The Alchemist's Daughter (8 page)

C
HAPTER
13

If Meddybemps admitted the truth, it wasn’t so much curiosity about the man as it was about stealing his purse. He knew money when he saw it. And though this nattily dressed stranger was probably a few years his junior and twice as brawny, Meddybemps had years of sneakiness and knavery under his belt. Not to mention a razor-sharp stiletto.

He had hurried after the pompous prig and glimpsed him turning a corner onto Maze Lane. He took chase, scampering up the muddy road as fast as his bony legs could take him. Peeking around the corner, he watched the man stride confidently up the lane, ignoring the queans camped on stoops of houses of ill repute. Such willpower was impressive.

Meddybemps followed, lingering with the ladies long enough to leer at the pickings, then remembered the goal was coin first and pleasure second. He galloped to catch up with the man as he swept down the lane, looking as purposeful and focused as Meddybemps would never be.

A tavern door flew open and a brawl spilled onto the street, bringing with it the requisite clientele to taunt and place bets. All the better to get lost in the ruckus and remain inconspicuous, but Meddybemps bristled at the thought that someone might spy his prey and get there before him.

Again the man skirted the distraction. He turned a corner, and the streetseller thought he might be heading for London Bridge, but oddly, the man turned in the opposite direction. Well, perhaps the blowfart didn’t know his way in Southwark—which was to Meddybemps’s advantage.

He trailed his quarry at a fair distance, wondering where he might go. The man had no choice but to stay his course as the street wove along the Thames. There were no intersecting lanes except a narrow alley farther down toward Morgan’s Lane. Meddybemps anticipated his route and cut back and across to the alley’s dreary entrance. Eventually the man would pass at its intersection—the perfect spot to nab his prey. Meddybemps crabbed down the shadowy wall and waited.

Meddybemps tilted his ear and strained to hear the sound of sucking mud that would warn of his victim’s arrival. Then, he would jump from the alley and thrust the knife into the man’s liver. He hoped no one would see. He knew these undertakings were better left for the cover of night, but when the opportunity presents itself, mused Meddybemps, take it.

Still, his caution niggled him, and he peeked into the lane to see who was around. A doddering old woman inched up the street, probably too blind to see, and a pig rooted through a festering pile of kitchen scraps. Neither posed much of a worry. Farther down he saw his intended prey. Meddybemps drew his knife for the ready.

 

It wasn’t so long ago that Meddybemps had helped Bianca save her father from an untimely death. The old puffer had been accused of trying to poison the king. A man had died, and Bianca swore the blame was wrongly placed, but she never said who the culprit was. Meddybemps had helped her slip into the Tower to find her father and prove his innocence. Meddybemps shook his head. Poor girl. Now
she
was accused of murder. What was it with that family?

At least the mother didn’t have any murderous tendencies—so far as he could tell. She was a lovely creature, that one. Dark hair like Bianca’s, but with cleavage a man could drown in. Meddybemps talked down the bulge in his pants. Shame the father didn’t hang. Damn shame.

Still, Meddybemps adored Bianca. She was as a daughter to him. Smart, cunning, a bit of the thief about her, but she had a kind heart. Too much so for her own good, and he’d told her as much. But who was he to tell her anything? She had a wit about her. She’d figure it out.

Meddybemps felt the damp seep through his thin jerkin. Was he leaning against a wet wall? Aggravated, he stepped away and pulled the scratchy fabric from his body. Soon he could be warming himself by a fire in a tavern. Meddybemps sniffed with irritation. Where
was
that prillywig?

Another minute passed, and Meddybemps thought about a bowl of beef stew and ale he’d soon buy. Not ale, no, he’d not chance his hard-gotten money on that unpredictable swill. He didn’t trust anyone in Southwark to give him a decent pottle pot. He’d get sack. And he’d go to the better part of London to buy it.

Meddybemps fumed with impatience. He peered out into the lane even though he knew if the man saw him, the element of surprise would be gone.

