Authors: John Pilkington
Betterton and his wife, now aware of the silence that had fallen at the other end of the board, turned to see what had caused it. Lord Caradoc, brows knitting in surprise, looked down the table at Alderman Blake, who, despite being fuddled by drink, had now begun to sense that all was not as it seemed. As if by arrangement, the little orchestra had stopped playing, while servants stood about, seemingly awaiting instruction. Finally, seeing that no one else seemed about to give it, Lady Arabella gestured to the nearest footman.
‘Well don’t just stand there, man, cut the pie open!’
The servant bowed, took a knife from the sideboard and came forward. As he did so, Lord Caradoc called to his wife in a voice of some concern. ‘You have become most quiet down there, madam. Is anything amiss?’
Lady Arabella, no doubt realizing that she was to feign ignorance of the prank, smiled at him. ‘We’re all quite taken with this pie, my Lord,’ she answered. ‘I confess I did not expect it.’
But Caradoc did not return her smile. ‘Is that all?’ he asked. ‘Let our guests take what they will, though it’s somewhat late for such a large dish, is it not?’
Then it was, that with a sudden quickening of her pulse, Betsy knew something was wrong – for Lord Caradoc did not appear to know any more about the blind-baked pie than his wife did. In fact, he was irritated that something so trivial had dampened the conversation. And Betsy knew well enough that his Lordship was no actor. In which case, who had arranged this little diversion?
Blake had been watching the footman, oblivious of the likely consequences. Now he looked embarrassed to find all eyes upon him, or upon the pie. The joke, familiar enough to those who had perhaps attended more riotous feasts than the Alderman had, was now understood by all. And so the tension rose, as rather nervously the footman thrust his knife into the pie crust – and reacted in surprise. For the blade, having met with nothing but empty space, disappeared to the hilt.
There was an intake of breath. Not knowing what else to do the man removed the knife, then using it as a lever, prised off part of the pie’s lid. The pastry broke at once – and involuntarily Betsy drew back, even as Samuel Tripp and Lady Arabella did the same. But in fascination, though clearly he had still not understood the cause of it, Alderman Blake stared at the pie … then gave a start, as if he had been struck. And the shriek that followed from Lady Arabella was as piercing as it was unfeigned – as was Thomas Bettertons’s cry of alarm, and Samuel Tripp’s oath, while Lord Caradoc stood up so abruptly that his chair overturned with a thud.
Betsy stared, and saw what everyone else saw: a shiny, sinister-looking lizard, oily black save for lurid orange blotches from head to tail, crawling out of the pie and on to the table cloth. The footman jerked back, raising his knife as if to ward the creature off, while the other diners now followed Lord Caradoc in springing to their feet.
‘God in heaven.’ Caradoc turned upon his servants in fury. ‘Who has done this?!’
Nobody answered. And a vision flew into Betsy’s mind of the banquet scene in
Macbeth
, when Banquo’s ghost appears at the table unseen by all save the host, who cries out in similar fashion:
which of you has done this?
As one, the watchers drew back from the table, eyes fixed upon the lizard-like creature. Apparently confused by its emergence into the light, it crawled slowly across the tablecloth between plates and cutlery, its splayed toes grasping clumsily at the linen. Its thick tail moved lithely from side to side, then uncannily the creature changed direction, and moved towards Alderman Blake.
But Blake did not move. He was frozen to his seat, and robbed of the power of speech. And as the others’ gazes shifted from the monstrous lizard to the Alderman, the fork fell from his hand. Slowly, painfully slowly, he rose from his chair.
Whereupon, as if at some unspoken command, the spell was broken. Both Tripp and Betterton seized knives from the table, but Caradoc’s footman was quicker. Coming to his senses at last, the man raised his knife and brought it down violently upon the back of the animal, piercing it and pinning it to the table. There was another shriek from Lady Arabella, and a groan from the men, but the danger was passed. The creature writhed in agony, while a noxious-looking fluid welled from its body, staining the tablecloth. Then the wriggling ceased and, with a final twitch of its tail, the lizard was still. Everyone, servants and guests alike, gazed dumbly at the exotic-looking animal; whatever it was, it could not harm them now.
But Betsy’s eyes were on Alderman Blake. For a moment the man remained rigid, half-risen from his chair, his hands gripping the arms. His face had turned from its usual florid hue, to a sickly yellow. Then he started shaking, and everyone turned in alarm, for it seemed that he was suffering some kind of seizure. Finally, when it looked as if he would collapse, Caradoc shouted an order, and servants started towards Blake. But the horror-stricken man raised a trembling hand, and pointed at the table.
‘The Salamander,’ he said hoarsely. ‘He lives, and he sends me a sign!’ And as the others watched, he fell back into his chair, staring vacantly into the air.
