“You walk as if you have been hurt,” she added.
“I suffer from gout,” he answered. The usurer set the alembic back on a shelf and calmly reached for a leather purse. “My footwear must be specially made.”
Bianca noted Tait’s fine boots and decided he must have spent good coin on them. Such a pair would have cost her several months of earnings.
“My mother prescribed eating porridge of barley and vinegar followed by the application of a poultice of ground worm and pig’s marrow.” She mentioned this as a way to gauge his interest. No one suffered the disease with resigned acceptance. Gout was painful and debilitating. Anyone afflicted with the condition was willing to try almost anything in the hopes of curing it.
Tait looked up. He did not ask how warm the poultice should be, or what type of vinegar worked best. He loosened the drawstring on the purse and stuck a finger into it.
Bianca found his lack of interest surprising. His indifference, while certainly unexpected, did not prevent her from trying to engage him. “Who found Plumbum’s body?”
“I suppose some poor fool who happened upon it.” He plucked out a lump of cinnabar. “Never an enjoyable experience, I can assure you.” Having held the ore to the light and examined it, he dropped it back in the pouch and cinched it closed. “Have you ever come upon a shivved body in your travels?”
“I have not.”
Tait tossed the pouch back onto a shelf, frowning in disgust. “I am not fond of crimson.”
Bianca took advantage of Tait’s disinterest and scanned the room for a kerotakis. If Plumbum had one, it was not sitting out for her to see. Feeling their conversation had reached an impasse, she backed toward the door. She might find out more about Plumbum’s murder from just about anyone other than Tait.
“I shall leave you to your . . . business,” she said, taking a final searching glance around the room. The needed piece of equipment had eluded her once again.
CHAPTER 25
Bianca did not believe in curses. Verbal profanity, however, was acceptable and at times necessary. She did not shirk from using it on occasion. In fact, she embraced the art of a well-placed expletive with gusto. It was the other definition of “curse” of which Bianca was skeptical.
She did believe in ghosts. Who didn’t? Pinning down suicides with a knife through the heart seemed the only way to prevent them from wandering around and making life miserable for their loved ones. Nor did Bianca think Meddybemps’s talismans and amulets were frivolous. Wearing a badger’s tooth to prevent getting robbed served a useful purpose. The wearer conducted his affairs with more confidence under its protection.
But Bianca did not believe it was possible for a person to conjure evil and misfortune upon others. Truthfully, she had often thought a generous dose of bad luck humbled those needing a lesson in compassion. And while hexes, potions, and curses worried the average citizen, to Bianca the only one capable of heaping untold misery on a person was oneself.
Bianca believed that she was responsible for creating her present circumstance. Certainly, waggery was everywhere. One need only look around to see skullduggery and murder. But standing over a burning candle and summoning evil spirits to spite another person just because someone asked them to seemed a dubious proposition.
But as Bianca made her way to the Royal Poke, the subject of curses did cross her mind. Could the alchemy journal be her ruination? Had Ferris Stannum or even the force of nature—or dare she admit it—God, in His infinite wisdom, imbued the journal with a way to prevent the elixir of life from ever being projected again?
Was the journal, or perhaps the path to creating the elixir, a cursed undertaking? Bianca could think of no other word to describe the accumulating difficulty and deaths associated with the book. Ferris Stannum’s death, or, as Bianca believed, murder, came soon after his discovery of the elixir of life. Now she held the recipe for the secret of immortality and someone had made an attempt on her life. Whoever had the journal before her must have known or experienced its inherent danger and chose not to jeopardize his life by keeping it.
But why toss the journal through her window? Did the person expect her to succeed in creating the elixir, or had the person wanted her to die trying?
If John’s bloodletting had helped relieve the pressure in his skull like Hughes believed, she might be able to save him. She saw how he was sleeping more soundly, but there was no sign that he was any closer to recovering. John seemed to be trapped in a state of quiet suspension. How long would he have? How long did she have to find the kerotakis and concoct part of the elixir?
