The Alchemist's Daughter

by Mary Lawrence

  She grabbed one of the cages and thrust it open, dumping the rat onto the table. She covered its back with the thick jute and squeezed its torso. Holding its legs tight against its body, Bianca turned it over so its throat and little pointy chin were exposed. “Have you drawn the purgative?”

  John didn’t like rats any more than Bianca, and the sight of her holding one made him squeamish. She wasn’t exactly the kind of girl he’d bring home to Mum, if he had a mum or a home to bring a girl to. But Bianca never failed to intrigue him and he could never claim her dull. “Aye!” John quickly drew up the liquid and stopped the end with his thumb.

  With her free hand, Bianca pinched the rat on either side of its mouth, forcing its jaw open. “Now!”

  John positioned the tube over its mouth and released his thumb. The column of fluid flowed silently and evenly down the rat’s throat.

  Satisfied, Bianca shoved the rat back into its cage and secured the small hasp. She wiped her hand on her kirtle. “That’s one,” she said, labeling the cage and setting it by.

  John wiped his hand along his leg. He hadn’t gotten but a drop of purgative solution on his skin, but still . . .

  “Again?” he asked.

  “By the time I get to the third rat, we’ll be used to this.”

  John had his doubts but kept quiet. How could anyone get used to this? Hopefully, the end result would be a dead rat because, in his mind, the only good rat was a dead one. But John realized this was Bianca’s inquiry, and ultimately, if she got an answer from all her effort then he would be glad.

  Bianca grabbed the second rat and John fed it the purgative.

  “There,” said Bianca, satisfied. She labeled the two cages and set them aside.

  “Now for the rat poison.” Bianca readied another two cages and John swirled the solution.

  The two of them continued, with Bianca prying open their mouths and John dispensing the poison.

  “So, our little friends will die, and then you will slit them open and see if their blood is tinged purple?” asked John.

  “If their blood tinges purple, I’ll know whether it was the purgative or rat poison that killed Jolyn. If the purgative turns blood purple, then I know for sure that someone at Barke House poisoned her. If it is the rat poison, then both Wynders and the denizens of Barke House are suspect.”

  “But Wynders bought rat poison from you after Jolyn died.”

  “True, but the recipe for rat poison is standardized in London. Wynders could have had a stash of it. What separates my rat poison from others is a smell of terebinth derived from pine. No one would mistakenly ingest it.”

  “So if rat poison tinges the blood purple, then Wynders is our man.”

  “In my mind, he would be the stronger suspect.”

  John thought for a moment. “What if both solutions turn blood purple?”

  “I don’t believe that will happen. But it could. In which case, I am no closer to figuring this out.”

  “And if neither tinges her blood?”

  “Then . . .” Bianca’s voice trailed off. She shrugged. “I will look in a different direction.” She scratched her head. “I’m certain Jolyn could never have ingested my rat poison. The smell of terebinth resin cannot be easily masked.”

  John agreed the smell was potent. A sharp whiff made his eyes sting as he worked to draw up the fluid.

  Bianca sat and observed the cages of rats. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before she’d see the effects of her physickes on the animals. It was midmorning, and she couldn’t help but feel anxious. Every minute and every hour that passed, her sense of hope dwindled. Constable Patch was never far removed from her mind.

  John wandered the room in search of something to sit on and found a stool in a corner that was covered in crockery. He was setting the bowls and cucurbits on the floor when something caught his eye.

  “What’s this?” he said as he tugged the corner of something half buried in straw. “Bianca!” He held up a brown leather glove. “Wasn’t this Jolyn’s?”

  Bianca snapped out of her stupor. “Where did you find that?”

  “It was covered in rush. It must have gotten lost in all the confusion.”

  Bianca abandoned her vigil and took the glove from John. She ran her hand over its soft leather and thought of her friend, whom she missed dearly. “I’m glad to have something of Jolyn’s.” She smiled wistfully, then dropped her gaze to the floor. “The other one must be near.”

  The two of them brushed back the rush. After a moment, John found its mate pushed against the wall.

