Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  However, Bianca found this parade of people flouncing to their table entertaining. She studied their mannerisms and silently speculated about their attributes—as well as their foibles.

  If one removed their sumptuous fashions and wealth, these citizens were no better than she. They, too, loved and lied. Their fashions were lovely, but Bianca had little interest in such conceits. A woman might embellish her hood with biliments of pearls and beading, she might color her lips with crushed berries, but all of this decorating was done to flatter her person and flaunt her wealth. Bianca was not impressed.

  Here was evidence of Henry’s sumptuary laws, designed to keep the rising merchants in their place. Men must not live like noblemen unless they were born to it or granted the title by the king. The goldsmiths and their wives seemed bent on testing their boundaries.

  Thinking about Harry’s rules for dress made Bianca acutely aware of her own low birth. She wondered how long it would be before someone other than Oro Tand reminded her of it. She took a bite of John’s abandoned custard just as a clatter came from down the table.

  Bianca leaned forward but could not see past Oro Tand and John, who were blocking her view. She stood and noticed a red splotch spreading across the tablecloth and Boisvert righting a spilled bottle of wine. In a hysterical voice, Odile apologized to a woman whose dress was accidentally stained. The bride was not content with just expressing her remorse. She insisted the woman come to Mayden Lane right away. “You will have the pick of any gown in my wardrobe.”

  “My dear Odile, it is not necessary. Your offer is generous, but this was not done on purpose. I can endure the evening. And I know a capable launder woman.”

  Again the dining hall fell into silence. All eyes were trained on the incident at the head table.

  “Non, I insist,” repeated Odile. She looked as if she would come around the table.

  “My love,” said Boisvert, patting his wife’s arm, “this is not so important that it cannot wait until tomorrow. Please, let us continue our dinner.”

  “Non!” shrieked Odile, jerking her arm away. “I have just stained the most beautiful gown I have ever laid eyes on! Why should I enjoy my evening when I have ruined hers?”

  Odile’s insistence would have been cause enough for alarm, but then her face ticked with a spasm. A twitch of the eye spread to the muscles of her cheeks and mouth.

  “My lady,” said the woman, her own voice rising as she desperately tried to reassure her hostess. “You have not ruined my evening. Please do not upset yourself. It is a matter of no consequence.”

  Odile’s jaw clenched. “Come,” she said, struggling to speak through her gritted teeth. “Let us solve this immediately.” The bride moved to escort the woman to Mayden Lane, but with her first step, she stopped, and her eyes glazed with the vacant stare she had worn earlier.

  Boisvert took her hand. “Odile,” he whispered in her ear. “Look at me.” When she did not move, he shook her by the shoulders. “Odile! Arrête ça.” He offered a sip of wine, tipped it against her lips. “S’il te plaît, bois! Bois!” But the wine dribbled down her neck.

  Odile stood motionless, while her face continued its strange spasms. She was unresponsive to her husband’s pleas and appeared unable to control the muscles in her face, so there was nothing to do but hope for the seizure to pass.

  “We must get her out of here,” said Boisvert, turning to John.

  “I see no way but to carry her,” he replied as he sidled past Oro Tand.

  A line of perspiration dampened Boisvert’s upper lip. He glanced around at the gawping guests. “So be it. We must do what we must.”

  The two of them moved the chairs away from Odile and prepared to lift her. They had just tipped her like a block of stone when she blinked out of her daze. The tremors stopped. She looked round at the dining hall, saw the puzzlement on her guests’ faces, and matched their bewildered expressions with one of her own. When she found Boisvert’s surprised face, she smiled and touched her hand to his cheek.

  “Mon ami,” she said, smiling. Her relaxed gesture vanquished her lover’s fear. Boisvert’s breath caught in the hope that his love had returned to him.

  But his respite was short-lived. Odile’s neck suddenly wrenched at an awkward angle. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she collapsed.

