The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  John searched his pack for a flint and could not find one. He closed the door and removed his jack, rolling it into a pillow. His wound would wait until light. He lay down on the dirt floor. A couple of breaths later he fell into a greedy and capacious sleep.

  ***

  Constable Patch met his men, and they trudged to St. Andrew’s where they found Father Foxcroft in the chancel. According to Foxcroft, Constable Berwick had not been by, and Patch, irritated by the constable’s lackadaisical attitude, left in a huff to find him.

  Patch expected to have to search every boozing ken in the ward before finding Berwick, but he began at the ward office on the off chance that the constable might actually be there. To his utter surprise, he found Constable Berwick and three of his underlings sitting around a table playing goose. They sipped Spanish sack and guffawed over sending one man back to “The Grave” where he had to start the entire game over again. A pile of coins sat in the middle, stakes to be collected should a man navigate all the geese and hazards. The king had outlawed the game requiring men to use their spare time to practice archery instead. Patch could not keep from reminding the scrofulous lawman of his duty and the importance of the evening.

  “Patch, you vex yourself with concerns that truly matter not,” said Berwick as he shook his die. He dropped it, then moved his piece a number of squares, remarking that he had just missed landing on “The Maze” which would have set him back to square thirty.

  “Then I must ask,” said Patch, his irritation compounding, “Ye think it matters little that we catch a man murdering young boys?”

  Constable Berwick took a sip of sack and relished the taste. “Patch, watches are set at the two churches where the fellow struck before. You told me you would bring your men to St. Andrew’s by the Wardrobe. Are you here to tell me you have not found anyone?”

  “I am heres because ye said ye would post my men where ye wanted.”

  “And I shall. But it is too early. I shall be by later, after this game. You needn’t trouble yourself so.”

  “Then I shall post my men. Ye needn’t bother. Play yer silly game and drink yer sack. And ifs the aldermen should ask, I will tell them where to finds ye. Passed out on your goose board!”

  Berwick chuckled. He treated his peer like a nigglesome midge. “We have plenty of time, sirrah. I see no sense in attending church for so long.”

  “It would do ye no harms,” said Patch. “In facts, it might favor yer sorry soul.”

  “P..at..ch,” answered Berwick. “We all stand in the mud and gape at the heavens, but it is the dust to which we all return, not the stars.”

  “I have no doubt that ye, sirrah, shall waste eternity rotting in the ground,” said Patch. “But I intend to let my good works speed me to a heavenly reward.”

  “Ha, goose!” exclaimed one of the men, and at first Patch thought he was being mocked.

  “If you roll a seven next time, you’ll claim the pot,” commented another.

  “It is your prerogative,” said Constable Berwick to Patch. He poured himself more wine and replenished the cups round the table. “Do your worst, Patch. But I recommend a more measured approach, lest you become mired in onerous discontent. Investing too much heart in a desired outcome will not assure it.”

  Patch turned on his heel and stalked from the room. He let the door slam and stood on the street, looking up at the sky. “It is a chance I do willingly takes.”

  ***

  Even though John was surrounded by physical beauty the likes of which he’d never seen, it had not been the rolling hills and heather-covered fields that shaped his dreams. Nay, it was the twisty warren of leaning buildings and narrow alleys of London that had influenced his sleep. For that is where his heart lived, and home occupied his deepest yearnings whether he gave conscious thought to it or not.

  So, while London was fraught with any number of hazards that could quickly end a man’s life, John considered the city safer and more reliable, since he had grown up understanding its inherent dangers. This vast land of Scotland, with miles of territory and scant population, felt unpredictable, twitchy.

  But while his heart longed for home, this time his dreams kept him in Scotland. He was running through the countryside chased by a phantom he could not hear nor see. The demon nipped at his heels, its cold breath chilled the back of his neck and stank with hostility. The demon sought his death, his ultimate dispatch.

