Authors: John Pilkington
‘So you thought you’d try a little deduction of your own, did you?’ she demanded. ‘Not only did you get the wrong man, you managed to knock the one we want senseless!’
Peg looked down at the tall man, who lay where he had fallen, knocked unconscious by the broken stool she had picked up. ‘You were as taken in as I was,’ she retorted. ‘How do I know what’s what, in a nest of rogues like this? Anyway, it’s no use bleating. What’re we going to do with him?’
‘Let me think, will you?’ Betsy sat down heavily on a sack of something. But there came a groan, and both women looked round in alarm. Betsy scrambled to her feet, even as Peg picked up the stuttering lamp and held its feeble flame aloft.
‘He’s coming round,’ she said, and reached for the broken stool. But Betsy stayed her.
‘Wait. I’ll bind him while you hold the dagger. Tell him you’ll poke his eye out.’
‘Suppose he doesn’t believe me?’ Peg demanded. But without further delay Betsy lifted her chemise, grasped her underskirt and tore at it. In a moment she had produced a strip several feet long, and falling to her knees she held it above the figure of Dart, who was trying weakly to raise himself.
‘The dagger!’ she cried. ‘Quick.’
Peg knelt beside her victim and held the dagger out. Both of them waited while the real Dart struggled to raise himself, groaning as he did so. Finally he opened his eyes, trying to focus. But at once Betsy threw her strip of linen about his shoulders, pulled it tight and tied it. At the same moment Peg stuck the dagger in front of Dart’s face.
‘One move and I’ll slit your nose,’ she breathed.
The man’s mouth fell open. Clumsily, he sat up, then fell back against the wall with a grunt. He tried to move his arms, and found them restricted. Finally he seemed to come to his senses and gave a sigh, gazing from one woman to another.
‘You,’ he winced, his mouth twisted in anger. ‘What do you want of me?’
But Betsy, on her knees, faced him with suppressed excitement. ‘I want you to tell me about the Salamander,’ she said.
There was a silence, then: ‘Why should I?’
She drew out a coin and held it up. ‘There’s this if you do. If you won’t, my friend here will stab you a couple of times, since you’ve upset her so. Then we’ll be gone and you’ll still be lying here, looking a prize fool.’
Dart glared. ‘Untie my arms,’ he demanded.
Peg shook her head, then caught Betsy’s glance. With a wry look she held the dagger out while Betsy tugged at the knot, and finally freed the strip of linen.
Dart sat up, rubbed his head and winced again. Then seeing both women watching him, he seemed to come to a decision. ‘Most thought he was dead,’ he muttered, ‘but I knew better,’ he grimaced. ‘So he’s back, is he?’
After a moment, Betsy gave a nod.
The man’s eyes strayed to Peg, then back to Betsy. ‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded.
‘Never mind,’ Betsy said. ‘Tell me what you know of the Salamander.’
After a moment, Dart looked away. ‘The Salamander’s a Dutchman,’ he said. ‘Name of Aanaarden. He served at sea in the Dutch wars … had a skill with fire-ships, so I heard.’
Betsy caught her breath. So that was how he was able to move about so readily during the Fire. She gazed at Dart, whose eyes narrowed.
‘Well now,’ he murmured. ‘It looks to me as if you know a thing or two about him already.’
‘He was looting, wasn’t he?’ Betsy asked.
The man met her eye. ‘I never asked him.’
‘Yet there are things you know,’ Betsy persisted. ‘Tell me, or I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ Dart broke in. To the dismay of both women, he had begun to relax. ‘You won’t use that,’ he said, with a nod towards the dagger. ‘And in any case, from the look of it, it wouldn’t cut rancid butter!’
‘She mightn’t use it, but I would,’ Peg said quietly.
The man shifted his gaze towards her. Then after a moment, he gave a leer. ‘You should’ve took my offer, Spindle-shanks,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what you missed.’
