“Is anyone else inside?” asked Bianca.
Banes’s chest heaved for breath, and he managed to answer with a simple nod.
Bianca looked over her shoulder. Rents up and down the row had been vacated, and people looked on, some staring in shock, others weeping, some praying and some cursing an unmerciful god. Fate would have her way, and they were helpless to stop her.
“It’s useless,” warned John.
Barke House was the first to fall. The joists gave with a sickening, fractious moan and the trusses—no longer supported—swung loose and fell. The entire structure buckled, as if the building was dropping to its knees. Unable to further support its weight, Barke House collapsed to the ground with a deafening violence. A percussion of smoke and debris spewed forth, catching some spectators in a shower of flying cinders and burning rubble. Barke House would not surrender without a last word, it seemed.
John draped himself over Bianca, protecting her, and when the fallout subsided, he looked around at the house, a bonfire of its remains.
Meddybemps crossed himself. “God have mercy. They’ll not survive.”
Most realized they could do no more than wait until the fire had run its course. Even Constable Patch fell silent and retreated to the throng of bystanders held spellbound by the wild conflagration. Beyond a few whimpers and shrieks of outrage, a heavy pall settled over the onlookers. The fire raged on, consuming three more homes before finally subsiding and dwindling to a smoldering heap of ruin.
John and Bianca helped Banes sit up, and Meddybemps offered him a drink from his wineskin. Banes stared at the wreckage of Barke House, his face taut with emotion. “She was my grandmother,” he said. “All these years of her treating me as a burden and a cripple. Never once acknowledging that I was of her blood.” His voice faltered with anguish. “I was the embarrassment, the mistake she used to bleed money from Wynders. I am the grotesque creation of that man’s indiscretion and sordid love affair. Shunned and dispassionately used by my own grandmother.” Banes struggled to his feet, his incredulity giving him strength.
“But, Banes, your last name?” asked Bianca.
“Perkins,” he answered. “She made it up.” Banes smiled cynically, then continued.
“As long as she possessed the Chudderly family ring, she could manipulate him. She always kept it on her body in a purse attached to a rope around her waist. Her constant fretting, the incessant patting and checking of the pouch, wore the wool thin and the ring was lost. But she kept the threat alive with her lies to Wynders, knowing full well that without the ring she had no proof that I was his son. She kept the missing ring a secret for as long as she could.
“Then Jolyn, with an eye for valuables, found the ring in the mud of Southwark. And my grandmother in the course of her dealings saw it hanging about her neck. So she schemed to get it back,” said Banes. He motioned to Meddybemps for another swig of wine, then, staring round at each of them, continued. “She offered Jolyn a home at Barke House.” He smiled cynically. “How could a muckraker refuse a pallet on which to sleep?”
John shook his head. “The poor girl,” he said. “She believed the ring had brought her luck.”
Banes snorted. “And then Wynders met Jolyn and saw the ring dangling from her neck. He saw his chance to gain it back, along with his freedom.”
“The two vied to secure it,” said Bianca. “But it wasn’t around her neck when she died.”
“No, it wasn’t,” said Banes.
“Because I found it in her glove.” Bianca looked round at the four of them. “Apparently someone had put a good measure of rat poison in her gloves. Jolyn didn’t have to ingest the poison for it to kill her.” Bianca looked pointedly at John. “Remember how her hands were red and chapped from chores? Mrs. Beldam had her scrubbing floors and doing laundry in the cool spring water. She made sure Jolyn’s hands became cracked and raw, then sprinkled rat poison in the gloves Jolyn got from Wynders. Jolyn would not notice a fine powder being absorbed into her skin. A smell of terebinth would not trouble her since she had never known the feel or smell of fine leather.”
“She wagered that Jolyn would die at Barke House,” said Banes. “Then she could retrieve the ring and continue her extortion.”
“But Jolyn didn’t die at Barke House,” said Bianca, thinking of the visit from Mrs. Beldam soon after Jolyn’s death. “Mrs. Beldam came to my room of Medicinals and Physickes with the pretense of grieving for Jolyn. I remember her acting queer. Distracted. Now I know why.”
