The Alchemist's Daughter

by Mary Lawrence

  “I’ll lift the container, and you pull her out,” said John when Meddybemps reached the bottom.

  John studied the crate from different angles; then, just as he braced himself against it, Wynders unleashed a torrent of expletives. John and Meddybemps paid him no mind as they concentrated on freeing Bianca. As John leaned his shoulder into the crate and tipped it backward, the streetseller grabbed under her arms and dragged her clear. Freed at last, Bianca sat back against Meddybemps’s shins and examined her wounds, pulling her torn kirtle above her ankles. Her stockings were torn and soaked with blood, but despite the gash and scrapes, thankfully, no bones protruded.

  “Let’s try to stand you,” said John.

  “I can barely feel my legs.”

  Meddybemps and John grasped her waist and carefully brought her to her feet. Her legs trembled like twigs ready to snap. She had no strength and very little control.

  “You’ll get your strength back. For now, though, you’ll have to let me carry you.”

  Bianca welcomed John gathering her in his arms and, for the first time in days, felt as if she would be fine.

  Then, they heard Wynders.

  The ship’s agent had caught his sleeve beneath the crate and was tugging and cursing in frustration, clutching his ring. He hated ripping his new velvet doublet. It had cost him two quid and two months of waiting to have it tailored with pleats to accentuate his muscular forearms. His curses rang through the warehouse.

  John noted how light Bianca was. The week had taken its toll on her—she felt no heavier than a child. He began to scale the pile of debris and was pleased when she wrapped her arms about his neck and rested her head against his chest.

  Meddybemps scampered up the mound and found the sturdiest footholds, pointing them out to John. “We’re nearly there. I’ll be glad to be rid of this place.” He scrambled to the top and waited for John and Bianca to join him. “The Thames will never smell so sweet,” he said, noting the rats’ curious eyes, watching.

  Just as John and Bianca reached Meddybemps, a terrible scream filled the cavernous warehouse, echoing off its walls.

  Wynders had freed his sleeve, but not before the rats had moved in. He kicked and stumbled, screeching for help while vermin attacked his legs and bit into his meaty thighs. Within seconds, the rats swarmed Wynders and covered him like angry bees. His face disappeared beneath a mass of fur and biting teeth. He was drowning in a sea of vermin.

  Meddybemps turned away and started down the other side.

  John felt somewhat remiss ignoring Wynders’s pleas for help, but he was not about to abandon Bianca—not now, not after all she’d been through—and so he clasped her closer and grimly followed the streetseller.

  Once they reached the ground, they hurried to the front of the warehouse, weaving through the walls of crates in their haste to be done with Wynders and the Chudderly Shipping warehouse.

  Meddybemps threw himself against the door before flinging it open. “I’ll be spending the rest of the day at the Dim Dragon Inn, drowning meself in a few pottle pots of their best swill,” he said, over his shoulder. “Methinks that’s the only way to forget the smell of this awful place.”

  But when he took a step into the lane, he was denied his breath of open air.

  CHAPTER 41

  “We meet again,” said Constable Patch.

  Meddybemps drew up, surprised to be standing face-to-face with the ineffectual plod.

  Still carrying Bianca, John squeezed past the two of them.

  “Well, this is promising,” said Patch, tugging his chin hairs. “Seems to me I’ve found a murdereress escaped from the Clink and the warehouse supposedly harboring unspeakable, ghastly horrors. What did that playwright say? ‘Persistence begets fortune’? Indeed. It does seem that way, does it not? And I am nothing if not persistent.”

  Meddybemps and John exchanged looks. They could run, but John wouldn’t get far toting Bianca.

  “This is the warehouse I spoke of,” said Bianca, releasing her hold from John’s neck and attempting to stand. Her legs shook, and she clutched John’s arm for support. “Robert Wynders is inside. Perhaps you might wish to speak with him.”

  “Ah! Most certainly. But first, I must deal with the likes of ye. I would be remiss to let a criminal walk the streets before due process.”

  “That is hardly a concern. Bianca can hardly stand, much less walk the streets,” said Meddybemps.

