The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  “You do not tell them my name, I hope,” Bianca reminded him. King Henry had deemed it treasonous to practice witchcraft or conjuration. She didn’t want her work to be misconstrued.

  “It is our agreement,” assured Meddybemps. “I should not like to see you hanged for sorcery.”

  The two had known each other for years. On the surface one might wonder what the unlikely pair saw in each other. Originally, the streetseller had noticed Bianca trying to steal one of his amulets from his barrow. It was a dragonfly with delicate lacy wings and bulbous blue-green eyes. She had watched him from a discreet distance, and when she finally made to nab the piece, Meddybemps caught her by the wrist and wouldn’t let go. She struggled, and after enduring an impertinent stream of name-calling from a seven-year-old girl he managed to convince her that he had no intention of turning her over to the uncertain mercies of a constable. What became clear to him and what he found admirable was her boundlessly inquisitive nature.

  She didn’t ask the questions most children asked, like why is your eye crooked, or why do you sing to customers? Instead, she studied his offerings with a studious eye and asked questions that had never occurred to him, nor could he answer to her satisfaction. For such a young mind, he felt challenged by her, which intrigued him.

  As for Bianca, Meddybemps’s appeal was more difficult to understand. Perhaps she appreciated his wiliness, or his irreverence for authority. Perhaps she admired his skill in convincing customers to buy his goods. More likely though, Meddybemps was the surrogate father she had always longed for.

  Whenever her own father, Albern, met someone, he immediately determined that person’s usefulness to him. He collected and categorized people like they were containers in his alchemy room. Some were utilitarian and could hold anything. He could fill them with all kinds of caustic material and they never visibly suffered from their burden. Others were too fragile for such, but perhaps they were pleasing to look at or had another specific purpose. Bianca’s usefulness was somewhere in between. She could work hard and was of some intelligence, but Albern had never appreciated the pleasures of watching her grow or rediscovering the world through a child’s eyes.

  So it was that Bianca relied on Meddybemps for her livelihood, for advice, and, though, neither of them ever mentioned it--for love.

  However, an iciness had developed of late, stemming from Meddybemps’s involvement with Bianca’s mother and her father’s discovery of a dangerous element. Meddybemps insisted he had acted to protect Bianca and her mother. Bianca listened to his argument and understood it, but the layer of lies she’d struggled to peel away had shaken her faith in him. She was certain that the truth, or the semblance thereof, still eluded her, and perhaps it always would.

  So for the last ten months a layer of ice had glazed the foundation of their friendship, and they stood on its slippery surface--for they each carried the knowledge of the other’s secret. Secrets that could ruin either of them.

  “Have you sold any bottles of my remedy for spring sniffles and sneezes?” she asked, looking over his cart.

  “Indeed! Those beset with the annual nuisance have taken kindly to its purported benefits. It may be weeks before we see the grass turn green, but they snatched it up and will try it at the hint of itchy eyes and unremittingly drippy nostrils.”

  “I delivered ten bottles last week.”

  Meddybemps pointed to the two bottles he had left. “See there? I do not say it just to please you. I shall soon need more.”

  Bianca sighed, wondering if she had enough dried butterbur root to make another batch. She didn’t fancy tromping through the muddy lowland beyond Paris Garden to dig it up.

  Meddybemps secured the contents of his cart. “Methinks you should consider hiring someone to help you with your remedies. There are enough earnings you can pay someone a few pennies. She could collect ingredients, or bottle your medicines. Even deliver them to me. You might think on it.” He took up the handles and looked up at the sky. “God’s foot, the day is gone by. I’ve sold well enough to leave.”

  Bianca followed Meddybemps as he maneuvered his barrow through Newgate Market past other merchants closing for the day. His cart showed signs of wear, and creaked loud enough for people to part and let them through. Its wheels were not true, and the streetseller’s life would be easier if he would take the time to replace the cart’s axle. Bianca thought of mentioning it, but Meddy was the sort who would not lose a day of sales unless he was on his deathbed, and even then he’d try to sell the priest an amulet.

