“Constable Patch,” said Bianca, desperate to dissuade him from taking such a narrow focus on the murders, “have you looked into the business dealings of Robert Wynders?”
“He is of noble employ with the Chudderly fleet, I knows that. It does not concern us.”
“But it does,” said Bianca. “I saw him send a rower to a moored ship in quarantine last night. I watched to see who would be setting out from shore at that late hour. It wasn’t long before a fire raged in the skiff next to the ship’s hull.”
Constable Patch marched on, although his pace slowed.
“Wynders was on shore. Once the fire died, he turned and left. If it were an accident, he would have acted alarmed.”
“Dids ye follow him?”
Bianca knew she had piqued his interest and seized her opportunity. “I did. He went to a warehouse in Romeland. After he left, I slipped inside.”
Constable Patch stopped. She thought he might say something about entering a property where she had no business. Instead, he encouraged her. “Go on.”
“I found something quite disturbing. Something of great import to the citizens of London.”
“If ye thinks ye is going to tempt me with something that has no bearing on my parish ward, then ye are mistaken. If it is of no interest to Southwark, I’ve not a care for it.”
“It does interest Southwark. What happens in London happens to Southwark. After all, we are two sides of the same river. The king might even want to know what I found.”
Constable Patch spun about and lowered his face inches from hers. “I’ll not have ye play me, girl.”
“Sir, I do not toy.”
“The consequences of which could be worse,” said Patch, his eyes narrowing in warning. “You’ve been duly reminded. But pray, do tell.”
“The smell was not of this world.”
“Odd ye should say it.”
“I heard snarling and rasping. It was dark as pitch, but I found a rushlight. Crates from Italy and bales of woolens and silks crammed every inch of the warehouse. I picked through the stacks to the interior.” An involuntary shiver skipped down her spine as she recalled the memory. “What I saw should not be taken lightly.” Bianca took a breath, watching Patch to be sure she had his attention. “The back of the warehouse was overrun with rats. Hundreds of them. All fighting and feeding off a pile”—Bianca opened her eyes wide and leaned forward—“of rotting corpses.”
The two guards exchanged glances.
Constable Patch’s upper lip quivered. “Well nows,” he said, “when ye says a ‘pile’—exactly what does ye mean?”
“I cannot say for sure. I did not stay to count them. Perhaps thirty . . . or more.”
Constable Patch blinked.
“I cannot imagine for what purpose Robert Wynders stores bodies in a warehouse. But if he does have a reason, there is a risk posed by doing so. Is he fattening the rats of the city and sending them forth to multiply?” Bianca could see she had given the constable pause. She was not going to abandon her advantage and made sure he’d have plenty to think about.
“Wynders came by my room of Medicinals and Physickes to acquire rat poison for his ship two days ago. I gave him a measure suitable for ridding a merchant vessel of a problem. But, sir, the amount I gave him would not be nearly enough to vanquish the problem in that warehouse.” Bianca noticed Patch was stunned into silence. His mouth opened and closed as if he were a carp gasping out of water.
“What if they overrun the city?” she said. “Why, you have to be blind not to notice their increased numbers.”
“It is true,” said one of the guards. “I has noticed. I have seen with me own eyes the bands of vermin on the streets of late.”
The other guard nodded while Constable Patch recovered enough to tug the wiry strands of his beard. He skittishly glanced around as if this talk of rats might actually summon them. “Wells,” he said, “it is not my jew’s diction.” He tossed off the responsibility, but Bianca could tell he was troubled. Whether he pursued the tidbit for his own glory, she did not care. But if she must hang, at least she would not take the information to her grave.
“I’ve got a murderer to deliver. I’ll not have ye waylay me further from my public duty. Come ahead, now. We haven’t all night.”
Constable Patch turned and with a purposeful stride set off, but Bianca saw him glancing this way and that, as if checking the lane for errant vermin.
