The Alchemist's Daughter (24 page)

C
HAPTER
38

The skiff floated alongside Wool’s Key. Wynders threw the rope over a bollard to tie it off. The two climbed out, and Wynders bound Bianca’s wrists behind her back before they mounted the steps to the landing along the river. Bianca wished they might encounter a watchman or even a drunk—someone she could implore for help. But her luck was as nonexistent as the number of Londoners out this time of night. She trudged dejectedly beside Wynders. If she could have engaged the many rats that skulked past, she might have had an army to save her.

A number of questions still bothered Bianca, one of which was what did he know of Pandy’s murder? She thought with nothing to lose she might as well ask. Could the pain of another cut or thrashing be any worse than what she now endured? She thought not. She took a breath and asked the ship’s agent if he had killed Pandy.

“Nay,” said Wynders. “But her death is no loss.”

His indifference sent a chill through Bianca. If he truly was not guilty, he would want others to know who was. “Why do you say that?”

“She was a meddlesome girl. Of no use.”

“Harsh words from a man who used her for his pleasure.”

Wynders took no exception. As Bianca suspected, an innocent man with information had no cause to remain silent. “The night of the storm I was walking home, and I saw two women ahead of me. One was as drunk as a mouse in a barrel of rum. She weaved and doubled back as she made her way up the lane. Following her was a figure staying close in the shadows. She darted out from overhangs and hid in dark alcoves. I quickened my step to shorten the distance—out of curiosity mostly. I’d probably have to come to the poor sot’s aid. Then I realized who they were.”

“Pandy?” offered Bianca. “Who else?”

“Beldam.”

“Were they near your home?”

“Aye.”

The sound of shutters slammed nearby. A stray dog caught up and trotted alongside Wynders. It gazed hopefully up at the man, staying just ahead of the two of them.

“Get on, you ugly cur,” said Wynders, booting it away.

“Was Pandy going to your house?”

Wynders had a distant look in his eye, as if he was thinking out loud instead of telling Bianca everything he knew. “Probably. Certainly Beldam believed it so.”

“So Mrs. Beldam was stalking her?”

“Beldam called to Pandy, and she turned around.” Wynders stopped walking and stared ahead as if he were visualizing the scene. “Pandy asked why she was following her. She was furious.”

“What did Mrs. Beldam say?”

“ ‘I’ll not have ye ruin this,’ she says.’ ” Wynders’s eyes grew hard. “I could have blinked and missed it. Beldam stepped into her, and I saw Pandy double over, then stagger back . . . I could see the whites of her eyes wide with surprise. . . .”

Bianca waited. She let him continue.

“Pandy collapsed in the lane. I was stunned. I never imagined the depth of malice in that woman. When Beldam turned, she saw me. ‘Ye owe me,’ she said.”

“You had relations with Pandy,” said Bianca.

Wynders said nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell the constable what Mrs. Beldam had done?” As soon as the words escaped her mouth, Bianca knew the answer. Wynders would never chance speculation about his sullied past. It proved convenient for him to be rid of Pandy. Mrs. Beldam had indeed done him a favor.

Wynders glimpsed at Bianca, and his face clouded as if he had stirred from his recollection. “Enough. You’ll have plenty of time to ponder the whereabouts of that ring where I am taking you.”

He gripped her arm and led her through the narrow gaps between buildings, avoiding the open lanes until they were opposite the chained door of Chudderly’s warehouse. He reached into his doublet and withdrew a key.

The rusty mechanism jammed, and finding it impossible to work the lock with one hand, Wynders let go of Bianca’s arm.

Here was her opportunity.

Bianca broke into a run, sprinting down the lane. She knew if he caught up to her she’d be in sorry straits, but the desire for freedom gave her strength she didn’t know she had. She headed for Boisvert’s. John or Boisvert would be there.

She ignored her aching legs and pumped with all her might, concentrating on the slap of mud beneath her feet. But they grew heavier with every step. If she could only be clear of Romeland and its commercial indifference. Once in a residential area, she could scream and raise a commotion. Someone might hear her. Someone might come.

If her hands hadn’t been bound behind her back, she might have gotten farther. She could hear him gaining on her, his pants growing louder. She willed herself to keep running. Her heartbeat was as loud as his breath, and she dashed at an angle like she’d seen rabbits do to lose their enemy. But Wynders’s shadow descended like a raven swooping overhead. With a shove she was airborne, pitching forward, unable to check her fall. Her face scraped along the lane as she skidded to a stop.

She scrambled to her knees, and just as she sat back, Wynders struck her across the face. She toppled and lay in the road, blinking up at the murky fog, wondering if this would be the last thing she would ever see.

“If you should think to do that again, I’ll not hesitate to slice your cheek in two.” Wynders hoisted her up by the arm and threw her over his shoulder. “You continue to waste my time.”

He stalked up the road, handling her like a sack of grain. She was nearly senseless from blood rushing to her head. Blood dripped from her lip, leaving a trail in the dirt behind them. Wynders’s shoulder dug into her ribs, making it difficult to breathe. When they got to the warehouse, he dumped her on the ground beside him.

