She pointed to the doublet. ‘I believe this coat was the means by which Rigg was killed.’
Daggett swallowed, than a sceptical look came over his face. ‘It can’t be, else surely he would have died soon after he put it on … here, or down in the scene-room! Why did he not die until he was on the stage?’
But at that Catlin spoke. ‘When I looked at the man’s body I found three pinpricks in his side, just below his ribs,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, if the murderer was skilled in costume-making—’
‘Precisely!’ Betsy nodded. ‘Now with your leave, I’ll take the doublet by the collar and lay it on that table. Then we can examine it.’
But Catlin stayed her arm. ‘Please, let me do it.’
And watched by Betsy and the flummoxed stage manager, the doctor picked up the object of their curiosity carefully by its neck. Holding it at arm’s length, he carried it to the small table at which the actors often sat to take an after-performance drink, and laid it down. Then, with Daggett holding the lantern, the examination began.
Tentatively, Catlin unfolded the coat and ran his eyes across it, feeling the padding and running his thumb along the seams. But not until he had turned it inside out and commenced searching the lining did his efforts bear fruit. And then with a cry of triumph that startled both men, Betsy pointed.
‘There! Hold the light closer!’
Daggett and Catlin craned forward, staring at the padding. At first they saw nothing. But following Betsy’s gaze, Catlin peered at the garment’s bottom edge, which had been stitched into a neat hem … and froze. In the lantern’s gleam, several tiny spots of brown stain were visible, close together. Moreover, there was a small slit, no bigger than a buttonhole, but clearly cut by design. Gently Catlin lifted the edge of the doublet and poked his finger inside. Then he turned to Betsy, with his puzzling-out look firmly in place.
‘So, Mistress Rummager – you were right!’
Moustache bristling, Daggett spoke in an agitated voice. ‘Right about what?’ he cried. ‘In God’s name, will one of you enlighten me?’
‘A little spike was sewn into the coat,’ Betsy told him. ‘A sharpened hairpin, a needle, it matters not, and as I expected, it’s been removed. What matters is the poison with which it was coated … and which left these stains.’
Daggett looked astonished. But with a glance at Catlin, Betsy lifted the edge of the doublet.
‘Skilled with costume, you said. So skilled, she knew where to place the pin, so it did not prick the wearer too soon. In fact, it didn’t prick him until he exerted himself and fell, during his death scene, when the murderers were upon him.’ She met Daggett’s gaze. ‘And we all saw what happened after that.’
The man was beside himself. ‘She, you said,’ he drew a long breath. ‘You mean…?’
‘I do,’ Betsy answered. ‘Our little mouse of a tiring-maid … Louise.’
The man’s face was haggard in the lantern’s gleam. With a sigh, Betsy straightened up and gazed down at what was no longer an actor’s stage costume, but a murder weapon.
‘I’m fortunate in having an educated man for my landlord, Mr Daggett,’ she said. ‘For it was he who remembered what the word colporteur means. The one who provided her with the method by which she could take her revenge has a taste for nicknames. He merely translated the Dutch word Aanaarden for the English hill. Hence Louise took her cue from him, and did the same. Colporteur’s an old French word …’ she looked at Catlin.
‘It means a peddler,’ he said. ‘Or, if you like, a hawker.’
‘Louise Hawker?’ Daggett gazed at them both in dismay. ‘Under our noses the whole time?’ He swore an oath, then turned to Betsy. ‘But in God’s name,’ he cried, ‘why did she do it?!’
Whereupon Betsy told him of the death of Jean Colporteur, and of the daughter who had sought to avenge him.
Sunday morning dawned damp and misty. The din of London’s bells was muffled, especially in the suburbs west of the city. But the small group of men, and one woman, who made their way across Holborn Bridge had not come from church. They had assembled an hour earlier at the house of Doctor Tom Catlin in Fire’s Reach Court, then set out on foot for the north-western corner of the Walls. Leading them was a heavy man in a brown coat: Gould, the constable of Farringdon Ward Without. It had been Thomas Betterton’s wish that he be the one to arrest Louise Hawker, rather than the disgraced Quinn. Having been told late the night before of what Betsy and Catlin had discovered, a subdued Betterton had sent word to Gould among others, including Lord Caradoc. His Lordship, chastened by the news, chose to distance himself from the Duke’s Company – at least, until the tiring-maid was taken into custody. Betterton, by contrast, had wanted to be a party to the arrest, until his wife persuaded him otherwise. So it was that, along with three under-constables chosen by Gould, the only member of the Duke’s who, to the constable’s irritation, refused to stay at home, was Mistress Betsy Brand. Once Doctor Tom Catlin agreed to be responsible for her, however, the man relented. Now Betsy and Catlin brought up the rear of the determined little party who, under the curious gazes of passers-by, skirted the fire-damaged walls of London as far as Aldersgate. Crossing the north boundary of the Fire’s Reach, they marched up the street and halted at a corner.