A mantle of fog crept up from the Thames, and Bianca thought how she might never again see the sun once she was thrown in a cell. She sighed, and a harsh reality sank in. Would the next time she saw the sky be the day of her execution?
Her conveyance stirred the interest of curious passersby. A girl set down her yoke of buckets to watch them pass. Theatergoers, dray drivers, and goodwives all noted the entourage and drew their own conclusions—some quietly and others not so. Though her emotions churned, Bianca forced herself to lift her chin and meet their stares. She believed in her innocence even if no one else did, and she wanted others to see it in her face. She had little hope, but she clung to the notion that she’d be vindicated at trial.
The high tower of St. Mary Overie disappeared beneath the fog’s unsavory broth. Day was fading, and Bianca imagined that once inside the Clink, it would be blacker than any dark she’d ever known.
On they trudged, their boots sucking in the squidgy mud and Constable Patch’s mumbling the only discourse between them. Bianca hoped Patch was thinking about what she had just told him. Her conclusion that Pandy had murdered Jolyn for revenge had fallen on deaf ears. But even if she was correct, no matter of argument could convince Patch otherwise.
She needed to untangle the threads of her logic and rethink where they took her. Whatever her conclusion, ultimately, the judge would decide. She had to be convincing, and the only way to be that was to be right.
They arrived outside the moldered stone enclave, and Bianca gaped up at its menacing façade. Small arched windows dotted the front, the iron crossbars bleeding rust down the stone. Inmates stretched wasted arms through the gaps, their palms outstretched for alms or a crusty end of bread that a pedestrian or relative might charitably press into it.
“Those are the lucky ones,” said Constable Patch, gesturing to the prisoners begging.
Bianca knew he was right. No doubt the constable had a less jovial welcome in mind for her. They came to a halt, and one of the guards threw her forward. She stumbled into the muck, coating one side of her kirtle and sleeve. Patch glanced down at her unsympathetically, then pounded the hulking door.
“Stand her. I can’t kick her through the door,” he said.
A moment passed, and the door groaned open, and standing in its shadows was an ox of a man wearing a stained rough coat with a bollock dagger tucked in his leather girth. “Ah, Patch,” said the gaoler, his ring of keys jangling from the crook of his elbow. His broad face perused their party. “Whats ye gots fer me today?”
“A murderess,” answered Patch. “And mayhaps a witch—but a delinquent just the same.”
The gaoler scrutinized her with round pinholes for eyes, then stepped back and addressed Patch. “Such a young bess to be settin’ about murderin’. ’Tis a shame. Catch them up with babes to feed and a drunken cuff of a husband, I don’t blame them none.” He tsked. “What’s her story?”
“Poisoning another young bess, she dids.”
“Ooo, jealous of a lover?”
Constable Patch leaned in. “Ye may remember the alchemist Albern Goddard?”
“Ach! A puffer set to poison the king. I remember him well. Not every day a man would chance that.”
“Her father he is.”
The gaoler reared back and studied her. He looked as if this presented Bianca in a new light. “Wells then. I am privileged. I mights be able to makes some coin from this.” He clapped Constable Patch on the back. “Ye always looks out fer me, Patch. A worthy public servant.”
“See that she is treated s
uitably for a murderer,” added Patch. “Methinks she may not be tellin’ all she knows.” He paused as a shriek from the depths therein grew in intensity and disconcertingly echoed off the walls. “A confession helps the cause.”
The gaoler tilted his head. “That cause being?”
“Mine,” said Patch.
The gaoler handed Patch a torch and led them down a hall. Sconces sputtered from drips snaking down the limestone walls. They descended stairs to an underground section even more dank and dark. The smell of mildewed straw mixed with the ammonia of human waste and sick. Even Bianca reacted to the putrid air.
It wasn’t just the stink of human suffering that was so disconcerting but also the sound of it. Disembodied moans and ignored pleas accompanied their passage, occasionally interrupted by the treacly cackle of madness or bloodcurdling shriek.
