Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  Meddybemps continued the conversation about the priest at St. Vedast. “His is not a position I envy. Three deaths in a week and two under his watch.”

  “It’s unfortunate that these deaths have all been connected to his church. I’m sure other priests have experienced a bout of parishioners dying,” said Bianca. But still she wondered if there was a connection between the priest and the mysterious deaths.

  “It might be of some interest that I heard of similar antic behavior occurring in a small village beyond Aldersgate, north of London. The unseemliness happened about a month ago.”

  “How did you hear of this?” asked Bianca.

  “At Cheapside. A woman was admiring one of my amulets that I made from a pigeon skull. It was rather winsome, with two perfectly round pebbles that fit in its eye sockets. I painted them up to look like yours truly.” Meddybemps batted his lashes and one eye twirled independently. “She hailed from village Dinmow, and she needed a charm to ward off the evilness that had overtaken the village. Always keen for a laudable tale, I asked her what sort of evilness. ‘People acting peculiar, running about all hours of the night, going for swims in the millpond when frost covers the fields,’ said she. I asked if she’d heard about the woman who had fallen from St. Vedast. She said she had not, and I told her they couldn’t be sure if she wasn’t daft, drunk, or taken with an evil entity. Her eyes got round as a pod’s peas. ‘Forsooth, ’tis the same in Dinmow,’ she exclaimed. ‘Half a dozen acting as witless as the king’s fifth wife.’” Meddybemps smiled tartly. “Remember Catherine Howard? The rose of many thorns and even more pricks.” The streetseller found inspiration in this and erupted in patter—

  “A pretty man did come to court

  And wooed a pretty queen.

  He plumped her pillows and smoothed her sheets

  And laid himself between.

  She was a saucy doxy—

  He was a jackanape—

  Instead of dancing the pavane

  He hangs from Traitors’ Gate.”

  “What else did the wench say?” asked John impatiently.

  “I’ll buy it!” said Meddybemps.

  “Nay, that is not what I meant. Did the afflicted die or act as strange as if they’d lost their sense?”

  “I told you they did,” said the streetseller.

  “I think we should visit this village.” Bianca ladled a bowl for each of them.

  Meddybemps sat down with his serving and ran his narrow nose through the steam. “I believe this is edible,” he said, looking for confirmation.

  “Horses and Scots think so,” said John, tentatively dipping his spoon into his bowl.

  “I want to know more about this outbreak in Dinmow.” Bianca sat down and stared meditatively into her bowl of oats. “I wonder if they are victim to a disease. One that has never been seen before.”

  “This isle suffers no dearth of witless fools. Distinguishing between disease and idiocy is a thankless endeavor,” said Meddybemps. Nico settled next to him and gazed up at the streetseller beseechingly. “What do you call this groking cur?”

  “Nico. It was Odile’s and now it is ours,” said John.

  “Until we get Boisvert out of Newgate,” said Bianca.

  Nico put his paws up on the bench next to Meddybemps. “He wants my oats.”

  “Even dogs can be fools,” said John.

  Meddybemps took another bite, then, unable to ignore the creature, glared at it, his eyeball rolling crazily. Nico yelped like he’d been slapped and hid under the bed. “This is favorably good,” the streetseller said, scraping out the last bit of porridge and licking his spoon. He set the bowl down and grinned. “I shall be on my way now. The market beckons.”

  “How far is Dinmow?” asked Bianca.

  “A day’s journey, I believe. Faster if you ride.” Meddybemps rose from the table and stood by the fire, warming himself as if he could store it up before returning outside. He watched Bianca finish eating. “What shall I do when I run out of your medicinals?” It was a question that needed to be asked. He regretted that John was there and did not look forward to his surly input on the matter.

  “I hope to find a room to practice in before long.” Bianca glanced at John. “If you hear of any discreet, out-of-the-way vacancies nearby, let me know.”

  Bianca and Meddybemps waited for John to speak. To their surprise, he did not.

