Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  “Monsieur,” she said, “you must need rest. Will you let us see you home?”

  The silversmith shook his head. “Non. I cannot leave Odile.” Boisvert dabbed his eyes with his sleeve, muffling a loud snuffle.

  “Father Nelson, will you summon your sexton from St. Vedast?” said Tand upon his return from seeing the coroner out the door.

  The priest rose from the table where he had been sitting and trying to disappear into the background. He had given Odile her last rites and had retreated, as much from personal pain as from wishing to remove himself from further involvement. “Of course. I shall go for him myself.”

  “I want her embalmed,” said Boisvert.

  Father Nelson nodded. “I shall solicit an apothecary.” The priest paused, waiting for another request, but none came. No one had asked for his comfort or his prayers. Not even Boisvert wanted his support. Why should goldsmiths worry about their consciences today when they could buy their way through purgatory tomorrow? Father Nelson quickly left the dining hall, glad for a reason to quit the place.

  As for the mood of the banquet, Odile’s death had put a damper on the occasion. Many thought it awkward to continue celebrating a marriage that had ended so abruptly. These were the few who still retained a speck of decency. They filed past Boisvert and Bianca and offered their condolences, whether sincerely felt or not. Eventually even the last revelers grew too chastened by the lack of interest to keep eating and drinking. They filtered out, casting sheepish glances in the direction of their stranger brother, but they avoided speaking to him, lest his sullen disposition further deflate theirs.

  Instead of consoling his distraught comrade, Oro Tand busied himself instructing staff to remove the food and begin cleaning up the dining hall. He bid departing couples a good night and apologized for the unfortunate end to the celebration. John avoided speaking to Bianca but asked his mentor what he could do to serve him. Boisvert just shook his head, staring alternately at his hands and then Odile.

  As the dining hall emptied, Bianca finally attempted to engage her husband’s mentor. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Odile?”

  “She was beautiful and generous. Who would want to hurt her?”

  “I ask because the coroner believes she was poisoned. But we do not know for sure how she died. However, it is strange that her death came on so quickly. If it is not the falling-down sickness, then we must consider other possibilities.”

  “He does not need to think of these things just now,” said John. “He needs rest and a chance to recover.”

  “Non, John,” said Boisvert. “Perhaps talking to Bianca will help my grief.” He turned back to her. “S’il vous plaît, continuez.”

  Bianca ignored John’s irritated look and focused on Boisvert. “Do you recall anyone unfamiliar who might have attended the wedding or who might have come uninvited to the dinner?”

  The silversmith shook his head. “I only had eyes for Odile. I was not concerned with anyone else.”

  “John, you know the guests better than I do. Did you notice anyone unfamiliar?”

  John shrugged. “I am an apprentice. I don’t know the members of the guild like Boisvert does. Only on rare occasions do I meet other smiths.”

  “Mayhap someone lingered at the table?” asked Bianca of Boisvert. “Was there an incident that might have caught in your mind while guests chatted with you or Odile?”

  Boisvert shook his head. “Non. No one stayed long.” He thought a minute, then looked up at Bianca. “Lodge nearly upset her goblet of wine, but he kept it from spilling.”

  Bianca had seen it too. From the far end of the dining hall they heard Oro Tand’s voice outside the door. Bianca hoped he would remain occupied long enough for her to get some answers. “Boisvert, has anything strange happened in the past few days?”

  “Oui,” said Boisvert. “This strange behavior of hers. Tonight was not the first of it. When Odile and I visited her solicitor, she had an episode there. Her hand suddenly clinched and her eyes—they became as glazed as a dead doe’s. One minute she was instructing Benjamin Cornish of her last wishes, and the next, she began shaking.”

  “He was recording her last will and testament?”

  “Oui.”

  “Have you any knowledge of other occurrences?” said Bianca.

  “Non. She never spoke to me of them. It is strange. Afterward, she had no memory of the episode. Except for a limp, she had no lingering effects.”

  “What did she attribute the limp to? She must have noticed.”

  “Her age. We are not so young.”

  Bianca nodded. “Often such episodes are brief. The afflicted learn to live with the symptoms and, except for a momentary lapse of memory, may not realize they suffer the falling-down sickness. Did anything else strike you as unusual in the past few days?”

  Boisvert nodded. “Outside of the lawyer’s office, Oro Tand was sitting. I thought how queer a coincidence that we had the same solicitor. But then I thought, how queer is this, that his appointment followed ours.”

  CHAPTER 15

  It had been a late night, and John opted to stay with Boisvert at Mayden Lane. An elderly maid, a cook, and various other servants were in residence there, but John didn’t trust that they would bother themselves with his master’s comfort. Boisvert had lived there only a week, not enough time to have earned the affection or trust of Odile’s staff.

  It was just as well, thought Bianca when Hobs nudged her awake the next morning. No doubt John was still rankled with her, and at least this way she’d had a decent night’s sleep, without staying up half the night explaining herself. Besides, she did not feel she was in the wrong. She was merely stating fact. Dressing and mingling with liverymen and their wives made her uncomfortable. She had little in common with them, nor did she imagine that she ever would. What this difference in opinion meant for her and John’s future together she did not know, but for now she concerned herself with Odile’s inexplicable death.

