Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  Another disquieting scream spurred John to continue. “Bianca visited the Commissary Court. Odile’s will has not been received.”

  “That does not surprise me. Likely it sits on Benjamin Cornish’s desk.”

  “Bianca found Lionel Farendon’s will.”

  “He died so many years ago. It is still filed?”

  “Lionel made provisions for a chantry at St. Botolph. He also requested that his entire estate, including the residence at Mayden Lane, be sold. Once his debtors were paid, the balance was to go to the Gold Guild. Odile was to get nothing.”

  “Ah! The Gold Guild?” Boisvert nodded as if a great mystery had been revealed. “I knew she had contested the will. Ultimately, she said it was decided by the king.”

  “The king had import?”

  “What king does not? Odile was an attendant of Anne Boleyn. And Anne—she was very fond of Odile. Henry was still enamored of Anne’s charms when Lionel died. There was nothing he would not do to win her affections.” Boisvert smiled knowingly. “The queen was a strong ally to have—once.” Boisvert scratched under his doublet. “Mais non, I did not know this about the guild. I thought St. Botolph was the only beneficiary.”

  “You should know that the executor of Lionel Farendon’s will was Oro Tand.”

  Boisvert looked at John, surprised, then smiled sardonically. “Well, Lionel and Oro Tand were like brothers. Perhaps the guild wishes to settle a score.”

  John agreed. “The list of suspects has grown by two.”

  “No, my friend. It has grown by two buildings—the Goldsmiths’ Hall and St. Vedast. Alas, they cannot hang a building.”

  “Nay. I am certain Oro Tand has had a hand in contesting Odile’s will and casting suspicion on you. He oversees the guild’s coffers, does he not?” It also occurred to John that Father Nelson stood to benefit from Odile’s endowment. However, the thought of a priest murdering for money ran counter to what he wanted to believe.

  A door slammed down the corridor.

  “John,” said Boisvert, rousing his apprentice from his rumination. “You must see to Odile’s funeral. Alas, I cannot. She deserves all of the respect we can buy. I do not trust there are others who feel genuine love for her. Hire mourners, start the dirges at dawn, give alms to the poor, have the great window of St. Vedast replaced with colorful seraphs.”

  The guard cracked open the door and stuck his face in the gap. “Be done with your business.” He held up his hourglass—which was short of sand, because John had not been there long. “I can’t be timing out visits all day.”

  “John, you must take care of these arrangements for me.”

  Tucking his chin in respect, John took a step backward to leave.

  “John!” said Boisvert. “And take Nico, Odile’s spaniel.”

  “We have a cat who thinks he is king. Hobs will terrorize the creature.”

  “Then all the better. Nico needs to learn the manners.”

  John hated the thought of taking care of an excitable small dog that yipped every time a moth fluttered by. But he could not add weight to Boisvert’s brooding. “Very well,” he said, caving to Boisvert’s request. “But you must take him back when this is over.”

  “When this is over,” said Boisvert, incredulous. “My friend, this may end very badly for me.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Finished with another difficult morning listening to haberdashers argue for filling the ruts in the road, dealing with legal matters, hearing cases, and dispensing punishments at Halimote, James Croft braved the cold and walked down Foster Lane to St. Vedast. The road was in deplorable repair, but the funding was not entirely up to him. A little solace and quiet prayer would go a long way toward soothing his mind. He entered the nave, hoping to find it empty, and was annoyed to hear Father Nelson finishing a mass. The master of the Brown Bakers’ Guild stood at the back of the congregation, close enough to hear but not so close as to participate.

  The usual covey of parish lowlifes were in attendance. The fornicators and the sinners pretended pious attention to ceremony, as if God would judge them on outward appearance only and not see through their hides into their dark, despicable hearts.

  Croft leaned against a column with his arms crossed, running his eyes over the pitiful state of the church’s interior. The priest’s words ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling, echoed between stark, cracked walls, merged into a muddle, lulling the congregation into complacency. Then, like a mischief-maker who’d gotten into the sulfur and saltpeter, Father Nelson startled the nearly comatose with an impassioned boom of words.