  Constable Patch observed Bianca standing as if her legs were made of splinters. He’d seen criminals fake all sorts of maladies to avoid arrest. He eyed her suspiciously.

  Bianca continued. “You didn’t believe me when I told you this warehouse is teeming with rats. Now that you are here, I should think you would want to see.”

  “Mayhaps. But first, methinks I should deliver ye back to the Clink.” Patch reached for her arm.

  John was not about to let Constable Patch haul her away again. This time, Patch was alone. He could easily dispense with the pigeon-hearted constable and make their escape. He handed Bianca over to Meddybemps, then shoved Patch backward and rounded his hands into fists.

  Patch snickered. “Look there, I’m only doing me duty. No needs to go off half-cocked.” He smiled congenially, but when John’s expression remained unmoved, the smile slid from his face. He eyed the three of them, then without warning lunged for Bianca.

  John struck him in the chin and sent him sprawling. “You’ll not take her again, Constable.”

  Patch sat up and tested his jaw to find it still working. “That did little to help your cause. I can arrest ye for assault of a public official.”

  “You must fight me first.” John hovered over Patch, wheeling his fists, ready to pound him at the least provocation.

  Threats and jaw punching might have ensued if they had not been interrupted by a scream so unnerving, so desperate, so blood-numbingly awful, that all of them stopped and turned to look at the warehouse.

  “It is Wynders, as I said.”

  Constable Patch was skeptical. For all he knew, she could have bound the man within or enlisted him in a scheme to draw him in. “What did ye do to the man?” he asked, watching Bianca’s face.

  “I did nothing but try to escape. He brought this on himself.”

  Another scream beckoned, and Constable Patch got to his feet. The scream was too genuine to be faked. “A man is in trouble, and we must help him.” He looked round at the three and saw their lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll not have ye trick me. While I am inside, ye will make your escapes.”

  “Then we will go with you,” offered Bianca.

  “Speak for yourself, Bianca,” said Meddybemps, aghast. “I’ll not willingly go back inside. I can stand guard out here.”

  “We all go in,” said Constable Patch, drawing his blade. “Exceptions ye,” he said, grandiosely pointing the tip at Meddybemps, “since I have no quarrels with ye—for now.”

  Bianca saw her chance for redemption and was not about to let the moment pass. She attempted to lead the way, but barely staggered a few steps before her knees began to buckle.

  “You cannot walk,” said John, lifting her in his arms and ignoring her protests. The two headed back in the warehouse.

  When Constable Patch stepped through the door, he was overcome by the smell, but he masked his revulsion and followed behind the pair.

  John wound a path through walls of broken crates and fallen debris. He stepped on piles of splintered wood, testing his foothold before placing his full weight and moving on. A glimpse over his shoulder revealed the constable’s face screwed in disgust and one hand pinching his nose closed.

  “Shall we keep going?” John asked, turning round to face him.

  “Of course,” said Patch, quickly assuming a fearless pose. But as John turned back to continue their course, Patch covered his mouth and stifled an involuntary retch.

  Perhaps the girl was telling the truth. A fouler smell he’d never known. He’d have rather sat in the bottom of a p
rivy hole than this. But he must know if what she said was true, and in spite of his hesitancy he would see this through.

  John stopped at the top of a heap and set Bianca beside him. She leaned against John, and Constable Patch observed him turn away and gag while she looked on, as if mesmerized.

  He drew up beside them and followed her gaze to what lay below. He could barely look on it.

  Below was a heaving mass of fur and teeth, ripping and tearing Robert Wynders’s flesh. With clothing and doublet shredded, his bare arm reached out, imploringly, but was then covered in more rats. He writhed beneath the throng; his legs kicked, his boots the last protection against their determined chewing. One gnawed through the leather, tugged it off, exposing his meaty calf. Wynders screamed as his muscle was stripped from the bone.

  Constable Patch turned away to steel himself. The man was in trouble, but he could not muster the nerve to save him.

  Wynders’s pleas grew muffled, and his cries became less frequent, fading into nothing but the sound of fighting, feeding rats.

