The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  Each wrist showed bruising--evidence, she believed, that he had been bound. However, she found no fibers or remnants of cloth, and his hands now hung free.

  Patch crouched beside Bianca.

  “Have you gone through his clothing?”

  “I have not gotten that far.”

  He opened the boy’s outer coat and searched an inner pocket.

  “Nothing,” he announced, removing a lump of lint and flicking it off his finger.

  “The boy doesn’t look as if he suffered,” said Bianca. “He looks quite peaceful.”

  “He wasn’t strangled with the paternoster first?”

  “I think not. The placement of the paternoster seems to be an afterthought.” Bianca lifted the boy’s head and ran her hands over his scalp. “I don’t feel a gash or any blood. He wasn’t bludgeoned.” Bianca pulled up his smock and rolled him to one side and then the other. “His torso is smooth, he wasn’t stabbed.” She looked over at Constable Patch.

  “Could he have been poisoned and then hanged?” Patch tugged his scraggly chin hairs in thought.

  “If he was poisoned, there would be some redness around his mouth, and his clothes are dry, there is no vomit.” Bianca thought a moment. “I’m certain the noose ended his life.” She arranged the smock and jacket to cover the child. “But the boy’s peaceful expression is certainly strange.”

  “Could it have been self-murder?”

  “That is a height to climb for a boy toting a rope. Even if it was self-murder, the will to live would have prevailed and we would see signs of struggle in his expression.”

  “It woulds be odd for a child to be so content,” commented Patch.

  “I am puzzled,” said Bianca. “The only way this boy could look so peaceful is if he was already dead and then hanged.” Bianca looked at Patch. “Mayhap the coroner might be able to explain this.” The two of them got to their feet. Bianca pulled her cape over her shoulders and straightened her bodice, lost in thought. “But why would someone go to such lengths?” she said. “Why hang the victim from a grotesque above a church window? If the boy was still alive, I would think it would have been an impossible task.”

  Patch squinted in distaste. “And what is the purpose of twining the paternoster around the lad’s neck?”

  “It must be meaningful in some way.” Bianca wondered whether it was put there as a talisman by the murderer, perhaps a conscious effort to wish no more harm on the child’s soul than had already been perpetrated. Or, thought Bianca, perhaps the killer was using it to make a point. “Possibly it is a message.”

  Patch offered no suggestions. He stared at Bianca with one side of his face scrunched in dismay. “Maybe stringing him up from the side of the church is a way to gloat.”

  “Gloat?”

  “Wells, the murderer has a certain ease in scaling churches toting a body. We don’t knows whether the boy was alive or dead, but either way it takes some skills to manage such a feat.” Patch continued to tug his billy goat chin hair.

  “But a church,” said Bianca. “Why not the bridge, or the cranes by the river?”

  “Mayhap the murderer does not like this church.”

  “Or churches in general,” said Bianca. “And the paternoster around the neck…giving the impression of having choked the boy…”

  “Mayhap the killer dislikes papists,” suggested Patch.

  “But people still have their paternosters whether they prefer the old religion or follow the king’s.”

  “Aye,” agreed Patch. “But ye see less of them these days. No one wants to be accused of being a papist.”

  Bianca considered this. “The paternoster was meant to be seen. Leaving it on the body was done on purpose. And maybe it is significant that this particular church was chosen.”

  Just then, a loud voice drowned their conversation. “God’s tooth!” came the cry. “What is this about?” The voice cursed and insulted spectators who failed to move out of the way.

  A belligerent fellow broke free of the bystanders and stood a moment, hands on hips, taking measure of Patch and the body on the ground, ignoring Bianca. He strode over with an unsteady swagger. Even though the air was bracing, the man wore his doublet only partially buttoned, exposing a grungy smock underneath, untied at the neck. His flatcap sat at a rakish angle, brash for a man of law.

  Constable Patch stood a full head shorter. He puffed out his chest and lifted his chin to compensate for his inferior height. “This is a body, sirrah. I woulds think that obvious.”

  The fellow’s eyes narrowed and his body swayed slightly. “Ye think me a half-wit?” He drew near enough so that his thigh touched Patch’s overstuffed codpiece. “By whose authority do you act?”

  Patch retreated a step. “I am a constable. I have some responsibility in keeping the lanes of commerce open.”

  “A constable?” said the man, incredulous. “You are not Castle Baynard’s appointed constable.”

  “Nay, I am not.”

  “Nay ye are not,” said the fellow mocking Patch with a simpering voice. “Ye are not,” said he, again drawing close, “because I am.” The fellow glowered at the tittering crowd then smiled churlishly at Patch. “And the name by which you go…Constable?” He emphasized the first consonant so harshly that it practically cracked against the stone walls.

  “Patch.”

  “P…at…ch?” came the response. He snorted, then belched without embarrassment.

  “And I presume people have a name fer ye?” inquired Patch in return.

  “Berwick, sirrah.” He hooked a long fingernail between two teeth and spat out some gristle. “Suppose ye tell me the ward from which you hail?”

  “Bread Street.”