  CHAPTER 20

  It was August when last Bianca had visited the area off Ivy Lane, where her mentor, Ferris Stannum, had once lived. She had known Stannum only briefly, yet his influence on her work and life had been important. Walking through the run-down neighborhood, she felt a pang of regret remembering the alchemist and the man who had murdered him. It was a murder wrought from love. A love that, unfortunately, found its greatest passion in the murder of a brilliant alchemist.

  The crooked stoop outside of Ferris Stannum’s rent had not been leveled, and she ran her eyes up to the second floor, where a shutter creaked open. Without so much as a glance down, a young woman dumped the contents of a bowl out the window. The slop of sour milk and vegetable peelings splattered in the lane below. The shutter swung shut.

  Even when Bianca had visited during the intense light of summer, the street retained a dreary, bleak feel. The neighborhood was situated in such a way that it never benefited from the sun. The buildings were perpetually gray and furred with mildew. It was no different in winter’s stingy light. The lane was forever doomed to feeling like a cellar. Only centipedes and mushrooms thrived here.

  But Bianca wasn’t here to see what had become of her mentor’s rent. She was here to find Ferris Stannum’s neighbor.

  She didn’t expect the boy to be outside in the cold and slush of melting snow. He preferred the street to his mother’s rent, which only made Bianca wonder what its interior must be like. But the waif was a bright lad, savvy on how to make a coin. He was a keen observer. It was this final quality that interested her.

  Bianca stood on the stoop listening to children cry and the mother shouting. No wonder Fisk liked being outside. Bianca rapped on the door and waited, but no one could possibly hear her knock over the noise. She pounded the door like an irate landlord. The commotion instantly quieted.

  “I’m looking for Fisk,” she called. There was another moment of silence, then the whimper of a small child. The door cracked open and Fisk peered out. At the sight of her, he smiled a big-toothed grin.

  “Master Fisk,” said Bianca. “It has been a few months.”

  “Aye that, Mistress Bianca.” The boy opened the door and gestured her in.

  “Who is it?” called a voice, and then Fisk’s mother entered holding a babe, while a toddler clung to her leg like daub on wattle.

  “I’m Bianca Goddard. Fisk helped me a few months back.”

  “Did he now?” Her tone and expression trumpeted disapproval. “I hadna’ heard.”

  Fisk remained quiet. Apparently he had kept the coin to himself, along with how he had earned it.

  “He’s a generous and helpful boy,” said Bianca. “A keen observer. He helped bring a murderer to justice.”

  “Now, that is rich.” The mother appeared doubtful. “A right secretive boy, he is.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t want to boast.” Bianca smiled fondly at Fisk. Unable to think how she might enlist his help without his mother knowing, Bianca simply voiced her request. “I need Fisk to work as an altar server at St. Vedast. He shall earn a little from it.”

  “St. Vedast!” said the mother. “Its priest is a bumbling dolt. The church is being overrun with demons and he can’t keep them out.”

  “I don’t believe that is entirely true, Goodwife. I want Fisk there to tell me what he sees.”

  “To spy?” She pretended shock. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I lost a friend, and another is in gaol wrongly accused.” Bianca refrained from mentioning he was a silversmith for fear the mother would expect more payment than she could afford.<
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  “That’s not a worriment a lass like you should bother with. Leave it alone.”

  “It affects me when people I know are in trouble. I cannot look away.”

  “Lass, I shall tell you. The secret to a long life is knowing when to look away.” The mother shifted her baby to the opposite arm. “Besides, who will listen to you? It will likely end badly.”

  “Like I said, I am prepared to pay for your son’s help.”

  Having dispensed with her motherly advice, Fisk’s mother was, above all else, an opportunist. “How much?”

  Bianca could hardly afford to pay her a groat, but they came to terms, Bianca rationalizing that the mother had probably earned her share by raising a son as cagey as she.

  * * *

  An hour later there was a rap at Bianca’s door. After a moment it swung open.

  “Oh,” said Fisk, taking a step backward, confused. He checked the exterior of the rent and scratched his head. “I’m looking for . . .”

