Authors: John Pilkington
The boy hurried off, while Betsy met Catlin’s gaze in some surprise. But before she could speak, he said: ‘Don’t imagine that I’m convinced by your theories … or at least, not entirely.’
Whereupon Betsy nodded felt a surge of excitement. The trail may have gone cold for a while, but somehow she knew it was the right one.
That evening in Betterton’s parlour in Long Acre, she and Catlin listened to her mentor’s account of his visit to Julius Hill’s modest rooms in Aldersgate Street, close by the Cooks’ Hall. According to his landlord, the actor had been a model tenant: absent much of the time, and when he was home, so quiet the family barely heard him. Nor did he entertain visitors. In fact, if truth be told, the landlord could not be certain when Hill was home and when he was not. After some hesitation he had conducted Betterton and the constable to Hill’s rooms, which had been cleared of every trace of their occupant. All that remained were ashes in the fireplace, as of some papers that had been burned.
‘It’s odd, I have to admit such,’ Betterton mused. ‘The man said nothing to me about changing his lodging. He had every reason to expect further employment, if not with me, then at the King’s theatre. Why leave so abruptly, unless …’ he eyed Betsy, who sat opposite him.
‘Unless he didn’t want to be found,’ she finished.
‘What else do you know about this man?’ Tom Catlin asked.
Betterton shrugged. ‘Not a great deal, I now realize.’
‘You say he was in the bagnio when Ned Gowden died,’ the doctor went on. ‘Was he in the habit of frequenting the place?’
‘If you mean did he seek the company of molly-men, rather than of women,’ Betterton replied, ‘I’ll confess my ignorance. You might ask James Prout.’ He turned to Betsy in some embarrassment. ‘Can you shed any light on the man’s tastes?’
‘Are you asking if he has ever put his hands on me, or any of the other actresses?’ she asked. When Betterton merely raised an eyebrow, she made a wry face. ‘Not to my knowledge, but that proves nothing. I always thought him a timid man, for an actor. Now I see it may have been a clever mask.’
Catlin was nodding. ‘I saw him on your stage, in the role of the Doctor in
Macbeth
,’ he said to Betterton. ‘It struck me as an indifferent performance. Yet if we give credence to Mistress Brand’s suggestion that he was acting a part in the first instance – the part of Julius Hill – then he must be a very clever fellow indeed. For he was acting the doctor, as Hill would have acted him.’
‘And if he’s Dutch, as I was told,’ Betsy put in, ‘he conceals it well enough to pass for an Englishman.’
‘Moreover,’ the doctor continued while Betterton frowned, ‘when I was called to the bagnio after Ned Gowden fell ill, I have no recollection of seeing Hill there. It was as Mistress Brand said, as if he could vanish into the background.’
‘And now he has vanished from his lodgings,’ Betsy put in, eying Betterton. ‘Do you still doubt this is the man we seek?’
Finally, her mentor spoke up. ‘Well, one thing is clear at least,’ he sighed. ‘He must be found, if only to answer for himself.’ He rose, and drained his glass. ‘I’ll confer with Caradoc, who I’m sure will put matters in motion. Likely he will order a search.’
‘With your leave, I’d like to make one enquiry of my own,’ Betsy said. When both men looked to her, she added: ‘I believe you were right that Mr Prout could tell us more about Julius Hill. The two of them spent some time together, during
Macbeth.
’ she put on a winning smile. ‘And if you’re concerned for my welfare, doubtless Doctor Catlin will accompany me.’
Catlin met her eye, and sighed.
A half hour later, Betsy and the doctor descended from a hackney coach outside James Prout’s rooms in Whitecross Street by Cripplegate. The house was an old timbered structure with an overhanging jetty, this being a district that had been spared the ravages of the Great Fire. Lights were visible in the upper storey, but when Catlin knocked loudly there was no answer. He knocked again, and finally with a squeal of rusty hinges the door was opened by a tiny girl in a bonnet and a nightgown too long for her.
‘If you seek the fiddler, he’s not home,’ she said.
‘The dancing-master,’ Betsy said kindly. ‘Is he home?’
The girl sniffed. ‘Him? He must be, for I heard him doing his steps a while back … top floor.’
She stood aside, permitting Betsy and the doctor to enter the dimly lit passage. Soon they had climbed a narrow stair to the second floor, finding themselves in a broad chamber that overlooked the street. It was comfortably furnished and lit by several candles, but there was no sign of the occupant.
‘Mr Prout!’ Betsy called, looking about.
No answer. Catlin too was taking in the surroundings. Part of the room, presumably the bedchamber, was screened off by an oak panel. With a glance at Betsy, the doctor crossed to the screen and peered round it. Then he stiffened, and Betsy felt a chill run down her spine like cold silk. Slowly she walked to his side … but already she had smelled the sharp, iron tang of blood, and steeled herself for what she might see.
