Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  “Unless he knew they were poisoned and he wants to die,” said John.

  “But going the way of Odile and the others is not pleasant. And a priest committing self-murder?”

  “Then perhaps someone else hoped for his death.”

  If Father Nelson had hoped for Odile’s demise in order to save the church with her endowment, why would he kill himself? Had his plan gone awry? Did he prefer self-murder to the public humiliation of being found out? Bianca shook her head. She couldn’t imagine any priest willingly damning his own soul for eternity.

  As expected, it wasn’t long before the rat went through a spurt of strange behavior. Its rear leg contracted, becoming rigid and useless. It fell onto its back, exposing its chest. In a matter of moments, its life was over.

  “So, what did you just prove?” asked John.

  “The sanctioned bakery that made hosts for St. Vedast used contaminated flour. I paid Foley’s bakery a visit and found a discrepancy in their records. They had an increase in flour one day that coincided with an inspection from the Brown Bakers’ Guild.”

  “That is interesting,” said John, dropping onto the bench and picking up Hobs to sit in his lap.

  Bianca raised an eyebrow, watching John amicably pet him. “It is even more interesting that the inspector was James Croft.”

  “The master of the Brown Bakers’ Guild?”

  “It makes me wonder about finding the property assessment for St. Vedast. I am wondering if he was hoping to ruin baker Foley or Father Nelson.”

  “Perhaps both,” said John.

  “Aye. Perhaps both.”

  * * *

  After actively avoiding Constable Patch and wishing to have nothing to do with the unreliable custodian of public order, it was unusual, admitted Bianca, to hope she would find him. Outside his ward quarters, she paused a moment to organize her thoughts before talking with him. Once ready, she heaved open the door and found Constable Patch donning a woolen cap before he ventured into the cold.

  “Wells, now, I should say this is an incidence. I was just going to visit you at Boisvert’s.” Patch ushered her to a chair and bid her to sit. “That is where you are living now, is it not?”

  Bianca glanced around the room, looking for a reason for his geniality . . . or a possible ruse. Seeing neither, she eased herself into the chair and waited for him to continue.

  Unable to contain his excitement, he launched into an explanation. “Do you recall that I told you the body at St. Vedast had a disarming mark of the devil on her womb?” He sat behind a table to subtly remind her of his position of authority.

  “I remember.” Bianca had disregarded the significance of what was likely a birthmark. She had witnessed those born with blotches suffer from being stigmatized. Rather than the evil changelings their unfortunate blemishes foretold, these people, more often than not, were of gentle and retiring natures, suffering from an undeserved “branding” from both nature and society.

  Constable Patch was unfazed by her reluctance to agree with him. “Being in the northernmost corner of our city has been an advantage. Travelers from away often stop at my office to inquire about the ways of London. Such was the occasion earlier this morning.” Patch’s weaselly eyes shone with delight.

  “A woman from Dinmow chanced into my office and sat down, imploding me with a most earnest plea.”

  Bianca closed an eye. “Imploring?” she said.

  Patch folded his hands upon his desk, momentarily irritated by her interruption. He continued. “She was seeking her sister. The family had not seen or heard from her in nearly eight months.”

  Bianca sat up and leaned forward. “Pray continue, Constable.”

  “Her sister left Dinmow suddenly. There were no good-byes, and the family was deeply hurt by this, but the sister knew the girl dreamed of leaving the village for the city of London. Unfortunately, they did not notice her missing until late the next day.”

  “Why does the woman believe her sister came to London?”

  “The maid had warmed to a man visiting from London.”

  “And they say she left with the visitor?”

  “That is what is thought. Apparently she was a bit odd upstairs.” Patch tapped his head. “They never heard from or saw either of them again.”

  “Do we know his name or his business in Dinmow?”

  “He was dispatched from the Worshipful Company of Bakers. A man sent to inspect grain—Austin Jones.”

  Bianca sat as still as a cat. The name was not familiar to her, but the constable had piqued her interest. She waited for him to continue.

