Authors: John Pilkington
She sighed; she was not the only unmarried actress to have been propositioned at one time or another by the noble lord. Yet in contrast to someone like Samuel Tripp, he had always made his advances with such gallantry that Betsy had usually felt flattered. He had also taken her rebuffs with good grace, saying he was a sporting man who enjoyed the chase, and could laugh in the face of defeat.
But now there was nothing more to be said. Betterton and Caradoc moved aside in private conversation. After a moment John Downes joined them, along with Daggett. The rest of the company made for the doors in a subdued body. Betsy took Jane’s arm. As they neared the doorway Louise the tiring-maid hurried past them, eyes downcast. Yet, Betsy reflected, few in the company would have cause to doubt the girl’s words, knowing George Beale as they did – and Joseph Rigg too. Nevertheless, though few would miss Beale, she knew all would miss Rigg as much as she would.
Soon the two were outside, with the breeze in their faces. Each was busy with her own thoughts, but one was uppermost, as it would be on the mind of every member of the company: an uncertain time lay ahead, without work or wage. So when the familiar, ranting voice of Praise-God Palmer rang out in the lane Betsy and Jane exchanged exasperated looks, before following the rest of the company to the Hercules Pillars.
It was mid afternoon, yet the inn was crowded. One of the largest ordinaries outside the Walls and close to the theatre, it was the usual haunt of actors. As the two pushed their way inside, they adopted their most brazen manner: nothing less would suffice, for women unescorted. Almost at once there came a male voice from behind, but it was Tom Catlin, somewhat out of breath, who had evidently been trying to catch them up.
‘Let’s find a quiet corner,’ he said. ‘I must speak with you.’
A few minutes later the three of them had squeezed behind a table by the window. Catlin called for mulled sack, then began without preamble.
‘I examined Tom Cleeve’s body,’ he said, ‘and found something I didn’t like. But before I tell you what it is, can either of you remember who was close to the man, before he fell down?’
Jane looked taken aback. ‘We weren’t near enough to see, with everyone milling about,’ she answered. ‘As I recall, he was talking with the other scene-men.’
‘Apart from one,’ Betsy put in. ‘Joshua Small was making his way towards us – he’s got designs on Mistress Rowe here.’
Catlin was wearing what Betsy called his ‘puzzling out’ face. ‘I looked his body over, from head to foot,’ he said after a moment. ‘And apart from a few old scars, I found nothing amiss – until I chanced to take a look at his arm. There was a tiny hole above the elbow – little more than a pinprick, but it was recent. Looked like he’d been pierced with a bodkin, or something similar.’
Then, seeing the looks on the two women’s faces, he shook his head. ‘No, it couldn’t have killed him, any more than that blunted dagger killed Rigg. What was odd was the appearance of the puncture. I had to put a lens to it, before I saw it plainly: a trace of some brown substance, about its edges.’
‘But … you said the wound was so tiny, it couldn’t have caused his death,’ Jane objected.
‘Whatever he was pricked with couldn’t have … at least, not in the upper arm,’ Catlin said. ‘But if it was coated with something poisonous, that’s another matter.’
Betsy drew a sharp breath. ‘You thought Long Ned was poisoned,’ she said. ‘And I found out today that they knew each other well. In fact, they went back a long way.’
‘What’s Long Ned to do with it?’ Jane asked.
In a few words, Catlin told her how it was he who had been called to attend the man at the bathhouse, but two days previously, and how the manner of his death was almost identical to Cleeve’s. ‘At the time, I thought there was no mark upon his body, either,’ he added. ‘But then I didn’t search it for anything as small as a pinprick.’
A tapster appeared with three steaming mugs of sack and set them down. ‘Betterton told me this morning that rumours were already abroad,’ Betsy said, ‘of some foul play being practised upon the Duke’s Company. Long Ned used to work for him, back at the old theatre, while Cleeve—’
‘Ned, then Tom Cleeve … and now Rigg,’ Catlin broke in, nodding. ‘I’m not a gamester, yet I’d lay odds that if I were to examine Rigg’s body, too, I’d find a pinprick exactly like the one on Cleeve’s arm. Their symptoms were too alike – and in any case, I don’t believe in coincidence.’
Jane Rowe looked aghast. ‘Are you saying they were all poisoned?’ she demanded.
But Betsy turned to her, and answered for Catlin. ‘He’s saying they were murdered. And I believe him!’
