Wynders snatched the tallow and withdrew a flint, and soon a yellow orb illuminated the room.
“You will get me my ring.”
How had he known with such certainty that the ring was in her possession? Meddybemps and John would never have told. Then she remembered Banes. She and John had avoided admitting they had it. Even if he knew they had it, she was disappointed he would snitch. “You’ll never find it without my help. It could be anywhere.” She ran her eyes about the room, a jumbled mess. Jars and crockery lined her shelves. Dirty bowls were stacked in teetering towers. Coils of copper and discarded flasks littered the tables and floor. Dissected rats lined the table, waiting to be disposed of. “I will not cooperate until you answer my question. Did you poison Jolyn?”
Wynders stared at the interior of her room and knew it would take him hours to search it. Threatening this girl with more violence only proved to strengthen her resolve. He spoke through clenched teeth. “It was not I.”
“Do you know who did?”
Wynders said nothing, so Bianca tried another tack. “Why must you have this ring?”
“We’re not here to discuss the matter. I simply want what belongs to me. I’ve waited a long time for its return.” The blade of his rapier sang from its sheath, and he pointed it between her eyes. “You will get it for me.”
Bianca edged along the wall as Wynders followed her with the sword’s tip, their eyes holding each other in mutual suspicion. She slowly stepped away from the wall, first looking that she might do so, then backing toward the table where the monstrous distillation apparatus towered. The last few steps she slipped behind it, feeling a small margin of safety.
Its long stretch of metal felt cool beneath her fingers as she lightly traced the metal down to a juncture of coils splitting in different directions. Her shoulder protested at even such a simple exertion, but her eyes never left Wynders’s. Nor did the end of his rapier wander from her face.
The red cat jumped to the table and leaned against Bianca for attention. She brushed him off, fearing Wynders might dispense with him more permanently. The distraction only ratcheted the tension, and she wondered if she might venture a question since she felt some measure of protection with the metal apparatus now between them.
“I’ve seen your warehouse,” she said.
“Its location is not a secret.”
“No, but its contents might best be kept that way.”
Wynders lifted his chin slightly. He waited.
“I sold you rat poison. Enough to handle a problem on a ship . . . but not enough to handle the vermin in your warehouse.” Bianca moved her hand down the final length of tubes to an end spout. She had dropped the ring into the earthen receptacle beneath it for safekeeping. She rested her hand on its lip. “Why haven’t the bodies been buried?”
He trained the point of the rapier on her mouth, its metal cold against her skin.
She tipped back her chin. “What is your business with Mrs. Beldam? If she had the ring, could she use it to ruin you?”
With the flick of his wrist, Wynders sliced her bottom lip and drew blood. She sucked in but resisted touching the wound. Blood coursed down her chin.
He took a step forward. “You can ill afford any more stalling. The ring!”
Bianca lifted the flask and waved it. “Here,” she said, holding it up. She held out the flask, offering it to Wynders.
He refused to take it. “I’ll not pour acid in my palm,” he said. “You are the daughter of an alchemist. You invert it.”
Wynders had no idea how she resented being referred to as an alchemist’s daughter. Bianca turned the flagon upside down over her hand. Nothing. Not even a dribble of liquid fell out.
Wynders smiled sardonically. He returned his rapier to its sheath, then reached across the table, gripping her by the collar and pulling her across, upsetting her apparatus, so that their noses touched. “You dare to lead me thus? You’ll get the ring, and you’ll be quick about it.”
“By my honor, this is where I put it.”
“Do not play daft, or I shall send you back to the Clink so you can hang for murder.” He shook her, and Bianca’s exhaustion was so consuming not even nerves or fear of death could summon her strength to resist.
Wynders released her, and she fell on the table, then slid to the floor.
“I swear to you, that is where I hid it.”
Wynders snatched the empty flagon and shook it. He smashed it against the stonework of her stove, sending shards of pottery raining down. Then, with a roar of frustration, he overturned the table. He stared at the wreckage, panting, as rivers of perspiration streamed down his face.