  As Croft listened, he noticed Henry Lodge skulking into the nave. He must have taken a break from his duties to soak in a little piety, Croft thought. The master baker glowered at the churchwarden, daring the man to look his way. He still took offense at the churchwarden’s tacit refusal to tell him where the church was getting its wafers. Perhaps he should tell Henry Lodge that his secrecy had been for naught—that he had discovered the church’s sanctioned bakery anyway.

  A mean chuckle rumbled in his throat.

  The large wafer was held aloft and the sorry sinners shuffled forward to stick out their tongues at Father Nelson.

  Croft sighed, remembering the priest who had been at St. Vedast before Father Nelson. The man’s name was Fortin, translated from Firteau. Like other descendants through whose veins coursed alien blood and who distanced themselves from their parents, the man had held his birthright like a closely guarded secret.

  Croft was watching the parishioners smack their lips on Christ’s body when he heard a clatter from the chancel. The young altar server had dropped the plate of hosts and was crawling around collecting them.

  God’s nails, thought Croft, a French priest in a church named for a French saint is a more honest fit than a bumbling Anglo-Saxon who can’t even dispense communion properly.

  He spied Henry Lodge leaving the nave. The bread master’s churlish disposition had not softened, and he pottered after the churchwarden, following him into a room where the records were kept.

  Lodge looked up in surprise at the bread master’s arrival. “Master Croft,” he said, both acknowledging and questioning his entry.

  Croft strolled around the periphery of the room, scanning the shelves of theological books and bound records as if he were inspecting them.

  “Is there some matter I might help you with?” asked Lodge.

  “Matter? Matter. Well . . .” said Croft, stopping for a closer look at the spine of a book. “Are you still receiving wafers pro gratis?”

  Lodge blinked at Croft and tilted his head. “Croft, I ask that you not start beating that drum again. We must cut our expenditures in any way possible. Our choice is not an indictment against brown grain; it is simply a compromise because of our struggling finances. Surely you can understand that.”

  “The choice is a violation of tradition.”

  “And is it tradition to let St. Vedast fall into shambles?” Henry Lodge’s voice was tight with emotion.

  Perhaps the man did care for the parish church in his own warped way, thought the master bread baker. Still, it was no excuse to toss away hundreds of years of tradition to save a few pennies.

  “Master Croft, please excuse me. It has been a long night.” The churchwarden returned a book to a shelf and remained with his back to Croft.

  Croft was so accustomed to the bluster of bakers that a crack in this liveryman’s exterior began to thaw his own cold crust. He studied the floor near his feet.

  “We lost a church member last night,” said Lodge softly.

  “I am . . .” Croft searched for a word. “. . . Sorry?” he finally offered, though, he thought, one less sinner at St. Vedast was a good thing. He saw the churchwarden give a slight nod. Perhaps he should leave the man to his grief.

  “Odile Farendon.”

  “Odile Farendon . . . died?” Croft wondered why Lodge was so shaken. “She was to be wed, was she not?”

  “She was wed,”
answered Lodge. “She died at her wedding dinner.”

  “Oh,” said Croft. “But the lady lived a good life. She did not want for anything.” He thought it important to remind the churchwarden. “Not like some poor wretches we see around here,” he added jovially, expecting Lodge to cast off his gloom and vehemently agree.

  Instead, the churchwarden withdrew a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  When one digs a hole for oneself, the prudent choice is to stop digging. However, James Croft lacked that kind of sensitivity and pulled out a bigger shovel. “Well, death does not care whether one is happy or not.” Croft waited for a reply, but none came. The poor soul couldn’t speak without crumbling to pieces. Nothing made Croft more uncomfortable than seeing a man show his feelings. “Courage, sir! You must bolster those bollocks!” He said this in all earnestness, believing it good advice.