What she saw was James Prout, lying across his bed with a fixed look of surprise on his face. As for the blood, his body, and the bed, were awash with it.
It was late that night before Betsy and Tom Catlin returned home. Peg had gone to bed, but enough glowing embers remained in the parlour fireplace for the doctor to stir it into life. He poured a mug of sack for each of them, before lighting his pipe. The room was soon filled with pungent blue smoke.
They had sent word to Betterton, then waited at Prout’s lodging for him to arrive with a constable from nearby St Giles. The owner of the house, and father of the diminutive girl, also returned soon afterwards to learn what had occurred under his roof. The man was horror-struck: his tenants were all respectable folk, he insisted. There had never been trouble in his house before. As for murder….
Catlin had examined the body, and concluded that the dancing-master had been stabbed through the heart with a narrow blade. It was a brutal attack, but far from frenzied: the killer knew where to strike. Moreover, the body was still warm, which testified to the crime being recent. Indeed, the young girl’s account of hearing the dancing-master ‘doing his steps’ shortly before, now took on a sinister hue.
‘So, this time he had no need of secrecy,’ Betsy said quietly. ‘No poisoned pin….’
Catlin had been gazing into the fire. ‘For that reason, can you be certain that Prout died by the same hand?’ he asked.
‘I can’t,’ she admitted, ‘but in my heart I know it’s the Salamander. Look how easily he made his escape, for one thing. The landlord didn’t even know someone else had been in the house.’
‘But why has he waited so long?’ the doctor asked. ‘If he’s Julius Hill, he could have got close to the dancing-master at any time.’
‘I can think of one explanation,’ Betsy answered. ‘If he and Prout were lovers, that’s where he might have stayed the past two nights, since he left his lodging. In fact, perhaps he coveted Prout’s company, going to the bagnio with him and so on, in order to make use of him. Use his home as a bolthole, if he needed it.’
‘But why kill him?’ Catlin objected. ‘If he’s done with his avenging, why not just disappear?’
‘Perhaps Prout was too much of a risk. He was a quick-thinking man – he might have discovered Hill’s real identity.’ Betsy gave a sigh. ‘One thing I know: I’ll miss him, as will all the company. And his loss could be a death blow for us.’
Both of them fell silent. Betsy thought briefly of Betterton, who had been shattered by the news of Prout’s murder. Even Lord Caradoc, who arrived on horseback soon afterwards, was shaken. After hearing a brief account of the matter he had ridden off to rouse the authorities, and urge them to scour the suburbs for Julius Hill. And if constables and watchmen should fail, he vowed to raise an armed body at his own expense. Since the business of the live salamander on his supper table, it seemed His Lordship took every turn of events as a personal affront.
After a while, Betsy rose to go to her bed. As she gave the doctor good night, he nodded absently, staring into the fire. Likely he would still be there in the morning, she thought, asleep in his chair.
Betsy slept fitfully, her dreams filled with foreboding. Once she sat up, thinking she heard someone at the window. But it was only the wind rattling the frame, and eventually she drifted into a deeper sleep that lasted until dawn. Then with a start she woke, hearing the door open. There stood Peg, wearing a grim expression.
‘You’d best come down,’ she said. ‘There’s a visitor.’
‘At this hour?’ Betsy muttered, shaking herself awake. But she clambered out of bed, threw on an old camelotte gown and stumbled barefoot outside to the stairhead.
Peg was standing in the hallway. Beside her, almost a head shorter, was a man in rough outdoor clothing, peering about in the dim light. His manner was tense, and when Tom Catlin emerged from the parlour in his shirt sleeves bearing a candle, the fellow shrank backwards towards the door. Then he heard Betsy’s footsteps and glanced up quickly, whereupon her eyes widened. For gazing up at her was the weasel-faced man from the Bermudas, whom she and Peg had once mistaken for the informant Dart.
Slowly Betsy descended the stairs. Catlin was frowning at the fellow, who looked the very picture of a fugitive. As Betsy drew near he looked round, as if to make sure the door was still open at his back. Nobody spoke. Then at last the man summoned his courage, moistened his lips and said hoarsely: ‘I helped you, didn’t I? Now you must help me!’
If Betsy showed surprise, Peg did not. ‘Help you, you wicked little stoat?’ she growled. ‘You’ve got some brass, coming here.’
‘Listen!’ the man was desperate. ‘I’ve nowhere to go … all I’m asking is common charity.’ He looked deliberately at Catlin. ‘I heard you were a good man, who don’t ask too many questions.’
The doctor glanced questioningly at Betsy, then realization dawned. He turned back to the ragged fellow. ‘Are you Dart?’ he asked sharply.