Thomas Betterton’s house stood to the north of Covent Garden, where many handsome new residences had been built in London’s rapid westward expansion. Here he lived in comfort with his actress wife Mary, the celebrated Mistress Saunderson. But though Betsy had visited their home several times, on the morning after Joseph Rigg’s death she approached the heavy door with some trepidation.
She had taken breakfast with Tom Catlin, a rare occurrence, as it was the doctor’s habit to rise early. But though Betsy had passed a restless night, and there was no performance at the Duke’s, the two of them had matters to talk over. They agreed that Betsy would tell Betterton what they had both learned, and let him decide what course to take. So after Peg had dressed her hair in side-locks and helped her into her tight-boned bodice, Betsy put on her second-best chemise and a cloak of midnight blue, and walked by Wych Street and Drury Lane to Long Acre.
The door was opened by Betterton’s ageing manservant, Matthew. As he showed Betsy into the parlour, the old man bent to whisper in her ear. ‘You’re not the only visitor, Mistress Brand. Alderman Blake’s here … in high dudgeon, too.’
Betsy knew the alderman of the ward of Farringdon Without, where the Duke’s Theatre stood, only too well. He was an old-style Puritan who, though lacking the zeal of men like Praise-God Palmer, nevertheless viewed the libertarian ways of actors with distaste. If Blake had heard of the deaths of Tom Cleeve and Joseph Rigg, it was likely he had seized the opportunity to make one of his frequent demands for the closure of the theatre. In which case, Betsy thought wryly, he was too late.
Now she heard voices raised and, putting on a broad smile, walked into the sunlit room. As she entered, Betterton rose to greet her. ‘My dear Mistress Brand,’ he was smiling, but there was a warning look in his eye as he indicated the florid-faced man in black, who occupied a chair by the window. ‘You know Alderman Blake.’
Betsy faced the Alderman, and made her curtsey. ‘Of course, how do you, sir?’
Blake made no reply, nor did he rise. To a man like him, an actress was no different from a whore, except that she was likely to earn more money. He glanced at Betsy, then continued to address his host.
‘I will press my case once more, Mr Betterton, and once only, for I have more important matters to attend to. You tell me the closure of the Duke’s Theatre is but a temporary measure: I say that for the good of our community, it should be permanent!’
Betterton crossed the room to fetch another chair for Betsy, who accepted it graciously. Unhurriedly he returned to his own chair, before meeting the other man’s gaze.
‘In that respect I fear you will be disappointed, sir,’ he answered. ‘As you know, the Duke of York is our patron. He often favours us with his presence – as indeed, does the King himself, whose affection for the drama is well known. Hence I feel certain they would wish us to continue—’
But Blake snorted. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you brought their names up!’ he said in a contemptuous tone. ‘Well, two may play at tennis! I am well acquainted with the Duke of Buckingham, who has the ear of the King, and, I may say, sees a deal more of him than do you, sir. More to the point, he’s a good friend of the Lord Chamberlain – and hence I mean to seek an audience with him, this very day. In view of the dreadful events that have occurred, I believe he will see matters as I do, and agree that it is prudent – nay, imperative – that the Dorset Gardens Theatre remains closed. And furthermore, that it be boarded up like a plague-house. Only then—’
‘Plague-house?’ Unable to stop herself, Betsy interrupted. ‘There’s no sickness at the Duke’s theatre, sir.’
Blake turned a fiery eye upon her. ‘Two deaths in two days, in the same manner,’ he retorted. ‘What cause would you propound?’
But instead of answering, Betsy let Betterton know by a glance that she had come with tidings for his ears alone. Whereupon her mentor stiffened and spoke up.
‘I have no doubt that a cause will be discovered in time,’ he said to Blake, ‘and that any fears of infection will be allayed. Besides, you were not present when either of those tragic deaths occurred, sir. Hence you cannot comment upon them with any authority.’
‘Authority!’ Blake bristled. ‘I have all the authority I need, sir – and I’ll take no instruction from the son of a cook!’
There was a short silence before, to Blake’s increasing fury, Betterton favoured him with a faint smile. ‘Not just any cook, sir,’ he answered mildly. ‘My father was a
royal
cook.’
Betsy stifled a laugh. It was well-known that Thomas Betterton was of humble birth; but like others loyal to the first King Charles, he had benefited from the Restoration and the reopening of the theatres, a decade ago. That in itself, Betsy knew, was more than men like Blake could stomach.
The man got to his feet, glaring. ‘You insult me, sir, as you do my office!’ he cried. ‘And I shall take steps to see that you regret it!’ But he was blustering, and he knew it. With perfect dignity, Betterton stood up himself and met the man’s eye.
