Authors: John Pilkington
‘He’ll examine Joshua’s body, mistress,’ she answered, meeting the other woman’s eye. ‘But I cannot ask him to lie.’
Mary Betterton’s bosom heaved above her low neckline. ‘He too would be rewarded for his discretion,’ she said.
‘Such arguments count for little with him,’ Betsy replied. ‘He often treats people for no payment.’
Betterton was frowning at his wife. ‘May we speak of this later?’ he asked, in a tone of distaste. ‘For the moment, I would merely request that each of you,’ he eyed Downes, Daggett and Silas Gunn in turn, ‘that you each say nothing about what’s happened, to anyone. When we know more about how Joshua died, we—’ he broke off, as if irritated with his own words. Whereupon his wife spoke up quickly.
‘Indeed! Meanwhile, we’ll see Small’s widow is helped.’ She turned to William Daggett. ‘Did the man have a wife?’
Daggett shook his head. ‘She died in the Plague Year. His brother’s the only family I know of.’ He glanced at Downes, who remained tight-lipped, then at Gunn, who was looking like a tired, spent old man. It seemed to Betsy as if the three of them were only now taking in the import of what had happened: Tom Cleeve had died, as had Rigg, and James Prout too, supposedly at the hands of the one they had known as Julius Hill – who was also dead. But now, another scene-man had perished! What terrible force was at work? And who was safe?
Gunn spoke up anxiously. ‘Who will work the scenes and the curtain tomorrow, sir?’ he asked Betterton. ‘Young Will’s so torn up by what happened, I doubt he’ll be back.’
But Daggett broke in. ‘There are others I can call upon,’ he answered. ‘Otherwise, my old sparrow, you and I must fall to, and do our best.’
After a moment Gunn nodded, and now there seemed little more to be said. Looking relieved, Betterton thanked his backstage men and saw them out. But when Betsy started to follow, he put a hand on her arm.
‘A moment if you please, Mistress Brand.’
The door closed upon Downes, the last to leave, who threw a suspicious look at Betsy as he went. Then, it was common knowledge that the man trusted no one … especially actresses. Betsy faced Betterton, and found both his and his wife’s eyes upon her. Having an idea what was coming, she braced herself.
‘Mistress Brand,’ Mary Betterton said, ‘we would ask your help.’
‘I can only repeat what I said,’ Betsy began, but Betterton raised a hand.
‘You mistake us,’ he said quickly, with a glance at Mary. ‘What we ask is that you and Doctor Catlin – who know more of the terrible events of the past fortnight than anyone else – combine your resources, and try to find out what in God’s name is going on!’
‘I’m unsure of your meaning,’ Betsy began, but the other interrupted.
‘My meaning,’ Betterton told her, ‘is that despite the confession of Julius Hill, or whatever his real name was, someone appears bent on continuing his murderous work among the Duke’s Company!’ The man’s voice had risen, as if only now was he able to vent his feelings. ‘And more, none but another member of this company – player or scene-man, doormen or whoever it be – could’ve got close enough to Joshua Small to do what was done! Assuming, that is,’ Betterton drew a breath. ‘Assuming he died by the same poison Hill used, which seems more than likely.’
‘I would swear to that readily enough,’ Betsy said.
‘Then let’s face the truth!’ Mary Betterton cried. ‘And the truth is that there’s a murderer in the Company, who must be found, in the shortest possible time. So, Mistress Brand, if your pious Doctor Catlin won’t show delicacy in naming the cause of Small’s death, I pray he will at least help in uncovering who killed him!’
Will Small stood in the gloomy little parlour of his family home, beside the body of his brother. It was but a few hours since the man had expired on the forestage of the Duke’s Theatre. Night had now drawn in, and the room was illuminated by a couple of smoky tallow candles. With the help of neighbours, Joshua Small had been laid out upon a bed raised on trestles, covered to his neck by a linen sheet. His handsome face was calm in death, his long hair unbound and combed out to his shoulders. Betsy and Tom Catlin, having offered a few words of comfort, were about to take their leave when Will turned to them.
‘I knew something wasn’t right,’ he muttered. ‘For a week or more, he’d been troubled. I never asked what it was.’ The young man was close to tears. ‘Now I wish to God I had!’