A short while later, at Betsy’s suggestion, Lord Caradoc’s coach was despatched to Doctor Tom Catlin’s house with a message that his services were urgently required. Meanwhile, Alderman Blake had been laid on a couch in a downstairs parlour at Bredon House, where he remained motionless, his face drained of all colour. Betsy and the Bettertons stayed by him, but it was clear they could do little. Lady Arabella had retired to her chamber, overcome by the excitement. Her husband, furious at the disaster the evening had become, spent some time shouting at his hapless servants before disappearing to another part of the house. After a while he reappeared, striding into the room with a look of exasperation.
‘This business grows stranger by the hour,’ Caradoc cried. ‘For my cook denies that he made the pie! Says he knew nothing of it until it was delivered from a bake-shop, soon after we sat down to dine. He didn’t even trouble to ask the fellow who brought it, which bakery it came from! He assumed the dish was something special I’d arranged, and ordered it to be carried to the table. What think you of that?’
Nobody answered, until Betterton cleared his throat. ‘If you trust the man, my lord, then what else can you do but accept his account as true?’
‘Of course I trust him,’ Caradoc snapped. ‘He’s been with me for years.’ He peered at Blake. ‘Has he still not spoken?’
‘He appears to be in a shocked state, my lord,’ Mary Betterton answered. ‘Then who would not be, who witnessed what we all did?’ She turned to her husband. ‘What in heaven’s name was that fearful-looking animal?’
Betterton threw her a helpless look. ‘My lord, I fear there’s little we can contribute here,’ he said. ‘With your leave, I would like to take my wife home.’
Caradoc nodded. ‘We will speak again, of this.’ He frowned. ‘From my end of the table I couldn’t hear what he said, when he pointed to the creature. Did you hear?’
Both Betterton and his wife shook their heads. Samuel Tripp, who had been sitting to one side of the room wearing his customary cynical expression, merely shrugged. But Betsy spoke up. ‘The Salamander, my lord. That’s what he called it.’
‘Salamander?’ Caradoc’s frown deepened. ‘But that’s a mythical beast, isn’t it? I’m no scientist, but what crawled out of that pie was a lizard of some kind. Anyone who’s walked in the country knows that!’
‘I fear you are mistaken, my lord,’ came a voice from the doorway. Betsy looked round, to see Tom Catlin in his Brandenburg coat. As the others turned, the doctor came forward and made his bow.
‘I’ve seen them on the continent, in warmer climes than ours,’ he added politely. ‘They are not lizards, but a type of newt, I believe, and quite harmless.’
‘The devil, you say!’ Caradoc stared at him, then gestured towards the prone figure of Alderman Blake. ‘But if this man knew what it was, why was he so afflicted? I know a look of terror when I see one.’
‘I can’t say, sir,’ Catlin answered. ‘With your leave, may I examine him?’
‘If you please.’ Caradoc stood aside, while the doctor took a chair and placed it close to the patient. As he sat he glanced at Betsy, who at once understood.
‘Might I remain, my Lord?’ she asked. ‘I may be able to assist the doctor in some way.’
Caradoc nodded absently, then turned to the Bettertons, who were ready to take their leave. Tripp too, seeing he was surplus to requirements, rose and made his bow. The playmaker accepted Betterton’s offer of a ride home. As he followed the others out he threw Betsy a pointed look, which she ignored.
The farewells over, Betsy and Catlin were alone with the patient. Having listened to the man’s breathing and heartbeat, the doctor turned to her with a raised eyebrow. ‘Will you tell me what happened?’
For the first time since entering Bredon House, Betsy relaxed. Without hurrying, she gave Catlin a full account of the evening’s events, up to the Alderman’s collapse.
The doctor listened in silence. Then, after prodding Blake in various places, peering into his eyes and his mouth, he sat back. ‘I’ve seen similar cases. When he’ll emerge from this paralysis – or even whether he will – I’ve no idea—’ he broke off as Lord Caradoc re-entered, and both he and Betsy rose to face him. Quickly, the doctor gave his verdict: Alderman Blake was in a static condition, supposedly induced by severe shock. It was impossible to tell whether he could hear or see what went on around him. Hence there was little the doctor could do but recommend the man be taken to his own house, under the care of his servants and his own physician. In time, perhaps, he would recover.
Lord Caradoc looked down at Blake, and shook his head. ‘My thanks to you, Catlin,’ he muttered. ‘My coachman will drive you, and Mistress Brand too, of course.’ He glanced at Betsy, then added: ‘I’ll make arrangements to have the Alderman taken home, and his physician notified.’