  He restlessly rolled over to start a new dream—a more agreeable one. He fretted, wished for a blanket, listened to the wind accost the bothy with its ill-fitting door rattling on its hinges. Soon he fell back asleep, descending and moving deeper, like tumbling down a well.

  He found this dream more to his liking. A door opened and Bianca stepped inside. Her seductive blue eyes found his, and she crawled on top of his chest and leaned down. Their lips met in a kiss. A tangle of wavy black hair hung about them like a curtain, creating a private world, just the two of them. Her skin pressed warm against his. He ran his hand down the slope of her spine and over the curve of her buttocks. She was his bliss. It was so real as to be better than life this dream…

  But then her mouth pulled away from his. Her lips moved. ‘Get up. Get up, John.’ Confused, he reached out to pull her back, but she withdrew. She stepped back, shrinking, fading, then disappeared. He felt a rush of raw cold on his cheek, its harsh sting startling.

  His eyes flew open and in the feeble light of the shepherd’s shack, he found himself pinned by the icy steel of a blade at his throat.

  “Get up,” said a voice. “Or I will kill you where you lie.”

  Chapter 31

  Bianca didn’t have the appetite that she thought she did. She picked at the egg and cheese pie and nursed a single tankard of ale for the entire time she and Meddybemps were at the Cockeyed Gull. ‘Twas a lively ken, one where the ale was better than average and the wenches were strong of wit. The servers were used to a salacious clientele, and if they hadn’t the grit for saucy banter they would have left long ago.

  Meddybemps corralled his usual impertinence out of respect for Bianca and the gravity of the evening, but the boozing ken was in effect his second home. The wenches knew him well as did the patrons, and their meal was frequently interrupted by someone coming over to fill the streetseller in on a matter of personal business, or just to gossip.

  In a sense, just being there with Meddybemps distracted her enough to help lift her spirits, but only a bit. Between interruptions, Bianca ruminated on Fisk and the possible danger he might be in. The best she could do now was to meet Patch at St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, and keep her ears and eyes open.

  As the clientele became rowdier and the ale visibly dribbled down their chins, Bianca grew impatient to leave.

  “We need to go to St. Andrew’s,” she said, gathering up her scarf.

  Meddybemps finished the last of his ale and set his tankard at the end of the table. His hail- fellow-well-met manner fell away, replaced with a more somber nod. Bianca made for the door and the streetseller followed, pausing here and there to bid his friends a good night, but retaining enough foolery to pinch his favorite tavern wench on the arse, prompting her tart reply.

  The night was brisk, tolerable, in that the damp air was less bone-chilling than it had been. Still, it would not be pleasant for standing outside for very long, idly waiting for something to happen. In the nearly clear sky, the Queen Moon gazed down at them, hiding only a sliver of her full face. She, too, seemed to be interested in London on this late winter night.

  The two kept a quick pace, opting to take a longer way to the church rather than cut through precarious alleys. Passing by the side of St. Andrew’s, they saw a man leaning against a tree blowing into his cupped hands, trying to keep warm.

  “One of the appointed guards?” queried Meddybemps gesturing towards the man.

  “I doubt he would be there if he didn’t have to be,” said Bianca.

  The two stepp
ed up to the double doors of the church and went inside. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dark interior, lit only by the glow from a sanctuary lamp and a few scattered candles. Voices rose and fell, echoing from the front of the church where Father Foxcroft, Constables Patch and Berwick, and a few others stood in conversation.

  “It is not so very late. Have we missed the culprit?” Meddybemps asked Bianca as they crossed the nave.

  “I hope not,” she said. “From the sound of it, they are probably bickering over details. I am glad, though, to see Berwick make an effort to be here. He seemed uninterested before.”

  “I was wondering when ye might show,” said Patch, noticing their arrival.

  “Was that a watch on the south side?” asked Bianca. She ignored the uncomfortable scrutiny of Constable Berwick’s stare.

  “Aye. It’s one of Patch’s men,” said Constable Berwick.

  Bianca could tell that Berwick’s ruddy complexion had not faded. He spoke clearly, though, and perhaps this night might have refrained from excessive drink?

