“Is there a connection with Barke House?” asked Bianca.
“Indeed.”
This piqued Banes’s attention. He watched Meddybemps more intently.
“It seems he had relations with Mrs. Beldam’s daughter.”
“When was this?” asked John, tossing aside the marjoram stem.
“Years ago. Long enough to be forgotten by some, though not so long that it doesn’t matter now.” Meddybemps savored reporting scandalous news. He cocked his head, coyly dispensing bits of tittle-tattle. “Perhaps you might say it is a rare man with money who does not spend it on women. And I would resoundingly agree. But this ‘affair,’ shall we call it, continued long enough for Beldam’s daughter to be got with child.”
“That is neither unique nor unexpected,” said John.
“Aye,” said Meddybemps. “However, Wynders—imprudent behavior aside—still ascribes to the pope’s religion. He may not have wanted the child, but he could do nothing to prevent its birth.”
“He could have denied paternity,” said John.
“Unless he was forced to admit it,” said Bianca.
Banes gawped at the news. How had he—a resident of Barke House for as many years as he could remember—never heard about this? Aye, he knew Mrs. Beldam had a daughter, but no one spoke of her, least of all Mrs. Beldam. What had happened to her? And why was Wynders still visiting Barke House? Why was Wynders beholden if he could simply walk away?
Banes pressed his ear firmly against the crack. He felt he should know more. He searched his memory for answers, but he could not make sense of this. Had Beldam’s daughter visited without him knowing? It was certainly possible, given the number of women passing through Barke House.
“I wonder if Banes knows any of this,” said Bianca.
Banes startled at the sound of his name. He shook his head. He didn’t recall ever seeing or meeting anyone purporting to be Mrs. Beldam’s daughter. He absently rubbed his foreshortened arm.
But hadn’t he regularly fetched purgatives from Bianca for just this purpose—ridding women of unwanted babies? In fact, the last portion had been intended for Pandy. He had overheard her admit as much to Wynders—at least that is what he assumed. And Wynders had responded coldly. But maybe her child wasn’t his after all. Perhaps Pandy had hoped to trap him. Banes stood back and thought. Had he misunderstood her intent? The possibilities made his head ache. He thought back to what he had seen and heard. Then, something else occurred to him. Something that made his blood chill, and it wasn’t just the sudden tap on his shoulder.
CHAPTER 33
Constable Patch hobbled up the lane, leading his minions. The two ruffians had agreed to assist him for the promise of a beer afterward, but also, more importantly, for his dropping charges of swindling visitors at the entrance of St. Bartholomew’s. They had told gullible travelers that a relic of skin from the saint was enshrined therein, and for a penny they could kiss it for eternal good health. They now loped behind the constable, mocking him silently behind his back as he led them through the alleys of Southwark to find that murderess Bianca Goddard.
Patch muttered unintelligibly, skirting a mangy goose and a copious puddle, arguing with himself that he could not be sure the girl wasn’t a witch impersonating an apothecary. But he had no proof of this, so for now, he must be satisfied with the simple claim of murder.
If he succeeded in nabbing the villainess, he’d be one step closer to a possible commission in a better-paying district of London. The aldermen appreciated constables practiced in bringing miscreants to justice. They believed the need was greater on their side of the river, though Patch knew that assumption was patently untrue. Yet on the other side of the river lay “civilization” and the men with money and the status to go with it. Merchants and livery fancied living in a less-nefarious borough, and were willing to hire those who had proven themselves worthy of such commissions.
Worried the two scalawags might prove useless, Constable Patch spun to face them.
“I’ll not ’ave ye burgle this arrest,” he said, catching them in an obscene gesture. He fixed them with hard stares as they staggered to a stop, inches from plowing into him.
One of the men spoke up. “Sir, if ye mean ‘bungle,’ we don’t have a heart fer it. Nor would we filch a single strand of straw in this venture. We’ve a mind to see a murderer hanged. Aye, we would. We has a vested interest in treachery of all kinds.”
Constable Patch’s eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Let me be clear, it is not my treachery but hers.”