  Once they were free of the bustle of market, Bianca joined his side and the two made their way toward the Cockeyed Gull, Meddybemps’s boozing ken of choice. The ale was potable and the wenches tart, just to his liking.

  On a quieter street, Bianca asked if he had heard what had happened at St. Mary Magdalen’s.

  “Nay,” said Meddybemps. “I never pay any mind to parishioner gossip.”

  “It is not gossip. A boy was found hanged from a dripstone.”

  “God’s blood. Over a window?”

  “Aye. A dragon grotesque.”

  “Jesu,” said Meddybemps. “How did he get himself up there?”

  “I don’t believe it was self-murder.”

  “How now?”

  “He had a peaceful look on his face.”

  Meddybemps stopped pushing his cart and leaned against it. He took off a shoe and turned it upside down, dislodging a pebble. “Mayhap he was glad for it. If he was a street boy then he had a hard life.”

  “By appearance he looked to be a street boy. No one knows who he is, so mayhap he was on his own. But that area is overrun with thieves.”

  “Bands of thieves run by driggers.”

  “Meaning someone is in charge?”

  Meddybemps stamped his shoe back on. “I doubt there is one overseer for all those boys. Likely there are several, each with their own crew. It would be a difficult task finding out who was with what group. Then, too, these driggers keep out of notice. And the little rascals are a changeable lot.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because street boys are not constant. Their loyalty is to their next meal. It is a matter of survival.”

  Bianca thought on this. “Let us say that the victim joined a circle of cutpurses run by an overseer—a drigger--mayhap a man, but possibly a woman.”

  “I see no reason why it is a man’s exclusive expertise. A woman could just as easily control a clutch of rascals,” he said.

  “How would you go about finding that overseer?”

  “Those sorts expertly disappear when they sense they are being sought. As I said, it would not be easy.” The street vendor’s strange eye quivered with anticipation. His skewed eyeball was his most noticeable trait. How rapidly it moved was a reliable gauge of his interest. “But I shall stay mindful of it. That is what you are asking of me, is it not?”

  Bianca’s mouth slid into a crooked smile. “Aye, it is.” The frosty discontent that had plagued their friendship began to melt--if only just a little. “No one else has bigger ears than you.”

  “I shall make it my priority.”

  “One more thing,” said Bianca, putting her hand on Meddybemps’s arm. “Have you ever heard of a man named Brother Ewan?”

  “Nay. Should I have?”

  “Only if he is notorious.”

  ***

  Meddybemps left off at the Cockeyed Gull and Bianca hailed a ferry at Castle Baynard Stairs. The boatman eased them into the current and Bianca watched the sun drop behind a low bank of clouds. Until last year, she’d never felt particularly concerned crossing the river. It was just a matter of convenience, a relatively quick mode of transport from London to Southwark and back again. But since her accident, she could never step into a skiff without remembering that night. The night she nearly drowned. Or as Cammy insisted, the night she did drown.

  Bianca still remembered the strange visage she saw under the
water, the glowing green eyes that seemed to look into her soul and (for she was certain) had saved it. She would never tell anyone of the haunting dreams she had had when she was with child. Nor would she admit to anyone that fragments of those dreams still tormented her whenever she gave them thought. She still pondered their import, whether they were a message from beyond. But if a message--then what did they mean?

  She touched the scar that ran across her cheek, now healed and faded to a thin, pink line. Another reminder of that fateful night--a visible scar along with the ones she suffered inside.

  When she landed, she quickly stepped on solid ground, banishing her ruminations in favor of more practical matters. There was a boy’s murder to explain and more medicines to make. Having help in her room of Medicinals and Physickes might benefit in more ways than one. Fisk needed to make money for his family and it would keep him out of trouble. Tomorrow she would seek him out at his mother’s near Ivy Lane and ask if she might employ him.

