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The Lost Boys of London

Page 22

by Mary Lawrence


  Bianca adopted a plan and decided to keep to it however she was received. She would enter each shop in turn, beginning with the one closest to the gate, then work her way around the periphery. Surely she might learn something of use.

  In front of the first shop, Bianca paused to straighten her coif and waist jacket, then hauled open the door. The smell of wool and a hint of smoke from a fire in a hearth gave the room a comfortable and distinguished feel. Bolts of woolen cloth in an array of colors lined the walls and were stacked on tables. This was not the rough kersey she was accustomed to wearing, but the finer worsteds and scarlets intended for the middle class and the wealthy.

  Bianca eyed a couple dressed in the subdued colors of the merchant class. They perused the selection, talking with the proprietor, who looked over at her standing by the door. He excused himself and walked over.

  “Good day, sir,” she began, and curtsied. “I seek a man who might be under your employment. It is of utmost importance that I find him.”

  The proprietor looked her up and down.

  “Utmost importance?” he said. “Might I ask, in regards to what?”

  “A missing child.” Bianca saw no reason to be evasive.

  The man looked surprised, but he declined from asking more details. “What is the fellow’s name?”

  “The man is employed by a clothier who collects skeins from women in thirteen parishes. His name is Geve Trinion.”

  “I deal in finished cloth. Mayhap ye would be better served asking weavers.”

  “I mean no impertinence, sir, but I was told he worked for a clothier.”

  The man sighed, then glanced over his shoulder at the couple who were awaiting his return. “There are a few clothiers with larger operations.”

  “Would they have shops in this area?”

  “Not in the Red Lion. There is a clothier named Bridgton who has a warehouse off Budge Row near St. Mary Aldermary. Also, William Dayton keeps shop next to the Stout Swan.”

  Bianca thanked the man and exited to the courtyard. She stood a moment studying the remaining shops, realizing that perhaps it might be better to abandon her inquiry there and instead seek the men with larger operations on Budge Rowe, first.

  In the vicinity of the church the shopkeeper had mentioned, she eventually found a warehouse that looked promising, and after several unanswered raps on the door, and being unable to slide it open, Bianca was about to give up. But luck turned in her favor, and a drayman arrived with a cart of fleece to offload.

  He gave her a curious look and hopped off his wagon. “Ye be seeking your wage?” he asked, thinking her a spinner.

  “Nay. I am looking for someone who might work here.”

  “Who?”

  “Geve Trinion,” she answered.

  “His name is not familiar. However, Master Bridgton employs lots of people.”

  She stood back as he opened a well-hidden panel and reached inside. She heard the ringing of a clamoring bell and was glad she was not close to its jarring sound. In a moment, the warehouse door slid open, revealing a somber-looking man with a ledger tucked under his arm.

  He scowled at Bianca as if he couldn’t be bothered, and looked past her and the drayman at the dray.

  “Where from?” he asked.

  “Hoddesdon.”

  The man brushed past Bianca to inspect the fleece in the cart. He pulled back the canvas and riffled through the exposed wool.

  “Good. It is of quality,” he announced. He returned to the warehouse, walking past Bianca without so much as a look and called to a worker in some dark recess of the building. “Winslow! There be a delivery to stow.”

  He retreated to a broad table, where he opened his ledger and asked the vendor’s name. The two discussed matters of business and Bianca waited patiently. Finally, the drayman, having attentively watched his cart be emptied, brought Bianca to the dealer’s attention.

  “Sir, this woman wishes a word with you.”

  The man looked up and then over at Bianca. “Ye are not his wife?”

  “Nay, sir. I am not.” Bianca approached, speaking over the echoing clamor of the busy warehouse. “I am looking for a man named Geve Trinion. He works for a clothier who collects spun wool from thirteen wards.”

  “Our operation is a great deal larger than that. Indeed, we are one of the largest and most profitable in all of London. No one else matches the quality of our woolens.”