  “Ha! Bread Street. Ye lord over bakers and candlemakers! Such a dull neighborhood. Nothing happens there except the occasional theft of standard loaves. Is this the reason why you jump to duty in a ward matter that does not concern you?” He tilted his head one way and then the other. A cynical smile appeared. “Murder is exciting, is it not? But I assure you, Pat…ch,” he again emphasized the name. “I no longer need your assistance.”

  Bianca had heard enough. “Sir, the officials of St. Mary Magdalen’s need to be informed,” she said. “If you would make the introductions it would speed this forthwith.”

  For the first time Berwick took notice of Bianca. He seemed momentarily intrigued, and his boorish attitude warmed. “Tell me what has been learned, then I shall consider whether to make introductions.”

  Bianca explained what had happened, omitting telling him that Patch had summoned her for an opinion. She claimed to be helping Patch keep his facts sorted, alluding to Berwick that the constable needed some assistance in that matter. (Patch took offense at this, but realized it was a safer explanation than telling the truth. He would save his response for later when they were alone.)

  When she had finished, Berwick, despite his inebriated condition, ordered the body carried inside to await examination by the coroner. He then led the way into the church with Bianca in step beside him. Patch followed petulantly behind, and, close on his heels, Father Foxcroft.

  Unfortunately, the priest of St. Mary Magdalen’s had still not yet arrived. In his stead was a church official and the sexton with whom they had first dealt, who informed them that Father Rhys had been notified and would arrive soon.

  They stood in the narthex, and halfway down the nave a woman knelt in prayer with a young man beside her. The woman’s susurrations were stippled with exclamations of “Hail Mary, full of graces,” that were loud enough to draw everyone’s notice. The son remained silent beside his mother, listening to her feverish pace, without looking around. Unfortunately, the cavernous space amplified her voice to the extent that Bianca could not ignore the distraction. She asked the men if they might find an area away from the penitents.

  Not about to be inconvenienced, Constable Berwick didn’t mind bothering someone else. He marched up
to the pair and told them in no uncertain terms that they must leave. “There’s been a murder here!” he said in his booming voice. “You must go elsewhere.”

  “We shall not!” sputtered the woman. “We will stay until Father Rhys hears Huet’s confession.”

  “When Father Rhys arrives he will have more important matters to attend.”

  Mortified at the constable’s poor handling, the vestry official hurried over to intervene. “Goodwife Jane,” he implored, “Father Rhys is on his way, but we do not know when, exactly, he will arrive. There is, however, another priest who could hear your pleas.” He opened his arm generously toward Father Foxcroft.

  Jane looked over her shoulder and scrutinized each of them from across the way, especially Father Foxcroft. “I want Father Rhys. This is my parish and Father Rhys is my priest.”

  The vestry official attempted to reason with her. “Of course,” said the vestry official, “I am not so insensitive, but there is a matter here that is of the utmost concern.”

  “What is of more concern than a parishioner’s soul?”

  The official leaned forward, folding his hands against his chest as if in prayer. “Mayhap, then, Goodwife,” he said in a voice straining to remain cordial, “might you lower your voice?”

  Out of patience with niceties, Constable Berwick’s face screwed up. “Out!” he blurted. “I am the constable here, and I say you must leave!” He then addressed the toady vestry official. “If you do not want St. Mary Magdalen’s parish ruined from untoward rumor, then follow my advice. Clear the church and only allow entry for those of office and position. Once we have conferred, then do as you please. But this woman must go.”

  Bianca cringed hearing Constable Berwick’s coarse words.

  The woman’s jaw dropped as she considered the two men and her mistreatment. Her companion, a large-boned adolescent, rose from kneeling. Slowly drawing up to his full height, he stood even taller than Berwick. He looked down at the men berating them, his face showing a mix of confusion and distress.

  “Huet,” said the woman patting him gently on the chest. “They mean us no harm.”

  She turned to the men and her voice became sharp. “We shall leave as you wish. But Father Rhys shall hear of this.” She took hold of Huet’s elbow and steered him past everyone, her eyes fierce with anger.

  “What is her name?” asked Bianca of the official when he returned.

  “Jane Clewes. She has been coming to our church of late. A widow, methinks. The young man is in her charge. Though I wonder who would have tasked her with such a burden. They are private in nature.”

  With a layman posted at the entrance, the group moved into the nave and resumed their discussion. They were in the middle of debating where to bury the body when they heard the door open. Moments later, Father Rhys met their stare, and before greeting them strode to the baptismal font. Bianca watched him conduct his ritual with an enviable calm given the circumstances, but she presumed serenity came effortlessly for a devout man who put his faith in his Creator and not in his earthly counterparts.

  Introductions were barely finished before their attention was drawn a second time to the front door. Jane Clewes had regained entrance and was berating the poor layman standing guard. Her voice so grated, that Father Rhys excused himself to take matters in hand. He spoke in hushed tones, to which Jane Clewes favorably responded by lowering her own voice. After laying a reassuring hand on the woman’s arm, Rhys announced to the rest of them that he would first hear Huet’s confession. “I shall not be long,” he assured.

  Constable Berwick mumbled under his breath as the three walked past, headed to the confessional.

