“Have you any thoughts as to why two churches in this ward have been the sites of such a heinous crime? Why is this area plagued with this problem?”
“Mayhap the murderer, assuming it is just one murderer, lives nearby.”
“You think it a matter of convenience?”
Father Wells nodded. He looked to take his leave but Bianca had not finished questioning him.
“Is Bishop Bonner specifically looking at the priests from nearby parishes to make his appointment for archdeacon?”
The priest’s face lifted with recognition. “I do not presume to know the Bishop’s intent. But, of late, he has taken an interest here.”
Bianca thought a minute. “Remind me, sir, what other churches are in the Ward?” There were over a hundred parish churches in London, and it was impossible for her to know the names of all of them.
“There is St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, Father Foxcroft’s church,” said Wells.
“Any others?”
“Well, there is St. Paul’s.”
The cathedral didn’t fit the murderer’s pattern of targeting smaller parish churches. Not only was it massive but it was almost constantly occupied. Beggars slept against its walls, and there seemed to always be thieves and charlatans looking for an opportunity. “And who is the priest there?”
“Several men handle the position.”
“And were those men present at the meeting?”
“They were not. The Bishop separates the business of the Cathedral from that of the parishes.”
“I see,” said Bianca, thinking.
“If that is all, I have a mass for which I must prepare,” said Father Wells.
Bianca startled out of her thoughts. She would not let him get away without asking one last question. “Father Wells, you are not wearing a paternoster.”
The priest appeared flustered and his face began to pink. “I have misplaced it.” He craned his neck looking past Bianca at someone entering the apse. “I must excuse myself now.” And Father Wells left her to wonder.
***
Near Melrose, Scotland
They waited for night to settle. They did not move until all trace of day was swallowed by a vast silky dark above. The king’s army had turned southern Scotland into a bare and blackened wilderness and before them lay the sleepy hamlet of Melrose, waiting to be feasted upon, to be pillaged, for havoc to be wreaked.
As the men descended upon Melrose, John could see the outline of its abbey in the moonlight, shaped like a fluted cross--an Amalfi, he would later be told. With its beautiful stones and elegant east window, Melrose Abbey was considered one of the most beautiful in all the land.
Sir Eure and Sir Layton took up where the Earl of Hertford left off and made Melrose suffer a second time. They took whatever booty they could find.
Between the burning and the destruction, Sir Eure launched a search for the embalmed heart of Robert the Bruce. Sepulchers were overturned and smashed. Flagstones pried up and sacred rooms plundered. John had been entailed to search the graveyard and this he did with a listless spirit of indifference. He studied markers and lent his muscle when told, and luckily for him, in the ensuing mayhem, his lack of wild rabble-rousing was taken for methodical efficiency.
For all of their thorough ransacking, they did not find the hero’s heart.
Instead, they found something of even greater value. They discovered the Earl of Angus’s family tombs. In two crypts near the high altar lay the esteemed members of the Douglas clan--the sacred resting place of the erstwhile defenders of the region and Melrose Abbey.
Meanwhile, the Earl of Angus, England’s sworn enemy, watched from Eildon Hills with his men. And in his darkest moments of despair, The Earl never could have imagined the blasphemy perpetrated upon his kin by this cruel agent of King Henry--Sir Ralph Eure.
Eure ordered the tombs defaced and the bodies dismembered. His men hacked apart the limbs and scattered them on the ground. The transgression pleased Sir Eure, a man with a heart as black as the graves that he desecrated.
As the turmoil raged around him, John left Melrose Abbey and stood guard on the outskirts of town. If the Earl of Angus and his men were anywhere near, surely he would not stand by as his family’s honor was profaned.
But the Scottish army did not come.
John stared at the distant hills but was unable to distinguish an outline of horses from a ridge of trees. While the fires burned behind him and the crash of falling timbers merged with the exultant cries of looting soldiers, John lifted his eyes to the night sky and dreamed of his lover’s soft embrace. There was comfort there, even if it was just a memory.
Later, Sir Ralph Eure boasted that he had conquered all of Scotland from the Tweed to the Forth. And the king saw fit to reward him with his conquests.
Eure grew fat with confidence. It was a conceit that the Earl of Angus would make him regret.
Chapter 19
Bianca left St. Benet’s church and walked to the side street where the victim was discovered. The usual bustle of commerce had resumed and pedestrians wandered past, some stopping to gape at the rain spout where the body had been. A couple of hours had passed since the body was recovered, and Bianca, aware of the unfortunate lapse of time, searched the area for anything that might have been dropped by the murderer.
The cobble street made it easier for her to notice anything unusual, and Bennet’s Hill was particularly tidy, being home to several profitable businesses as well as the church. The light was such that she didn’t have to pick through the shadows, and she could see fairly well. However, all that she found, besides a few pennies, was a length of cord, a comb, and a strip of leather, probably from a bridle. She stuffed them in her purse and was about to leave when she spotted a rag next to the wall.
It was a dirty piece of linen, probably used to wipe drips, as it was stained with splotches of black paint. The cloth was still damp and gave off a sweet odor. She couldn’t place the smell, and stood a moment sorting through her memory of scents with which she was familiar.