Bianca snaked through the stalls of Cheapside Market and, without slowing, filched a plum while the tender was busy with a customer. She bit into the fruit and paid no attention to the juice trickling down her chin. Should she heed these warnings and rid herself of the journal? Was she being dissuaded from creating the elixir by unknown forces or, dare she think it—a curse? Then again, it could be mere coincidence that someone tried to steal her satchel while the journal just happened to be in it.
Her other thought was that someone might be killing alchemists. The killer might have a profound distaste for those practicing the noble art. First Ferris Stannum was murdered; then Thomas Plumbum met his end. “I’m not an alchemist,” she said aloud, eliciting a curious glance from a passerby. But perhaps someone mistook her for one. Bianca glanced over her shoulder. “Nay,” she said aloud, admonishing herself for letting her imagination get the better of her. She finished the plum and tossed aside the pit.
Bianca wiped her sticky chin on her sleeve and thought about Tait, the usurer. It was the second time she had caught the man going through an alchemist’s belongings within hours of his death. True, he may have only been trying to recoup some of his loss. But his avowed strategy of knowingly investing in more risky ventures seemed ill-advised. Being the daughter of an alchemist, she knew what it was like to wrap strips of wool around her feet for shoes or to go without eating because her father had melted the last coin for some alchemy experiment.
Could Tait have suffocated Ferris Stannum with a pillow and murdered Thomas Plumbum? Was he after the alchemy journal? Bianca relieved the weight on her shoulder and crossed the satchel to her other side.
He had run his eyes over the strap as if it were of interest to him. Could he have been the one to attack her? Had he known she had the book and carried it in the satchel?
But if Tait had wanted the book, why didn’t he try to take it from her in Thomas Plumbum’s alchemy room? Bianca kicked a stone and sent it careening off the wheel of a passing cart.
Gout could flare, creating intolerable pain. Mentioning her mother’s remedy barely elicited an acknowledgment. Sufferers were desperate to learn what could relieve them of the excruciating pain. No matter what the topic, all pretense was forgotten when a new remedy was mentioned. But Tait had remained aloof.
Perhaps he had lied about his gout. Perhaps his limp was caused from something else. Had he been involved in the brawl over the satchel the night before? She tried remembering the details of the attack. The feeling of being followed was similar to the one she had now. Again Bianca stopped and whirled about to face the crowd behind her. No one caught her eye; no one suddenly pretended to be interested in the plaster of a building. Bianca resumed walking.
She had felt a tug on her shoulder strap and had instinctively hung on to it, pulling against whoever was trying to steal the satchel. She had stumbled and fallen forward, rolling to her side, still clasping the satchel in both hands. When she had tried to stand, her outstretched hand had been crushed under the heel of a boot. A heel that had delivered a painful blow. A heel of hard wood, she thought.
With her other arm, she had wrapped herself around the assailant’s leg, trying to prevent a repeat stomping. The satchel was wrenched over her head and savagely used against her.
Bianca leaned against an oak tree and concentrated. She closed her eyes as a finch squeaked from a branch overhead. It had
been dark at the time of the attack, making it difficult to see any distinguishing features of the attacker or the fight that had followed. She ran through the order of events.
The bark of the tree was rough against her cheek. The leather of the boot had been soft against her face. The leather had the smooth feel of a supple hide.
As she remembered the feel of the leather in her hand as she clung to her assailant’s leg, she placed herself in the scene again, experiencing the smells of that street in London on a warm summer’s night.
She could smell the river, the brackish mix of silt and decomposition. Across from where she lay, the smell of refuse merged with the contents of a dumped chamber pot. Moldering timbers and thatch permeated the air. She tasted the gritty dirt of the road in her mouth.
But as she stood with her eyes closed, a smell filtered through her memory that was more distinct than the others. The scent of roses.
Bianca opened her eyes. She had smelled roses when she was attacked.