  “So there are guards posted at St. Mary Magdalen’s and St. Benet’s?” she asked.

  “We was just discussing thats,” said Patch.

  “It is futile to outguess the logic of a troubled mind,” said Constable Berwick. “But why would the killer repeat his crime at the other venues? I think we should assume he wants every church in Castle Baynard ward to be equally affected.”

  “Dids ye not just say we cannot guess the logic of a troubled mind?” argued Patch. “Yet ye take no precautions in case ye be wrong?”

  “Constable Patch,” said Berwick. “If you be so certain that I am wrong, then post your men at St. Mary’s and Benet’s. I will not stop you.”

  “Ye told me ye was posting men there,” said Patch. “That ye didn’t have enough men for all the churches and ye appealed to my good natures to take care of what should have been your responsibility. Ye want me to shoulder the expense for Castle Baynard’s problem!”

  “Sirs, we are talking about a child’s life!” interrupted Bianca. “If you do nothing to stop the killings, then you are complicit in these boys’ deaths.”

  “Good sirs,” said Father Foxcroft, “we benefit from cooperation, not acrimony. I suggest that we take a moment to pray for guidance.”

  This seemed to catch everyone up and resulted in sheepish looks all around. No one objected; after all, they were standing in a church. They might as well ask God for some help. While the others listened to the priest’s invocation, Bianca listened to Patch grumbling under his breath.

  She had to agree with him. She didn’t understand why Berwick was taking a gamble by not posting men at the other churches. Perhaps he stood to gain the money that would otherwise have been spent on their wages. Then too, Berwick might just be lazy. He could be inciting Patch to undertake the responsibility and expense so that he and, by association, Castle Baynard ward wouldn’t have to.

  Father Foxcroft finished and addressed Berwick and Patch. “Now, let us discuss this matter with God in our hearts.”

  The moment of reflection had no effect on Patch. He took up his complaint where he left off. “I shall see if I might find some guards for the other churches. But it is late and I do not suppose I’ll rouse many men out of their beds. However, if I do, sirrah,” he said, jabbing his finger at Berwick’s face, “I shall send the note to your ward’s aldermen for payment.” For good measure, he thrust his finger forward a couple more times, pinching tight his lips to keep from adding further insult.

  As Constable Patch stalked from the nave, he passed Father Wells arriving from St. Benet’s. Wells stopped, obviously uncertain over what must have transpired, then joined Father Foxcroft and the rest of them.

  “I am here to lend my emotional support,” he said.

  “It is unnecessary,” said Foxcroft, his conciliatory tone for cooperation gone. “Guards have been posted. I do not see what use you can be. You should return to St. Benet’s and make yourself available should the need arise there.”

  “I was under the impression that the murderer would, most likely, strike here.”

  It seemed Patch’s surly temper was the order of the night. Bianca sought to diffuse another spat--now between the priests. “In truth, we do not know where he will strike. Or even if he will strike,” she said. “But Father Wells, if you should want to stay, I’m sure there is no harm in your being here.”

  “Everything is well in order,” said Father Foxcroft, ignoring Bianca’s invitation. “Too many people will simply get underfoot. It might even discourage the murderer.”

  “Should we not want that?” asked one of the men.

  Father Foxcroft spoke, “I believe the object is to catch him. Forsooth, I do not know what use Father Wells can be in all this.”

  The churchwarden of St. Andrew’s looked uncomfortable and sought to smooth over his priest’s contentious outburst. “We are glad to have your added prayers, Father Wells. It is an uneasy time for all of us.”

  Wells fingered his paternoster, a replacement Bianca noted, that he wore like a bandolier. “Perhaps, Father Foxcroft is right,” said the priest. “I am sure he has the emotional well-being of his parishioners in mind. I see I am not needed here.” Wells met everyone’s stare, avoiding Foxcroft’s mulish glare except for a quick, cheerless glance cast in his direction. His eyes lifted to the rood above the chancel. He crossed himself, then turned to leave.

