Jack’s toughened expression softened. He kicked at a dirty lump of snow, wetting the toe of his patched boot. “I . . . I reckon so.” His glance darted away from Crispin again, hiding his many secrets. “You . . . you want to know what a day was like?”
“Yes. It will help, perhaps, to follow in the footsteps of the dead child. I know what my days were like. But it must have been quite different from that of an eight-year-old boy.”
Jack gnawed uncertainly on a finger until Crispin dropped his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Let us to an alehouse, Jack. We will warm ourselves and share wine. Maybe some bread will help you decide whether to speak or no.”
Jack allowed himself to be steered toward a nearby tavern. When Crispin opened the door, the noise spilled out with a cascade of raucous laughter. The sharp tang of a reed and a drum bleated out a tune that some were singing to. It looked to be a better kept place than the Boar’s Tusk, but, to be fair, this tavern was in the shadow of Westminster Palace and the clientele were apt to be wealthier than the patrons of the Gutter Lane’s alehouse.
Crispin guided Jack to two stools by the hearth and waved to the alewife.
“Aye, good masters,” she said to them.
“Good wife, please bring a jug of wine.” Crispin handed her the coins. “And a loaf of bread, if it is not too dear.”
She examined the silver and nodded. “A loaf and wine,” she said, and left them. Alone again, they measured their surroundings. Jack said nothing, staring at the men nearby in their fine fur-trimmed gowns and long-sleeved houppelandes. From under low lids, Crispin observed Jack’s nervous movements.
At last, the woman returned, placing the round, day-old loaf on the hearth beside them, poured the wine into the bowl, and left the jug at Crispin’s feet.
He handed the bowl first to Jack, who looked up with surprise. “Go on, boy. Take it.”
With dirty fingers, Jack took the bowl and lifted it to his lips. He took a long quaff and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, handed the bowl back. Crispin drank what was left and reached down to the jug to refill it. “Have some bread, Jack,” he said, nodding to the loaf and taking his own quaff.
Jack tore a hunk from the bread and raised it to his lips. He chewed openmouthed, staring at the floor.
“Do you wish to tell me?” asked Crispin after the boy had eaten a bit and drank another bowl.
“In truth, Master, no. But . . . because you are my master, and a good and kind one, it is fitting to help you. And so I will tell you what I know.” He clutched the hunk of bread in his hand, fingers curling protectively around it. “Before I met you, life was hard. If I was lucky enough, I found a place to spend the night. Sometimes it was a stable or sometimes a sheltered doorway. I even spent the night in privies.”
Crispin nodded into the bowl Jack passed to him. “Yes, as did I.”
The lad looked up at him in wide-eyed awe before he nodded. “Aye. Winter was the worst, but they wouldn’t keep that strict an eye on things in winter when it was cold. Keeping themselves inside all safe and tight, mostly.”
Crispin nodded again, remembering.
“In the morning,” Jack continued, “me first order of business was to find food. Church steps were crowded with men who’d just as soon slit your throat as let you beg alongside them. So I found the best place was outside alehouses. Men leaving the taverns with scraps of bread and cheese and their own bellies full would see fit to toss the rest to me. When I got good at it, I could cut a purse or two when crowds of men went in or out, but that meant I was done at that doorstep for the day. Many a lad got himself carted off to Newgate ’cause he stayed put, got greedylike, and wouldn’t move on. They were the cod-pated ones. Wouldn’t listen to nobody.” Jack tore a piece from the hunk of bread in his hand and chewed it thoughtfully. The more he talked the more relaxed he seemed to be.
“There were lots of boys,” he went on. “Some were apprentices caught stealing and tossed out by their masters. They were the worst, as they thought they was better than the rest of us and wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“Did you help one another?”
Jack shook his head unapologetically. “I ain’t no saint, Master. If’n I was to stay alive, it weren’t no charity I could be giving. I had to look out for m’self.”
Crispin nodded. He, too, had tried to band with the others. In numbers there was safety and strategy, but they had not trusted his palace accent nor his unfamiliar ideas.
“And so?” Crispin urged.
“Well, some boys were worse than others. They became more animals than men. I’d see them sniffing along the shore near the fishing boats and they’d eat the leavings. Fins and tails. They’d eat them raw like a dog. I can’t say that I blame them. Hunger is a powerful sin.”
“Yes,” murmured Crispin, taking a delicate bite of his bread, but leaving the majority for Jack.
“I . . .” Jack lowered the piece of bread to his thigh. “I was hungry enough . . . to do the same at times. The hunger can gnaw such a hole inside of you.” His voice broke and he took a bite, taking a long time to chew. Crispin looked away to give him a moment. “I—There were times, Master Crispin,” he whispered, “when I would have eaten anything.”
Crispin grunted his affirmation.
“There were times,” he said in that same low, pitiful voice, “that I did.”
He touched Jack’s sleeve.
The boy swallowed. “There were other boys . . .” He shook his head and blinked his eyes. His voice trembled, whispering. “There were other boys . . . they couldn’t find no way. They couldn’t steal enough to keep them fed. Everyone knew them. They’d let men . . . lie with them. There were secret stews of them. In Southwark.”
Crispin clenched his jaw. Men who would pay panderers for the use of boys. Yes, the Bankside on the opposite shore of the Thames housed all manner of filth and degradation. He knotted the hem of his cloak. He wanted to ask, but did not have the heart for it. Who was he to judge a man? If Jack had sinned, then he had done it as a necessity. Crispin reckoned the boy had paid many times in penance—more than the beads of a rosary—if he had to stoop to such evil to keep alive under the shadow of London’s cathedrals.
“Then it is possible,” said Crispin tightly once Jack had fallen silent, “that this boy could have come from those stews?”
Jack’s pale humiliation gave way to thoughtfulness. He clamped his jaw as he ruminated and eventually shook his head. “No, Master. I do not believe that boy came from the stews.”
“And why not?”
“Th-the boys who were tied up, as this one was, they were also beaten. Not to punish. But for sport. That boy at Newgate. He wasn’t beaten.”
Crispin recalled the pale, dead flesh of the corpse in the bowels of Newgate. The boy had bruises around his neck and on his hips, but nowhere else, neither old scars nor new. “Have you . . . ever heard of the rest? The cutting? The strangulation?”
Jack shook his head. “No, Master. Sometimes a boy was lashed so badly he was no good for the house no more and was left in the streets to die. But I ain’t heard of aught like we saw.”
Crispin handed Jack a full wine bowl. “Thank you, Jack. I—It was surely difficult to tell me.”
“No one should die like that,” he said softly, almost dreamily. “That ain’t no way to die. That ain’t no way to live.”
“Indeed not. I will find this killer, Jack.”
“I know you will, sir. And I’ll be right there beside you.”