The Alchemist's Daughter

by Mary Lawrence

  “Coroner, we was jus’ disgusting what ’appened here,” said Patch, drawing himself erect to equal the man’s height. This task Patch could achieve, but girth was a challenge and one not worth striving for.

  The coroner arched a brow at Patch and took a breath to correct the man’s verbiage, then thought better of it. “Indeed,” he answered. He looked about and, one eye closed, registered an unpleasant smell. He lifted the pomander hanging around his neck and inhaled. “And where is the body?”

  Patch led the coroner to where Jolyn’s body lay. Bianca had not moved her, mostly because she did not have the strength, but partly because she had left in a panic to find John. She now stared at her friend. Disbelief and sadness churned her insides.

  The coroner regarded Jolyn before speaking. He looked up and found Bianca, his face revealing nothing. “Perhaps you could tell me exactly what happened?” He directed his question to Bianca but trained his eyes on Jolyn.

  “Sir, I was working when my friend came to visit.”

  “And the name of the deceased?”

  “Jolyn Carmichael.”

  “What is it you do here?”

  “This is my room of Medicinals and Physickes. I create salves, balms, and ointments for the ailing.”

  “And these items,” he said, gesturing to the distillation equipment and furnace, “are required of your . . . vocation?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Why aren’t you in a nunnery?” he asked. “Or married?”

  “I prefer this.”

  The coroner glanced at John, then looked around at the dank, smelly nest that was Bianca’s room. He lifted an eyebrow.

  With effort, he crouched beside the body and put his fingers to her neck. Not finding a pulse, he pushed her scarf away, revealing bruising and a purplish ring about her neck. “Curious.” He leaned in for a closer look. “It appears she has suffered some bruising. Perhaps from a cord.” He lifted his pomander to his nose and closed his eyes, breathing deep.

  Bianca thought back to Jolyn sitting at her bench. Was Jolyn wearing her necklace? Bianca had grown so accustomed to seeing the jewelry hanging from her neck that it no longer drew her notice. She hadn’t seen any bruising, nor did Jolyn complain of soreness, but Jolyn’s scarf had been wrapped about her neck, Bianca had thought for warmth. Had she wanted to conceal her wounds, or protect them? Bianca came around the table and knelt beside her friend. The abrasions and discoloration ran on either side of Jolyn’s neck, but Jolyn’s necklace was gone.

  “She used to wear a necklace, but I don’t see it.”

  The coroner did not answer and continued his examination, lifting each hand, noting their redness and blisters. He peered into Jolyn’s unblinking eyes, then touched the corner of her mouth and studied the blood on his fingers, rubbing it between them. “The blood has a purple tinge.” After a moment he stood and removed a square of linen from a pocket, taking care to thoroughly wipe his fingers. “The appearance is that of poisoning.”

  Bianca had considered as much, but to hear him say it still came as a shock. She had dismissed the notion, refusing to believe Jolyn was a victim of ill intentions, preferring instead that her friend had died from a natural cause. The words sounded with such authority that she dreaded where this might lead, and from the look on his face, so did John.

  Patch wasn’t so dim that he, too, couldn’t see where this logic was going and immediately spoke up. “So’s this vacation of yours . . . did the deceased come to you for one of your balms?”

  Bianca stood to fix the constable with a hard stare. “No, she did not.”

  “Well, why ’id she come here? What for?”

  “Jolyn is my friend,” said Bianca. “She came to visit.”

  “We’ve been friends with Jolyn for a while,” said John. “She’s been doing well as late, and she wanted to talk about her suitor.”

  Patch squinted at John. “I says we need to find this suitor,” he said, drawing out the word to give it emphasis. “So was there any jealousy between ye’s? She had a suitor, after all.”

  “Of course not,” answered Bianca. “I was glad for her.”

  “Did she ’ave somethin’ maybe ye wanted?” Patch ticked his head toward Jolyn. “Like maybe that necklace?”

  Bianca grew indignant. “She was my friend. I don’t care a spot about jewelry. Search my room if you want.”

