Authors: John Pilkington
‘Doctor Catlin’s servant already knows of the matter, my lord,’ Betsy said, ‘though I trust her completely.’ She did not add that Jane Rowe also knew of it. In fact, rather a lot of people knew. She bit her lip, thinking that in her eagerness to investigate the matter she might have been somewhat careless.
But Caradoc wasn’t listening. With a frown at Betterton, he said: ‘The notion that one of your company may be a murderer, sir, fills me with horror.’
Betterton looked dismayed. ‘Surely it cannot be. Even George Beale, whom I dismissed for his behaviour … I’m certain he would not be capable of such wickedness! It’s bad enough to learn that Cleeve’s a criminal, let alone Ned Gowden, who was hard working and courteous, even if he could be a sly one at times. As for Rigg …’ he fixed Betsy with a bewildered look.
‘His death remains a mystery,’ Betsy admitted. ‘Yet with your leave, and yours, my Lord,’ she added tentatively, ‘I would like to try and follow the scent as far as I may.’
‘But it grows more sinister by the day,’ Caradoc objected. ‘And I would not have you put yourself in further danger.’
‘Nor I!’ Betterton gave Betsy a severe look. ‘Had I known you’d act so recklessly, I would not have asked you to investigate at all.’
‘It was my own notion,’ Betsy told him. ‘And I see now that a woman may sometimes uncover matters more easily than a man, just as she gains access to certain places.’
‘If she impersonates a woman of the streets, perhaps,’ Caradoc said drily. ‘You should not take such risks again!’
But Betsy could not help giving Betterton a dry smile. ‘And yet, my performance should serve as good preparation for my role as Tammy Tupp, should it not?’
For once, even the great actor was lost for a reply.
By the time the afternoon’s rehearsals were over, Betsy had decided on a course of action. Her talk with Tom Catlin had set her thinking there were certain trails she might pursue to find some clue to the identity of the Salamander. Though after the conversation with Caradoc and Betterton she thought it best to make her enquiries without telling anyone … at least, not yet. So after taking farewell of Jane, she slipped out of the Theatre, made her way down to the Whitefriars stairs and hailed a boat. Within minutes she was being rowed downriver on an outgoing tide, with the Bridge looming ahead.
She was not certain of her destination save that it would likely be below the Bridge, close to the wharves where the larger seagoing vessels landed their wares. But after casual enquiry of her waterman, she discovered that there was a dealer of the type she sought near St Botolph’s. A short time later she was clambering ashore and making her way up Billingsgate stairs. Then, with the tang of fish and tar in her nostrils, she walked the crowded quays, seeking the whereabouts of a Mr Thomas Vane, purveyor of exotic beasts.
The shop was a revelation. Creatures from foreign lands, brought back by sailors, were not uncommon in London. Like most people, Betsy had seen monkeys and parrots, just as she had been taken as a child to gape at the royal menagerie in the Tower, especially its famous lion. But nothing prepared her for the smell and the cacophony of noises that greeted her as she entered Vane’s cramped premises. In cages stacked from floor to ceiling were creatures of many kinds, from the commonplace to the bizarre: squirrels, a polecat that spat and marmosets that shrieked. From a corner, a large ape gazed mournfully at her. Brightly coloured birds in willow cages swung above her head, some singing melodiously, others screeching. Towards the rear was the most unsettling sight of all: a great shiny snake in a box, with strange markings along its back. Though the creature never moved, it was all Betsy could do not to flinch as she passed it. But here at last was Mr Vane, a smiling man in a chestnut-brown coat and horsehair periwig, rising from a stool to greet her.
‘What do you seek, mistress? A furry creature to share your bed on these cold nights, perhaps?’ Betsy blinked, whereupon the man laughed. ‘I mean no slight,’ he said. ‘How can I be of service?’
‘A fire salamander,’ she said shortly. ‘Have you ever had one?’
‘A salamander?’ the fellow echoed. ‘Heaven forbid! Who would wish to own such a creature?’
‘I understand they hide in stacks of wood. Have you heard of any being found in cargo, for example?’