  “About a month ago, several villagers took strangely ill and died. No one wanted to speak of it for fear it would happen again. All was peaceable until a young couple arrived and started asking questions.” Constable Patch eyed her sharply as he said this. He tugged his chin hair, pausing, then continued. “There was another outbreak, and a woman died.”

  Not wishing to put ideas into his head, Bianca avoided asking if the young couple were thought to be to blame. “No one from Dinmow bothered to inquire about the missing girl until now?”

  “The sister preferred waiting until spring, when the traveling would be easier, but the latest outbreak prompted her.”

  Bianca and Constable Patch locked eyes. A second passed before Bianca spoke. “And have you questioned the guilds about the man?” she asked.

  “Two men. The man who inspected the mill eight months ago was Austin Jones. He is the man whom the sister is believed to have left with. He is third warden of the Brown Bakers’ Guild and a man entirely devoted to his young wife and five children. There is record at the company of his duties in London at that time. He has never been to Dinmow. Someone filched his name.”

  “And the second man?”

  “After the outbreak a month ago, a new representative from London arrived to inspect the mill as a matter of course. I have been to both the Brown and the White Bakers’ Guilds. There is no member in the registers by the name of J. LaVerdiere.”

  The bits of information floating in Bianca’s mind settled. She refrained from telling Patch why, but she felt the elation of satisfaction that comes with finally understanding. “I hope you asked for the missing woman’s name and whether she had any peculiarities that might distinguish her.”

  Constable Patch’s mouth turned up in a sneaky smile. “That I did.”

  “And . . .” prompted Bianca, growing impatient.

  “The woman’s name was Ellen Forbish. She had a mark on her belly like that of a claw.”

  Bianca sat back in the chair. The woman’s name meant nothing to her; however, a slow smile spread across her face. The other name, J. LaVerdiere, did.

  CHAPTER 34

  Directed there by a fellow at the Bakers’ Hall, Bianca expected to find Master Croft in silent contemplation at St. Vedast. “He felt the need for some quiet prayer,” the man told her. But instead of meditative reflection, James Croft stood shoulder height to Henry Lodge as the churchwarden towered over him, venting his discontent and waving a holy wafer in the man’s face.

  Bianca ducked behind a column and listened to Lodge’s rant echoing about the expansive nave. “I have it on good word that you seek to ruin Foley by contaminating his stock,” he said.

  “The guild has asked him to stop selling products made of boulted flour. The man takes objection to our request. But his persistence is a serious betrayal of the Brown Bakers’ statutes. He is lashing out against his brothers and is loyal to neither guild. Surely you don’t take his word on the matter.”

  “Is it my imagination that a young boy is dead because of your folly?”

  “You have no cause to accuse me, sir. Baker Foley is skirting his responsibility.”

  “I found several wafers near Martyn’s body. The lad was always hungry. Without Father Nelson to guide him, there was no preventing him from accepting a delivery and making a meal of it.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell him to eat the wafers!”
>
  “That is not the issue, Master Croft, and you well know it. Foley believes you conducted false inspection for the purpose of dumping contaminated flour into his store of boulted stock.”

  “Such an accusation is slanderous, sir. I urge you to measure your tongue. Denigrating a man’s reputation is not so light an offense.”

  Bianca considered stepping forward and supporting Lodge’s claim. However, the surprisingly discreet arrival of Patch and the constable of Aldersgate Ward caught her notice. With a finger to his lips, Patch and the constable slipped behind columns in an effort to listen to any incriminating morsels inadvertently spilled.

  “It is not just a boy who has died. Father Nelson may soon follow. He suffers from the strange malady that afflicted Odile Farendon.”

  “Ah,” said Croft. “And do I also stand accused of eliciting their poor health?” He tilted his head doubtfully. “Where do your in-criminations end, Henry Lodge?” His tone with the churchwarden took on a cynical air. “Can you not admit that Father Nelson’s absence is to your liking? After all, it was you who instigated his removal.”

  “His removal is for his own protection.”

