The Lost Boys of London

by Mary Lawrence

  “It has occurred to me. I wanted to see if St. Andrew’s would be included in this mayhem.”

  “And if it is not?”

  “Then I believe its omission would be suspicious. Why would every other parish church be targeted, and not his? It is not divine favor that excludes St. Andrew’s—it is Foxcroft’s.”

  “This is a serious accusation, sir,” said Bianca. “How do we know that it is not you who set this in motion? Could you harbor a grievance against him and hope to bring St. Andrew’s and Father Foxcroft’s obvious exclusion to public notice?”

  Father Wells shook his head. “I have not the heart for such a scheme. But I have seen Foxcroft abandon his beliefs like Judas if it proves expedient for his advancement.” Wells addressed Meddybemps, “That is what I believe he does not want to be reminded of. If he is capable of hiding and then handing over a fellow priest to face heresy charges, then he is capable of adjusting his morality to the whims of those whom he wishes to please.”

  “Meaning Bishop Bonner?” asked Meddybemps.

  “Aye.”

  “Who is the priest that he betrayed?” asked Bianca.

  “He was a man of influence on the King. When the pope denied Henry’s divorce from Katherine, Henry sent Robert Barnes to the reformists and Martin Luther to appeal for his favor. But Luther also rejected Henry’s case for divorce. Barnes was assured protection while Cromwell was the chief minister, but when Cromwell fell, so did everyone around him.”

  “You speak of the man who was burned at the stake with two other priests?”

  “I do. As I said, Foxcroft once supported him when Bishop Bonner and others saw Henry consider Luther’s ideals. Foxcroft supported helping the reformist priest when it served him to do so.”

  The three had arrived at St. Benet’s. Without mentioning it, they walked to the corner and looked up Bennet’s Hill running alongside the church.

  “The streets are quiet,” said Bianca, relieved not to see a body dangling from the dripstone. “Perhaps it is true that the murderer will not repeat a crime at a church he has already touched.”

  “I can rouse my sexton to keep watch,” said Father Wells. He bid them a quiet night. “Let us hope the murderer reconsiders. In which case, the killer may escape his mortal punishment, but his soul will not escape God’s.”

  “You need to speak with Father Foxcroft again,” said Meddybemps once the church door closed behind Father Wells.

  “If he has set all of this in motion, he need only deny his involvement. Unless we can catch the murderer and he implicates Foxcroft, then I am not sure what use there is to further pestering the man.”

  “You might be able to tell if he is lying,” said Meddybemps. “Or he might mention something, perhaps slip in the mud, so to speak.”

  They began walking back to St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe.

  “Then again,” said Meddybemps, “Father Wells could have been lying to put us off his trail.”

  “True that,” said Bianca. “This business of priests lying is a sorry thing.” They both fell silent as they continued down the street.

  “The other thought is,” said Bianca, rousing out of her rumination, “if Father Foxcroft is complicit and we keep a close eye on him, we might catch him doing something suspicious.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like warning someone off from St. Andrew’s.”

  “We might say the same of Wells. And now we’ve left him alone to do what he will.”

  Bianca stopped walking. She looked up at Meddybemps. “I don’t suppose you would shadow Wells for the rest of the night?”

  “Someone should,” replied the streetseller. He looked back in the direction they’d come. “I’ll go linger about,” he said.

  ***

  Bianca hurried on, squelching through the mud and rocking wood planks as she passed over the worst bits of road. She sifted through their conversation with Father Wells and remembered the pamphlet at Jane Clewes’s tenement. The publication and others like it stoked an undercurrent of fear and distress. She wondered if that was their purpose, or was it merely a means for educating and perpetuating the reformists’ ideals? With the king being so volatile, it was an act of bravery to flout Luther’s reforms. Henry had once rejected them and had been deemed the Defender of the Faith for doing so by the Pope. But several years later and with Catherine unable to give him a male heir, siding with the reformists stood to serve him. He had willingly considered embracing the Lutheran’s reforms. But ultimately, he rejected them when Luther and the princes of Germany did not support his divorce. How Henry viewed the Lutherans today was different from yesterday and might very well be different tomorrow.

