Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  Bianca thought a minute. “So far, the rats that ate bread with soured dough are acting normal. Since the common ingredient in all of the breads is the flour, there must be something implicitly wrong with it. The soured dough must be able to negate or stop whatever is in the bread that is causing the strange behavior.”

  “So how do you connect this to Odile’s death?”

  “Someone has been distributing bread made of this flour using barm.”

  “It may not have been done on purpose,” said John, tending the fire.

  “True that, but these deaths have St. Vedast in common.” Bianca pushed her porridge aside and sat studying her rats, lost in thought. “I still believe we should visit Benjamin Cornish’s office tonight.” She watched the back of John as he poked the fire, jabbing logs. “You haven’t gotten Nico. Did you not want to pick him up from Mayden Lane? Or did it conveniently slip your mind?”

  “Neither,” said John. “He’s dead.”

  “He was in fine health when we dropped him there.”

  “Remember that sour housemaid who answers the door? A more wretched soul I have never seen. She told me she found the dog expired in the street two days ago. It had gotten a window open from the top floor and jumped to its death.”

  “Is that common behavior for dogs of that breed?”

  “Nay, I would not think so. Mayhap he sought to find Odile.”

  “Mayhap he went the way of Odile.”

  “Mayhap he was tossed.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Bianca and John woke themselves out of a respectable night’s sleep to don their woolens and set out across town. They had slept overlong, and when Bianca finally stirred, she sat bolt upright, realizing they hadn’t time to delay. To their advantage, the air nearly cracked with cold—discouraging anyone with half a wit from being outside. Even murderers and malcontents preferred warmth to skullduggery on a night such as this.

  They hurried through Newgate market, its stalls empty, the road littered with frozen waste. Lest she become complacent, John reminded Bianca that the most desperate of men would not be deterred by the cold, as they probably had no bed to go to. So the couple remained wary, hearing the watch call four in the night—confirmation that, indeed, a few men stirred. So with speed they moved through the empty lanes. They crossed the Fleet and followed the like-named street to the row of serviceable buildings connected to Middle Temple.

  At New Inn, no lights shone within, no midnight oil burned, no early risers labored. John and Bianca strolled down the lane, pretending they belonged there. Onlookers glancing out a window would scarce have noticed them pause in front of a certain window. They would have seen a woman pull her cape closed and given no mind to it as they hurried back to their warm beds.

  Bianca kept watch while John removed a flattened strip of metal that he’d hidden up his sleeve. He reached above his head and ran it between the closed windows until it hit upon the crossbar securing them. With an upward flick of his wrist, he released its latch and a window fell ajar.

  “A heft up, m’lady?” he asked, knitting his fingers together and stooping for Bianca to gain a foothold.

  She wriggled through the opening and dropped to the floor, hands first. A quick glance around confirmed she was in Benjamin Cornish’s office. Bianca leaned out the window and offered her hand to John.

  “A presentable office,” he said, setting down one foot and then the other.

  Bianca lit a candle she had brought from Boisvert’s. “See that no one can walk in.”

  John checked the door and opened it. He poked his head into a small entry with a bench for seating and saw that the exterior door was bolted.

  “What are we looking for?” he asked, seeing Bianca fingering the files on the solicitor’s desk.

  “Anything pertaining to someone we know.” Bianca turned over a cover to a portfolio. “Ha! Like this.” She read the name on a document. “Oro Tand.”

  “Paa! What does it say of the gold master?”

  She brought the candle near and read. “This looks like a deed for the purchase of property.”

  “He has the right to buy property. That is not strange.”

  “True; however, the property is not named. It is just an opening statement of the intent to purchase.” Finding nothing else of interest, Bianca closed the portfolio and picked up a sheet under it.

  “This is a property appraisal from the Court of Augmentations.”

  “Is Master Tand planning to buy a monastery?”

  “One does wonder.” Bianca read on, quickly skimming to the end. “This is a statement of particulars for St. Vedast submitted by Thomas Myldmaye, auditor for the Court of Augmentations of the King’s Revenue.”

  “You’re not going to take it?” said John, challenging her.