  “Let us hope the good father has the sense to dispense with a few paternosters and get on with it,” he said. “I have no patience for idle chin-wagging.” Berwick exited and was gone long enough to water roses in the alley, thought Bianca. He returned in an even fouler mood.

  Eventually, Jane Clewes and Huet trailed toward the exit, in no rush to let the men resume their discussion. Clewes seemed to relish everyone’s notice, proceeding at a measured pace like a bride walking down the aisle.

  Minutes later, Father Rhys emerged from the confessional looking unmistakably troubled. His preoccupation lingered as he apologized for the interruption and for his long delay getting to the church. Bianca wondered over the reason for his unease.

  Constable Patch didn’t wait for Berwick to take control. He had his own questions to pose.

  “Father, the boy is in the crypt. He has not yet been identified. You must go look at him. Mayhap ye’ve mets the lad, or knows his family.”

  “Of course. But if no one here has recognized him, then I doubt he is associated with our church.” Rhys looked to his church official and Father Foxcroft who both agreed. “Mind you, our church is not so far from the cathedral. Paul’s Walk is overrun with begging orphans. It would make sense to inquire there, too.”

  “Aye,” said Patch. “Though I’d like to begins with ye.”

  Father Foxcroft sided with his counterpart. “If no parishioners come forward with information, I agree that you should focus your attention at St. Paul’s. The cathedral has difficulty keeping out thieves and other rascals. While it is our most sacred monument, St. Paul’s is also party to society’s most profane elements.”

  Berwick disliked Patch taking the lead on what should rightfully be his matter with which to deal. He sallied up to Patch, making the most of his superior height by throwing back his shoulders and looming large as he looked down at him.

  “I believe we no longer need your assistance, P..at..ch,” he said. “All the necessary parties are here. You may return to your ward, now. Those rascal bakers might need lording over.” Berwick’s derision was only matched by his thoroughly sozzled state.

  Father Rhys squinted, catching a whiff of Berwick’s fetid fumes, and exchanged places with his church official.

  Father Foxcroft’s patience was at an end. “Cease!” he said, pinning the two lawmen with an unamused stare. “The objective here is to find a murderer and identify a victim.”

  Father Rhys chimed in. “How you achieve that can be decided elsewhere. I pray thee, leave off your sniping. There is no place for it here. Now, show me this unfortunate child.”

  Patch had no intention of leaving, and Berwick--momentarily chastened--followed the sexton as he led the group past the sanctuary and down a set of winding stone stairs to a cool room where the body lay on a trestle. Phinn was already there lighting lanterns, and brought one to set on the table next to the body. They gathered round the boy as Phinn talked about hangings, as he had first-hand knowledge. He’d transported criminals from the gallows at Tyburn to graveyards.

  Father Rhys interrupted Phinn’s morbid recollections to suggest they pray for the boy’s soul. The silence evoked a grim reality and sadness to their proceedings and managed to sober even Constable Berwick. When finished, Father Rhys lifted the lantern to better see the child’s face.

  “The boy needs his face cleaned. However, I do not recognize him,” he said.

  Father Foxcroft leaned close, taking advantage of the light to get a good look. “Nay,” he said. “I don’t recall ever seeing him.”

  Bianca watched the two priests examining the paternoster twined around the neck. “It is for the coroner to determine the cause of death, but we feel the addition of the paternoster is an afterthought,” she said.

  “Obviously it appears the boy died from hanging,” said Father Rhys.

  Bianca wished to move the questioning along, and she didn’t trust that either Patch or Berwick would ask what she wanted to know. “Have either of you any thoughts as to why the death occurred here?”

  “I have no idea why my church was involved,” answered Father Rhys.

  “Might you have incurred some debt against someone?”

  “Nay, certainly not,” answered Rhys.

  Patch could not keep still. “Might someo
ne harbor black thoughts against ye?”

  “Rancor, towards you or the church?” added Bianca.

  “I should think not. It is for me to instill peace in my parishioners, not loathing.”

  The vestry official confirmed there was no known animosity directed at St. Mary Magdalen’s church, though it would have surprised Bianca if they had admitted otherwise.

  When they were collecting themselves to leave and the sexton was pulling a winding sheet over the body, Bianca held up her hand.

  “Wait,” she said, looking over at Father Rhys. “May I remove the paternoster to take a closer look?” They had left it twined around the child’s neck, bewildered that its role to comfort had been so abominated. If there was even a small bit of sacred purpose left in the beads, then let the boy’s soul benefit some from it.

  “They should be left alone for the coroner to see,” said Constable Berwick.

  “But the boy was not strangled with them, he was choked by the noose,” said Patch.

  Father Rhys addressed Bianca. “If there is some use you might gain from their examination, I have no objection.”

  Bianca carefully unwound the prayer beads and brought them closer to the lantern. She studied the simple cross carved from wood then turned it over. Three letters had been carved on the back. They were too small to discern, even with the help of the lantern.

  “If no one has an objection, I would like to take these to Paternoster Row.”

  “As long as you return them,” said Constable Berwick.

  “I merely wish another opinion,” said Bianca. “I shall return them afterward.”