Constable Patch and the gaoler trundled on. Bianca supposed they’d grown accustomed to the place, though she could sense the two guards were doing their best to appear untroubled. Finally, the gaoler stopped in front of a welded iron door and searched through his ring of keys, trying one in the rusted lock and then another. After several misses, he found the appropriate key and the door creaked open.
Constable Patch swept the smoking torch in an arc, illuminating the interior. It was a small hold. If Bianca could have raised her arms from her sides, she might have touched opposite walls while facing the door. It was more deep than wide.
“Go on now,” said the gaoler. He pushed Bianca forward and swung the iron door closed behind her.
“Am I to be kept bound?” Bianca held up her wrists.
“Until a time when I send a man to shackle ye,” replied the gaoler.
“Sees that ye treat her fittingly,” Constable Patch said. “No special considerations.”
“When will I be tried?”
“Whenever they deem fit,” said the gaoler, snorting in laughter. Patch chuckled, and the guards offered wan smiles.
The party left, their torchlight fading, and Bianca’s only light was a guttering tallow in the passageway. She squinted at her surroundings, choking down a rising panic. The cell was a desolate, putrid affair, windowless and damp from the Thames. No rush or mats covered the dirt floor, nothing to push into a pile on which to sleep or even sit. She had no stool to sit on, and definitely no chamber pot was provided for her necessaries. The only adornment was a pair of chains hanging from a wall, ending in manacles.
She stood next to the iron bars, taking advantage of what little light there was, and immediately set about trying to wiggle her hands free. With her teeth, she rotated the bindings knot side up. The tallow sputtered, reminding her that time was running out. She held up her wrists to study the knot. Tug the wrong bump, and instead of loosening the bindings, she would tighten them.
Bianca visually traced a length as it looped over and under, then brought her wrists to her mouth. With her teeth she tugged at the binding, then dropped her hands to see if it had loosened.
As she tilted her wrists toward the dim light, a final ftt signaled the candle had expired, plunging Bianca into darkness.
Probably she could have seen more with her eyes shut. There was no telling if she had loosened or tightened the knot. When she wiggled her wrists and hands, the bindings felt just as tight as before.
Bianca sank to her knees, leaning against the door, not caring how filthy the floor was beneath her. Her legs ached, but she needed to rest them—though it occurred to her that maybe she should walk before she was clapped in chains. Tears flowed, and she sobbed inconsolably. If her mother knew, she would be sorely disappointed and utterly bereft.
Her mother was a stubborn woman, and even though she had behaved brashly with Meddybemps, Bianca did not resent her for it. She had seen her mother so unhappy that even with Meddybemps’s reputation she could not blame her for what small measure of enjoyment she had exacted from their fleeting fancy. She loved her mother, and she loved Meddybemps. But her mother knew what the randy streetseller was about. And she did not care. Nor did she concern herself with what influence he might have on Bianca.
Bianca held herself to a higher standard, in part because her mother expected it. And she could not bear to disappoint her mother. The thought of being hanged in humiliation without her mother ever knowing her side of the story made her insides churn.
“Stop that whimperin’ over there. You think you is the only one sufferin’?”
Bianca took a jagged breath and stifled her sobs. “Who’s there?”
“You answer first.”
“I’m Bianca Goddard. I deal in medicines for the good citizens of Southwark and London.”
“Bianca Goddard. You don’t says. Why I’ve bought your salve for me fever from Meddybemps, I has. Could do with some now, I coulds. You haven’t any on your person, ’ave you?”
Before Bianca could say one way or the other, he answered for her. “Phaa, wouldn’t do me no goods, anyways. You couldn’t get it to me.” He grumbled something unintelligible, and Bianca heard the clunk of something heavy fall on the ground.
“Are you strung up?” Bianca called.
“Nay, they tethered me. Just me ankle. They got me draggin’ a cannon shot. I takes to carryin’ it ’cause me ankle is raw to the bone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. But I guess it could be worse.”
