Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  A sound of someone on the stairs drew Bianca’s attention.

  Brother Fromme, the baker, had trundled partway down from the malt room. He paused to look over the railing. Seeing Bianca, he hurried down and joined them. “You suspect Elgin of deceit?” he asked.

  “I think he is capable.”

  “But what of the people who died a month ago? Is he to blame for their deaths?”

  “Perhaps not. Their deaths may remain a question, but I think Elgin could manipulate your alehouse’s struggling reputation for his future gain.”

  The baker brought his hand to his mouth, considering the possibility. “Who became ill?” he asked.

  “Goodwife Meg.”

  Fromme’s cheeks went as white as the flour dust in his hair. “Only she is taken ill?” he asked.

  “Only Meg, as far as I know.”

  He nodded slightly, lost in thought.

  “What troubles you?” asked Felton, alarmed.

  The baker signed the cross. “Goodwife Meg came by this morning with a delivery of eggs. I spent the last funds on a bag of flour yesterday. My hope was to give away these loaves to encourage customers to come back. I had nothing with which to pay her. I gave her a loaf of bread in exchange for the eggs.”

  Felton shrugged. “Why should that trouble you?”

  “We have not sold any bread since the first incident. Indeed, we have not sold a single meal since then. Only ale.”

  “But Brother March has not become ill. I have not taken ill. You have not.”

  “We finished yesterday’s bread today. She is the only one I have given a new loaf to.”

  “So the new loaves are made from fresh flour? Where are they now?” asked Bianca.

  “Surely it is not the bread to blame,” said Felton in disbelief. “You would not taint the loaves?” He scoured the baker’s face, a look of confusion on his own.

  “I did nothing different. The loaves are in the alehouse kitchen.”

  Without a word, Bianca dashed across the grounds to the back entrance of the church alehouse.

  CHAPTER 25

  “You recall when the incident happened before,” said the baker, out of breath. “The loaves moldered on the shelves after a day, so I threw them out to the birds and dumped the flour in our cesspit. I complained to Littleton that the flour worked up disagreeably, that it did not keep, and he gave me fresh. I kept baking, hoping the people of Dinmow would return.”

  Bianca felt the color drain from her already pale complexion. “My husband and I visited the mill yesterday. Littleton was bagging flour to give to you and the tavern. If there is something in the flour, then the whole town may become ill.” Bianca gathered the loaves in her arms. “Where is your pit? We must see that no one eats these.”

  The baker gathered the remaining loaves and led Bianca out a door to an area in back of the church and brewery. Beyond a slight rise, a pit had been dug and filled with the discarded filth of monastery life. Even the rain could not drown the reek of waste. They stood at the edge and tossed in the bread.

  They were about to turn away when something caught Bianca’s eye. She leaned in for a better look. She could make out the remains of ravens amid the kitchen scraps and brewery mash. Wood ash and excrement partly covered them, but the rain had washed much of it off. It was not merely a couple of birds, but more than a dozen. “Do you see that, Brother Fromme?”

  The baker took Bianca by the arm. “We must return.”

  Bianca pulled her arm from his grasp. “This is not the first time that you’ve seen this.”

  Brother Felton arrived and saw Bianca’s expression of disbelief. He looked from her to the baker, the rain falling in sheets between them. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  The baker closed his eyes and dropped his head. The rain battered his back like hundreds of arrowheads. He sighed and looked at them. “It began after our patrons took ill.”

  Bianca gestured for Brother Felton to look in the pit. The brewer went to the edge and stared down into it. He squinted, then suddenly realized what he was looking at. “And you did not think to tell me?” he cried, looking at Fromme in disbelief.

  “I came out to dump wood ash and noticed a bird nearby. One or two dead birds is not strange. I thought it was the cold.”

  “Brother Fromme, there must be twenty in here! Did you not think that the bread may have killed them?”

  “I did not want to think.”

  Bianca looked between the two men glaring at each other. “It does no one any benefit standing here in the rain.” She tugged on Brother Felton’s sleeve and the two somberly followed her back inside.

  In the alehouse kitchen, Bianca took a small sack of the questionable flour. “You must bury the remaining flour,” she said, tying the top closed. She broached the possibility of Littleton harboring ill will toward them, but they both adamantly rebuffed the suggestion. “At least there is a reason why people are getting sick. And it’s not because your stripped monastery is vulnerable to evil.”

  * * *

  Bianca returned to the Stuffed Goose wondering if Meg and Elgin had fabricated this sham in an effort to further discredit the church alehouse and lower its value. She entered the inn and discovered John sitting by himself near the hearth, nursing a tankard. The room hummed with speculation over Goodwife Meg’s sudden illness. A few watched Bianca sidle past on her way to John. She ignored their elbowing and hushed whispers and sat next to her husband.

  She helped herself to John’s ale, waiting until the room became loud again before speaking. “What happened to the goodwife?”

  “Her husband took her back to their place, and now there are a number of villagers keeping vigil outside their home.”

  Bianca reached under her cape and pulled out the sack from the alehouse. “I believe the flour is to blame for the sickness.”

  “Why so?”