  “Bianca?” The woman hustled him inside. She put her hands on her hips. “Where’ve ye been? I’ve been waitin’ for ye.”

  Fisk stared hard. “Bianca?”

  “Aye that. You are looking at her.” With some ably applied smudges and suet varnish painted on her teeth, Bianca had transformed herself into a harried mother at wit’s end. “What say you? Do I look presentable?”

  Fisk smiled. “Nay, not presentable—believable. But me mother would have done it if you’d paid her.”

  “I can’t afford her prices.”

  Hobs wandered into the room to inspect his new courtier and spat at Nico, who was bounding past. The spaniel yapped at Fisk until Bianca picked him up. “This is Nico. There is nothing subtle about him.” She opened the door again and let Hobs outside, hoping to avoid another battle of the species. “I need for you to keep your ears and eyes open at St. Vedast. See what you can learn. Don’t trust anyone.”

  “I haven’t been to church in a whiles.”

  “Then all the better. Shall we go?”

  The two sauntered down Foster Lane, and within yards of St. Vedast, Bianca grabbed Fisk by the ear and pulled him along. “Come on, ye ungrateful nidget,” she said, dragging him up the steps to the church. There was no pretending on his part. Fisk yowled expertly.

  Bianca pushed him through the door and proceeded to berate the boy for his thievery and rascally ways. “I’ve had me fill of ye, boy! If yer father were alive, he’d beat some sense into ye. But maybe if ye learned the ways of God, ye might learn rights from wrongs. I’ve tried me best with ye.”

  Father Nelson peeked from behind the chantry screen, and Bianca booted the boy in his direction, hailing the priest for help. Unfortunately for Father Nelson, there would be no sneaking away. Irked that he’d been unable to avoid notice, he stepped into the nave and pressed his palms together. “Goodwife, what is your worry?”

  “My worry?” said Bianca in a wretched voice. “’E’s my worry. He’ll roast in hell if he doesn’t change his ways. He’ll twist at the gallows someday, I just knows it. I want to see ’e gets right with God.” She smacked him on the back of the head.

  “I may do confession if he allows it,” said the priest.

  “’E needs more ’an that. ’E’s a long way off, Father. Ye needs to takes him into your good graces and teach him the ways of piety.”

  “My good woman, I have no means to take him in. I cannot possibly be his guardian.”

  “Is I askin’ ye to be his guardian?” sniped Bianca. “Nay, ye take him as an acolyte. ’E isn’t so daft as he can’t learn.”

  “But I have no need for another server.” Father Nelson tried to appear pleasant.

  “Ye have no need for a soul in trouble?” Bianca took a step forward, getting squarely into his face. “I heard the rumors ’bout you,” she said, squinting into his eyes. “They’s sayin’ ye is weak. They’s sayin’ that maybe the deaths at St. Vedast is because ye don’t have the faith to protect your parish.”

  “Surely you have a mind of your own and do not rely on fiction.”

  “I do have a mind of me own,” said Bianca, nodding. She looked at Fisk and seized him by his arm, pulling him in front of her. “And me thinks ye will take ’im in and set him right. I wouldn’t want to believe what they says about ye. I don’t have reason to think it is true . . . at least not yet.”

  Father Nelson looked from Bianca to the boy and back again. “What is his name?”

  “Fisk.”

  “Very well, Fisk.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I shall do my best for your son,” he said to Bianca.

  Bianca grinned a black-toothed smile. “Bless ye, Father.”

  “If he should give me cause, I shall send him home.”

  “Aw, he won’t, Father. Fisk wouldn’t dare.” She pinned Fisk with a stern look. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  * * *

  “Nico has to go back to Mayden Lane. We can’t take him with us,” said Bianca as she washed the suet off her face. The black tooth varnish took more effort. She dunked a rag into acid and rubbed her teeth. She grinned at John, who cringed.

  “He shall be fine there for a day.” Bianca dipped a clean end into the solvent and tried again.

  “If he were immortal like Hobs, we wouldn’t have to worry about him.”