Peg flared up. ‘You miserable dunnaker,’ she snapped. ‘I’d rather shove my hand in boiling tar.’ And before Betsy could stop her, she had moved the dagger so that its tip rested on Dart’s cheekbone. In spite of himself, the man flinched.
‘It may not cut,’ Peg said in a voice of ice. ‘But I wouldn’t want it stuck in my eye!’
Dart had stiffened. Both women smelled his sour breath, as slowly he brought up his hand to rub his stubbly chin. Then he threw a look of hatred at them, tempered only by his instinct for self-preservation. Betsy remembered Jane Rowe’s words, even as she saw the truth of them:
He’s a wicked fellow
.
‘The Salamander worked the houses,’ he said harshly. ‘While folk fled out the doors, he was climbing in the back windows … even as the fire took hold, he was busy. Began to think he was immortal, to my mind, and that was his undoing. He got careless: slipped into one place, and there were a couple of looters already there, breaking open a chest. One was a black-skinned fellow.’
With an effort Betsy hid her excitement, hoping that Peg would do the same. But oddly, Dart seemed to have forgotten them both. There was a far-off look in his eyes, as if speaking of the Fire had jolted memories even he preferred not to dwell upon.
‘They set on him,’ he muttered. ‘One – not the black fellow, the other – would have killed him, save they heard the beadle in the street, shouting was there anyone left inside, for the flames were close. So those two biters left him there and legged it. They thought the fire would finish him; but the beadle and his men came in, saw the chest broke and took him for a looter. Took him to Newgate.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s where I knew him.’
Dart paused, and an odd look came over his features. ‘I was the one he told his tale to,’ he said softly. ‘I, and no other! He thought he was talking to a dead man, for I was facing the rope … only no one expected that within days the fire would reach Newgate too! And God bless it, I say, for burning that stinking pile down!’
The change in the man was startling. There was a wild look in his eye now, a mixture of pride and defiance, so that when Peg finally took the knife away, he barely noticed.
‘I escaped the Three-legged Mare,’ Dart said, nodding to himself. ‘But I was the one the Dutchman told his tale to. So when he was shipped off to the Indies, only I knew who he really was,’ he laughed harshly. ‘Thought they’d seen the last of the Salamander, did they? Perished in the Fire? Well, I knew he’d be a sight harder to kill than that.’
He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And if he’s back, I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes, the two who left him for dead. Or anyone else he’d a mind to take his vengeance on, for that matter!’ He looked up suddenly, fixing Betsy with a glare.
‘Whatever your interest be, woman, my advice is forget it – and quick! For if you cross the Salamander’s path, you won’t be laced mutton much longer: you’ll be rotten meat!’
The next day, Alderman Blake was found dead.
Betsy did not learn of it until late in the morning, when Tom Catlin came home to find her in the kitchen with Peg, taking a tardy breakfast. The two of them were tired after the previous night, but at the sight of Catlin’s expression Betsy was soon alert. With barely a glance at the two women, he sat down and told his news.
The Alderman had passed a peaceful night. In fact, his servants believed they had detected signs of progress throughout yesterday, though to Blake’s physician that seemed mere wishful thinking. By morning Blake was stone cold, which suggested he had died some hours earlier, a consequence of the shock he had received at Caradoc’s. But Tom Catlin had a more sinister explanation.
‘His physician resented my presence,’ he said, ‘which was no surprise. I told him it was a courtesy visit, since I was the one who attended the Alderman when he was taken ill, but that only annoyed him further. So there was no point in asking leave to examine the body, for I knew I would be refused.’
He paused. ‘Yet you did so,’ Betsy said, intrigued. ‘So tell me of it, for I’ve much to tell you.’
‘I respected the physician’s wishes,’ Catlin went on, ‘and took my leave. Save that I didn’t leave … not right away. I merely spent time downstairs with Blake’s servants, offering my sympathies. Then when the physician went out, I returned to the Alderman’s bedroom. A few minutes was enough to find what I sought.’ He sighed. ‘I imagine you can guess what that was.’
‘The same pinpricks?’
