“Were you bribed to contest Odile Farendon’s will?” Bianca asked, yanking her arm from his grasp.
Cornish glared. “A strict code of conduct prevents me from a lapse of integrity of the kind you are accusing me of. Now, I shall ask for you to take your grievance elsewhere. I should hate to have to call for help in seeing you thrown out.”
* * *
When hunger pangs pleaded their case, instead of thinking about the priest’s questions or the churchwarden’s inexplicable grief, John turned his thoughts to his next meal. Was it too much to fancy Bianca preparing a succulent goose while he’d been gone? More likely, she was trudging around London, irritating solicitors and master goldsmiths with her questions. He hoped she had left Oro Tand alone. His acceptance into the guild might one day depend on Tand’s support.
He had drawn the collar up on his jerkin and prepared himself to face winter’s breath when the door to St. Vedast burst open.
First through was a man John recognized as a local cobbler. He wore no hat, and his jerkin was wet with fallen snow. Wet clay coated his hose, and he tracked mud onto the flagstone floor. “Where is Father Nelson?” he demanded.
“In his office, I presume.”
The cobbler stalked across the nave, and John wondered what could be so important, when the door opened a second time, admitting a woman and two men. Between them they carried a lad, delirious and gray from the cold, who looked to be of ten years. They argued where to put him, whether to carry him through the church to Father Nelson.
“It is warmer near the chancel,” suggested John, pointing toward the altar. “You might put him there.”
John was watching after them when the door swung open and more people arrived, creating a milieu of fraught nerves and commotion. From what he gathered, the boy was senseless, taken by a raving madness. His hunger pangs forgotten, John followed them into the nave.
“He’s not right,” said one of the men, removing his gown and placing it over the boy lying on the steps. “Yesterday he complained of the cold and started shivering. My brother sat him by the hearth and put a wool blanket about his shoulders. But he kept shivering. Every blanket in the house was piled on him. Finally the chills stopped and his shaking passed. They stopped as fast as closing a door.”
“He complained about his stomach,” said the mother. “I thought maybe it was something he ate. He slept through the night, and we thought he had recovered. But after breakfast he wanted to lie down. I put him back to bed. He seemed comfortable and I went back to my chores. Not long after, I heard a clunk and found him on the floor.”
She pressed her chest as if steadying her heart. “Foaming at the mouth he was. His eyes rolling into the back of his head.”
“I never seen such a sight. Just his whites showing,” added the brother.
“And his face twisted,” said the mother. “He didn’t look like . . .” She covered her face.
“Fiendish. He looked like a devil,” said the brother.
“All of a sudden,” said the mother, dropping her hands, “he jumps up and runs out the door. There was no stopping or calling after. He ran all the way to the river before we caught him. And there he was, up to his knees in muck and water, shrieking to leave him be.” She dropped her gaze to her son, who lay motionless before them.
“It took three of us to wrestle him out of the mud and bring him here,” said the brother. “He’s a whip of a lad, but he suddenly got the strength of a bull. Halfway here, he went limp.”
John knelt and pressed his fingers against the boy’s throat, feeling his pulse. He was stunned by the boy’s cold skin. “His heart still beats, but not strongly. Should you seek a doctor?”
“Nay,” said the second man who’d helped carry him. “Something’s not right in his head. He’s been entered.”
“This is not my nephew,” said the brother.
A door creaked open from behind the chancel, and Father Nelson appeared, dressed in a surplice of white and a purple cowl. He walked to the rood screen clutching his prayer book against his chest and held a crucifix before him. The boy’s father followed, and trailing behind, a boy carried a crucifix and holy water.
Father Nelson signed the cross. He dipped his hand in the pot and sprinkled holy water over everyone present. When the water struck the boy’s face, it sizzled, and steam rose like it had touched hot coals. The boy was as cold as death.
The priest began his prayers, and when they slipped into Latin, the boy’s eyelids flew open. It was as the uncle had said; only the whites of his eyes showed.
John stepped back, bumping into Henry Lodge, whose judgmental stare centered on the priest and boy.
At one point, Father Nelson touched the crucifix to the lad’s chest over his heart. The boy lurched forward to sit and screamed. Taking hold of the rood, he threw it off with a vicious oath. It clattered across the floor.
“Hold him,” said the priest. “Hold him down.”
In a collective effort, the men leaned their weight on the boy, pushing him back. His strength was as his uncle had said. He writhed against them. His legs kicked, bruising one onlooker and knocking the wind out of another. John seized the boy’s ankles to prevent his thrashing and felt his arms yanked in their sockets. Despite the boy’s rage, the priest continued his ritual. He sprinkled holy water and intoned in a voice louder than the boy’s screams. His hand upon the victim’s head, he commanded the unclean spirit to depart.
The boy’s eyes rolled. His mouth foamed like that of a tired horse.
The young assistant handed the crucifix to Father Nelson, and when it was touched to the victim’s chest, this time it was not thrown off. Holding him fast, the priest made the sign of the cross over the boy’s brow, his lips, and his chest. He looked down at his prayer book and continued to read.