The one scalawag nodded vigorously and was joined by his partner. Their two heads bobbed in unison. He said, “Sirs, we do as ye likes. Character is for God to judge, not fer the likes of men such as we.”
Constable Patch pulled his beard as his eyes traveled up and down their persons. Two filthier, stinking knaves he’d never seen, but he knew the difference between men who wanted ale and men who needed it. They were the latter.
“This one is a clever sort,” Patch said. “She is as deceitful and conniving as any woman,” he added, unable to conceal his bitterness toward the fairer sex. “I would not put it past her to weevil her way out of this.”
“Aye, sir,” said the second man, the one most smelling like a goat. “Like a maggot in a sack of grain, she is.”
“Or a worm in fruit,” said the other.
Constable Patch wondered why they were drawing comparisons to insects. But his was not to ponder the logic of criminals. “Be ready to nab her and we’ll make quick about it. I should hope we’ll find her alone, but if not, I can’t imagine a crowd of admirers stuffed into that small rent. To be sure, I feel I must arm you.”
The men exchanged looks and bobbed their heads again with enthusiasm.
“For ye,” he said, handing one of them a length of rope, “the means to bind her wrists.”
The rope dangled from the man’s hand like a limp snake.
“Let me see ye bind your friend’s wrists.” Constable Patch was none too sure the rascal knew the first thing about such matters, and he was leaving nothing to chance.
Sure enough, the man proceeded to weave the length in and out and around with no sense of how to tie a secure knot. The rope hung loosely in a tangled lump. Constable Patch grabbed the useless snarl and proceeded to give him a proper lesson. He momentarily questioned whether it was wise to educate lowlifes in the finer points of criminal apprehension, then decided these fools hadn’t the wits to use any of it once he’d finished with them.
After he was satisfied the man could not completely botch his assignment, he gave the other a short dagger. “I assume ye know how to use this.”
The man looked as if he’d been given the Holy Grail. He turned the weapon over in his hand, studying its blade. After a long whistle the man looked up and smiled.
“I’ll be expecting that back,” said Constable Patch, to be sure the rascal had no delusions. He resumed his trek, touched his trusty anlace in its scabbard for luck (and a measure of assurance), then continued his grumbling and instructions.
“After we deliver the miscreant to gaol and she is safely disposed behind iron bars and three foot of stone wall, then we may breathe our ease that we have successfully delivered the dangerous killer off the streets of London.”
“But this is Southwark,” said the rope-bearing knave, trying to be helpful.
Constable Patch stopped in his tracks. He threw the rascal a look that would silence a guinea hen. “I’ll not have ye right me. By your office ye are nothing more than a drunkard at best and a charlatan at that. Ye do not have the office to right me wrongs or wrong me rights. Keep your tongue until spoken to, and dare ye not wag it before.” He looked the two up and down with a scouring glare, then resumed his walk, grumbling all the more and kicking a goose out of his way.
The two men said nothing more, but followed the foul-tempered constable through the grounds of a disbanded rectory to the area of Gull Hole.
Bianca Goddard’s
room was down a narrow lane catty-corner to a yard of chicken coops, the sound and smells of which greeted them before they even turned the corner.
“Fie, I’ve not met such foul fowl in all me life,” said the man with the rope. He scrunched his face as if it should help filter the stink and prevent his eyes burning. “I’d not be a chicken farker if I were given a hundred crown.”
Constable Patch pointed out that this was an odd observation coming from a man who smelled of goats. He glanced over his shoulder and found the other cuffin still enamored with the dagger, waving it about with great sweeping swathes and engaging in a duel with an imaginary assailant. Constable Patch stopped.
“Before I get theres, I needs ye two to look mincing. I’ll not have ye cringing and parrying behind me back.”
The two men planted their feet together and threw their chests forward. They squared their shoulders as best they could, just like the king’s guard. The goat smeller wet his palm and slicked his hair away from his eyes. They each attempted a menacing stare.
