The Alchemist's Daughter

by Mary Lawrence

  “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 di
d 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.

  CHAPTER 16

  Once she heard the door close behind Robert Wynders, Jane Beldam lifted the cup of ale to her lips and downed the remains without stopping. She turned the cup upside down on the table and laid her hand on its bottom.

  Her efforts to perpetuate the lie had reached an impasse. Without more drastic measures, she and the women of Barke House were destined to return to their more sordid occupations in order to survive. Doing so would pique the interest of the exchequer, constable, and other lowlifes, something Mrs. Beldam had hoped to avoid.

  She rested her cheek on her fist and stared vacantly at the shelving opposite. The flour and grain stores were dwindling, along with the rat poison and everything else. While she preferred her newfound respectability, it didn’t mean she couldn’t “flip the coin” if she had to. The girls depended on her for refuge and advice, and if they had to step up their filching and other endeavors, they would. But she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Barke House wasn’t so desirable that the girls couldn’t go elsewhere if she became too demanding. Then she’d be left with nothing.

  With her youth and beauty faded, Jane Beldam relied on wits and cunning instead. No convents would accept the likes of her, nor would any man marry an old whore. She’d never find work again, anywhere—her reputation ensured that. But she had always managed to remain one step ahead of the authorities and avoid the Clink—she’d never live through such dour environs at her age.

  Mrs. Beldam was deep in contemplation when Pandy strolled into the kitchen.

  “Why ye let that eel-skinned bombast in this house mystifies me,” said the girl, observing Mrs. Beldam’s long face. “He never fails to leave misery in his wake.” Pandy dropped onto the bench opposite her.

  “I believe ye loved him once,” said Mrs. Beldam.

  Pandy had hoped Wynders’s affections for Jolyn had been buried along with the beautiful muckraker. His cool reaction to news of Jolyn’s death had left Pandy hopeful, but then his equally cool reaction to Pandy had left her bitter. “And I was a fool. There is no need for him to come ’bouts anymores.”

  “Ye may gets your wish,” said Mrs. Beldam. Pandy’s indifference didn’t fool the veteran callet. She still wanted Wynders, and Mrs. Beldam knew it.

  Pandy was of little use, having failed to complete even Mrs. Beldam’s most simple requests. Upon arrival, Mrs. Beldam required new girls to turn over their coins and trinkets as a good faith contribution in running Barke House. If one refused or hid anything of value, then Pandy was to “remove” it and promptly deliver said item to Mrs. Beldam. More than once Pandy had claimed failure when all the while she had kept an item for herself. But Mrs. Beldam had a keen eye, and nothing escaped her notice—not even the malevolent glint in Pandy’s eye.

  “Methinks ye’d better to leave off the man,” said Mrs. Beldam. “He’ll come up against what he deserves. Ye’ll see.” Then Mrs. Beldam, feeling she might not have sufficiently impressed the girl, added, “Besides, if it is a husband ye want, there are better men to choose. Robert Wynders is as married to Chudderly Shipping as he is to his wife.”

  Pandy’s lips pinched, and she looked away.

  “Now get on with it,” admonished Mrs. Beldam. “No need dwellin’ on the past.” She stood up and got Pandy a cup of ale. “Ye need to not let yeself get parched. Ye need time to heal what all ye been throughs.”

  Pandy dutifully drank down the quaff and stood. She lifted her chin, but failed to hide the tears welling in her eyes.

  “Go on now. Ye be all right,” said Mrs. Beldam, and she watched Pandy straighten and march from the room.

  Mrs. Beldam had never approved of Pandy’s affair with Wynders. She knew it would end badly for the girl, especially once Jolyn arrived at Barke House. She had been at a loss to discourage either girl from involving herself with the man. She couldn’t understand why anyone would want the arrogant whoremonger. But, she thought with regret, they had not been the only women to fall prey to his charms.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was hard enough pouring a bucket full of molten metal over delicate molds, but to do it while a meddlesome Frenchman lectured him on matters of love was too much for the young Anglais to endure. John tried to concentrate as he tipped the scalding silver, then hauled on the chain to move it to a new mold. He didn’t fancy burning himself.

