Climbing Boy
A tall, gaunt, unsmiling man, dressed in a black tailcoat and top hat, entered the Duke of York in Southwark. The air in the pub was festering with the acrid odor of tobacco smoke and the stale sweat of men and women who had not bathed for days, possibly weeks. The man was not put off by the unpleasant smells. The air outside the tavern wasn't much better, for this was nineteenth-century London at the height of the Industrial Revolution. Smokestacks from factories belched out toxic clouds that poisoned the air while human and animal waste polluted the streets. Many a poor soul born in the tenements of Britain's capital never knew the simple pleasure of breathing clean air.
When the somber customer approached the bar, he saw the familiar face of another of the pub's regulars, one to which he could not attach a name since the two men had never been formally introduced.
"'ow'd you do, guv?" the man at the bar said when the tall man sat down beside him. "'ow's about joinin' me for a tot?"
"I don't mind if I do."
"Me name's Cyrus. Cyrus Bevins. I'm a chimney sweep, and I 'ear tell you're an undertaker."
"That's correct. I'm Dudley Hemsworth."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Cyrus said, offering a soot-stained hand to shake.
"Likewise," the undertaker replied.
As the men interrupted their talk to down their drinks, a slovenly-attired woman, who looked ten years older than she actually was, approached Hemsworth, who was clearly the more prosperous of the two.
"You look like you could use some feminine company," she said, slurring her words.
Dudley correctly assumed she was a prostitute. It was a likely assumption since Southwark was home to many impoverished women who slipped into dark alleys with men to earn a few pence to afford a place to sleep for the night.
"No, thank you."
"Come on, now, luv. I won't charge much. All I need is enough to pay for a four-penny coffin at the doss house."
The undertaker reached into his pocket, took out a penny and handed it to her.
"Here. Now, go find someone who will pay you the other three."
"That was mighty nice o' you, 'elpin' out a poor dollymop," the chimney sweep declared. "Gertie's fallen on 'ard times since 'er old man got 'imself killed in Crimea."
"I sympathize with these unfortunates. It's hard enough for a man to make an honest bob, much less a woman."
"I knows what you mean, guv. I 'ate to think me own missus might resort to becomin' a strumpet if somethin' 'appened to me."
"I imagine your line of work could be dangerous," Dudley said.
"That it is, but it's the young lads, the climbin' boys, who face the most danger. Them's the ones that 'ave to climb down the chimneys with brushes and scrapers since us older sweeps are too big to fit in such tight spaces. One slip and they'll be grinnin' at the daisy roots."
"But your job is dangerous, too. You might fall off a roof."
"It ain't likely. I been walkin' on the rooftops of London since I was but five years old. That's when Pythias Chetwynd, a master sweep, took me from the orphanage and taught me the trade."
"You're lucky to have made it to adulthood," the undertaker claimed. "I've had to bury several boys who weren't so fortunate. One poor lad was stuck in a chimney for three days before his body was removed."
Dudley did not mention the number of men employed as chimney sweeps who died in the prime of their lives from lung ailments caused by years of inhaling toxic fumes. Why upset a man who was kind enough to buy him a drink?
"And what about you?" Cyrus asked. "Undertakin' must 'ave its dangers. You 'ave to 'andle bodies that died from all sorts o' contagious diseases."
"That's true. Some of the deceased I've worked on died of cholera, smallpox, typhus and yellow fever, but so far I've managed to stay healthy myself."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but you sounds like an educated bloke. What're doin' workin' 'ere in Southwark? Why ain't you buryin' rich toffs in Mayfair?"
"It was my lot in life to be born on the wrong side of the Thames, and I fear I'm destined to remain so."
"One thing's for sure. You'll always 'ave a job. If there's one thing the world needs, it's undertakers."
"That's true. I suppose I ought to be grateful that I have a roof over my head, food on the table and a means to provide for myself."
"And you got a nice suit of clothes to wear."
"I'm afraid I'll need to replace the coat soon. It's getting worn out, and in my line of work, I need to maintain a suitable appearance."
"What are you gonna do with that one then?"