  CHAPTER 14

  Bring a lump of ore into a room of goldsmiths, and they’ll run for their touchstones, their crucibles, their aqua regia and smother you with assistance. But if a fellow brother is in need, they will blink uncertainly, shrug, and wait for someone else to make the first move. Bianca wondered if their hesitation was because of surprise, because of their haughty opinion of themselves, or because Boisvert and Odile were French. Being a stranger brother had never been easy for the silversmith, and never was it more evident than now.

  Bianca hurried to Boisvert’s side, where the Frenchman knelt over his beloved, shaking her and crying, “Aidez-moi, aidez-moi!” Odile did not respond. Neither did anyone else in the hall. Odile’s eyes bore the empty look of a more permanent kind.

  “Boisvert,” said Bianca, shaking her head. She held his arm. “No.”

  The Frenchman looked up in disbelief. “You say no. How can you say no? She was breathing this same air just a moment ago. This cannot be.”

  “She’s dead, Boisvert,” said Oro Tand, standing over them. He looked ten feet tall as he gazed down his nose at them. There was no expression of emotion in his words. They fell as flat as the floor.

  The master of the Goldsmiths’ Company took the matter into his hands. He sent for the authorities, assuaged distressed goldsmiths and their distraught wives. The kitchen ceased operations. When the ward constable and coroner arrived, Tand escorted the men into the dining hall.

  Bianca was relieved that her nemesis, Constable Patch, had not been summoned. It was the same men who had investigated the death at St. Vedast a few days before.

  The two men eyed Boisvert, who was sitting near his deceased bride, looking as stunned and bereft as any lover would be, especially given so brief a marriage.

  Without prompt, Oro Tand described the evening, starting with the wedding ceremony. The master of the Goldsmiths’ Company spoke about Odile’s odd behavior, how it had disappeared when they arrived for dinner, then returned when Odile knocked over a bottle of wine. The woman whose dress had sparked Odile’s agitation stood quietly while her husband explained her part in the incident. Finally, Boisvert was asked to tell his version of the events, but the silversmith could not speak for all of his distress.

  “Sir,” said Bianca, crouching beside the coroner as he knelt to examine the body. “Do you think this sounds as if she may have had the falling-down sickness?”

  “The crank? It is possible. However, I have never heard of limping or contortion of the limbs to be associated with that condition.” The coroner took a breath as if to discuss his thoughts, then stopped. “My lady, you must return to your seat; this is not your concern.”

  “Odile was a friend to me. It is my concern.”

  “All the more reason why I must ask that you allow me to do what I must, unhindered.”

  “Sir, I have an interest in conditions that affect one’s health.”

  “You may have an interest, but you have no expertise. You may be curious, but your opinion is of no significance to me.”

  Bianca sighed. Being dressed like a goldsmith’s wife did little to inspire the coroner to confer with her. She could not explain to the man that she was not actually as she appeared. She could not tell him that she sold medicinals and studied death and disease on a daily basis. Instead, Bianca politely remained by his side. She would watch—whether he found her presence irritating or not.

  “I need more light,” he said, glowering at her. “I am being crowded and cannot see.”

  Bianca ignored his remark and took the proffered candle, holding it at a perfect angle so the coroner could see. Only an ass with no desire to help himself would have com
plained.

  The coroner grumbled as he checked Odile’s exposed arms, lifting each in turn. “My lady, you are as stubborn as a fly and about as helpful.”

  “My husband would agree,” said Bianca, undeterred. “Please continue . . . with your examination, sir.”

  He bent over Odile’s face, opening an eyelid to check the white of her eye. “Move the light a little to my right.”

  The coroner opened Odile’s mouth, moving his head for a better look. Naturally, Bianca’s curiosity could not allow her to sit patiently by. She leaned over to see, her French hood bumping the coroner’s forehead. He clamped shut Odile’s mouth and glared at Bianca.

  Bianca met his stare. “I didn’t see any inflammation of the mouth; did you?” she asked.

  “Nay, I did not!”

  “Go on, sir. I shall not interrupt.”