Vane considered. ‘If so, I imagine whoever found one would kill it. Are they not poisonous?’ When Betsy feigned ignorance, he added: ‘Well, I fear I cannot help. If you’re set upon obtaining such, perhaps you could ask at the timber wharves,’ he brightened. ‘But if it’s a woolly monkey you seek, or a guinea pig – that’s a charming little animal from South America – then permit me to show you …’ he broke off, for Betsy was shaking her head.
‘Another time, perhaps,’ she managed a smile. ‘In the meantime, can you point me to the timber wharves?’
Vane sighed, and accompanied her out to the street.
But the timber merchants were a disappointment.
There were many, and they were busy men. So when Betsy made her enquiries, she met with rather less courtesy than she had received from Thomas Vane. Did she not realize, several demanded, that since the Fire, London was in the throes of a building boom the like of which had not been seen for centuries? If it was wood she wanted, then they might do business. But as for lizards scuttling out of stacks of timber … had she nought better to occupy herself, than to ask such questions?
Discouraged, Betsy took her leave of a dealer by the Customs House Quay, deciding to make him the last one. But as she was about to walk to the stairs and hire a westward boat, unexpectedly the man called her back.
From his accent she had guessed he was German. A heavy-set man with thick blond hair, he waited until she had retraced her steps towards him. Then she saw a second man approaching: younger and slimmer, but so like the other in his features that he had to be the merchant’s son. Leaving this one to do the talking, the older man walked off.
‘You asked about salamanders, mistress?’ the young man asked. His manner was civil, and when Betsy smiled and nodded, his face softened. ‘My father is from the Black Forest country,’ he said. ‘There are salamanders there. They hibernate in the wood piles against the houses. When logs are brought in for the fire they run out and scare the children. They’re most colourful – yellow spots from head to tail.’
‘Indeed.’ Betsy warmed to her new informant at once. ‘Have you ever seen any here, in England?’
The young man shook his head. ‘Never.’
Disappointment threatened again, but Betsy tried a final question. ‘Do you know of some that have orange marks?’
The other considered. ‘I’ve heard of such. But they come from the south, from countries like Spain and Portugal.’
At that, Betsy caught her breath. ‘I thank you,’ she said after a moment. ‘You’ve helped me more than you know.’
The young man smiled broadly. ‘I’m honoured,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would care to stay for a mug of—’ then he broke off. For Betsy had turned quickly and was walking off, to vanish between stacks of timber.
She had not meant to be sharp, but the young man’s words had struck a chord: perhaps the journey downriver had not been wasted after all. For in Covent Garden there was a man who sold strange things from foreign lands: jewellery, trinkets and carvings, bought by the wealthy to beautify their houses. He was called Lopez, and he was a Portuguese Jew.
The morning brought grey skies and a chill breeze from the river. But by ten o’clock Betsy had left Fire’s Reach Court and was walking briskly towards Covent Garden. Emerging from Russell Street into the piazza, she turned right along a row of shops, above which hung a series of brightly painted signs: a white hand denoting a glover, a stag for a breeches-maker, a civet cat for a perfumer. But the one she sought bore no sign: only a little gold bell over the doorway, that tinkled in the wind. In a moment she had passed through the entrance into a windowless interior, lit by a couple of small lanterns.
Shimon Lopez had been a part of Covent Garden for almost a decade. Earlier – almost twenty years back – Oliver Cromwell had invited the sage Menasseh ben Israel to lay the foundations of a new Jewish community here. After King Charles’s restoration, others – refugees from the Dutch provinces, who had aided him in his exile – were made welcome in their turn. Some were now wealthy men, merchants and importers. But Lopez had never sought advancement beyond the modest premises he had obtained, and from where he still sold the curious assortment of goods for which he was noted. As Betsy paused to let her eyes grow accustomed to the dimness, the man came forward in his long coat and inclined his head.
‘How may I aid you, mistress?’