‘It’s been a dreadful ordeal for you,’ Catlin began, but Will was not listening.
‘Josh was never himself after Rigg died,’ he went on, as if trying to make sense of things. ‘It bothered him more than Tom Cleeve.’ He frowned. ‘Then, they went back a deal further – them and George Beale.’
‘Beale … what was he to your brother, Will?’ Betsy asked.
The young man shrugged. ‘There was a few of them, used to drink in the Fleece.’ He named the tavern on the corner of the Strand and Brydges Street, which had a bad reputation. ‘Only after cockfighting and such,’ he added. ‘That was when Rigg and Beale were at the King’s Playhouse. They’d go a bit wild, sometimes.’ He gazed sadly at his brother’s corpse. ‘I hope he’ll be able to enjoy a mug, where he’s gone.’
Then he bowed his head. And without further word, Betsy and Catlin made their exit.
At Moorgate the two of them turned right to begin their homeward journey, skirting the city’s north wall. In the distance, a watchman was crying the hour. For a while neither spoke. Then, unable to contain herself any longer, Betsy turned to Catlin. ‘When you helped lay the body out, did you see—’
‘Pinpricks? No, I did not.’ Catlin kept his eyes on the darkened street. ‘But I’m certain Small’s death was caused by the same poison that the Salamander used. So the question is, how was it administered?’
But Betsy stopped, for the answer came at once. ‘The drink – it could have been in his flask!’
Catlin stopped too. ‘Where is it? Could you get it to me?’
‘I’ll try.’ Betsy was thinking fast. ‘Joshua often had a flask of strong water or Nantes in his pocket; it was no secret. If someone wanted to poison him, without having to get close, that is—’
‘And not arouse suspicion?’ Catlin started walking again, and Betsy fell in beside him. ‘Then we seem to be back where we started,’ the doctor added grimly. ‘Only now we’re looking for another link … not to the Salamander, but to those who work backstage at the Duke’s.’ He put on an exasperated look. ‘Perhaps someone merely wants you out of business, in which case the chief suspect, to my mind, would be Mr Killigrew of the King’s Company!’
But at that Betsy stopped again, so that Catlin carried on a pace, and was obliged to halt and turn. ‘Let me guess, Mistress Rummager,’ he said dryly. ‘Inspiration has struck again, like a divine thunderbolt.’
‘Not quite,’ she answered. ‘But perhaps you’re close to the nub of things, after all,’ s he frowned. ‘I don’t mean Killigrew … but you remember how suspicion fell upon Beale when Rigg died, and he’d wounded him with his stage dagger?’
‘A superficial wound only,’ Catlin reminded her.
‘Nevertheless.’ Despite the afternoon’s unhappy outcome, Betsy felt a stirring of hope. Now, it seemed as if another avenue of investigation had opened. After a moment she took Catlin’s arm, and the two of them walked on.
‘Nevertheless, what?’ the doctor asked.
‘Beale,’ Betsy replied. ‘I should have talked to him sooner. Now, I need to find out where he lodges. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’
George Beale lived above the shop of a gold-lace maker, whose sign – a peacock – seemed fitting enough for the abode of the haughty young actor. The shop was in Russell Street, a few doors from Wills’s coffee-house. The morning after Joshua Small’s death Betsy Brand arrived to be told that Mr Beale was indeed at home. In fact, the landlord added, he seldom appeared before midday. So having been directed, Betsy thanked the man and made her way to a stairway. But as she climbed the narrow steps there came a muffled oath from above, and a flurry of movement. Gingerly, she poked her head above the top floor, finding herself in a darkened chamber that stank of orange perfume, unwashed clothing and human sweat.
‘Mr Beale?’ she called. ‘It’s Betsy Brand.’
A figure loomed menacingly above her. Here was Beale in a greasy nightshirt and no periwig, gazing down. To her alarm, he was holding a dagger.
‘God in heaven, Mistress – I came close to spiking you!’ Relaxing somewhat, the man gestured to her to come up. As she did so he went to a cluttered table, dropped the dagger and fumbled with a tinderbox. He struck a flame and applied it to a candle, then sat down heavily on the bed. His shaved head gleamed in the flickering light.