  “I can think of her when I wear them.” Bianca pulled them on, but as she worked the second glove over her hand, her brows knit together.

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t get my finger in. Something is in the finger.” She felt at a lump and turned the glove on end to shake it out.

  A sprinkling of fine white powder collected in her palm; then out plopped something hard and weighty and gold. John plucked it out and held it up.

  They looked at each other, and their eyes grew wide. “The ring!” they exclaimed.

  John turned it over in his hand. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen it this close.” A crest in the shape of a shield was etched in relief. One third of the crest held three tridents. Another third held a cockatrice. A cross graced the bottom—all four ends split decoratively like flowers. “It may be a family crest.”

  Bianca examined the design. “Do you know what any of it means?”

  “I know some symbolism. Boisvert makes casts for coins, and the patonce, or flory cross, means conqueror. You must have seen it on half-groats.”

  “I never paid attention. What is that dragon with the rooster head?”

  “It is a cockatrice. A small but deadly creature of evil. A single glance can turn one to stone. Only a weasel is immune to its power.”

  “How appropriate,” said Bianca. “It has to be Wynders’s. Or if not, then it has something to do with him.” She looked at the powder in her hand.

  “What do you suppose that is?” asked John.

  Bianca passed her nose over it. She blinked, then went over to the solution of rat poison and compared its smell. “Terebinth resin.” She ran the powder close under John’s nose, and he screwed up his face.

  Bianca nodded in confirmation. “Rat poison.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Banes hoped to reach Bianca before Constable Patch found her. He had been unable to leave Barke House after Patch left—Mrs. Beldam had him put fresh candles in the sconces and empty the chamber pots.

  “I wouldn’t put it past that girl to kill her. She came lookin’ to speaks ta me,” Mrs. Beldam had told Patch. “But I wouldn’ts see her. I’ve heard she’s a murderer.”

  If Patch believed all Mrs. Beldam had told him, the constable would want to speak to Bianca. Finally, Banes had gotten the chance to warn her. He delayed an errand for Mrs. Beldam and detoured to Bianca’s room of Medicinals and Physickes.

  Banes was disappointed when greeted by John, with his broad shoulders and supposed concern for Bianca. Banes thought he would have abandoned her given the trouble she was in. That kind never amounted to more than a passing fancy. In matters of consequence his sort wasn’t long on loyalty. Banes’s eyes narrowed.

  “I need to speak with Bianca.”

  It was bad enough that John hesitated, but when the rascal made him wait outside, it was more than Banes could stand. He resented being treated with such ill regard, especially when it came to information concerning Bianca’s well-being. He didn’t wait but pushed open the door, smacking John on his backside.

  “Banes,” said Bianca, looking up in surprise.

  But it was Banes who was the more astonished. Strewn on the board were a half dozen rats splayed open with their greasy little guts glistening in the candlelight. Bianca stood over them wielding a scalpel, her hands and forearms spattered in blood. She looked as unholy and godless as any sight he could imagine. What was she do
ing? Performing some sort of heathen ritual? Her hair hung about her face, unkempt, and dark circles shadowed her eyes—eyes that shone with unnatural effulgence.

  Banes staggered to a stop, uncertain what to say. He knew an expression of shock had overcome his initial desire to appear in control and detached. His eyes darted to John and back to Bianca.

  “Banes, I’ve been trying to determine what killed Jolyn,” she said, straightening and brushing the hair from her eyes, leaving bits of fur stuck in it. “The coroner found a trickle of purplish blood on her chin. I’ve been testing solutions to see if any can turn blood purple.”

  Banes stared down at the row of rats in disgust. “You used rats?”

  “They’re abundant these days.”

  Banes certainly could not disagree. One would have had to be blind not to notice the many vermin crawling the streets of Southwark. Still, the gruesome sight of this left him speechless, his mouth agape.

  “I believe I know what killed Jolyn.”

  Banes blinked. He could barely form the words to ask, but he had to know. “Was it a solution you sold to me?” He watched her face for signs that she thought him guilty, or at least complicit.