‘I’m looking for a rare animal, sir,’ Betsy replied, meeting his unblinking eyes. ‘And I was told you were the man who could find such. Or you might know where to direct me.’
Lopez raised his heavy eyebrows. ‘It’s called…?’
‘A salamander.’
The other digested the information. ‘And this
salamander
– what manner of animal is it?’
‘Like a lizard … dark, and spotted with orange,’ Betsy told him. ‘Though it isn’t a lizard, but a newt.’
Lopez watched her. Then, when it became clear that he was waiting, Betsy added: ‘Its proper name is the fire salamander. It’s found in warm countries like Spain … and Portugal, which I think was your homeland, Mr Lopez.’
The man made a polite movement of his head. ‘And might I ask what you wish to do with this spotted newt?’ he enquired.
‘I would put it in a pie, to frighten my dinner guests,’ Betsy told him.
At that, Lopez started. ‘Most peculiar.’ He put a hand to his beard and rubbed it, his smile gone as quickly as it had appeared. Finally he said: ‘Permit me to make a guess, mistress: my guess is that you do not wish a salamander for yourself, but information about another who did. Am I correct?’
‘If that were so,’ Betsy asked after a moment, ‘would you be able to help me?’
Lopez hesitated. ‘If you were a customer of mine, perhaps,’ he began.
‘Of course,’ Betsy smiled. ‘I see a charming little ivory fan there. How much might that cost?’
Lopez returned her smile, and ushered her towards a table to begin negotiations.
When Betsy emerged from the shop a quarter of an hour later, she was so preoccupied that she walked in the wrong direction, across the piazza almost to the entrance of St Paul’s church. Realizing her error, she turned and retraced her steps towards Russell Street. She was still pondering the intriguing information she had gleaned from Shimon Lopez.
Some weeks ago, a man had come to him and asked him privately to obtain several fire salamanders, for which he would pay whatever price Lopez wanted, and in whatever currency. Lopez had tried: such an order took time, he explained, and was most difficult to fill. In the end, through various contacts, he had managed to purchase three such creatures, but disastrously, in transit from the Bay of Biscay, two had perished. So he was able to supply his customer with only one living salamander. Such was his mortification that he refunded the generous down payment the customer had provided, taking only a small sum for expenses. Hence, in view of the outcome of the affair, he no longer felt bound to such secrecy as the customer had insisted upon, and found himself able to give Betsy a fairly full account. Yes, it was a black and orange fire salamander, about ten inches in length … and the man had indeed claimed that he intended it for a joke, to frighten an old friend at a party. The customer…?
Lopez had shrugged, scratched his chin, and reflected a little. The customer was a man of middling height, simply dressed, with no particular distinguishing features. But his name, yes, his name he remembered, for he knew it was not the man’s real name. In fact, he felt vindicated that he was not truly betraying his customer, for it was but a title the man had used.
Histrio
, he called himself, perhaps not realizing that Shimon Lopez knew Latin. And when Betsy pressed him, the dealer had favoured her with a knowing smile. Why, he said,
histrio
means ‘actor’.
Betsy arrived at the theatre a short time later, still mulling over what she had learned. Even when rehearsals began, and she was obliged to fling herself into the outrageous role of Tammy Tupp, she was unable to forget the matter. For the stark fact that refused to go away was that the Salamander appeared to be one of the Duke’s Company after all.
It had to be! Who else had such close access to Tom Cleeve and to Joseph Rigg just before they died? An actor would also have known Alderman Blake, at least by reputation, and easily discovered his address. And as for Long Ned, the bagnio was open to all. Hence this man who was so undistinguished that few seemed to notice him, let alone remember what he looked like, had been able to observe his victims, and choose the time of their deaths at his leisure. But then, Betsy knew all the actors of the Duke’s Company, and the King’s too, for that matter. In which case, she asked herself for the twentieth time, who in heaven’s name could the Salamander be?
So preoccupied was she that it soon became evident her mind was not on her work. And after an unproductive hour, James Prout the dancing-master and Downes the fat prompter, who were sitting at the front of the pit, called a halt and suggested everyone take some refreshment. As Betsy was about to leave the stage, Prout called to her.