  “It is possible that the number is incorrect,” said Bianca. “Perchance, do you have a roster of names?”

  “I do. But I remember the name of every worker in my employ. This Trinion is not one of them.”

  Bianca doubted a clothier so boastful of the size of his operation could recall every man who passed through his door.

  “He has a rough beard,” she said. “It covers most of his face.”

  “I told you,” he said. “This Trinion is not one of my men.”

  She was about to ask if she might look at the roster anyway, when he snapped his ledger shut and tucked it back under his arm.

  “Try Dayton,” he said, dismissing her.

  “Next to the Stout Swan?”

  “Is there another?”

  Any time Bianca felt curtly dismissed, instead of retreating she would do her best to irritate. “Would you mind if I looked over your roster of laborers?”

  “I do mind. I have already said this fellow does not work for us.” He turned heel and stalked off, leaving Bianca in his wake. She immediately followed, but after a few angry and determined steps, she realized it was not worth another moment trying to deal with this tactless snouter. She would return later if she had no better luck.

  On Budge Rowe, Bianca’s irritation worked to speed her on to finding Dayton the clothier. She headed to the Stout Swan and slowed to study the signage for any hints that might indicate the whereabouts of the man’s establishment. In spite of being invited inside the boozing ken by a bleary-eyed chapman, Bianca managed to find the carved wooden likeness of a man wielding a teasel comb against a length of fabric. No nameplate hung near the entrance, and since it appeared to be the only shop of its kind in the vicinity of the podgy swan, she took her chances and entered.

  Instead of a spacious warehouse, this was a simple shop, adequately stocked with a selection of woolens catering to a customer of more modest means. She did not feel out of place standing there; she could have been fetching an order for her master.

  A back-room conversation grew louder until a pair of men discussing a possible shipment to Antwerp entered the room where she stood. She waited until they had finished, then introduced herself and asked after Geve Trinion.

  “Geve Trinion,” repeated the man who called himself William Dayton’s assistant. “He collects skeins, say you? I should think Enfield would know.” He excused himself and returned to the back room again, leaving Bianca alone with his associate, who spent his time moving fabric off a table onto a wheeled cart.

  Bianca remained hopeful that she had stumbled upon the right clothier. A part of her bristled at having to sift through these various wool establishments. It was taking far too long when every minute mattered when it came to finding Fisk. But, she reminded herself, she had little choice given the frustratingly few pieces of useful information. And, if this clothier yielded nothing worthwhile, she would have to persuade Patch to place a watch at Jane Clewes’s tenement. Going to every clothier in London would take far too long.

  A customer entered the shop, and as the worker abandoned his cart to tend to him, Dayton’s associate returned along with a distressingly thin older man, stooped to the extent that his spine resembled a ram’s horn. His eyes peered out from the bottom of his forehead so that his face remained hidden like the bottom of a foot.

  “Enfield here says Geve Trinion is under our employment.”

  “He covers the spinners in Castle Baynard, Bread, and Vintry wards,” said Enfield in a clear and strong voice. For as d
isconcerting as Bianca first found the man’s appearance, she was pleasantly surprised to hear he had healthy lungs.

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “When his sack is full. But that is unpredictable, good lady.”

  “Would you know where he lives?”

  “It is in the records. If you wait, I shall find out.”

  “It is a matter of importance. The constable of Bread Ward would like to ask him some questions.”

  “Oh!” said Dayton’s associate. “What has he done?”

  “Sir, I am not here to accuse him of mischief. I merely need to find him so that he can be properly questioned.”

  He and Enfield exchanged looks and the latter retreated into the rear of the warehouse, returning shortly with a pile of papers stuffed into a leather binder. He went to the table and untied the cord holding it together, then proceeded to turn over several pages before running a bony finger down the list of names and addresses. After a few pages his finger came to a stop.