  Patch considered, but continued to question her. “Well, maybe it was made of gold. Maybe ye could have poisoned her, then took the necklace, needin’ the gold for your . . . alchemy.”

  Bianca was riled. The unwitting constable had no idea the dragons he unleashed insinuating she would poison her friend and referring to her work as alchemy.

  “Sir,” said Bianca, seething, “what I do is not alchemy. I would thank you not to refer to it as such.”

  Unperturbed, Patch pressed on. “Aws, wasn’t ye father an alchemist? Albern Goddard? Why, I remember that he was accused of tryin’ to poison the king.” His mouth twitched. “Maybe it’s just what ye do. Maybe it’s just what ye know.”

  “That was a false charge, sir. My father has been absolved of that crime.”

  “Constable Patch,” said John, “Bianca only makes salves and tinctures to help the sick. The unfortunate business of her father has no bearing on Jolyn. Bianca has severed ties with him. It is a completely separate matter.”

  “A separate matter, but worth bearing in mind,” added Patch, looking to the coroner for agreement.

  The coroner snorted, enjoying the drama that was playing out between Patch and this alchemist’s daughter. He studied Bianca a moment before speaking. “It is probably of no import,” he said. “However, did you give Jolyn anything to drink or eat?”

  Bianca hesitated. Should she admit she had concocted a drink to soothe Jolyn’s flux? A sinking feeling settled in her gut. She knew where this question was leading. Ultimately, the onus would be on her to prove her innocence.

  She would have to discover why Jolyn had died. She didn’t trust that these two men could (or would) figure it out. Constable Patch looked ready to lock her away, and the coroner seemed as though he’d lose interest as soon as he walked out the door. She opted to lie, if only to give herself more time. “No, I did not,” she said.

  The coroner glanced at John, but John was practiced in deceit and knew when to keep his own counsel. He liked to think Bianca had learned her guile from him.

  “So did your friend seem well?” asked the coroner.

  “Generally, sir, she did. I thought she looked happier every time she visited. She no longer had to scrounge through the mudflats to survive.” She took a breath to speak of Jolyn’s complaints when the coroner interrupted.

  “Did she voice any distress—physical or otherwise?”

  “She complained of an unsettled stomach,” said Bianca, relieved she could tell him that Jolyn had not been perfectly healthy when she arrived. “She blamed it on the exotical foods her suitor had given her.”

  The coroner studied her with steady eyes. “And would you say she had enemies?”

  John broke in, unable to stand by any longer and watch the coroner interrogate Bianca. “Jolyn mentioned a muckraker at the Dim Dragon Inn. He confronted her about stealing something from him.”

  “Do you know who this muckraker might be?”

  “She did not say.”

  “She did not say . . . much,” he noted. His gaze shifted from John to Bianca. “Has she any family?”

  “None I know of,” she said.

  “Tell him where Jolyn lived,” said Patch, eagerly.

  Bianca glared at Patch, knowing full well his intent, but she answered simply, as if it should be of no import, “Jolyn lived at the Barke House.”

  Patch cast a knowing glimpse at the public official, a smug smile on his face.

  “She was employed there as an errand girl,” Bianca told the coroner. She turned to address Constable Patch. “Nothing more.”

  The coroner studied John,
the smell of Bianca’s room nettling his nose. He again lifted his pomander and inhaled, as if it might transport him to more pleasant surroundings—smelling of orange and clove, with a tankard of mulled cider in one hand and a woman’s buttocks in the other. Alas, he opened his eyes and found himself back in this den of crockery with a dead girl at his feet. He turned to the constable. “Patch, let the madam at Barke House know she has one less tenant,” he said. “If she should ask, burial will be at Cross Bones.”

  “Cross Bones!” exclaimed Bianca. “But that land is unconsecrated.” The insult was too much. Neither she nor her friend observed the king’s religion, but she resented that Jolyn would be condemned for all time. “She may have lived at Barke House, but she was not a woman of disrepute. If she’s buried at Cross Bones, she’ll be labeled for eternity.”