  “He’s lost too much blood,” said Bianca. “There’s nothing to do for him.”

  Constable Patch readily agreed, relieved not to intervene. He started back down the pile of rubble, more concerned that the rats might still be hungry than that he was leaving a man to suffer a painful and ignoble death. John and Bianca followed. They reached the warehouse entrance and silently exited, closing the door and securing it. London still had not fully woken; a lone rooster crowed in the distance. The gray-blue shadows had not yet given way to the fullness of day.

  Meddybemps did not ask what happened. He could see their bewildered expressions and color as pale as birch.

  CHAPTER 42

  The four stood motionless, each sorting through what they’d just seen and privately wondering why Wynders had allowed the warehouse to become home to a legion of rats. Their backs warmed in the morning sun, and eventually they shook off their reverie. Carts creaked down the quay, and horse-drawn drays arrived to cart away goods arriving to port. A muckraker strolled past, carrying a bucket and shovel. London was awake, and she called them back and deposited them on the steps of the normal and expected.

  John draped his arm protectively around Bianca’s shoulder and glanced furtively at Patch. The constable had not shed his expression of shock and dismay. John wondered if he and Bianca might escape without his notice. It was worth a try to gain time to convince Bianca to leave London. John took hold of her hand.

  Meddybemps hadn’t noticed John and Bianca silently backing away. He roused from his stupor and spoke of the one thing that could comfort him. “I could do with a decent pottle pot of ale.”

  John and Bianca froze. They glared at him.

  “Aye, that,” agreed Constable Patch. “But it’ll take more than one for me to feel right again. I’ve seen enough to last me a whiles.” He glanced at Meddybemps, then looked around for John and Bianca. Spying them, his brows knit together. “Bianca Goddard, I’m not finished with the likes of ye.”

  John started to speak, but Bianca shot him a look and he kept quiet.

  “I’ve gots to hash this one over,” said Patch, chagrined he was alone with no support to effectively arrest her. He was outnumbered, and he knew his threats were useless. At least for now. “I’ll join ye back to Southwark.” He sounded almost chummy.

  No one dared object. Bianca’s fate was still in the officious public servant’s hands. It would do her little good to flee. With her legs still weak, she wouldn’t get far.

  Meddybemps regretted ruining his friends’ chance to sneak away. He followed behind, mouthing silent words of apology as they traipsed back across London Bridge, passing through the gate in glum silence into Southwark.

  Finally, the constable spoke. “Ye knows, Goddard,” he said, “I have been thinking ’bouts what ye told me. Seems it played out the way ye said. Wynders had a warehouse of vermin, and no telling what he was thinkin’ to do with them. Suppose the rats escape and overrun London? They be a dirty scourge for sure.” Patch shook his head.

  “Perhaps it was easier to store the bodies in the back of a warehouse than give them a proper burial,” said John. “Certainly less expensive.”

  “Perhaps he was hiding them until he got the Cristofur out of quarantine,” said Bianca.

  Constable Patch considered this. “Possibly. Chudderly Shipping has been under scrutiny of late. They are in tax arrears and stand to have their license revoked. Their goods and warehouse are due to be seized. Perhaps Wynders expected the rats would deter its seizure.”

  However, it was Meddybemps who put forth the best theory. “Given what I have learned from my inquiries,” said the randy streetseller, his one eye whirling with sentimental remembrance, “I believe the man might have had a contentious relationship with his father-in-law’s company. He did have a bastard child after he was married.”

  “But to bring down the family business?” said John.

  “Perhaps it was the weighted dice,” said Meddybemps, well schooled in winning at hazards. “A threat. Or, if not a threat, a distraction from his own scandal.”

  No one commented until Constable Patch spoke. “I’ll have to inform the tax collector and a few others of his despise. In fact, the aldermen of London should know of his intents. It might fare me well.”

  “You’ll have to enlist the city officials to rid the warehouse of the rats,” said Bianca.

  Patch grimaced, thinking of the unpleasant task before him. “I’ve only time for one restorative tankard; then I must see to it the aldermen know what has happened.” His gaze settled on Bianca. “I haven’t time to dally with the likes of trivial murderes-sae—like youse,” he said, pointedly.