  She passed by the South Gate, where the portcullis was being closed for the night, and listened to the slow, steady creak of iron and chain. She considered the St. Mary Magdalen’s murder earlier in the day. The boy’s serene expression confounded her. Usually the final moments of life are a battle to forestall and prevent death. A child so young in years had vitality. The will to live was implicit at that age. She didn’t agree with Meddybemps that a child living on the streets would choose to end his own life rather than continue to live it, struggling day to day. To Bianca’s thinking, only when death snuck up and caught someone at slumber could a victim appear peaceful. But here was a child that showed no indication of illness or serious injury other than a broken neck. Why did he not struggle? She could think of no explanation.

  Bianca sighed imagining John admonishing her for getting involved in yet another murder. Certainly, if she had delivered their baby she would be home caring for their child instead of involving herself in an investigation.

  “John, I do hear you,” she said aloud, seemingly to a tree she was admiring. If someone had overheard, they would have thought her dotty. She picked up a fallen branch still covered in crisp leaves and pointed it at the sky. “I just don’t always listen,” and she tossed it over her shoulder.

  For now, she would ignore her nagging conscience and try to ignore her enigmatic dreams. Maybe she would never understand why they still haunted her. Dreams were phantoms--real at night and gone by day. And they left behind feelings of ambiguity. At least when she contemplated a murder, she knew an explanation was possible.

  Chapter 11

  Bianca woke to the insistent purr and pawing of Hobs trying to burrow under the covers. The black tiger had returned from his nightly exploits and had squeezed through the warped back door to find warmth and attention from his mistress. He flopped over appreciatively and submitted his striped belly for a good rubbing.

  With John gone, the chill of the morning was only marginally improved by the cat’s warm body against hers. She lay awake ordering her day and mustering the motivation to throw back the blankets and get dressed. She should at least make a tincture of the remaining butterbur, and once that was done she would go up to Ivy Lane and ask Fisk’s mother if the boy could work for her. True, it would be a long walk and boat ride for him from their home near St. Patrick’s Cathedral to Southwark and Gull Hole, but she decided to give him money for the boatman in addition to his pay.

  Bianca teased Hobs into rabbit kicking her, then leapt out of bed leaving him wondering why the tussling could not continue. He indignantly jumped down and stayed underfoot until she gave him a slice of cheese.

  Without John, Bianca had taken to talking to her immortal companion, explaining her concoctions to him and telling him why she must mix septwort with meadowsweet and not mullein. Hobs listened, or gave the appearance of interest, but really he was just keen to be close by in the event that a crumb of the bread she was eating might fall to the floor.

  She spent the next hour grating roots into a pile and preparing the herb to macerate with aqua vitae on a dark shelf until she needed it. When she had finished, she doused the fire in the calcinatory stove, dropped the paternoster in her pouch, and headed out the door.

  The day was not so cold, and Bianca made the time to visit John’s master, the French silversmith Boisvert. His residence on Foster Lane was near Ivy Lane where Fisk lived, and she strolled past St.Vedast church, the site of several unfortunate deaths she’d helped investigate. Scaffolding clung to the sides of the building, an elaborate crisscrossing of timbers and planks. The caved-in bell tower and roof were under repair and she was glad to see an effort being made to keep the church from falling into complete ruin. She wondered if the parish had undertaken the expense, or whether a wealthy merchant or nobleman had chosen to fund the project.

  Arriving at Boisvert’s address, Bianca rapped at the door and in a moment was greeted by the avuncular Frenchman. His round little body seemed even more so, and at the sight of her, his small eyes disappeared behind his plump cheeks as he smiled.

  “The Bianca!” he exclaimed, effusing joy at the sight of her. “Come in, come in. Have wine with me.”

  “That is gracious of you, Boisvert, but I cannot stay. I am on my way to Ivy Lane.” Bianca stepped inside to warm her hands. “I plan to take on an apprentice of my own.”