But as the other two realized, His Lordship had more to say. ‘This business confounds me,’ he went on. ‘For reasons that elude me, it would seem that someone arranged for that pie to be made, placed this … this salamander inside it, then had it conveyed to my house, to a private feast,’ he spread his hands. ‘But why? You say the creature’s a species of newt?’
Catlin looked thoughtful. ‘What have they done with the animal?’ he enquired. ‘Might I be permitted to look at it?’
‘Well, if it hasn’t been destroyed, I see no reason why you shouldn’t,’ His Lordship replied. ‘Do you think it important?’
Now Betsy spoke up. ‘My Lord, I did not repeat everything I heard the Alderman say when he pointed to the animal,’ she said. ‘But now it strikes me as curious. His words were:
The Salamander – he lives, and he sends me a sign
.’
His Lordship stared at her. ‘
He
lives?’ he echoed. ‘What can that mean?’
Now Catlin was intrigued. ‘I cannot guess, my lord, but it grows deeper by the minute. I confess I won’t be able to put the matter from my mind until I learn the cause of it.’
At that, Caradoc’s manner grew brisk. ‘Then follow me,’ he said. ‘For I’ll not rest until I’ve got to the bottom of it, either!’
As luck would have it, the dead salamander had not yet been disposed of. A short while later, the three of them stood round a table in Lord Caradoc’s library, staring down at the sorry-looking creature. A servant had carried it from the dining-room in a box. After a moment, his lordship wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Well, is there anything you can tell us?’
Catlin’s brow had furrowed the moment the animal was brought in; now he looked almost excited. Despite the evening’s events, Betsy had to suppress a smile. Especially when the doctor startled Caradoc by picking the salamander up by its tail and peering at it.
‘My curiosity increases, my lord,’ he answered, as he lowered the lifeless creature back into its box. ‘For unless I’m mistaken, this is a fire salamander. One sees them in France and Italy, though they are generally marked with yellow rather than orange.’
Turning to face Caradoc, he went on: ‘The ancients believed it one of the elementals, defined by the sage Paracelsus. As gnomes were said to inhabit the earth, nymphs the waters, and sylphs the air, so the salamander’s domain was fire.’ He shrugged. ‘Pure superstition, of course. The belief that the fire salamander was born of fire comes from its habit of hibernating in crannies such as wood piles. When logs were carried indoors and put on the hearth, the creatures would scuttle out. But they are harmless amphibians, as I said.’
‘And very colourful,’ Betsy put in thoughtfully. ‘Small wonder those marks would suggest a poisonous nature.’
‘Yet we are no nearer to discovering why it was sent to frighten us,’ Caradoc muttered.
One thing, however, was clear to Betsy. ‘None of us knew what it was, save Alderman Blake,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps it was sent only to frighten
him
– and he alone saw some significance in it:
He lives, and sends me a sign
.’
‘I believe Mistress Brand is correct,’ Catlin said with a nod. ‘It was a message – and a most cunningly contrived one.’
‘But it’s bizarre,’ Caradoc said irritably. ‘
He
lives? It makes no sense!’
Catlin thought for a moment. ‘I will visit the Alderman in a day or so,’ he said. ‘If he speaks, then perhaps we might learn more of the business.’
‘Well, if he does, be sure to acquaint me of it,’ Caradoc said grimly. ‘For whoever invades my house with such tricks will live to regret it!’
Soon after, Betsy and Tom Catlin took their leave of Bredon House. Lord Caradoc accompanied them outside to the coach. A west wind was blowing, with a promise of rain. As they clambered inside, His Lordship said: ‘Whatever you can discover, doctor, and you too, Mistress Brand, I am most keen to hear it … and I will reward you for your trouble. This wicked prank has made my flesh crawl!’
He signalled to his footman to slam the door, and in a moment the coach was rolling out of the gates into Piccadilly.
Now Catlin turned to Betsy, as if he had been waiting until they were alone. ‘I didn’t tell His Lordship all that I knew,’ he said, ‘for it seemed not the time to do so.’
When Betsy showed her surprise, he went on: ‘You said Blake cried out:
He lives, and he sends me a sign.
Assuming that the fire salamander was the sign, then perhaps there is an explanation.’
He put a hand to his forehead, as if probing for the memory. ‘During the Great Fire, I recall something – someone, I should say – known as “the Salamander”. It could be because he – was it
he
? – seemed to thrive on the conflagration, as if somehow he relished it.’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s vague; I might even have imagined it.’
‘Could it have been a looter?’ Betsy asked. ‘One who took advantage of the catastrophe to prey on people, and to rob their houses?’
‘Perhaps,’ Catlin sighed. ‘But then, those terrible days have become forged into one fearful memory, as no doubt they have for others. It was as if we all stood on the brink of Hades.’
