“Another boy was found dangling from a rain spout.” He pointed at a stone gargoyle at the edge of the roof.
“The murderer, if he is the same one as before, is not content to hang the boy from a tree,” said Bianca. “He always chooses the side of a church.”
“’Tis a lot of effort to dispose of a victim,” said Patch.
“It is not so much disposing of the victim as it is in displaying it,” observed Bianca. “Why does the killer choose parish churches in Castle Baynard ward, and hang the bodies on the outside of the buildings where they can be readily seen? It is a pattern.” Bianca scanned the side of the building, pondering how the murderer managed this feat. “I think it is to prove a point.”
Constable Patch followed her gaze to the side of the church. “And whats point do ye think the killer is proving?”
“That is the question.” Bianca ran her eyes around the spectators again. “At the least I am hoping we might be given allowance to view the body.”
“Wells, if not while Berwick is around, then after he takes his leave. Which may be soon judging by the color of his face.” Patch scurvily smiled as he glanced at the red-faced Berwick. “He will want to be gone soon enoughs to retire to his ill-gotten stash of wine.”
“While we wait, tell me what you know about the victim,” said Bianca.
Patch tugged at his chin hair. “He looks to be the same age as the other victim. Tattery clothes. No bloods on his person that I saw. A skinny child.”
“And the priest? Who is the priest here?”
“Father Wells. He is inside. I imagines he and the churchwarden are discussing what to do. He says he arrived per usuals this morning and dids not notice the body.”
“I suppose if you didn’t look up you would not see it.”
“He says he approached from Thames Street. The body was on Bennet’s Hill.”
“So, who first reported it?”
“I do not knows. I only came to learns of it from Bindle who happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Who is this Bindle fellow? Do you trust him?”
“Aws, I might take him on. He’s suitably menacing. Used to shovel the ditch latrines when they overflowed. Would be a promotion of sorts.”
Bianca studied the bystanders looking for any familiar faces from the incident at St. Mary Magdalen’s. She’d known murderers to assimilate in a crowd for the strange pleasure of viewing the reaction to their crime. To the best she could see, there was no one in common.
“I would like to speak with whoever discovered the body,” said Bianca. “And I’d like to search the grounds, but this crowd makes that impossible right now.”
The sudden absence of the nobleman’s loud ridicule drew Bianca and Patch’s notice. He had finished berating Constable Berwick, who quickly turned heel and stalked off.
“A tall bottle calls to ‘im,” said Patch.
“We must thank him with another,” said Bianca, and the two seized their chance to get into the church without being stopped.
Inside, they followed the sound of voices to Father Wells, a parish priest flagrantly beringed with gemstones on his sausage-sized fingers. Both his manner and his speech bespoke a man used to the privilege of his office and then some. His grave discussion with his sexton and two laymen was interrupted by his notice of Patch and Bianca crossing the nave.
Patch introduced himself and told them that Bianca would serve as a witness to whatever was said.
“Are you the constable of this ward?” asked Father Wells.
“He be indisposed,” said Patch. “I am with Bread ward, but we work together.”
“And this woman’s name?” asked the priest looking at Bianca.
“She be Bianca Goddards--a woman of exceptional memories,” boasted Patch. “She can recall conversations word for word, a second set of ears, an asset to my infestation.” The men ran their eyes over the uninvited pair and exchanged looks.
“Very well. I have no objection to a woman of sharp wit, provided she can tolerate what most would call a deeply disturbing sight,” said the priest.
A course of action was decided, and the men dispersed. Father Wells gave permission for Bianca and Patch to view the body, then excused himself. The two followed the sexton across the nave to the chancery--a temporary resting place until the initial examination was complete. Faced with finally seeing the victim, Bianca tensed, hoping that Patch had not been mistaken. The thought of Fisk murdered momentarily paralyzed her. She froze before entering, staring at a wide beam of sunlight streaming through a high window. There would be no question, no trying to see in a dimly lit room and coming to an eventual realization. She made a quick sign of the cross.
The body lay on the tile floor. The sexton had taken care not to handle him any more than was necessary. Bianca sighed audibly at the sight of the poor child. It was not Fisk, but the boy’s peaceful expression and tragic death tugged at her heart. This was a young life, someone’s child, a life extinguished too soon, for no apparent reason.
“The coroner has been summoned, but he is delayed,” said the sexton. “I see no harm in ye looking him over, so long as ye don’t disturb him.” He then stood aside and watched as Patch began examining the body. Bianca crouched beside him playing the role of assistant.
To his credit, Constable Patch had watched Bianca enough times to know how to appear credible. But Bianca basically ignored his yammering and concentrated on silently conducting her own examination.
First, was the paternoster coiled around the boy’s neck. Immediately Bianca could see a difference in the way that this paternoster had been used. The prayer beads dug into the boy’s skin, indicating he had been strangled with it. Also of note was the quality of the paternoster. The beads were polished silver, an expensive set owned by someone of wealth or importance.
“Should you look to see if they have letters carved in them?” asked Bianca, giving a slight nod to Patch that he should do just that.