“She was looking for the ring,” said Meddybemps.
Banes grew uncomfortable keeping silent about his complicity on the night of the storm. He felt compelled to admit his involvement—as trivial in the overall scheme though it seemed. Banes forced the words from his mouth. “The night of the storm we came to your room, Bianca. We broke in, and before I knew why, she had clubbed you over the head. We searched for the ring. She would have beaten you to death if I had not stopped her.”
“I didn’t know I had the ring. John found Jolyn’s glove buried under the rush just yesterday. I hid the ring in an empty flask for safekeeping.”
“And I retrieved it,” said John. “No one would think that I had it.”
“I would have been spared a trip to Wynders’s warehouse if you had left it there.”
“Aws, now,” said Meddybemps. “Don’t begrudge John his help. His finding the ring served a purpose. And a fortunate one at that. The streets of London might be swarming with rats if Wynders hadn’t dragged you to his warehouse and we hadn’t found you there. Wynders died by his own doing.”
“But the rats . . .” said John. “At least they are locked inside the warehouse . . . for now.”
Constable Patch listened intently, tugging his scraggly goatee. “Well, as I saids,” he said to Bianca, “looks to me ye was sayin’ the truths all along.” Patch had a satisfied look on his face—perhaps one of relief at not having to further deal with Bianca Goddard, daughter of the ignoble alchemist.
“Wynders dragged me out of Barke House expecting I would take him to the ring,” said Banes. “I assumed it was in your possession and told him you were in the Clink.”
“Dangling from manacles,” said Bianca.
Constable Patch glanced back at the charred remains of Barke House. “So where is Madam Beldam?”
“After Wynders left me battered in the road, the last thing I wanted to do was go back to Barke House. I only just returned,” said Banes. “When I got here, smoke was streaming from the windows, and I cannot deny that I stood in the street, savoring the thought of watching Barke House burn to the ground. But as I stood watching it wheeze and spew, I knew I was not the soulless wretch of my kin. I rushed in. The smoke made it impossible to see, so I felt along the wall and called out. There was no answer. Beds were burning, blankets blazed. I ran down the stairs, a falling timber just missing me.” Banes fell morosely silent.
“Ye didn’t answer me question,” said Patch. “Is Mrs. Beldam still inside?”
“Aye,” said Banes, softly.
Bianca and the others exchanged looks, but Constable Patch, being naturally curious and interfering, persisted. “Ye left her there?”
Banes roused. “Wynders had struck her. I started for the kitchen . . .”
“Ye left ye own grandmother to burn?” Patch indignantly puffed out his chest as if he’d just gotten Banes to confess murder.
“I may be bred of treachery, but I am not of it. I dropped to the floor and crawled toward the kitchen. I was blinded by smoke and choking, but I made my way there.” Banes glanced at the constable. “I found her. She did not respond when I tried to rouse her.” A defiant look came over Banes’s face. “I did not abandon her as she had willingly done to me. I dragged her body toward the door.” Banes held up his foreshortened limb. “A not so easy task. We had cleared the door when a floor joist let go from above. . . .” Banes’s voice trailed off, and his expression appeared pained. “The joist fell across her legs.�
��
Meddybemps offered Banes another drink from his wineskin, and Banes greedily drank. He handed the skin back. “I could not free her.”
Sympathy had never been fully cultivated in Constable Patch, and while the latest incidents in the warehouse had left him subdued, he still could not suppress a certain urge to challenge Banes. “So ye lefts her to burn,” he said.
“Should I have burned with her?”
Bianca turned on Patch. “Surely you do not suggest that he stay and die along with her?”
John riled at Constable Patch’s presumption. “How long does one try to free a dead woman from a burning house before it is acceptable to leave her? Is one’s own death the only proof of innocence?”
“She may not have been dead,” said Patch.
“And are you to make that determination?” said Bianca.