Bianca sat against the underside of the table, listening. She looked about for something to defend herself. A thick shard of pottery lay beyond her reach. She crept toward it, still mindful of Wynders’s fury. She had just laid her hand on top of it when his boot came down and drove her palm painfully into the shard.
Wynders shifted his weight, driving the sharp pottery deep into her flesh. “Since you have an interest in my warehouse,” he said, stepping off her hand and hauling her to her feet, “I think we should visit it.” He forced her out on the street, pulling her by the arm toward the bridge. “Perhaps it will stir your memory.”
Her hand dripped with blood as the shard protruded. Bianca mustered every ounce of strength and screamed, which only proved to further infuriate Wynders. “Silence.” He reminded her of his rapier’s sharp edge by jabbing it in her ribs and nudged her forward.
Perhaps a night watch might have heard her cry. If not, she’d try again as they crossed the bridge, where reputable merchants lived above their shops. She’d save her strength for that.
Bianca stumbled along, took a breath, and quickly yanked out the shard, sucking in her cheeks to keep from crying. A sorry sight she was, her hand and lip bleeding, her arms nearly useless. And now she was on her way to Wynders’s warehouse of horror. Her sluggish brain began to come round, even if her body didn’t. Ahead lay the bridge with its grim display of beheaded criminals. She could see the outline of pikes appear and disappear in the mist.
What had become of John and Meddybemps? She wished she had not been so brusque with John. He had put up a valiant effort to defend her from arrest. She vowed she’d never take him for granted again—if she should ever live that long.
The heavy air kept the acrid combination of smoke and low tide from escaping into the night sky. The mudflats stretched beside them, stinking in sullen silence. No muckrakers wandered the banks at this hour. Only stray dogs searched the soup for scraps of worth.
It was after curfew, and the bridge gate was closed.
Wynders scanned the river for a ferryman. No wherry plied the Thames at this late hour. He grabbed Bianca’s wrist and pulled her farther along the shore, stopping opposite an empty skiff lashed to a piling.
“My luck isn’t so black after all.” He ordered her through the muck and into the boat, then cut it free. If he hadn’t so abused her, he might have made her drag it to the water’s edge. But as it was, she sat in the bow and he pushed the boat through the sucking mud and shoved it into the river.
“I’ll not have my back to you,” he said, stepping in. The skiff tipped as he made Bianca move so he could watch her as he rowed. Her hand throbbed as she held the gunwale to steady herself as she moved to sit in the stern.
Once they had pushed off, water seeped through gaps in the hull, pooling at her feet. “It’s leaking,” said Bianca. “Perhaps we should find another skiff.”
Wynders ignored her comment and pulled on the oars, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging with every stroke. Perhaps if he rowed fast enough they might make it to the other side before capsizing. Bianca gathered her skirt into her lap. She didn’t fancy the thought of a swim.
She gazed over Wynders’s shoulders at Romeland and its warehouses and cranes dotting the waterfront. London Bridge towered over the river beside them, like a sleeping serpent, silent yet p
owerfully present.
The thought of mortality weighed heavy on her mind. She might have died in those manacles if Wynders had not intervened. Strange to think he had saved her. She sniffed at the futility of his rescue. Now he was rowing her across the river to possibly kill her on the other side, if they even made it that far.
But as they passed the timber starlings jutting into the slack current, neither Bianca nor Wynders noticed a figure lurking in its shadows. A figure watching them with interest.
CHAPTER 38
The skiff floated alongside Wool’s Key. Wynders threw the rope over a bollard to tie it off. The two climbed out, and Wynders bound Bianca’s wrists behind her back before they mounted the steps to the landing along the river. Bianca wished they might encounter a watchman or even a drunk—someone she could implore for help. But her luck was as nonexistent as the number of Londoners out this time of night. She trudged dejectedly beside Wynders. If she could have engaged the many rats that skulked past, she might have had an army to save her.
