The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  “Have ye a child?”

  Bianca’s eyes dropped and she replied softly, “Nay. I do not.”

  “Then methinks ye should not speak of what ye know nothing about.”

  Bianca realized she must have sounded accusatory, and tried a softer tone. “Goodwife, I mean no disparagement. You manage better than I under such difficult circumstances. When I saw Fisk he told me his father is fighting the King’s war.”

  “Aye,” she said in a small voice and glanced away.

  “If no harsh words were between you, then there must be a reason for him staying away.” Bianca didn’t mention the monk. She thought perhaps she should keep that to herself in case there was more to be learned from Fisk’s mother. As she stood there watching the woman push her hair from her face, Bianca noticed a fair-haired girl watching from across the room. She assumed her to be Fisk’s younger sister. The last time Bianca had seen her it was she who had hidden behind her mother’s skirt. The girl had lost some of that early innocence and from the look on her face, and Bianca sensed she had something to say.

  “Remind me of your name,” asked Bianca to the child, offering her an opportunity to speak.

  The girl opened her mouth, but cast an anxious glance at her mother, who must have warned her off with a stern look.

  “That is Anna,” said her mother. Her voice became stern. “Anna, come take your little sister and leave us be.” She pushed the toddler in the girl’s direction. “This is a matter for grown women.”

  Anna pinched her lips into a tight line and left the room.

  “I have to remind that is one of her chores. It is different for a girl. She can’t go wandering off like her brother. She needs to understand that.”

  “Did she have any thoughts about Fisk’s disappearance?”

  “Nay,” the woman scoffed. “Ye can’t believe half of what she says. She’s full of ideas and all of them are preposterous.”

  “When was the last time she saw Fisk?”

  The mother thought a moment. “Yesterday. She said Fisk had been chased at market.”

  “Chased. Did Anna see who chased him?”

  Fisk’s mother hesitated before speaking. “A man.”

  “Did Anna say why he chased Fisk?”

  The woman wasn’t going to admit that her son had been stealing even if Bianca suspected it to be true. The mistrust the woman had previously felt towards Bianca rekindled. Bianca could read it in her face.

  “Likely he got himself underfoot,” said his mother. “The boy is always going where he shouldn’t.” Despite the intentionally diverting answer, Bianca could hear the worry leaking from the corners of her words. If Fisk’s little sister had any useful information, it would have to wait until Bianca could speak to her alone. From the way the woman’s eyes avoided hers, Bianca sensed Fisk’s mother was holding something back. What that was, Bianca didn’t know.

  Realizing she would learn nothing more, Bianca got to the reason for her visit. “The reason I stopped by was that I wanted to offer Fisk work. I’d like him to help me in Southwark.”

  “Doing what?” asked the mother, suspicion in her voice.

  “I need someone to help collect plants and assist me in making remedies.”

  “The child cannot distinguish the leaf of a sage from a daffodil.”

  “It would not be difficult for him to learn.”

  Fisk’s mother snorted with doubt.

  Bianca thought it unforgiveable that she would so underestimate her son’s abilities. No wonder Fisk preferred being outside to listening to her hurtful remarks.

  “Goodwife, I can see that you are worried he has not come home,” she said. “But boys often make mischief and forget themselves. When he returns, will you send him to Southwark to talk to me?”

  Fisk’s mother gave a quick nod, but her distraction gave Bianca cause for doubt.

  For whatever reason Fisk had not come home, something was amiss. His mother’s peevishness alarmed her. Fisk was a bright child, and though Bianca wanted to believe there was a reasonable explanation for him to be missing, she could not dismiss the notion that he might be in danger. She had warned him away from this supposed monk and she wondered if he’d run afoul of the character. But neither could she dismiss the notion that his mother knew more than she was willing to tell.

  Chapter 12

  Father Foxcroft left the printer on Old Change, and, once in the lane, crossed himself and took a calming breath. He had struggled to keep an even temper, and the chance to slam a door behind him would have left no doubt in the fellow’s mind as to where he stood on the matter. But, thought Foxcroft, he needed to be more careful. A man in his position aspiring to a greater one needed to watch himself.

