Death at St. Vedast

by Mary Lawrence

  “I suppose you could describe him so.”

  “That was Martyn.”

  “Did he ever mention delivering bread to Odile at the house on Mayden Lane?”

  “Nay.”

  “Ask him. Find out who gave him the loaf to deliver.” Bianca saw Fisk to the door, reminding him not to eat anything at St. Vedast. “Stay watchful. Don’t trust anyone—except me.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Bianca knew where to find Henry Lodge, member of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths and churchwarden to St. Vedast. If he was not at the church or the Goldsmiths’ Hall, she knew where he lived. Her luck held, for she did not have to spend half the day tracking him down. The man assumed his role as churchwarden that next morning, and Bianca found him in the cleric’s office, straightening papers on Father Nelson’s desk.

  She had stayed awake well into the night, waiting for her bread to rise, then preparing the oven for baking. John had helped shovel coals into the oven and had fallen asleep by the time it got hot, so that Bianca was tasked with removing the ashes while he snored, content in bed. She had plenty of time to think and not so much to sleep. She had dozed for a couple of hours, deciding to test the loaves after visiting the churchwarden. The short walk to St. Vedast in the bracing cold revived her like a slap to the cheek. Her arrival went unnoticed in the echoing interior of the nave; she stood outside of Father Nelson’s office for a long minute before Henry Lodge realized she was there. He startled at seeing her watching him.

  “One usually announces one’s arrival,” he said, his tone short.

  “You looked intent; I thought I should not interrupt.”

  Lodge neatened a stack of papers and laid a leather cover on top of them. He squared his shoulders as he stepped from behind the desk. “I have a great deal to take care of. Do you wish to speak with me?”

  “I understand Father Nelson has been detained.”

  “You are mistaken,” said Henry Lodge. “He has not been detained.”

  Bianca looked around. “He is not here. There is no mass this morning. Where is he, if not here?”

  “Father Nelson has been taken into custody for his own protection.”

  “Protection?” said Bianca. “Has God forsaken him?”

  One of Lodge’s eyes twitched.

  If the man found her distasteful to speak with, then she would match his rancor with her own simmering resentment. “So where might this ‘custody’ be, sir?”

  “Perhaps you might inform me why it is a concern for you.”

  “My husband’s master is in Newgate Prison, accused of a murder he did not commit. It was simple to take him into custody, especially when the constable received a bribe for doing so.” Bianca noticed Lodge’s eyes widen. “I saw the constable smile after consulting Oro Tand at Boisvert’s wedding dinner. The constable tucked a coin into his pocket.”

  “Perhaps you only thought you saw this.”

  “I know something of crafty slights of hand, sir—I used to be a cutpurse.” Bianca enjoyed telling him this. “And now a priest is sitting—perhaps in prison—to be protected, so you say. Is his ‘protection’ by your recommendation?”

  Henry Lodge pressed his hands together lightly at his fingertips, pointing them toward the floor. He turned his ear toward her, regarding her through the corner of his eye. “My recommendation?” His mouth turned up as if he thought she should know. “I seek to mollify a precarious situation. A crowd gathered, accusing Father Nelson of conjuring evil upon their loved ones. I removed him so that nothing would happen to the man. I do not trust the decisions of an unpredictable and vulgar rabble.”

  “So it was not just a small number whose families were affected?”

  Lodge ignored her question. “I wish to avoid trouble. St. Vedast can ill afford another death associated with it.”

  “And have there been any deaths resulting from this latest condemnation?”

  “I do not know. However, Father Nelson is safe if that should happen.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The ward constable guards him.”

  “The same man who took Boisvert to Newgate?”

  Lodge hesitated. “It is the same constable. However, I do not measure his scruples based on a bribe that you . . . supposedly . . . saw. He is a thoughtful lawman, bound by principle.”

  “Bound by principle?” Probably those principles were malleable depending on who was setting them. Her eyes scanned Father Nelson’s office while she considered the churchwarden’s response. If he was telling the truth, then she could not fault his acting in the best interests of the priest and St. Vedast Church. Perhaps his motivation was to protect Father Nelson and the building.