‘I confess you’re one of the last people I expected to see,’ he said, looking at her suspiciously. ‘Do you bear a message from Betterton?’
Looking about, Betsy shook her head. After a moment Beale pointed to a chair piled with dirty linen. ‘Throw that aside, and be seated,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll have to forgive your surroundings.’
‘In fact, I do have news,’ Betsy said as she sat down. ‘Sad tidings, I’m afraid: Joshua Small’s dead.’
Beale’s mouth fell open, but he made no reply.
‘In the same, sudden manner as Tom Cleeve,’ Betsy continued. When the man still stared, she added: ‘Perhaps you’ve already heard of the deaths of James Prout, and of Julius Hill?’
‘I heard about Prout,’ Beale said shortly. ‘As for Hill,’ he swallowed. ‘The ghastly tale’s all over Covent Garden. But why do you carry it to me?’
Betsy gave a shrug. ‘It was Small I came to talk to you about. I spoke with his brother. He told me about the time you and Joshua used to carouse together, in the Fleece.’
‘What of it?’ Beale’s voice was sharp. ‘It’s a cheap tavern – many of the King’s Company frequent it. And at that time, I was among them.’
As if wishing to occupy himself, the man rose suddenly and started looking about. ‘I must dress,’ he said. ‘Had I known I was going to have female company I’d have put some breeks on … unless, that is….’
He stopped with a leer, which needed little interpretation. But reaching down, Betsy picked up a pair of wrinkled hose from the floor. ‘Will these serve?’ she asked, and threw them to Beale, who caught them awkwardly. ‘I wouldn’t want to raise your hopes.’
Beale sniffed as if to show it mattered not a jot and, sitting down on the bed, began to pull on his breeches.
‘I can guess at your feelings towards Betterton,’ Betsy resumed, ‘after he dismissed you. Yet I would ask—’
‘Dismissed me?’ the other’s voice was harsh. ‘He all but called me a murderer before the entire company! He’s lucky we weren’t in the street – I’d have drawn my sword at the man!’
‘You were there!’ Beale went on, jabbing a finger at Betsy. ‘You heard them turn on me – Betterton, that smooth-faced molly-man Prout – even the blasted tiring-maid shrieked at me! And I for one have never laid a hand on the girl!’
‘The company had been badly shaken by Rigg’s death,’ Betsy said.
‘As was I!’ Beale retorted. ‘I knew the man for years, since I first walked upon the stage as a youth …’ he trailed off – and Betsy judged her moment.
‘Rigg, and now Joshua Small,’ she said, ‘who was as nervous as a rabbit in his last days. Why do you think that was?’
‘How in Christ’s name should I know?’ Beale countered, then drew breath, and gave Betsy a long look. ‘Ah … now I begin to know your game, Brand. Then, you’re Betterton’s creature … you always were! You and Rowe, that blowsy little butcher’s daughter … you never had to lift your skirts to get a role, did you? Unlike some!’
Betsy’s temper rose, but she kept her voice low. ‘You know Betterton has never abused his powers in that way,’ she replied, ‘and the actress he most admired, he married.’
‘So, was it Mistress Mary who sent you?’ the other asked, with a sneer. ‘I’ll bet a sovereign this scandal at the Duke’s has made her piss her petticoats!’ He gave a sour grin. ‘Perhaps I’m well out of Dorset Gardens, after all.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ Betsy said flatly, as if to imply that she wasn’t leaving until he did. ‘Why do you think someone killed Rigg and Joshua Small, who had no connection to the Salamander or his grievances?’
This time Beale merely looked away, but Betsy sensed more than bitterness on his part. In fact, she now realized, he was more shaken than she had first thought.
‘Could it be another matter of revenge?’ she persisted. ‘Like that of Hill – or Aanaarden, to use his real name – yet unrelated to it?’
‘I’ve said I know naught of it,’ Beale said in a sulky tone.
But now Betsy was certain he was hiding something. Deliberately she said: ‘Whoever it is, they seem to have had no difficulty tracking down their victims. Rigg, for example: he wasn’t Joseph Rigg then, was he? He was Joseph Griffiths.’