  “The church’s cesspit is filled with dead ravens. It is where the baker threw the tainted loaves and flour from a month ago. And now it seems the alehouse has been given a second bag of fouled flour.”

  “Are you saying that Littleton gave them poisoned flour?”

  “Possibly.”

  John tilted his head in disbelief. “I refuse to believe it. Why would he give them contaminated flour?”

  “Perhaps a bribe from Elgin? Perhaps to settle a score? There may be some history between the miller and the monastery that we don’t know about.”

  “Bianca, does anyone ever escape your suspicions?” said John.

  “Children. Children most certainly always do.”

  John raised his voice, unable to stifle his exasperation. “I, for one, am finished wondering about these people. I shall not continue to speculate about their private lives.”

  As John’s words grew more emphatic, the tavern quieted, so that the last sentence landed awkwardly, like a drunk falling face-first in his meat pie. Chagrined, he glanced around at the staring clientele.

  The serving wench sallied up to the pair with a contemptuous look on her face. “What’s this?” she asked, snatching the bag off the table and holding it up.

  “Flour,” answered Bianca.

  “Flour?” said the wench. “What ye got flour for?”

  “It is tainted,” said Bianca.

  The wench dropped the sack on the board like it had just bitten her. “What do ye mean, tainted?”

  Bianca stood and addressed the patrons. “I believe the flour is to blame for Goodwife Meg’s poor health. Until I can prove otherwise, do not eat any more bread.”

  The clientele stared with slack-jawed suspicion. Then, from across the room a voice said, “What do you mean, ‘until I can prove otherwise’? Who are you?”

  John tugged on Bianca’s sleeve, trying to get her to sit, or at least measure her words.

  “I am merely drawing a conclusion from my observations. I have no means to prove anyone’s guilt.”

  “Who are you saying is guilty?” asked the serving wench. “And i
f this flour be tainted, why do you have it?”

  A woman got to her feet. “When they carried Meg off the steps of the monastery, I saw her leave and go to the church alehouse.” Perhaps the woman believed she had been summoned for testimony, and was glad to give it. Her eyes narrowed at Bianca.

  “Is this flour from the church alehouse?” asked the wench.

  Bianca felt the weight of a dozen stares. She felt compelled to protect Brother Fromme, as she did not think him complicit, only naïve, perhaps. Nor did she want to cast doubt on the miller without being sure. “I am saying the bread may have gone off. It is better to avoid it for now.”

  A man snatched the bag of flour and opened it. He removed a fistful of flour and thrust it in Bianca’s face. “If this is tainted, then it should not be in your possession.”

  Before Bianca could utter a word, the man stalked over to the hearth and threw the bag into the fire. It momentarily doused the flames; then the cloth caught on fire, snapping and curling. Bianca did not object; to have done so would have looked suspicious.

  “I ate an entire loaf today, and I don’t feel any ill effects,” said Grayson. Several nodded in agreement. Far from being scared off his daily staple, he asked, “If the bread from the Stuffed is fine, the only other baker in town is Brother Fromme at the church alehouse. Are you saying he gave Meg a poisoned loaf?” He paused, letting the words hang in the air like bad vapors.

  John groaned, muttering under his breath, “Careful how you tread.”

  Before she could answer, another man stood. Bianca and John recognized him as the assistant to Littleton. “If you is thinking the flour is off,” he said, “why has no one at the Stuffed Goose become sick? The stock is the same.”

  Bianca swallowed, thinking what to say. Why should they avoid bread from the Stuffed when they were living proof that it was fine? She wondered if Littleton or some agent had poisoned the flour before its delivery to Brother Fromme. She could not conceive that Fromme would have cause to see his own livelihood fail. But perhaps her theory was ill conceived. Perhaps the flour was not polluted. Attempting to allay their fears, she said, “I may be wrong thinking the flour is to blame for Goodwife Meg’s malady. There is no reason to believe, nor do I have any proof, that the alehouse gave her tainted bread. The cause of her sickness may be something altogether different. I simply do not know.” Bianca sank down on the bench, feeling defeated. She had not thoroughly thought her argument through before speaking.

  John stood. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “You must forgive my wife. She is full of ideas that she cannot prove.”

  Bianca started to stand; however, the pressure from his hand prevented her.

  John smiled down at Bianca and patted her head. “She has had a tiring journey and her heart has been burdened with a sad loss of late. At times, strange ideas swim between her ears and I cannot dissuade her belief in them.” He smiled indulgently, like this was a cross he had to bear. “Please do not give her yammerings any more thought.” He ignored a painful kick to his shin from under the table. “She needs rest.” John took hold of Bianca’s arm, pulling her up. “Come along, now; let us retire and leave these good folks to their dinner.”

  Bianca’s jaw clenched and she pressed her lips tight to prevent herself from arguing, but she followed John’s lead. She had no explanation to defend her thinking. At least, she deferred to John so he could help her out of this predicament. She followed him from the tavern, affecting a confused manner.

  When they got to their chamber, John turned on her. “Have you lost your wits? What are you thinking telling these people that their flour is tainted? What proof do you have? Because it is my guess that you have none. Is this ‘just a hunch’?” He walked off, pressing his fingers against his temples, then turned. “You have managed to accuse not only your monks at the church alehouse but also Littleton of wrongdoing. This, after he graciously showed us his mill.”