‘Mistress Brand, a moment if you please.’
She walked to the edge of the forestage and looked down. ‘Mr Prout?’
Prout wore a glassy smile. ‘We are mindful of your efforts to breathe life into Tammy,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless we feel, Mr Downes and I, that the part demands a little more than you are giving. She’s a woman of the streets after all, hence—’
‘You wish me to lower my chemise further, so that my bosom falls out?’ Betsy enquired.
‘Indeed not!’ Prout pretended to be shocked. ‘Perhaps the key lies in Tammy’s speech, and the manner of its delivery.’
Betsy felt her hackles rising. ‘Her speech,’ she retorted, ‘is a poor rendering of the language of the jilts I’ve known. In fact, being well enough acquainted with the playmaker, I’d say that if he spent more time observing their language and less on their charms, he might have crafted a better work than this jiggalorum!’
‘Would you, indeed, Mistress Brand? Then perhaps you should instruct me!’
Betsy looked towards the side door, where Samuel Tripp was standing. How long he had been there she did not know. But as the man came forward, nodding to Prout and to John Downes, she curtseyed elaborately.
‘I regret sir, that I’ve not the time for such endeavours,’ she replied. To Prout, she added: ‘Yet I’ll do my best. If you’ll allow me a little more time to study the part.’
‘Of course,’ Prout nodded, diverted by Tripp’s arrival. And Betsy was quickly forgotten as both the dancing-master and the prompter stood up to greet the playmaker.
She walked backstage into the scene-room. The marked absence of male actors made the area seem half-empty, as well as producing a somewhat lackadaisical atmosphere. The Small brothers, Joshua and Will, were smoking their pipes. Joshua exchanged gossip with Silas Gunn, while Will was flirting openly with Louise Hawker the tiring-maid. As Betsy appeared, the girl looked up quickly.
‘Is it time for me to practise my scene?’ she asked.
Betsy shook her head. Then Gunn caught her eye, and for some reason a thought flew up. ‘Silas,’ she smiled at him. ‘May I trouble you for a moment?’
Silas’s pleasure was so apparent, Joshua Small sniggered. At once the old man hurried over to Betsy. ‘Whatever service I can perform mistress, consider it done!’ he declared.
Drawing him aside, towards the steps to the Women’s Shift, Betsy spoke low. ‘There’s something I remember hearing,’ she said in a casual tone. ‘Am I right in thinking you were once at close quarters with the Dutch?’
Silas looked surprised. ‘I fought in the first Dutch War,’ he said. ‘Fifty-two … a terrible year.’ He shrugged. ‘Close quarters? You could call it that. My ship was boarded and I was took prisoner. Ransomed soon after, though.’ He gave her a doubtful look. ‘You don’t want to hear about that, do ye?’
‘I’ve no wish to stir bad memories,’ Betsy replied. ‘I merely wondered if you knew any of the Dutch language.’
‘A word or two, maybe,’ Silas said vaguely. ‘Tis a mighty strange tongue, to an Englishman’s ear.’ Then he stiffened as Betsy bent her head closer.
‘Aanaarden,’ she said quietly. ‘Does that word mean anything to you? It doesn’t mean
actor
, by any chance?’
Silas thought deeply for a moment. ‘Nay, Mistress Brand. I might have heard the word, but I don’t recall what it signifies.’ He stood, somewhat crestfallen, as Betsy thanked him and started to climb the steps. Then all at once he brightened. ‘Here … wait a minute!’ he cried. And when Betsy turned he added: ‘I know what it means – yes, Aanaarden. It’s Dutch for
hill
.’
Thomas Betterton was expected at the Duke’s theatre at midday, to see how rehearsals for
The Virtuous Bawd
were progressing. Betsy, whose presence was not required on stage, was waiting for him by the street door. In a short time, the two of them had gone up to one of the side boxes, where she told him all she had discovered.
