“So’s we have a group of murdering papists? Why, praytell, would they murder a young boy and string him up?”
“I admit the idea is disturbing. If the boy’s murder is meant as a message then I haven’t any idea what their intent is,” said Bianca.
From the back cell they heard the odious sound of retching. Patch scrunched his face in disgust.
“Have you learned if the boy has been identified?” asked Bianca.
“That beslubbering lump, Constable Berwick, refuses to share any information with me. I hads to find out by going back to ask the sexton. But, alas. No one knows his name. However, it is rumored that the boy was a filcher. Hisself was seen frequenting St. Paul’s walk to pick pockets. Justs another youth surviving on his wits. He likely got hisself in trouble and his death is probably his comeuppance.”
“I wonder if he might have been a lone boy or whether he could have been with a group of cutpurses run by a drigger.”
Patch shook his head, dismissing the notion. “It would surprise me not if driggers lived in Castle Baynard ward. But I’ve never heard tell of them here,” said Patch, making a point of it.
“Mayhap we should find out more about these groups,” said Bianca. The idea that another constable could be so remiss as to have bands of cutpurses running amok must have pleased Patch, for Bianca saw a glint in his eye. She quickly put an end to his arrogance. “I think, too, we should make sure there are none here.”
Patch ignored Bianca’s comment as if he hadn’t heard it and stared down at his popingay blue doublet to brush off a minuscule piece of lint.
“And we must learn more about this cult of the Holy Name,” added Bianca.
“Indeed, we must,” said Patch, with tepid enthusiasm. “But let me remind ye that the city runs rampants with swindlers and people who exploit others. Driggers or nay.”
“There is something else,” said Bianca. “Fisk has gone missing from his mother’s.”
Patch stared at her with a blank look. He then realized who she was talking about.
“The boy who lived across from the old alchemist?” he asked.
“Aye. We had spoken earlier in the day. Apparently, a fellow named Brother Ewan asked Fisk to help him distribute food to the poor. In return he would take care of Fisk’s family.”
“Take cares of his family?”
“Give them food, I suppose. A young boy seeing his mother struggle to feed his siblings would be tempted. Have you heard of this fellow?”
“The Deft Drigger,” spouted Malloy from under the stool. “There’s a retched fellow. He should be sitting here in this cold, cruel cell--not me!”
“Stop ye nonsense, ye pribbling cur,” said Patch.
Alarmed by the prisoner’s outburst, Bianca thought it worth pursuing. “Sir, do you know of this Brother Ewan?”
Malloy, having snared her interest, attempted to stand. He only got as far as his knees before flopping over again. Bianca approached and looked down at him.
“Sir, I mentioned Brother Ewan. Is he known by another name?”
The sot rolled onto his back and blinked up at her. He motioned Bianca to come closer. Patch warned her off but she bent over, careful to keep back from the smell and his reach should he try to grab her ankle through the bars.
“Nay,” said Malloy, attempting to sound serious. Then he broke into laughter with a loud guffaw. “Nay, I do not.” He screaked in delight.
“Sir, you do not…what?” prodded Bianca.
“I do not…” his eyelids drooped heavily and he fought to open them.
“Ye do not what?” shouted Patch.
“…like yer face!”
Patch shook his head in disgust. “Worthless tosspot.”
***
If Malloy hadn’t passed out, Bianca would have pressed him for more. She wondered if this “Deft Drigger” was one and the same as Brother Ewan? Patch denied the existence of organized bands of thieves in his ward, so she would have to go elsewhere for answers.
Bianca left the ward office and searched the market for Meddybemps to tell him what she’d learned. The streetseller was nowhere to be found, having probably quit early. More than likely he had retired to the Cockeyed Gull. She could hardly fault him wiling away the day in a dry tavern rather than sit in the cold drizzle. With a mind for warming up before a boat ride home she sought Meddybemps at his favorite boozing ken.