“Ye goose this, it’ll be you who’s buyin’ me the drinks.” Patch could not hide his contempt as his lips pinched in disgust.
The two bobbed their heads in agreement.
Constable Patch muttered under his breath and turned the corner, where he was met by an unexpected sight. He stopped and put his arm up to keep his crew from stumbling over him. He was pleased to note it worked. He put his finger to his lips and, with stealth, tiptoed forward.
When he was within a step of the undercooked abomination of a young man, he drew himself erect and tapped the lad on the shoulder.
Banes whirled about and, seeing Constable Patch, took off running.
“Shoulds we run after?” asked the goat smeller.
But the lad had the advantage of youth and nimbleness and turned the corner before Patch got out a word. “Forgets it,” he said. “He’s already gone.”
Disappointed, Constable Patch pressed his ear to the door, listening for voices. Satisfied he heard the squeak of a female, he pounded the door.
He waited, listening for movement; then, when he heard an approaching footfall, assumed a pose of authority. The door swung open, and he found himself faced not with the murderess Bianca Goddard but with that irksome streetseller Meddybemps. The impertinent barnacle had the gall to smile.
“Ah, Constable Patch. To what do I owe this honor?” Meddybemps nodded in mocking deference.
“Honor? You, Meddybemps, speak to me of honor? I do not care for ye, nor do I owe the likes of ye an answer. Step aside.”
The smile slid from the streetseller’s face. “I suppose manners are a lawman’s failing.” He stood aside and let through Patch and the posse of bootlickers trailing behind.
Constable Patch scanned the room, ducking beneath the clusters of hanging herbs to better see. The putrid smell set his eyes watering, but there was Bianca, sitting on a stool with a bloodstained rag in her lap. Her hair needed a comb, and her eyes looked puffy, as if in need of sleep.
Unfortunately, she was not alone. That wheaten-haired fellow was next to her. He and Meddybemps looked as if to shield her, and Patch was glad at least for arming his minions, feckless though they were. He believed he had justice on his side, and that steeled his confidence—along with the thought of a promotion.
“Bianca Goddard, with the power vested in me by the just and honorable citizens of Southwark . . .” He took a breath and began his long-winded pronouncement like the wheezing exhale of a bellows. With nose pointed to the rafters he recited and embellished his speech. He had nearly finished when he glimpsed the disemboweled rats lined up on the table. He stopped midsentence and gawked. “My God,” he exclaimed. “What manner of evil are you?”
“I’ve discovered what poisoned Jolyn.” Bianca walked over to the table and pointed to several rats whose veins had been slit open. “The coroner discovered Jolyn’s blood was tinged purple. I was able to re-create the effect. It was rat poison that killed her.”
Constable Patch stared down at the display and the alarming purplish tinge of rodent’s blood. “This is your confession,” he affirmed.
Bianca shook her head. “I’m merely showing you the cause of her death, not who caused it.”
“But ye are practiced in rat poison.”
“I do deal in such.”
Constable Patch glanced over his shoulder at his appointed guards, who seemed even more horrified than he. They clamped shut their hanging jaws and watched him with bugged eyes.
“I taint my rat poison with tincture of terebinth resin—a noticeable additive.”
“Noticeable—how?”
“As in its odor. A smell of pine.”
“Are ye saying she would not have eaten it?”
“I am saying it would have been difficult to mask the odor in food.”
“But a murderer can be clever,” said Patch. “If one has the desire to see another dead . . .”
“True,” said Bianca. “Desire has its own life, separate from our moral, conscious one. It can drive one to ignore consequence. It has no remorse. It feels nothing but the satisfaction that comes with completion.”
“It is not surprising that murderers feel a certain satisfaction.”
“But motive is the means to satisfaction. Murder is always an act of passion. It can be born of jealousy, retribution, or defense. The reasons are varied, but the intent is always to end the murderer’s own personal suffering.”
Constable Patch looked on in amusement. This girl could certainly weave a tangled tale. “Pray tell, what do ye suppose was the motive?” he asked.
Bianca placed the stained rag on the table next to the rats. “Jealousy.”