  After all, every word he spoke could influence his future. One never knew who might overhear and go galloping to Bishop Bonner in the hopes of crushing his ambitions. But one thing was for certain: if he was ever appointed archdeacon, he would put an end to these printers spreading ideas of religious reform.

  To be honest, the call for reform was nothing new. Clergy had always been accused of abusing their wealth and power, and of profiting at the expense of others. These accusations were not unfounded. He knew of priests and even monks who had taken women into their beds. And, true, he had enjoyed some wealth and had partaken of sumptuous meals paid for by the hard work of parishioners, tenant farmers, and sheep herders, and had enjoyed the extra money he’d got from reciting prayers of indulgence. He knew he was not completely innocent but, thought he with a self-righteous lift of his chin, his transgressions were of the standard order; he was only following tradition. His excesses were not nearly as detestable as some.

  In fact, since Cromwell’s reforms, Foxcroft’s efforts to lead his parishioners to salvation had been curtailed like all the others. Worst was that he could no longer collect for prayers of intercession for sinners. His relic of St. Stephen’s index finger—that brown, leathery monstrosity--had been absconded with by Cromwell’s commissioners. Father Foxcroft cursed the chief minister under his breath.

  Before the king got it into his head that marrying his brother’s wife was a sin, and therefore God was punishing him by refusing him a son, the priest had enjoyed a comfortable life and never wanted for anything. These people, these printers fomenting their ideas of reform--especially those extolling that heretic Martin Luther--was ruining hundreds of years of precedent.

  And now this particular fellow he glanced over his shoulder at the shop’s door--dispensing pamphlets to keep the names of their supposed “martyrs” fresh in the memory of naïve Londoners.

  Still grumbling over their heated exchange, Father Foxcroft sought a colleague at St. Benet’s Church. If Father Wells was not of similar mind, at least he would be a man of similar principles with whom he could commiserate. He trudged down Bennet’s Hill, passing what appeared to be three more printers. At one of these he stopped long enough to peer through the window fogged with condensation. Between the streams of water coursing down the glass he got a better look, but he couldn’t see what that fellow was busy printing. He riled, thinking that it was probably another pamphlet inciting the masses to gossip-mongering. No doubt the fellow printed a treatise of lies intended to stir religious dissent and to encourage people to be suspicious of clergy. There seemed to be no end to the number of people willing to spread malicious content.

  Arriving at St. Benet’s, Foxcroft strolled into the apse and, not seeing Father Wells, sought him in the sacristy. There he found the man organizing his vestments, smoothing out a silk stole and laying a second one on top.

  The men greeted one another. Father Wells took a chair and invited Foxcroft to sit.

  “I wanted to share my concern with you about the unfortunate event at St. Mary Magdalen’s.”

  “It is a sad occurrence,” Wells agreed.

  “Have you heard if they have learned the name of the victim?” asked Father Foxcroft.

  “So
, it is determined the boy was a victim? This was not self-murder?”

  “They think it unlikely that a boy would climb to such a great height for the purpose of hanging himself.”

  Father Wells nodded.

  Foxcroft repeated. “Then you have not heard if they have discovered his name?”

  “I have not,” answered Wells.

  “We must reassure our parishioners that such an evil deed will not go unpunished. If the murderer is not found, we must remind them that he will ultimately face judgement before God.”

  Wells pressed his lips together and closed his eyes in assent.

  Father Foxcroft could not be sure whether Wells’s tranquility wasn’t ennui. In fact, Wells appeared to have dozed off. Foxcroft’s eyes dropped to the man’s jeweled fingers. A large ruby graced his stumpy forefinger, though it could have been a garnet, he supposed. The priest’s chin disappeared in a mound of jowls and his cheeks glowed from a healthy blush. Obviously, the man had enjoyed the benefits of a church under Rome and had refused giving up all the material gains he had accrued.

