Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  “Someone eager to inherit money?” He studied her a moment. “And what is your interest in this?”

  “My husband is Boisvert’s apprentice, and Odile was very kind to me.”

  “So you want to see if she has left you her gowns,” he assumed.

  “Nay, I care not a spot about acquiring fine silks. I want to know how she worded her final bequeath. And exactly who might benefit.”

  The clerk turned to the wills received in the last month. They were piled on the table, held in place by a nail on which each sheet was skewered. “If I have received a copy, it will be here.” He pointed to the documents. “These have not yet been filed.”

  He removed half of the wills and started to hand them to her, then stopped. “Can you read?” he asked.

  “My father taught me.”

  “An enlightened stance for a father. He was an educated man?”

  “Nay, sir, he was practical. He taught me in order to make his life easier.” She took the papers and began thumbing through them, hoping the clerk would leave it at that.

  “Farendon, Farendon,” mused the clerk, scanning the shelves of bound folios. “I believe he was lord mayor more than a decade ago. When did he die?”

  “It is my understanding that Odile has been a widow for nearly thirteen years.”

  “Forgive me, I have many testaments to archive and often I have help if it becomes overwhelming. I cannot always depend on my assistant to be careful with his filing. He seems to enjoy his wine and the view more than his required task. If I recall correctly, Odile Farendon contested her husband’s will.” He went to a particular section of the shelves. “We should have a copy of the original before it was contested.” He removed a leather folio and cleared a space on the table. Untying the cord that held the folder together, the clerk turned over the cover and read the name on the first testament. “Not Farendon.” He flipped over the page and read the next. “Not Farendon.”

  Bianca finished the stack of papers and reached for the remaining testaments from the nail. “And if Odile’s will is not here?”

  “If Odile’s will is not in your stack, it simply means it has not yet been received.”

  “If it was witnessed before her death, then it should be the document of record, should it not?”

  “It should. It is the solicitor’s duty to file it.”

  “What if he shirks his duty?”

  “It is required of his office. It may be delayed, but eventually it shall be found here.”

  Bianca went to a window for better light to read through the pages. The testaments had been received during the past two months and had not been ordered chronologically. She went through every single paper to be sure Odile’s will was not there.

  “Lionel Farendon,” said the clerk at last. “I knew it would be here.” He began to read . . . “ ‘In the name of God, amen. I, Lionel Farendon, Goldsmith of London, residing in the parish of Aldersgate, sick in body and expecting hourly my dissolution out of this world into life everlasting . . .’”

  He handed the document to Bianca. She read on in silence, then, coming to the part of his bequeaths, read aloud, “‘. . . and gift my wife, Odile Durand Farendon, her gowns and personal effects. The residence of Mayden Lane with all gardens and backsides shall be sold.’” Bianca looked over at John Wemmesley, whose eyes widened.

  She continued reading. “The usual list of disbursements follows. That his creditors shall be paid; he makes an arrangement for obiits to be said on the anniversary of his death for the next twenty years. All net assets, land, and buildings shall be left in an endowment to benefit the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths and their charities.” She scanned the text to the end. “Odile would have gotten nothing.”

  “As his wife, she is entitled to the chattels and one-third of his estate.”

  “There is no mention of that provision. Perhaps he sought to circumvent it.”

  “It is a protection under the law.”

  “Then there are problems with the way this will was written.” Bianca returned to the first page. “Odile was neither the executor, nor was she a beneficiary. I understand now why she contested it.”

  “If she was not named the executor, who was?”

  Bianca flipped through the pages and confirmed the signature at the end. “Oro Tand.”

  She handed the testament back to Wemmesley. “Perhaps, sir, there is a reason you have not received Odile’s will.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “My master’s wife dies on her wedding day, I spend the entire night consoling the man, I’ve had no sleep, and I come home to find my wife gone.”

  If Bianca had known she’d return to a bleary-eyed and irritable husband, she might have skirted the place and at least gone to market. “I didn’t expect you back for a while. I thought it would be a long night for you. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “Boisvert has been taken to Newgate Prison.”