More parishioners arrived as word spread through the neighborhood. They watched from the rear of the nave. The mother’s weeping drowned the priest’s words and the boy’s unearthly shrieks.
At last the boy quieted. His thrashing ceased; his struggle ended. Father Nelson made the sign of the cross and removed the crucifix from the boy’s chest.
John looked up and saw Henry Lodge walk away.
The boy was at peace. The boy was dead.
CHAPTER 19
Outside, the silver sky of day had turned into the murky haze of twilight as the sun sank behind Christ Church and the city wall to the west. John returned home. His hoped-for dinner of roast goose, of roast anything, was not to be. Bianca presented him with a loaf of bread and cheese for dinner.
“So the parents believed the boy was taken over by a demon?” Bianca sat opposite John at the board.
“I asked them why they did not seek a doctor, and they said that it wasn’t like any illness they had ever known.”
“So have they seen possession by unclean spirits?”
“I do not know. However, they believed Father Nelson could expel the entity causing their son’s strange behavior.”
“And now they blame Father Nelson for his death?”
“There was grousing to that effect. The family did not say it to his face, but they asked what he did to their boy.”
“So the implication is there.”
“An implication that sows seeds of doubt.” John cut his bread lengthwise and neatly arranged the sliced pieces of cheese to cover it.
“Tell me his symptoms again?” Bianca propped her chin in her hand.
“I told you everything.”
“Did the boy chatter? Did he speak nonsense that you know of?”
John took a bite and chewed. “Aye, he did. I remember the uncle telling me. He certainly shrieked while we were holding him down.” He washed down his dry meal with a sip of ale.
“That was a symptom of the woman whose body was found beside St. Vedast the day we moved in.”
“How do you know?”
“I spoke to someone who saw her fall.”
“When?”
“The firs
t night we were here. I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk.”
“In the middle of the night? Without telling me?”
“You were asleep.”
John stared at Bianca.
“No harm,” she said.
“No harm, but there could have been.” John tore off another piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth. “There might still be,” he grumbled. “Have you told the constable?”
Bianca shook her head. “It makes no difference now. Say you the boy had the sudden strength of a bull?”
“Aye. It took several of us to hold him down while Father Nelson performed the ritual.”
“But before that, the boy ran to the river and was practically swimming in it?”
John nodded.
“The woman who fell off the roof was oblivious to the cold too. I’m beginning to see a pattern.”
“Does it include Odile?”
“Boisvert didn’t say she suddenly became as strong as an ox, did he? She didn’t seem to suffer that symptom.” Bianca wound a strand of hair around her finger, lost in thought. “And the boy finally died?”
John cut himself more cheese and nodded.
“How were the men holding him down?”
“I had his ankles, the uncle leaned on his thighs, and the father draped himself across the boy’s chest.”
“Do you think he compressed his son’s chest to the point where he could not breathe?”
“God’s truth, I could not see past the uncle. They were large men. The father was nearly on top of him.”
“Do you think the father could have wanted the boy dead? Could he have suffocated him?”
“And stage such a performance in order to do it? I did not sense that the family was anything but sincere. In truth, Bianca, your preoccupation with death and motivations for murder has made you distrustful. I sometimes wonder whether you even trust me. Does anyone escape your suspicion?”
“I don’t look at people in the same way as I did when we first met. Distrust is a consequence of growing older, John. I’ve learned people act in complicated ways.”
Hobs jumped up on the table and padded past, stopping to tickle John’s nose with the tip of his striped tail. John pushed him on. “If this is a murder, whether planned or accidental, I do not care to become involved. Perhaps that is heartless of me, but we have enough to ponder with Boisvert and Odile.”
“I am not saying we should involve ourselves here,” said Bianca. “While I’m sorry a boy died, perhaps the consequences of his death are more important. Think on how Father Nelson is being perceived.”
“He looks inept, weak.” John dawdled with his bread and cheese. “But what an elaborate theater to show him thus.”
“Don’t think about whether it was theater or not. Think on the consequences and bear them in mind.”
“Something else happened that gave me pause.” John took a drink of ale. “Originally I sought Father Nelson to convey Boisvert’s instructions about Odile’s funeral. I overheard a strange conversation between the churchwarden and the master of the Brown Bakers’ Guild. Lodge sounded quite terse, and the bread master sounded like a clumperton in response. The churchwarden stalked from the room, and I believe he was snuffling.”
“Snuffling?”
“He was fraught with emotion. Then Croft sheepishly appeared, saw me, flushed an impressive shade of scarlet, and skulked away.”
“What had they discussed?”
“I don’t know exactly. It seemed to me Croft was angry, and the churchwarden turned the table and directed his anger at the bread master. I heard Odile’s name.”
“And Henry Lodge was upset?” Bianca thought a moment. “He’s a tight-lipped, cautious cuffin. At the dinner I saw him glaring at her. I was surprised when he approached the table and spoke kindly to them.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“He nearly upset Odile’s goblet of wine.”
Hobs made another pass in front of John’s nose, stopping in front of the cheese to sniff. John moved him on again. “So what are you thinking?”