Every joint in her body ached. Every beat of her heart sent a throbbing, pulsing pain through her head.

Wynders finished working the lock, then caught her up under her arms and dragged her through the door. “I’m going to ask one last time,” he said, with barely contained fury. “Where is the ring?”

Bianca’s head swam, and she could not speak.

“Very well,” he said. He hauled her farther into the warehouse.

She passed stack after stack of crates towering like trees in a forest. But she knew that in this hellish wood lived evil denizens, and she could hear their rasping grow louder.

Panic built like water starting to boil. “If you leave me, you’ll never know where the ring is,” she said, thrashing and digging her heels into the dirt floor. “I’ll tell you. I know who has the ring.”

“So
now
you know. When before you didn’t.” Wynders continued to pull her through the warehouse.

“Don’t be a fool. If I should die, you’ll never know where the ring is. You’ll never be free of Mrs. Beldam. She’ll hold you captive to your past.”

As certain as he’d divulged the details of Pandy’s murder, he now refused to answer or even listen. He ignored her shrieks. They reached the room where bodies lay rotting beneath a crawling mountain of rats. The smell made her gag. Wynders dropped her and turned to leave.

“Think well on it,” he said, over his shoulder. “If I can’t convince you, then maybe they can.” He lifted his chin toward the feeding mass of vermin. “I believe they are running out of food.”

Bianca watched Wynders disappear, leaving her with hundreds of pairs of interested watching eyes. She stared back at them and growled, baring her teeth as if she should have them for a meal instead of the other way around.

A rat scampered across her chest.

Bianca screamed and rolled to her side, tangling her skirt between her legs. She frantically wrestled the twisted material, but her struggle only bound her further. She cursed her kirtle, wishing for a way to rip it off. Exhausted, she lay still. She knew she must calm herself and think her way out of this. If only she had a knife, if only someone had heard her scream . . . Her head filled with useless, wishful thoughts.

She looked around, forcing herself to think what she could use to untangle herself. There was nothing but walls of wooden crates and dark, and as the hissing grew louder, it drowned any sensible thoughts she had and she panicked again, thrashing more violently than before.

But this time her undoing became her salvation. She’d spilled so many experimental solutions on her old skirt that the wool had worn thin in places, and now, with her thrashing, it ripped enough so that she was able to kick a leg free. She swung it over and rolled onto her knees, wiggling to give herself room, and with effort staggered to her feet. The rats had moved closer, and she cursed and screamed, scaring them back. It worked, but only for a moment.

She began moving as fast as her weary legs allowed. Soon she could make out a faint light in the direction of the entrance. Fighting her exhaustion, she stumbled forward, bumping into crates and sending them crashing down behind her. She had created an inadvertent barrier. Soon she began driving her aching shoulders into more crates, creating even more obstacles between her and the rats.

Hindered by her tied wrists, she found a splintered crate with a sharp edge and worked to saw apart the rope. Her back was to the edge so she couldn’t tell if it was cutting through the thick jute, but as the horrible hiss of rats closed in, she furiously pumped her arms up and down against its edge.

One by one, the fibers split. The rope began to fray. She felt the taut grip on her wrists begin to relax. She forced her wrists apart, tightening the jute against the sharp edge, and with a final stroke, her hands sprang free.

Bianca swung her arms about, regaining their feeling and yowling at the pain that shot through her shoulder joints, still stretched and sore from her stay at the Clink. She didn’t know how she would escape the warehouse, but if she had to climb to the top of a tower of crates, so be it. It would be easier to fend off the rats from there.

Bianca had barely turned before a rat landed on her back. She threw it off and looked up. Above her, a wall of rats peered down from the tops of crates. Their claws were dug into the rough wood planking as they started down the sides. Some dropped off and landed at her feet.

She stumbled forward, pushing over more crates and sending them crashing to the floor. Containers broke apart, wood splintered, and silken cloth and Oriental spices spilled onto the warehouse floor. Desperately, she kept pulling down boxes in spite of the pain in her shoulders.

Her plan might have worked. She might have been able to buy valuable time to smash through the door to the outside. But as she paused, gasping for breath beside the strewn remnants, one lone container creaked with a sickening moan. Precariously balanced, its weight shifted, and Bianca looked up to see it totter—then fall straight for her.

C
HAPTER
39

Constable Patch should have slept like a babe. He should have slept with the peaceful conscience of the righteous. After all, he had performed his duty and delivered that murderess Bianca Goddard to her rightful destination: the Clink. But as he lay staring up at the mouse scampering along the rafter over his bed, he couldn’t stop thinking of her story and the warehouse in Romeland.

What if it was true? What if this Robert Wynders was planning to unleash a torrent of sniveling, dirty rodents on London’s fair citizenry? Patch rolled over, pulling the blanket off his snoring wife.