  But what if he sought to rid the building of Father Nelson? Bianca’s gaze settled on the churchwarden, who was glaring at her with his arms now folded across his chest. Did he harbor a secret desire to be the holy cleric of his own church? Had he had the priest removed to save the man? Or was there another incentive behind the priest’s removal?

  She remembered Lodge’s show of approval at the wedding dinner. He was an entirely different man, considering his cold exchange with Oro Tand just hours before at the ceremony. In fact, he had upset Odile’s goblet in his attempt to take her hand.

  “Were you surprised about Odile’s death at her dinner, Master Lodge?” Bianca watched him carefully.

  “It was sudden and unexpected. A cruel way to end a marriage—for anyone.”

  “Did you know Odile well?”

  Lodge hesitated to answer. “I first met her at court. She attended Anne Boleyn.” His eyes took on a faraway look. But just as quickly, his features hardened and he resisted further prodding. “Her death is an unfortunate turn of fate. But one that is not mended by simply wishing it otherwise.”

  Bianca got nothing more out of the churchwarden. He was a cold cuffin, to be sure.

  * * *

  Bothered by Henry Lodge’s reasoning, Bianca paid the constable a quick visit to confirm the churchwarden’s claim. The tinkling bell alerted the constable of Aldersgate to her arrival, and he interrupted his conversation with his deputy to watch her enter.

  “That will be all,” he said to the man, who bowed, then quit the room.

  The constable, dressed in a smart fig-colored doublet, turned to face her. “How now?” he said. “Are you here to challenge my decision to gaol Boisvert? You have already expressed your opinion on the matter. I needn’t hear it a second time.”

  “Nay, Constable. I have learned that you have taken in Father Nelson of St. Vedast Church. I understand he is under your protection.”

  The constable’s head tilted in question. “Protection?”

  “Henry Lodge informed me.”

  “Ah,” said the constable, his chin lifting. “He has a peculiar way of stating it.”

  “Sir?”

  “The priest is here for practicing sorcery. His parishioners claim he cavorts with Satan.”

  “There must be some misunderstanding,” said Bianca. “Henry Lodge told me that members of the congregation have suddenly begun acting erratic. But it is through no fault of Father Nelson’s. Lodge worried the priest might come to bodily harm from rioting parishioners. He said you agreed to keep him in custody for his own protection.”

  “So say he? I suppose that sounds less inflammatory.” The constable snorted. “Churchwarden Lodge did not ask for Father Nelson’s protection. He asked for Father Nelson’s removal. The priest is responsible to the members of the congregation and is blatantly remiss.”

  Bianca blinked. “This is not a temporary detainment?”

  “Decidedly not. The practice of sorcery is a felony by order of the king’s writ—de heretico comburendo.”

  “I believe there is a misunderstanding.”

  “There is nothing to misunderstand. The churchwarden said Father Nelson would destroy the parish and its members. His conjuring produced strange effects in people above the course of nature.”

  Bianca puzzled
over the constable’s wording. Had Henry Lodge lied to her? Or had the constable read something more into Lodge’s request? She wasn’t sure whom to believe. “Has anyone died since Father Nelson’s arrest?”

  “Two have become gravely ill.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “They act as if they are possessed with the demon’s malignant magic.”

  “Sir, can you describe these effects?”

  The constable sighed, then ticked off a number of symptoms that were similar to those that preceded the deaths she’d studied over the course of the past week. The young woman’s demise at St. Vedast, Odile’s sudden death at her wedding, the Dinmow deaths . . . If the bread was suspect, how did it get rationed to the victims, and was it dispersed with malicious intent?

  “I have an idea how people are becoming sick,” said Bianca. “It may have import for Father Nelson as well as for Boisvert. But I have some missing pieces to find.” Bianca started for the door.