Her mentor was stunned, but soon shock began to give way to disbelief. ‘Julius Hill?’ he muttered. ‘No … I cannot countenance it. The fellow’s harmless! Why, I’ve never even heard him raise his voice. Indeed, I’ve had to instruct him to speak up when he’s on the stage, so that he might be heard!’
‘Not much of an actor, though, is he?’ Betsy ventured.
‘Perhaps not,’ Betterton allowed. ‘He was previously unknown to me, it’s true … claimed to have some experience touring in the country. I offered him a modest role at a modest wage, which he seemed glad enough to accept,’ he frowned. ‘Are you asserting that he took a job with our company merely in order to do murder!?’
Since Silas Gunn had told her the word
aanaarden
meant ‘hill’, Betsy’s mind had been in a whirl. For now, it seemed to her that several things fell into place. She drew a long breath and looked Betterton in the eye. ‘The more I think on it,’ she said, ‘the more it seems to fit. Hill was in the bagnio, when Long Ned died. Prout told us that he was closer to Ned when he fell, though when Hill gave an account of the matter in the scene-room, he seemed unwilling to say any more than he had to. The place is gloomy – I’ve seen that for myself. Hill could easily have brushed past Ned and stabbed him with a poisoned spike, or whatever it was, without anyone noticing.’
‘This is speculation, Betsy!’ Betterton wore a look of distaste. ‘Think of the risk, in such a public place.’
‘Furthermore,’ Betsy went on firmly, ‘Hill was in the scene-room when Tom Cleeve fell! There was a crush – again, he could have pricked Tom in passing and no one would have seen.’
‘Then what of Rigg?’ Betterton countered. ‘Hill was nowhere near him when he collapsed. It was that young pup Beale, and the two hirelings.’
‘Agreed.’ Betsy nodded. ‘Let’s leave Rigg aside for now – think of Blake. It would not have been difficult for a skilled housebreaker like the Salamander to climb through a window in the night, and spike the old man in his neck.’
‘Betsy, I pray you!’ Betterton was aghast. ‘These are wild leaps of imagination. You have no proof, nor are there witnesses …’ he broke off, then laid a fatherly hand on her arm.
‘Think on what you say,’ he went on in a gentler voice. ‘The man’s the unlikeliest candidate for murder that I ever saw.’
‘Precisely!’ Betsy’s eyes were alight. ‘That’s his skill, this unassuming manner, the ability to remain in the background without anyone noticing him. In fact, it seems to me now that he’s the best actor we have!’
Betterton fell silent. ‘There is one thing,’ he said finally. ‘If he’s indeed the one who purchased the salamander to taunt or frighten Blake, calling himself
Histrio
, then I see vanity behind it. As if he has a weakness for nicknames – like “the Salamander”. If Aanaarden were his real name, then surely calling himself “Hill” amounts to a considerable risk? How long did he think it would be before someone discovered the connection?’
At that, Betsy started. ‘Perhaps that’s what excites him: he gambled on it … and he has won. For now that the actors have dispersed, we may be too late!’
Betterton looked unhappy; but finally he came to a decision. ‘You have a sharp mind, but then, you always did. And though I still find it hard to believe your theory, I will at least test it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’ll send word to Caradoc, but first I’ll go to Hill’s lodgings myself with a constable. Then we may question him, and see what account he gives of himself. Will that content you?’
At which, Betsy could not resist a smile of satisfaction.
Fortunately, she did not have long to wait. For in the mid afternoon Betterton sent a scribbled message to Fire’s Reach Court via a link-boy: Julius Hill had paid off his landlord two days ago, vacated his lodgings in Aldersgate Street, and left no word as to where he was going. The message added that Mistress Brand should come to Betterton’s house that evening, to talk further of the matter.
Catlin was home, and stood in the hallway while Betsy read the message. When she passed it to him he scanned it quickly, then turned to the messenger who was waiting.
‘D’you wish me to take a reply, sir?’ the boy asked.
Catlin nodded, and felt in his pocket for a coin. ‘Tell him Mistress Brand will be there,’ he said. ‘And Doctor Catlin will accompany her.’