As far as he knew, he was the only one who could do anything about it. As it was, he would be commended for bringing a murderer to justice and he expected to win the notice of the ward alderman. And if he had forgotten, Patch would make certain he remembered the connection between Bianca and her suspect father—a man accused of trying to poison the king. Nothing good could come of an alchemist and his “chemiste” spawn. But preventing a possible pestilence on the town of London and nabbing the architect behind it? He couldn’t have engineered a more propitious scenario. And here it was being given to him. He’d be a fool not to act.

Exposed to the room’s chill, Constable Patch’s wife roused from a warm and comfortable slumber, peevishly yanked the covers off her restless husband, and told him to sod off. Patch obliged. Within a few minutes he was dressed and wending his way through the sinister back alleys to the Clink.

Since he didn’t know where the ignoble warehouse was exactly, he’d have to enlist the help of the young transgressor. He wondered if he’d have to entice her cooperation with promises of mercy, but decided it was best to try to avoid negotiations of that sort if possible. He wasn’t sure what he’d say to her. He would think of something when the time came.

Instead, Patch preferred to think on his new appointment as deputy of a London parish. With the extra money and prestige, a new uniform might be in order. One made of fine peacock-blue velvet with multipleated sleeves. A bounce worked its way into Constable Patch’s step. He didn’t even mind the drunk sprawled across his path, but trod on his chest without altering his gait.

Of course his wife would be pleased. A move across the river might gentle her surly disposition, and who knows? She might even become more amenable to performing her wifely duty.

With heady dreams of a new and improved future, Constable Patch ignored the grim murmurings issuing from the Clink and rapped on its door. Even several minutes of waiting and continued knocks did not diminish his sunny mood.

The turnkey peered out at Patch with a spiritless expression. “Late for you, isn’t it, Patch?”

“Aye, that,” answered the constable, undeterred. “I have a matter of utmost importance—elst I wouldn’ts be here.”

The turnkey’s dull eyes ranged over Patch, uninterested. He appeared to have been woken and was none too thrilled. “Mayhaps ye tell me your business at this hour. I see ye have no criminal.”

Constable Patch confirmed the obvious. “True, my good man. I have come on a missile which will save the good folk of London from a scourge of epic proportion. A bane of such dour consequence that, if left unchecked, could spell the end of our fair city and, in particular, its citizenry.”

“That’s been said of the ale at the Cockeyed Gull.”

Patch pressed on. “If ye should aid me in this noble cause, I shall reward ye well.”

“With what?” The turnkey tittered. “You’ll never amount to more than what you already is: the lowly public servant of this cur-ridden coop of a borough. No moneys in that, never wills be. Still, a man’s gotta eat—I can’t deny you that.” He scratched his belly through his rough wool tunic. “For a scab, you have lofty expectations, Patch.”

“I see no need for ye to be flappin’ ye jaw about it. There is something in it for ye, if ye see me by. Are ye in or outs?”

The turnkey took another precious minute to consider Patch’s offer. He saw no need to rush into additional work, especially at this hour. Then again, since he was up and an opportunity was presenting itself, he might as well hear the knave out. “So’s what do you need?”

Constable Patch cheered to hear the brute ask. “I needs ye to release Bianca Goddard to me.”

“What’s for? You just brought her here.”

“It has something to do with whats I just told ye.” Patch didn’t want to go through another explanation trying to convince the sourpuss. “This has direct import to the king,” he added, hoping that might carry some weight.

“Says who?” challenged the turnkey. “You?”

“Enough! Bring me Bianca Goddard, and be quick about it.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Do not try to waylay me, man. I have no patience for it.”

“Patience or not, I cannot bring her abouts.”

This is not what Patch wanted to hear. “What? I brought her in, and I can bring her out. If ye don’t do as I ask, I’ll inform every alderman from here to Shoreditch that ye are a lazy, obstinate turnkey. No more capable of tending our criminals than a house full of hens. Now get her before I lose my temper.”

“I tolds you. She is not here.”

Constable Patch cocked his head. “She is not here? She is not here?” He paused, as if letting it seep in, then jabbed his finger into the guard’s face. “Ye will not toy with me, knave.”

“An official sort came and gots her, Patch.”

“An official sort of what?

“An official sort of . . . man came and removed her.”

“Removed her herewith?”

“Aye. Herewith,” he mumbled.

“And did this official sort of man wield a coin for such cooperation?”

The turnkey balked. Bribes were neither unusual nor unexpected. How was he to know this prisoner, Bianca Goddard, was anything more than the murderer of a trifling young woman? “Don’t be so self-righteous, Patch. Coin speaks louder than virtue here. A beggar makes more money than a turnkey in this rotting borough.”

Constable Patch knew all too well the corruption got from low wage. Hadn’t he accepted coin concerning this very case? Yet when it worked against him, he became indignant. But being the double-dealing public servant that he was, he was not above pretending to be uncompromisingly moral, and this he slung about as if it were a five-pointed mace.

“I’ll have ye charged for bribery before the day is done.”

“Thunder on, Patch, but you can’t change the world. You will get nowhere threatening me such.”

“We shall see,” sniffed Patch, turning on his heel. But if Patch were honest with himself, he knew, regrettably, that the turnkey was right.