After the Fire

by John Pilkington

  Beale stared at her – then for some reason, the fight seemed to go out of the fellow. With a heavy sigh he sat down again, and put his head in his hands. When he looked up, there was an emptiness in his gaze.

  ‘A man was killed,’ he said. ‘There – is that meat enough for you, Mistress Scavenger?’

  Betsy said nothing, but kept her eyes on Beale’s. And to her surprise, as if relieved to unburden himself at last, the fellow began to talk.

  ‘It began as a wager,’ he said, with a distant look. ‘A foolish bet, after an evening’s debauch … we were half-distracted. In the west suburbs we watched the Fire draw closer by the hour … all of London ablaze, and none could stop it. After three days it seemed it would leap the walls and engulf us all. There seemed naught to do, but run or drink ourselves senseless. And that ranting fool Praise-God Palmer was on the streets, shouting of the Lord’s wrath.’ He hesitated. ‘That was when Rigg – Griffiths – stood up and shouted: The devil with your Lord. What of the French, or the Dutch?’

  Betsy’s heart jolted, as Joshua Small’s words in the empty theatre came back to her. ‘So … you went hunting for scapegoats.’

  ‘We went hunting for foreigners,’ Beale told her. ‘Others did the same … blaming them for starting the Fire. Dutchmen, Frenchmen, Irishmen, even Scots – a mob isn’t particular. Especially when Rigg’s leading it, fired up with brandy and patriotism, crying God for Harry or some other cant he’d got from Shakespeare.’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘You remember it. Panic and mayhem everywhere … even the King was on the streets, they said. And what danger might he be in, if one of England’s enemies came upon him?’

  Now, the man seemed eager to excuse his actions. Keeping expression from her voice, Betsy prodded him gently. ‘But instead, you and your party came upon one of them?’

  Beale avoided her eye. ‘A Frenchman … a wig-maker … in Wood Street near the Haberdasher’s Hall. The fire was upon them already, and they were fleeing with what they could salvage.’ He grimaced. ‘I didn’t take part!’ he cried. ‘I even tried to stop them, I’d swear that in any court in England! I was but a youth and I was caught up in the excitement, nothing more!’

  Betsy waited, until at last the man looked up at her.

  ‘Yes, I see the look on your face!’ Beale clenched his fists. There was a wildness in his gaze now. ‘I saw it on the face of the man’s wife, when her husband was seized and bound … then she started screaming at us in French.’ He screwed his eyes up at the memory. ‘She didn’t stop, even when his carcase was swinging from a beam.’

  ‘You hanged him?’ Betsy’s mouth was dry. ‘Because he was a foreigner?’

  ‘They hanged him!’ Beale threw back. ‘I’ve told you, I took no part! Believe it or not, as you will … and though I wasn’t alone in thinking that frightened little man no more set fires than the Lord Mayor did, there was naught I could do.’ He lowered his eyes again.

  ‘Think what you like,’ he said after a moment. ‘We’ve all paid, in one way or another: Rigg and Small, for they were like savages that day, bent on blaming others for their troubles. As for me,’ he gave a bitter laugh. ‘George Beale, late of the celebrated Duke’s Company, is without a penny! Killigrew won’t hire me at the King’s. If someone’s avenging the Frenchman after these years, then I say let him come. If he doesn’t get me, my creditors will!’

  Betsy got to her feet. She could find no words to say to George Beale, who remained seated.

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked suddenly.

  She paused, struggling with her feelings. ‘Do you know the name of the man you … who was hanged?’ she asked.

  ‘Colporteur,’ the other replied. ‘Jean Colporteur – it was on a sign outside his shop. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.’

  After taking a step towards the stairwell, Betsy stopped and turned to him. ‘What did you think I would do,’ she asked, ‘inform on you?’

  But the other made no reply, and she made her way downstairs. In a way, the man had been punished already. As she descended, she glanced back once towards Beale, who had not moved from the bed. He seemed to have forgotten her, and was staring vacantly at the floor.

  From Covent Garden, Betsy walked back along the Strand to Fleet Street. The sun shone, but her mind was so busy that she barely noticed her surroundings. Only when she had crossed the Fleet bridge with Ludgate looming ahead did she stop, as the thought struck her that there was another person who might be able to shed light on the mystery: Sir Anthony Griffiths, father of the man she had known as Joseph Rigg. And without stopping to ask herself whether she would be permitted to speak with the magistrate, she hurried through the busy gateway and turned to the right, towards the river. At Blackfriars Stairs she took a boat, and was soon scudding down the Thames.

