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 gla
sses. 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.
She turned the corner, and the familiar night-time sounds of Covent Garden assailed her. Traders called from their stalls, gallants in garish coats and long periwigs strutted about talking loudly, while from the Rose Tavern came laughter and voices raised in song. Here and there bona fide members of the street-walking profession plied her trade, accosting first one man and then another. Quickly, Betsy turned left and walked along Little Russell Street towards the Piazza, and at once the broad, lantern-lit square opened out before her, thronged with people.
On the left-hand corner by the Little Piazza was her destination: a large house which had known many uses and many owners, before Robert Jenkins turned it into his famous bathhouse, the hammam: a men’s haunt like the Coffee-houses, but one where certain women were admitted as required. In fact, a man with shillings to spend could get anything in the bagnio: not merely a steam bath, but food and drink, a bed for the night, and someone of either sex to share it with. At the entrance a broad-shouldered doorman stood, and now Betsy drew a deep breath: she was on.
‘Well, my duck,’ as the fellow turned to her, she addressed him in an accent that hailed from somewhere east of Limehouse. ‘Are you letting me in, or what?’
The man frowned. ‘Who’re you?’
‘Mary Peach. I’ve got business with a gent within.’
‘Peach? Never heard of you,’ the other snapped. He was a heavy-browed man with a pocked face. ‘I don’t care to admit one I don’t know … you could be a fireship.’
‘I don’t know you, neither,’ Betsy told him, ‘but I’ll live with it.’ She scowled. ‘And I ain’t a fireship, fustilugs – I’m clean as silver!’
The man hesitated, and a hint of a smile appeared. ‘So what’s it worth to let you take your goods to market?’ he asked, his eyes straying downwards to her cleavage.
‘What would you want?’ Betsy countered.
‘What d’you think?’
She appeared to consider the matter. ‘When are you free?’
‘Any time you like,’ the man answered, his smile broadening. ‘I can soon get someone to take
my place.’
‘All right,’ Betsy said. ‘I’ll be out in an hour – wait for me.’ Still grinning, the fellow stepped aside; and with a brazen step, she entered the bagnio.
At first she could see little, for the place was dimly lit. Then she felt a blast of warm, humid air and, glimpsing a doorway ahead, stepped into a room which she guessed to be the tepidarium. There were low voices, and figures wrapped in linen sheets were visible, moving to and fro. In a far corner somebody was playing a lute. She moved slowly, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom – whereupon, close by, a voice she knew stopped her in her tracks.
‘Looking for someone?’
Betsy swung round to see none other than James Prout, the dancing-master of the Duke’s Theatre, lounging on a wooden bench. He was bare-chested, the lower half of his body concealed by a white robe. Beside him sat another man, younger, and a deal more handsome. The two men’s arms were linked and, as Betsy looked quickly from one to the other, both of them laughed.
‘No need to look crestfallen, Miss,’ the young one said. ‘There’s others within will be glad to see you.’
For a moment Betsy thought of revealing herself to Prout, then swiftly rejected the idea. She had arrived incognito and would remain so. And a little thrill of satisfaction ran through her that even the dancing-master did not recognize her.
‘I ain’t been here before,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a friend … used to work at the old Duke’s Theatre in Portugal Row. Know him, do you? Brown fellow, name of Long Ned.’
There was a pause before Prout blew out his cheeks and looked away. Only now did Betsy realize that he was rather drunk. But the younger man was alert.
‘Heavens, girl, haven’t you heard? The poor man’s dead, three days since. Expired in there.’ He pointed to an inner doorway. From within came a hissing, as of water being poured on to hot coals.
‘Dead?’ Betsy’s mouth fell open. ‘He can’t be!’
After the Fire Page 6