‘Just one,’ Catlin corrected. ‘And so tiny it was little wonder the physician didn’t notice it. It was on the neck, by the great artery that carries blood to the head. And the wound was fresh, inflicted during the night.’
‘So the Salamander got to him eventually,’ Betsy said. ‘And now, I think the blind-bake trick was but a warning. He wished the man to suffer, to ponder his fate awhile, before he was dealt the death-blow.’
Catlin eyed her. ‘I think it’s time you told me what you’ve discovered,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to the parlour.’ He glanced at Peg, who picked up a bowl and busied herself mixing something in it.
‘And leave nothing out,’ Catlin added. ‘For I’ve yet to see whether certain people have earned a day’s holiday or not.’
Peg met the doctor’s eye, and pulled a face.
It took Betsy some time to give Tom Catlin an account of her night’s adventures. By the time she had finished, the man was frowning at her.
‘It was a foolhardy enterprise,’ he said. ‘You’re both lucky not to have been violated … or even murdered.’
‘Oh, cods,’ Betsy retorted. ‘None of those we met doubted we were what we appeared to be. And after Dart told us what he would, we left the Bermudas without being accosted.’
‘I still say you were lucky,’ Catlin insisted. ‘And I hope you don’t intend to make a habit of playing such a role.’
But Betsy brushed it aside. ‘You’re a man of logic, so will you view the matter as I put it before you?’ she asked. ‘For it seems clear to me that the Salamander – or the Dutchman, Aanaarden – has returned from the Indies where he was transported as a felon, to wreak vengeance on all those who had a hand in putting him there.’ When Catlin said nothing, she went on: ‘It’s too close for coincidence! I’m certain the two looters – a black man and a white man – were Ned Gowden and Tom Cleeve. Tom beat Aanaarden and left, expecting him to die in the Fire. Then after he was caught and imprisoned, Blake was responsible for having him shipped across the ocean in chains, surely a terrible fate. If somehow the man managed not only to survive – and it sounds to me as if he could survive most things – but to escape as well, then surely it’s possible that he could make his way back to England, in disguise, perhaps. Assuming he speaks English well enough, he could have hidden his true nationality.’
‘Yes, yes. It all sounds plausible.’ There was impatience in Catlin’s voice. ‘You wish to appeal to my logic – then ponder these sticking-points.’ He turned to her, and began to lay out his own set of facts.
‘Let’s say this Dutchman has returned, embittered by his experiences. This, of course, assumes that your unsavoury informant Dart spoke the truth … but let’s say he did. So Aanaarden returns, keen to pay back those he considers responsible for his misfortunes. Firstly, London is almost unrecognizable since the Fire reduced most of it to ashes. Few people reside where they did, back in the year this man was transported. Hence our avenger must first find out the whereabouts of those who wronged him, assuming he knew who they were, that is. Ned Gowden, for several reasons, is not difficult to trace: he works in the bagnio, not far from where he did before, in the old Duke’s Theatre. Tom Cleeve has since found employment at the new Duke’s Theatre, so perhaps he’s not so difficult to trace either.’
‘Indeed,’ Betsy interrupted. ‘And it accounts for Tom’s terrified state. When he heard about Ned’s death, he guessed he’d be next!’
‘Very well,’ Catlin held up a hand. ‘But what of Blake? He was unknown to most people at that time. He has only become prominent since being made an Alderman, and because of his opposition to the theatre….’
He broke off, seeing Betsy’s growing impatience.
‘Yet you admit that a man as cunning as the Salamander – Aanaarden – surely is, could have tracked down his intended victims,’ she countered. ‘So—’
‘The method!’ Catlin said. ‘Think of the method he has used to kill. Then ask yourself how he could have gained access to all those men, and pricked them with a poisoned bodkin, or whatever it is, without anyone noticing. Secondly – the timing. Why kill all of them in such a short span of time, and thus draw attention to the deaths? If they were spaced months or even weeks apart, it’s likely no one would have made a connection. Thirdly—’
‘Enough!’ Betsy put her hands to her ears. With a wry look, Catlin broke off.
