Beside her, Besty felt Catlin tense. She could only hope that Quinn and his men were alert at their positions across the pathway. Calling out was impossible, and belatedly she wondered why they had not agreed some signal between them. But in any case, it was too late.
In the half-light two figures came into view, walking arm-in-arm down to the stairs. One of them wore a loose-fitting gown … and one glance at the heavy make-up and the mask dangling from her girdle, was enough to tell her profession. Her companion, or rather her customer, was male – and Betsy’s face fell in dismay: the man was not Julius Hill!
They waited, not daring to move, while the trull backed to the wall of the building opposite, drawing her cull along with her. The couple’s voices were low, but it took little imagination to guess what was being said. The man, a scrawny fellow in a cheap periwig and bombazine coat, was fumbling in his pockets. From this short distance the clink of coins was easily heard. And at Betsy’s side Catlin cursed audibly, and turned in Daniels’s direction.
‘So this is your Rye road, is it?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘A quiet spot for harlots to do business?’
‘I swear it’s the place!’ Daniels hissed back. ‘But I never promised to deliver you the prize, did I?’
The couple now moved into the shadow of the building opposite, so that they were almost hidden. Disappointment threatened to overwhelm Betsy. She was tired and cold, and her limbs ached. She squinted into the dark, hearing the murmur of the man’s voice as he fumbled with the trull’s skirts. There was no other sound: presumably the constables had decided to stay put and wait until the unwelcome couple finished their business and left. But the next moment she turned her head sharply, towards the waterside. Catlin stiffened, he had heard it too. There could be no mistaking the splash of oars: a boat was approaching the stairs.
And in an instant, Betsy knew that they had been fooled – but not by Daniels. Even as she got awkwardly to her feet, her heart thudding, she saw the trull – who was no trull at all – hitch up her skirts, revealing thick stockings and heavy shoes, and start to sprint for the stairs leaving her ‘customer’, who at once ran off up the pathway.
There came a shout and the crash of a door flung open, and the constable’s men ran from the house opposite, but Betsy knew they had failed.
Tom Catlin was running from the doorway, calling to her to stay back, but she ignored him. In seconds she, the doctor and the constables were stumbling on the uneven path, almost colliding with one another to get to the stairs, down which their quarry, his wig awry, was fast disappearing. There came a thud, followed by a grunt of pain and another male voice raised in irritation, and the pursuers knew they were too late. For Aanaarden – alias The Salamander, alias Julius Hill – had leaped into the boat which bobbed below them, a few feet from the bottom of the steps. And Quinn, who came hurtling down the stairs behind them, cursing and shoving his hapless assistants aside, could only lurch to a halt on the lowest step and watch, pistol in hand, while the boatman dipped his oars.
With barely a ripple, the little vessel shot outwards on the Thames, and disappeared into the dark.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then there came a deafening report as Quinn raised his pistol and fired. But since there was no lantern on the vessel’s stern there was nothing to aim at. Cursing roundly, the constable turned on his fellows, who both looked as if they expected the worst.
‘Don’t stand there like a couple of maypoles!’ he shouted. ‘Get after the other one!’
Relieved to have something to do, the two younger men ran off. But Catlin and Betsy exchanged despairing looks: Aanaarden’s accomplice, whoever he was, would have disappeared into some alleyway. And before they could speak there came another set of footfalls, scurrying from the derelict building which had been their hideout. The two of them turned sharply, just in time to see a slight figure running off into the gloom: Daniels had picked his moment to make himself scarce.
The doctor turned to Quinn. ‘So that’s the end of it all, is it?’ he demanded. ‘Anaarden guessed the stairs might be watched, so he plays us all for fools, jumps into a boat before our eyes and vanishes. Is there nothing you can do?’
The constable wore a sickly expression. ‘They can’t row fast in the dark,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s an incoming tide. I’ll run to the next stairs and find a boat. There must be someone on the water.’ He started to go, then looked back. ‘Would you get word to His Lordship?’ he asked lamely.