  Bianca fixed herself a porridge and, once fortified with a bellyful of warm oats, headed out the door. It was midmorning and she moved easily down the street dressed in her woolen kirtle and cloak, glad to be wearing her familiar garb. She could not have hopped over holes in the road if she had been wearing the voluminous farthingale of a merchant’s wife—another inconvenience of becoming a proper “citizen.”

  She almost expected to run into John coming home from Mayden Lane, but she did not. He would have asked her why she was returning to the Goldsmiths’ Hall, and she didn’t want to be told she had no business there. She might be told that anyway, but she preferred hearing it from someone other than John.

  Bianca pushed open the massive door and stepped inside. Compared to the bustle of the night before, the silence here today was, she thought, unnerving. On her mind was the thought that Odile’s food might have been tampered with. In truth it seemed unlikely given that last night was not the first time Odile had suffered from her symptoms. The incident of Henry Lodge nearly tipping over the glass of wine also troubled her. But if he had slipped poison into her goblet, Boisvert would have succumbed, too, since he had boldly downed what was left in her cup. Bianca crossed the hall, every step clattering on the tiles like a set of keys being dropped in a cathedral. It wasn’t long before someone poked his head around a corner.

  “Do you work in the kitchen?” Bianca asked.

  Wearing an apron, a lad stepped out toweling off a platter. “Aye. On what business do you come?”

  “I’m here to see Master Tand if he is in.”

  “He’s in his office. It’s been a long night.”

  “It was a long night for so sad an end to it,” said Bianca.

  The boy looked at her skeptically.

  “I attended the dinner, but I wasn’t wearing this.” She looked past him. “Might I have a word with the kitchen staff?”

  “I thought ye was here for Master Tand.”

  “I am. But perhaps you might show me w
here the stuffed sturgeon was made.”

  “We’s busy. We just want to go home. Haven’t slept in over a day.”

  “I won’t delay you.” Bianca tipped her chin at his towel. “I’ll help you dry if you like.”

  “We don’t allow members’ wives entrance to the kitchen without an escort.”

  “I’m not a member’s wife.”

  “That so? Then what were ye here for last night?” The corner of his mouth turned up as if he had found her out and would not be fooled.

  “My husband and I were guests.” Bianca ignored his arched eyebrow. “If you do not allow wives into the kitchen, do you allow the guild members to enter?”

  “They may come and go as they like, but if we is preparin’ for an occasion, such as we was last night, then it is not allowed.”

  “And are those rules obeyed?”

  “Generally they is.”

  “Were they followed for this occasion?”

  “No one came back except Master Tand. But it is his right.”

  “It is my right as master of this company,” said a voice from the top of the stairs. Oro Tand looked over the banisters. “What brings you back to the guildhall, Bianca . . . Goddard?”

  “I wish to speak with you, sir.”

  “In regards to what?”

  “In regards to last night.”

  “I believe you were there. Nothing has transpired since. Odile’s body has been moved to the apothecary’s.” He waited for his words to stop echoing off the marble walls. “Did you leave behind a bauble?”

  “Nay, I did not.” Tand seemed rooted to the railing, and if she did not go to him, she doubted he would descend the stairs to her. “May I come up?”

  “I fail to see why I should bother to accommodate you.”

  “I won’t be long.” Bianca skirted an apology.

  Oro Tand sighed. “Be you quick.”

  Bianca climbed the long staircase, ignoring Tand’s derisive look as she neared. She stopped in front of the portrait of Odile’s deceased husband, which had been returned to its place on the wall. “Lionel Farendon must have been a respected master of the guild. I heard he was an alderman for the ward.”

  “For Aldersgate, until he became too ill to serve. Lionel was appointed lord mayor for one year, and he devoted many years of service to the worshipful company.”

  “And were you fond of him?”

  “He was a friend and confidant. He was my mentor. I owe my current position to him.” Tand did not invite her into his office. “Come now, why are you here? It isn’t for idle chatter.”

  Bianca realized the man would never warm to her and could barely abide her. It was disingenuous for either of them to pretend. So she asked him directly, keen to read his face, “Is Benjamin Cornish your solicitor?”

  For a brief second, the goldsmith’s cocksure manner lapsed. He quickly tugged on his shirt cuffs, fussing over them. “He is my lawyer.” He brushed a nonexistent speck of lint from one sleeve.

  “Boisvert mentioned you were waiting outside Cornish’s office when they left their appointment with him.”

  “I don’t recall.” Now he found that his fingernails needed examining.

  “Boisvert was not mistaken. He would not forget such a coincidence.”

  Oro Tand inclined his head, scowling, thinking. “Ah, now I remember. I do believe I saw the two of them leave. My mind was elsewhere. You’ll forgive me, I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “How long have you used Master Cornish’s services?”

  “God’s mercy, I do not recall how many years. And I do not see why that should matter. What is the purpose behind these questions? Eh?” He looked at her suspiciously. “People or, shall I say, citizens often consult lawyers. We tend to seek advice from men versed in the good king’s law. We are not like commoners.” His eyes dismissively rode down her person, emphasizing his point. “Our disputes are rarely settled with knives in dark alleys. We are a civil lot.”