  “Is that how you define ‘protection’? Having him removed for sorcery? Your skewed definitions are frightening. Why not admit you found some relief in having the man gone? You found Father Nelson ineffectual, did you not? And with him gone, now you might oversee a sizable endowment left to St. Vedast. The benefice left by Odile Farendon—the lover who once spurned you for another.”

  “Your speculations are unfounded!”

  “Are they, Lodge? I saw you eavesdropping on her confession. She spilled her heart to Father Nelson and he appealed to her guilty conscience, her fear of purgatory, for his own personal gain.”

  “Nay, that was you who eavesdropped!”

  “I won’t deny that I overheard. But why should you deny it? Come, now. We are alone in each other’s company. Let us be honest with one another.”

  Just then a horrid creak boomed in the upper vault of the church. It drew everyone’s attention to the belfry, where the bells sounded morning terce.

  Lodge shouted up to Buxton to stop, but the resonant tolling of St. Vedast’s voice drowned his useless plea. When the chiming finally died, Croft chuckled at the churchwarden’s frustration.

  “Ten years ago this was a beautiful church,” said James Croft. “The walls were a canvas for the coronation of the Virgin and the good works of our patron saint, St. Vedast.” He looked up at the rood screen. “But now those stories are gone. The walls have been whitewashed, along with our parishioners’ memory of the respect St. Vedast once garnered. This sacred space has been sullied by Henry’s lust to reign supreme over our land and now our faith. It is corrupted by his arrogance to bend our beliefs to his will. God gave him England to rule, but God did not give Henry control over heaven, too.” Croft shook his head in disgust. “Such conceit. No mortal has the power to change God’s will.”

  “Speak light, Master Croft. Your words are dangerous.”

  The baker smiled ruefully. “Lodge, have you forgotten our patron saint’s story? St. Vedast restored our religion to the infidels so that they would know its greatness. Through patience and prayers he triumphed.”

  “And for what, Croft, do you pray?”

  “Redemption, sir.”

  Signing to Patch and the constable not to interfere, Bianca stepped away from the column. “I do not believe, Master Croft, that redemption shall be forthcoming.”

  Croft turned to look at her. His look of surprise changed to one of derision. “Ah, the wife of a silversmith’s apprentice. You are not a member of this parish.” He took a step toward her. “I believe you have only arrived of late. How could you understand the wonder this cathedral once was?” Croft glanced back at Lodge. “It is a sin to watch this holy place fall into disrepair and do nothing.”

  Bianca spoke. “Do you believe God will absolve your sins if you rescue St. Vedast from those who do not appreciate it?”

  “By your measure, you must think it evil to respect the past.”

  “It is not respect if there is no humility in it. You want St. Vedast for your own. You sought Benjamin Cornish to obtain the audit of St. Vedast from the Court of Augmentations. But when you learned the property was still too rich for your purse, you embarked on a plan to ruin her. Who would worship in a church where a woman with child and an altar server died under peculiar circumstances? Who would worship in a church where members of the parish go mad after receiving the Eucharist from the priest? And now with Father Nelson removed and accused of evil intent, who would argue against closing St. Vedast and your taking the property as your own?”

  “What a fantastic tale. You have nothing to substantiate your claims.”

  “Sir, but I do.” Bianca held up the statement from the solicitor’s office naming him a papist. “Master Lodge claims you are a papist. And your argument, just now, confirms it.”

  He looked at her, then Lodge, and shook his head. “England is too quick to dismiss tradition. Our religious beliefs are replaced with the contrived arguments of a privy council and king who wish obedience from every man on this isle. The king is not content ruling just his terrestrial claim. He seeks complete control over God’s heavenly realm.

  “And we, the men and women of Britain, follow our king’s dictates to keep favor with him and save our mortal lives. No one argues to preserve the past because to do so gets one hanged. We are a country full of cowards.”

  “But you curry favor with the king. You cannot own St. Vedast without his consent.” Bianca stepped closer to better read his face. “I wondered how a master baker could afford a parish property. The building is crumbling and neglected, its valuables stripped. All that remains is a tenuous congregation held together by an overwhelmed priest. And now with Father Nelson removed, his flock runs elsewhere. This church is a shell. What value is there in a decrepit, maligned building? Why should the Crown keep a ruined property for anything but a final sale to someone willing to take it?”

