“So he was definitely dead.”
“Definitely.”
Bianca tightened the strings of her bodice and tied them. “So, you left him there. Who did you tell?”
“The churchwarden.”
“Henry Lodge?”
Fisk nodded.
Bianca bit her lip. “Did you see anything unusual? Had he been strangled—could you tell? Mayhap stabbed?”
“Nay, neither of those.”
“We’ll have to hurry to get there before the constable and coroner. If it isn’t obvious how he died, they’ll cart off his body to the family since there is no priest to direct his burial.”
“I did keep my eyes open,” said Fisk.
Bianca threw her cape over her shoulders, then froze, seeing Fisk’s earnest expression. She tipped her chin. “What else did you see?”
Fisk produced a sack and held it up.
“What is this?” Bianca took the bag and looked inside.
“Wafers,” said Fisk.
Removing a flattened host, Bianca held it up to study it.
“They were lying next to him. Half of them are gone. Martyn was always hungry. Without Father Nelson to stop him and with no mass to perform, I’m certain he ate them.”
A smile spread across Bianca’s face. She threw off her cape and dumped the hosts on the table. “You’ve saved me the bother.”
CHAPTER 32
Bianca headed down to the forge and retrieved a cage containing a single rat. She had dragged the cumbersome pen halfway up the stairs when John arrived, dressed only in his smock, to carry it the rest of the way.
“On the table?” he asked.
“Aye,” she said, following him. “I can guess the outcome, but I need to be certain.” Hobs jumped on the table to observe the excitement, and Bianca pushed him off. “So Martyn never showed yesterday,” said Bianca, addressing Fisk. “You never spoke to him about the pax loaf?”
“Martyn often comes up against his father. When I didn’t see him, I thought that might be why.”
“’Tis a shame the boy died,” said John.
“Fisk, you said a servant from Mayden Lane returned a cloth belonging to St. Vedast?”
“Aye. She had a mean look about her, like she’d been chewed by bedbugs and was tired of it.”
“An older lady?” Bianca cleared the table around the cage.
“As old as God, I’d say.”
“The sour servant,” said John. He found his hose and pulled them on.
“The pax loaf Odile received came wrapped in an ecclesiastical cloth,” said Bianca.
“Then the loaf must have come from the priest,” said John.
“Or from someone who had access to the cloths—or perhaps someone who could bribe a young boy to filch one.”
Fisk watched Bianca feed a wafer to the rat. “Are you going to see if it kills him?”
“Aye. Also, it will be interesting to see how the specimen acts before it dies.”
While Bianca and Fisk watched the rat, John finished dressing.
“The woman recognized Master Lodge,” said Fisk. “She seemed to think he had an interest in Odile Farendon some years back and visited her on Mayden Lane.”
“What was Master Lodge’s response?”
“He told her she was mistaken. That if he had visited, it was only for business.” Fisk launched into a shaky-voiced imitation of Odile’s servant. “ ‘Well, if that is what you want to call it. I’ll not argue a man’s pleasure is his business.’”
“Well,” said Bianca. “I don’t believe she would have reason to lie. That is quite helpful, Fisk.”
Bianca sat a moment, remembering Lodge avoiding the question when she had asked how long he had known Odile. Obviously he’d had dealings with her and did not want it known. Bianca twisted a lock of hair around a finger while she thought. She wondered about Lodge’s accusation against James Croft, filed in the lawyer’s office. Was it a move made in defense? What did Croft know that Lodge didn’t want him to tell?
“He ain’t moving much,” said Fisk, stirring Bianca out of her thoughts. The rat lay supine on the floor of the cage, its heart beating so rapidly they could see its chest quiver. Bianca turned the cage for a better look. The rat’s eyes throbbed, enlarging, then returning to normal—the behavior seen when rats are content, but disturbingly exaggerated. Other than that, the creature appeared incapable of moving.
“Is that what happened to Martyn?”
“It is hard to say how the wafers affected him, since we were not there.”