  “I don’t worry about him anyway.” Bianca stopped rubbing her teeth and grinned again.

  “That is somewhat improved. You’ll just have to live with it,” said John.

  “It’ll eventually wear off.” Bianca tossed the rag into the fire, and it flared. “I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

  After putting on an extra layer of clothing for warmth, the two set out for Mayden Lane. Leaving the next morning might have been preferable, but John relented, hoping Dinmow was not as far as Meddybemps thought. Starting this late in the day, they had only a few hours of daylight by which to travel. Neither of them had ever journeyed farther than Smithfield, and stories about vagabonds preying on innocent city dwellers bothered John more than they did Bianca. While John was imbued with a healthy dose of caution from years of living behind a tavern, Bianca was cursed with the belief that her ability to skirt trouble in London would translate beyond the city gates.

  After they’d banged on Odile Farendon’s door until their knuckles ached, it finally cracked open and the ever-suspicious house servant peeped out at them. “Here,” said John, thrusting the spaniel through the open wedge. “We’ll return within a day to retrieve him.”

  The servant had not been quick enough to shut the door in their faces and thus avoid dog duties, but when they’d gotten a few steps away, she managed an energetic slam.

  “I don’t believe he is a particularly well-loved dog,” said Bianca as they headed toward Aldersgate.

  The city entrance was only a short walk, and the gray stone wall, being at its tallest point here along its entire circumference, was easily visible. As they neared a block of buildings abutting the gate, the air became laden with the smell of turpentine and a hint of sulfur.

  “They must use it in the ink,” said John, gesturing to the printworks.

  The two passed through the double gate, remembering that they must save money for their return toll. More people entered London than exited. Wagons from the country filed past, following ruts worn deep with use. They passed carts loaded with pigs and packed with turnips and apples. There was a marked difference between the road within and without the wall. Perhaps the king wished to make a favorable impression upon entry from the north. Aldersgate Street had a fine surface of closely laid cobbles, but only within the confines of London. Beyond the wall the pavers grew sparse, until there were none. Soon John and Bianca were trudging along the shoulder of the road instead of in the muddy soup made worse by the churning of hooves and wagon wheels.

  They passed the grounds of St. Bartholomew, where every August the buildings became crammed with merchants selling bolts of cloth or horses. Jousts and gallows were set u
p for entertainment. If the crowds tired of such fare, they could watch puppet shows and caged tigers. With more people came a contingent of cutpurses to work the revelers, and Bianca and John had snagged decent coin when they were younger and more fleet of foot.

  The one benefit to leaving London that they were quick to notice was the smell of earth. Not the filth to which they were accustomed, this was soil dotted by the pungent odor of occasional animal manure—such a change from the stench of ditch latrines and the Fleet discharging its rubbish into the Thames.

  New buildings, the fresh roof thatch perfuming the air, sprang up along the route but numbered fewer the farther they traveled. Open fields for grazing sheep and cows eventually gave way to dense forest, and as they neared the tangled wood they sensed the danger inherent in its darkness.

  They had just entered the wood when a farmer approached in his dray. He did not stop and barely slowed his horse. “Night is fast upon us. These woods grow sinister at moon’s rise. Turn back, travelers. Let not the sun set on you here.”

  John ignored the farmer’s dour warning. “Is Dinmow far?” he asked.

  “Not everyone sees far the same way.” The farmer, now free of the woods, slowed his horse long enough to tell them over his shoulder to veer left at the cairn with an angel on top.

  “An angel?” asked John.

  The farmer grinned and clicked his horse on.

  “Why could we have not waited until morning to start out?” John looked around, realizing that dark in the country and dark in the woods were probably darker than any dark he’d ever known. “That man could have at least told us how far Dinmow was.”

  “I’m not worried. The road is worn enough that we won’t lose it.”

  “It’s not losing the road that I fear. It’s what’s on the road that troubles me.”

  Bianca looked around. “Nothing seems to be on it.”

  John didn’t say anything but quickened his pace.

  “Fear you devils and goblins?”