  “You have no proof of my intent.”

  “Your middle name is LaVerdiere, is it not? You are of French heritage in a country of heretics. It must feel lonely. Where can such a man find solace? Either he comes to accept his adopted country’s ways or he finds a way to survive in them.”

  “This is a fabrication of a fantastic degree.”

  Bianca pulled the second paper out of her pocket and unfolded it. She turned and nodded to Patch and the constable of Aldersgate. “Your name is James LaVerdiere Croft,” she said, pointing to the line on the purchase document from Benjamin Cornish’s office. She handed the paper to the constable of Aldersgate. “It is also the name of a man who conducted an inspection in Dinmow within days of a strange and deadly outbreak there—J. LaVerdiere.”

  Bianca took advantage of the silence as the constable quietly read the paper, and then she continued. “You could not return to Dinmow as the man who inspected the mill eight months prior. To do so would have stirred questions about Ellen Forbish’s disappearance. People would have recognized you. So you disguised yourself and signed your middle name to your work in Dinmow. You returned from the inspection just before your appointment to the worshipful company’s highest post. And you brought flour back with you.

  “But it would be scandalous if news got out that the newly elected master of the Worshipful Company of Bakers kept a woman confined in his house—especially if she were with child.” Bianca took a step closer. “Your problem could have been solved if you had married the woman, but you found her odd. And her pregnancy only worsened her conduct.”

  “Your talents are wasted. There is a theater across the river that would enjoy your stories,” said Croft.

  Constable Patch could not resist imparting his own opinion on the matter. “Sir, she speaks true. A woman happened into my ward office searching for her sister, Ellen Forbish, who had left the village near eight months earlier.”

  “This is
conjecture. How dare you question my honor!”

  Bianca continued, “You made bread with the flour you got in Dinmow. Whether you purposely gave it to Ellen Forbish to eat, I do not know. But your dog was the first to suffer its strange effect.”

  “I have no dog.”

  “Nay, because it is dead.” Bianca saw Croft’s eyes widen, and a vein jumped at his clenched jaw. “The witness to Ellen Forbish’s tumble from the steeple of St. Vedast saw you bury it.” Bianca was not finished making connections. “And you just admitted you overheard Odile Farendon’s confession to Father Nelson. She planned to leave an endowment to benefit St. Vedast. But because you wished to have the church for your own, you needed Odile to die before she signed her last will and testament.

  “You baked a loaf of pax bread and sent Martyn, the altar server, to deliver it to Madame Farendon with instructions from Father Nelson to partake of it every day and to pray. However, Odile signed her will, then died after her wedding. You had your lawyer, Benjamin Cornish, contest the will, stating she was of unsound mind. My question is, did Oro Tand on behalf of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths support you in contesting the will?”

  Bianca watched his expression for the answer. Seeing nothing to indicate she’d touched a sensitive topic, she continued, this time targeting the constable of Aldersgate. “I remember Oro Tand slipped you a coin at the dinner, and suddenly, the next day, Boisvert was taken into custody.”

  The constable of Aldersgate took exception. “Tand was simply paying me for services rendered. You are mistaken if you believe it was of shady purpose.”

  Bianca shrugged, unconcerned. She turned back to the bread master, who remained stonily silent. “I ask, because if Odile’s will is thrown out, would the Gold Guild have been able to bring Lionel Farendon’s last wishes forward again? With no Anne Boleyn to influence King Henry anymore, and Boisvert neatly sitting in Newgate, that will’s chance of passing probate might be favorable.”

  The constable of Aldersgate had heard enough. Not only was this commoner—this woman dressed in stained and moth-chewed homespun—intruding on his territory, but she was conducting the matter as if she were a barrister from Middle Temple. She was an impostor dressing as a merchant’s wife for Odile’s wedding, interfering with the coroner’s examination of the body, then poking about in affairs that were not her business. “Enough of these wild conjectures,” he said. “I can conduct my own interview. Patch, will you escort this impertinent meddler to the street?”