  “I don’t know what this proves. It isn’t in Oro Tand’s folder; it is lying beneath it.”

  “Who requested the audit? That should tell us something.”

  Bianca studied the document more closely. “It gives the property boundaries, describes the church and its grounds, and lists its valuables. It doesn’t appear to be requested by anyone. I know it was a matter of course that every religious house be inventoried. However, this doesn’t have anything to do with Odile.” Bianca laid the paper on top of the gold master’s portfolio. “I wonder, though, if Tand wishes to buy Odile’s residence on Mayden Lane once Boisvert is no longer a beneficiary.”

  John ran his hand over a row of bound books. Finding nothing but tedious tomes of legal doctrine, he dropped into the solicitor’s chair to watch Bianca. As soon as his bottom hit the padding, he sprang to his feet with a yowl.

  “Soft! Do you want to stir the entire building?”

  John massaged his violated rear end. “No wonder you found Cornish an ill-tempered nit.” He eyed the suspect furniture and leaned against the desk instead. “Are you nearly done? I thought I heard something.”

  Bianca picked up the next portfolio and turned over the cover, dismissing John’s warning as impatience.

  “This folder concerns the accounting for the Haberdashers’ Company.” Bianca quickly skimmed through the documents. “It seems to be a letter to the Royal Exchequer about the guild’s tax accrual. Cornish must tend their accounting on the side.” She hadn’t the time to thoroughly study the paperwork, but she thought it was a standard record and saw nothing untoward about it. She set it aside and picked up the next portfolio.

  “Hold this.” Bianca handed John the candle and turned over several sheets in the file, stopping at one in particular. After a moment, her brow creased. “James LaVerdiere Croft.”

  “James Croft was the fellow angered by the self-murder at St. Vedast. He thought she should have chosen a different church lawn to fall on.”

  “Ah. The fellow who was more concerned about St. Vedast’s reputation than for the loss of a mother’s life.”

  “He’s master of the Brown Bakers’ Guild.”

  “He is also French. Another intent to purchase property. Cornish is a man of varied talents.” Bianca folded the paper and stuffed it in her pocket. She read the document beneath. “God’s teeth!” she said. “This is a sworn statement from Henry Lodge asserting that James Croft is a papist.”

  “Such accusations are dangerous for a man.”

  “And could be dangerous for the accuser.” Bianca thought a moment. “Didn’t you overhear a conversation with Lodge and Croft?”

  “I did, but I could not tell what it was about. Odile’s name was mentioned, though.”

  “I’m taking this.” She rolled the parchment and stuffed it in her pocket.

  “What if Oro Tand wants to buy St. Vedast?” said John. “A property assessment would go with a planned property deed, I would think.”

  “Mayhap,” said Bianca, thinking. “The Crown owns all religious property. One must go through the king for permission to purchase. But I am wondering if there is a connection between the Brown Bakers, the Gold Guild, Odile’s death, and S
t. Vedast. This is becoming tangled, indeed.”

  John suddenly put his hand to Bianca’s mouth. He turned his eyes toward the door. They heard the distinct sound of steps in the hall. Bianca pinched the wick of the candle. Someone stopped outside of Benjamin Cornish’s office.

  CHAPTER 31

  Fisk found the chancel unsettling without Father Nelson wandering in to correct him. He’d grown fond of the priest despite the man’s obvious preoccupation. Father Nelson was a man prone to worrying. Fisk had never seen a person react to hardship in so calm and measured a manner. His mother never bothered to hide her irritations—the welts on his bottom were proof of that. When she became worried, it was better to spend as much time out on the stoop, or away from home, as possible.

  He wondered if he should mention to his mother that maybe she should pray. Perhaps talking to heaven would help her. He’d never seen anyone pray as much as Father Nelson. Fisk supposed a quiet demeanor and hours spent on one’s knees was what God expected of his servants. It obviously calmed the priest. Even when accused of cavorting with the devil, Father Nelson had remained unruffled.

  Becoming an altar server had taught Fisk to be respectful. He did not go so far as to genuflect and balance on his knees for any length of time, no; that was dull and too much to ask of any nine-year-old. But Fisk knew that by being courteous and fading into the background, he might learn more about the goings-on at St. Vedast.