Beale frowned at her. ‘What’s that to me?’ he demanded. ‘Now, I’d like to dress, so if you’ve said all you came to say, mistress, I suggest you take your leave.’
But Betsy remained seated. ‘I spoke with Small a week before he died. He was troubled … there seemed to be something on his conscience that went back years, to the Great Fire. That would be about the time you and he were carousing at the Fleece with Rigg, would it not?’
Abruptly Beale got to his feet. ‘You’re beginning to bore me, Betsy Brand,’ he said, and gestured to the stairs. ‘Forgive me if I don’t show you out.’
Still Betsy did not move. ‘What was it you did, in the Fire?’ she asked quietly, sensing with some excitement that she was on the brink of a discovery. ‘You, and your drinking and gaming friends?’
Beale stared at her – then for some reason, the fight seemed to go out of the fellow. With a heavy sigh he sat down again, and put his head in his hands. When he looked up, there was an emptiness in his gaze.
‘A man was killed,’ he said. ‘There – is that meat enough for you, Mistress Scavenger?’
Betsy said nothing, but kept her eyes on Beale’s. And to her surprise, as if relieved to unburden himself at last, the fellow began to talk.
‘It began as a wager,’ he said, with a distant look. ‘A foolish bet, after an evening’s debauch … we were half-distracted. In the west suburbs we watched the Fire draw closer by the hour … all of London ablaze, and none could stop it. After three days it seemed it would leap the walls and engulf us all. There seemed naught to do, but run or drink ourselves senseless. And that ranting fool Praise-God Palmer was on the streets, shouting of the Lord’s wrath.’ He hesitated. ‘That was when Rigg – Griffiths – stood up and shouted:
The devil with your Lord. What of the French, or the Dutch
?’
Betsy’s heart jolted, as Joshua Small’s words in the empty theatre came back to her. ‘So … you went hunting for scapegoats.’
‘We went hunting for foreigners,’ Beale told her. ‘Others did the same … blaming them for starting the Fire. Dutchmen, Frenchmen, Irishmen, even Scots – a mob isn’t particular. Especially when Rigg’s leading it, fired up with brandy and patriotism, crying
God for Harry
or some other cant he’d got from Shakespeare.’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘You remember it. Panic and mayhem everywhere … even the King was on the streets, they said. And what danger might he be in, if one of England’s enemies came upon him?’
Now, the man seemed eager to excuse his actions. Keeping expression from her voice, Betsy prodded him gently. ‘But instead, you and your party came upon one of them?’
Beale avoided her eye. ‘A Frenchman … a wig-maker … in Wood Street near the Haberdasher’s Hall. The fire was upon them already, and they were fleeing with what they could salvage.’ He grimaced. ‘I didn’t take part!’ he cried. ‘I even tried to stop them, I’d swear that in any court in England! I was but a youth and I was caught up in the excitement, nothing more!’
Betsy waited, until at last the man looked up at her.
‘Yes, I see the look on your face!’ Beale clenched his fists. There was a wildness in his gaze now. ‘I saw it on the face of the man’s wife, when her husband was seized and bound … then she started screaming at us in French.’ He screwed his eyes up at the memory. ‘She didn’t stop, even when his carcase was swinging from a beam.’
‘You hanged him?’ Betsy’s mouth was dry. ‘Because he was a foreigner?’
‘
They
hanged him!’ Beale threw back. ‘I’ve told you, I took no part! Believe it or not, as you will … and though I wasn’t alone in thinking that frightened little man no more set fires than the Lord Mayor did, there was naught I could do.’ He lowered his eyes again.
‘Think what you like,’ he said after a moment. ‘We’ve all paid, in one way or another: Rigg and Small, for they were like savages that day, bent on blaming others for their troubles. As for me,’ he gave a bitter laugh. ‘George Beale, late of the celebrated Duke’s Company, is without a penny! Killigrew won’t hire me at the King’s. If someone’s avenging the Frenchman after these years, then I say let him come. If he doesn’t get me, my creditors will!’
Betsy got to her feet. She could find no words to say to George Beale, who remained seated.
‘What will you do?’ he asked suddenly.
She paused, struggling with her feelings. ‘Do you know the name of the man you … who was hanged?’ she asked.
