Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  John abandoned the door. He skirted along the side, jogging down the structure’s stone façade. Partway down, the stone turned into an attached wooden structure, which he followed to the end, then slipped behind. He waited a second, then edged forward to peer around the corner. Amber torchlight seeped into the dark at the front, where he’d been just moments before. The crowd banged on the brewery door, insisting to be let in.

  He pushed his back against the rear wall. As he considered what to do, his nose caught a whiff of wet wood and river. Ahead, he heard the muffled sound of water tumbling over rock. Had Bianca managed to get the jar of barm from the brewery and leave? What if he had misjudged and she was already waiting for him by the gristmill? If that were true, then he had wasted scarce time. He concentrated on the sounds of the river, straining to hear her moving along its bank. Torn between waiting and going, John peeped around the corner again and listened to the crowd’s indignant demands. His stomach roiled with indecision.

  The snap of a dried limb heightened his senses. Someone was near the riverbank. Was it Bianca, or had someone crept around from the other side of the brewery? He didn’t dare call out.

  John drew his dagger and held it at the ready. Measuring each step and the weight he placed in it, he inched along the rear of the building, keeping his ears primed toward the river.

  He had taken only a couple of steps when, without warning, a door flew open directly in front of him. Its force caught him off guard. His dagger impaled itself in the wood, wrenching the blade from his hand, and just as quickly the door slammed shut.

  Like a phantom, a figure swept toward the woods, swiftly disappearing into the fog. With effort, John pulled his dagger from the door and ran after it.

  * * *

  Bianca’s first instinct was to run toward the river. The light from torches caught her eye as she hurried away from the church grounds. She followed the river’s course, climbing a berm to get her bearings. The dark ensured that she would not see the gristmill in the distance. She would know she had gotten there by running into it. John would not have any means to signal her way.

  Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of movement barreling in her direction. She skittered down the mound of earth and made herself slim behind an oak tree.

  Her pursuer came to an abrupt halt. She heard him catch his breath and mutter a quiet curse. Bianca held completely still, not daring to breathe or look.

  After a few seconds, his breath evened out and he continued on, the spongy ground swallowing the sound of his tread. Undergrowth brushed against his legs. Vines must have created a webbed obstacle and tripped him, for she heard a stumble.

  As he moved past, she waited a moment, then peeped out and glimpsed a figure swallowed by fog along the riverbank. He was headed in the same direction as she.

  Bianca stepped away from the tree and kept to the river side of the berm. She wondered if John would see this person coming and be able to avoid him. She was contemplating how to warn him when she heard the crowd jeer. The rain had slowed and the rushing river could not muffle their indignant shouts.

  If she must deal with one pursuer, then that was better than a tribe of them. She hurried on, her eyes searching for signs of him lying in wait. Every tree, every boulder, could easily hide someone.

  She had turned the curve in the river when the sound of shattering glass stopped her in her tracks. One by one, the high windows of the brewery were being smashed with casks. The inclination to destroy property puzzled her. Destruction never solved a murder, never paved the way for reconciliation. If the brewery were destroyed, she hoped the town’s vengeance would be served and that Brother March would be spared. She regretted she would probably never learn his fate. She hoped he would not be held responsible for the deaths of Dinmow. Likewise, she also hoped to avoid being unjustly accused.

  Ahead, Bianca made out the faint leak of light rimming a shuttered window. A house sat closer to the water than to the road. She wondered if this might be Littleton’s house next to the gristmill. She hesitated. If she passed too close, would she alarm a dog? Were people still stirring inside, unable to sleep after the news of Goodwife Meg’s death? She was studying how best to avoid the house when she heard a strange sound near the river.

  Her vision still hindered by fog, Bianca crept forward, feeling her way from tree to tree. At a boulder, she strained to see through the settled murk, then crouched behind the rock and listened. The unmistakable sound of dull smacks and groaning carried to her ears. Peeking over the rock, she saw two men wrestling in the clearing next to the house. She couldn’t tell if one might be John, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility. She skirted the perimeter for a better view.