Bianca shrugged. “That is curious about Henry Lodge.” She stared at John absently, lost in thought.
“And did you find Benjamin Cornish?”
Bianca’s eyes lost their distant focus and pinned him. “I sought the solicitor at his chamber near Middle Temple. He almost threw me out when I suggested he may have been bribed to contest Odile’s will.”
“A sure sign that he was nudged.” John got up to pour himself more ale. “I don’t expect you learned anything useful from him?”
“Only that he is typical. But now I know where to find him. And did you find Boisvert?”
John’s body rattled with an involuntary shudder. “Aye that. As grim a place as ever. He told me Odile’s intent. She left some money for him, but the rest was to go to St. Vedast.”
“To restore the church to its former dignity?”
“In a sense. She left money for the care and feeding of her soul.”
“A chantry?”
“A chantry and obiits.”
“I would have thought she would have made concessions for almsgiving.”
John shrugged. “Perhaps she did. She seemed more concerned to hastily quit purgatory.”
“So Father Nelson would have benefited.”
“Aye. But what are you saying?”
“Even priests can offend God,” said Bianca.
John shook his head. “You may consider him suspect, but I will not.”
The corner of Bianca’s mouth turned up. It was better to let the subject alone. John never ceased to baffle her with his cobbled opinions. His reasoning was usually founded on equal parts gut feeling, accepted convention, and falsehoods.
“I’ve forgotten to tell you,” he said after a moment. “Boisvert has asked that we take care of Odile’s dog.”
“It can’t stay at Mayden Lane?”
“Boisvert doesn’t trust it will be properly taken care of by the servants.”
“He thinks we can do better?”
“I’ll go get him.”
“Hobs will not approve.”
“Well, if it comes down to a fight, it is not Hobs I’m worried about.”
* * *
After a night of listening to the shrill barking of a confused spaniel, the intermittent crash of falling objects, and Hobs’s hissing, John and Bianca slept in. Each of them had taken turns tossing Hobs outside, only to have him wiggle through a missing pane in the leaded window, and then the whole commotion would start again. Each time they argued over whose turn it was to make sure the house wasn’t being ruined. Shutting doors didn’t work, and tying Nico outside woke the neighborhood.
“I’m not sure I can survive many nights like that,” said John, reluctantly crawling out of bed to take Nico out to water the dormant roses. “I’d rather empty all the jordans at the Dim Dragon Inn than spend the rest of my life separating those two. We need to get Boisvert out of Newgate as soon as possible.”
Bianca watched John pull on his netherhose and search for his shoes. “Perhaps you left them by the door.”
John grumbled and shrugged on his jerkin, clumping down the stairs, while Hobs followed, keeping an active paw in further aggravating the two. Bianca rolled out of bed to stoke the fire.
Was it a coincidence that three deaths had occurred at St. Vedast in the course of so few days, or was it simply an unfortunate spate of bad luck? Bianca dropped her kirtle over her head and pulled on her wool socks. The boy and unknown woman had both shown impressive strength and a disturbing lack of common sense. Neither had been affected by the cold, although the boy had had a bout of shivering before he lost his wits. Odile showed no sign of excessive strength but had in common with the first woman an unusual contortion of her extremities.
The door slammed, and she heard John in conversation with Meddybemps in the shop below. She had just finished lacing her kirtle when Nico came bounding up the stairs, followed by John and Meddybemps.
“Perhaps it sits under a troubled star,” said Bianca.
Meddybemps looked around at the interior of their new quarters. “Take heed; you are not so very far away.”
“As good a reason as any why we should return to Gull Hole.”
“We haven’t been here a week,” protested John, throwing more wood on the already stoked fire. “You haven’t given Foster Lane a chance.”
Meddybemps glanced at Bianca and led them out of another spat. “I heard Odile died at her dinner and Boisvert sits at Newgate waiting to dance the Tyburn jig. Now John tells me about this boy.” Meddybemps went to stand by the hearth and warmed his hands. “Finish your story, John.”
Resuming his tale, John embellished it to greater glory. The streetseller removed his red cap and turned it before the fire, concentrating on drying the wool in the most efficient manner while lending half an ear to John’s exaggerations.
Meddybemps dug a finger into his ear. “And so now the priest of St. Vedast is defending the church and his ministry against those who accuse him of being unable to protect it from evil.”
“There was some criticism afterward,” said John. “The room was fraught with emotion. Likely, the family was looking for someone to blame.”
“One man against many,” mused Bianca, hanging a pot of water and dumping oats into it.
“One man of God against many,” said John.
“By troth, unless this priest has special privileges, he is still just a man.” Meddybemps watched Bianca chop prunes and drop them in the porridge. Perhaps he could delay long enough to have a bowl. Though he had never tasted Bianca’s cooking, and he did wonder if she could create anything that didn’t smell strange or taste like a salve. “I don’t recall ever seeing you cook something other than a physicke, Bianca. How do you find cooking food?” Meddybemps’s eye quivered.
“I find it mindless. But it’s as close as I can get to fire these days.” She stabbed a spoon into the pot and stirred, ignoring John’s frown.
Death at St. Vedast Page 15