"Give it to the poor, I suppose."
"Why don't you sell it to me? I'd gladly give you a bob or two for it."
Like morticians, chimney sweeps traditionally wore coattails and top hats. But Cyrus could ill afford to purchase new clothing.
"All right. I'll bring it here to the pub for you once I purchase a new one."
And thus, the two men entered into a mutually beneficial business arrangement. It was not a unique situation. It was rather common practice, in fact. Many of the city's undertakers made extra money selling their worn suitcoats to chimney sweeps who, in turn, acquired inexpensive clothing to wear on the job.
* * *
When his climbing boy grew too large to squeeze into a chimney, Cyrus Bevins purchased a four-year-old lad named Toby from his parents. The very idea that a couple would sell one of their own children strikes horror in modern hearts, but in the days when young Queen Victoria sat on the throne, things were different. The boy's father had to provide for twelve children on what could best be described as slave wages. He and his wife were thankful Toby would be apprenticed to a chimney sweep since the boy would be fed, clothed, given shelter and taught a useful craft that would benefit him in life.
"Someday me son will earn more money than I do!" the boy's father proudly told his wife when their child was taken away.
Cyrus was not nearly as satisfied with the procurement as Toby's parents were. In his opinion, the new climbing boy was lazy, stupid and slow to follow commands. The sweep would often have to "encourage" the child to climb up a flue by pricking his bottom with a large pin—a common trick of the chimney sweeping trade.
"'ere now! Don't go bawlin' like a woman!" the master sweep scolded him when the four-year-old began to cry from the sharp jab in his buttocks. "There's sweeps that will light a fire under the arse of a reluctant climbin' boy to get 'im to move."
Toby soon discovered that climbing up a chimney from inside the fireplace was not nearly as bad as having to climb down one from a rooftop. Although neither he nor Cyrus knew the clinical word for it, the child suffered from a mild case of acrophobia, a fear of heights. The first time he ascended to the top of a four-story building, he had a panic attic and began hyperventilating.
"'ey, what's this?" Cyrus asked as the boy breathed deeply and rapidly. "You're pantin' like a bleedin' dog. Stop it!"
However, the child was unable to comply.
"Stop it, I says or else I'll give you a good wallopin'!"
Despite the threat of physical abuse frightening the child even further, the four-year-old eventually calmed himself, and his breathing returned to normal.
"And to think I spent good money on you!" the master sweeper moaned.
* * *
"'ello, guv," Cyrus mumbled when the undertaker entered the Duke of York and sat beside him at the bar.
Dudley Hemsworth noticed the sweep showed none of his usual verbosity. Instead, he kept his head down, looking at his drink and brooding.
"Is something wrong?" the tall, gaunt man asked.
"It's that little guttersnipe that works for me. But the word works don't apply to him. 'e's a lazy one, 'e is. I 'ave to prick his arse to get 'im up the stacks. I bet if I was to take 'is pants down, the skin on his bum would look like Swiss cheese."
"How old is he?"
"Four."
"What do expect of such a young child? He's practically a baby."
"'ey, now, you ain't one of them reformers like that Oastler bloke, are you?"
"No, but I do think four years old is a little young for such dangerous work as yours."
"But climbin' boys needs to be small so's they can fit inside the flues. By the time they're nine or ten years old, they're too big for the job. If we get 'em young enough, we can get five or six years o' work out of 'em."
Dudley sipped his drink and pondered the deplorable practice of condemning small children to such a hard life.
"By the by, you got any more tailcoats you'd like to sell?" Cyrus asked. "I needs a new one."
"I just sold you one three months ago."
Unlike the chimney sweep, the undertaker did not put as much wear and tear on his clothing.
"I got to clean as many as twenty chimneys a day, so me suits don't last long. Besides, the ones you sells me are already 'alf worn out."
"I'll look when I go home. Maybe I have something I can sell you."
"Much obliged, guv."
The following week, the two men met once again at the Duke of York. This time, the undertaker was already at the bar when the sweep arrived.
"'ello, guv," Cyrus greeted in his usual manner.
"Good news," Dudley announced. "I've got a coat for you."