  The coroner remained unmoved. “If this suitor, as you say, exists, then I’m sure he will desire otherwise. In which case, he will have to see me to arrange burial elsewhere.” He read Bianca’s long face. “My dear, it is admirable that you should wish better for your . . . friend.” He inhaled his pomander, then dropped it. “But it is of my opinion that where she is buried should be your least concern.”

  CHAPTER 6

  His belly full, the ferrier tossed the skeletal remains of his breakfast into the Thames, his catlike tongue licking his chin and nose, savoring the last delectable taste of rat on his skin. He had had an easy time of it. The Cristofur had afforded him an abundant supply of vermin eager to escape her moldering hold and swim for better spoils on land. It did not take much effort for him to capture the hapless creatures. As he floated within sight of the moored vessel, happily sated, he was privy to a curious sight, the likes of which he had never seen.

  Before the day’s first light, a lonely seaman appeared at the starboard side. As he picked the rat gristle from his teeth, the ferrier saw the seaman raise a lantern, then signal toward shore. All London appeared dark and unaware, content in the slumbering peace of its citizenry. But then a singular light appeared shoreside—a light from an upper window of a warehouse that blinked once, then twice, then was extinguished.

  The Rat Man lifted a brow and watched with interest.

  Soon, the prow of a long skiff nosed its way silently toward the Cristofur. It drew alongside her hull, floating in tandem with the merchant vessel.

  The Rat Man turned his wherry for a better look.

  A hatch creaked open from the starboard side. After a minute, a shrouded object, resembling the shape and length of a body, was lowered by rope onto the skiff. Perhaps this would not cause much notice to a casual observer, but when the object was followed by another, and then another of similar shape and size, the Rat Man could not bring himself to leave, nor could he drag his eyes from the sight.

  By comparison, the heap of shrouded bodies in the skiff was higher than the pile of rats in his. The man put oar to water and, with effort, began to row the teetering skiff. He headed back toward shore, the gunwales dangerously near water level. Apparently, the voyage had not been an easy one for the crew, and the ferrier now looked upon the exodus of vermin with renewed interest.

  Something was amiss.

  CHAPTER 7

  Banes stood outside Bianca’s room of Medicinals and Physickes, waiting for her to answer his knock. She was taking longer than usual, and he wondered if perhaps she wasn’t in. He was about to peer through the cracked window when the door swung open, and out poked a head with wheaten locks to ask him his business.

  “I just came from the Barke House. The missus sent me.”

  The young man looked harshly upon him, then slammed the door.

  Banes thought this unusual, not to mention rude. He was considering what to do next when the decision was made for him. The door opened warily, only this time, a head of black hair appeared. Bianca looked at him.

  “Oh, Banes,” she said. “Come in.” She glanced up and down the street before ushering him through the door. “Something horrible has happened.” She took him by his good hand and pulled him into the rent, closing the door and securing it.

  Even though the day was overcast, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the interior. The room was filled with the usual array of strange crockery and odors. Nothing seemed out of place—the room was always a mess. Banes followed Bianca past a furnace where several pots sat, their sides and bottoms scorched from boiling, but his eyes were drawn to a table where a row of candles glowed.

  At first he couldn’t be sure that what he saw wasn’t a joke. Jolyn lay on the board, surrounded by lit tapers, as if she were sleeping or maybe the centerpiece of some queer alchemy ritual. Who could tell with Bianca? He’d seen his share of the bizarre in his year of fetching potions for Barke House. Once, he had been just steps away from her door when he heard a loud explosion. Out stumbled Bianca, her face smudged with smoke, her hair blown back from the percussion. But today, as he drew near the table, he could see that Jolyn’s color was ashen, almost gray. And even with the three of them peering over her, she remained completely still.

  “Banes,” said Bianca, “Constable Patch is on his way to Barke House to tell Mrs. Beldam.”

  Banes stared at Bianca, then back at Jolyn. He’d seen the girl just hours before. She’d come down the stairs before the rest of the house was awake and had eaten an end of stale bread. He’d watched from the peephole in his room next to the kitchen. “I don’t understand.”

  The blond man touched his arm. “She’s dead, Banes.”

  Banes blinked in disbelief. How could it have happened? Jolyn was healthier than he was.