  Bianca turned onto St. Andrew’s Hill where St. Andrew’s church stood tall against a clear night sky, the surrounding buildings giving place to its divine station. She passed the watch still manning his post; this time, he acknowledged her with a bow of his head, which she returned in kind. Stepping up to the entry, she was overcome by the urge to say a prayer for Fisk.

  Bianca had never ascribed to the tenets of religion, preferring instead to set her course by her own set of morals. She saw more majesty and peace in a towering oak tree and the starry sky than she did in a man lifting a wafer over his head. This religious equivocation that Henry and others squabbled over seemed based on opinion and interpretation that didn’t stem from God’s word, but from words written and interpreted by men.

  Was there a spiritual realm? She believed there was, most decidedly. But she didn’t know if the concept of “heaven” or “hell” or somewhere in-between wasn’t just man’s invention to try to keep people from killing each other. Bianca named her heaven “bliss” and her hell, “hate”, and the in-between was “confusion”. It served her well enough, and to Bianca it made sense.

  So, as Bianca stood outside the door to St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe, she sent her thoughts to this entity called God, but she didn’t ask for a miracle or for divine intervention. She only asked that she remember what strength there was in doing what was right. That she would know wisdom in judgment to see her through the night, come what may.

  After a whispered, “Amen,” she hauled open the door and went inside.

  Chapter 32

  Borderlands--

  Even though John had indulged in his first restful sleep in nearly a year, it would take more than a day’s worth of tranquil slumber to calm the beast within that came from being a soldier in war. There was no blinking awake and making sense of a cold blade against his neck.

  Despite his wound and the bone-weary aches of exhaustion, John rolled and thrust out his legs, catching up his aggressor and throwing him off balance. Though his neck grew wet with blood, he did not stop to think on it. He would fight for his life until it was gone.

  In the darkness of that little shepherd’s shack, John’s instincts told him which way to find the scoundrel. He stretched out his arms and connected with the man, wrapping them around a pair of knees. With a quick tug he pulled his assailant off his feet, the man landing with an emphatic “oomph”. The intruder barely knew what happened before John threw himself on top and landed a fist where he suspected the fellow’s face to be.

  He had judged well. A whump and sharp crack of cartilage told him he’d found the fellow’s nose. The man howled in pain, unleashing a torrent of oaths. And in that dim light afforded by a loosely hung door, John saw the glint of metal lying on the earthen floor.

  So, too, did his attacker.

  They both scrabbled after it, John nearly the victor, but nay. He grabbed the man’s wrist and tried pinning it to the ground, but the fellow rolled out from under, and sat back on his knees. He was about to stand, when John leapt on his back and began choking him.

  The force of his landing sent the fellow sprawling. The knife flew out of his hands, but John continued digging his fingers into the intruder’s neck. The rascal lay face down and John sat on his back, crushing the air out of him. T
he sound of his own heavy breath and the man’s desperate gurgling filled his ears.

  As he had once been told…it was kill, or be killed.

  ***

  Only a handful of men remained in the nave, among them the churchwarden, the sexton, and two others, one associated with the administration of the church and the other a concerned parishioner. Constable Berwick and Father Foxcroft were nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is the constable?” asked Bianca walking up to them.

  “He left,” answered the churchwarden offering no further explanation.

  “He left? Where did he go?”

  “He went to check on the guards.”

  “Then I need to speak with Father Foxcroft.” Bianca turned, looking for him.

  “He has retired to the sacristy to pray,” said one of the men.

  Bianca started in the direction of the room and was immediately questioned.

  “You are not seeking him there, are you?” asked the churchwarden hurrying after her. “He asked not to be disturbed.”

  “I must ask him some questions.”