  “I worry there will be more murders,” Foxcroft said, attempting to spur the conversation.

  Father Wells’s eyebrows jumped and he opened his eyes. “What would lead you to think that?” “I have a feeling.”

  “A premonition?” asked Father Wells, his eyes going slanty with suspicion.

  Foxcroft ignored Wells’s disapproval. Premonition, intuition, gut feelings--weren’t they all the same? And what were they if not God’s inchoate nudging? “What if it should happen again?” And here he leaned forward, staring intently at his fellow priest. “What if your church was targeted?”

  “St. Benet’s?” scoffed Father Wells. “Why would my church be the site of a murder?”

  “Alas…” He leaned back. “The next murder could just as easily happen at St. Andrew’s,” he suggested charitably.

  Wells tutted. “Why distress yourself unnecessarily, Foxcroft? All we can do is hope that they find the perpetrator and pray for protection from this evil.”

  “Father Wells, praying for protection from evil does not always prevent it from happening.”

  “What else do you suggest?” said Father Wells eyeing his guest.

  “I believe we must warn our flock against the vicious untruths that reformists and others are spreading.”

  “And how do you propose to do that? You cannot stop what has been put in motion.”

  “We must continue to refute the constant charges of corruption against us.”

  “The people will believe what they want,” answered Wells. “It is the opinion of our king and his minister and it serves them well. The wealth no longer flows to the continent or to us. We must live with this fact, sir, if indeed we want to survive.”

  Foxcroft thought what a blithe fellow this Wells. How accepting, how complacent. Foxcroft drummed his fingers on the armrests of the chair, feeling peevish.

  “Wells, have you given any thought as to why the murderer chose St. Mary Magdalen?”

  “Nay, I have not. It does not make sense for me to wonder why it occurred there. I do not think that Father Rhys is to blame--if that is what you are insinuating.”

  “I agree Father Rhys is blameless. However, it is human nature--and I am speaking here of our parishioners--to find someone to blame, whether or not they are culpable. And because the murder happened at his church, they may think Father Rhys is, in part, responsible for the incident.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Think on why the murderer chose his particular church. Of all the churches in London, he chose St. Mary Magdalen.”

  Father Wells squirmed in his chair. “Mayhap it was a matter of convenience,” he suggested. “The church may have been close by. I cannot imagine carrying a body, even that of a child’s, any distance. And then getting the body up to a tall window…” He crossed himself and shook his head. “The church may simply have been a random choice.”

  “You think it random?” Foxcroft sniffed. “I disagree. Have you wondered whether the murderer harbored a grievance toward Father Rhys? Choosing St. Mary Magdalen’s may have been the murderer’s way of pointing a finger at Rhys--a finger of accusation.”

  “I have known Rhys for years. He is a virtuous man and a faithful servant,” said Wells, rallying in his colleague’s defense. “There is no evidence for such an assertion.” Irritated, he glared at his cohort. “I do not know what you are trying to foment here, but your allegation is unfounded, and if I may be frank, it is insulting.”

  “Oh, I am not accusing Rhys of any misconduct.” Foxcroft waved his hand as if shooing away a fly. “I am only thinking out loud.”

  “Your line of thought troubles me, Foxcroft. These questions are better left to the magistrate and constable of the ward.”

  “I only wish to make you aware, Father. I believe we must prepare ourselves should any priest in Castle Baynard find himself in a similar circumstance.”

  Father Wells sat quietly. He pressed his fingertips together, considering his visitor over the tops of them. “Foxcroft, are you truly concerned for the priests of this ward, or is your distress do in part to your aspirations?”

  Foxcroft jerked his head to attention. How tart of Wells to mention his ambition. He felt himself revealed, vulnerable that his objective had been sniffed out by his passive counterpart.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, then just as quickly regretted saying it. “A man who worries over how he might appear is a man who believes he is being watched. And I wonder, Foxcroft, who do you think is watching you?” Wells’s mouth turned up in a half-grin. “Is it Bishop Bonner whom you wish to impress?”