  “For questioning?”

  “There is no questioning. The constable hauled him away.”

  “From Mayden Lane?”

  “Aye, from Mayden Lane!”

  “I thought Master Tand was going to provide the constable with a list of guests from the dinner and from there he would decide how to proceed.”

  “It wasn’t much of a list if Boisvert was the only name on it.”

  Bianca picked up Hobs and scratched the back of his neck. “Do we know why he was arrested?”

  “Odile’s will is being contested. The solicitor claims Odile was of unsound mind.”

  “Paa! She knew well what she was doing.”

  “The constable believes the will incriminates Boisvert. I told you I had an uneasy feeling about this constable. Boisvert is being charged with murder.”

  Hobs leapt out of Bianca’s arms, spying a mouse scampering along the wall.

  John started up the stairs ahead of Bianca. He spoke to her over his shoulder. “Odile must have listed Boisvert as a beneficiary. Why else would he be under suspicion?”

  “Constables are a dull and indolent lot. I am not surprised he came to that conclusion,” said Bianca. “Seize on what appears simple . . . but the truth is never so obvious.” They reached the landing, and Bianca searched through a box of gathered herb sprigs. “It is an insult to Boisvert’s intelligence.” She hated that her herbs were jumbled together; she would have to hang them from the rafters whether Boisvert approved or not. As it was, Boisvert wouldn’t be around to complain. “I went to see Oro Tand this morning.” Finding what she wanted, Bianca crumbled mint leaves into a small pot.

  “Why must you trouble him? Can you not inquire elsewhere?” John irritably tended the fire, scraping aside the ashes. “I’m sure Tand was overjoyed to see you.”

  “I wanted to ask him why he was sitting outside of Odile’s solicitor’s office when they had their appointment.”

  “And his answer?”

  “He pretended he did not remember. He was lying, as sure as the day comes. Finally he admitted seeing them there, claiming he doesn’t recall everyone he chances to meet in a day.” Bianca ladled water on top of the crushed leaves and hung the pot to boil. “As I was leaving, the officers from the Haberdashers’ Company arrived. They are determined to gain some funding from the goldsmiths to help with road repairs for the king’s progress.”

  “How does that have any bearing on Boisvert’s predicament?”

  “Master Tand claims the guild has no money to spare.”

  “I should think the Gold Guild has plenty of funds,” said John. “Tand probably doesn’t want to give any money to the haberdashers.”

  “Then he appears miserly withholding it. How does that make the Goldsmiths’ Company look, if the king journeys down Foster Lane and learns that they did not act to repair the road for him?” Bianca found a small cup and a square of linen. “I should think they would not chance displeasing the king.”

  A pitiful squeak rose from a corner, and Hobs reappeared, triumphant, bearing dinner for his
people. Bianca chased him down the stairs and shooed him out the door.

  “If the guild is low on funds, that would be news better left quiet,” said John when she returned.

  “It might be useful to know. In fact, it might have some relevance. After Tand, I went to the register of the Commissary Court to find out the contents of Odile’s last will and testament. Wills are public record there.”

  “Ah! So creditors can settle disputes and make one last attempt to collect their dues?”

  “And so estranged relatives might make a claim on the estate.” Bianca checked the water and poured it over the linen into the cup. “The clerk was quite helpful. The records are kept in the tower at St. Paul’s. It was worth going there just for the view.”

  “Well and good. But what did you learn?”

  “Odile’s last will and testament was not there. We went through the stack of papers needing to be filed and it had not been received.”

  “Mayhap the solicitor has not gotten around to submitting it. Or maybe the will goes elsewhere since it is being contested.”

  “At some point the will should be filed there. But I got to read Lionel Farendon’s last wishes.” Even from upstairs they could hear Hobs scratching the door. “Would you let him in? Make sure he isn’t sneaking in a half-dead mouse in his mouth.”