  “He lives on Friday Street just beyond Maidenhead.” Enfield stared at the entry a minute, his finger remaining on the page as he thought. “Next to a fishmonger.” He looked up. “He mentioned this once and I remember he liked it not.” He turned his head to address Dayton’s associate. “’Twas the smell of it. He said the stink got in his clothes and the ladies complained.”

  Bianca thanked him and a lift of optimism made her an inch taller. She should have no trouble finding Trinion now. She started for the door.

  “Eel bait,” Enfield blurted.

  Bianca stopped. She turned around, thinking he insulted her. “I beg your pardon?”

  Enfield lifted his head. He grinned--a gesture that did not favor his withered face. “It is what we call him.”

  Chapter 26

  Bianca wished to avoid confronting Geve Trinion alone. If the man was sinister enough to kidnap boys, what could he do to her? Constable Patch resignedly gave up his anticipated nap and followed her out the door.

  “The deaths occurred one week apart,” said Bianca. “Our time is running out. I don’t know if Trinion intends to hang Fisk, but if we don’t find him soon it may be too late.”

  At Friday Street near Maidenhead, they easily sniffed out the fish shop. They studied the entrances on either side of the fishmonger. Neither door hinted who might live inside, and without any other choice, they would have to inquire at each. It saved them some time when one of the doors swung open and a man stepped into the street, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “Sir,” said Constable Patch before the man got away. “I be looking for Geve Trinion.”

  The fellow looked at Patch and then Bianca. “Geve Trinion?” he asked.

  “He works for Dayton, a clothier, collecting wool from spinners,” said Bianca.

  “Oh, aye,” answered the man. He gestured to the door on the other side of the fishmonger. “He lives there. But I don’t expect you’ll find him home, it being a day of work.” He started to leave and Bianca hurried after him.

  “Sir, if he is not here, could you tell us if you’ve seen any boys with him?”

  The man looked from Bianca to Patch. “Of what concern is this?”

  “We be trying to finds a missing child,” said Patch.

  Bianca added, “Or, perhaps you might have heard boys’ voices? Especially at night?” The doors were crammed against each other—a sure sign that the walls in these tenements were thin.

  The man shook his head. “Nay, he shares his room with two men. I’ve not heard any child.” He tipped his cap at Bianca and nodded her a good day.

  “We mights find someone home,” said Patch after the man turned the corner. He stepped up to the other door and banged on it. “Manners be damned,” he said over his shoulder.

  In a moment, they heard someone yelling and the clumping of a heavy footfall. The door jerked open enough for two narrowed eyes to size them up.

  Bianca inquired after Trinion.

  “He’s not here,” said the man. His unbuttoned doublet hung open over his half tucked-in smock. He had the bleary-eyed appearance of a person disturbed from sleep.

  “But ye know the man?” asked Patch.

  “He shares a room with us.”

  “And, how, sir, do you earn your living?” asked Bianca.

  “I am a cobbler.” He looked at them with a level of distrust. “Are ye here to ask him questions, or me?”

  “Well, since ye be available…” said Patch. He tugged on his popingay blue doublet with shiny brass buttons.

  The cobbler liked him not.

  Constable Patch straightened and lifted his chin. “We wish to come in.”

  “For what purpose?” asked the man. “Ask me what ye will, here. Whether inside or out, the answers shall be the same.”

  Bianca gave Patch a warning look. They needed to see the room. Besides, what would stop the cobbler from lying in order to get rid of them?

  However, she needn’t have worried. Constable Patch’s suspicious nature never faltered. “Methinks ye might be hiding something,” said Patch, his hackles raised.

  The man’s drowsiness vanished as he took umbrage with the accusation. “I haven’t anything to hide. Forsooth, I hardly own but the clothes on me back.”

  “Then ye shouldn’t mind us looking around.” Patch laid his hand on his rondel dagger. “Ye can comply now, or I will be back with a few more men…and a smote less patience.”