"Where is it?"
"I didn't bring it with me. It's at my lodgings. Why don't you come around some night this week and pick it up? And while you're there, maybe you can clean my chimney for me?" When the undertaker saw the frown on the sweep's face, he quickly added, "I'll pay you for your work, of course."
Cyrus's frown became a smile, and he offered, "For you, guv, I'll charge 'alf me usual rate."
"And I'll provide a light supper for you and your climbing boy. What's his name, by the way?"
"Tommy, I think. Or is it Toby?"
"You don't know your apprentice's name?" the undertaker laughed, which was not a custom often associated with men in his profession.
"I never calls 'im by 'is name."
"What do you call him then?"
"Lazy little blighter."
What a rotten life that poor child must have! Dudley thought sympathetically.
* * *
It was three days before Cyrus Bevins showed up at the undertaker's house with his climbing boy in tow.
"So, this is Toby?" Dudley asked.
The child hung his head and kept his mouth shut.
"Aye. That's the lazy little blighter," the sweep replied.
"Come in. I've put out sandwiches for you and the lad. And I've got an after-dinner treat for you, Toby: a mincemeat tart. Would you like that?"
His eyes still looking down, the boy slowly nodded his head.
"No need to feed 'im, guv. 'e'll 'ave something to eat when we gets 'ome."
"But I have plenty of food."
"I don't want 'im puttin' on weight. It's the job, you see. Climin' boys needs to be thin."
Thin? Toby looks as if he's tottering on the brink of starvation, the undertaker thought.
"A boy with fat on 'im," the chimney sweep continued as he helped himself to a sandwich, "is more likely to get stuck in a flue. And we wouldn't want that, would we? I spent me 'ard-earned money on this one, and I don't want to lose 'im yet. Even if 'e is a lazy little blighter."
You're all heart, Cyrus!
Once Bevins had eaten four sandwiches (and his diminutive, underaged apprentice none), he instructed the boy to remove his clothes.
"What are you doing?" Dudley asked.
"It's best to send 'im up naked," Cyrus explained. "Clothes just get in the way, and like I already says, I don't want 'im getting' stuck in a flue."
The undertaker was appalled at the sight of the child's nude body. The skin on his arms and legs, particularly at his elbows and knees, was scraped raw. His hands were calloused. Many areas had both old scars and fresh bruises and burns. And the dozens of small red dots on his buttocks bore witness to the sweep's having pricked it with his pin.
Many of the people I bury are in better shape than this poor boy is.
Seeing the abuse Toby had had to endure at the hands of his master turned Dudley against the chimney sweep. He could not understand how any man would so mistreat a young child.
There ought to be laws to protect these children.
"All right, off we go," Cyrus announced merrily as though he were going on a pleasant outing. "We won't be long, guv."
"Take your time," the undertaker replied, having little desire to remain in the chimney sweep's company.
"When I'm done, I'll 'ave just one more sandwich, and then I'll take me coat and go."
The coat. Dudley had almost forgotten about it. He went into his bedroom and removed the garment from the chest in the corner of the room.
It seems too good for the likes of such a man, he thought, examining the nearly new tailcoat. I wish I hadn't promised to sell it to him. I could have used it myself.
Unlike the last coat the undertaker sold to Cyrus, this one did not belong to him. Thinking to make a little extra money, he took it off a dead body before the coffin was closed and transported to the churchyard for burial.
At least now it will get some use.
Once the chimney was clean, the sweep and his climbing boy reentered the house. The child was covered in soot and creosote and had fresh abrasions on his arms and legs.
"Why don't you let me clean the boy up a bit?" Dudley offered.
"Don't trouble yourself, guv. 'e'll only get 'imself dirty again. Go on and get dressed, you lazy little blighter."
"How much do I owe you?" the undertaker asked, eager to be rid of the odious man.
"Seein' 'ow this is such a fine tailcoat, why don't we make an even swap? The coat for me work?"
Cyrus could never be accused of being generous, but he hoped Hemsworth would remember his liberality the next time he had a coat to sell.