Through the mist of the soggy day, the carved likeness of a seagull decorated one side of the tavern’s door. As if that were not enough signage, a placard swung from an iron bracket of a tipsy looking bird, its one eye as crooked as the signage hanging by one hook. The other hook had been sprung free and whether caused by wind or by prank, Bianca appreciated the impertinent message.
She pushed open the door and the blue haze of smoke hovered over the seated clientele like a low-lying mist. In the corner a hearth coughed up the unhealthy smaze, logs smoldering and wheezing, too damp to burn properly. Meddybemps’s red cap stood out in the gray brume like a beacon in the night, and Bianca followed it until she was sitting opposite the storied street vendor.
“Ho now,” said Meddybemps. “I’ve seen you twice in as many days.” He waved over a wench and ordered Bianca an ale and a trencher of stew.
The men at the table ogled Bianca appreciatively, and Meddybemps reminded them that she was too virtuous for the likes of their filthy hides and to stare at someone else.
“From the serious look on your face I fear there is important news,” he said.
Bianca unwound her scarf and wadded it into a ball. “Fisk has gone missing.”
“The young lad?”
“He never came home last night—so says his mother.”
Meddybemps studied Bianca’s face. “And you worry he might become a victim like the boy who was found at St. Mary Magdalen’s?”
“I don’t have any evidence or reason to believe that another murder like that would happen. But it gives me pause. He’s not come home and the weather is not so mild. He’s a stubborn boy; however, I think he would not willingly stay out in this cold and damp. And I still wonder who this Brother Ewan is and whether he has had any part in this.”
“I am sorry that I have not learned anything about the man.”
The wench arrived and set an ale before Bianca with a round loaf of bread scooped out and filled with vegetable stew. Bianca drowned a carrot bobbing on the surface. “However, it is possible that I have learned something. I visited Constable Patch, and he had a fellow named Malloy in a cell. Patch and I were talking about the possible driggers in Castle Baynard…”
“And did Patch deny knowledge of driggers in Bread ward?”
Bianca took a spoonful of stew and smiled as she blew on it. “He did. But while we were talking about Brother Ewan, Malloy suddenly said, ‘The Deft Drigger--now there be a wretched fellow.’”
“He said that Brother Ewan was the Deft Drigger?”
“Not exactly. But it has got me wondering if they are one and the same.”
Meddybemps took a sip of ale. “But you said this Malloy fellow was silly with drink. Such a man can babble on to no purpose and not remember a word after.”
“Aye, he was squiffed beyond reason. But sometimes a person forgets himself and becomes less inhibited. A drunk spills secrets that he would otherwise keep.”
“He may be less inhibited and more inclined to lie,” said Meddybemps. “A drunk mind speaks a potty mouth.”
“What I am saying is that if there is a connection, I need to find out what it is.” Bianca’s stew had cooled to where she could eat it without burning her tongue.
“I did learn,” said Meddybemps, his eyes beginning to jitter, “that the boy found hanged had stolen from one of the butcher’s. Alas, I do not know which one. There are several at Westcheap Market and at any one time they may or may not be selling that day. This may not be so helpful, though.”
“It is a start. I shall
ask around. One might have heard of Brother Ewan or the Deft Drigger.”
“Or mayhap one might know where you might find a band of young thieves living.”
Chapter 13
Jane Clewes peered out the window of her rent searching the road for Huet. She’d sent him to the baker, a short distance away, confident that he could manage the errand without mishap. Yesterday, he had taken her basket to market and got eggs for dinner. It didn’t matter that he would not speak, he was getting better at making himself understood.
But a big boy like him could become distracted. She stared out the window, trying to calm herself and the apprehension that needled her, for he was taking longer than she expected.
Huet had made great strides since he’d come into her care nearly a year ago. Seventeen years of neglect would be difficult for anyone to overcome. Providence had guided her to save him and Providence continued to guide her now. She relied on her faith, and she never missed a day of mass. To think Huet had never known the inside of a church until she came along. Verily, he had never prayed! Sometimes it was hard for her to comprehend. Odd, given that his care and placement had been undertaken by nuns.