  “You have some pieces to find?” repeated the constable, incredulous. “How sure of you.” He lifted his chin. “Pride doth bloom today, but take heed, sweet maid; there always comes a killing frost.”

  * * *

  The gravity of proving her theory spurred Bianca back to Boisvert’s rent to finish her work. She had no real sense of how long it would take for the rats to react to the different breads. In fact, she wasn’t certain the bread was to blame for the strange behavior. As she thought back on the victims of Dinmow, tainted flour was the strongest possibility that came to mind. If the same flour had been used by both establishments, and only the church alehouse bread made people sick, then it was possible that either someone had gotten in and contaminated the church alehouse flour and left the tavern’s flour alone or there was a difference in how the two breads were made. However, the flour she’d used to bake her loaves came from the Stuffed. If none of the loaves harmed the rats, then she would know that the flour at the church alehouse had indeed been tampered with.

  If she put aside the victims of Dinmow, was there a connection between the victims in London? How or why did particular people come in contact with a poisoned bread? Had it purposely been given to Odile, the maid who fell from the church, and the boy whose parents claimed he was controlled by malefic spirits? If one of the loaves made the rats sick, then the issue was in how the bread was made. And if that was the case, then Bianca would have to find bakers in London who used the same method of baking and received shipments of flour from Dinmow—a daunting task. Either that or uncover a common link in any or all of the deaths. And she hoped the common link might be a person.

  Bianca went upstairs and saw that John had left a fire to burn itself out. Hobs slept curled on the floor in front of the hearth, content and happy to have his people back home to stoke the fire.

  “Where is John off to?” she asked him, placing her hands on her hips.

  Hobs briefly opened his eyes, then closed them. Bianca moved the three loaves of bread onto the board. For the time being, Hobs seemed more interested in sleeping than in gnawing on freshly baked bread.

  In the corner of the forge, the rats stirred in their cages at the sound of her approach. She had made enough money from her balms to employ a blacksmith to create the iron pens. Though heavy, they were a small inconvenience compared to her previous cages, woven with serrated rush to discourage their chewing their way out of them.

  She chose three cages, each containing a pair of rats, and set them at the bottom of the steps. It was possible to carry only one while climbing the narrow stairs. The commotion woke Hobs from his nap, and he came round to peer at the rats through the slats and hiss.

  One by one, Bianca lugged the pens across the room, then hoisted them onto the board. Mindful to keep them separate, she set a cage next to each baked loaf. “There,” she said, satisfied. She then pulled off portions of the three loaves and fed the rats.

  Hobs wandered between the pens, sniffing and troubling the vermin until finally sitting partway between two of the cages.

  Bianca nursed the fire alive and prepared a cup of infused rosemary and peppermint to drink while she sat and observed the results. She was grateful this experiment was easier than prying open the rats’ mouths to feed droppers of solutions down their throats—a necessary undertaking that had proved her innocence nine months before.

  She was no more than settled with her tea when the fire snapped from a sudden downdraft as the door slammed below and John stomped up the stairs.

  “You missed the excitement,” said Bianca as he entered.

  John removed his hat and coat. He eyed the cages on the table. “You and I have different definitions of the word.” He frowned at the loaves of bread, then ambled over to the cupboard to pull out a bag of oats. “Porridge again?”

  “Better than bread that will make you crazed.” Bianca took the oats and dumped them in a kettle of boiling water with her leftover mint leaves. “So tell me, what have you learned?”

  “I visited Boisvert at Newgate.” He sat down on the bench between the cages. “Can we cover them? I don’t like their beady eyes staring at me.”

  “I have to be able to see what happens.” Bianca stuck a wooden spoon into the pot and stirred the oats. “Just ignore them.”

  John positioned his back toward the cages and continued his story. “Boisvert is not well. The fleas and lice are chewing him to bits. He has been pent up without proper food or warmth for too long. There is talk of a trial. You can imagine how his spirits have suffered.”

  “They have no evidence against him. Just an accusation. Why are they so quick to try him?”