But his villainy was not meant to be.

Meddybemps caught sight of the man just as he disappeared through a door. The streetseller cursed his bad luck. He wasn’t about to wait in a dank alley until God knew when. He might as well retrieve his cart and head back to market. An honest coin was better for his riddled soul than one got dishonestly, though at this point, neither heaven nor hell would want his soul.

He started back up Bermondsey Street, pausing in front of the establishment to spit in its general direction. He scrutinized the just closed door and tutted at what he discovered. Perhaps this might be of interest to Bianca. The man had gone into Barke House.

C
HAPTER
14

Banes woke to the sound of voices coming from the entry of Barke House. He pulled the rag out of a peephole and watched as Wynders and Pandy spoke.

Apparently the ship’s agent had not been told of Jolyn’s death, and so Banes grew curious to see how the philanderer took the news. He eagerly anticipated his response, though he did feel slightly sorry that the man had to hear it from Pandy and not someone else.

Pandy was light of character and had harbored a profound dislike for Jolyn. Banes could only imagine how the news would feel coming from someone so cold, and with a vested interest in retribution.

But Wynders did not respond as Banes had expected. He did not crumble from learning that he would never see his young love again. Instead, the man accepted the news in silence and immediately asked for Mrs. Beldam. Didn’t he believe Pandy? Perhaps he needed to hear it from a more reliable source.

Banes sniffed. These merchant types were a cold breed indeed.

Banes pressed his ear against the thin plaster wall. He couldn’t hear their muffled exchange, so he pressed his eye against the hole and saw the callous dastard push her away. Pandy fell against a wall and cursed after him as he strode from the room.

As Pandy dissolved into tears, Banes stuffed the rag back into the peephole and ran to another. This one had a view of the kitchen, albeit an obstructed one since the missus had rearranged the board and storage bins. Still, he could see well enough and no one knew the better.

Mrs. Beldam was at the table sipping ale when Wynders arrived.

“Is it true?”

Mrs. Beldam carefully set down her cup as if it were made of parchment. “If you is referring to Jolyn, it is.”

Wynders, as cold as January, didn’t even ask when she died. Or how. Banes took a step back and tutted. How sad. And to think Jolyn had been so enamored of the man. The girl had deserved better. Banes returned to the hole, but was annoyed that Wynders had shifted so that his back was to him and he was unable to see his face.

“Well,” said Wynders. And in a low voice he said something that Banes could barely hear.

Banes blinked, unable to decipher the mumbled words.

Mrs. Beldam did not immediately answer. She stirred her ale with a finger, as if hoping to rouse the words from its bottom, but she did not reply.

“Then, I am done here.” Wynders puffed out his barrel chest.

Banes saw Mrs. Beldam’s ruddy complexion turn an exceptional shade of plum. He took some satisfaction seeing the missus so deflated, but he was stymied by Wynders’s indifference. He pressed his hand against the wall to steady himself and stared intently for some sort of clue—a facial tic, a whispered grievance, anything that might help him understand.

Nothing. The man returned his feathered cap to his head, and Banes thought he resembled a rooster with a strangely sprouted plume. Gentlemen’s fashions were so peculiar. A man should try to resemble a nobler creature, not some bird with overloud lungs.

“Good day,” said Wynders, turning to leave.

He had not taken two steps when Mrs. Beldam called him back. She tapped a finger on her cup. “This is not the end of it,” she said, regaining her characteristic menace. “Don’t assume that I won’t find another way.” Her eyes did what a rapier could have done. They cut him swift and clean.

Mrs. Beldam continued to tap her finger on the rim of her cup long after he strode from the room. What Banes would give to know what terrible thoughts festered in her head. But the sound of Pandy’s voice carried from the entry, and he stuffed his rag back in the kitchen peephole and ran for the entry one.