She had searched for years, and when finally her path had led to London she had taken up residence in a tenement that had once been an old tavern. The building had partially burned, and a wealthy merchant bought the damaged building and converted it to accommodate the tide of newcomers, the country folk, the emigrants with hope in their hearts and only a penny in their pockets.
Jane came grudgingly to London. She’d heard stories of its grand bridge, of its fine palaces, and numerous, handsome churches. By all counts she should have been awestruck. But Jane cared not for the crowded city. The stench of its open ditch latrines made her nauseous. And what good were awe-inspiring sites when she had to keep her head down to avoid stepping in rotting piles of food scraps dumped in the streets?
She believed London encouraged the worst in human nature. Everywhere she looked she saw evidence of excess and poverty at odds with one another--indeed, despising one another! Noblemen on their handsome mounts rode through town with their chins held level, ignoring the beggars running alongside them. All over was the rampant evidence of a struggling populace. And that struggling populace had no choice but to lie, cheat, and steal just to eat.
Though churches were on nearly every corner, and good parishioners followed their king’s wavering ideas of religious reform, confusion and even indifference tainted their belief in God and pulled them further astray. Jane witnessed their infidelity. Her difficulty in finding anyone of pious disposition, or for that matter finding anyone trustworthy, had imbued her with a crippling sense of distrust. She kept to herself, went to confession, and tried to right the many wrongs done to Huet.
And Huet had flourished under her care, she reminded herself. Though he remained quiet, indeed silent, his eyes showed that he understood. He might always be mute, she told herself. She did not know if his silence was by choice or otherwise.
Jane felt a swell of pride thinking how much he’d improved under her care. When she first saw him, Huet was so dirty she could smell him across the room. His hands were meaty paws that held the stench of bowels and excrement that he had been made to scrub away. His hair hung in thick mats, crusted with sweat and infested with lice. The boy owned no change of smocks so that he always wore the blood-stained issue he’d been given nearly two years before. His jerkin was similarly christened and his soiled hosen were ripped at the knee from constant bending and washing. What did it matter that his clothes were not fine--they would be ruined after an hour of labor. For Huet had been tasked with cleaning scaffolds and platforms--those grim stages for executions.
She supposed with repetition came tedium and acceptance. One became numb to the gory details and probably no longer saw them as such, though she wondered what effects that exposure had on a person. If one had never known any better, one would not question his lot in life. He would not complain. And there lay the benefit in hiring such a boy.
Unfortunately for Huet, his nature had been exploited in a series of unfortunate circumstances that had finally led to Jane finding him in the service of the executioner of Tyburn Hill. It was hard for her to fathom the convoluted path, the detours and experiences that must have been his long journey. She only knew the gist of it, the few leads that had any credibility and that had aided in her search. The prioress had placed him in a loving home to start, but how was she to know that the parents would die of the pox and leave the babe with no one to care for him?
As Huet grew in physique, his head must have suffered from a lack of humors. Maybe they flowed abundantly to his lengthening limbs and the ventricles of his brain lacked the fluids to nourish it. She did not know; she accepted the physician’s explanation as plausible. It certainly might account for his refusal to speak. He might never partake in the joy of conversation, but she suspected he might know more than he was able to convey. With so many disappointments the frustrations must have been overwhelming, and Huet responded in the only way that managed to serve him.
If Jane crossed him, Huet would storm. His violence frightened her. She’d hide beneath a table, which was no easy task given her increasingly stiff joints. From there she would watch Huet lash out like an injured bear. Only this bear did not roar. Uncertain of the extent of his fury, she would watch in fear, daring to wonder if her death would one day be by his hands.
So she took care not to cross him.