‘You assume he always thinks rationally,’ she went on. ‘Yet he may be so consumed with a lust for vengeance that he cares not.’ She brightened suddenly. ‘Or, he wants everyone to know he’s back! If there were any doubt, after the first deaths, he sends a sign as plain as a playbill to Blake, before finishing him off.’
‘Perhaps.’ Catlin nodded slowly. ‘Though I’d be interested to know where he obtained a fire salamander, which is not found on this side of the English Channel …’ he hesitated. ‘But that isn’t important. One thing you have yet to account for: why did he kill Joseph Rigg?’
‘I don’t know,’ Betsy admitted. ‘Perhaps there was some feud, some link between them, about which we know nothing.’
‘It doesn’t sit well with the other deaths.’ Catlin was shaking his head. ‘Though clearly,’ he added, ‘the same means was employed … a most powerful toxin. Perhaps he obtained it in the tropics, where I hear there are noxious substances distilled from strange plants, even taken from the skins of certain creatures, such as toads.’ he looked up. ‘Not salamanders, however. Though they produce a secretion when roused, it isn’t dangerous to humans.’
There was silence, Betsy and Catlin each busy with their own thoughts. ‘I’ve tried to form a picture of this man,’ Betsy said at last. ‘And yet, I can’t see his face. He was a housebreaker, skilled at slipping in and out of places undetected. Hence he is agile, and cunning. But no one seems to know what he looked like. Even Dart, who knew him better than most, didn’t trouble to describe the man,’ she frowned. ‘I wonder now that I didn’t ask him to. Somehow, it didn’t seem important.’
‘Perhaps because he’s so ordinary that no one noticed him,’ Catln suggested. ‘For he has the ability to move freely without drawing attention to himself. And hence …’ he hesitated. ‘I was about to suggest, that since all the deaths are linked – however tenuously – to the Duke’s Theatre, your man might even be one of the company. That would have given him ready access to two of his victims, at least. But I doubt it, for such a plain individual would be an unlikely find among the peacocks that populate your world.’
‘You’ve never had a high opinion of us, Tom Catlin,’ Betsy said wryly. ‘But we’re agreed that the victims have connections with the Duke’s. So I hope there’s no one else on the Salamander’s list. Another murder would be the end of us. All of London would think us accursed, and we might never reopen.’ With a sigh she got to her feet. ‘Indeed, it’s time I went to Dorset Gardens to see if anyone’s about. I promised to tell Betterton of anything I discovered.’
Catlin eyed her. ‘Do you think he’ll thank you for it?’
Betsy did not answer. Within the hour, deep in thought, she was making her way across muddy Fleet Street, and along Water Lane to the Duke’s Theatre.
But the moment she walked through the door into the pit, news awaited her that drove even the Salamander from her thoughts.
‘Tammy Tupp?’ Betsy faced Thomas Betterton, aghast. ‘You wish me to play the part of a fat whore, with false warts and a runny nose, and—’
‘Perish the thought!’ The voice was that of Samuel Tripp, who was standing beside Betterton, wearing his driest smile. ‘You can play her thin, not fat.’
‘But I thought you wished me to play the Lady Althea.’
‘Then you’re mistaken,’ Tripp replied. ‘Mistress Hale is perfect for Althea.’
‘Is she indeed!’ Betsy’s temper was rising. She had not forgotten Tripp’s hand grasping her thigh beneath Lord Caradoc’s supper table.
‘My dear Mistress Brand,’ Betterton was conciliatory. ‘Think of our position. After the travails of the past week, our best course is to stage a robust comedy, and so divert the minds of our audience – and ourselves – away from
Macbeth
. And to stage it quickly! Mr Tripp’s new piece,
The Virtuous Bawd
, more than fulfils my hopes. Hence I’ve already called a rehearsal for this afternoon. The role of Tammy would suit you admirably – you’ll have them roaring with mirth! And besides …’ he glanced at Aveline Hale, who was entering by the street door. Betsy looked round, and saw Jane Rowe coming in behind her.