Constable Patch read the outrage on their faces and so withdrew his argument. But his stare lingered on Banes. “I have matters I must attend. Ye may not be bound to answer my question,” he said to Banes, “but I woulds not think ye should never have to. For now I shall stay my inquiry.” He glanced round at them and gave a curt nod, never one to leave on friendly terms.
CHAPTER 44
The sun warmed Bianca’s face as she headed across London Bridge for the first time in nearly a month. Spring had arrived and laid to rest the quibbling days of late winter. Dangling catkins caught the breeze on a hazel bush, and the iridescent yellow of ranunculus peeked from softening patches of earth. She was glad for the approach of the vernal equinox, and with it the promise of longer days.
She’d spent her time healing in her room of Medicinals and Physickes, sleeping long and dreaming up new combinations of herbs to try. She drank fennel tea and let John bring her cheese and bread from market. He’d showered her with attention and care and proven himself indispensable to her recuperation. Now she was feeling strong and confident and had grown bored cooped up in her rent with stills and jars of concoctions her only company.
She’d not seen Banes since Barke House burned. John and Boisvert had given him a place to stay until he knew what to do. It hadn’t been long before he’d left Southwark for lands east of London. Bianca wondered how he would survive highways overrun with padders and runagates, but she imagined Banes would never fall fool to anyone ever again. Still, she hoped he fared well.
“He’s gone to find his mother,” Meddybemps had said. “Mrs. Beldam sent her to live with nuns in France. A purported nattering simpleton she was, says Maude. Mrs. Beldam did herself a favor sending her away.”
“Does Banes know she is of light wit?”
“Does it matter?” said Meddybemps. “I’m sure he seeks the truth whatever comes with it. Wouldn’t you?”
Bianca knew she would have done the same.
Now, as she crossed into London and passed the leering fortress of the White Tower, she turned her thoughts to a time when she had spent her mornings scouring the banks of the river outside its walls, searching for plants to study and stash in her pocket. It was along these banks she had first met Jolyn. Bianca paused to sweep her eyes along the river and recalled her friend’s laugh. She could remember it clear as a bell. And, like the tinkle of a bell, it cheered her.
“I shall always remember your laugh,” she whispered. Then, as if Jolyn had heard, Bianca saw her friend look up from raking mud and smile. Bianca stared, daring not to look away. She was so pleased that she did not wonder whether this was her imagination or an apparition. But it was impossible not to blink, and when she did, Jolyn was gone.
Bianca tried to conjure again the vision of her friend but could not. And so, tucking away the memory, she continued on and turned up Lambeth Hill.
Not much had changed. The same timber-frame rents lined the street, their daub an earthy sorrel, with gray and brown oak crossbeams adding a bit of decorative strength. The upper stories leaned precariously over the lane, with their thatch roofs smelling somewhat musty, though they’d experienced several sun-drenched days, as witnessed by the chalky film of dirt riding her shoe.
Goodwife Templeton shooed a goose out her door and stopped long enough to stare suspiciously at Bianca walking up the lane. When Bianca neared, the old woman cleared her throat and spat the phlegm over her shoulder. “ ’Aven’t seen ye ’bouts since the twelfth of never,” she said.
“I live in Southwark now.”
“Phaa, I’d ask ye whys, but then, knowin’ ye queer family, I cans just as rightly guess.”
“Are my parents well?” Bianca asked. She might as well prepare herself by asking a neighbor’s opinion.
“As well as right, I suppose,” she answered. “I don’t hear clamoring or smell peculiar odors emanatin’ from withins. So I hazard they is behavin’ their persons.”
“Well, I am glad you approve of my parents’ performance.”
The irritable woman pinched her mouth and squinted with distrust as Bianca passed.
As she neared the old rent, Bianca squelched her rising guilt. She’d asked her mother to live with her in Southwark and leave behind the machinations of her father, but she had declined. Bianca had never understood her mother’s loyalty to a man who cared not a fig in return. Perhaps she would never understand.