  “Consulting a lawyer hardly makes one more civil. Fine dress and money should not be the only criteria in making one a good subject.”

  The strident creak of the front door opening drew their attention away from each other to the front entrance. In stepped the pair of haberdashers, chattering loudly. They did not immediately see the master of the goldsmith company peering down at them, and even if they had, Bianca doubted they would have softened their voices. Intimidation did not affect them.

  After all, thought Bianca, their talents were as necessary as those of any other ranked liveryman. One could not dress in a suit of gold. Bianca started down the stairs, realizing her time with Oro Tand was over. The haberdashers looked up.

  “Master Tand,” chimed the haberdashers, sweeping off their exceptional caps and dipping low in exceptional bows. “We are here to learn the results of your meeting. We trust you presented our request to your officers?”

  The master goldsmith could not hide the irritation in his voice. “We have had an unfortunate incident, and our meeting has been postponed.”

  “No meeting? That is unfortunate,” said the one in the leather doublet with the impeccably trimmed beard. “You are not putting us off?”

  “You have not heard that Odile Farendon died at her wedding dinner last night?”

  “Here in the guildhall?” he said, aghast.

  Bianca reached the bottom of the stairs. She was in no rush to leave. Hearing livery snipe at one another was a rare treat.

  “Poor Odile,” said the other haberdasher. “She was a lovely lady. Had she been ill?”

  “It was sudden,” said Bianca, nearing them.

  “What happened?” they both chimed. “She seemed well when last we saw her.”

  Bianca informed them about the wedding ceremony and then the reception dinner.

  Master Tand could have easily retreated to his office, but he grew annoyed that the haberdashers were receiving their news from Bianca instead of him. He clomped down the stairs. “Gentlemen, if you wish to continue this conversation, I shall see you out. You may finish it on the street.”

  “Master Tand,” said the one in the indigo gown. “Our purpose is to secure funds to repair Foster Lane for the king’s progress later this month. We need to make improvements soon and we need your company’s help. Why should you benefit when you have not contributed?”

  “I have told you before. The guild hasn’t the funds to spare. The king shall have to make do with the road as it is.”

  “Oh ho!” said the haberdashers in unison.

  “Wait until His Highness hears this,” said the bearded one.

  With that, Bianca saw herself out the door.

  * * *

  Most citizens—or, rather, most men and women of social standing—kept their wills secreted away with their solicitors, tucked away in a locked cabinet preferably constructed of thick wood that would take a while to burn if it caught on fire. However, a copy of the will was given to the register of the commissary as a matter of public record.

  Rather than seek Odile’s lawyer, Benjamin Cornish, at his offices near Middle Temple, Bianca decided to try the register, a shorter walk in the cold. Reviewing Odile’s last wishes might reveal something of a motive for her death—if it was indeed a murder.

  In a dank room on the north side of St. Paul’s Cathedral, Bianca followed the clerk up spiraling stairs of warped stone treads, mindful not to accidentally step on the hem of the man’s vestment. A request to view a citizen’s will was infrequent enough that John Wemmesley did not mind the lengthy climb to the far reaches of the cathedral, and from the sound of his whistling, thought Bianca, perhaps he even enjoyed it. Once the clerk unlocked the shackled hasp and stepped inside, it was easy for Bianca to see why.

  Windows on each side of the tower revealed a sweeping view of London unlike any she had ever seen. From there, the bucolic grounds of Smithfield and Morefield stretched beyond the city walls to the north. A cart moved along Aldersgate Street, loaded with crates headed for market. The
archery fields lay vacant, their targets little dots waiting to be speared with arrows on a clear spring day. To the south, the pewter gray Thames curled between London and Southwark, spanned by the bridge, its three stories peering down at her twenty starlings sitting in a broth of foaming surf. Just a glimpse from such a height would thrill even the most dolorous of men.

  Bianca was so taken by the landscape and with trying to spot Lambeth Hill, where her mother lived, that she neglected to study the room’s interior and momentarily forgot her reason for being there. Even the clerk was more keen to ogle the view than with assisting her in finding Odile’s will.

  “I never tire of coming here,” he said, gazing east toward the White Tower. “It is one of the more pleasant duties that is required of me. There was a time when all of London was contained within the Roman walls. Now lights blink from cottages beyond Cripplegate, which was once only inhabited by sheep and cows.” The two admired the bustling town before them, until Wemmesley spoke.

  “And the name on the will?” he asked, stepping away from a window and turning his attention to the stacks of loose paper on a table.

  “Odile Farendon Boisvert.”

  “Farendon?” asked the cleric. “He was once lord mayor, was he not?”

  “Aye. He was.”

  “So his widow remarried?”

  “Aye.”

  “When did she remarry?”

  “Yesterday. It was also the day she died.”

  “An unfortunate and highly unusual situation. Is the will being contested?”

  “Not that I am aware of. She wrote her testament a few days ago. I am curious to know how her estate is being divided. She died under strange circumstances, and I worry that her death came by someone else’s hand.”