  She barely responded to the waterman’s gruff attempts at conversation, and the fellow was quick to set her down at St Botolph’s wharf, where she had once alighted in search of one who had sold a salamander to Julius Hill, though she did not know his identity then. Indeed, she reflected, there was no Julius Hill. Holding up her skirts, she climbed the slope towards Eastcheap. Then she was making her way through the dusty, half-rebuilt ruins of Fenchurch Street and Lime Street, to emerge by the church of St Andrew Undershaft. She had crossed the eastern border of the Fire’s Reach where, thanks to the wind the north-east corner of the city, from Moorgate to the Tower, had escaped destruction. In Aldgate Street all was serene and orderly, the untouched houses tall and stark against the sky. And it was now but a matter of casual enquiry from passers-by, to find the home of Sir Anthony Griffiths.

  It was a large house, protected by a crumbling brick wall overhung with trees. Betsy tried the gate and found it unlocked. Taking a breath, she marched up to the front door and knocked loudly. After some delay it was opened by a tall manservant who peered down at her in surprise. When Betsy explained that she was come to speak with Sir Anthony about his late son, the man looked startled. Quickly, she mentioned her association with Doctor Tom Catlin, who had taken care of the body. To all of this the servant listened in mounting discomfort. By the time she had finished he was frowning.

  ‘Are you perhaps a … a woman of the theatre?’ he asked in a voice of distaste.

  Betsy admitted such, and gave her name.

  ‘Sir Anthony disapproves strongly of the theatre,’ he said. ‘I’ve instructions to set the dogs on any actors who showed their faces.’ He hesitated. ‘Yet, I’m loth to do so. I’d say you’re a bold one, mistress, to come here like this.’

  Whereupon Betsy put on her most winning smile. ‘I have news your master might wish to hear,’ she said. ‘Will you not tell him I’m come?’

  ‘I will,’ the man answered finally. ‘But even if he agrees to see you,’ he hesitated, ‘you must pay no mind to his manner – nor will I permit you to stay long. Sir Anthony’s not the man he was, since Mr Joseph’s death.’ He stood aside. ‘Wait in the vestibule.’

  Betsy entered the old house, finding herself in a dark hallway with a smell of damp. The manservant disappeared, but returned a minute later. Without further word, he conducted Betsy to a large room at the rear of the house, overlooking an untidy garden. Seated near the window was a figure in a black bombazine suit and long steel-grey periwig, who did not move. Smiling again, Betsy walked round to face him and made her curtsey – then saw her efforts were wasted. For the bent, crabbed old man slumped before her was blind.

  ‘Mistress Brand,’ the voice was cracked, as of one much older than the sixty years Betsy estimated. ‘I’m told you bring news appertaining to my son.’ His right hand gripped the knob of a cane, which he now waved as if to bid her speak.

  Betsy took a breath, then under the watchful gaze of the manservant on the other side of the room, told Sir Anthony about the death of Joshua Small, and what she had since learned of his actions during the Great Fire. She did not mention Joseph Rigg’s being the ringleader of a drunken mob which had hanged an innocent French wi
g-maker, but no sooner had she brought up George Beale’s name, than her listener startled her by raising his stick and banging it on the floor.

  ‘Enough! I’ll not have their names spoken in this house! Beale, Small and the rest … villains all!’ Griffiths was wheezing, and across the room Betsy saw the manservant look uneasy.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ she said. ‘I merely wondered whether—’

  ‘Did you, merely?’ the old man echoed. ‘And what, pray, is your interest in the matter? Do you want payment to keep silent, is that it?’

  ‘I do not, sir,’ Betsy answered. ‘What I want is to solve a spate of murders, which threaten to ruin my company.’

  To that the old man made no reply, so while she still had the chance Betsy ploughed on, until she had given Sir Anthony a truncated account of the grisly events of recent weeks, ending with her discovery of the killing of Jean Colporteur. But at mention of the Frenchman’s name, Griffiths started.

  ‘Good God, could you not have spared me that?’ The old man sagged visibly; and now his manservant took a pace forward.