After a moment the doctor gave a nod, whereupon the other hurried off up the pathway. Betsy watched him disappear round the corner. ‘Don’t judge him too harshly,’ she said to Catlin. ‘We were all taken in by the disguise. If anyone should have seen it wasn’t a woman in that garb, it’s me.’
But the doctor didn’t answer. And without further word, the two of them began retracing their steps in the direction of the Strand.
It was barely an hour before dawn when they returned to Fire’s Reach Court, and there seemed little point in going to their beds. Betsy raked the kitchen fire into life and put on a saucepan of milk, while Catlin sat down at the table. Finally he looked up.
‘I underestimated our quarry,’ he said. ‘I only set eyes on the man once, when he cut a poor figure as the doctor in Macbeth. It’s easy to forget how cunning he must be. And yet there’s one comfort: he knows how close he came to capture. He’ll want to get himself out of England as soon as he can, likely never to return. So at least his murderous spree is over.’
But seeing the look of disappointment on Betsy’s face he broke off. More than anything, she had wanted to be a part of the Salamander’s capture. Yet he had eluded her as he had eluded everyone else, and taken another life too: that of James Prout. Wearily she sank down on a stool beside Catlin.
‘I should get Samuel Tripp to write a play about it,’ she said finally. ‘A satirical comedy … call it Escape of the Salamander, or the end of Mistress Rummager. For I believe I’ve finished with chasing shadows.’
At that moment there came the thud of footsteps on the stairs, and Peg stumbled in in her nightgown.
‘I thought some rogue had broken in!’ she cried. ‘Did no one think to tell me what was up?’ Then seeing how tired both of them looked, she sighed. ‘Weasel-face hasn’t come back,’ she said. ‘Then, I never thought he would.’
She frowned at Catlin, but he merely turned away.
Feeling restless, Betsy left the house at mid morning to walk to the Duke’s Theatre. She expected few of the company to be there, but she wanted to talk with someone, especially Jane. The skies were heavy with thick cloud, and a breeze blew from the river. Absently she walked down Fetter Lane, turned into Fleet Street and trudged through the morning traffic, heedless of the shouts of the carters.
An hour ago she had stood in the hallway with Catlin when Quinn had arrived wearing a sheepish expression, to report that attempts to pursue the Salamander had failed. The boat could have crossed to the Southwark shore, he explained, or passed under the Bridge to rendezvous with a larger vessel downstream. By now the fugitive would be well on his way on the Rye road. To Catlin’s questions, he responded with increasing irritation. No, his men had not succeeded in catching the Salamander’s companion either. It was hardly surprising, since none of them got a proper look at the man in the dark. As for the little rat-faced fellow, what did the doctor expect but that he would fly at the first opportunity? Finally the constable had taken his leave, claiming other duties, while a grim-faced Tom Catlin prepared to go to Bredon House and inform Lord Caradoc of the sorry chain of events.
With a heavy heart Betsy turned into Bride’s Lane – to be confronted by a familiar, wild-eyed figure in black.
‘Hark, ye brazen jade! Now another steeped in sin falls into the pit that is prepared for him, yet still ye come here to flaunt yourself! Will nothing make ye take thought for the morrow?!’
But Betsy merely gave a sigh. Whereupon Praise-God Palmer hesitated, tattered
Bible in hand, and peered at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Y’are troubled, woman; the weight of sin presses ye down. Heed me, and call on your maker for forgiveness!’
‘Another steeped in sin.’ The man’s words suddenly registered in Betsy’s mind. ‘If you mean Mr Prout,’ she retorted, ‘he will be sorely missed, if not mourned throughout London!’
The ranter’s brow furrowed. ‘Mourned by painted theatre-folk, perhaps,’ he cried, ‘but not by God-fearing men!’ When Betsy said nothing, he added: ‘Are ye still so blind that ye cannot see the design? This creature of fire is but God’s instrument, that strikes down all those who forsake Him!’
Suddenly a wave of anger soared up from within Betsy, to burst like a cataract. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted, so forcefully that Palmer gaped and stepped back. ‘How dare you appoint yourself judge and pronounce on matters of which you know nothing. God’s instrument? None of those who’ve died did any harm to anyone.’