CHAPTER 26
Constable Patch leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, intoxicated by the smell of its leather upholstery. How had he managed so many years without? Only a few months into his new position and its novelty (the leather, not the job) still had not worn off.
In his mind, the promotion had been long overdue. Patch had spent years patrolling the unsavory ward of Southwark for little pay and even less notice. He had often gazed across the river at the seductive skyline of London and dreamed what it might be like working on the other side. He imagined the crimes and misconduct to be more sophisticated, less unseemly, less unruly in nature, since that was Southwark’s domain.
He grimaced with distaste remembering London’s wanton sister. The bear-baiting and dogfight venues had grown in popularity and number. So had the number of brothels and the foolishness that went along with them. He had done his best to recruit men willing to help enforce the king’s law, but without enticement such as pay, he had had to appeal to their more charitable inclinations. And in Southwark it was nearly impossible to find a man of altruistic disposition.
No one of any scruples lived in Southwark by choice. Only divs and lowlifes called it home. How he came to be a constable there was another story. But a better one was how he came to be a constable in a peaceful ward within sight of Christ Church with mainly candlemakers to protect.
Less than half a year had passed since he had discovered the cause behind a disturbing influx of rats. To be truthful, he had not made the discovery, only reported it. But by doing so, he had saved London from a scourge of vermin and pestilence the likes of which the citizenry had never seen. And, thanks to him, they never did.
It began with a muckraker. A young woman who benefited from a spate of fortunate circumstances—fortunate, of course, until she was murdered. The corner of Constable Patch’s mouth turned up in a snide smile.
She was friends with Bianca Goddard, an alchemist’s daughter who fancied herself industrious creating remedies by dubious methods she had learned from her atypical parents. Goddard lived and worked in the area called Gull Hole, claiming she could afford the rent there. But like most residents of Southwark, her type would not have been welcome across the river in London.
A woman alchemist in London? Patch snorted. She would have ended in the dunking chair.
Bianca Goddard had said her friend had suddenly dropped dead while visiting her. He’d found her explanation fraught with emotion and he had left unconvinced. But the entire story unfolded in a rather astonishing way, and he had been the recipient of an unexpected windfall of useful information that he was able to leverage for his benefit.
Thus the rich popingay blue doublet and shiny brass buttons.
Patch turned one button to examine its insignia and ran a finger over its embossment. To think he had scrounged for years to put food on the table in that vile ward. He had never seen his wife move faster than when he announced they were leaving. The bribes he enjoyed these days kept her well fed—which was necessary since she was immoderate in appetite.
He propped his legs upon the table before him, clasping his hands across his stomach. He wished the woman could rid herself of her lice, but as long as she allowed him to dock her once a week, he could squeeze his eyes shut and imagine she was that saucy Catherine Howard. (When she was alive, of course.)
Patch thought he might take a nap before strolling the streets. Nothing of any great importance ever seemed to happen. Robberies and occasional assaults kept him from growing bored, but most often he arrived too late and merely had to assure a distraught shopkeeper or citizen that he would do his best to find the culprit. Luckily, Patch had not been there so long that the citizens could accuse him of indolence.
He positioned himself so that a breeze might find him and closed his eyes, content with the world. Street sounds lulled him into a mild, languorous respite. A horse clopped by; a boy shouted after another; a mongrel barked just to hear its voice. It was a sure measure better than hearing sots shouting at whores and the women’s lurid banter in reply. Aye, he had come up in the world.
Constable Patch was in that dreamless state of sleep, jerking and twitching as he tumbled into its soft embrace, when he heard his name buzzing around his ear. Aware of sounds but not cognizant of them, he swiped it away as if it were a bee. But the mind has a way of calling one back when needed. And it was needing him now.
The calling persisted, and with a groan, he opened his eyes. Before him stood the source of his annoyance.
“Constable Patch,” she said. “If I may speak with you.”