  John trudged down the stairs, the door creaked open, and in a moment Hobs appeared at the top of the stairs. He ran across the room to the table and landed within an inch of Bianca’s cup.

  “I discovered that all of Lionel Farendon’s assets, apart from the obiits to be said on the anniversary of his death for the next twenty years, were bequeathed to the Gold Guild once his debts were paid.”

  “But Odile got Mayden Lane.”

  “Nay. She did not. It was to be sold. If she had not contested the will, she might have been cast from their home with nothing but her chattels.”

  John added more wood to the fire and layered some coal on top of it. “Why would he leave his wife with nothing?”

  “Punishment, hatred . . . perhaps he had been coerced.” Bianca blew on her cup of mint water. “I wonder if she told Boisvert anything about it.” She closed her eyes and inhaled the steam, felt it tickle her nose. “Also, you might be interested that Oro Tand was the executor of Lionel Farendon’s will.”

  “Oro Tand? Usually it is the wife’s responsibility.” John took an iron poke and prodded the fire. “Lionel must not have liked his wife much.”

  Bianca took a sip. “I did find it odd that Lionel Farendon’s portrait was so prominently displayed on the way to the dining hall last night.” She held the cup before her lips. “Why would the Goldsmiths’ Company do that if not to prove a point?”

  “I think it was disrespectful. Perhaps the intention was to intimidate Boisvert and Odile.”

  “Methinks there is some history between Oro Tand and Odile.” Bianca set the cup down. “So the will is being contested, and Boisvert sits in gaol accused of murder. How convenient.”

  Hobs flopped over, exposing his belly for a rub. Bianca obliged and he stretched out like a long sausage. “I wonder if the lawyer truly believes Odile was of unsound mind. Or did someone encourage him to contest the will?”

  John hung the fire poke and straddled the bench. “You mean nudged with an incentive? Unfortunately lawyers are more swayed by money and threats than virtue. It is hard to say, having never met the man.”

  “Another thought has occurred to me,” said Bianca. “Most people do not make out their wills until they are on their deathbed. It is a person’s final conscious statement of his intentions before he dies. I wonder if Odile sensed she was not well.”

  “Perhaps Odile sensed someone wanted her dead.”

  “I’d like to know the contents of that will.” Bianca tapped a finger on the table and Hobs laid his paw on top. “Someone stands to benefit from contesting it.”

  * * *

  Because Boisvert was being held in the most disreputable of London’s prisons, John knew he would have to pave the way with coin in order to see his master. He filched several pennies from the cache of coins in the forge, reminding himself that he was only borrowing them; then he and Bianca parted ways, stepping out in opposite directions, sucking in brisk winter air that swirled with snowflakes the size of cobnuts.

  Newgate was not so very far from Foster Lane. Once John was past the stalls of market and Christ Church, the stone façade was in sight. Its five stories made a horseshoe, and, entering the “Whit,” one passed under the portcullis, above which stood a statue of Richard Whittington and his beloved cat. It was through his generosity that the current building had been erected, ensuring London’s miscreants more spacious quarters—the luxury of which was negated by the addition of even more criminals.

  After nearly emptying his purse into a turnkey’s palm, John was led down a dim corridor to a set of narrow stone stairs. The sounds of human suffering and smell of filth were visceral enough to stun him into somber silence. At the end of the hall, he was handed off to another guard, who laboriously stumped up the treads to a second and then third floor, where the screams were less frequent and the smells marginally less offensive. With each successive level, he was lifted above the rank perfume of the Condemned Hold—the most foul of cells, where men and women, together, awaited their execution. Arriving on the top floor, John passed door after door where debtors and men of higher birth served their time, waited for their trials to be heard, and, in some unfortunate cases, waited for their own execution.

  The guard stopped outside a door and peered through the iron lattice. “Owt, horse eater,” he called through its woven grating, “ye’ve got a visitor come about ye. Wake up, fool; no sense sleeping away the little life ye got left.”