Whereupon Betsy took his arm in a sisterly manner. ‘Yet we survived it,’ she said. ‘And London is rising from the ashes, to become the great city that it was.’
The doctor gave a nod, and gazed out of the window.
A rainy Monday morning, with no performance to prepare for, was not to Betsy Brand’s liking. But she rose early, her mind filled with the events of the previous evening. Tom Catlin saw her briefly before leaving the house, saying he would ‘poke about’ if he found time. So after breakfast she put on a cloak and hood and walked down to Fleet Street, intending to go into the city and call upon Jane Rowe. Talking to Jane always helped her put matters in a clearer perspective.
As she crossed the bridge, her gaze wandered up the narrow, choked expanse of the Fleet River, to fall upon the forbidding bulk of the prison. The Fleet was one of the most notorious gaols in London, and among its inhabitants was Jane’s sweetheart, a handsome but feckless rogue whose name Betsy sometimes forgot. Hall, that was it. Cobus Hall. She sighed, thinking of Jane’s devotion to a man who was unlikely to bring her anything but grief. How was it, she wondered, that the best women seemed so often to pair with the weakest of men? Then her mind jumped to Hannah Cleeve, and she stopped in her tracks.
In her mind’s eye she saw Hannah, telling of Tom Cleeve’s frightened behaviour just before he died: of his ‘babbling’ about Long Ned, and of the Fire. But then, as Hannah said, what Londoner didn’t dream of that? Nevertheless, instead of walking through Ludgate, Betsy turned left into Old Bailey, and made her way northwards along the Wall. Soon she was threading her way through the crowds in Smithfield and past the Three Bars into Clerkenwell, until once again she stood in Turnmill Street, at the entrance to Cooper’s Court.
The place looked even grimmer than when she had last been here. The alley was a quagmire, its drain choked with refuse. Even the trulls had kept indoors out of the rain. Picking her way beneath the jetties and avoiding dripping water, Betsy reached the familiar door and knocked. This time there was no noise of children, but after a moment the door opened a couple of inches, and Hannah’s face appeared. Without a word she drew back and allowed Betsy to enter.
The baby was asleep in a corner, but the twins were conspicuous by their absence. To Betsy’s enquiry, Hannah gave a shrug.
‘I hire ’em out to a lame beggar,’ she said. ‘They can put on a good enough show … bump his takings up. We’ll get a shilling or two out of it.’
Without preamble, Betsy told Hannah something of what had occurred during the past days: of Joseph Rigg’s death, and her discovery that Long Ned had been intending to leave England. She did not speak of what Catlin had found, nor did she mention Alderman Blake, let alone what had befallen him at Caradoc’s.
But Hannah was barely interested. She had never heard of Rigg, nor did the man’s true name of Griffiths mean anything to her. As for Long Ned intending to leave the country, she gave a snort. ‘Who wouldn’t go, who’d come from somewhere warm and sunny like Ned did?’ she asked. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Betsy nodded, then in a casual tone said: ‘I heard something, to do with the Fire. Or I should say, I heard of someone … the Salamander, that was it. Does it strike a memory in you?’
There was a moment, then to Betsy’s surprise Hannah threw back her head and gave a shout of laughter.
‘The Salamander! What’ve you heard about him?’
‘Well … that he was about, during the Fire—’
‘About!’ Hannah gave another laugh. ‘He was that, all right. He was everywhere!’
‘I don’t understand,’ Betsy said.
‘He’s a fable,’ Hannah told her. ‘A sprite you conjure up to frighten children. Show me someone who says he’s seen the Salamander, and I’ll say he was pickled as a herring!’
The woman sniffed, and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her old chemise. ‘I suppose it’s unlikely you’d have heard of him,’ she added. ‘You mix with folk of all stations, Betsy Brand, and you never scoff. But your father was a gent, and you’re a well-bred lady at heart, that once lived in a big house. Isn’t it so?’ When Betsy did not answer, she went on: ‘In the lanes and ginnels where tenant folk like my family dwelt, it’s another tale. Those who had precious little to save, who left their old houses with naught but the clothes on their backs, watched ’em burn without much sorrow, often as not.’ She sighed, then went on: ‘After a couple of days, when the fire spread to the west wall, that was when those tales started up: the Salamander, hopping in and out of burning buildings free as you like, because the flames couldn’t touch him. Every purse, every bit of silver that went missing … blame the Salamander, for he must’ve took it! Why, there’s even women who claim they were violated by him, while the house next door burned.’ She broke off, fixing Betsy with a wry smile. ‘You believe in the Salamander, Mistress, you’ll believe anything!’