  Sniffing with indignation, the coroner simply wanted to be finished with his examination and return home. He quickly noted Odile’s bent neck, took hold of her chin, and straightened her head from its torqued position.

  “Before she died, her neck twisted in a most unnatural way. Her shoulder rose to her cheek.” Bianca thought the contortion would be of interest to him.

  “A spasm,” replied the coroner.

  “Do you know of any condition besides the crank that might cause such a spasm?”

  “Mayhap a tumor pressing against the skull.” The coroner lifted Odile’s head and felt its bone structure. His brow furrowed in thought and he laid her head back on the floor.

  If the coroner would not share his findings, then she would draw her own conclusions. Bianca handed the candle to John, then lifted Odile’s head and palpated the skull.

  The coroner stopped his examination. “Are you going to hold the light for me, or are you going to mimic me like a monkey?”

  Bianca gently laid her friend’s head on the floor and took the candle, positioning it for the coroner. She had not felt any unusual bumps.

  Saliva dampened Odile’s lips, and the coroner felt its texture. He sniffed his fingers, finally wiping them down Odile’s front. His fingers lingered on the ouche pinned to her bodice. With a grunt of effort, he braced himself against the table and got to his feet. He looked around for the constable. “I believe she was poisoned.”

  “What?” exclaimed Bianca. She nearly caught his sleeve on fire with the candle as she stood. “I never saw her vomit; nor did she complain of chills or stomach cramps.”

  “Sir,” said the constable to Boisvert. “Did your wife exhibit any of those symptoms?”

  Boisvert blinked. “Non, she did not.”

  Bianca wielded the lit candle like a weapon, stepping close to the coroner. She looked at him over the flickering flame. “You said you found no redness of the mouth. Why do you believe she was poisoned?”

  “A person may be poisoned and not exhibit inflammation of the mouth. There are other ways.”

  “Say then, what do you suspect?” said Bianca.

  The coroner wasn’t the only man annoyed with Bianca’s persistence. The constable seized her wrist and removed the candle, blowing it out. “My lady, this is not a matter that concerns you. But your insistence makes me wonder. Why are you so invested?”

  “I said before, Odile was my friend. My husband’s master is Boisvert, and he has just lost the only woman he has ever loved. I want to be sure the coroner’s findings are accurate. Or, at the least, I believe they should make sense.” Bianca straightened her headpiece.

  “And is that your determination? I do not see your involvement as anything but an intrusion.”

  Bianca ignored the constable and turned back to the coroner. “Could the falling-down sickness result in death?” She was not going to let the possibility go.

  “I have only observed such finality if they hit their head or swallow their tongue. But there is no evidence of the falling sickness. This is likely a result of poison.”

  Both the constable and the coroner turned their gaze on Boisvert. Their stares were enough for the silversmith to feel the heat of their accusation. “Why do you look on me that way? I would never do anything to hurt my beautiful Odile.” Boisvert stood and threw out his chest. “I’d rather die than be accused of murdering my wife!”

  The constable raised an eyebrow. “We never said a word.”

  “You do not have to say a word. I know by your eyes what it is that you are thinking.”

  “Is this your wife’s goblet?” The constable pointed to the silver chalice sitting at Odile’s place. He picked it up and sniffed the contents.

  “What are you saying?” said Boisvert, indignant. “Say what you mean. I do not understand these insinuations.”

  The constable handed the goblet to the coroner, who took it by the stem and ran it under his nose. He shook his head, uncertain.

  “Give me it!” Boisvert grabbed the wine from the coroner and drank it down without stopping. “There!” he said, shoving the goblet back at the constable. He showed great restraint by not throwing it at him. “We shall see if I poisoned my wife.”

  “Master, calm yourself,” said John, placing his hand on the silversmith’s chest. He then spoke loud enough so the constable and coroner could hear. “Anyone who knows your love for Odile would never question it.”