  John’s stomach turned; he wondered how he would find his master.

  The guard nudged John with his elbow and smirked, thinking John surely enjoyed his gibe. He slipped a cumbrous ring of keys off his forearm and searched for the right one. Pinching a key between his grubby fingers, he pushed it into the lock. With an echoing click, the pins turned and the door creaked open. John took a step, but an arm fell in front of him. With the other, the guard held out his hand.

  “I have nothing left,” complained John. “Ask the turnkey below. I gave it all to him.”

  The guard grabbed hold of the door and began closing it.

  “Wait!” John dug into his pocket and found a farthing. “It’s all I have. I swear by God’s blood, it is this or nothing.”

  The guard’s gaze went from the measly coin to John’s face. He snatched it away and pushed open the door. “Ye only have the time of one turn,” he said, holding up a bulky hourglass that hung from a chain around his neck. He flipped it over. “No more.”

  John crossed himself and tentatively entered the cell. To his surprise, it was slightly more spacious than he had expected. Boisvert’s social standing had served him, if only for the small comfort of a private and more roomy cell.

  “Master,” John called, squinting into the dim hold. No candle burned from a sconce. Only the light from a narrow window worked against the dark. At first, John did not see his mentor, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw his master curled on a pallet made of rough-hewn wood laid with straw.

  Boisvert pushed himself to sitting. “John.” His voice had lost the bravado that had once steeled him in a “land of barbarians,” as he called his adopted country.

  John waited for him to say more, partly because he hoped he was wrong thinking his mentor demoralized.

  “It lacks a certain warmth, n’est-ce pas?” Boisvert’s voice was hoarse. He swept his eyes around the room, their whites barely glinting. “I do not care for la couleur of gristle. It does not favor my complexion.”

  “Boisvert,” said John, rushing forward.

  Boisvert waved him back. “You will catch the itch of fleas and other unpleasantness.” Retrieving his cap from the straw, he brushed it off and struck it against his knees, sending
mites to ride the particles of dust to the floor. He smoothed his sparse hair from his face and placed his hat on his scalp, tilted in Gaulish fashion. The Frenchman’s dignity may have suffered, but his sense of style had not.

  “They make certain concessions for those with money,” he said cynically. “I only spent one night in the Hold of the Condemned.” He pulled on the collar of his gown and sniffed it. “I still wear the perfume of its open sewer.”

  “Bianca is seeking Odile’s solicitor to learn why you are being held.”

  Boisvert snorted. “Ha. He will not cooperate. He is the man who benefits from this.”

  “Why say you?”

  “Because he knows Odile’s wishes. He knows what happened in his chamber. No one can contradict his version, his words, his exaggeration. His fee, it is made, and he is content. Odile is gone, and now I am gone.”

  “You are not gone! Bianca and I shall see to this. You have suffered a most grievous loss, and now you are being unfairly accused. Someone stands to benefit from having the will contested, and we shall find out who.”

  A howl pierced the quiet, traveling through stone, causing John to shudder at its unearthly sound. If he did not have to spend an extra minute lingering, he would not. “Boisvert, what were Odile’s wishes? Who would benefit from her death?”

  Boisvert stared fixedly at the wall opposite. “I would benefit from her death.”

  “She bequeathed everything to you?”

  “Non, non.” Boisvert shook his head. “Her soul, she took care of. St. Vedast has been left an endowment, a chantry for her soul. On the anniversary of her death, requiem masses and recitations would be made on her behalf. She does not wish to spend perpetuity suffering the pains of purgatory.” Boisvert dug viciously at an itch through his netherhose. “She wished St. Vedast to be restored to its former beauty and she left money for me. So you see, John, it is me who is suspect, because a church cannot be thrown in gaol.”

  Boisvert fell into silence, and John waited patiently for him to continue. The room might have been better than most, but it lacked heat, and the cold gnawed to the bone. John was thankful that Boisvert’s fur-lined gown had not been taken and wished that his own wool coat were as warm.