Bianca had her doubts.
“So why is an herbalist in the Clink?”
“I’ve been wrongly accused of murder.”
“You and maybe half the lot in here. It’s always the way of it. The guilty dance free, and the innocents are made examples of. They’ve got it back arsewards, but the catchpoles are a drunken, cheatin’ lot. They is the ones doin’ the public an injustice. But that’s just my opinion, and they care not a whit. Why should they? They does a great business haulin’ in whoever they want.”
“You haven’t cheered me,” said Bianca.
“Well, forgive me if I don’t spout accolades and dance a jig. I’m a bit hindered draggin’ the Mary Rose’s armory about me foot. Anyways, it’s not me place to plump you up.”
As her neighbor yammered on, Bianca grew more determined to free herself of her bindings and of him. She brought the rope to her mouth and ran her tongue along it, tracing the knot until she found the spot where she had last worked.
“I’s been here near I can tell maybe two months now,” said her neighbor, without prompt. “Course you can’t tell day from night down here, and I am no judge of time’s fickle passage. But sometimes I can get the keeper to tell me.”
“So, what is your name?” asked Bianca, trying her wrists to see if she’d gained some slack.
“Aw, that’s right. I didn’t say, did I? Simon Slade, I is. Master locksmith.”
“Master locksmith, you say? Perhaps you overreach.”
“Aw, now, no need gettin’ tart with me. I ain’t the cause for your troubles.”
“I apologize. But I should think a master locksmith might have made some progress on his shackles.”
“And with what? Me teeth? Should I chew through an inch of iron? A man can’t make progress without a pick or the likes. You think I haven’t studied this contraption? I’ve looked it right side up and left side down. I’ll thank you not to disparage me or me trade. A smith needs tools.”
“So why are you here?” Bianca went back to tugging her knot. She was encouraged to find it beginning to give.
“I’m here as is you. Wrongly accused.”
“Wrongly accused of what?”
“Assault.”
“Assault of what?”
“Not what—who. A cozen most deserving. He had it long in coming. I jus’ had the bollocks to do him.”
The rope began to loosen, and Bianca’s glum mood began to lift. “How did he earn your harsh opinion?”
“He was makin’ outs he was a taxman for Romeland and needed to get in warehouses, claiming the owners were in arrears for more than a year. He aime
d to take possession for the royal coffers. He was none such character. He took possessions all right, he did. And a number of locksmiths were charged for abetting his sham. I’m not the only one sittin’ in a hole because of ’im. I’m lucky to be here in the Clinks instead of Newgate. One must count their blessings.”
Bianca couldn’t think why one prison would be preferable to another; they were all miserable. But then this was the first one she’d seen from the inside, and she didn’t savor the thought of a promotion to Newgate, where public hangings were far more enthusiastically attended.
“Well, I am sorry to hear it.”
“As am I,” said Slade.
The knot loosened, allowing Bianca to work free of it, and with a hoot of victory, she flung the wad of hemp to the floor and stomped it.
“Why so merry? There be nothin’ to be glad of down heres.”
“I am free of my bindings.” Bianca rubbed her raw wrists and swung her arms about to wake them up.
“Well, enjoy your freedom now. It’s only temporary. They’ll soon clap you in iron.”
Bianca ignored his dire prediction and could only think how glad she was to have the use of her hands again. She scratched every itch and felt her way to a corner, where she relieved herself, being careful to avoid stepping and dragging her skirt through her waste. She then went to the iron lock of the door that kept her from total freedom.
She felt its cold, unyielding metal and worked a finger into the keyway, feeling its metal wards. Bianca interrupted her neighbor’s rants, for he had gone on about his maladies, poor luck, and complaints about life.
“Slade, how might one go about picking a lock?”
“One hires a master locksmith.”
“Tell me what I must do.”
“Why should I?”
“Because if I pick this lock open, I shall help you.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
The Alchemist's Daughter Page 21
