back into the gloom. At least Constable Patch couldn’t throw her in gaol if he didn’t know where to find her. She sniggered. But no one else knew where to find her, either.

Times like this required resourcefulness and calm. Unfortunately, both had escaped her. The thought of rats chewing her apart renewed her calls for help, and she banged and kicked the door until her thin leather boot wore through and her toes ached. She considered setting the door on fire, but what if it asphyxiated her before it burnt down? Well, at least she’d be dead when the rats gnawed her bones.

Bianca slumped against the door. Which would she prefer? Death by rats—or noose?

She waved the rushlight in a wide arc and wondered how long it was before daylight. Maybe her chances of being rescued might improve if she waited. She shook her head. She had no choice but to wait. Surely someone would pass the warehouse or even open it. But what if that person was Wynders?

Aye, what if?

Realistically, he had no quarrel with her—well, aside from the trespassing. He probably had no idea she was accused of his betrothed’s death. He only knew her as a chemiste. After all, she’d sold him rat poison for his ship. She winced, thinking of this man’s problem with rats. For as many as there were in this warehouse, one could assume he was importing them.

But why stow bodies in a warehouse? Why not dispose of them at sea? Unless he couldn’t. Unless they died in port. Was he hiding them? Hiding them to get through quarantine and skirt the custom authority’s health inspector?

The rushlight flickered, then smoldered and died. She tossed it on the floor and pressed her heel into it. Utter darkness. She felt her way atop a crate and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She would renew her shouting with the day’s first light. For all of her desire to slow time down the past few days, morning now couldn’t come fast enough. She buried her nose in her scarf and forced herself to think on other things.

She thought back to Wool’s Key and pondered Wynders sending a man out to a ship. A man toting soaked rags that blazed even in the fog. The smell had not been unlike the one here. Only that smell had been acrid with the reek of charred flesh. The smell here was of dead bodies. Dead, decomposing bodies.

Whatever stores or goods that ship held in its hold, Wynders wanted them out. He probably had taxes to settle, debts to pay. Not to mention the lost income having goods sitting in port, moldering and losing value.

So, what had been his attraction to Jolyn? She was beautiful and clever—what man wouldn’t take notice? Did he feel the only way to bed her was to wed her? Bianca sniffed. The lengths men would go in order to have a woman. But perhaps he never planned to wed her. What if his motive was only to get close enough to poison her? Bianca shook her head and began talking out loud to drown out the sound of the feeding rats. “Why did you promise marriage? Why did you raise her hopes?” Bianca could think of no worthy cause besides love. She closed her eyes and thought. Did he plan to marry or to murder her? Bianca rubbed her temples. Two extremes, but there was one thing they both required: intimacy. “So why would you want to marry, then possibly murder Jolyn?” Bianca asked the dark. And then a thought occurred to her. “Unless Jolyn had something that you wanted. Something that you valued more than her.”

What was it? Henley wanted her ring. Did Wynders and Mrs. Beldam want it, too? And that led Bianca back to whoever broke into her rent and searched her belongings. What was he after, and why did he think she had it? But perhaps Jolyn’s death and the break-in were unrelated. Perhaps the thief was merely looking for money or something of value to steal. She hadn’t noticed anything missing. Certainly, her store of silver filings and coins from Meddybemps had been left untouched. Whatever the thief wanted, as far as she knew, the thief had not taken.

Did the thief think she had the ring? Or did he want her dead? If the latter were true, the intruder could have finished her off. Had he been interrupted? Perhaps the thief had merely wanted her out of the way while he went through her room.

Bianca tried to concentrate, but she found it harder to ignore the hideous sound of feeding rats. She held her hands over her ears, trying to muffle their horrible rasping. How much longer until morning? Her sanity was dwindling.

With renewed fury, Bianca leapt off the crate and rattled the door. She jammed her fingers between the slats of board and leaned back with all her weight. One of them gave a little but not before drawing blood from her fingertips. She ignored the pain and wrenched the slat with a savage burst of strength. The wood squealed as it splintered in half, revealing an opening.

It was a small opening, and she crouched to press her face against it, inhaling fresh air and closing her eyes in appreciation. Her back hurt from crouching, but so be it; at least now she could breathe.

Once revived, Bianca felt some measure of calm restored. She cocked her head sideways, laying one ear on her shoulder so she could see out with both eyes, and opened them.

“For a girl accused of murder, your preoccupation with the worst London has to offer never fails to astound me.”