  ‘Permit me to dismiss the woman, sir,’ he said coolly. ‘And forgive me for allowing her entry.’

  ‘No! Wait.’ Sir Anthony raised a pale hand to his forehead, and Betsy was dismayed at his expression of anguish.

  ‘Leave us,’ he said in a tired voice. And before the manservant could protest, he repeated the order. ‘Leave us! What harm do you think this young woman could do me?’

  The servant murmured in compliance and went out. As the door closed, the old man blinked and swivelled his vacant, white-filmed eyes in Betsy’s direction.

  ‘What do you know of Colporteur?’ he asked.

  ‘Very little,’ she answered, but the other gave a grunt.

  ‘So London’s abuzz with it now, eh? After all this time.’ He let out a short laugh. ‘There’s fitting retribution for me, then. All my efforts to paper over it are undone!’

  ‘You need not spare my feelings,’ he went on. ‘For I know what my rogue of a son did. I’d already cast him from my house, forced him to change his name. Yet I would not see him hang for murder!’

  Betsy started. ‘But surely, in the mayhem of the fire, with hurt and destruction everywhere,’ she began, ‘who would even know the names of the culprits?’

  ‘I would!’ The old man stared fiercely at her with his sightless eyes. ‘And when, after the Fire, my only son confessed to me in a fit of remorse what he had done, here in this room, I had to act.’ He drew a wheezing breath. ‘I gave her – Colporteur’s widow – a sum in compensation.’

  So he paid her off, Betsy thought, but at once the old man spoke up again. ‘I gave her compensation,’ he repeated. ‘And despite her distress Madeleine Colporteur was a shrewd woman, with two children to care for. So in the end she took my blood money, and swore she would not identify her husband’s murderers.’

  ‘Two children?’ Betsy’s heart jumped.

  ‘A son and a daughter,’ the old man muttered. ‘The son ran wild later, I heard, and caused her much grief.’

  ‘And the daughter?’

  But Griffiths was not listening. ‘I could not let them starve!’ he went on. ‘Even though they’re Catholics.’ He gave a snort of contempt. ‘They entertained such childish hopes, that our King would see the error of his ways and return to his mother’s religion. One can’t help but feel pity for them.’

  Sir Anthony lapsed into silence. Pushing aside a sense of disappointment, Betsy thought to utter some words of thanks. But the old man interrupted her.

  ‘Save your breath, mistress. Perhaps it’s a kind of justice after all, that those men should perish … even my son.’ His head sagged on to his chest. Betsy waited, then thinking she was dismissed, was about to make her way out. But once more, came the thud of the cane being banged down.

  ‘Wait, for pity’s sake.’ Griffiths seemed to have difficulty finding the words. ‘Tell me … how was my son regarded, in the … in the theatre?’ he asked haltingly. ‘As Joseph Rigg, I mean.’

  In surprise, Betsy answered. ‘With respect, and admiration,’ she said. ‘Like others, I learned a great deal from him. He was always kind to me, and many tears were shed when he died.’

  There was a silence, before the old man spoke again. ‘Then for that, I thank you,’ he said.

  There was time for a last question, perhaps, and Betsy seized it. ‘Have you any idea what became of Madame Colporteur and her children?’ she asked. ‘Are they still in London?’

  But the other shook his head. ‘I do not know. I’ve had no dealing with the woman since that terrible time.’ Then he turned away, and this time Betsy did not wait. With a brief farewell, she left the room, and was quickly shown out of the house.

  That evening over supper, a tired Betsy told Tom Catlin all she had discovered. After listening in silence, the doctor looked up with raised eyebrows.

  ‘So … you think the family of this Jean Colporteur have been wreaking vengeance on those who killed him?’

  ‘It seems the likeliest explanation.’

  ‘Do you know what age the man’s children were when he died?’

  ‘I suppose I should have asked Sir Anthony …’ Betsy trailed off, thinking of the old man and his sadness.

  ‘Well, it’s only a few years ago. They may be children yet.’ Catlin was looking for his tobacco. ‘Or they may be young adults. Could you not have found out their names?’

  ‘I’ve not really been very thorough, have I?’ Betsy said, and managed a smile. ‘I doubt I’d ever make a spy.’

  Catlin shrugged, and changed the subject. ‘If you could get me Small’s flask, as I said yesterday, I could look for traces of poison….’