  “Make it quick,” said the cobbler realizing that sometimes the fastest way to get rid of constables was to just give them what they wanted. “I have somewhere to be.” He stepped back and opened the door, revealing a dark stairwell.

  Bianca and Patch followed him up the stairs to a landing, which opened into a room with a narrow window at both ends.

  “How many live here?” asked Patch, running his eyes around the periphery.

  “There be three,” said the cobbler, tucking in his smock and buttoning his doublet.

  The walls showed nothing in the way of openings or hideaways. Three pallets lay on the floor, three stools surrounded a table. A chest was pushed against one wall and Patch wandered over to give it a kick. He threw back the lid then pawed through a pile of smocks and hosen.

  While Patch asked questions, Bianca studied the rafters and beams, listening. There were no muffled sounds of struggle coming from anywhere inside the rent. If Geve Trinion had abducted Fisk, he was not hiding him here.

  The cobbler grew impatient and wished them done. “I need to make my day’s wage,” he said. “If your argument is with Trinion then ye should let me be.”

  There was no excuse to linger. They wished Trinion had returned while they were there, but they would have to keep watch on the place until he returned. Reluctantly, Patch and Bianca descended the stairs, following the cobbler. None of them spoke, only their clomping footfalls sounding in the empty stairwell. They had just got to the bottom when the door opened from the street.

  “Trinion,” said the cobbler. “You have company!”

  Without introduction, the cobbler left the two with a man who fit Anna’s description. His beard was broad and unevenly trimmed, covering most of his face in thick brown hair—distinctive for its untidiness. A lumpy satchel was slung across his back, and he hesitated before entering the tenement, looking from Patch to Bianca.

  The pair blocked his entry.

  “Ye be Geve Trinion?” Patch asked.

  The man looked uncertain as to whether to admit it.

  “We wants to ask ye some questions. It should not take long.” Patch straightened his doublet and tipped his head. “Ye distribute wool for Dayton the clothier?”

  Again, the man hesitated, then responded with a drawn-out, “A…y…e,” like he could change the answer by shaking his head if he needed to.

  “You collect skeins of wool from Jane Clewes, do you not?” asked Bianca.

  Changing the focus to the spinner loosened his
tongue. “Odd woman,” he commented.

  “How so?” asked Bianca, curious what he thought of her. Perhaps his response might reveal his own character.

  “She be taking care of that lad like she does. I heard tell she got him out of employ at Tyburn. Why she would bother, I wonder. He seems well-suited for the chores of the gallows there. So long as a bowl of porridge waits at the end of the day, his kind will do as they be told.”

  “You think him unworthy of a better life?”

  “I fail to see how living with a peculiar woman is better than what he had.”

  “At least he is not sweeping the guts of dead criminals to dogs,” said Patch.

  Trinion exchanged a callous smile with Patch.

  Bianca shot Patch a disapproving look, prodding him to get back to the subject at hand.

  “How do you know Meg?” she asked, putting an end to the men’s mean-spirited remarks.

  “Who? The name is not familiar.”

  Bianca, annoyed with his evasiveness said, “She lives off Ivy Lane. She has a son named Fisk.”

  Trinion continued to act ignorant, furrowing his brow as if trying to remember.

  “Sirrah, I have it on good word that you have spoken to her. And on more than one occasion. You expressed interest in taking Fisk to the west country tin mines.”

  Geve Trinion’s disingenuous expression lifted as if he had just remembered. “Oh!” he exclaimed. He shook his head feigning nonchalance. “The woman with fair hair. Of course.” He offered no more explanation, but Bianca and Fisk glared at him, waiting. The wool collector shifted the pack on his back and, seeing that they were not going to let him through, acquiesced.

  “I knew she be struggling to feed her brood. I simply offered to take the boy with me to the mines and send her his earnings.”

  Bianca tipped her head. “It is odd that you would not remember this.”

  Geve Trinion cleared his throat. “Well, she is not the first woman I’ve made that offer to.”

 

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