  Bianca sat on the edge of the bed. “It may not have been Littleton. Someone could have sneaked into the alehouse kitchen and poisoned the flour.”

  John shook his head. “Littleton kindly indulged my interest. Not only have you made us unwelcome, but you’ve incited the suspicions of an entire village against him—and your baker monk.”

  “One of Elgin’s minions may have poisoned the flour.”

  John furiously paced the length of their bedchamber, which was not very long. “Why should they listen to you—a stranger? Let us hope that they do not.” He paced another few steps. “And what if the people of Dinmow protect their own and accuse us instead? I wager you have not considered that.”

  “John, I did not expect the serving wench to question the sack of flour.”

  “You dropped it on the table like it was a sack of gold angels. Of course it stirred her curiosity.”

  “I only meant to tell you that we needed to warn the citizens and try to protect them from another bout of deaths.”

  “God save us from your good intentions.” John covered his mouth with his hands, bracing his elbows against his chest. He continued to pace, thinking.

  Bianca flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the rafters.

  “We have to leave as soon as possible,” said John.

  “We should warn the church alehouse what has happened.”

  “Do you think they will not hear of this? I am sure someone is on their way to tell them,” said John. “Or accuse them!” The floorboards creaked as he trod back and forth, from one end of the room to the other. “I fear that when they find no answers, they shall accuse us of mischief. After all, the town was finally settling back into its routine. The deaths were beginning to fade from memory. Then we show up and Goodwife Meg gets sick.”

  “If indeed she is sick and this is not staged.”

  John ignored the comment and kept ranting. “And here we are newcomers with an interest in what happened a month ago. Strange how the problem reappears once we arrive.”

  “John, they can’t blame us for Goodwife Meg’s sickness.”

  “You think not? Never underestimate the reasoning of a small village full of small minds. And if she dies? Ooooh, I shall not wait around to find out.”

  Bianca gave only half an ear to John’s tirade. If the miller’s assistant was telling the truth, that the same lot of flour was given to both the alehouse and the Stuffed, then why were the loaves from the alehouse making people sick—if indeed Meg was not acting—and the tavern’s loaves remained harmless? John was right. Their time had run out. They could not delay while she figured out what or who was causing the outbreak.

  John lit the candle on the small table. A cobweb billowed lethargically in a corner from the rising heat in the tavern below.

  What was the difference between the flour at the alehouse and the flour at the Stuffed? One was deadly and the other was not. Assuming the flour was exactly the same, assuming that it had not been tampered with, and assuming Meg’s behavior was not for show, what would cause the loaves from the alehouse to harm while those from the Stuffed did not?

  “We must leave tonight. If we leave right now, it is as suspicious as if we had admitted our guilt.”

  Bianca closed her eyes and thought back to her time in the kitchen making bread for Duffy. He had given her a jar of soured dough to add. “He said we can’t get barm from the alehouse.”

  John stopped pacing. “What? Are you even listening to me?”

  “Aye. Go on.” Bianca closed her eyes and recalled the details of her visit in the brewery. The brewer had skimmed the vat of ale and given her a jar for the baker. “That is it!”

  “What is it?”

  “The barm.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “John, the difference between the loaves is in the method of bread making. The alehouse uses barm from their brewing, while the Stuffed adds soured dough to lighten their bread.”

  John stared at her.

  Bianca sat up. “We need to get a measure of flour from the Stuffed. We
also need some soured dough from them. And I will need a jar of barm from the alehouse. I’ve figured out a way to find out if that is the difference. Of course, the flour might still be tainted from the alehouse, while the tavern’s flour is not. But this is a starting point.”

  “Let the matter of Dinmow be, Bianca. I don’t see that it matters to Boisvert being in Newgate.”

  “John, a few days before Odile’s wedding, she received several gifts while I was collecting the gown she gave me. Crates of wine were delivered, an ouche from the Gold Guild—which pricked her, I remember. Then a young boy arrived bearing pax bread from the priest. At the dinner, Boisvert finished off the wine Odile sipped and did not suffer. The food did not poison her, because everyone partook of it. There was nothing served to her that was not served to the rest at the table.”

  “So you believe the pax bread was poisoned?”

  “It might have been tainted. It was given to her. It was meant for her alone.”

  CHAPTER 26

  It took some convincing, but John finally agreed to delay leaving town long enough for Bianca to raid the kitchen and brewery. Neither of them thought it wise to sit in the tavern, so they stayed in their room, waiting for nightfall. Worried that the citizens of Dinmow might be plotting against them, every so often, John crept down the stairs to listen in on the chatter from the tavern.

  “I think they are waiting to see what happens to Goodwife Meg before they come after you.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “They were mentioning the visitors from London and called you a strange girl.”

  Bianca humphed. “I don’t think I’m strange.”

  “Nay, you wouldn’t.”

  “If they are associating me with Meg’s malady, then let’s hope she survives until morning. By then we should have gotten some distance from here.”

  “I heard them say all was well until you showed up in town.”