"All right. It's a deal, as long as I can throw in the mince tart for the boy."
"I already told you ...."
"One mince tart isn't going to make him fat."
"You drives an 'ard bargain, guv."
Toby's blackened face looked up at the undertaker with a pitiful smile of gratitude when he accepted the tart.
"Thank you, sir."
"Not now," the sweep said as the child brought the treat up to his mouth. "You can eat that when we gets 'ome."
Through his window, Dudley watched the chimney sweep and his climbing boy walk away. He was not surprised to see Cyrus take the tart from the child and gobble it down himself.
"You bastard!" he muttered. "I hope you choke on it!"
* * *
Since Dudley Hemsworth wanted nothing further to do with Cyrus Bevins, he decided to frequent the Red Stag pub in Lambeth even though it was further from his home than the Duke of York. He would rather walk a few extra blocks for a drink than encounter the abusive chimney sweep.
"I know you," a friendly chap called to him when he entered the Red Stag one evening. "You're the undertaker who buried Cornell Padfield."
For several moments, Dudley tried to recall the name. He tended to so many of the area's dead that he could not always remember who was who.
"He and I worked at the Yard together."
The mention of Scotland Yard rang a bell. Cornell Padfield was the Metropolitan Police officer who was killed in the line of duty eight months earlier.
"Padfield, yes. Such a shame," Dudley said as he sat at the table next to the policeman. "Did you catch the felon responsible for his death?" the undertaker inquired.
"That we did!" Constable Harris Alcott proudly replied. "He's sitting in Newgate, waiting to meet with the hangman."
"Well done! London has one less killer on the street."
"Which still leaves far too many roaming around and plying their trade, to suit me."
"In a city the size of London, I imagine the police see nearly as many dead bodies as I do," the undertaker theorized.
"That's true. What really gets to me, though, is seeing the young ones. There's a man we've been after for nearly a year now who murders young boys. His last victim was only four years old. I don't see how anyone could harm a child."
An image of Toby flitted across the undertaker's mind. He was only four.
"I got children of my own," Harris continued. "And the thought of someone doing to them what was done to those poor boys ...."
The idea was so repugnant that the constable shuddered and took a swig of his drink.
"How many children has he killed?"
"Three."
"How do you know all of them were murdered by the same man?"
"The killer leaves a calling card. Not literally, of course. Unintentionally. On or near each of the bodies we found a piece of paper used to wrap sweets in. We assume he tries to lure the boys to him by offering them a treat."
"And you've been after this chap for almost a year?"
"That's right. His first victim was back in March, the second in April and the last in May. We haven't found any since."
"Maybe he's stopped killing," Dudley suggested.
"He might have. But there's also the possibility that he went somewhere else. He could have gone to the Continent or even America. Or, which I hope is the case, he was arrested for another crime. Wouldn't it be nice if he were sitting in Newgate right next to Cornell Padfield's killer, waiting to be executed? Or better yet, maybe he's been committed to Bedlam. Personally, I'd sooner hang than spend my life in an insane asylum."
* * *
It was cold and dark when Cyrus Bevins woke. The spot beside him on the bed was empty. Fannie was in the kitchen slicing bread and heating gruel for his breakfast. He pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt and went into the parlor of the three-room house to wake Toby, who slept on a makeshift mattress stuffed with straw. He found the child curled up in a fetal position beneath a worn, dirty blanket.
"Time to get up, you," the sweep called.
Fannie tried not to look at the child when he came to the table for his crust of bread. With no children of her own, she longed to mother the tiny waif, but her husband would not allow it. She had learned early on in her marriage not to cross Cyrus. If she did something wrong, spoke out of turn or displeased him in any way, she got the back of his hand across her face. When he was really mad, he used his closed fist. They had been married less than six months when he knocked two teeth out of her mouth and blackened her eye.
The chimney sweep ate his meal in silence since he had no interest in anything his wife or climbing boy would care to say. When he finished eating, he put on his boots and reached for his old tailcoat. The thin fabric would do little to keep him warm on a day when the temperature was hovering near the freezing mark.
"I think I'll wear the new tailcoat I got from that undertaker bloke," he announced.
