“It never fails to astonish me how quickly people blame new-comers.” Bianca cracked open the shutter and gazed out at the dark street below. “But I don’t suppose we can tell them that.” She looked up the street in the direction of the monastery. “I don’t see much activity outside.”
“There are still plenty of patrons in the ken,” said John. “But it’s getting late. Hopefully, they will go home soon.”
“We’ll have to rely on our best guess when it will be safe. We’ll stay awake until everyone has left, then wait extra for the kitchen to close.” Bianca secured the shutter when the wind changed direction and blew rain into the room.
John chewed at his thumb. “I am anxious to be on our way.”
“Then why don’t you slip out and go to the brewery to get a jar of barm? I can meet you by the gristmill.”
“Firstly, it is late, and do you expect them to answer when I knock? They don’t know who I am. And if they were to answer, shall I tell them what happened here and that you inadvertently cast blame on them regarding Meg?”
“You might word it differently.”
“I won’t leave you alone. It isn’t safe.”
Eventually the sound of conversation thinned from below and the two prepared to leave Dinmow. There was no clock to chime the hour, no night watchman to announce the time. They relied on their wits and sense of human nature to tell them when it was safe to creep from their room. John sneaked down the stairs, careful to land his feet softly on the treads. Bianca waited at the top, crouching, watching him disappear into the serving room. It was not the first time in her life that she had been suspected of wrongdoing. She concentrated on calming herself. Her thudding heart never sounded as loud as she imagined.
In a moment, John appeared at the foot of the stairs and motioned her down. Bianca clutched her boots to her chest, gathering her kirtle in front. She slowly descended to his side.
They moved carefully through the vacant room. The fire had burned down; weak embers flickered in the downdraft. Pausing beside the hearth, Bianca leaned against John to pull on her boots. Cinders sizzled from an occasional drop of rain from the chimney. No light shone from the kitchen.
Bianca kept a hand on John’s back, feeling his muscles tense as he navigated through the dark, past trestle tables and benches. At the entrance to the kitchen, they stopped. The only sounds of stirring were their own.
The kitchen was as dark as the water in Morgan Stream. Lifting her nose, Bianca relied on her sense of smell and memory to find the starter dough. She moved ahead and led the way to a back wall, her hands in front of her, feeling the way. Within feet of the storage shelves, Bianca paused to concentrate.
“Hurry!” John hissed. “Someone’s coming!”
Her sense of smell rarely failed. John never put much faith in her keen nose, dismissing her ability as lucky guesses. But more than once, her skill had proved useful. She put her hand on a jar and took a whiff.
She had just pinched off a goodly portion of dough when John pulled her down, nearly knocking the jar out of her hand. The two stooped behind the large trestle table and held their breath.
Someone moved through the tavern, muttering, and stumbled over a bench. They heard him curse, then shove the bench irritably. Whoever it was, he knew where to find a candle. After some bumbling and additional cursing, the room became illuminated in an unwelcome glow. The visitor moved around the periphery and lit the wall sconces. The light threw intrusive shadows into the corners of the kitchen.
“We’ve got to go!” John breathed in Bianca’s ear.
“I need flour.”
“Fie the flour! I’d rather have my life!”
A second person entered the tavern from the front door. The two spoke loudly enough for them to hear every word.
“It is sad about Goodwife Meg.”
“Aye that. ’Tis a sorry shame, but at least she is at peace now.”
“A terrible time of it. Allen is unhappy.”
“As well he should be. I have not much empathy for the man. Meg will find more cheer in purgatory than she ever did in his bed.”
The front door opened and soon the inn came alive with opinions. The conversations became jumbled, a confusion of words and declarations.
John kept his voice low. “In a matter of minutes they shall come through looking for ale. We must leave!”
“I need some flour; then we shall go.” Bianca swiveled on her heels, feeling along the dark back wall for the sacks. She found an opened bag and had to presume it was from the same stock given to the church alehouse. Asking John to lug a three-stone flour sack back to London wouldn’t happen on the best of days, and it certainly wasn’t going to happen now.
“Here!” she said, thrusting the jar of soured dough at John. “We’ll take it with us.” She turned her attention to finding something to put the flour in.
No empty sacks were stashed, as they were continually returned to the mill and refilled. As she felt with her hand along one of the upper shelves, she found a folded cloth used for covering the rising dough. She shook it out and laid it on the table in front of her. “You’ll have to dump some flour into it,” she whispered, taking back the jar and dropping it in her pocket.
“I can’t see well enough to do it without making a mess!”
“You can feel, though.” Bianca pulled his arm and laid his hand on the sack of flour. “This one.”
“What if they—”
“Shh!” Bianca placed her finger against his lips.
The voices grew louder and their chance to steal a measure of flour was almost gone. John dragged the bag away from the wall, then hoisted it over the square of linen. He began shaking it out, missing the cloth, spilling flour on the table and floor. Exasperated, Bianca tried directing the cumbersome bag over the square. The sound of voices nearing the kitchen sent a surge of panic down both their spines.