“I knows something youse might want, Wynders,” she taunted. She sallied up to him. “I tooks care of it,” said Pandy. “I dids. There’s no reason for you to looks elsewheres.” She tilted her chin in a saucy gesture. “I knows who the missus hired.”

Banes’s toes curled in anticipation. He dared not blink.

C
HAPTER
15

As far as seedy boozing kens were concerned, the Dim Dragon Inn was a typical tavern serving watered down ale and dubious meat pies. In Southwark such establishments were frequented by all manner of shady characters lacking the funds or inclination to journey across the bridge to more reputable kens.

Bianca pulled open the door to the ken and ducked inside. She was met with a chorus of whistles and stares, which she had expected, but the reception didn’t make it any less disconcerting. Usually only wenches and wagtails dared enter where drunken denizens sat in rows swilling their sour wine and tankards of ale.

Bianca squinted through the haze of smoke hanging in the air as thick as porridge. She didn’t see the muckraker who had quarreled with Mrs. Beldam, but a hearth near the kitchen was her best hope for staking a spot with the door in sight. Most men avoided the fire, wary they’d keel over from the heat or choke from the putrid smoke of burning dung. Bianca took advantage of the open bench and welcomed the chance to warm her bones.

She picked past the men, some leering, some already bored and preferring the view of their pottle pots to her. She deftly avoided wandering hands groping for a buttock as she sidled through and was nearly to her chosen post when a casualty of too much drink stood in front of her, listing like a ship in a storm. He gazed down and grinned a tartar-toothed smile.

They were face to grubby face. Neither could pass unless they both turned sideways or one leapt on a table to get by. Bianca wasn’t about to dance down a table, nor was she going to turn her back on the sot as she tried to squeeze past. The man enjoyed the predicament and waited for her to move.

A few interested customers perked at the chance to see what this lass was made of. A rumble of taunts and advice encouraged his next move. But the lout didn’t need counsel to help him decide. He needed to get to the alley to make water and didn’t have time to ponder his opportunity. With a vulgar smirk he spread his palm over Bianca’s breast and squeezed.

This pleased the clientele, and the place erupted into insults and howls that drowned out the sound of chatter and farting that usually held reign. Bianca was not about to be made a fool. She reached down and grabbed the man’s bollocks—mindful no codpiece protected him—and returned the gesture.

This got the appropriate response. The lout yelped and doubled over, covering his tender todger, and clamored past Bianca as fast as he could. The other customers whooped, and Bianca, now redeemed and unchallenged, got her spot by the hearth.

A tavern maid wended over to the young wench and lifted her chin approvingly. “A pot o’ ale for your trouble?” she asked.

“Aye, that.” Bianca pulled out a coin. “What kind of board tonight for this?”

The woman placed her hand on a hip. “We’ve got cabbage stew that’ll warm you right well. Made this morn.”

Bianca thought a boiled stew couldn’t do as much harm as kidney pie, so she ordered that and a pint. She most often drank a tea of mint or fennel and didn’t care much for ale, but she didn’t trust the place to boil its water, which she had found improved the taste.

The heat from the fire warmed Bianca’s back, and she settled in to study faces. She was careful not to stare too long at anyone in particular. It would not do to invite trouble or unwanted attention. She thought all this might have gone better if John had accompanied her, but she couldn’t dwell on that. She only hoped that her luck was good enough to find the muckraker and ask him some questions.

The tavern maid returned from the kitchen and, after knocking into a few patrons with her loose-swinging hips, set the bowl and a hunk of bread and mug of ale on the table. Bianca was glad to have something to do while waiting and watching.

A few patrons looked vaguely familiar, and she was glad to see Mackney waddle through the door with Smythe, his lanky diver. The portly curber adjusted his grungy ruff as he looked around for a place to sit and didn’t notice Bianca in front of the hearth. He lumbered through the tightly packed benches, inadvertently bumping some patrons who took issue and weren’t shy to tell him. Finally, he and Smythe reached a vacant space. Bianca finished her stew and made her way over.