‘I look forward to seeing how you accomplish that, Alderman,’ he said. ‘Now, since you claim to have more pressing matters – as do Mistress Brand and I – we’ll not impose upon you any longer. Will you permit me to summon my servant?’ And without waiting for a reply he called for Matthew, who appeared with such speed it was obvious he had been listening outside.
The Alderman was fuming. He swung his gaze towards Betsy, who smiled politely and inclined her head. Beside the open door, Matthew waited in silence; and at last, eyes blazing, Blake turned and swept out of the room, and out of the house.
Betsy waited until her host turned and let out a long breath. ‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘will you take a morning draught with me?’
A half-hour later, the two of them were still sitting in Betterton’s parlour. It had not taken Betsy long to tell her mentor everything she had learned from her visit to Hannah Cleeve in Clerkenwell, nor to speak of Tom Catlin’s discovery. By the time she had finished, her old mentor was frowning.
‘I will speak with Lord Caradoc again,’ he said at last. ‘He has always dealt fairly with us, and it’s right he should know the worst.’ He grimaced. ‘I fear he has less influence with the Lord Chamberlain than our friend the Alderman. He’s but a deputy for the Master of the Revels, old Sir Henry Herbert, who, as you know, farms out his office.’
He sighed. ‘Do you know what some of the actors are saying?’ he asked. ‘That
Macbeth
is an unlucky play, and we should not perform it again. Moreover, according to Blake, having witches on the stage calling up spirits and hatching spells amounts to blasphemy, and meddles with the devil!’
Betsy smiled. ‘Perhaps you should heed Praise-God Palmer,’ she replied. ‘Forsake the theatre, fall upon your knees and beg forgiveness.’
But Betterton was serious. ‘And yet, there’s no denying that evil of some kind has befallen us,’ he said, with a shake of his head. ‘Ned Gowden, Tom Cleeve and now Joseph Rigg! Why, the man had his faults, but I know of no one who disliked him – or at least not enough to murder him! If, that is, I give full credence to Doctor Catlin’s theory …’ he broke off. ‘It’s too strange and too terrible – I wish I could reject it.’
‘Tom Catlin’s the cleverest man I know,’ Betsy said. ‘He’s not given to flights of fancy.’
‘So,’ Betterton broke in, ‘must we assume the rumours were right from the outset, and someone hates the Duke’s Company enough to kill two of us?’ He rose and took a few paces about the room, finally turning with a look of despair.
‘I may as well confess to you, Betsy,’ he said, ‘that I have no idea how to proceed. The constable – Gould, I mean – is no fool, but neither is he a friend. The Alderman wants to close us down. To whom then may we turn? For someone must find out how and why these deaths have been inflicted upon us.’ He looked up. ‘Suppose there is one with a grudge? Whatever the cause of it, might this only be the beginning? If he’s able to strike down his victims with such ease, how many more might perish?’
Betsy said nothing. But there was an appetite within her that she barely understood. It had been growing ever since the death of Thomas Cleeve. ‘I … I would like to follow the scent, and try to discover what lies behind these deaths,’ she said quietly. ‘That is, if you’ll permit it. With the help of Doctor Catlin perhaps I can, as he would put it, puzzle the matter out.’
Betterton stared at her. ‘You?’
‘Well,’ Betsy gave a little shrug, ‘while the Duke’s is closed I haven’t a great deal else to occupy me, have I?’
*
Tom Catlin returned that evening to find Betsy waiting for him. He was tired, and barely muttered a greeting before dropping his bag in the hall and removing his hat and Brandenburg coat. Then he went into the parlour to pour himself a glass of sack. Betsy followed, to find as she hoped that he had poured two glasses. Without a word she picked hers up and sat down on one of the fireside chairs, while her landlord struck a flame and lit a couple of candles. Outside the light was fading, and Fire’s Reach Court, gloomy at the best of times with its overhanging jetties, was already in near-darkness. Betsy took a sip from her glass and waited.
‘I’d have come home hours ago,’ Catlin said at last, ‘but I took a hackney to Aldgate Street, where Rigg’s body lies.’
‘I thought he had lodgings in Hatton Garden,’ Betsy said.
‘He did. But there I learned that his body had been taken across London, to his father’s house. He’s a magistrate, did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Betsy answered in surprise.
‘He’s a magistrate,’ Catlin repeated, ‘but his name isn’t Rigg. He’s Sir Anthony Griffiths, who until yesterday had disowned his son, the celebrated actor. Joseph Griffiths, it seems, had taken a different surname, on his father’s instructions – or risk being cut out of Sir Anthony’s will.’