In a moment the rat lay perfectly quiet. Its rapidly beating heart stopped. Its thrumming eyes stilled.
“Is he dead?” asked Fisk, peering into the cage.
Bianca nudged the rat with a stirring rod. “He’s dead.” She looked up at John. “It appears someone wanted to kill off a few more parishioners. I need to find out where these hosts came from.”
“I can tell you that,” said Fisk. “I can tell you where the priest’s wine came from, too.”
Bianca smiled. “It was a good day when I met you.”
* * *
The sanctioned bakery where St. Vedast’s sacramental bread was made was tucked beside a fripperer. The clothes seller had hung a coney-collared partlet of gozelinge velvet next to the window to entice buyers inside. The gown reminded Bianca of the gown Odile had given her, of the feel of soft rabbit fur against her neck. She also remembered Odile and Boisvert’s love for her and felt spurred to see the master silversmith freed.
“This is the bakery,” said Fisk. “I followed the delivery cart and this is where it ended.” A sign read “Foley’s” in faded lettering.
Bianca pushed open the door. No one was in the outer shop selling bread, nor were there any customers. Loaves cooled in a rack, and the warmth from the ovens welcomed them in from the cold. They could hear activity in the back room, and Bianca called out.
“Are you here to purchase?” asked a man appearing from the back.
“Are you Foley?” asked Bianca.
The man glanced at Fisk. “I am.”
“Do you bake holy wafers for St. Vedast?”
“We sent them several days ago.”
“Then you are not aware that Father Nelson has been removed from his appointment?”
Foley scowled. “Pray tell, for what reason?”
“Members of the parish have taken ill. He is accused of cavorting with the devil.”
“A priest’s business is not mine. Are you here to tell me St. Vedast will no longer need wafers?”
“Sir, an altar server has died and it is believed the hosts might be tainted.”
“It is believed by whom? You?”
“I have been to the village Dinmow and have seen a similar sickness happen there.”
“Dinmow? I have no acquaintance in Dinmow.”
“I wonder if perhaps your flour came from there.”
“It is the guild’s duty to oversee the quality of stock received into London. I buy what is offered to all bakers. Surely I am not the only one to be questioned.”
“The only reports of strangeness have been associated with St. Vedast. Perchance were you asked to bake a pax loaf for Father Nelson?”
“Nay, I was not.” His eyes went between Bianca and Fisk. “Are you accusing me of poisoning St. Vedast’s hosts?”
“It is not my intention to accuse you, sir. I am only trying to find answers to my questions. What ingredients are used to make the wafers? Do you add anything to the batter?”
Foley folded his thick arms across his chest. “Why should I tell you if you plan to disparage my process?”
“I am only trying to sort out what I know. There may be a problem inherent in the flour. If that is true, then combined with a certain method of baking, the flour may result in a harmful product. You are not at fault. It is the method that could be to blame.”
The baker’s hard look did not fade as he disappeared into the oven area, then reappeared at the door. “Are you com
ing, or do I need the queen to invite you?”
Bianca and Fisk hurried after him and entered a sizable space with high, arching windows. The oven was a hulking sculpture of brick and mortar. Its radiant heat brought beads of perspiration to Bianca’s upper lip.
Foley went to a shelf and found a large iron mold, which he handed to Bianca. “That is the mold we use to create the wafers.”
“It is quite heavy,” said Bianca, opening the iron cast and running her fingers over the impressions inside. The baker proceeded to describe the manner in which the hosts were made.
“Does the mix sit for any time?”
The baker snorted. “We use it fresh. Just flour and water.”
“Might you show me the flour that was used?”
Foley led Bianca to a bin of flour and opened the lid. Bianca scooped out a handful and examined it. “It is quite fine in texture,” she said, running a finger over it.
“Pents at the White Bakers’ Guild gave the boulted flour to me at no cost.”
“But I see maslin on your shelves. Are you not a brown bread baker?”