A number of questions still bothered Bianca, one of which was what did he know of Pandy’s murder? She thought with nothing to lose she might as well ask. Could the pain of another cut or thrashing be any worse than what she now endured? She thought not. She took a breath and asked the ship’s agent if he had killed Pandy.
“Nay,” said Wynders. “But her death is no loss.”
His indifference sent a chill through Bianca. If he truly was not guilty, he would want others to know who was. “Why do you say that?”
“She was a meddlesome girl. Of no use.”
“Harsh words from a man who used her for his pleasure.”
Wynders took no exception. As Bianca suspected, an innocent man with information had no cause to remain silent. “The night of the storm I was walking home, and I saw two women ahead of me. One was as drunk as a mouse in a barrel of rum. She weaved and doubled back as she made her way up the lane. Following her was a figure staying close in the shadows. She darted out from overhangs and hid in dark alcoves. I quickened my step to shorten the distance—out of curiosity mostly. I’d probably have to come to the poor sot’s aid. Then I realized who they were.”
“Pandy?” offered Bianca. “Who else?”
“Beldam.”
“Were they near your home?”
“Aye.”
The sound of shutters slammed nearby. A stray dog caught up and trotted alongside Wynders. It gazed hopefully up at the man, staying just ahead of the two of them.
“Get on, you ugly cur,” said Wynders, booting it away.
“Was Pandy going to your house?”
Wynders had a distant look in his eye, as if he was thinking out loud instead of telling Bianca everything he knew. “Probably. Certainly Beldam believed it so.”
“So Mrs. Beldam was stalking her?”
“Beldam called to Pandy, and she turned around.” Wynders stopped walking and stared ahead as if he were visualizing the scene. “Pandy asked why she was following her. She was furious.”
“What did Mrs. Beldam say?”
“ ‘I’ll not have ye ruin this,’ she says.’ ” Wynders’s eyes grew hard. “I could have blinked and missed it. Beldam stepped into her, and I saw Pandy double over, then stagger back . . . I could see the whites of her eyes wide with surprise. . . .”
Bianca waited. She let him continue.
“Pandy collapsed in the lane. I was stunned. I never imagined the depth of malice in that woman. When Beldam turned, she saw me. ‘Ye owe me,’ she said.”
“You had relations with Pandy,” said Bianca.
Wynders said nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell the constable what Mrs. Beldam had done?” As soon as the words escaped her mouth, Bianca knew the answer. Wynders would never chance speculation about his sullied past. It proved convenient for him to be rid of Pandy. Mrs. Beldam had indeed done him a favor.
Wynders glimpsed at Bianca, and his face clouded as if he had stirred from his recollection. “Enough. You’ll have plenty of time to ponder the whereabouts of that ring where I am taking you.”
He gripped her arm and led her through the narrow gaps between buildings, avoiding the open lanes until they were opposite the chained door of Chudderly’s warehouse. He reached into his doublet and withdrew a key.
The rusty mechanism jammed, and finding it impossible to work the lock with one hand, Wynders let go of Bianca’s arm.
Here was her opportunity.
Bianca broke into a run, sprinting down the lane. She knew if he caught up to her she’d be in sorry straits, but the desire for freedom gave her strength she didn’t know she had. She headed for Boisvert’s. John or Boisvert would be there.
She ignored her aching legs and pumped with all her might, concentrating on the slap of mud beneath her feet. But they grew heavier with every step. If she could only be clear of Romeland and its commercial indifference. Once in a residential area, she could scream and raise a commotion. Someone might hear her. Someone might come.
If her hands hadn’t been bound behind her back, she might have gotten farther. She could hear him gaining on her, his pants growing louder. She willed herself to keep running. Her heartbeat was as loud as his breath, and she dashed at an angle like she’d seen rabbits do to lose their enemy. But Wynders’s shadow descended like a raven swooping overhead. With a shove she was airborne, pitching forward, unable to check her fall. Her face scraped along the lane as she skidded to a stop.
She scrambled to her knees, and just as she sat back, Wynders struck her across the face. She toppled and lay in the road, blinking up at the murky fog, wondering if this would be the last thing she would ever see.