"That's a fine-looking garment," Fannie said sheepishly as her husband held the coat up and examined it.
"I ain't never 'ad one so well-made. I ought to stay warm in this."
Fannie's eyes went to the child who wore the same ragged clothes he had been wearing for the past month. It broke her heart to see him in such a state.
Cyrus slipped one arm into the coat and felt a tingling sensation on his skin. He got the same feeling on the other arm and on his back as he pulled the coat closed in front of him.
"Let's go, you lazy little blighter."
As the sweep opened the front door, he was greeted by a gust of frigid air.
"It's colder than a witch's tit out 'ere!"
"You try and stay warm, you 'ear me?" Fannie said gently to the child who had no coat to protect him from the cold.
"Stop mollycoddling the boy," her husband shouted. "The cold is good for 'im. It will toughen 'im up."
The softhearted woman turned away so that her husband would not see the tears in her eyes. Her crying would only make him angrier.
* * *
"Come on! Don't dawdle," Cyrus yelled as Toby struggled to keep up with the sweep.
The first two houses on their schedule had to be bypassed.
"You see that smoke comin' out o' the chimney?" he asked the boy. "That means they've got a fire burnin'. We can't clean a flue if the fireplace is in use. We'll 'ave to come back another time."
At the third house, there was no smoke since both the people who lived there were at work.
"Please, sir," the child cried as the sweep prepared to climb, "can I keep me clothes on? It's so cold out!"
In a rare moment of kindness, Cyrus took pity on the boy.
"All right. But don't you go makin' an 'abit out of it. And if you get stuck, don't expect me to crawl in and get you out."
Although Toby still suffered from a fear of heights, his dread of being beaten by his master kept his acrophobia in check. On that bone-chilling day, however, he willingly crawled down the flues since many of them were still warm from the previous day's fires.
It was shortly after four in the afternoon when the two soot-clad figures arrived at the final house of the day.
"All right," Cyrus declared. "We'll clean this one and then be on our way 'ome."
And none too soon as far as the sweep was concerned. The tailcoat he had purchased from the undertaker, despite being warmer than his other one, was not nearly as comfortable. It suddenly occurred to him that there might be something wrong with the cut of the garment. Perhaps that was why the undertaker got rid of it. Why else would he part with such a good coat?
The chimney sweep was stewing in his growing resentment toward Dudley Hemsworth when he heard a cry come from inside the chimney.
"What's wrong?" he hollered down the stack.
"N-nothin', s-sir," Toby answered, obviously crying.
"Well, 'urry it up. I'm freezin' me arse off!"
"Y-yes, s-sir."
Minutes later, when the child's head emerged from the chimney, his eyes were red, and there were streaks down his face where his tears had mixed with the soot.
"Why are you blubbering like a bleedin' baby?" Bevins asked harshly.
When Toby climbed onto the roof, Cyrus got his answer. The right leg of the threadbare trousers was torn, and there was a deep gash in the skin beneath.
"'ow did you do that?" the sweep yelled.
"I cut myself with the scraper, sir."
"Now, Fannie's gonna 'ave to sew them pants. I swear you cause more work than you're worth, you lazy little blighter."
The child had gotten used to the verbal abuse hurled at him daily. It was the physical abuse he shrunk from.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to do it. I'll never do it again. I promise."
It was well past sundown when Fannie heard her husband throw open the front door. She held her breath expectantly, never knowing what mood he would be in when he came home.
"Look at what the lazy little blighter has done now!" he shouted as soon as he crossed the threshold.
The woman paled at the sight of the boy's injury.
"You poor thing! Let me wash your leg and bandage it."
"Never mind that, woman!" her husband bellowed. "I want me supper first. Then you sew those pants. I'm not about to spend good money buyin' 'im another pair."
Fannie's heart filled with compassion for the child who stood quietly in the doorway, fighting back his tears. Blood had dripped down his leg and onto the pitiful scraps of leather that were once a pair of shoes.
"Does it hurt much?" she asked.