  Martyn, the other altar server, came from circumstances no better than his. Yet Martyn’s hours spent under Father Nelson’s tutelage had little effect on the boy. It could have been because he was always hungry, and when one’s stomach incessantly growled, one couldn’t concentrate on anything but food. He’d even seen Martyn become fuddled off the dregs in Father Nelson’s wine chalice.

  Now that Father Nelson was gone, Fisk wandered through the empty nave, with nothing to do. Bianca had asked him to absorb what he could of the everyday routine of St. Vedast—who came and went, who the regular parishioners were—and to notice any disruptions or irregularities to that routine. The church was uncharacteristically silent with no mass to prepare for. So Fisk sought Henry Lodge, the churchwarden, for direction.

  He found the man in Father Nelson’s office.

  “Master Lodge,” said Fisk, “have you any chores for me?”

  The goldsmith startled from the papers he was reading and nearly scattered them. “Ah, Fisk.” He returned the documents to the desk, then straightened. “Have you tended the candles on the altar?”

  “Nay, sir.”

  “Then perhaps see to those.”

  “There will be a mass to prepare for?”

  Lodge loosened the doublet at his neck. “Not today,” he answered shortly. Fisk started to wander out but was called back. “Is Martyn here?”

  “I have not seen him, sir.” Fisk had turned to leave when a sour-looking woman stopped outside the office door and peered in at them.

  “Father Nelson is gone?” she asked.

  “He is,” responded Lodge.

  “Who are you?” she asked acidly.

  “My name is Henry Lodge, the churchwarden.”

  “Oh.” She ran her eyes around the office uncertainly.

  “Have you a concern I might help with?”

  The woman took a tenuous step inside. She held up a folded cloth. “I’m returning this. It was in Madame Farendon’s possession. It isn’t honorable to keep a sacred cloth.” She offered it to Henry Lodge. “Madame Farendon was fond of St. Vedast. Sad what has happened, if sad is what you call it.”

  Henry Lodge accepted the ecclesiastical cloth, and the woman crossed herself and stepped back.

  “What with Father Nelson standing accused,” she continued, “I didn’t want to have anything from St. Vedast about.” She looked uneasy admitting this.

  Fisk hung by the door, listening. Lodge tipped his head at him. “Fisk, take this and put it with the others.”

  Fisk took the folded cloth and strolled to the door, stretching his time in case the woman had something more to say. His boredom had been interrupted by her visit, and he was slow to return to the uninteresting task assigned to him. He lingered just outside the door, within earshot.

  “I’ve been with me lady for near fifteen years,” said the woman. “She was a kind mistress; had her quirks, grant you.” She laughed a little in an effort to sound pleasant. “But then, so do most of the French.”

  Fisk heard her walk toward the door, then stop. “You look familiar to me, Henry Lodge. I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I doubt our paths have crossed.”

  There was a hesitation, and the woman asked, “Are you a goldsmith?”

  If the churchwarden answered, then his voice was so soft that Fisk did not hear it.

  “There aren’t many men so tall as you,” she said. “Forgive me for saying it, but you look like a gentleman who used to call on the mistress.”

  “You have me confused with someone else.”

  “Nay. The more I look at you, the more I am certain.”

  “If I had visited Odile Farendon, my purpose would have been strictly business.”

  The woman cackled—a more true and less polite laugh than before. “God’s blood! Well, if that is what you want to call it. I’ll not argue a man’s pleasure is his business.”

  Fisk’s eyes grew round. He walked by the door, pretending to pass by, but in reality he wanted to see the churchwarden’s lengthy neck turn a vigorous shade of cherry. He was not disappointed.

  The woman exited, wearing a smug grin on her face. She tittered with satisfaction as she passed Fisk and sauntered down the hall.

  Aware that Lodge might find him eavesdropping, Fisk hurried to the sacristy to store the returned cloth. This last exchange between Lodge and this woman would be of interest to Bianca.