Peg gave an impatient snort. ‘No he isn’t – I made that mistake—’ catching Betsy’s eye, she broke off. Neither of them wished to dwell upon events in that fetid little storeroom in the Bermudas, three days back. But both started when the weasel-faced man dropped to a half-crouch, jabbing a finger.
‘Dart’s dead!’ he cried. ‘And if I don’t get out of London I’ll be joining him! Now … will you help me, or not?!’
A short while later the three of them stood in the kitchen while ‘Weasel-face’, as Peg called him, sat at the table eating ravenously. When asked, he had given the name Daniels, which was clearly one of convenience. Having drunk the curds Peg had grudgingly given him, he wiped the bowl with a hunk of bread, stuffed it in his mouth and sat back, eying each of them. Finally, he began to talk.
‘I knew something wasn’t right about you two,’ he said, his eyes flicking from Betsy to Peg. ‘I’ve met some rare trulls in my time, but none that would pay a man like you did. So when you left the Bermudas that night, I followed you.’
‘You followed us?’ Betsy echoed. ‘To here?’
‘Had a notion it might be useful,’ the fellow replied, then glanced uneasily at Tom Catlin who, arms folded, was leaning against a side table watching him.
‘After I found out whose house it was, I went back.’ Daniels lowered his gaze. ‘Then the next night, this cove comes to the Bermudas looking for Dart. And the minute Dart sees him, he near soils his breeches. I never seen him scared before, and that’s a gospel truth!’ He scratched his unkempt beard. ‘Him and the other go off together. Then come morning, I find Dart in the back of Round Court, stuck like a hog! And no one saw or heard a thing!’
The man’s fear was genuine. And now Tom Catlin spoke up. ‘Can you describe this man who came looking for Dart?’
The other threw him a dour look. ‘He looked a bit like you,’ he answered. When Catlin looked blank, he shook his head. ‘It was night, and he wore a hat pulled low. Rather, you should ask who he is. That’d be enough for most.’
‘The Salamander,’ Betsy said, to which Daniels’s scared look was assent enough. She exchanged glances with Catlin. It was almost as if the very mention of the nickname was enough to conjure up the man’s presence, here at Fire’s Reach Court.
‘You claim you’ll be joining Dart if you don’t get out of London,’ she said to Daniels. ‘You mean he’s looking for you?’
The fellow swallowed the last of the bread, then faced Catlin. ‘Hide me for a day and a night, Doctor,’ he said in a voice that was almost a whine. ‘That’s all – by then he’ll be gone. He can’t afford to stay longer. He knows there’s a net closing about him.’
Catlin frowned. ‘He knows?’
The other nodded. ‘If only half the tales I’ve heard be true, there’s nothing that devil don’t know. Always one step ahead, save in the Fire, that time.’ He looked at Betsy. ‘I talked with Dart, after I’d followed you home.’ A sour look came over his pinched features. ‘And it seems to me now, it’s because of you he’s dead!’
But at that, Peg, who had been watching the man with growing anger, took a step forward. ‘You little crack-halter!’ She pointed a shaking finger at him. ‘What the two of you would have done to us if I hadn’t knocked that other cove out, I don’t—’
‘Peg.’ Catlin’s voice was sharp. Peg fell silent, as the doctor turned to Daniels with a hard expression. ‘Your friend Dart’s death makes at least five that we know of, by the Salamander’s hand,’ he said coldly. ‘So don’t try to shift blame where it doesn’t belong.’
The weasel-faced man wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his dirty coat. But feeling the doctor’s eye upon him, he forced himself to meet his gaze.
‘Now,’ Catlin’s manner grew brisk, ‘You come here asking my help, so I do have questions. First, you say your own life is in danger – are you certain?’
Daniels nodded vigorously. ‘I’d swear Dart told the Salamander about me,’ he answered, ‘but that isn’t it.’ His nervousness was such, he could barely keep still. ‘You say there’s five dead already,’ he went on. ‘Well, I’d wager a sovereign there’s more, if you knew where to look for ’em,’ he swallowed. ‘Don’t you see? He’s got the taste for it now! Since he was transported over the sea, then got himself back, all those years, he’s been feeding his anger like a fire. He won’t stop, until someone stops him, and there’s precious few could do that! A day is all he’d need, to hunt me down….’
The man broke off, and now Peg glanced at Betsy. All of them recognized the truth when they heard it.
‘Very well.’ Catlin nodded. ‘You say that hiding here for a day and a night would be enough. Do you mean that the Salamander …’ he frowned. ‘I’ll use his name – Aanaarden. Do you mean Aanaarden intends to leave London by then?’