  Bianca ignored his question and posed one of her own. “Banes, have you ever seen Wynders’s ring?”

  “Ring?” There it was again—that cursed ring. Probably the same one Mrs. Beldam wanted. Wasn’t it the reason for clubbing Bianca over the head in the middle of the night? Banes was relieved she had survived Mrs. Beldam’s assault, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her who was responsible for it and why. Shame kept his mouth shut. He had never meant her harm. The girl was in a world of trouble as it was. He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. “Nay, I’ve never seen it.”

  “My hunch is that it is of importance to him,” she said, watching him carefully. “And I believe someone at Barke House also wanted it.”

  Banes shifted his weight and glanced up at John. The two of them stared at him expectantly, but he stifled the urge to tell what he knew. Secrets were best left alone, even if telling them could absolve him of blame. Besides, he had to live somewhere, and Barke House was all he’d ever known. He wasn’t going to risk losing food in his gut and a pillow at night. Surviving outside of Barke House with his deformity would be difficult, his life fraught with abuse. He’d be reduced to a beggar’s life.

  Banes sensed Bianca’s curiosity stemmed from knowledge she had about the ring. He didn’t know if it was in her possession, but he took the chance to ask. “May I see it?”

  Bianca shot a look at John. They were wondering if they could trust him. Banes held his breath, waiting, but offered no more assurance. Personally, he never trusted anyone, so why should they trust him? Loyalty was something best left to those who never lied.

  “Why would you think she has it?” asked John.

  Banes played coy. “I don’t,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray him. He couldn’t bring himself to say that Mrs. Beldam had thought so.

  “I suspect its value is worth more than its gold.” Bianca started back to her experiment, neither confirming nor denying they had the ring. Banes interpreted her evasiveness to mean that they had it. He could scarce blame her for not admitting it. He was scanning the room, wondering where it was hidden, when a loud banging shook the door.

  Banes startled, remembering why he was there. “Bianca, I came to tell you that the constable is looking for you. That may be him.”

  He might as well have told her that she had black hair. She showed no outward sign of alarm, and in fact, she calmly nodded for John to open the door.

  As if the display of gutted rats was not enough, in walked a knave dressed in the rough cloth of streetsellers and smelling just as bad, sporting a red beret at a rakish angle. The sleeves of his jerkin were too short, and his arms looked as thin at the wrist as they did at the forearm. Banes might not have had two normal appendages, but at least the one good arm had some muscle to it.

  The cozen swept off his cap with a flourish and extended a leg forward in a theatrical bow. “Bianca, my dove. I’d not suspected a coterie of young men charmed by your wiles.” One eye rolled toward the table of eviscerated vermin, and the other swam in appreciation. He returned his hat to his head and advanced on Banes, extending his hand. “And with whom might I have this pleasure?”

  Banes stared at the rascal’s hand but did not shake it.

  “Meddybemps, this is Banes,” said Bianca. “Of Barke House.”

  “Barke House,” repeated Meddybemps, withdrawing his hand and noting Banes’s snub. He stepped back to get a measure of the peculiar lad. “Indeed.”

  For his part, Banes presumed the man some kind of charlatan or counterfeit swank. Perhaps a dealer in dice or even an itinerant quack. Whatever he might be, it wasn’t reputable.

  “Banes, Meddybemps sells my salves at market.”

  That explained the man’s unctuous manner, thought Banes.

  “I suppose you’ve come for more salves,” said Bianca, looking hard at Meddybemps.

  The look was not missed by Meddybemps. He played along, forestalling divulging the information he’d gleaned from Maude Manstyn until after Banes left. “Indeed. I’ve had plenty of requests for your rat poison.” He glanced at Banes, whose eyes were trained on him. “So, my turtle,” Meddybemps asked, perusing the display of rats in various stages of dissection, “what have I interrupted?”

  “I’m trying to determine what poisoned Jolyn.”

  Meddybemps smiled at Banes. “You look alarmed, Banes. Are you well?”

  Banes hated being the focus of attention. He felt his neck grow warm and wished they’d change the topic.