  Foxcroft squeezed the armrests of his chair. It was true that he aspired to become archdeacon under Bonner. With the position came wealth and prestige. The benefice he received for his duties at St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe was measly by comparison to what he could earn under Bonner. Who wouldn’t want that? Was Wells jealous? Father Foxcroft did his best to feather his fall.

  “Wells, it is our duty to offer our parishioners reassurance and solace. I cannot pretend that nothing has happened in Castle Baynard ward. Mayhap your parishioners can ignore this tragedy and sally on, but I doubt that mine will.

  “Times are uncertain and we both know it. We both know how careful we must be. Neither of us wants to be accused of resisting the king’s mandate. He is the Supreme Head of our church. I am simply here to encourage you and our fellow priests of Castle Baynard that we must be careful. That is all.”

  Father Wells got to his feet and walked to the door, indicating his desire for Foxcroft to leave. “Sir, it is a caution of which I need no reminding.”

  ***

  Bianca left the neighborhood off Ivy Lane and walked to Constable Patch’s office in the adjacent ward. Even though Patch had no authority in Castle Baynard, Bianca’s concern was strong enough to keep working with him to find out what had happened. She had no intention of consulting Constable Berwick, preferring Patch’s pretentious nature to a bombast and a sot.

  So, in the interests of satisfying her curiosity and seeing a murderer brought to justice, she continued her investigation partnering with Patch. He did have some authority, she told herself, where she did not, and this often proved useful, but working with the man was never easy. He just couldn’t stop himself from being a nuisance at the wrong time, and he managed to irritate nearly everyone he came in contact with.

  Patch was busy goading a fellow he had locked away for skipping out of The Fell Inn one too many times without paying his tavern tab when Bianca stepped through the door.

  “Alewife Beth would like to see ye thrown in debtor’s prison, Malloy. She says ye’ve run a string of promises for two weeks now. Ye owe a prodigal son.”

  The man closed one eye, momentarily confused. “I tolds her when my note comes through I’d pay her,” he slurred, still sloppy from drink. He clung to the bars on the do
or in an effort to keep himself upright. His attire, while filthy from a street brawl, was of some station, so that his story might have had some truth to it. But neither the alewife nor Patch had any more patience.

  “Patch,” said Bianca, letting him know she was there.

  The constable looked over his shoulder and expressed surprise. “I didn’t expects to see ye so soon. Have ye anything for me?”

  With a clatter, the prisoner collapsed in his cell and lay in a heap. The stool that had been placed there lay on top of him. After a moment the man emitted a pitiful moan.

  Patch nudged him away from the door with the toe of his shoe.

  “Claims he has a note from Edward Clinton, the first Earl of Lincoln for services rendered.” Patch snorted. “But the Earl is on a galleon rocking back and forth off the south coast somewheres and can’t honor it right now. He’ll be going to Marshalsea debtor’s prison until then.” The constable sauntered back to the table that served as his desk and dropped himself into a chair with comfortable leather padding. He enjoyed the amenities of his office in London--a far cry from infamous Southwark where he had first started.

  “I visited a shop on Paternoster and showed the proprietor the rosary. He thought it a common piece, of no particular value.” Bianca withdrew the prayer beads from her purse and showed Patch the tiny carved letters. “I noticed letters carved in the back of the crucifix. I couldn’t make them out on my own and I wondered if they had any significance. He believes it is a Y, an H, and an S.”

  Patch looked at the print and pulled his scraggly chin hair. “Did he know who made the paternoster?”

  “He didn’t think the letters were the initials of the maker. He thought they might be the owner’s initials.”

  “That is not so helpful.”

  “He mentioned one other possibility. They might represent the cult of the Holy Name.”

  “The cult of the holy who?” Patch’s brows met in a furrow. “It smacks of subversion.”

  “He said the cult is a group of papists. Men whose loyalties remain firmly with the pope.”