‘Did they not?’ Palmer had recovered quickly. ‘Two thieves, a strutting peacock of a player, a prating alderman steeped in greed and lust, and now a sodomizing villain – wicked men all – who have paid the price! They shall not look upon the gates of paradise, nor shall they—’
‘Oh, cods!’ Betsy shouted, realizing that she had never stood up to Palmer’s ravings before. ‘What of Dart, a fugitive whose only link with the others was to tell what he knew?’
‘I know naught of that,’ Palmer snapped. ‘Yet I say there is order and design in this web of evil, which y’are too foolish to see! And more, I say it is not yet ended, and shall not be, until the fire be quenched in the blood of Christ!’
‘Not yet ended.’ Betsy’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What do you mean?’ When the man merely glared at her she repeated herself. ‘What do you mean it’s not yet ended, and how is it you know so much about those deaths?’
Palmer drew a breath and puffed out his chest. ‘I walked through the Fire,’ he said, as if delivering a sermon. ‘And though there was evil abroad, I feared it not. I saw ’twas but God’s judgement, as it is writ in Kings: And after the fire, a still small voice. I saw the Almighty at His work, and I gave thanks that the city was razed to the ground so that it might be founded anew! And I … I would be that still voice!’
To Betsy’s alarm a smile spread across the man’s features, and his eyes filled with a strange light. ‘I was spared,’ he went on, nodding to himself. ‘Though I looked in the demon’s face, he would not slay me.’ The ranter paused, seeming to remember Betsy, and fixed her with a stern expression. ‘I saw him for what he was – God’s instrument – and so I allowed him to do his work! And he in his turn smiled upon me and spoke to me, bidding me bear witness, so that now he takes his vengeance upon those who turn from the path!’
But Betsy was aghast; for only now did the man’s words, which she had dismissed as the ravings of a lunatic, begin to make some sense. She drew closer, forcing Palmer to meet her eye. ‘Do you tell me that you saw the Salamander – Aanaarden – during the Great Fire?’ she demanded. ‘That you spoke with him, and he spared you because you believed he was carrying out God’s will?’
Palmer smiled at her. ‘I saw him … like a sprite he ran through the flames unharmed, for the Almighty was his shield.’ He peered at Betsy. ‘And I see there is yet hope! For if the Lord’s design is become clear to ye, ye may yet be saved! Come into yon church, woman, fall upon your knees, and—’
‘You buffle-head!’
At Betsy’s cry, Palmer fell back as if struck. In amazement he met her gaze, as she lambasted him.
‘For days past, men have been scouring these suburbs to find a murderer,’ she cried, ‘one who’s not satisfied with taking vengeance on those he believes wronged him, but is so glutted with killing that he cannot stop! And all along you’ve known who he is, and what he looks like? Did it never occur to you to tell someone?’
Palmer made no reply.
‘Last night he escaped capture,’ Betsy went on. ‘And now he’s free to kill again as the whim takes him, if not in London, then elsewhere! How many more might die, before he is caught?’
At that, Palmer raised his bible as if to ward Betsy off. ‘Caught?’ he echoed. ‘Ye cannot stop God’s instrument! Only when the hour is appointed shall he cease. There may yet be others who will fall!’
Then suddenly the man dropped to his knees in the dirt, clasped his hands with the bible between them and closed his eyes. And ignoring Betsy, he began to pray in an undertone, the words tumbling so rapidly from his lips that they might have been in some foreign tongue. With a last look at the muttering figure in his battered hat, she walked away.
The theatre was deserted, though the side door was unlocked. Betsy entered to the echo of her own footsteps. With a sinking of spirits she walked through the empty pit, glancing up at the forestage. The candle hoops had been lowered, and were unlit. At the rear, half-finished screens for the opening scene of The Virtuous Bawd were in place, but there was nothing on the darkened stage apart from sawdust.
But there was a sound from backstage. Betsy climbed the side steps and opened the door of the scene-room, to see a figure bent over a sawhorse. As she entered, the man started and turned. It was Joshua Small.
‘Lord, Mistress Brand, you frit me near to death.’ The scene-man peered at her. ‘What d’you do here? There’s no rehearsal.’