Daniels’ head bobbed. ‘Not just London. He’ll be gone from England, and we’ll all sleep sounder!’
Catlin paused. ‘Then I will help you … on one condition: that you lead us to him.’
Daniels’ mouth fell open. ‘Good Christ, I can’t do that! You may as well sign my death warrant!’
The doctor surveyed him without expression. ‘There’s a coach leaves Bishopsgate tomorrow morning at six of the clock,’ he said, ‘bound for the North country. I’ll pay your passage. But more importantly, I can give you a letter to a friend of mine in York, who might find work for you if you wish it. If you don’t wish it, he’ll shelter you for a day or two, until you decide where to go. And he too will ask no questions.’
But the little man was shaking his head mournfully. ‘Don’t ask this of me,’ he begged. ‘It’s more than I dare.’
Catlin kept his patience. ‘All I ask is that you point me to Aanaarden. Others will stand ready to arrest him, the moment he’s identified. There’s no risk to you—’
‘No risk!’ Daniels gave a short laugh. ‘You don’t know.’ Seeing the eyes of all three of them upon him, he banged a fist down on the table. ‘It’s not just him!’ he cried. ‘If I spill the tale of the Rye road, I’m finished. I’ll have such a price on my head, half the Bermudas will come looking for me!’
‘The Rye road – is that all?’ Catlin relaxed. ‘You think someone who’s been about the western suburbs as long as I have hasn’t heard of it?’
Daniels did not answer, whereupon Catlin met Betsy’s gaze. ‘There’s a man who arranges passages – for a fee, of course – for those who wish to get out of the country quickly, without being observed. You might term it an underground way, from rookeries like the Bermudas to the Kent coast, where a boat leaves for France after dark. It leaves from Rye, because Dover is generally watched.’ He eyed Daniels. ‘Do I hit the mark?’ When the other said nothing, he added: ‘I don’t know the name of this trader in human cargo, nor do I know from where he despatches his charges. I merely ask you to conduct myself and others to the place tonight, where we will conceal ourselves. The moment Aanaarden appears, your side of the bargain is filled. I’ll even have someone escort you back in safety. You can pass the night here, then in the morning take the coach for the North.’
The three of them waited, watching Daniels as he struggled with his predicament. It was odd, Betsy thought, that so much might rest on one who, despite her grim experience with him in a dark chamber in the Bermudas, now appeared such a pitiful creature. At last, he looked up.
‘I’ll take you,’ he muttered, ‘though you won’t know him. He’ll likely go in disguise.’ He threw a baleful look at Betsy. ‘If I’d seen through yours from the start, I wouldn’t be in this mess!’
Betsy ignored him and turned to Catlin. The doctor seemed satisfied, but she felt a little surge of excitement.
Perhaps the Salamander’s reign would soon be over after all.
By nightfall, matters had moved forward. At Bredon House, Lord Caradoc was waiting for word of the Salamander’s capture. Having been fully appraised of events, His Lordship had vowed to stay up all night if necessary. At the same time, in more modest premises in Long Acre, an unhappy Thomas Betterton awaited the same news. The master of the Duke’s Theatre had called off all rehearsals because of the death of James Prout, in the hope that this tempestuous period would draw to its close. Then, somehow, the Company could regroup and try to return to normality.
Betsy’s hopes, however, were more immediate. When she entered Catlin’s parlour that night she was prepared for a battle, and had armed herself with a range of arguments. But in the end, she won the day more easily than expected. After allowing the doctor a period of nay-saying and head-shaking, she played her final card.
‘I understand the danger,’ she said. ‘But upbraid me as you will, you can’t prevent me coming along. You’re my landlord, not my guardian … and in any case, after you’d gone I’d assume the guise of Mary Peach and follow you. Unless, that is, you were planning to lock me in my bedroom?’
‘I swear, one day you will give me a seizure,’ Catlin muttered.
‘Oh, flap-sauce!’ Betsy could not help smiling. ‘You’re savouring the prospect of catching this villain as much as I am. Why should you have all the pleasure of it? After all,’ she added with a wry look, ‘in a way it’s Mistress Rummager who’s brought matters to this point, is it not?’
Catlin’s only reply was one of his looks of exasperation.
But it was settled: guided by Daniels, a party consisting of Catlin, Betsy and three well-armed constables sent by Caradoc would leave the house soon after midnight. Then they would conceal themselves at the place their guide still refused to name, until the Salamander made an appearance. After that, the little man declared, they were on their own. And further, he needed no escort but would make his way back to Fire’s Reach Court by a roundabout route, and spend the rest of the night there. He also demanded that Catlin give him his coach fare in advance, so that he might change his plans if necessary. Then, having sealed his bargain with a mug of sack, he had fallen asleep in the kitchen.