  “Ask them of us. We can help.”

  “Nay, the questions are for him only.” Bianca made a move toward the sacristy and the churchwarden caught her up by the elbow.

  “You do not understand,” he said. “He wants his privacy.”

  “He chooses the worst night to expect it. I shall wait for you to bring him to me.”

  The churchwarden let go of her arm. “Father Foxcroft will not take kindly to being interrupted. If you found him uncooperative before, then I can tell you, he will not have softened.”

  “Sir, we are trying to prevent another murder. I beg you, do not deny me.”

  In spite of his objections, the churchwarden was not a callous man. Bianca wondered if he had children that he held close to his heart, for she saw his resolve begin to waver.

  “As you will,” he said. He left to collect Father Foxcroft, and rather than return to the group of men who had been listening to their conversation, Bianca wandered after the churchwarden, out of earshot.

  While she waited, the chimes of a clock near St. Andrew’s tolled the midnight hour. The thick walls and hollow interior of the church could not muffle its grim tidings. A ripple of anxiety rolled down her neck as she realized the next few hours were crucial. If Fisk still lived, he might very well be the murderer’s next victim. As she waited for Father Foxcroft, Bianca thought about their conversation with Father Wells.

  Perhaps Foxcroft had conceived the plan of discrediting all the churches in Castle Baynard ward so that his might look special—graced by God, as it were. But her mind kept wondering about the possibility that the murders were not Foxcroft’s doing, but someone else’s. Someone who wished Foxcroft to look suspicious. Murders perpetrated to draw attention to Foxcroft’s exclusion. The priest had called Foxcroft a Judas. If Father Wells thought that, then surely other priests shared his opinion. But perhaps there were others who had noticed Foxcroft’s deceit. Others who wished Foxcroft’s disgrace. Others with a deep-rooted grievance against him.

  As Bianca pondered this, a wave of realization dawned on her and her heart began to race. A possible motivation fell into place. Bianca snapped to like she had been shaken out of a dream. But with this sudden revelation appeared the churchwarden, returning with a troubled look on his face.

  “Father Foxcroft is not in the sacristy,” he said.

  “Did you look elsewhere?” asked Bianca.

  “He is not in his office, nor the confessional.” He went over to the chapel and searched inside. “He is not here, either.” The churchwarden called out to the other men. “Did Father Foxcroft pass by?”

  The men shook their heads and offered no suggestions.

  “He would not have left without informing us,” said the churchwarden, dismayed. His voice was quiet with concern.

  “It is a sizeable church. Could there be areas where you might not have looked?” asked Bianca.

  The churchwarden sent the sexton to search the church’s lower level. He then called out for the priest, bellowing his name so that it echoed off the stone arches of the clerestory, then faded. They held their breath, listening. There was no answer.

  “Why would he leave without telling someone?” the churchwarden repeated.

  “Has anyone asked the guard outside?” said Bianca.

  A strange look came over the churchwarden’s face. He started for the narthex door and Bianca, along with the men, followed him into the street.

  ***

  Borderlands--

  He felt the man go limp in his hands. John wasn’t certain the man was dead, but it disgusted him to keep choking him. He let go and the man’s head hit the earthen floor. Had the fellow been alone or were there others? John looked over his shoulder and listened. What if someone was waiting in ambush outside the bothy?

  John crawled forward and retrieved the knife from off the floor. It was wet with his own blood. He touched the collar of his smock, also damp with blood. The wound stung but it wouldn’t be the death of him. John got to his feet, and after wiping the blade on his hosen, stepped to the door. Odd that the man had closed it behind him when he had entered. Peering out through the crack, John saw no one waiting outside in the twilight. He had slept the entire day and night was falling. He waited, listening. He heard nothing except the wind lash across the land.

