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Jolyn’s complaints when the coroner interrupted.
    “Did she voice any distress—physical or otherwise?”
    “She complained of an unsettled stomach,” said Bianca, relieved she could tell him that Jolyn had not been perfectly healthy when she arrived. “She blamed it on the exotical foods her suitor had given her.”
    The coroner studied her with steady eyes. “And would you say she had enemies?”
    John broke in, unable to stand by any longer and watch the coroner interrogate Bianca. “Jolyn mentioned a muckraker at the Dim Dragon Inn. He confronted her about stealing something from him.”
    “Do you know who this muckraker might be?”
    “She did not say.”
    “She did not say . . . much,” he noted. His gaze shifted from John to Bianca. “Has she any family?”
    “None I know of,” she said.
    “Tell him where Jolyn lived,” said Patch, eagerly.
    Bianca glared at Patch, knowing full well his intent, but she answered simply, as if it should be of no import, “Jolyn lived at the Barke House.”
    Patch cast a knowing glimpse at the public official, a smug smile on his face.
    “She was employed there as an errand girl,” Bianca told the coroner. She turned to address Constable Patch. “Nothing more.”
    The coroner studied John, the smell of Bianca’s room nettling his nose. He again lifted his pomander and inhaled, as if it might transport him to more pleasant surroundings—smelling of orange and clove, with a tankard of mulled cider in one hand and a woman’s buttocks in the other. Alas, he opened his eyes and found himself back in this den of crockery with a dead girl at his feet. He turned to the constable. “Patch, let the madam at Barke House know she has one less tenant,” he said. “If she should ask, burial will be at Cross Bones.”
    “Cross Bones!” exclaimed Bianca. “But that land is unconsecrated.” The insult was too much. Neither she nor her friend observed the king’s religion, but she resented that Jolyn would be condemned for all time. “She may have lived at Barke House, but she was not a woman of disrepute. If she’s buried at Cross Bones, she’ll be labeled for eternity.”
    The coroner remained unmoved. “If this suitor, as you say, exists, then I’m sure he will desire otherwise. In which case, he will have to see me to arrange burial elsewhere.” He read Bianca’s long face. “My dear, it is admirable that you should wish better for your . . . friend.” He inhaled his pomander, then dropped it. “But it is of my opinion that where she is buried should be your least concern.”

C HAPTER 6
    His belly full, the ferrier tossed the skeletal remains of his breakfast into the Thames, his catlike tongue licking his chin and nose, savoring the last delectable taste of rat on his skin. He had had an easy time of it. The Cristofur had afforded him an abundant supply of vermin eager to escape her moldering hold and swim for better spoils on land. It did not take much effort for him to capture the hapless creatures. As he floated within sight of the moored vessel, happily sated, he was privy to a curious sight, the likes of which he had never seen.
    Before the day’s first light, a lonely seaman appeared at the starboard side. As he picked the rat gristle from his teeth, the ferrier saw the seaman raise a lantern, then signal toward shore. All London appeared dark and unaware, content in the slumbering peace of its citizenry. But then a singular light appeared shoreside—a light from an upper window of a warehouse that blinked once, then twice, then was extinguished.
    The Rat Man lifted a brow and watched with interest.
    Soon, the prow of a long skiff nosed its way silently toward the Cristofur . It drew alongside her hull, floating in tandem with the merchant vessel.
    The Rat Man turned his wherry for a better look.
    A hatch creaked open from the starboard side. After a minute, a shrouded object, resembling the shape and length of a body, was lowered by rope onto the