  “Perhaps you should consider other possibilities,” said Bianca. “There are plenty of them here.” She looked round at the goldsmiths and their wives, who were glaring back at her. She had not won herself any friends. “If Odile was poisoned, as you believe, Coroner, then, Constable, you must find someone with a reason for poisoning her. I do not believe Boisvert can fake his love for Odile.”

  “The one who loves the most can also harbor the greatest hatreds. I have seen it before,” said the constable.

  “You may have seen it before, but that is not true of my husband’s master,” said Bianca.

  The constable resented being challenged—especially by a woman who could not properly secure her headpiece. “Who are you?”

  “I am my husband’s wife.” She refrained from mentioning her name or her husband’s. Neither surname garnered much respect.

  “She is Bianca Goddard,” offered Oro Tand, smiling. He was only trying to be helpful.

  “Goddard? Where have I heard that name?” The constable squinted at Bianca.

  “Her father is the alchemist once accused of poisoning the king.” Tand appeared quite pleased with himself. Apparently, he had done some inquiring.

  “Ah!” said the constable. “I do know of him. In not so flattering terms. And you are his daughter?”

  Bianca did not respond—so Master Tand answered for her. “She is indeed.”

  The constable considered her a moment. He did not question her regarding her father’s unseemly misadventure, and for that she was grateful.

  “If I may have a word with you, Constable?” Master Tand gestured toward a quiet corner.

  “We will be here until tomorrow,” groused John, watching the two men huddle. “This constable is too determined. His kind is better suited to lawyering.”

  Bianca watched the pair carefully as they spoke. At last they seemed to come to some sort of agreement. If the constable’s broad smile was any indication, they had come to an agreement that pleased him verily.

  “It seems I do have a room of possibilities,” he said, addressing the guests and acknowledging Bianca. “However, it is late and I do not see the use in retaining the guests and questioning them into the small hours of the morning. We are all better served to go on about our ways. Master Tand will provide me with a list of attendees and from there I can decide how best to proceed.” He glanced at the master goldsmith, who gave a satisfied nod. “Good men and good ladies, I ask your pardon for this unfortunate interruption in your celebration. Death does happen.” The constable offered this last comment as if it were a revelation that had never occurred to anyone. “We shall have the body removed forthwith and you may continue your merriment.”

  “Co
dso,” swore Bianca.

  “He seems suddenly cheery,” said John.

  “If you had gotten a silver angel to leave, you would be cheery too,” said Bianca.

  The constable wasted no time removing himself from the dining hall, leaving without so much as a glance at his peer, the coroner.

  “How typical,” muttered the coroner, watching the official exit. “So like the thoughtless cove to abandon me to deal with the body. I should leave these silly goldsmiths to remove it.”

  Oro Tand responded to the disgruntled look on the coroner’s face. “Sir, do not distress yourself any further. We shall send for St. Vedast’s sexton to remove the body. I pray you, enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Bianca watched the master of the Gold Guild drape his arm over the coroner’s shoulders and escort him toward the door. “Far be it from Master Tand to let a possible murder delay a good dinner.”

  John gave her a sharp look. “I would thank you to keep your comments to yourself. Have you forgotten these are our people?”

  “They are not my people.” She looked around at the guests, the majority of whom had returned to their dinners. “Are they yours, John?”

  John’s face colored, complementing her carmine gown. “It is a matter of survival, Bianca. You would do well to remember that.”

  “False friendship is more about vanity than it is a requirement for a smithing license. You say it is a matter of survival. Well, it is not a matter of survival for me.”

  “What would you have me do?” said John, struggling to keep his voice low. “Shall I go back to picking pockets and scrounging through rubbish for our meals?”

  “You should stay your course. If becoming a liveryman is your desire, then you should not let me stop you.” Bianca straightened her French hood, suppressing the urge to fling it off. “I only ask that you give me leave to pursue mine.” She had no inclination to continue arguing in the presence of John’s “people.” A few sallied closer as they spoke, and Bianca did not wish to provide them with fodder for gossip. With a brief curtsy, she left her husband glaring after her and went to Boisvert.