Foley grumbled, “Aye. However, it is no secret that there is more demand for manchets and the finer-floured loaves.”
“So the White Bakers’ Guild has given you white flour so that you may come to prefer it. Have you considered that what is given gratis now may only be to entice you from your routine?”
“White bread shall replace brown. It is only a matter of time.”
“But there shall always be more who will want it than can reasonably afford it.”
Foley huffed in irritation. “Why would Pents give me fouled flour if he hopes to have me as a client?”
“Perhaps it was not Pents who ruined the flour. Someone else may have polluted the sample before you received it. But, as I said, it may have been defiled at its source.”
“What scoundrel would seek my ruin? The brotherhood adheres to strict standards to ensure the safety of our loaves.”
“I have seen men’s reputations suffer at the dastardly hands of another. Do not suppose you have no enemies. One cannot exist without collecting at least a few.” Bianca brushed the flour back into the bin. “Have you sold any loaves containing the white flour?”
“Of course. My soured-dough manchets are finding some demand.”
“You do not use barm in your baking?”
“Nay, I do not. It is easier to feed my dough.”
“Sir, when did you last get a delivery of boulted flour?”
“I do not recall the date,” said the baker, frustrated. “Days run into weeks, run into years.” He stalked over to a shelf and hefted down a logbook, irritably flipping through the pages. Bianca stood beside him as he ran a thick finger down the row of dates and deliveries.
An accounting of flour, eggs, and other ingredients was taken at the end of each day. The weights and numbers were given, along with deliveries and from where they had come. The purchase price was also duly noted.
“Here,” said Foley, pointing to a delivery made just over a week before. He looked down at Bianca, who was peering over his arm at the page, glanced at Fisk, then made to shut the book.
Bianca stuck her hand in the page before it closed. “Wait! I saw something.” She caught Foley up in her intense blue stare. “What I saw may help you.”
The baker opened the book, and Bianca ran her finger down the entries, finding a day where a discrepancy had caught her eye. “Sir, you take inventory and record the weight of your flour stock at the end of each day. Here it shows an increase in the weight of white flour by nine ounces. However, there is no record of a delivery. Could you have forgotten to write it in?”
The baker leaned over the writing and studied the irregularity. He straightened. “Last Thursday?” He thought a minute. “I remember I thought I might have recorded the weight incorrectly from the day before.” He massaged the back of his neck, then suddenly stopped. His eyes widened. “The third warden and Master Croft inspected me. They went through my stores and weighed my loaves.” Foley recalled the scene. “Croft aggrieved me for accepting Pents’s white flour.”
“You do not remember a delivery that day?”
“I meticulously record when I receive my flour and how much I pay. Even if I am gifted flour, I will record that. It is a requirement of my license, and I never forget to account for my stock.”
“And was your shop secured that night? Have you noticed any signs that someone could have tampered with your bakery while you were closed?”
“I sleep above; I would know if my bakery had been meddled with.” The baker shrugged off the suggestion like a pesky fly on a horse’s withers. “Except . . .” His eyebrows shot up. “Croft asked to see my records, and when I returned with the books, he was peering into my bin of boulted flour!” He stalked over to the bin and threw off the cover. As he stared at the suspect stock, Foley’s face grew as red as the bricks of his oven. “By God’s sacred blood—what did he do?” He slammed down the lid. “And now a boy is dead. I shall be accused of murder!”
“Nay. I don’t believe it is you who will be accused.”
CHAPTER 33
With a sack of Foley’s white flour in hand, Bianca hurried back to Boisvert’s to make her version of holy wafers. Foley had told her his process, and she reduced the recipe to a manageable proportion. As the wafers baked in the oven, Bianca remembered the rhyme recited by the woman who had fallen from St. Vedast’s steeple on the morning they’d first arrived in Foster Lane. She had pondered why the woman had recited that particular verse and had entertained the possibility that it was nonsensical—the rantings of delirium or madness. But as Bianca repeated its final phrases, a few ideas began to dawn on her.