  “They want to be rid of him. He can’t inherit Odile’s money if he is dead.” John pulled off the leather strip holding his hair in a tail and teased Hobs with it.

  “So you believe this has something to do with the Gold Guild.” Bianca chopped an apple and added it to the pot.

  “Consider the connections between Odile, Boisvert, Oro Tand, Henry Lodge, and the Company of Goldsmiths. If Odile had not contested her husband’s will, as you said, the Guild would have benefited. There is plenty of ill will between them. Someone wanted Odile and now Boisvert out of the way.”

  Bianca peered into the cages. “The question is—who will benefit?” She went back to the pot of porridge and stirred it. “I don’t understand how the Guild can inherit the money if Boisvert is out of the way.”

  “Perhaps if Odile’s last will and testament is reneged, Lionel Farendon’s will is reinstituted.”

  “But what is the connection between the Goldsmiths’ Company and tainted bread?”

  “If, indeed, the bread is tainted, and if, indeed, there is a connection,” said John.

  “Boisvert said Oro Tand was sitting outside of the solicitor’s office when they went to attend to her will. When I confronted him with Boisvert’s claim, he denied being there—until I pressed him. Then he said he had business with Benjamin Cornish.”

  Hobs hooked a claw into John’s finger, so John abandoned the leather strip and let the cat chew on it.

  “I wonder what sort of business Oro Tand had with Benjamin Cornish,” mused Bianca, returning to the porridge.

  “Perhaps Cornish handles the guild’s legal work. There might be several goldsmiths who use Cornish’s services. If he does well by one, then he is recommended to others. Tand’s appointment may only have been a coincidence,” said John.

  “I’m a little surprised you find the Gold Guild possibly suspect.”

  “I am not blind to their treatment of my master. No one from the guild has come to his aid at Newgate. My first obligation is to him.”

  Bianca stirred the oats, found two bowls from the previous night’s stew, and dumped the leftover cabbage bits into the oats. “The only way to know Tand’s business is to go through Cornish’s office and see if we can find any relevant papers concerning him. What if it was Tand who enlisted Cornish to contest Odile’s will?”

  John’s stomach tightened. “Are you
proposing we break into a solicitor’s office?”

  “If you didn’t know me so well, I could accuse you of hearing me think.” Bianca sniffed the oats and squinted.

  “Tonight?” he asked, knowing full well what to expect.

  “Tonight,” confirmed Bianca.

  John propped his chin in his hand and watched the rats. So far, the creatures looked content. Their bellies were slightly distended from their meal. A couple of them ground their teeth, and their eyes quivered.

  “Look there, his eyes are throbbing,” he said, noticing the behavior in one particular rat.

  “They do that when they are happy. A little like Hobs twitching in his sleep.” Bianca ladled a bowl of porridge and set it before him, then served herself. She sat down opposite John.

  The oats tasted oddly minty, but Bianca didn’t notice and John was too hungry to care. They had taken only a couple of spoonfuls when Hobs sprang from the table, his fur on end, his claws bared.

  A rat ran up the side of the cage, clawed across the top, upside down, dropped off, and repeated its antics. Its mate cowered in a corner. This mad frolic repeated, until after a few minutes, the second rat joined in.

  Bianca slid down the bench and peered into the other cages. “If these rats stay quiet,” she said, nodding to the middle rats, “we’ll know that the bread from the church alehouse is to blame. The Stuffed Goose used a soured dough in their recipe. The church alehouse used barm from their brewery.” She beamed at John, who had taken his bowl and was eating standing up. “I was worried that neither bread would have any effect. I would not have been able to prove that the flour at the church alehouse had been tainted.”

  John offered a wan smile of encouragement. He went back to his porridge and was grumbling about how most men did not share their board with cages of rats when, without warning, a second cage of rats began acting out. “So you’ve now got more than one pen going mad.”

  Bianca went over to watch the rats rasp and hang by their hind legs from the top slats. “These were given bread made with only flour and water.”

  “So what does this prove?”