  ‘Perhaps, but I still can’t form a clear picture,’ Betsy said tiredly. ‘However the poison was administered, it was the same that killed Long Ned, and Cleeve, and Alderman Blake, so whoever killed Rigg and Small had access to it. And who could have given it to him, but the Salamander?’ She frowned. ‘So it has to be another one of the company, after all.’

  The doctor spoke up. ‘Tomorrow’s the Lord’s day,’ he said mildly. ‘You should rest. The weather looks fair. Perhaps we can walk in Vauxhall Gardens, and see what entertainment’s on offer.’

  But Betsy gave a start. ‘The pinpricks,’ she exclaimed. ‘Three or more of them, in Rigg’s side, why was that? The toxin was so venomous, only one was needed.’

  ‘Betsy, listen to me,’ Catlin began with a frown – but to his alarm she sprang to her feet.

  ‘What a buffle-head! How could I not have seen it?’ She stared at him. ‘In Banquo’s murder scene when Rigg died, we first suspected the hirelings; then we suspected Beale with his vicious dagger thrust. What if it was none of them? What if the pin was in the costume?’

  There was a moment, then Catlin too got to his feet. ‘I suppose you won’t rest until you’ve found out,’ he muttered.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  William Daggett was surprised, and not a little annoyed, at being disturbed after dark. Following the grim events of recent days the stage manager was enjoying a quiet evening at home, when Betsy Brand and Doctor Tom Catlin came knocking at his door. After hearing her request, the man’s moustache began twitching at once.

  ‘I’ve a key to the side door of the theatre,’ he allowed. ‘But I won’t surrender it, even to one I trust, Mistress Brand.’ Seeing the look on Betsy’s face, he hesitated. ‘Yet I see how determined you are. Is it truly as important as you claim?’

  ‘I think I may be able to put an end to this whole terrible business,’ Betsy said.

  Daggett glanced at Catlin, who said nothing.

  ‘Then I’d best come with you,’ he said.

  It was but a short walk from Daggett’s house near Lincoln’s Inn to Dorset Gardens. The lane was empty and dark, and the three did not waste time in finding a link-boy to light their way. Soon the stage manager was opening the street door of the Duke’s Theatre and letting them into the deserted aud
itorium.

  The place was eerily quiet, their footsteps echoing on the bare boards. There was no light, but having found a lantern and lit it, Daggett led them across the pit and up the forestage steps. Betsy started for the costume store, but the stage manager called her back.

  ‘Rigg’s clothes are still in the Men’s Shift,’ he said. ‘No one’s touched them since they were taken off his body.’

  ‘That’s fortunate indeed,’ Tom Catlin murmured. ‘Since they’re the only evidence for what, I have to say, is still an unproven theory.’

  On their way to Daggett’s the doctor had begun to have his doubts, but Betsy would not hear them. Now, she turned quickly and headed for the steps. The two men followed.

  The men’s tiring-room was as she had seen it the day before, during that tense meeting with the Bettertons. Well, Mistress Mary would have to wait. As Daggett entered with the lantern, she began poking about the cluttered room, rifling through soiled shirts, hose and assorted bits of costume. After a while she looked round impatiently.

  Below a shelf of wooden heads for men to put their periwigs on was a row of pegs hung with clothes. And here at last Betsy found what she sought: a padded doublet of russet-coloured taffeta, its sleeves slashed in the Elizabethan fashion to show the cream silk lining beneath. It was the costume that Joseph Rigg had worn in Macbeth, in his last role: that of the murdered Banquo.

  ‘Be careful!’ Betsy would have seized the doublet, had not Catlin grabbed her arm. ‘Think what you do!’ he cried. ‘If it’s doctored as you claim, you could die of a pinprick yourself!’

  ‘Die of a pinprick?’ Daggett looked blank. Raising the lantern, he gazed from Catlin to Betsy. ‘I think it’s time you two told me what you’re about!’

  But Betsy’s excitement was such that the man could only listen. ‘Do you know much about the previous century, Mr Daggett?’ she asked. ‘The time of Queen Elizabeth? Have you not heard how her life was often in danger, and how would-be assassins devised more and more cunning means by which to murder her? One scheme was to send her the gift of a gown treated with a deadly substance, so that when she put it on her skin rubbed against the poison.’