  It was only when she got within a few feet of them that she caught a glimpse of John’s ubiquitous tail of wheaten hair flailing as he struggled. Bianca moved to get a better look at his foe, then gasped to see that it was Littleton, the miller—a dagger between them.

  With one hand, John pinned the miller’s free arm against the ground, but it was Littleton’s opposite hand that held the knife. Despite John’s hold on his wrist, the man held the blade within inches of John’s face.

  Bianca hadn’t the luxury of time. Her eyes quickly found a heavy rock, and with effort she carried it over to the wrestling men. Without a thought, she shouted, drawing John’s attention. She centered the rock waist high over Littleton’s surprised face and dropped it.

  His arms fell limp against the ground. John released his hold on the miller and rolled off of him. He collected the knife and tucked it in his belt. “I shall refrain from asking why you are not at the bridge waiting,” he said, gasping for breath. “Because you could ask the same of me.”

  “Neither of us listens to the other.”

  John got to his feet. “That could be a problem.”

  “This time, it is to our favor.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Bianca and John fled across the bridge. No one lurked behind the gristmill or the hedgerow on the other side. The destruction of the brewery punctuated the quiet with shouts—the unleashed venom of men. As they distanced themselves from Dinmow, the discord of mayhem grew faint and then was gone. It wasn’t until the two had reached the high road above the village that they stopped to catch their breath. They held their sides and considered Dinmow below.

  The village should have been a shadow on the horizon, huddled in the dark. There should have been only a hint at its place. But Dinmow raged. It would not sleep this night. Flames streaked toward the sky in a fury of orange fire. The brewery, indeed the entire monastery, was burning.

  “That’s a strong reaction to a woman’s death.” John blew in his hands to warm them. “Why does fear incite destruction? How wasteful. How senseless.”

  “You’ve answered your own question. Fear is the absence of reason.” Bianca turned back and watched the billowing cloud of flames. “And men rage against fear.”

  Bianca didn’t mention Brother March, though he was heavy on her mind. With a final look at Dinmow, the pair moved on.

  “How did you and Littleton get into a brawl?” asked Bianca after a time.

  “I was looking for you. I didn’t think you could get the jar of barm and leave before someone found you. So I followed you to the monastery. When there was no answer at the alehouse or brewery, I figured you had somehow made it to the bridge ahead of me. When the door of the building flew open, my dagger caught in the wood. It took a moment to free it. I didn’t get a good look, though I figured—or rather, hoped—it might be you. I never caught up and I would not dare to call your name—others may have heard. As it was, Littleton dropped out of a tree and knocked me over. I never saw him.”

  “That house was his?”

  “Nay, Goodwife Meg lived there. The miller lives next to the church.”

  “We’re lucky no one heard the scuffle.”

  “Aye. There were plenty of people out in front keeping vigil earlier.”

  “But what cause has Little
ton to attack you?”

  “I imagine he heard about your flour comment in the tavern. Folks take offense at being accused of wrongdoing.”

  “I didn’t accuse him of murder!”

  “You said that the flour might be tainted. Perhaps he was hoping it would be you—not me. I just happened along first.”

  “His was a strong reaction to criticism.” Bianca rewound her scarf several times around her neck as she looked at the deep wood ahead of them.

  “I think we have another hour before the sun rises,” said John, studying the horizon.

  “You should have called for me. I would have answered.” Bianca began to walk.

  “I thought I heard someone in the woods behind the brewery before you burst out the door. Whoever it was, I didn’t want to alert him to my presence.”

  “But to sit in a tree and wait for you or me to happen along?”

  “He guessed our most likely course out of Dinmow was across that bridge. And anyone looking to cross without notice would have clung to the stand of trees to avoid the open yard. Littleton had issue with us separate from the rest of Dinmow.”