  Bianca watched Foxcroft’s face as Father Wells walked to the exit. She thought she might have seen relief in Foxcroft’s expression, which caused her to wonder why he did not want his fellow cleric’s help? It struck her as odd, perhaps even misguided. Mayhap there had been words between them. Whatever reason Foxcroft had for sending his counterpart away seemed linked with some deep-seated bitterness.

  Meddybemps saw it, too. The pair exchanged an unspoken understanding that came from years of familiarity with one another. Bianca wandered toward the back of the nave and Meddybemps followed.

  “What do you make of Well’s terse dismissal?” he asked her quietly.

  “The more I think on it, the more I believe there is unfinished business between the two men. Father Wells knows something about Foxcroft that he has not told us.”

  “Should we go after him?”

  “I think we should. I have a few more questions.”

  The two strode toward the door and no one from the remaining group called after to ask where they might be going.

  “They either did not notice us leaving, or they did not care,” said Meddybemps once they were on the street.

  “I think it is the latter. Which suits me.” Bianca looked up the lane and spied Father Wells just turning the corner. “There he be.”

  The two caught up to the ambling priest who seemed in no particular hurry to return to St. Benets. He expressed mild surprise at seeing them, and rather than stand in the street they accompanied him back to his church.

  Bianca was careful not to mention the possible enmity between him and Father Foxcroft. Instead, she skirted that topic and hoped to dig into what Wells knew about Foxcroft’s past. Jane Clewes’s comment about a man wishing to defend himself against the bishops of England had got her thinking. “Father Wells,” she said. “Foxcroft was quite brusque with you. It makes me wonder why he was so adamant against your staying at St. Andrew’s tonight.”

  “It is his prerogative,” answered Wells.

  “Aye, but he clearly did not want you there.”

  “That may or may not be his reason. It is more likely that he does not wish to be reminded.”

  “Reminded? Of what?”

  “Let us just say that I believe he takes the possibility of being appointed archdeacon very seriously.”

  “That is understandable. I suppose if a murder occurred at St. Andrew’s it would not bode well for him.”

  “Nay, it would not.”

  “I understand all of the pries
ts in Castle Baynard are being considered for the position.”

  “That is true. However, the number of prospects has been winnowed some by this terrible spate of killing. Bishop Bonner views it as a withdrawal of God’s blessing on a church and its beneficent.”

  “Meaning, you are no longer being considered for the appointment?”

  “Possibly. But obviously, I do not know Bishop Bonner’s mind.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  Father Wells gave a half-hearted laugh. “I am fortunate to have a position in a church that I care about. I shall leave the honor of appointment to men who are more willing to do what they must to please the bishop.”

  “Father, if I may ask, what is it that you suspect?”

  Father Wells stopped talking. “What is it that you are asking me?”

  “Why did you come here? What were you expecting to happen?”

  Meddybemps broke in, “You said Foxcroft does not wish to be reminded.”

  The priest fingered his replacement paternoster before speaking. “I needed to satisfy my curiosity,” he said, reluctant to continue.

  “Father, we are talking about a life that may be at risk. Do you suspect Father Foxcroft is involved in these murders?” Bianca persisted.

  “I have seen Father Foxcroft changing his beliefs to curry favor.”

  Meddybemps had no more appetite for the priest’s vague insinuations. “She asked if you suspect Foxcroft of having a hand in these deaths. And what does Foxcroft not want to be reminded of?” Meddybemps was not by appearance a menacing man. However, when faced with obfuscation, he openly bristled and his strange eyes wheeled around. It could put the fear of God in anyone—including a priest.

  “Do I think him capable of murder? Nay, I have difficulty imagining Foxcroft carrying out such an act. But, is he capable of scheming a crime that might benefit him? Indeed, I think him extremely capable.”

  “Are you saying he might have arranged for someone to murder boys and display their bodies at various parish churches throughout Castle Baynard?”