‘I know,’ Betsy replied. ‘I merely wondered if any of the company had come by.’
Small shrugged. ‘Will Daggett was here earlier. Never seen him at a loose end before. The Duke’s is his life – mine too, come to that,’ the fellow paused, then said in a different tone: ‘You heard about Prout? An evil business!’
The man appeared very edgy. When Betsy did not speak, he went on: ‘Tom Cleeve, then Rigg, now the dancing-master. And ’twas Julius Hill murdered them. Not only that, but he’s a Dutchman too! Who’d have thought such?’
Still Betsy made no reply. How much Small and other members of the company had learned by now, she could not know. Finally she said: ‘He was nearly caught last night, but escaped by boat. He could be out of the country by now.’
Small was not cheered by the news: in fact, if anything his nervousness merely increased. ‘Escaped, you say,’ he frowned. ‘Then he’s still at large.’
‘Not in London,’ Betsy said. ‘He knows he’s a hunted man. And as far as we know he’s paid off his scores.’
‘So you say,’ Small sniffed, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘And what scores are they?’
‘Grudges that go back years … to the Great Fire,’ Betsy answered after a moment. But the man was barely listening.
‘Aye, there’s many a wound unhealed from that time,’ he murmured. ‘As there are those who still say the Fire was started on purpose. It may have begun in the shop of Farriner the baker, but how it is some fires started up in places the blaze hadn’t yet reached? Can you answer that?’
There was both fear and anger in the man’s eyes, the causes of which Betsy did not understand. But at once Small added: ‘You’ve heard that black-clad fool who rants in the lanes – prating Palmer. He thinks ’twas God’s vengeance on London. What if it was just the French, or the Dutch?’
‘I know some think that,’ Betsy answered. ‘But it seems to me the reasons it started were simple enough. A dry summer, a high wind, an oven not put out properly.’
But Small was becoming animated now. ‘Aye, but in the heat and the flames, with folk panicking and running every way, you’d not condemn a man for jumping to conclusions, would you?’ he cried. ‘ ‘Tis hard to reason straight, when you see everything you own, everything you know, falling to blazes!’
Betsy watched him. ‘What is it you’re trying to say, Joshua?’ she asked. ‘That you did something in the Fire you regret?’
There was a moment, then Small seemed to master himself. ‘If I did, that’s between me and my maker,’ he answered, and suddenly his expression changed to one of hostility. ‘I hear
you’ve been busy toing and froing these past days, mistress,’ he added. ‘Betterton’s willing horse … I should say mare. Taking supper at Caradoc’s, too.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Could it be you’re looking to get yourself set up in a nice little house in Pall Mall, like others we could both name?’
Betsy put on a wry expression. ‘I think it’s time I left you to whatever it is you’re doing, Joshua,’ she said. ‘What is it you’re doing, by the way?’
Then without waiting for an answer, she walked out of the scene-room. Behind her she heard the man mutter an oath, which was soon followed by the sound of vigorous sawing.
That night after supper at Fire’s Reach Court, Betsy talked with Tom Catlin. The news of Aanaarden’s escape had been greeted with incredulity and anger by Lord Caradoc. Fortunately, having listened to the doctor’s account of the matter, he did not blame him or Betsy, but the incompetence of John Quinn and his fellows. After offering Catlin half-hearted thanks, His Lordship had gone off to write letters. He would request that the Channel ports be watched for a man answering Aanaarden’s description; though given the Salamander’s talent for disguise, there seemed little hope of him being apprehended. In fact, Catlin surmised, it was more than likely the man would change his plans and flee the country by another direction.
Both of them were still tired after the previous night’s adventures, and Betsy rose to go to her bed. Catlin stood up too, but at that moment there was a knocking outside. Followed by Betsy, the doctor walked out to the hallway just as Peg was opening the front door. On the step was a diminutive, tousle-haired boy. When Peg towered menacingly over him, the child shrank back. But at sight of Catlin he made a clumsy attempt at a bow. He was out of breath, and had clearly been running for some distance.
After the Fire Page 14