Patch stared a moment to get his bearings. Aye, he was still in his quarters—that part was good. He looked out the window and saw it was still daylight. He had not slept very long. He removed his feet from the table and sat up in his chair. Yes, it still smelled of leather. He was still in London.
But before him stood a reminder of Southwark.
“What brings ye to these parts?” he asked. “Out of your elements, I would say.” He eyed Bianca Goddard suspiciously. It did not matter that she was the source of his promotion to this ward on the opposite side of the river. The girl still had a way about her that made him wary.
“Is it true that Thomas Plumbum has been murdered?” Bianca wasted no time in niceties. She had just come from the alchemist’s rent and needed to confirm what Tait had told her.
Constable Patch leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, and rested his chin atop his steepled hands. He paused before answering, appraising her and the motive behind her asking. The coroner had pronounced the alchemist dead of a stab wound to his stomach. He saw no reason to withhold this information. “It appears he has been murdered, aye.”
“Have you any suspicion by whom?”
Patch leaned back in his chair, considering. “Suspicions?” He grimaced as if the notion pained him. Which it did. No family member or paramour had shown up distraught and demanding justice. It was not unusual to be on the wrong end of a blade. Wrong time, wrong place; it was so common as to be ordinary. Patch was disinclined to delve further into the matter. But he took exception admitting his negligence and anticipated her wanting to know why he had not investigated further. “Nay, I have not pursued the matter. Apparently it was a robbery. “
“A robbery resulting in murder?”
“It happens,” said Patch defensively. He had no idea why Thomas Plumbum was stabbed.
Bianca said nothing in response, but Constable Patch read her expression of disbelief. He reached for a quill and dipped it into an inkpot. There was a proclamation lying on the table and he whisked it in front of him and signed his name at the bottom of it. “Now, if you have no further business with me, I must get back to my work.” Patch kept his head down, scribbling his name a second time on the document, the only words he knew how to write. He found a second document and wrote his name, clueless as to what he was agreeing. Why would she not leave?
Patch glanced at her from under his brow. She waited patient
ly for him to finish.
He laid down the pen, releasing a long, audible sigh.
“What is it you want?” he said, exasperated.
“I want to know more about Thomas Plumbum.”
“Ye should have befriended him when he was alive. He isn’t much of a conservationist now.”
“Conversationalist?” corrected Bianca, annoyed by the smirk on his face.
Patch’s face fell. “Perhaps ye would do well to question the patrons at his boozing ken of choice. I am still just learning the ward. I am not privy to blether and gossip. I can be of no more help to ye.” Patch decided there was no better time for his stroll than now. There seemed to be no getting rid of her, other than leaving. The legs of his handsomely appointed chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back and stood. He straightened his doublet and rearranged his bollock dirk on his belt.
Bianca did not move. He started to come around the table, then stopped.
She had pinned him with that piercing blue stare.
“There is something you must do for me,” she said with an earnestness that he could not ignore.
CHAPTER 27
Bianca stood outside Constable Patch’s, deciding which direction to take. The sun was dropping in the sky, prodding her with urgency beyond what she already felt. She looked toward Southwark on the other side of the river and thought of John. She had already been gone too long.
Strange how volumes of feelings could be crammed into a single moment. Overwhelmed by the intimidating stab of realization that she could do nothing to prevent time’s passage or the changes that inevitably accompanied it, Bianca wavered in indecision, paralyzed with doubt.
She regretted not being with her husband. Her mother was right. She should be with him. What had she accomplished by leaving John to look for a piece of equipment? He could be asking for water this very minute. And she was not there to give it to him.
All for a piece of equipment her father claimed she needed. Her lack of faith in her own methods had prevented her from trying to create the elixir without it. Perhaps her inability to secure the necessary kerotakis was a sign. Should she just abandon the idea of trying to create the elixir? Or was her inability to secure the equipment an indication that she should believe in her own technique?
Death of an Alchemist Page 20