“If you should think to do that again, I’ll not hesitate to slice your cheek in two.” Wynders hoisted her up by the arm and threw her over his shoulder. “You continue to waste my time.”
He stalked up the road, handling her like a sack of grain. She was nearly senseless from blood rushing to her head. Blood dripped from her lip, leaving a trail in the dirt behind them. Wynders’s shoulder dug into her ribs, making it difficult to breathe. When they got to the warehouse, he dumped her on the ground beside him.
Every joint in her body ached. Every beat of her heart sent a throbbing, pulsing pain through her head.
Wynders finished working the lock, then caught her up under her arms and dragged her through the door. “I’m going to ask one last time,” he said, with barely contained fury. “Where is the ring?”
Bianca’s head swam, and she could not speak.
“Very well,” he said. He hauled her farther into the warehouse.
She passed stack after stack of crates towering like trees in a forest. But she knew that in this hellish wood lived evil denizens, and she could hear their rasping grow louder.
Panic built like water starting to boil. “If you leave me, you’ll never know where the ring is,” she said, thrashing and digging her heels into the dirt floor. “I’ll tell you. I know who has the ring.”
“So now you know. When before you didn’t.” Wynders continued to pull her through the warehouse.
“Don’t be a fool. If I should die, you’ll never know where the ring is. You’ll never be free of Mrs. Beldam. She’ll hold you captive to your past.”
As certain as he’d divulged the details of Pandy’s murder, he now refused to answer or even listen. He ignored her shrieks. They reached the room where bodies lay rotting beneath a crawling mountain of rats. The smell made her gag. Wynders dropped her and turned to leave.
“Think well on it,” he said, over his shoulder. “If I can’t convince you, then maybe they can.” He lifted his chin toward the feeding mass of vermin. “I believe they are running out of food.”
Bianca watched Wynders disappear, leaving her with hundreds of pairs of interested watching eyes. She stared back at them and growled, baring her teeth as if she should have them for a meal instead of the other way around.
A rat scampered across her chest.
Bianca screamed and rolled to her side, tangling her skirt between her legs. She frantically wrestled the twisted material, but her struggle only bound her further. She cursed her kirtle, wishing for a way to rip it off. Exhausted, she lay still. She knew she must calm herself and think her way out of this. If only she had a knife, if only someone had heard her scream . . . Her head filled with useless, wishful thoughts.
She looked around, forcing herself to think what she could use to untangle herself. There was nothing but walls of wooden crates and dark, and as the hissing grew louder, it drowned any sensible thoughts she had and she panicked again, thrashing more violently than before.
But this time her undoing became her salvation. She’d spilled so many experimental solutions on her old skirt that the wool had worn thin in places, and now, with her thrashing, it ripped enough so that she was able to kick a leg free. She swung it over and rolled onto her knees, wiggling to give herself room, and with effort staggered to her feet. The rats had moved closer, and she cursed and screamed, scaring them back. It worked, but only for a moment.
She began moving as fast as her weary legs allowed. Soon she could make out a faint light in the direction of the entrance. Fighting her exhaustion, she stumbled forward, bumping into crates and sending them crashing down behind her. She had created an inadvertent barrier. Soon she began driving her aching shoulders into more crates, creating even more obstacles between her and the rats.
Hindered by her tied wrists, she found a splintered crate with a sharp edge and worked to saw apart the rope. Her back was to the edge so she couldn’t tell if it was cutting through the thick jute, but as the horrible hiss of rats closed in, she furiously pumped her arms up and down against its edge.
One by one, the fibers split. The rope began to fray. She felt the taut grip on her wrists begin to relax. She forced her wrists apart, tightening the jute against the sharp edge, and with a final stroke, her hands sprang free.
Bianca swung her arms about, regaining their feeling and yowling at the pain that shot through her shoulder joints, still stretched and sore from her stay at the Clink. She didn’t know how she would escape the warehouse, but if she had to climb to the top of a tower of crates, so be it. It would be easier to fend off the rats from there.
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