‘Besides, what?’ she asked.
Betterton cleared his throat, and smiled. ‘You may think differently, when I tell you that Mr Tripp’s comedy has been written especially with the Duke’s actresses in mind. In short: it will be played by an entirely female cast!’
Betsy blinked. ‘No men at all?’
‘None! There are breeches roles, which will be taken by Mistress Rowe and some of the hirelings.’
Still smiling, Tripp now spoke up. ‘So you see, Mistress Brand, I have your best interests at heart, as always. You will not be required to cross-dress. And after your taxing but splendid performance as First Witch, the role of Tammy – one of the Doves of Venus – should be a true pleasure. As Mr Betterton says, you’ll have them falling off their seats … with laughter, I hope.’
Betsy ignored the jibe, as she digested the news. From behind the stage came the sound of sawing: already the carpenters were at work. She was about to greet Jane, when she remembered.
‘Have you heard that Alderman Blake has died?’ she asked Betterton.
‘I have not.’ His brow knitted. ‘A consequence of that dreadful jest, at Caradoc’s?’ Then catching the look in Betsy’s eye, he started. ‘Does his Lordship know of it?’
‘I expect he does by now,’ Betsy answered. ‘Doctor Catlin viewed the man’s body this morning. He’ll send word.’
But Tripp stirred, and his smile merely broadened. ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said. ‘But not for the Duke’s Theatre. Surely there will be little opposition now to your reopening?’
Betterton stiffened, not liking the man’s tone. ‘Very likely,’ he replied. ‘Now, with your leave …’ And turning his back on the playmaker, he moved away to greet Aveline Hale. Betsy followed, throwing Tripp one of her most withering looks. But the man merely gave a mocking bow, and walked off.
So it was arranged: rehearsals would begin at once for
The Virtuous Bawd
, with a cast made up entirely of women. Though such performances had taken place before at Court, this was a new venture for the Duke’s Company. There was already an air of excitement about the theatre, which intensified later when Betterton gathered all the actresses on the forestage. Even Louise the tiring-maid was being given a small role in the play, which filled the nervous girl with fear. But all the women approved, when it transpired that Mary Betterton herself would take a part, sharing principal billing with Aveline Hale. Some eyebrows were raised at this news, though Mistress Hale appeared delighted. The reason for that soon became clear; and even Betsy was impressed by the announcement.
‘A Royal performance! How splendid!’ Aveline favoured Betterton with a radiant smile.
‘Indeed!’ Betterton raised his hands to quell the chatter that had broken out. ‘Hence we must be on our mettle. The King and the Duke will both attend, along with many of their friends.’ He too was smiling now. ‘I have great confidence in you, ladies. There’s hard work ahead, but the rewards will be substantial.’ His gaze wandered to his wife, who was standing to one side. ‘And we have a wealth of acting experience between us, to make
The Virtuous Bawd
our finest endeavour!’
But Jane, standing close to Betsy, spoke in a low voice. ‘I wonder how much money they’ll save by employing only women?’ she mused. ‘It could be the cheapest show ever!’
Soon afterwards, however, they were obliged to put speculation about
The Virtuous Bawd
aside. For Lord Caradoc arrived at the theatre, and sent word immediately that Betsy should join him and Thomas Betterton in private conversation.
They sat in one of the empty side boxes, while below them James Prout the dancing-master took the hirelings through some steps upon the stage. Betterton and Lord Caradoc listened in silence while Betsy told them all she had learned of the Salamander, and what she and Catlin had theorized. By the time she came to the end of her account, both men were subdued.
‘If it’s a matter of vengeance,’ Betterton said at last, ‘this man, whoever he is, must be consumed with hatred!’
‘Indeed.’ Caradoc was troubled. Glancing from Betterton to Betsy, he said: ‘And I ask of you both that we keep the matter secret. The company would be greatly distressed if they learned of this. And I ask you, Mistress Brand, to make the same request of Doctor Catlin.’