“Stay!” Bianca put her hand up to stop his pouring and tugged John down beside her on the floor behind the table.
Light from a candle invaded the kitchen, and following close behind it was Elgin. The suspicious mound of flour on the board and the slightly quivering shadows against the back wall went unnoticed. He headed to the cask room and was soon joined by two others.
Bianca and John listened to ale being poured.
“Take those back to Grayson and Stevens, then come back for more.”
Bianca wondered if Elgin was going to be trooping back and forth fetching drinks for the next hour, then dreaded the thought of the entire village of Dinmow arriving to discuss Goodwife Meg. As soon as they saw their chance, they would have to bolt for the back door.
They peered between the trestle’s legs, following the human ones passing through the kitchen. The purpose was for ale, but Bianca feared it would not be long before someone lingered, scrounging for food. Perspiration trickled down her front, and it wasn’t from the layered clothing and cape that she wore.
More disconcerting than worrying when a chance to escape would present itself was hearing “the couple from London” mentioned. She tried to suppress a growing sense of outrage at being blamed for this latest outbreak. There was no use in explaining her methods to the people of Dinmow. They needed an explanation for this strange affliction, and she and John were convenient to blame.
However, when Bianca heard the word “witch” being bantered about, her knees nearly gave out. John took her hand. He’d heard it, too.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” said Elgin, emerging from the cask room. “I have something to take care of.”
The men exited the kitchen, leaving Elgin alone. Bianca and John heard him fumble about, securing the stopcocks. In a moment he returned to the kitchen and strolled toward the serving room, taking the candle and the light with him. Soon they would have the cover of darkness to their advantage.
But watching his heel disappear through the door, they were unsettled to see him return just as quickly. Elgin paused in front of the trestle where thei
r pile of flour sat on its square of linen. The light of the candle shone on either side of the table and the back wall. They stared, wide-eyed, at Elgin’s legs, his boots worn and covered in mud.
“How strange,” Elgin said. Then he turned away and headed out the door.
John squeezed Bianca’s hand. Without a word, they slowly stood, listening for the sounds of a surprise return visit. John stepped from behind the trestle and glanced over his shoulder, expecting Bianca to be on his heels. Instead, she was hastily gathering the corners of the linen and tying them together.
She ignored her husband’s dagger stare and motioned him on.
As a matter of survival, John kept his mouth shut and quickly cat-toed through the kitchen. Bianca followed. At the rear of the building, in the cask room, they faced a door. She yanked the back of John’s jerkin as he reached to open it.
Bianca pointed to the rusty hinges and shook her head. She thrust the bag of flour into his hands, then shouldered in front of him, unwrapping a cloth. Bianca dipped several fingers into a chunk of lard and smeared it on the worrisome iron. After a final check over her shoulder, she nodded for John to let them out.
John cautiously opened the door just wide enough for them to slip through. They’d moved to leave, when unexpectedly their way became perfectly lit.
“Well, well,” said the candle bearer. “It is the strangers of London.”
CHAPTER 27
Elgin stood in the doorway of the cask room, his face lit ghoulishly by the candle he held near his chin. “It is late for a walk. Rascals who avoid their debt are roundly flogged in Dinmow.”
There was no time to quibble. John spun about, knocking the candle out of Elgin’s hand, and punched him square in the face. The innkeeper staggered and received a second blow—this time to his stomach. As Elgin grunted and doubled over, John threw a final jab to the jaw. The man fell, sprawling backward into the kitchen.
“Come!” John grabbed Bianca’s hand and pulled her out the door.
They ran down an alley, slipped between two buildings, and came out on the main thoroughfare. As they stood huffing for breath, they saw several men outside the Stuffed Goose tavern and dove back into the gap between buildings.
“When Elgin is discovered, they’ll come after us,” said Bianca. “We can’t use the alley.”
“I don’t think those men in the street saw us,” said John.
“At least the rain is to our advantage. They won’t stand around in it for long. They’ll go inside.”
John cautiously peered around the corner. His head snapped back. “They’re still there.”
“We’ve got to get to the church alehouse.”
“Are you mad? I imagine that is the first place they’ll come looking for us.”
“I’ve got to get a jar of barm.”
“Leave it, Bianca! We’ll be lucky to escape with our lives.”
“We can’t waste time arguing. Meet me at the gristmill bridge. I’ll only be a short while. They’ll be looking for the pair of us. They won’t be looking for one person walking down the street.”
“Do I need to remind you that at this hour, anyone out walking is cause for suspicion?”
Bianca gave John a peck on the cheek. “I won’t be long.” Without a second’s hesitation, she skirted past and walked boldly out into the lane.
It was too late now, thought John. He peeped around the corner a second time. The last man had filed into the tavern and was pulling the door closed behind him. John leaned back against the building. Bianca was nothing if not lucky.
* * *
At first, Bianca didn’t dare look behind her—to do so would have appeared suspicious. So she kept a quick pace, slogging up the muddy road toward the monastery. When she had the chance to run without anyone noticing, she did.