  John tucked away the new knife and returned to the body. He suspected the man was a soldier. He smelled of smoke and blood; like a man used to the elements and the hard life of battle. He wore nondescript garb, a padded jerkin, and torn hosen. John rolled him over with his foot. The fellow’s face was a mess of blood and dirt hidden by sweaty, matted hair. It was just as well that he couldn’t see his victim in the dim interior. He shrugged, figuring the man was probably a Scottish deserter. Perhaps he, too, had deserted the battle and was looking for shelter.

  He felt through the man’s pockets and found a few shillings, which he stuffed in a shoe. He searched his pack and found some dried meat and bread, and crammed the bread in his mouth, chewing like he hadn’t eaten in days. As he savored the taste of food (albeit stale), John sat back on his heels and began viewing the horrible incident a bit more favorably. The extra coin and provisions would help him survive another few days.

  And what is this? A flint to set a fire! John decided to take the fellow’s pack and leave his empty one.

  ***

  A sharp wind menaced their faces, funneling down the lane between the buildings on either side, reminding them that winter still held them in her grip. Bianca held the collar of her cloak closed and rewound her scarf against the snap of cold. There was no sign of Father Foxcroft on the street—indeed, no one was about at this late hour.

  They walked to the side of St. Andrew’s where the watch had been posted. Perhaps he had noticed Father Foxcroft leave. At first glance, he appeared to have left.

  “He might have walked behind the building for other reasons, or to get warm,” said the church official. But as the branches of the tree dipped in the wind, moonlight illuminated previously dark areas and there, on the ground, was the posted watch.

  “Is he asleep?” asked the churchwarden. For all appearances the man was taking a nap. The churchwarden called to him and received no response.

  The church administrator pushed past, irritated that the man had taken advantage of the arrangement. “Here, here,” he said, nudging the fellow with his boot.

  The tree limbs waved from another gust of wind, letting the moonlight through to shine on the guard laying near the trunk.

  “He didn’t hear you,” said Bianca, having reached the spot and peering down at the man. “He’s dead.”

  Chapter 33

  “He’s been strangled with a paternoster,” said Bianca, crouching to examine the dead guard. The man’s final expression was not the peaceful one seen on the boys. He had died struggling, fighting for his life.
Why had the offender departed from his usual method of killing? Was he even the same murderer who had killed the boys? Bianca looked up. “We still don’t know where Father Foxcroft is.”

  “Are you suggesting that Father Foxcroft is the perpetrator?” asked the churchwarden.

  “Is this his paternoster?” Bianca unwound the string of beads and handed it to him.

  He looked them over. “In truth, I do not know,” he said. The churchwarden showed it around and scanned the side of St. Andrew’s church. “For cert, the murderer wanted the watch out of the way,” he said. “He might have wished to scale St. Andrew’s, but was thwarted.”

  “The guard’s body is still warm,” said Bianca standing. “He may not have gotten far.”

  “We scared him off,” said the church official, and the men studied the shadows for a murderer lying in wait.

  “We’ll find him!” enthused the parishioner.

  “And if it is Father Foxcroft committing these crimes?” Bianca said to the churchwarden.

  The man appeared conflicted, contemplating the alarming possibility.

  “Then he must account for these heinous deaths,” said the parishioner with no hesitation. “He must face justice the same as any other man.”

  “Aye,” nodded the churchwarden, resignedly. He sent the church administrator and parishioner to find Father Foxcroft then took hold of the man’s feet while the sexton took the man’s arms. “And where are you going?” he said to Bianca as she strode towards the street.

  “I have a suspicion I need to follow.”

  ***

  Bianca made it to the area near Old Change without a single mishap from tippled revelers stumbling home after an evening of debauchery; nor did she encounter any thieves or gropers. She credited her good fortune to her quick and determined stride—and her serious face. One look at her was all it took to put someone off.

  She neared Clement Naylor’s print shop and pulled the dagger she carried on nights such as this. The shutters were closed and secured from the inside; no light seeped from under the threshold. On the door hung an impossibly heavy padlock. The shop appeared quiet and empty, or at least settled for the night.