“‘Up stairs, down stairs, and in my lady’s chamber.’” Bianca galloped down the stairs of Boisvert’s to retrieve another rat. “That part has no special meaning,” she said aloud. Hobs trooped after her, curious to see what his lady had in mind.
“ ‘There I met an old man who would not say his prayers. . . . ’” Bianca dragged a cage across the room and started pulling it up the stairs. “Well,” she said, remembering her discussion with John about a priest who would not change his ways for the king’s reforms. “I am going to generalize and say it is a person opposed to change.”
Bianca rested a minute while Hobs attempted to squeeze past. “Hobs, why must you try the impossible?” Still, the feline had his way, crawling over the top of the iron pen and clawing her skirt until she stood aside.
With a burst of strength, she hauled the cage to the second-floor landing. She straightened and pushed the hair from her face. “So, perhaps the woman was telling us she was pregnant and her husband, or perhaps her lover, was unfaithful.” She inched the cage toward the table with her foot. “Was she telling us her lover was a priest?” Bianca gave the cage a few more shoves forward. “A papist?” She bent over and pushed the cage to the table. “Or simply a person opposed to change?”
The smell of burning bread drew her back to the oven, and she removed the large wafer to cool. Hobs leapt to the table and squinted, trying to smell the steaming dough.
“Did Father Nelson have something to do with the woman’s death?” Bianca dropped onto the bench and stared across the room. Why did Martyn, the altar boy, die from eating the hosts, and not the priest? Did Father Nelson know the hosts were tainted? Had he sent polluted pax bread to Odile, days before her wedding? Could Father Nelson have consulted with Croft of the bread company and the two conspired against Odile in an effort to get her endowment?
“What if the churchwarden knew of their scheme and decided the priest needed to be removed in order to protect others from a similar fate?” Bianca hefted the cage onto the table. “Or what if all three of them schemed to kill Odile and the churchwarden got rid of the priest in order to accept the endowment money unhindered?
“ ‘Take him by the left leg, throw him down the stairs.’ ” Bianca tapped the rat’s cage with a metal stirring rod. �
��Left leg . . . left foot . . . left footer,” she mused. “A left footer is someone with a different stance . . . perhaps a Catholic who won’t accept Henry as the supreme head of the church. Well, almost certainly Father Nelson is of the old way. What priest isn’t secretly pining for the days before Queen Anne and Thomas Cromwell?”
Bianca broke off a corner of the wafer and pushed it through the cage’s slats. The rat sniffed, then devoured the entire piece. “But a left footer could also be a foreigner.” She thought for a moment, her mind going back to the information she had learned at Benjamin Cornish’s office near Middle Temple. “Boisvert and Odile were both outlanders. ‘Throw him down the stairs’—get rid of him—punish him. Kill him.” Bianca sat down. “James Croft was of French descent too. James LaVerdiere Croft.”
As Bianca sat pondering the peculiarities of Odile Farendon’s death and that of the unknown woman at St. Vedast, John returned and called up to her from below.
“Are you here?” John called as he mounted the stairs.
Bianca met him on the landing.
“I went to Newgate to visit Boisvert. His case has been delayed. Two priests have been accused of heresy.”
“I hope Father Nelson has not been accused.”
“As a matter of fact, he was.”
“Who is the other priest?”
“A priest from Dowgate Ward of St. John’s parish. The two incidents are unrelated,” said John, going by the fire to warm himself. “But I do have news about Father Nelson.”
Bianca removed Hobs from where he was batting at the leftover wafer. She scratched behind his ears, then set him down.
“Father Nelson has taken ill. He is vomiting and his hand has seized. He cannot open or use it. He may not live.”
“Those were Odile’s symptoms before she died.”
“That is what I was thinking.”
“Then Father Nelson may not have purposely conspired to give Odile polluted pax bread or his parishioners ruined hosts.”
Death at St. Vedast Page 26