Dark is an advantage on a rainy night, and Bianca folded easily into it. At the monastery, she slunk along the exterior wall. So far, no one seemed to be following her. She disappeared through the arched gate and hurried toward the alehouse, a low-lying fog obscuring her path. But like an apparition rising out of the sulfurous vapors of hell, the alehouse appeared to her out of the thick brume surrounding it.
The building was closed and shuttered. Bianca tried the door, banging loud enough to be heard over the rain. Water poured off the eaves, and she stepped back, checking behind her. Still no one had followed, but she didn’t believe that they wouldn’t.
Deciding no one was in the alehouse, Bianca ran to the rear of the building to try the brewery. She expected that door to be locked. To her surprise, it was not. Cautiously, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She threw the bolt to give herself extra time if she needed to escape.
“Brother Felton? Brother Fromme?” No answer came. With hands outstretched, she felt her way to the large brewing vat and found the wood ladder leaning against it. One hand on the staves, she walked around to the back side, where jars and bowls were kept. Her toe stumped the table, rattling the containers, and Bianca grubbled around until she found an empty jar with a stopper. She circled back to the ladder and climbed.
At the top, she lowered the jar and skimmed the surface of the mash. She was tipping the jar to try to see how much barm she’d gotten, when the sudden scratch and flare of a flint startled her. She nearly dropped the sample into the ale.
“Brother March!”
The aged Benedictine lit a lantern and held it before him.
“I cannot delay,” she said, descending the ladder. “I’ve taken some barm to test. All things being equal, the only difference between the food at the Stuffed Goose and the alehouse is in the way the bread is made. That may be the key to what is making people sick.”
“You believe we are at fault.” He said this flatly, a statement rather than a question.
“Nay.” She shook her head adamantly. “I have given it much thought. I may have uncovered a connection between what has happened here, and a similar incident in London.” Bianca stepped off the bottom rung. “I do not believe you are to blame. I believe you may be a victim, either of circumstances or of purposeful mischief.”
The light from Brother March’s lantern flickered. His expression remained unchanged. Neither idea seemed to be important to him.
Bianca looked around. “Where is Brother Fromme, Brother Felton?”
“They have fled. Everyone has left.”
Bianca met his somber stare. In that brief moment, Brother March’s face told her everything. There comes a time when one doesn’t run.
“If I could stay, I might be able to determine the reason behind these peculiar deaths.” She said this not as an offer, but so he would understand that she didn’t think them culpable. If circumstances were different, if the villagers hadn’t become suspicious, if Boisvert weren’t sitting in Newgate accused of murder, if John hadn’t struck Elgin . . .
The lamp illuminated Brother March’s weary face—a face grizzled with age but peaceful in resolve. He met her eyes, and she felt the shame of her hollow claim. If the town of Dinmow wanted blood, Brother March was prepared to give them his. There was beauty in his acceptance. He did it for the good of his brothers—even for the good of her.
It was useless to encourage him to change his mind and flee. Nor did she suggest that he hide. Her time had run out, and, sadly, so had his. She firmly pushed the stopper into the jar of barm and dropped it in her pocket.
Brother March shone the light toward the back of the brewery. “A short set of stairs leads to the storehouse. At the far end is a door that faces the river.” He signed a cross in the air in front of her. “Godspeed.”
* * *
John stood in the gap between the buildings for a long minute, pondering. He could do as Bianca asked and wait for her at the gristmill bridge, but that made him uneasy. Bianca had a knack for getting into trouble. He shuddered, thinking what might have happened to her if he’d not followed his instincts and checked a certain warehouse in Romeland just nine months before.
John peeked out from the gap in the buildings and looked toward the Stuffed Goose. The road was empty. He looked in the other direction. Bianca had disappeared into the mist near the monastery. He took off after her.
He could keep his distance and watch for the inevitable angry rabble that would try to find them. Once they discovered Elgin’s body sprawled in the cask room and the back door swinging wide, it would not take them long to react. He had no plan for preventing their coming after him. But he could warn Bianca and possibly distract them off her trail.
Ducking into the monastery grounds, he could not see far enough into the fog to know in which direction she’d gone. He relied on the feel of the worn path beneath his feet, hoping it would lead him to Bianca.
To his relief, the path took him alongside the church, where he was briefly protected from the driving wind. Seeing no sign of Bianca at the alehouse, he assumed she must be inside. There was no time for polite knocking and waiting for someone to answer. He pushed against the door. It resisted, and he drove his shoulder into it. Nothing. He pounded and tried kicking—all to no avail. The shutters, he noted, were closed and secured. Sliding his fingers under a gap, he tried prying them open, but they did not budge.
In the thick of fog and night, John heard the unmistakable shouts of men entering the monastery grounds. It had not taken them long to find Elgin and decide where to go. John ran around to the back of the alehouse and saw a second building a short distance away. Surely that was the brewery, and Bianca must be in there.
To his exasperation, that door was also locked. Just as he raised his fist to knock, the voices behind him grew distressingly loud. A glance over his shoulder confirmed the spreading glow of torches and lanterns approaching.
Death at St. Vedast Page 22