  “You must be privy to an eyeful living at Barke House,” said Meddybemps, his own eye wobbling as if imagining as much.

  Banes did not respond to Meddybemps’s prodding but instead edged toward the door. “I need to be getting back,” he said and withdrew to the street. But he was not inclined to return to Barke House just yet. He snuck next to the front window that had been boarded up since the storm. It afforded him a crack through which he could watch and hear what they said.

  “Did you learn anything?” asked Bianca, once the door had closed behind Banes.

  “I did.” Meddybemps strode to the furnace and warmed his back, which only served to roast his clothes, further diffusing their rank bouquet.

  “Mrs. Beldam and Robert Wynders have had a long association. Wynders married Sarah Chudderly, the daughter of a merchant named Thomas Chudderly. Chudderly imports silks and velvets from Genoa. He sells only to those who can afford his fine textiles, most notably His Majesty and his court. Every altar, throne, and royal bed in this kingdom is draped in Chudderly’s Italian cloth.”

  “What is Wynders’s background?”

  “That I do not know. Suffice it to say, Wynders knew how to be at the most propitious place at the most auspicious time. No doubt he was beautiful and charming in his youth, and able to endear himself to the daughter of a rich merchant.” Meddybemps lifted a knowing brow.

  “And now he works as a ship’s agent?” Bianca looked skeptical.

  “A ship’s agent for Chudderly’s fleet.” Meddybemps helped himself to a chair next to the fire. “Perhaps Wynders possesses the right combination of grift and couth to prove himself indispensable to the firm.”

  “So, his fortune was not got by his own hand. He married it,” said John.

  Meddybemps nodded. “Most assuredly. And, as a result, Wynders must walk a fine line of propriety lest he risk losing his position and his money.”

  “Restoring one’s reputation is harder than losing it,” said Bianca.

  Banes listened intently. It seemed to have no bearing on him personally; however, Wynders had been frequenting Barke House for as long as he could remember. To know something of the man’s secrets might prove useful.

  “How did you learn this?” asked John. He was peeling the leaves off a fallen sprig of marjoram.

  M
eddybemps readily admitted his method in lurid detail. Bianca endured his detailed account as a matter of course with the randy streetseller. She was not innocent of his past. When she was a child, she used to follow him around, fascinated by his cart of talismans and trinkets. He prevailed on her curiosity and propensity for sweets to watch over his cart while he visited Maude Manstyn and others—mostly lonely widows and disaffected wives, including her own mother. But their dalliance had been more recent, having occurred while her father busied himself with his reckless involvement with men destined for treason.

  Bianca’s father had ignored her mother’s warnings that his participation would lead to his undoing. In fact, she had argued, his participation could lead to the entire family’s ruin. But her opinion mattered little. She was his property, and as such, she was expected to accept and obey his decisions, bow to his authority. Bianca had seen her father beat and humiliate her mother on more than one occasion. The neighbors were of no help. They believed that she must have provoked his anger.

  So when Meddybemps came around and offered her mother a little affection, she accepted it against Bianca’s protest. Her mother risked being severely punished. She could have been burned at the stake. Bianca warned Meddybemps to leave her mother alone. But her mother preferred being punished as an adulterer rather than a traitor—for she would have been accused of treason if her husband was convicted.

  Bianca’s parents reached an unhappy impasse. Each refused to stop their behavior, and Bianca was unable to convince either of the danger of their deeds.

  It was unfortunate Bianca had suffered a disreputable education in the more ribald side of love, but she had managed to form her own set of morals from the experience—and while not exactly lofty, she did seem to know her own mind when it came to the subject of “docking.”

  “An acquaintance of Maude Manstyn’s who, shall we say, served the needs of the more mannered class was quite forthcoming,” said Meddybemps. “I shall spare you those details, but I learned a great deal from her . . . and, of course, Maude.” Meddybemps’s eyes skipped in fond remembrance. It took him a moment to relinquish his reminiscing and continue. “Wynders has a somewhat checkered past, I’m afraid.” Meddybemps scratched under his cap.