Constable Patch searched her face. Was this her confession?
“Jealousy over another lover,” added Bianca, showing no indication of her own guilt.
“Another lover,” Patch groaned. “How pedestrian.” He’d never understood how love could incite a person to murder—especially when one considered the inevitable consequence. Was love worth the cost of a public hanging? “And who do ye suppose this other lover to be?”
“Jolyn was the last woman to receive Robert Wynders’s attention. But before Jolyn, there was another. A woman who suffered his poor treatment and was driven into a jealous rage. A woman living at Barke House, abandoned by Wynders and forced to watch him lavish affection on Jolyn. A woman with no choice but to take purgative to rid herself of the consequence of their failed passion. She did this in the hope of winning back his flagging attention, but it did not work. Left with no other choice to staunch her outrage, Pandy murdered Jolyn.”
Constable Patch’s brows shot up. “Pandy?” He glanced round. “Hmph. An interesting concussion.” He studied the expressions of John and Meddybemps. Apparently the crippled lad hadn’t informed Bianca Goddard of the news. Strange he had kept it quiet. After all, Banes had been there when he had visited Barke House to tell Mrs. Beldam.
“That is an interesting theory,” he continued, “though highly unlikely.”
John spoke. The color had drained from his face, leaving him as pale as Bianca. “What do you mean, ‘unlikely’?”
Constable Patch answered genially. How likely would a murderer become a victim so soon after committing a crime? Patch pulled the hair on his chin and watched Bianca’s face carefully when he told her.
“Pandy Shaw of Barke House is dead.”
He was not disappointed.
CHAPTER 34
Bianca recalled her mother’s counsel, “Imagine the worst possible outcome, then work backward.” Sage advice when the worst scenario was something other than death.
“Are you going to die if you learn to stuff a goose?” she had asked when Bianca had preferred to run the streets with John. Bianca had grudgingly agreed to help her mother with the cooking that time, and she had learned a useful skill—if ever she wanted to serve roast goose.
However, in this particular case, the worst scenario was death. It was not im
agined. On the contrary, it was inevitable.
Bianca had not been able to convince Constable Patch of her innocence—nor had anyone else.
Despite the futile protests of John and Meddybemps, which included a scuffle and fistfight, Bianca had been bound at the wrists and marched from her room of Medicinals and Physickes. Constable Patch led the way as two dubious guards alternately pulled her along. To her annoyance, one was particularly keen to nudge her forward with the point of a dagger he brandished at her backside.
Bianca sought to engage the constable in conversation in the hopes that the guards might stop tugging and prodding her. “Pandy must have known something,” she said. “Otherwise why would she be stabbed?”
Patch ignored her. Nothing could dissuade him from throwing Bianca Goddard in the Clink and trying her for murder.
“Am I to be tried for Pandy’s death, too?” she asked.
“Maybes there is something ye’s not telling us,” he said over his shoulder.
Bianca opened her mouth to protest, then wondered if he meant for her to be tortured once she was confined. Her knees buckled and she nearly fell but was caught up by the elbow and dragged forward by one of the guards.
Constable Patch turned to see what had happened, and his expression hardened. “Don’t tarry, now. Ye’ll have plenty of time to think on it once yer confined.”
But Bianca’s imagination got the better of her, and she heaved the contents of her stomach onto the guard.
“Gak! I’d not agreed to this,” he said, letting go of her arm and looking to rid his sleeve of her sick. Finding nothing suitable, he proceeded to examine the damage she’d done, then snatched the dagger from his mate and scraped the fabric with its blade.
His mate protested, and when Patch saw what was happening, his neck bloomed an exceptional shade of rose.
“Hand over that knife,” he said, unable to stand by while his favorite dagger was irreverently used to scrape sick. He snatched it away and pointed it at the ruffian’s chin. “I’ll not have ye abuse me edge.” He nicked the man’s jaw to prove his point, spit over his shoulder, then handed the blade back to the other. At least his companion had had the good sense to hang onto the prisoner so as not to lose her.
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