  John stepped up the pace. “Littleton is used to hefting bags of grain. He was not easy to subdue. I’m grateful you came along with that rock. You made a bloody mess of his nose.”

  “He was still breathing,” said Bianca defensively.

  “Aye. You just forced him to take a long nap.”

  * * *

  Bianca and John reached Aldersgate late in the day. Their final leg of the journey was shared with a farmer they met at a crossroads. En route from the east, the farmer had no knowledge of the havoc going on in Dinmow. Bianca and John sat in the back of the wagon, huddling between crates of chickens and a pig sleeping in the straw. Although glad for the ride, John soon grew surly trying to talk over the squawking. Inhaling chicken and pig manure for several hours left him testy and tinged green.

  Once they paid their toll at the city gate, he sprang off the wagon, leaving Bianca to give the farmer her last coin in thanks. She hurried to catch up.

  “I should like to eat something other than mutton stew for dinner,” she said.

  “I should like to get a fire going and change these wet clothes.”

  “Should we stop at Mayden Lane and collect Nico?”

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” said John. “I want a good night’s rest after all of this, and Hobs and Nico will be up the whole night antagonizing each other—and us. Nay. The dog can stay there one more evening.”

  Outside Boisvert’s shop, Hobs spied them from the front window and they could see his mouth working—either greeting or chastising them; they didn’t know which.

  “He’s enough to deal with,” said John, working the key in the lock. Hobs was right at their feet the moment they stepped through the door. “So help me,” he said, sniffing the air, his eyes narrowing.

  “I don’t smell anything,” said Bianca, edging past.

  John ignored Hobs at his heels and scrunched his nose, snorting the air suspiciously. At last he relaxed. “If he had watered Boisvert’s wall mural again, I would have killed him.”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good.” Bianca lifted Hobs off the floor to receive several smears of affection across her cheeks.

  There being no difference between the temperature outside the forge and that inside, John started a fire in the hearth. The two of them changed into dry clothes for the first time in two days. Bianca set the jar of barm, the jar of sour-smelling dough, and the flour on the cleared table. She was still not used to the orderliness of their new home. Wandering over to her crates of equipment, she ran her hand over them. It was almost as if she wanted to assure herself that they were still there. Then, remembering her cages of rats, she found some food scraps and went downstairs to feed them.

  “Hobs, you’ll only upset them,” she said, carrying him back up and handing him off to John. She returned to the rats and dropped the food into their cages, checking to be sure they were still alive. She didn’t fancy going down to the wharves in the cold to trap more.

  “I must visit Boisvert,” said John, getting the fire to roar. “But I haven’t any good news to bear.”

  Bianca walked over to the hearth and warmed herself. “He shall be glad for your company,” she said, studying the oven built into the bricks. She stuck her head inside the arched opening to look around. “Not everyone has the means to bake bread in their own home. Did Boisvert have this built?”

  “Aye. He always complained about the food here. He said it was only by God’s grace that he wasn’t dead from it. He is a practiced cook.”

  Bianca found three bowls and set about mixing dough. “This is not for dinner,” she warned. “This is for my purpose. I’ll test it later on the rats.”

  John sighed. Bianca’s idea of “cooking” was always an experiment. Craving anything other than mutton stew, John left for the market in search of something edible.

  Bianca divided the flour into three parts. In one, she would use a portion of soured dough from the Stuffed Goose. The second loaf would be made using the church alehouse barm. For the third loaf she would use neither barm nor soured dough.

  It didn’t take long before she and the table were covered in flour. John came home and grumbled over having to make dinner while Bianca appropriated the entire board to her baking project. The two sniped at each other for getting in the way, but their banter was good-natured. Bianca was in her element. She wasn’t watching liquids boil in glass-bottomed retorts, but she was combining ingredients with a specific purpose in mind. And she took great pleasure in doing so.