‘Colporteur,’ the other replied. ‘Jean Colporteur – it was on a sign outside his shop. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.’
After taking a step towards the stairwell, Betsy stopped and turned to him. ‘What did you think I would do,’ she asked, ‘inform on you?’
But the other made no reply, and she made her way downstairs. In a way, the man had been punished already. As she descended, she glanced back once towards Beale, who had not moved from the bed. He seemed to have forgotten her, and was staring vacantly at the floor.
From Covent Garden, Betsy walked back along the Strand to Fleet Street. The sun shone, but her mind was so busy that she barely noticed her surroundings. Only when she had crossed the Fleet bridge with Ludgate looming ahead did she stop, as the thought struck her that there was another person who might be able to shed light on the mystery: Sir Anthony Griffiths, father of the man she had known as Joseph Rigg. And without stopping to ask herself whether she would be permitted to speak with the magistrate, she hurried through the busy gateway and turned to the right, towards the river. At Blackfriars Stairs she took a boat, and was soon scudding down the Thames.
She barely responded to the waterman’s gruff attempts at conversation, and the fellow was quick to set her down at St Botolph’s wharf, where she had once alighted in search of one who had sold a salamander to Julius Hill, though she did not know his identity then. Indeed, she reflected, there was no Julius Hill. Holding up her skirts, she climbed the slope towards Eastcheap. Then she was making her way through the dusty, half-rebuilt ruins of Fenchurch Street and Lime Street, to emerge by the church of St Andrew Undershaft. She had crossed the eastern border of the Fire’s Reach where, thanks to the wind the north-east corner of the city, from Moorgate to the Tower, had escaped destruction. In Aldgate Street all was serene and orderly, the untouched houses tall and stark against the sky. And it was now but a matter of casual enquiry from passers-by, to find the home of Sir Anthony Griffiths.
It was a large house, protected by a crumbling brick wall overhung with trees. Betsy tried the gate and found it unlocked. Taking a breath, she marched up to the front door and knocked loudly. After some delay it was opened by a tall manservant who peered down at her in surprise. When Betsy explained that she was come to speak with Sir Anthony about his late son, the man looked startled. Quickly, she mentioned her association with Doctor Tom Catlin, who had taken care of the body. To all of this the servant listened in mounting discomfort. By the time she had finished he was frowning.
‘Are you perhaps a … a woman of the theatre?’ he asked in a voice of distaste.
Betsy admitted such, and gave her name.
‘Sir Anthony disapproves strongly of the theatre,’ he said. ‘I’ve instructions to set the dogs on any actors who showed their faces.’ He hesitated. ‘Yet, I’m loth to do so. I’d say you’re a bold one, mistress, to come here like this.’
Whereupon Betsy put on her most winning smile. ‘I have news your master might wish to hear,’ she said. ‘Will you not tell him I’m come?’
‘I will,’ the man answered finally. ‘But even if he agrees to see you,’ he hesitated, ‘you must pay no mind to his manner – nor will I permit you to stay long. Sir Anthony’s not the man he was, since Mr Joseph’s death.’ He stood aside. ‘Wait in the vestibule.’
Betsy entered the old house, finding herself in a dark hallway with a smell of damp. The manservant disappeared, but returned a minute later. Without further word, he conducted Betsy to a large room at the rear of the house, overlooking an untidy garden. Seated near the window was a figure in a black bombazine suit and long steel-grey periwig, who did not move. Smiling again, Betsy walked round to face him and made her curtsey – then saw her efforts were wasted. For the bent, crabbed old man slumped before her was blind.
‘Mistress Brand,’ the voice was cracked, as of one much older than the sixty years Betsy estimated. ‘I’m told you bring news appertaining to my son.’ His right hand gripped the knob of a cane, which he now waved as if to bid her speak.
Betsy took a breath, then under the watchful gaze of the manservant on the other side of the room, told Sir Anthony about the death of Joshua Small, and what she had since learned of his actions during the Great Fire. She did not mention Joseph Rigg’s being the ringleader of a drunken mob which had hanged an innocent French wig-maker, but no sooner had she brought up George Beale’s name, than her listener startled her by raising his stick and banging it on the floor.