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straight.
    Patch now turned his stare on Bianca. His eyes drifted to the elaborate copper contraption that loomed behind her. “And what is it ye do here?” Patch’s gaze traveled the length of the room, taking in shelves lined with jars and crockery. A pear-shaped pot with a neck like that of a swan sat neglected in a corner. Bunches of herbs hung from beams, the smells mingling with more unpleasant ones. Not the usual stuff of a young woman. A red cat perched on a joist, its eyes staring back at him, mirrored yellow.
    But as Bianca started to explain, a knock came at the door, and into her room of Medicinals and Physickes stepped a man most like a roast beef, dressed in a brown doublet and small ruff choking what would be his neck. With a lift of his chin, he appraised his surroundings.
    “Coroner,” said Patch, offering the man a slight bow.
    “Patch,” acknowledged the man in a stentorian voice, but he paid no more attention to the constable than he would a gnat. He tolerated the sniveling fool because he had to. No one else in the ward was willing to take on the role of constable of this godforsaken precinct for so little pay and so little respect. He despised coming to Southwark; nothing good ever came of it.
    “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