  The churchwarden faced the master baker. His upper lip lifted. “I take no comfort in your words, Master Croft. Obviously you care little for the members of this parish. I cannot condone your attitude, nor does it prompt me to resume purchasing hosts from sanctioned bakeries associated with the Brown Bakers’ Guild. If you worry that your guild is suffering from the success of its competition, you might look upon yourself to find the answer as to why. God save you, sir.” With a curt bow, Henry Lodge exited the chamber, leaving James Croft buried in bewilderment.

  * * *

  Clean white snow coated the streets and buildings. It stuck to the frozen ground, making the walk a slippery one. John hurried up the steps to St. Vedast and went inside. Unfortunately, the interior was no warmer than outside. John stamped the snow from his shoes and brushed off his jerkin and cap.

  Father Nelson was giving mass, so John watched for a few minutes, then decided to wait for the priest outside the vestry. He left the nave, and halfway down the hall he heard voices coming from a room. John slunk along the wall, inching close enough to listen without being observed. Two men were having a duel of wits, and at the mention of Odile Farendon’s name, John’s interest was piqued. He cautiously peeped around the open door and saw the churchwarden and bread master.

  The bread master looked a buffoon, speaking irreverently about the wealthy widow—that there were others one should be more sorry for. The churchwarden abruptly ended their exchange and started for the door.

  John feigned disinterest when the churchwarden stalked past with a face as red as smelted ore. A few steps down the hall, Lodge whipped out a kerchief and blew his nose. In a moment, James Croft sheepishly emerged, startling at seeing John loitering within earshot. Without a word, he hurried off in the opposite direction.

  John stood a moment, looking after the men, then walked to the vestry and peered inside. Father Nelson had not returned from the chancel. He leaned against the wall, thinking.

  It was the bread master whom Bianca had taken issue with the first day they arrived on Foster Lane. She had objected to the man’s insensitive remark about the young woman who fell from the church’s roof. Perhaps the man simply disliked women. John shrugged. He was not the first to malign the fair sex.

  But the look on Henry Lodge’s face told a different story. It was as if Lodge had been shaken by Odile’s death. On the one hand, Lodge seemed imposing—indifferent to people and their predicaments. During the wedding, he had been party to the gold master’s heedless mocking of the bride. So why the sudden strained emotions? Did he feel remorse for his boorish behavior given Odile’s unexpected death? But Lodge’s expression wasn’t one of shame. It was one of torment.

  John grew impatient waiting. He wandered back to the nave, where the last of the congregation was leaving. Father Nelson had seen the last of the parishioners out the door and was returning to the chancel. John was following after, when halfway there he heard a disquieting creak overhead. He stopped and peered up at the opening in the ceiling where the bottom of St. Vedast’s massive bell appeared.

  Father Nelson heard it too. “God save you, son,” he called. “How may I serve you?”

  “I heard a noise,” said John with his head tipped back. “A worrisome sound, coming from the belfry.”

  The priest walked back to John and led him toward a stone column. “It is all in order. There is no need for concern.”

  John glanced uneasily at the priest.

  “I understand your master has been taken to Newgate,” he said gently.

  “Unfortunately, that is true. I have just come from there. He is managing to maintain his humor.”

  “I don’t see how,” said Father Nelson. “Such a heinous act is not one that should be made light of.”

  “He has asked me to tend to matters concerning Odile’s funeral.”

  “Her body is with the apothecary and he shall see to the embalming. Has Boisvert further wishes?”

  “He wants mourners, a proper burial in St. Vedast’s cemetery.. . .”

  “I believe the ground is too frozen to accommodate that request. Perhaps a crypt, a carved sepulcher, would be the more prudent choice?” Father Nelson watched John’s face for an answer. “Think on it.” He hesitated. “Will there be a feast?”

  The idea of a funeral feast on the heels of a disastrous wedding dinner seemed inappropriate, unthinkable, to John. Besides, Boisvert might not be able to attend. “I think not, sir. In regards to arrangements, I am not sure what to say.”