“Do I know you?” he asked, looking up. His mouth was disconcertingly small compared to his ample cheeks.

Bianca slid onto the bench opposite. “I was at Cross Bones for Jolyn Carmichael’s burial.”

The tavern wench set leather tankards of ale in front of the pair of crooks. Mackney studied Bianca, as if trying to place her. “Of course,” he said, realizing who she was. He lifted the ale to his lips and took a drink. “Constable Patch had some interest in you.”

“Aye,” Bianca acknowledged, keeping her voice low. “Do you come here often?”

“Enough to know better.” Mackney wiped his mouth on a sleeve and belched.

“I’m looking for someone who may have had some dealings with Jolyn. Someone who accused her of stealing.”

Smythe had not learned the finer art of concealing all he knew. He shot a furtive look at his partner.

Mackney said, “No one pays mind to that accusation. Not around here anyways. But I happened to overhear something about that, aye.” He looked at his fingernails and dug out a sliver of dirt. “It was Henley you was meaning. Didn’t take it to mean much, though. Muckrakers—” He leaned in and spoke in a husky whisper. “They’s always bellyachin’ that one of thems got their goods and such. Don’t means nothin’ really.”

“Do you know if Henley comes here much?”

“Practically lives here,” said Mackney, leaning back. He looked over one shoulder and then the other. “Not around at the moments.” He chewed a nail at the end of a sausage-sized finger.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Mackney took another swig. He shook his head. “Alls I saw was them goin’ at it here and Henley callin’ her a thief. He was makin’ a fuss, and Jolyn fairly well ignored him.”

“What did he accuse her of stealing?”

“ ’Twas a ring from what I understood.”

Bianca sat back in thought. Several weeks before, Jolyn had showed her a ring she’d found. It was a lucky find, and Bianca was glad for her. If Jolyn had sold it for gold, she could have eaten for a few months. They didn’t discuss it much, but Jolyn had said she thought the ring brought her luck. She got work at Barke House, and finally, things were turning for the better.

Bianca tried to remember the last time she’d seen it. It wasn’t on Jolyn’s body. Maybe the muckraker had gotten it back. Maybe Henley was connected with Jolyn’s death.

Mackney waved the tavern wench over to order kidney pie.

“You want ’nother ale, lass?” she asked.

Bianca declined, feeling the press of her bladder from all she’d had before. She didn’t want to miss Henley, but she had no choice. She snaked her way out the door, again shrugging off offers to go upstairs, and found an alley to water the mud. Rearranging her kirtle, she thought she might pay a visit to Barke House. She pondered who else might have connections with Jolyn and realized that, though they had been friends, it was impossible to know everyone with whom she’d had dealings.

Bianca trudged back and heaved open the door to the Dim Dragon Inn to resume her watch by the hearth. If Henley practically lived at the alehouse, then surely he would make his appearance before long. She dropped herself onto the bench in front of the fire and sat in the cheap, smelly smoke.

Once the hoots had quieted and the clientele grew bored taunting her for a second time, Bianca relaxed enough to almost feel as if she fit in. Every time the door opened, she, along with the other patrons, turned a curious eye to see who entered. Eventually she was rewarded for her patience. In walked the fellow she’d seen at Cross Bones. When Mackney gave her a knowing nod, she knew it was him.

Blocky enough to command respect, the young thug stood at the entrance and scanned the collection of ruffians and lowlifes. Seeing no available space, he made some. He strolled to a table and took hold of a drunk winking off in his grog. Henley pulled him onto the floor so fast the man hardly yelped at his mistreatment and napped contented where he lay.

This roused the patrons, but after a minute they settled back to their bragging and tankards of ale. Bianca watched as he ordered a drink.

The bridge of his nose was noticeably flattened, probably from more than a few brawls. Rancorous eyes peered out from beneath brows thick as bear hide. He sneered at his tablemates and swilled his ale, finishing it off without setting it down once. But her time was at a premium, and Bianca knew she couldn’t spend another minute studying him. She stood and made her way over.