  “So this matter of the Bianca,” mused Boisvert, watching from a safe distance, “she is still not sure of you?” The master silversmith chuckled. “These jeunes filles, they are splendid creatures, n’est-ce pas?” He adjusted his codpiece with a faraway look in his eye. “Well, so your lovemaking skills must be négligent.”

  “That is not the issue,” sputtered John. His patience with the round-bellied foreigner was wearing thin. True, the man had rescued him from living in a barrel outside a boozing ken, but he, too, had had a part in Boisvert being able to conduct his business with some modicum of peace. It wasn’t easy for a Frenchman to navigate the social customs of the Anglais, even if he was a master in his craft and widely sought for his casts of plates and even coins. “She is accused of murdering her best friend. Instead of asking for help, she is pushing me away.” John worked the chain, easing the iron bucket back into the orange coals of the foundry.

  “That is enough for today,” said Boisvert, putting up his hand. He wandered to the rear of the forge and returned with a bottle of wine.

  John dampered the chimney, but he still had the casts to recover, and so he carefully moved a mold with heavy tongs over a trough of water. He tried to push the aggravation out of his mind, but Bianca was like a splinter—under his skin and irritating.

  Boisvert, refusing to let the matter go, poured himself a glass of wine and pulled up a chair to watch his young apprentice. He had no qualms assuming all men of English descent were boors in the bedroom.

  “John,” said Boisvert, swirling the glass of wine under his nose, “if it isn’t your love skill, then why the Bianca doesn’t run away with you?”

  John dropped the mold of coins into the trough, sending a cloud of steam hissing into the air. The mold fell apart with a satisfactory crack, and the coins clinked to the bottom. John fought the urge to grab Boisvert by the collar and dunk his French face into the water. “I told you. She has been accused of murder.”

  Boisvert sipped his wine and considered this. “Perhaps this Bianca is not the one for you. Maybe you should find a lovely fille more amenable.”

  “I don’t want another fille. I want Bianca.”

  Boisvert’s eyebrows skipped in appreciation, and he chuckled softly. “My poor boy. This is not the first time the Bianca has found trouble. It wasn’t so long ago that she was running about in the Tower Blanc, trying to rescue her father from a charge of treason.” Boisvert undid the last button of his doublet, releasing his belly from the constricting fashion. “I would say, you must be careful the company you keep.”

  John retrieved a long-handled ladle to scoop the coins from the bottom of the trough. He fished about for the silver and deposited it with a loud clank in a metal pail. “It isn’t as if she goes about seeking this sort of trouble,” he said. “She just seems to have come across some unexpect
ed twists of fortune.”

  “You call it ‘twists of fortune.’ I call it a plague of misfortune. And it is best to avoid that sort. Bianca is misery.”

  “She is not misery.”

  Boisvert polished off his glass of wine. “Suit yourself,” he said knowingly. “You would be much happier without the Bianca.”

  John deposited the last coins into the pail, then hung the ladle back on its hook on the brick wall. He thought about Bianca this morning, in the vaporous gloam of Cross Bones graveyard. Her eyes keenly brilliant in the gray murk. She had been preoccupied; perhaps he had been too quick to anger. All he wanted was for her to acknowledge him. Show a hint that she cared. He dropped onto a stool and stared at the forge. Perhaps he should offer his help. Then, just as quick, his anger flared and he thought to hell with it. Her eyes had been on some other fellow. She had hardly said two words, much less cared that he had come to apologize for his snit. If she needed or wanted his help, she’d seek him. He would wait. He would wait for her to show that she wanted him.

  “Are you going to let in whatever is pounding at the door, or are you going to sit in a stupor for the rest of the day?” Boisvert crammed the cork back into his bottle, sorry for the interruption. A good bottle of wine should never wait to be finished.

  “Ah, just who I was hopin’ to find,” said Constable Patch when John opened the door. He stepped inside, nodding to Boisvert, then turned back to address John. “I was hoping ye might know where your friend is.”

  “Whom do you mean?”

  The corner of Patch’s mouth slid up in a half grin. “Your friend Bianca, of course.”

  “She is not my friend.”

  Patch tilted his head and glanced at Boisvert and winked. “Well then . . . acquaintance?”