But she’d never come into contact with a smell such as this. Perhaps it fell from a painter’s cart and had nothing to do with what happened earlier that morning. Still, she found it unusual and her curiosity was stirred. She gingerly dropped the filthy rag in her apron pocket to think about later.
Next, she wished to speak with Father Foxcroft. Bianca made the short walk to St. Andrew-by- the-Wardrobe in the hopes of finding the priest back at his church. She wanted to learn his whereabouts for the night before, but, more importantly, she wanted to get a better sense of the man. A layman informed her that Foxcroft was busy but if she could wait, he could speak with her between appointments.
Bianca wandered around the interior of the church, listening to the faint murmur of pigeons cooing in the rafters. She gazed up at the soaring buttresses, a majestic sight. She wondered if the great heights were meant to remind sinners of how small they were compared to their almighty God? It made sense that a church would be designed with that in mind--with soaring heights meant to humble the wicked.
“I understand you wish to speak with me.” Father Foxcroft appeared from across the way. His voice boomed in the vacant space, jarring Bianca from her thoughts.
Bianca curtsied. “If you have a moment.”
“I do not, but what do you want to speak with me about?”
“I was told that Bishop Bonner convened a meeting last night.”
“He did.”
“And you were present, as well as Father Rhys and Father Wells?”
“That is correct.”
“Did you talk about the recent spate of murders?”
Father Foxcroft did not immediately answer. When he did, his response was curt. “The deaths are a grave matter of concern. However, if you expect me to tell you the details of what was said, it is a confidence that I will not break.”
“Perchance, did you notice when Father Wells left the g
athering?”
“All of us left around the same time once the meeting was over.”
“No one lingered?”
Father Foxcroft shifted his weight. “Well, mayhap me,” he said. “I attended His Grace to the road.”
From what Father Wells had implied, Bianca supposed Foxcroft was ensuring his good favor with Bishop Bonner. She didn’t expect he would be forthcoming about this or their discussion.
Obviously the two were at odds with one another. Perhaps theirs was a competitive relationship, a rivalry. Their rivalry, she intuited, was not a friendly one.
Bianca studied Father Foxcroft, a younger man to Wells by nearly a decade. Bianca placed him in his thirties. He appeared of sturdy build and his hands were not soft like most priests. In fact, they looked strong from physical labor (perhaps manual labor in his youth).
“I wonder, sir, what do you think of Father Wells?”
“What is my opinion of the man?” His mouth curved into a half-smile. “He is a good servant of the church…a faithful follower.”
“A faithful believer in the King’s supremacy?”
Father Foxcroft hesitated. “Aye, he is.”
The hesitation caught Bianca’s notice. For the most part, priests instinctively protected one another. Only the bravest and most devout would make their conscience known. But the way Foxcroft answered left room for doubt. Whether his pause was meant to imply Well’s duplicity or an attempt to make himself appear more devout, she could not be sure.
“Sir, do you think Father Wells is to blame for the recent murder at his church?”
“What? Father Wells committing such an abominable crime? Nay! Certainly not!”
“I am not suggesting that Father Wells is the murderer,” said Bianca. “I am wondering if you think he may be remiss in some way. Perhaps his sincerity or his integrity is suspect. Mayhap he is being called into question either by God or by the murderer. Could there be cause for him or for St. Benet to be used by the murderer?”
Father Foxcroft thought for a moment. “I suppose it is a possibility,” he ventured. “As priests we are representatives of our church and its parish. And certainly, God protects those who are sincere.” Foxcroft’s tone changed to one more insinuating. “Is Father Wells less earnest? Only God knows what is in his heart. But aye, perhaps he is being punished for some flaw of character.”
“And the same could be said of Father Rhys?”
“For cert. It is feasible.”
“What flaw would be worthy of their being punished?”
“That is between them and our maker,” answered Foxcroft.
Bianca waited for him to offer an example, but he kept his silence.
“Do you worry that St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe might also be victimized?”
“How could I not worry? I live a righteous life devoted to my king and our Lord. But I have lived long enough to know that no man is without fault. Even though I have opened my heart, I am still guilty of sin in His eyes. What man is not?”
“Might you say that a priest is a church’s public conscience?”
Father Foxcroft tilted his head, contemplating Bianca’s logic. “I believe parishioners believe it so,” he answered.
“A pious life is a commendable one,” she said. She sensed Foxcroft was anxious to get on with his day, but a thought occurred to her--what if he had perpetrated these murders in an effort to besmirch the priests of the afflicted parishes?
How easily could he have gained access to the interior of two churches and executed a heinous crime? A priest might be admitted without question. A priest might even know how to gain entry without anyone knowing.
“Father Foxcroft, I know you must attend to your duties. But do you think someone might want St. Benet and St. Mary Magdalen to suffer? Mayhap it is not so much about murdering homeless boys as it is about denigrating the reputation of those churches. Because if I understand you correctly, if the church is ruined—so, by association, is the priest. And it appears that Father Wells and Father Rhys have both fallen from grace.”
“Who would scheme such a horrible crime just to destroy a priest?” He looked askance at her, clearly disgusted. “I wonder, Bianca Goddard, what church do you attend?”