Constable Patch looked at the sexton for permission. “I likes to look at these beads more closely.”
The sexton nodded. “Put them back like ye found them.”
Patch began unwinding the prayer beads from the child’s neck and got them tangled, frustrating himself. In her impatience, Bianca took over and gently removed the paternoster.
“I don’t see any carving on these,” she said, turning them over and carefully examining them. “They are entirely different from the set at St. Mary Magdalen’s.” She slid some beads to see the cord and rotated several beads looking for letters. The cord was of some strength and there was filigree and some embellishment on the crucifix, but no letters.
She handed it to Patch and sat back on her heels. “The paternoster is a strange choice for the murder, is it not?” She thought a minute. “The first paternoster was simple, common on most counts except for the lettering. This one is more elaborate and made of silver. Why the change?”
Patch could offer no explanation. He blinked at Bianca, then stared up at the high window as if the answer might fly through it.
Without thinking, Bianca took over examining the child’s body while Patch looked on.
“Ot, she seems to have the gentler touch,” commented the sexton, mocking Patch, who grumbled under his breath.
Again, the boy showed no signs of poisoning. His eyes were slightly open. He still looked relatively peaceful, but less so than the first boy. The sexton had removed the noose and the child’s skin showed the furrow from hanging. But there was one difference. The silver paternoster had been used to kill the child; it had cut into his skin.
Like the boy at St. Mary Magdalen’s, he bore the telltale signs of a life lived on the street. His face had a few streaks of grime. His shoes were too big, probably stolen then stuffed with grass to make them fit. They found a penny, a dice, and a length of thin cord in his pockets.
“Not much in the way of possessions,” said Patch.
“Nothing of much purpose,” said Bianca, looking over the paternoster one last time. She lifted the child’s head to receive the cord of beads and looped them around his neck for the coroner to see. Returning the murder weapon to the victim--the mere act of twining the paternoster around the child’s neck in imitation of the murderer’s work--gave Bianca pause. It was as if she’d assumed the role of killer and her hand began trembling. She finished and quickly got to her feet.
For once, Patch sensed her disquiet. He saw her hand shake and the troubled look on her face. Her unease became his.
“I thinks we have finished here,” Patch said to the sexton.
Chapter 18
Bianca followed Constable Patch through the nave of St. Benet’s Church and exited onto the street. The crowd had dispersed, leaving no trace of the tragic murder the church had been involved in.
“I needs to get back to my office,” said Patch, then added, “by way of Constable Berwick’s.”
“What do you propose to do there?” asked Bianca.
“I just wants to see if he knows anything more.”
Bianca gave him a skeptical look. “And you believe that he will gladly tell you?”
“Naw, no,” groused Patch. “But ye can learn a lot from a man when he doesn’t like ye.”
Bianca watched him saunter up the street then turn the corner. Left to her own, she went back inside and waited for Father Wells. Church officials surrounded him discussing the unfortunate incident and Bianca bided her time until she could speak to him alone.
At last the men dispersed.
“Father Wells,” called Bianca, catching up to him. “Have you time for me?”
The priest stopped and turned, a little surprised to see her again. “Of course.”
Bianca noticed something off in the way he was dressed. He wore the customary black cassock and skull cap. His shoes were remarkably clean given the soggy state of the roads of late. She couldn’t place what didn’t seem right, but she knew from past experience that when she felt this pinch of awareness, it usually warranted cause for explanation.
“I am wondering sir, if there are any disgruntled parishioners who might have reason to make trouble for you?”
The priest’s eyebrows raised in offense.
“Have you had any conflicts of late?” asked Bianca.
“Conflicts?” questioned Father Wells. “Nay! I am just a vessel for God’s work. What cause would anyone have with that?”
“I agree it seems unlikely that anyone would wish ill of you, when obviously you devote yourself so completely to your parishioners’ needs. However, it would be impossible for you to attend to every matter concerning St Benet. I wonder if someone is upset with any change? Perhaps there is a member associated with the church who has caused some discontent?”
Father Wells rejected the notion. “All decisions are made in the church’s best interest.”
“I imagine it is difficult changing and conforming to the King’s wishes. There are many who are uncertain about his reforms. They may not understand or agree with all the decisions. Some think these reforms go against God.”
“The reforms are the king’s. And he is the defender of the faith.” He said this woodenly, as if he no longer believed it but was obliged to say it.
“Then, you believe the king is God’s appointed representative?”
The priest’s voice lowered to a hiss. “Goodwife, what are you insinuating here? Your questions could put us both in peril.” He took her by the arm and guided her beyond earshot of anyone in the apse. “If this is about the unfortunate debacle this morning, then I am unable to give you any more information. I have already told you and the constable everything I know.”
“I understand, sir. But mayhap you might consider why St. Benet church was singled out. I only ask that you consider the possibility. Think on it, and if anything occurs to you, let me know.”
“If choosing St. Benet is part of the killer’s design then I haven’t a notion why. You are asking me to look inside a killer’s heart and surmise what is in it.”
“Is that not a priest’s domain?”