  Boisvert shut the door behind her. “To assist in making the remedies? Or are you loneful?”

  “Truth be, it is both. I plan to ask Fisk.” She unwound the scarf from around her neck, then rewound it. “I shall teach him what plants to collect and have him fetch other ingredients.”

  “This is the same boy who helped you at St. Vedast?”

  “Aye. He has helped me on more than one occasion.”

  “Mais oui. Bon. You should not be by yourself so long.” He gave a wistful sigh. Bianca thought the silversmith was remembering his own betrothed, who died suddenly at their wedding celebration. He had never been interested in marrying until he met her and his happiness had been painfully short-lived. However, it seemed that Boisvert had immersed himself back into his work and was none the worse, despite losing his two closest contacts.

  But he surprised her. “I miss John’s company,” he admitted. “Have you any news of him?”

  “Only that there are rumors that the fighting in Scotland is drawing to an end.”

  “Ah! Then he may return home in not so long?”

  “I cannot say. I should like it to be so.” And this time Bianca sighed.

  Boisvert tilted his head and looked at her fondly. “We must believe it to make it so.”

  ***

  A shift in the wind greeted Bianca as she stepped back onto Foster Lane. She crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits to keep them warm for the short walk to Ivy Lane. Once there, she remembered the added element of cold in that neighborhood, with its overhanging second stories and lack of penetrating sun. The tenement where her mentor Ferris Stannum had lived appeared now to be occupied again. A sliver of light from a lantern glowed from within, shining through the gap between shutters. The excessively uneven stoop out front had been replaced with a level stone.

  As Bianca approached Fisk’s door, the piercing cry of a child and the muffled voice of an adult carried through the thin walls to the street. It was no wonder that the boy preferred to spend as much time as he could outside. Indeed, that is how she first met him.

  He had been sitting outside on the stoop when Bianca had investigated Ferris Stannum’s unexpected demise. An innocent child can be easily ignored by adults. Children tend to blend into the background--but Bianca had discovered that Fisk possessed an observant eye and curiosity that reminded her of her own. Indeed, he’d been instrumental in providing information that had helped her solve her mentor’s death, in addition to helping her solve the deaths connected with St. Vedast Church.

  With her first knock, the door abruptly swung open as if someone had been expecting it. Fis
k’s mother stood inches away with a crying toddler balanced on her hip. Her hair was unkempt, she wore no coif, and both her eyes and her baby’s were swollen from crying. No doubt they had been upset for different reasons. The expectant look on the woman’s face startled Bianca, but was quickly replaced with recognition. Fisk’s mother had characteristically regarded her with a level of suspicion or, perhaps, distrust. However, today, that palpable wariness fell away.

  “Bianca Goddard,” she said. “Have ye news of my boy?”

  “News? Are you referring to me speaking with him yesterday?”

  “He never came home last night. He left in the morning and that be the last I saw of him.”

  Bianca had always thought poorly of the woman’s indifference toward her son. In many ways, their relationship echoed that of Bianca and her father. Perhaps with the husband gone to war, mayhap she had come to rely on her son more. Bianca had gathered that Fisk had matured a little and was taking his responsibility seriously.

  “Then you are concerned that he was out all night?” asked Bianca.

  “He has always come home for bed.” She set her toddler on the ground, and the child hid behind her skirt.

  Bianca remembered what Fisk had told her about Brother Ewan, and worried that he’d ignored her warning to avoid him. The sight of the street boy hanging from the dripstone flashed through her head.

  “You gave him no cause to stay away for the night?”

  The woman’s voice turned dark with anger. “What do ye imply?”

  “Could there have been a squabble that upset him enough to stay out? Mayhap his absence is purposeful. Mayhap he would like to be appreciated more.” Bianca wished no ill will between the mother and son but she preferred this explanation over Fisk missing because of this monk he told her about.