Jane pulled a chair next to the window and began praying the rosary. She had almost finished her Hail Marys when she heard scratching from under the floor board. Sparing a quick glance out the window, Jane went toward the sound and pushed aside the rushes covering a trap door. She’d found the hiding place by accident. At first, she wondered how it had come to be there and supposed it was born of seditious intent. Mayhap it was a place to hide Anabaptists or heretics.
Then she began to appreciate the security such a secret hideaway could offer. The more she saw of London and its abundance of strange people and its immorality, the more she questioned living there. Besides, one could never be sure which side of religion a person was on and whether it was a favorable position or not. It seemed to Jane that allegiances and the king’s dictates changed as often as the seasons. Like Cromwell’s commissioners, authorities could arrive unexpectedly and wreak havoc on a person’s life.
She carefully untied the rope that held the door closed, then drew back the lid on its creaking hinge. She kept back, enough to avoid any surprise lunge, and peered into the dark recess.
“Ye shouldn’t make trouble,” she said, then skittishly glanced over her shoulder toward the door. Not seeing Huet, she continued, “There now. Be good. You know what happens when you make him angry. You saw the squirrel. It bit him. He didn’t like that.”
She went to her chest and tossed a small blanket into the hole. “There. That’s something for now. Ye can stop yer shaking.”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth before she heard Huet on the steps. She slammed down the lid and hurriedly tied the rope.
With a disquieting rattle of the door, Huet stepped into the rent just as Jane’s toe kicked the last of the rushes into place.
***
While his prisoner slept off the effects of too much drink, Constable Patch left Cyndric in charge, instructing him to promise Malloy bread and water and then not bring him any. Cyndric needed to learn the finer points of making life miserable for any scoundrel who had the misfortune of being confined in his ward. In Patch’s opinion, his associate lacked the necessary spine needed to be an effective keeper of peace and order.
Also on his mind floated the seriously neglectful Constable Berwick from Castle Baynard ward. Patch hated sots, and he especially hated men of authority who were sots. In a sense, he thought it his public duty to expose their incompetence--for there was no such thing as a competent drunk, thought Patch.
So it was with
pleasure and a bit of simmering meanness that he decided to seek out the man and pester him.
Berwick’s office was not so far from Bread ward. Patch strode down Knightrider thinking about Berwick’s lack of cooperation and the man’s refusal to inform him of any relevant news regarding the recent death. He found the man eating his dinner and eyed his spread of fare, the slab of roast beef smothered in ginger sauce, a bread pudding with sliced apples sitting prettily in a dish, and a bottle of wine uncorked and half gone. What constable could afford wine? Patch’s irritation percolated. If he could contribute to a mighty case of indigestion then he would consider his visit a resounding success.
“Good day, sirrah,” said Patch. He leveled a weaselly stare at the man.
“It was,” said Berwick. He patted his mouth with a napkin draped over one shoulder then took a sip of wine. “I would offer you some, but then, I only have this single goblet.” His mouth curved into a specious smile. “You understand.”
“I cames because there is talk of the victim at St. Mary Magdalen’s running with a band of thieves.” Patch’s toes twinkled with joy. “After all, Castle Baynard is rife with filchers.” He paused, letting the words soak through Berwick’s wine-induced haze. “I was thinkings ye might have heard of a fellow called the Deft Drigger. He has a certain reputation.”
Berwick set down his drink. “Nay, I have never heard of the man. It is a man, I assume?”
“We believe it to be.” Patch continued. “Ye have lots of problems on the streets around St. Paul’s. Ye have orphans and beggars sleeping against the cathedral walls at night. All sorts of mischief thereabouts.”
Berwick pressed a fist against his chest and coaxed out a burp. “Every ward has its disreputable areas. Even Bread Street ward has its share of crooked broderers.”
Patch remained unfazed. Crooked broderers were highly unlikely, and the insult fell flat. Patch never laughed, even derisively. One might think him incapable. But he afforded his comrade the vague hint of levity. He parted his lips and rocked his head forward and back in some semblance of mirth.
The Lost Boys of London Page 10