Bianca had not expected him to round on her. She had not expected a question about her own religious habits. She said nothing in response to his question, fearing if she named the nearest church, he might make it a point to inquire after her. She was not a regular church-goer; her negligence could be cause for trouble.
Father Foxcroft’s face turned sly. “I should think your priest has some work to do on you.”
***
Bianca left St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, and, rather than dwell on the priest’s insinuation that she was a lost child of God, she turned her thoughts to finding another lost child--her rascally friend, Fisk. The day was not so inclement that she couldn’t walk to Ivy Lane to see if the family was finally home.
The walk gave her time to think about Father Foxcroft and Father Wells. She supposed men of God were just as prone to envy and the sins of pride and greed as any other man. Priests assumed a superior morality; they knew what to say and how to keep adherents mystified and in awe. They were trained to do so, but were they any better than the rest of humanity struggling to find purpose and meaning?
Bianca shoved her hands in her apron pocket to warm them and felt the coarse fabric of the rag that she’d found. She thought back to Father Wells and his missing paternoster--how flustered he’d become when she mentioned it. What if the paternoster twined around the victim’s neck was his? Certainly, he would not admit it. No one else in the church, the sexton, or the churchwarden, seemed to notice that he was not wearing one, nor did they discuss the paternoster’s fine quality or recognize it as belonging to Father Wells. If they did, it was not mentioned in her presence. Bianca skirted St. Paul’s Cathedral and turned down Paternoster Row, stopping to peer inside the window of the shop owner she had spoken to days before. He was engaged with a customer, a wealthy merchant from the looks of him.
Could Father Foxcroft be carrying out the murders in order to destroy the reputations of his fellow priests in Castle Baynard ward? Was he capable of such treachery? It was astonishing to think of a priest taking a person’s life, or--even more disturbing--taking the lives of children. It was a crime of unconscionable evil. Bianca stepped up her pace. The years of deducing people’s motivations in committing the ultimate cruelty of murder had hardened her to every possibility. Bianca believed that, if given a strong enough reason, anyone could kill.
But what if Father Wells had orchestrated the deaths? He never could have managed hanging a child, given his age and round physique. He would have needed an accomplice.
But who?
Perhaps someone indebted to him? Someone whose secret he knew and who feared what could happen if that secret were divulged? But what would be his motivation? A raven cawed overhead from the roof of a stable. Bianca watched its head bob up and down in warning. Another scenario even more disconcerting occurred to her.
She remembered the priest’s thinly veiled contempt for Foxcroft’s overtures to win favor with Bishop Bonner. Wells had said that all priests had ambitions. Perhaps Wells plotted these murders at various parish churches and included his own so that no one would suspect him. People would wonder why St. Andrew-by- the-Wardrobe and Father Foxcroft had remained untouched. Bianca pondered this idea as she continued walking. Whereas Foxcroft connected the murders with a priest’s guilt, mayhap Wells wanted to draw attention to a priest and a church that had not been affected. If St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe (Father Foxcroft’s church) remained untouched by this spate of murders, people would wonder why.
Bianca considered this for a bit. The murders had occurred one week apart—a long time to wait to prove her theory. Plus, another life was a high price to pay.
But if the paternoster belonged to Wells, why would he use his own?
&n
bsp; A nobleman approached on his handsome mount. Bianca stopped and watched him pass, so proud and unapproachable. She reasoned through a possibility. Wells could claim his prayer beads were stolen. He could claim someone used them to make it appear as if he had committed the crime. Bianca groaned at the tangle of explanations. And these only included the notion that either Foxcroft or Wells was the murderer.
Bianca reached Fisk’s neighborhood and turned down the cheerless lane, its sour tenements moldering in the relentless damp. She hoped to see Fisk sitting on the stoop--but alas he was not. It had been seven days since she’d heard word of him.
The shutters on his mother’s rent were closed against the chill and Bianca listened for sounds of activity as she stepped up to knock. This time, she received an answer. The door opened and Fisk’s bleary-eyed mother peered out at her.
“Goodwife, are you well?” asked Bianca, concerned over the woman’s harried appearance.
“Oh, it is you,” said Meg, throwing off her cloak of suspicion and replacing it with one of passivity. She stuck her head out the door and looked past her visitor down the lane. “Come inside.”
Bianca stepped into the darkened room. A single tallow lit the interior, filling the room with a disagreeable smoke and stink. She looked around at the young children, searching for Fisk among them. Not seeing him, she swallowed before asking, fearing what she might learn.
“I’ve come by a couple times,” said Bianca. “No one was home. I thought you had moved.”
“Nay. I was out.”
Bianca’s eyes fell to Fisk’s little sister, Anna. She stood to the side, listening. The girl had an intelligence that matched her brother’s.
Fisk’s mother spoke. “I heard another boy was hanged at St. Benet’s.”
“Aye. It is true. I am grateful it was not Fisk,” said Bianca.
“But my boy is still not returned.”
“I came to find out if he had come home,” said Bianca. She lowered her voice in regret. “I’ve not been able to trace him.”
The Lost Boys of London Page 16