Father Wells’s face turned puce. He opened his mouth to dismiss her, but Bianca interrupted.
“I understand you did not see the body when you arrived this morning. I was told that you were alerted by a parishioner who first saw it.”
“That is true,” he said, his tone evening out.
“Who was that parishioner?”
“Why should that matter?”
“I should like to ask him some questions.” Bianca thought it obvious. She didn’t want to sound coy, but something about Father Well’s defensiveness didn’t set well with her.
“I fail to understand why you are asking me these questions. Is it not the responsibility of the constable or magistrate?” His hand went to his side as if seeking something and, not finding it, he then pressed his hand against his side awkwardly. It occurred to Bianca what had caught her notice but had escaped her realization. Most priests wore a paternoster around their neck or waist, or even strung across their chest like a bandolier. Father Wells had none to wear. And by the way his hand moved, it appeared that touching his beads was a habit that had suddenly been balked. Father Wells continued, “Constable Patch said that you were a kind of witness. A person to help him keep his facts sorted.”
“It is my duty. However, I also find people for the constable to interview. People whom he might overlook.”
Wells glanced away from her and after a moment relented. “I was informed about the body by a woman,” he said. “Her name is Jane Clewes.”
Bianca remembered the name. The woman insisted that Father Foxcroft hear her son’s confession the morning of the first murder. “Is she not a parishioner at St. Mary Magdalen’s?”
Father Wells was curt. “I did not say that she was a parishioner here.”
“Do you know where I might find her?”
“Father Rhys would know. However, it might benefit you to question Father Foxcroft about this matter.”
Bianca detected a cool edge in the way Wells mentioned Foxcroft’s name.
“Does Father Foxcroft know what happened this morning?”
“He has been over to express his grief. He appeared while they were cutting down the victim. Father Rhys, however, might still be unaware of the death.”
“Word travels fast in Castle Baynard ward,” said Bianca.
“Indeed,” agreed Father Wells meeting her gaze. “I would have thought Foxcroft would have slept in this morning.”
“He is a late sleeper?”
“I do not know what his habits are, but he was out late.”
“Were you with him last night?”
Father Wells answered without hesitation. “There was a meeting with Bishop Bonner and it went on for some time.”
“Longer than usual?”
Father Wells snorted. “Aye.”
Bianca suspected from his reaction that Father Foxcroft might have forestalled the meeting.
“Father Foxcroft appears exceptionally interested in matters concerning the other parishes in Castle Baynard ward,” said Bianca.
“Aye, he does,” said the priest. “His interest goes beyond what is required of him.”
“He has ambitions?”
“Ambition makes for a good servant, but a bad master.”
Bianca was unfamiliar with the inner workings of power and position in the king’s church. But she seized the priest’s willingness to talk. “Then you worry his desire is misplaced?”
“Goodwife, we all have ambitions.” He tucked his chin, making his point. “Since the king and his chief minister closed the monasteries and stripped them of their valuables nearly eight years ago, being a priest is less attractive and it is certainly more dangerous. We are restricted from many of our previous duties.”
He did not come out and say that he, as well as other priests, had lost a significant sour
ce of income, but Bianca suspected this to be true. Religious relics had been confiscated, pilgrimages banned, indulgences forbidden. (Even though the king had ordered several thousand masses to be said for Jane Seymour’s soul). Priests were required to follow the king’s doctrine and those who were reluctant to change, or who remained reticent about supporting the reforms, or who were presumed sympathetic to the old ways--or to the pope--were threatened and often punished.
The king’s condemnation of the pope--that “Roman Bishop usurper”--was so convincing that people grew indifferent to the plight of the clerics. Indeed, there was a general lack of sympathy, and even outright animosity, toward them.
But while the people of England mused over the reforms and wondered what effect the changes might have on their everlasting souls, many were certain that the clerics had enjoyed a life of unwarranted privilege. Cardinal Wolsey (though quite dead now) had built a home rivaling anything owned by the king (and was eventually shamed into giving it to his Majesty). So, why not give their money to His Majesty instead of the profligate clergy and a foreign pope?
“So, you see, being asked to assist Bishop Bonner is an honor to which we might all aspire.”
“Because he is God’s noble servant?”
“Of course.”
Bianca had seen enough to know that men of position were unlikely to have gotten there by being exemplary models of piety. She doubted Bishop Bonner was any closer to God than any other priest, or for that matter, any other person. More often than not, circumstance and opportunity made the man. Not merit.
“And Father Foxcroft aspires to this as well?”
“Most decidedly so. He wishes to be archdeacon.”
“What benefit is there in that office?” asked Bianca. She figured the benefit was more money, but she wanted to hear how he would answer.
Father Wells smiled as if he needed to exercise patience. He explained in simple terms. “As priests, we are called by God to serve Him and his people. We all welcome the chance to shepherd a bigger flock.”
Bianca said nothing in response, but she could have predicted such an answer. Still, she was preoccupied with the two murders occurring not so far apart, and decided to leave matters of church politics alone.
The Lost Boys of London Page 15