  Fisk opened the drawer where the altar cloths and purificators for chalices were stored. He laid the cloth on top of the others and straightened the folded linens, running his fingers over the smooth silk. The bright colors of the altar runners were a feast to his eyes. Wouldn’t his mother love to wrap baby Anna in one? He glanced over his shoulder and had started removing one near the bottom, when out of the corner of his eye he saw a foot.

  * * *

  Bianca did not sleep well following their near escape at New Inn. While Hobs and John slumbered peacefully entwined on the bed, Bianca cocooned herself in a blanket before the fire. She read through Lodge’s claim against James Croft and dozed, waking when the logs settled. She then fed the fire and returned to her thoughts. All monasteries and churches were property of the Crown. The king could do with them as he pleased, unencumbered by need for the pope’s permission.

  She puzzled over why Benjamin Cornish had an audit of St. Vedast in his office. The mere fact that he possessed the Court of Augmentations report seemed unusual. Were there plans to sell St. Vedast? But why would information on a church in Aldersgate Ward be in Benjamin Cornish’s office near Middle Temple? For that matter, why was it among portfolios belonging to the masters of the Goldsmiths’ Company, the Brown Bakers’ Guild, and the Haberdashers’ Company?

  Bianca stared into the fire. To secure ecclesiastical buildings, one must seek permission from the king. A log shifted, and fractured embers spilled near her feet. She lifted the blanket until the embers snuffed themselves out. Did someone have a connection to King Henry? A favor they could ask of him? But then, Bianca suspected, all guild masters had dealings with the Crown.

  Bianca remembered the pregnant woman’s death the first day they arrived on Foster Lane. That woman’s demented nature fit with the behavior of the victims of Dinmow, perhaps with Odile’s symptoms before her death. Was all of this a conspiracy instigated by the three guilds to remove Odile from Mayden Lane? Was it set in play to murder her? To ruin her last wishes? Or was it a conspiracy to ruin Father Nelson? To remove him from St. Vedast?

  The quarrels between the guilds were serpentine and likely fraught wit
h intrigue and histories that she knew nothing about. Nor would she ever understand the extent of the deceptions these men could wage against one another. These men who vied for power and money and, no doubt, the king’s favor.

  What assurance, what secret, would remain silenced by Lodge’s statement against Croft sitting threateningly in Benjamin Cornish’s office? Was Lodge acting in his own self-interest—as a churchwarden, or as a Gold Guild member?

  As the bells of St. Paul’s tolled in the distance, Bianca’s thoughts were interrupted by an urgent pounding on the door. Hobs woke and followed her down the stairs, chasing after the wool blanket trailing behind her.

  “Fisk!” said Bianca, surprised to see him so early. “Come in.” She looked out into the lane and saw that it was later than she’d thought. “Come up and get warm.” She had turned to lead him up the stairs when he blurted, “Martyn! It’s Martyn! He’s dead!”

  Bianca blinked, still bleary from the night before and lack of sleep. “Martyn?”

  “The altar server. Remember Father Nelson didn’t want me because he already had an acolyte?”

  Bianca’s mind was slow to stir. “I remember. How did this happen?”

  “I don’t know. I found his body in the vestry. The churchwarden is waiting for the constable to arrive.”

  Bianca snapped awake. “I must get over there.” She ran up the stairs. “Tell me what happened while I get dressed.”

  Fisk followed Bianca and stood next to the hearth while she threw off her blanket and snatched her wool kirtle from the end of the bed. John woke and propped himself on his elbows.

  “There has been another death at St. Vedast,” said Bianca, dropping the dress over her head. “Tell me everything, Fisk!”

  “This morning a servant from Madame Farendon’s came by to return a cloth that belonged to St. Vedast. She said she didn’t feel right keeping it. I was putting it away in the vestry when I noticed a foot sticking out from under a table in the alcove. The alcove is not lit very well. I had a sick feeling in my stomach before I even saw him. Martyn sometimes naps, but he always wakes up if someone comes in. There he was, stretched out, his eyes staring at a crucifix on the wall. I almost screamed.” Fisk lifted his chin. “But I didn’t. Instead, I bent down and shook him.”