Bianca supposed her own practical nature, although some might call it cold, was learned from her father, who never put anyone above his dogged pursuit of the philosopher’s stone. Couldn’t the same be said of her? She grimaced at the notion of it.
And so she resolved to balance her attention between those she loved and her obsession with dabbling in medicinals. She would start by visiting her mother, whether her father was home or not.
She stopped outside the door of her parents’ rent and found it more weathered than the last time she’d visited. The wood had grayed, and moss clung near its bottom, forming a soft green mat. She lifted her hand to knock. Would she tell her mother about what she’d been through? She didn’t think so. Sometimes love is about knowing when to stay silent. But would she tell her mother about John and her marrying?
A mother deserves to know.
CHAPTER 45
The Cristofur departed as she had come, without fanfare. The ship avoided a long quarantine thanks to the venal inclinations of a certain customs officer. There could be no avoiding some time spent in quarantine once it had been enacted. But witnessing the bonfire of bodies alongside the ship’s hull had waylaid his worst fears. He wrote an amendment to the customhouse docket certifying payment in full of duty owed by Chudderly Shipping in regards to the Cristofur (which it was). Compliance of said party to dispose of undesirable contents in the ship’s hull (meaning bodies and rats), he did attest. However, the customs agent knew nothing of Wynders’s other murky secrets lurking in the Chudderly warehouse. Nor did he trouble to find out. The stores of so many shipping companies in the warren of warehouses lining the Thames were not his concern. Let the tax inspectors deal with that.
And when the customs officer later heard of the demise of Wynders, agent for Chudderly Shipping, he breathed a sigh of relief. For if only one man is left standing, a bribe cannot bite.
The crew did have to wait before disembarking. This was to please the medical authority of His Majesty’s council. The crew obliged without fractious grumbling so long as they could look over the sides and see the wood of a pier on one side of them. And the captain’s allowance of a few bawds in the dark of night effectively quelled their mutinous dispositions.
If authorities had needed further proof of the Cristofur’s clean bill of health, the Rat Man could have given it. After Wynders’s demise, the Rat Man diligently kept watch over the ship for further infestation of furry elements until she prepared to sail and pulled anchor.
Ravenous vermin had infiltrated the streets, causing some outbreak of illness, which the Rat Man, in his infinite wisdom, knew was related. The Black Death was ever present in small numbers, but depending on the season and circumstances, it often resolved without panic and wides
pread infection. And so what could have raged . . . did not.
Bills of mortality were not posted, street fires to purge the air of pestilent stink were infrequent, and the incessant bell ringing of plague carts to collect corpses was not heard. The wraith of the Thames could continue his vigilance comfortable that this time the scourge had been averted.
He watched the Cristofur drift away from the pier, entrusting her fate to the river’s ebbing tide. Who knew what the great force of the sea would impart on her uncertain future? Perhaps a tempest or scurvy might challenge her crew? Fate and nature were undoubtedly fickle. The Rat Man chuckled.
Non est ad astra mollis e terris via. There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.
Possessing the collective wisdom of thousands of souls, the specter knew one thing for certain as he watched the Cristofur fade out of sight: London would forever struggle, but she would forever endure.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It is my pleasure to thank the many people who helped bring this book to life and who have supported my writing over the years.
My eternal thanks to:
Claire McNeely, friend and reader who never fails to lift my spirits and offer sage advice. Linda Stevens, Marjorie Gilbert, and Anne Brudevold for slogging through numerous writing projects.
Andrea Jones, for her friendship, hand holding, and wonderful eye for story and editing.
Ali Bothwell Mancini, who wasn’t afraid to tell me to cut or add.
The amazing crew at Kensington.
Mary Beth Constant, for both exasperating and impressing me with her attention to detail. She succeeded in making me appear smarter than I am.
Alison Picard, whose persistence inspired me to keep writing. Despite years of rejections, she still believed.
My family and friends who politely refrained from telling me that maybe I should find another dream.
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