Besides, an hour or two’s delay will change nothing for Nicholas. But it could be crucial for Farzad. The charming of Robert Cecil can wait a short while, she decides. First must come the charming of Constable Willders.
A few houses down St Olave’s Lane from the Walnut Tree tavern, Bianca passes through an old stone archway and into a passage leading to a churchyard. The brickwork is green with moss. An old brindled cat watches her idly from the cemetery wall, scratches itself and goes back to eating the remains of a pigeon.
An iron-studded door is opened by a small woman with a grey, vanquished face.
‘Good morrow, Mistress. Is Constable Willders at home?’ Bianca asks as nonchalantly as she can manage.
‘Do I take it, from your gentle knocking, that there’s no alarum?’ the woman asks. ‘No call for pursuit?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I seek only a word or two with the constable.’
As Goodwife Willders ushers Bianca inside, she says in a relieved voice, ‘Halleluiah for that, Mistress. I can tell you, if this were your door, you’d be dreading every blow upon it. Day an’ night, it’s “Come quick!” or “Villainy! Villainy!” Not a care whether I’m at my prayers or on my pot. It never stops.’ She looks Bianca up and down. ‘Take my advice: never marry a constable. Your time’s never your own.’
‘I can imagine. But all I need is–’
But Goodwife Willders seems to think she’s encountered a confidante. ‘I swear when we was wed, I was a foot taller. With every bash on this door I’ve shrunk a notch. I’ll be no higher than a little atomy by the time my husband stands down.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘No, Mistress, but he should be back presently. He’s just gone down to our daughter Ruth’s place on Pocket Lane with a pot of my broth. Ruth’s taken a little poorly, and I make good broth, you see. The night-watch swears by it.’ She adopts a stern civic frown. ‘A constable’s wife must play her part in the maintaining of the queen’s peace. Who can tell what riot and disorder my broth has helped quell?’
And Bianca can smell it – a warm, meaty scent pervading the scrubbed little house. She nods appreciatively. ‘If she’s sick, I could make something up for Ruth, if she wants,’ she says helpfully. ‘I’m an apothecary. I have a shop on Dice Lane.’
Goodwife Willders looks up at her, the recognition dawning in her weary eyes. ‘You’re Mistress Merton!’ It is not clear if the statement is an accolade or an accusation.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I thought you looked a bit foreign. They say you’re half-Roman.’
‘I was born in Padua, to an English father and a mother from the Veneto. But I’m a loyal Banksider now.’
‘They say you’re a recusant. A papist.’
There is no detectable malice in what Goodwife Willders has just said. She could be suggesting that Bianca can cook well or run fast. Only the English, Bianca thinks, can insult you with words that sound like pleasantries.
‘And I suppose you’ve heard how I was taken by Robert Cecil to be accused of treason, and came back to Southwark in his own private barge? Over two years ago, that was, and the story still has currency,’ she says without thinking, cursing herself for rising to the bait.
‘I heard it was the queen’s. All painted gold, with crimson silk pillows.’
‘And you’ll also have heard I’m a witch, I suppose? Would you like me to cast a spell for Ruth’s recovery? I don’t charge much.’
Goodwife Willders’s tired little face puckers. ‘I’ll thank you not to make such japes in a Christian house, Mistress Merton. Witchcraft is a serious matter. I’ll not abide it being spoken of casually.’ Then, relenting, she adds, ‘Mind, if you could cast a charm to quieten all that hammering on the door…’
‘Have you considered removing the knocker?’
As if upon a playhouse cue, the door swings open and Constable Willders steps across the threshold. He looks flushed and troubled, his short body fidgeting with a nervousness Bianca would better ascribe to a Bankside gull appearing before a justice of the peace, rather than a law officer entering his own home. She wonders if he’s been dicing or whoring on his way back from his daughter’s. Or perhaps he’s had more broth than he can stand.
‘How now, Mistress Merton,’ he says. ‘Of all folks, I had not thought to see you here.’ Dropping his gaze, he spits into his right hand and smears his forelock into a more fetching angle.
‘I thought to have a word, Constable Willders, if you will permit me the liberty.’
He seems a little distracted. She’s used to men behaving like fools in her presence, wishing only that they would say what they have to say without either bluster or timidity. But she’d thought Constable Willders a more sensible fellow.
He unlaces his leather tabard and throws it over a chair. His shirt looks as though it’s been handed down from an ancestor, clean enough, but heavily patched with neatly stitched squares of different cloth. It also seems made for a less corpulent man. ‘Have you not brought Dr Shelby with you?’ he asks.
‘Dr Shelby has gone out of the realm.’
‘Has he? Where’s he gone – Ireland? He’s wasting his time. They’re all beyond curing there.’
‘He is gone to the Barbary shore, Constable Willders.’
The constable puffs up his cheeks in surprise. ‘Has he really? Don’t tell me he’s turned Turk – become a Mohammedan. I have heard he’s not past taking our Lord’s name in vain.’
‘No, Constable Willders, he has not. He has gone as an envoy for Sir Robert Cecil. He’s been sent to forge an understanding with the Moor sultan in the sphere of physic, I think.’
Willders seems impressed. ‘I did not know he swam in such fine waters, Mistress Bianca. So how may I help the maid he’s left behind?’
‘He hasn’t “left me behind”, Constable Willders. I’m not something he’s forgotten to pack in his travelling chest. I’ve come about Solomon Mandel.’
‘Ah, the Jew,’ Willders says. ‘A matter of record, now. The coroner has delivered his verdict: hot medley – as we all suspected.’
‘I remember Nicholas saying as much. But I have new information. At least, I might have.’
Willders thrusts out his chest as if to remind her of his civic position. ‘Then I am bound in duty to hear it, Mistress Merton.’ He fixes his wife with a haughty stare. ‘Madam, please absent yourself. This is business affecting the queen’s peace.’
Bianca doesn’t fully hear the parting grizzle as Goodwife Willders retires to the kitchen – save for the words peace and bloody knocker.
‘Now then, Mistress Merton, give your statement in all its aspects. And give it truthfully, as an honest subject of Her Majesty,’ Willders says pompously when they’re alone. ‘You are honest, I trust.’
‘As honest as any here, Constable Willders.’
He seems unconvinced. ‘Here being Southwark, Mistress? Or here being… here?’
She gives him her best smile. ‘Only you can answer that, Constable Willders.’
He wets his hand again and makes another adjustment to his forelock. ‘No dissembling, please, Mistress Merton. There is no place for dissembling where the law is concerned.’
‘I wish to speak of my kitchen lad, Farzad the Moor.’
‘Ah, him. The absconder.’
‘Indeed, him.’
‘And what have you to say of him, Mistress?’
‘That he is innocent, Constable Willders.’
‘Of the Jew’s slaying?’