Cyrus experienced an odd tingling sensation on his back and arms, the same feeling he had gotten when he put the tailcoat on in the morning. Soon thereafter, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he became furious with his wife for not immediately complying with his demands.
"Go get me bleeding supper!"
His angry shout was accompanied by a hard slap across her face. Seeing the chimney sweep's display of violence, Toby began to whimper.
"You cryin' again? I'll give you something to cry about, I will!"
He raised his arm, and his hand tightened into a fist.
"No! Don't!" Fannie sobbed and bravely threw herself between her husband and the child.
While Cyrus might have let the boy get away with only one or two punches, he was determined his wife would pay dearly for her insubordination. His arm repeatedly went up and came down as he punched her face and head. The entire time he pommeled the poor woman, the tingling sensation in his back and arms worsened. It did not stop until two men passing by his house, overhearing the commotion through the open door, pulled him away from the battered woman.
* * *
Dudley entered the Red Stag to find Harris Alcott in high spirits, laughing and joking with several of the other pub regulars.
"Come in, and have a drink!" the constable called to him. "I'm buying."
"What's the occasion?" the undertaker inquired.
"We finally got him!"
There was no need for Dudley to ask who 'him' was. He could ascertain from his friend's exuberance that the Metropolitan Police had arrested the man who killed the three boys.
"Congratulations! The next drink is on me."
"We caught him red-handed. And that's no exaggeration! His hands were literally red with the blood of his last victim."
"He killed another poor child?"
"No. The boy is safe, thank God, but he killed his wife—beat her to death, he did."
"The man sounds like a monster. I imagine everyone at Scotland Yard is glad he's behind bars at Newgate."
"But he's not."
"Oh? He's dead, then?"
It was not uncommon for criminals to get injured or even killed by the police. It was often necessary to use extreme force when trying to save the victims or prevent the suspects from escaping.
"No. He was dragged off to Bedlam. It turns out, the man is a raving lunatic. When he was arrested, he kept carrying on about his coat making him kill his wife! Have you ever heard such nonsense?"
"I can't say that I have."
"If you ask me, I'd say the poor lad will be better off at the orphanage. He didn't have much of a life being a climbing boy."
Dudley experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knew he was being foolish. There were many chimney sweeps in London, and nearly all of them employed climbing boys.
"The killer was a sweep?" he asked.
"Yeah. His name was Cyrus Bevins."
The undertaker's hand tightened around his glass, and he nearly spilled his drink.
"And what was it he said about his coat?"
"He said it made him kill his wife. I doubt that, but I do know it proved his guilt in the other killings."
"How so?"
"We found some of the same sweets he gave to his three young victims in the pocket."
* * *
Dudley Hemsworth felt no guilt over the chimney sweep's fate. The man was a vicious brute with a reputation for abusing both his wife and his climbing boys. He did feel sorry for Fannie Bevins, however. But her death was not his fault. He could never have foreseen what would happen when he gave the tailcoat to her husband.
Although a law-abiding man, the undertaker never came forward to clear the sweep's name. He preferred to let Constable Alcott and his associates at Scotland Yard believe they had captured the man who murdered three children. What harm would their misconception cause? Bevins was a killer; he had beaten his wife to death. Besides, the man who was responsible for the death of those three boys was already dead and buried.
I know because I put him in the ground myself—after I removed his tailcoat, that is.
Fortuitously, something good did come out of the tragic affair. Claiming he was in need of an apprentice, Dudley went to the orphanage where Toby had been taken after the police failed to locate the boy's parents.
"Do you remember me?" he asked the child, who, although washed and wearing clean clothes, was still painfully thin and pale.
The child nodded his head, and a faint smile appeared on his face.
"You gave me a mincemeat tart, but he ate it," Toby said, conveying his loathing of his former master in the way he stressed the pronoun.
"Why don't I buy you another one on the way to my house?"
The former climbing boy raised his head and looked up at the tall, gaunt man. In his blue eyes, Dudley saw gratitude that, over time, would turn to love.
Salem once answered a help wanted ad for a climbing boy. He thought the job entailed climbing up trees, not down chimneys. Needless to say, he wasn't hired.
