The Alchemist's Daughter

by Mary Lawrence

  King Henry was no doubt already courting his sixth wife. If love had been so enduring, would he have divorced two and beheaded another couple? Not that she took cues from their swollen sovereign. She just needed to be sure. But even more than that, a commitment to John would mean giving up her chemistries. If she couldn’t pursue her passion, she knew she would grow resentful and sullen. Chemistries fascinated her and kept her cheered. Even John couldn’t engage her mind the way experimentation could. Until she felt otherwise, she knew she had to pursue this first.

  She looked at Meddybemps waving the flask of liquid and assuming a pose of authority. Meddybemps had a reputation that stretched from the brothels in London to the ones in Southwark. He’d even seduced her mother. She thought of this, and her resentment surfaced. “Who are you to lecture me in love?”

  Meddybemps frowned and set down the flask. “I admit constancy is not my best trait, but I do have some years of wisdom. I have avoided marriage’s anchor of responsibility by loving whom I please and committing to no one. Am I happier? I have no one to nurse me when I ail and no meal to greet me at the end of the day, no one to share my bed on cold nights. But the only mouth I have to feed is my own. It is like your measure scales.” He picked the rusty balance off the table and tapped one side to send it tottering. “Which is better? You must consider what is more valuable to you. John is on one side, and your obsession with medicinals is on the other. Only you can weigh which is more important.” He set the scale down on the table. “Maybe you can find a balance. But only you can measure what you need.”

  Bianca headed for the door. “Before I can think on such matters, I need to make sure that I’ll be around to even try. If I don’t find out who killed Jolyn and why, then I will hang at Newgate and you can spend all the time you want shaking your head and telling me how I’ve wasted my life. Unfortunately, though, I won’t be around to hear.”

  Meddybemps was used to Bianca’s occasional outbursts. He let her rail and kick until she had spent her anger. She was learning what it was to be a woman, and he was glad to see it. “Well, can I at least collect some more salves and balms to fill my cart?”

  Bianca petulantly threw open the door. “Take what you want.”

  She took a step and bounced off a figure standing there, much like a wall and about as solid. She stumbled back and looked at the man blocking her exit.

  “Is this the room of Medicinals and Physickes?” he asked, peering down his nose.

  Bianca stared up at him. She couldn’t be sure this man wasn’t some sort of king’s minion or guard. He was dressed in finery, wearing a doublet of maroon velvet decorated in gold braid, the collar reaching halfway up his neck and trimmed with a modest ruff. An épée swung at his side, hung from leather crossing his chest. She gulped but did not respond.

  “Are you Bianca?”

  Bianca glanced over her shoulder at Meddybemps, who ticked his head reassuringly. She faced the man. “I am.”

  He removed a pheasant-plumed hat and entered Bianca’s room with a proprietary air.

  From behind, Bianca peeked out at Meddybemps and mouthed a silent “Who is this?” to which Meddybemps shrugged and made a face.

  The man gazed around the room. “You sell rat poisons?”

  Bianca followed him back inside and closed the door. “I do.”

  “I’m in need of a fair quantity.”

  Relieved that the man was a customer and not someone enlisted by Constable Patch to haul her away, she asked, “What would you call ‘fair’?”

  He fixed his gaze on Meddybemps, sizing up the scraggly streetseller and deciding the knave peculiar but not a threat. Still looking at Meddybemps, he turned his head toward Bianca. “I need enough to rid a ship of vermin.”

  Bianca received the request for rat poison regularly. She did not think it particularly unusual, and if she could hurry up and take care of him, she could get to the Dim Dragon Inn before any more time elapsed. She’d never met the man before, and usually when a new customer arrived, she was curious enough to ask how he’d found her. But all she could think of was getting to the Dim Dragon Inn. She ignored Meddybemps’s ogling and emptied the rat poison into a pouch and cinched it closed.

  The man accepted the poison and instructions with a polite tip of his head and paid her generously. Without further offering or questions from Bianca, the man left as briskly as he had come.

  Meddybemps raised his brows as the door closed. “You should have asked his business.”

  “I doubt he would have answered.” Bianca stuffed the coins into her purse and jammed it deep into a pocket on her skirt. She then helped herself to several coins Meddybemps had brought and stashed the rest in a jar on a shelf. She had enough for a pottle pot and pie in case she had to spend any amount of time waiting for the muckraker to turn up at the tavern.

  Before she could collect her scarf, Meddybemps was out the door.

  She hollered after him as he shoved his cart into an alcove next to her rent. “Don’t you want to stock your cart with more medicines?”

  Meddybemps shook his head, waving her off. “Later, my dove.”

  If she wasn’t going to find out about this puffed-up prillywig, then he would.

  CHAPTER 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.

  CHAPTER 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.

  CHAPTER 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 squeeze
d.

  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.