  “So, she may go her way?” ventured Meddybemps.

  Constable Patch studied the three of them. It did seem to Patch that Bianca, while still the easiest to convict in the murder of Jolyn Carmichael, was probably not the most likely culprit. The whole matter seemed inconsequential now, compared to what he had just seen. The debacle of Wynders and Chudderly Shipping would garner the attention of more than just the aldermen of London. The import to the king’s most precious coffers could catapult him to a coveted position in a London ward. And if he couldn’t impress the aldermen that he’d just saved London from pestilence, he could always pursue Jolyn Carmichael’s murder at a later date. Bianca would not be difficult to find.

  However, it would not do to let a miscreant think she’d gotten off scot-free. Patch never shied from the opportunity to instill a healthy dose of fear in anyone. To neglect doing so would be remiss.

  “I’ll not bother with ye,” he said, then added, “for now. But,” he warned, ticking his forehead toward Bianca, “do not try to leave London. I’ll have every guard from here to Spitalfields watching.”

  A weight fell from John’s shoulders. He saw the opportunity, and would start convincing Bianca of the importance of thinking on her future straightaway.

  As they neared the Dim Dragon Inn, an acrid smell permeated the air, and the sky over Southwark grew dark.

  “I smell smoke,” said John.

  Meddybemps noted the formation of the billowing cloud. “It’s coming from Bermondsey Street.”

  People began to come out of their rents and gather in the streets, sniffing the air and scanning the sky. The smell of smoke was a death knell in this warren of rents. Fires could spread from one thrush roof to another in seconds, consuming entire rows of buildings and burning them to the ground.

  The four hurried toward Bermondsey and arrived as curious spectators lined the road, gawking at the conflagration. Flames licked the sky and a haze of gray smoke began to settle. Bianca pushed through the crowd to better see.

  Barke House was in flames.

  The recent fog had not dampened the dry tender of thatch, and the entire roof roiled in flame. Skeletal crossbeams and roof timbers burned with abandon, and heavy buttresses snapped—booming as they cracked and fell upon the second floor, unleas
hing even more fury.

  A few men with buckets sloshing with water from Morgan’s Lane stream waited for a ladder to be leaned against the adjoining residence. One brave soul attempted to climb, but the heat and smoke proved too much and he retreated, knowing the effort was like trying to put out the flames of hell with a thimble of water.

  Constable Patch ran forward, trying to organize a second effort to contain the flames, but when that proved futile, he contented himself with shouting at people to stay back.

  John found Bianca standing too close and grabbed her arm, pulling her back to a safe distance. “Is anyone inside?” he shouted, over the roar of fire.

  “God help them,” answered Meddybemps.

  “But Banes and Mrs. Beldam . . .” Bianca looked about at the faces in the crowd. “Did they get out?”

  Meddybemps glanced around, and after a moment he shook his head. “I don’t see them.”

  “They may be inside. And who knows how many women there might be in there.”

  “Hopefully, none,” said Meddybemps. “There’s no sense in running in to find out. The building is going to collapse any second.”

  “But we can’t stand here and do nothing.” Bianca looked desperate, as if she might be considering dashing toward the house.

  John held Bianca’s arm, preventing her from bolting forward. “Bianca, surely you know as well as I that it is useless. It would be mad to run inside and search for anyone. Besides, your legs are still weak.” He had no sooner spoken when the door flew open, and out stumbled a figure, clothes and skin black from smoke. He managed a few steps, then collapsed, choking and clutching his throat, gulping for air.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Banes!” gasped Bianca.

  She broke free of John’s grip and pushed past the gathering onlookers. Her legs ached, but she ignored the pain along with the heat and menacing blaze. She dropped to her knees and lifted Banes’s head into her lap.

  John and Meddybemps ran after her just as an inner wall gave a loud, ominous crack. They each grabbed an arm and dragged Banes toward the crowd, and Bianca followed, avoiding a spray of smoldering debris as more timbers snapped and the structure began to fracture.