‘Moreover,’ the doctor went on, as Betsy took in the news, ‘Sir Anthony has asked me to make it plain to those connected with the Dorset Gardens Theatre that they will be unwelcome at his son’s funeral. In fact, should they presume to attend, they’ll be turned away on pain of arrest. In view of which’ – Catlin paused, then gave a little smile – ‘I confess myself surprised to be granted permission to examine the body of the deceased. At first I was refused, until that is, the deceased’s father learned that I was the one who attended his son in his dying moments. Whereupon he gave me to understand that as a member of the Royal College of Physicians, he expected me to pronounce a verdict of death by some common but non-contagious cause. That is, he wished it to be known that Joseph died an unfortunate but
acceptable
death. Hence he may be buried with all honour, and laid to rest in the family vault in Essex, where their country house lies.’
Betsy met Catlin’s eye. ‘So, what was your verdict?’
‘Apoplexy. Brought on by the strain of a particularly energetic performance.’
‘And was that deemed acceptable?’
‘It was.’
Carrying his glass to the chair opposite Betsy, Catlin sat down. ‘It seemed the least I could do for Mr Justice Griffiths,’ he said, ‘for whatever you may think of him he is a grieving father, who wishes his son’s memory to be untainted.’
But Betsy could hardly contain her curiosity. ‘So, you examined Rigg’s body?’
‘I did.’ Catlin raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem mighty eager to hear about it.’
Taking a breath, she now told the doctor what had passed between her and Thomas Betterton that morning. By the time she had finished, the man was frowning.
‘Might it not have been prudent, or at least polite, to ask my approval before enlisting me as your co-intelligencer?’ he enquired drily.
‘But I know how much you enjoy a riddle,’ Betsy answered, favouring him with one of her disarming smiles. ‘Don’t pretend your own curiosity isn’t aroused … and has been ever since Long Ned expired so mysteriously at the bagnio.’
Catlin considered. ‘Well then, I’d better tell you what I found … even though it will merely add to the riddle,’ he said. ‘For there wasn’t just one of those odd little pinpricks on Joseph Rigg’s body: there were at least three of them, very close together.’
‘Three?’ It was Betsy’s turn to frown.
‘In his right side, just below the ribs. Again, I’d say the perforations alone couldn’t have caused death. But again, there was discolouration about each … dark brown, like the one on Tom Cleeve’s arm.’
‘So again, you think whatever pierced him could have been coated with some poisonous substance?’
‘It seems plausible.’
‘But how could that have happened, on the stage in full view of hundreds of people?’ Betsy asked. ‘George Beale may have stabbed Rigg with too much force – he admitted as much. But from what you say, the puncture wounds—’
‘Were a long way from the scratch made by the dagger,’ Catlin finished.
For a while, neither of them spoke. ‘Those other fellows playing the Murderers,’ Catlin said at last. ‘The tall one and the short one: might they—’
‘They weren’t allowed to stab him,’ Betsy replied. ‘That was Beale’s task, with the blunted dagger. They’re hirelings, just there to speak the words and make Banquo’s death look real.’
‘It was certainly that,’ Catlin observed, meeting Betsy’s eye again. ‘So, Mistress Rummager – perhaps I will call you that henceforth – how will you begin your investigations?’
Betsy thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps I should take the deaths in the order they occurred – starting with Long Ned’s – and try to question those who were present at each one. That way I may build up a picture of what happened.’
‘You don’t intend to seek admittance to the
hammam
?’ Catlin raised his eyebrows. ‘Only one type of woman goes in there.’
But Betsy fixed him with her most brazen look. ‘Then I shall need all Peg’s skills as a dresser,’ she said, and got briskly to her feet.
An hour after dark, with a stiff breeze blowing from the river, a shambling figure moved along the Strand and turned into Brydges Street. The woman wore an old pink gown trimmed with tattered Colberteen lace, divided and tied back to show a bright red underskirt. Her breasts bulged at the neck-line, thrust upwards by bone stays. If the shiny golden hair was her own, it looked somewhat unnatural, perhaps owing its colour to the old nostrum of white wine and rhubarb juice. Her face was whitened, the lips coloured with Spanish red. Even without the vizard-mask which dangled from the woman’s wrist, her profession was obvious to all. It was a new role for Betsy Brand, and one she had not rehearsed; this time, she had only her wits to rely upon. For a moment she hesitated, then, adopting a bold manner, strolled up the dark thoroughfare to the corner of Russell Street.