  Remembering the content of each, Bianca instructed John not to move or switch the bowls under any circumstances. She set them on the bench near the hearth to rise and covered them with a damp square of linen.

  They had no sooner sat down when the shop door rattled from someone’s insistent knocking. John looked as though he might cry. He lifted Hobs from the bench, tired of fighting him for his meal, and dropped the intrepid nuisance on the floor.

  “Sit there and eat your pottage,” said Bianca, getting to her feet and heading for the stairs. She returned shortly and took a candle with her, as night had now fallen and the shop was dark. “I’m coming!” she called. “Don’t split the door!”

  Bianca lifted the latch.

  “Fisk!” She had not expected to see the ragamuffin so soon after their return. She smiled, impressed by his tidy appearance. Not only was his hair smoothed down; his face glowed from being scrubbed clean. Clearly, working as an altar server had improved him. But even this startling transformation didn’t hide the agitation in his eyes.

  “I didn’t think you would be gone so long.” Fisk stepped inside, and Bianca closed the door behind him. “Father Nelson is in custody.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. A constable showed up with the churchwarden and led him away.”

  “For what reason?”

  “People’s been accusing Father Nelson of siding with the devil. Some parishioners have started acting strangely and Father Nelson hasn’t been able to help them.”

  “Come upstairs and warm yourself,” said Bianca, laying her hand on his shoulder and guiding him to the steps. “John has made cabbage soup.”

  John had never met Fisk. Bianca had told him how the cagey lad played an important role in discovering Ferris Stannum’s murderer. John had been indisposed during all that business. Still, he welcomed the rascal at his board. He had a fondness for young ruffians, having been one himself.

  Bianca ladled Fisk a generous portion and settled in across from him. “John, Father Nelson has been taken away by the constable. Accused of standing by while parishioners become ill.”

  “Methinks there is an epidemic amongst priests these days,” said John, slurping his soup. He set down his bowl. “Father Paston in Dinmow was deemed useless and a coward.”

  Fisk shook his head. “Nay, Father Nelson is no coward. He faced several angry churchgo
ers claiming he conjured evil on their loved ones.”

  “When was that?”

  “It was the night after you left. Some parishioners came calling, saying their loved ones were acting strange.”

  “Only a few parishioners came?” asked Bianca. “Did you recognize them?”

  “Nay. ’Twere mostly men who complained. I’d never seen any of them before.”

  Bianca’s eyebrows rose. “So when they said their loved ones were acting strange—what did they mean?”

  “They said they were acting unnatural. One man claimed his wife sat on the side of the bed and howled at the moon. There was no getting her to stop. She set all the neighborhood cats to caterwauling at their window. He threw rocks at them and considered throwing rocks at his wife. He couldn’t get her to quiet. So he beat her, thinking she needed it, but it didn’t settle her. Another man said his wife and daughter writhed in agony and their eyes had a terrible look in them. He swore their bodies were warring with evil spirits for control.”

  John met Bianca’s eyes. “Another few cases of possession?” said John.

  “I don’t believe demons are to blame. If my theory is proved, then we should be able to lay that fiction to rest. Be prepared, though, to see some wicked rat behavior.”

  John cringed. “How will you tell?” He made a face, disgusted. “Nay, don’t answer me. I don’t want to hear.” He noticed that the boy looked uncertain. “Fisk, Bianca uses rats in her work.”

  “Oh,” said the lad, untroubled. “Some folks keep chickens. Others keep rats.” He drank down the bowl of broth and set it on the table.

  “I think I need to pay Henry Lodge a visit.” Bianca took a sip of ale. She lifted a floating cabbage leaf from her bowl and dropped it in her mouth. “Fisk, there is another server at St. Vedast, is there not?”

  “Martyn, aye.”

  Bianca thought a moment. “When Odile gave me a dress to wear to her wedding, a boy showed up with a pax loaf. I wonder if that was Martyn.”

  Fisk shrugged. “Was he as thin as a stick and a nose most like a pig’s?”