  Father Nelson nodded. “There is time to consider the options. I shall contact you when Odile’s body is returned to us.”

  John had turned to leave when the priest broached one final topic.

  “There are fees,” he said. “Mourners must be hired; there is a charge for the mortuare. . . .”

  “It can be deducted from Odile’s estate.”

  “Perhaps you know who is handling the probate?” The priest inclined his head.

  John had no idea where the will was or where it was to be proven, or even if it had been submitted for probate. His indecision prompted the priest.

  “Then perhaps the name of the executor?”

  John blinked uncertainly. “I should think it is Boisvert.”

  Father Nelson offered a doubtful smile and waited.

  The complications were becoming clear. How could Boisvert direct disbursement from Newgate? For that matter, how could Boisvert, or anyone, have access to Odile’s wishes if the will was being contested?

  John said, “Mayhap, sir, you would do better to contact Benjamin Cornish, their solicitor.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Bianca found Benjamin Cornish in his office next to Middle Temple. The New Inn housed offices and accommodations for students and solicitors of more prosaic purpose. The lawyer’s thin pate showed from behind a stack of books, his head down and his spectacles barely clinging to the end of his nose.

  “Put the missives on the table. I shall get to them when I will.”

  “Master Cornish?”

  The solicitor startled from his work and squinted up at her. “You aren’t Bendish.”

  “Nay, sir. I’m Bianca Goddard. I carry no missives.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I knocked, and, getting no answer, I tried the door.”

  “That’s bold. Doors are closed for a reason. It means do not enter.”

  “Forgive me, sir. But I have a matter of importance I would like to discuss with you.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” The solicitor removed his spectacles and waved them about to prove his point. “Cornish, can you get my tenant to pay his past due? Cornish, write this disposition. Prepare papers for a writ of sale. . . .” The solicitor leaned back in his chair and winced. “And what matter of importance is so dire that it requires you to interrupt my work?”

  Bianca took a breath to speak, but the solicitor held up a hand to stop her. “Before you answer that,” he said, “consider whether I shall be helpful. After all, you imposed yourself on me, uninvited.”

  “I do not suppose you should be helpful in the least. I do not expect your welcome. But
I have a few questions about Odile Farendon.” Bianca was growing weary trying to convince men of station to spare her a moment of their nonexistent time.

  “I do not discuss my clients. And certainly I do not discuss their business with strangers. It is a code of ethics I follow.”

  “We must lean on lawyers to uphold the moral standard.”

  Cornish hesitated, regarding her through narrowed eyes.

  “Instead of voicing your answer, you might nod or shake your head,” suggested Bianca.

  The solicitor was unmoved.

  “I know that Odile Farendon and Boisvert came here to write her last will and testament.”

  Bianca took the lawyer’s silence as his tacit agreement.

  “I know because Boisvert told me. My husband is his apprentice.”

  The solicitor was not going to make it easy for her.

  “Why are you contesting Odile’s will?”

  A long sigh sang from Cornish’s lips. “Odile was of unsound mind.”

  “Odile had a seizure. The condition does not permanently impair one’s judgment or one’s mental capacity.”

  “That is debatable.”

  “And who shall debate it? I do not trust that lawyers will come to an informed decision.”

  “I will overlook your insult. However, there is no alternative for debate except a legal one.”

  “I ask to see the will.”

  Cornish gave a derisive snort. “You can read?”

  “Sir, you’d be surprised of what I am capable.”

  Cornish stopped. “You may not see the will.”

  “It is public record.”

  “It is not yet filed.”

  “The Commissary Court requires it.”

  “Are you here to remind me? It shall be there in due time.”

  “Boisvert is your client, yet you seem unconcerned that he sits in gaol, wrongly accused. If it were you sitting in Newgate, would you accept your lawyer’s indifference?”

  “I do not have time for your insinuations. Kindly take your leave. You arrived uninvited, and I find your meddling tiresome and unsubstantiated.” Cornish rose from his desk and came around to escort Bianca to the door. He took hold of her arm.