Henley watched her approach.

She touched the arm of the patron sitting opposite, and he made room for the pretty lass even though she smelled like dung.

Bianca settled in, locking eyes with him. “You knew Jolyn Carmichael?” she asked.

Henley broke their stare and glanced around. “Where’s the tavern maid?”

“Dealin’ on the other side,” said the man next to Bianca.

“I saw you at Cross Bones,” said Bianca. “You were talking to Mrs. Beldam of Barke House.”

Henley abandoned flagging down the tavern wench for another ale. He took one from his neighbor and drank it down, setting down the tankard with a thunk.

Bianca’s eyes roamed his face and lingered on his mud-caked jerkin. He was a muckraker, but he was learning the ways of a criminal. She could see it in his manner. Most muckrakers, while cunning, were doomed to their livelihood unless they could find a way out. There was no glory in digging through the sewage of London, but it was a way to avoid starving in irons or getting shivved by hooligans when deals ran amok. He had the bulk for a miscreant, and he was learning the churlish manner that went with it.

“She had something you wanted.” She watched his face for signs of deceit. “I don’t believe you are as uninformed as you try to appear,” she said. “I know you and Jolyn got into an argument.”

Henley returned the stare but said nothing.

“Oh, aye, miss,” said the neighbor whose drink Henley had stolen. “Henley here got into it right thick nights before lasts.”

If looks could kill, Henley’s would have drawn and quartered the man.

“Did you argue over a ring?”

Henley’s gaze lifted to the tavern wench, and he waved his tankard above his head. “ ’Nother here,” he shouted.

“Whose ring was it?”

“It belonged to me.” His tone was impertinent.

Bianca found him as cooperative as a millstone in mud. Not only was he tight-lipped, he was lying. “How do you know Mrs. Beldam?”

The rogue leaned back and searched for someone farther down the bench. He mumbled something unintelligible. But their discussion had piqued the table’s curiosity.

“Well, Henley. Answer the lassie’s question,” said one of the patrons.

Henley turned an angry face on Bianca. “Is nothin’ to ye. Ye best make yeself small instead of stakin’ out public venues where the constable is sure to nab ye. I saw ’e took a certain interest in you.”

“A misguided interest. But I’ll not leave until you answer my question. What business do you have with Mrs. Beldam?”

The entire table stopped talking and stared at Henley expectantly.

Henley’s eyes jumped from face to face. His attempt to ignore her wasn’t working. “Mrs. Beldam had me pawn some jewelry. That is all.”

“If that is all, why take so long to say it?”

Henley’s jaw tightened as he continued to glare at her. The tavern wench returned with his ale and set it down in front of him, but his eyes remained on Bianca.

“Next time you choose to lie, pick someone daft.” Bianca stood. She grabbed his ale and downed the entire pint, then slammed the empty pottle on the table in front of him and left.

 

Bianca stood on the street outside of the Dim Dragon Inn, stewing over Henley’s belligerence. The skate was lying, she was certain. She would wait until Henley left the inn, then follow him.

She stood outside the entrance and felt a damp chill seep into her bones. The swill they called ale did little to warm her, and it only made her regret being impulsive. But Henley had infuriated her. Now she felt the ill effects of her action as well as a creeping cold. She stared up the lane in the direction of the Thames and thought about heading home. As she blew into her hands to warm them, the man who’d bought rat poison turned onto the lane. His pheasant plume bobbed in cadence with his stride, and he was coming her way. Perhaps this might prove interesting. When he was within a few steps of the entrance, he acknowledged her before pulling open the door.

The inn’s popularity was proving greater than she could have imagined. Bianca bided her time until another customer arrived, then followed him in, hanging in the shadow of the door, where she could watch unnoticed.

It wasn’t long before she spied Henley deep in conversation with the man in the plumed hat.