“John!”

“Bianca,” answered the young silversmith.

“Get me out of here!”

“And if I do? Tell me how I might benefit.”

“John, this warehouse is full of rats.”

“So is London.”

“They’re feasting on corpses!”

“Unpleasant. I assume you didn’t enter by choice.”

“Never mind how I got here. Help me!”

John stood back and studied the chain and padlock. “I don’t suppose this could be easily picked.” He withdrew his knife and pushed its tip into the keyhole of the shackle. He wormed it about with no effect and, after a moment, gave up and scratched his chin. “Do you have a thin piece of metal about you?”

Bianca pushed her face into the opening. “Are you daft? Why would I have that?”

“A young lady should always have something to jab into a man’s groin or eye if the situation calls for it.”

“I’m not a violent person.”

“You should be.”

“John, get me out of here.”

“I need something to work against. Something thin and strong that I can shove into the hole for resistance.”

“Thin like what?” asked Bianca. She was beginning to wonder if she might be stuck in the warehouse until Wynders came back.

“Bianca, if I get you out of here, will you marry me?”

“If I live that long!”

John was momentarily stunned by the thought. He couldn’t seem to help himself. He might be mad to love her, but it was an affliction he gladly undertook. He blinked at Bianca and pushed his lips through the opening. For as ridiculous as it was, Bianca met his lips and managed to convey an acceptable kiss that did nothing to get her out any sooner but inspired John nonetheless.

“Patience. I’ll be back before you miss me.” And with that, he was gone.

Bianca leaned against the door. She could barely tolerate another minute. The sound of feeding rats grew louder, perhaps because she was focusing on it. She crouched again and peered through the slat. Where did he go? She turned her head, trying to see, then sat back. Had she really agreed to marry him? She would have said anything to get out of there, and apparently, she had. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Certainly, there were worse things than marrying John. She’d worry about that later. She sat back and covered her ears, murmuring one of Meddybemps’s patters until John returned.

A chorus of angels couldn’t have sounded as sweet as John picking open the lock, and when the chain clattered to the ground and John pushed open the door, she nearly trampled him. John had expected as much and caught her up in his arms. “I deserve better than that,” he said. Bianca showered him with kisses, and when those ran out, she lingered in his arms.

“How did you find me?”

“I stopped at your room to check on you. You left a trap on your table, and after our last conversation I sorted out what it was for. I imagined you paid a visit to Wool’s Key.” He could see Bianca appreciated his concern, but he neglected admitting he didn’t want to help her trap rats. “I was near the Dim Dragon Inn,” he continued, confident she read his nonchalance as belief in her ability, “and thought I’d have a bite.”

Bianca listened intently.

“I settled in, and who should walk in but that muckraker.”

“Henley?”

“I don’t believe you had much success talking with him, so I had a go at it.”

“And did you manage to engage him?”

“I did.”

Bianca pecked him on the cheek. “Should I ask how you managed to speak with him or skip to the good part?”

“It depends on what you consider ‘the good part.’ ”

“I can tell you’re keen to tell me both.”

“I paid the serving wench to pour sleeping philter in his ale, and offered to pay him some coin for a few answers in the privacy of the alley. My knife can be very persuasive.”

“Sleeping philter?”

“Labeled as such and borrowed off your shelf.”

Bianca cocked her head. “Clever knave.”

“I am,” said John, pleased. “Apparently Henley was after Wynders’s ring.”

Bianca nodded in satisfaction. “Did you ask him why he wanted it?”

“He passed out before I could ask.”

“But how did you know I was in the warehouse?”

“After I left Henley, I crossed the bridge back into London and turned toward Wool’s Key. I saw a man with a pheasant-plumed hat heading up New Fish Street, when suddenly he turned around and stopped as if he’d forgotten something. I thought he fit your description of Wynders, and he was acting suspiciously, so I decided to follow him. I trailed him to this warehouse. He stopped and pulled a chain tight against the door, securing it with a padlock. I then shadowed him home, or at least I assume it is his home, then returned to look for you on the river. When I did not see you, I wondered what could be in the warehouse. Since it was close by, I decided to find out. You saved me from crossing the bridge to check your room for a second time.”

Bianca planted a boisterous kiss on his lips. “A more cunning cove I’ll never know,” she proclaimed. She pressed her ear against his chest and listened to the muffled thud of his heartbeat, as strong and as steady as hers. Indeed, there were worse things than marrying John.