  “She came by to visit, and we were talking,” Bianca said. “All of a sudden, she bent over double as if a sharp pain pierced her stomach. She collapsed in convulsions.” Bianca took a breath, fighting to control her emotions. “I couldn’t help her.” She shook her head. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Banes had never seen Jolyn at such close quarters. He’d spied her through his various peepholes he’d worked in the wood with a pick, cracks he’d enlarged, knots he’d pushed out. But these holes afforded him only glimpses. Bits of bared flesh, like pieces of a puzzle left for him to fit together in his head. Now he ran his eyes up the length of her, unfettered. True, she was fully clothed, but he could see the curves of her breasts and the slight mound of belly below them. He would never know what her skin would have felt like against his. But then, neither would anyone else.

  “They want to bury her at Cross Bones,” said the strapping young man. Banes wheeled to look on this person. Who was he? The question must have been etched on his face, for Bianca stepped over to the shiny-haired rascal and took his arm.

  “Banes, this is John.” She leaned her head against his shoulder.

  There was an intimate familiarity between the two of them, and Banes took an immediate dislike to the fellow.

  He turned back to Jolyn and gazed upon her sculpted profile. She was lovely. He would miss spying on her. She had been the object of his fantasies ever since she’d moved to Barke House. But he wasn’t surprised they would bury her at the infamous graveyard. A young unmarried girl . . . and living at Barke House? It was easier for a constable to assume her lot in life than to ask. Besides, what difference did it make where her body was buried? As far as Banes could tell, everyone was going to hell anyway, if Southwark wasn’t hell already.

  But he could see the mention of Cross Bones upset Bianca. Was she fearful of a similar fate? When death dances, everyone wonders when his own life shall end. Banes, however, kept his tongue. He looked from Bianca to John and caught John staring at his deformed arm. He moved it self-consciously behind his back.

  “It’s wrong,” said Bianca.

  “It’s inevitable,” said John. “We don’t have the money to do otherwise. The best we can do is ready her for burial.”

  Bianca gazed down at her friend. “The coroner believes she was poisoned,” she murmured. She looked up. “Banes, do you know anything?”
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  Banes shifted his weight. Jolyn’s suitor, Wynders, worked at Wool’s Key. He had money, or the pretense of it. The rogue was always heaping gifts on Jolyn—new boots, cloaks, trinkets. Pandy had suffered from his fickle handling and nursed a seething contempt for Jolyn that boiled over in accusations that Jolyn had “stolen” him. But Banes wondered what, if any of this, he should tell.

  “No.” Banes shrugged, avoiding her steady gaze.

  “What about that suitor?” asked Bianca. “Do you know his name?”

  Banes felt no obligation to protect the philanderer. “Wynders,” he said. “I thought him shifty.” He relished adding spice to the stew.

  “Shifty?” repeated Bianca. “How do you mean?”

  Banes had an instinctive loathing of the man. “He’d come round and pay Jolyn all kinds of attention, then disappear. No one would ever see him or know anything much about what he did.”

  “Do you think he intended to marry Jolyn? You must have heard the women talk.”

  “Men come round, but they never marry anyone from Barke House.” Banes scratched his foreshortened arm, forgetting his self-consciousness until he glanced at John. “It’s happened before.”

  “I’m sure,” said John.

  Banes noted the rogue’s lean build and broad chest and wondered if he was an apprentice in a trade requiring some brute strength. A ripple of dislike rolled down his spine. He thought through the possibilities. Blacksmith? No . . . they had the smell of iron about them. Farrier? No . . . his fingernails would be black with stable filth . . . Wherryman? He hadn’t caught a whiff of the Thames about him. . . .

  “They think I killed her.” Bianca plopped down on the bench.

  “They must have a reason for believing that.” Banes’s intention was not to goad her but to learn why Bianca would be accused.

  “A death in someone’s presence does not a guilty man make. It is my ill fortune that she should die here, in front of me, with no witnesses. My word means nothing. A constable and a coroner want someone to hang. I seem the likely culprit—why should they bother an ounce of effort to find the real cause of Jolyn’s death?”