When the matter had been turned about, late the previous night, it emerged that no one knew the precise address of Louise the tiring-maid; though it was believed she lived with her ageing mother. Beyond that, Betterton and Daggett had only an approximate knowledge of her whereabouts. However, the constable knew of a Frenchwoman named Madeleine Colporteur, a widow, who lived in a tumbledown house on the corner of Jewin Street, where they now stood. As the party gathered about the doorway Gould spoke briefly with his men, then banged hard upon the door.
There was no answer, whereupon the man knocked again. Finally the door squealed open on rusty hinges, to reveal the face of a woman in a frayed cap, who stepped back in alarm. To Gould’s terse question, she responded in a voice of outrage.
‘What d’you mean? Do I look like I’m French?’ she demanded. ‘If you seek the Cold Porters, they’re up there!’ She pointed a finger in the air, then shoved the door wide and walked off. Without further ado, Gould and his men pushed their way inside. Their footfalls thudded on the stairs, filling the house. Betsy and Catlin followed.
And almost at once there were voices from above … and a cry that was almost a scream. Betsy and Catlin exchanged looks, and quickened their pace. In a moment they had gained the upper floor, to emerge in an overfurnished parlour filled with bright colours. But Betsy had barely time to glance at the hangings, which were clearly fashioned from materials taken from the Duke’s costume-store. For there were more raised voices, and here were Gould’s men in a half-circle about a small, wizened figure in black, her white hair tucked under a lace cap. At her side, the two women clinging to each other in fright, was the tiring-maid, whom she had known as Louise Hawker.
‘Mistress Brand!’ The girl started at the sight of Betsy, and seemed to fix upon her as a sign of hope. ‘What in God’s name is happening? My poor mother’s terrified!’
But before Betsy could answer, Gould spoke up sternly. ‘I’m ordered to arrest you, mistress,’ he said. ‘For the murder of Joseph Rigg and Joshua Small!’
A look of disbelief spread over Louise’s face. ‘This is madness,’ she faltered. ‘I wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she looked anxiously at Betsy. ‘Please … tell them!’
Betsy’s mouth was dry. Face to face with the person she had been hunting for days, if not weeks, she now found herself torn. She remembered Louise on her first day at the Duke’s Theatre: nervous as a kitten, but so anxious to please. In fact, she was such an innocent, yet so skilled and nimble-fingered, that even the most lecherous of the actors had for the most part refrained from pawing her. But now, in view of what she had learned, Betsy began to see Louise in a different light. Beside her, Tom Catlin was watching the girl carefully, as if waiting for some sign of guilt, y
et there was none.
‘Je vous en prie, messieurs … expliquez-vous, car je suis foue de terreur!’ Madame Colporteur cried out in a voice that shook, and a stream of incomprehensible French tumbled from her mouth. But when Louise held her tightly and put a hand on her lips, the woman fell silent.
‘My mother speaks little English,’ she said, and faced the constable. ‘Sir, I beg you to leave! I’ll come with you to answer these charges. But they’re false! I know nothing of … of what you speak.’
She looked desperately from Gould to Betsy. There was a silence, and the constables seemed to hesitate; it was indeed difficult to imagine this girl a murderer. But after some shuffling and staring down at boots, Gould gave a snort that made them all look up, and gestured to Betsy.
‘Will you tell her what you found at the theatre, mistress?’ he asked drily.
Betsy glanced at Catlin, who still remained silent. Louise and her mother watched her, the two of them visibly trembling.
‘We examined Rigg’s costume, Louise,’ she said quietly. ‘So I know how you killed him.’
Slowly, Louise shook her head.
‘I too was threatened with that poison,’ Betsy went on. ‘Just a tiny amount is needed, is it not? Enough to cover a pin, or a needle,’ and at last, she saw a look in the girl’s eyes that was not fear. Emboldened, she raised her voice.
‘How old were you when Rigg and his drunken friends seized your father and hanged him?’ she asked.
The silence that fell was deadly. All eyes were upon Louise. But still the girl made no reply.
‘I’d say you were but a child of twelve years,’ Betsy persisted. ‘Old enough to understand all that happened, yet too young to prevent it. A terrible thing was done to you and your mother … to your brother too.’
‘My brother?’ Louise spoke so softly, it was difficult to hear her. She had gone very still; now she removed her arms from about her mother, and straightened herself.
‘I spoke with Sir Anthony Griffiths,’ Betsy said. ‘The father of the man we knew as Joseph Rigg. He told me about you and your family.’
Louise was no longer shaking. She merely held Betsy’s gaze, as if daring her to continue.
‘I know the whole tale,’ Betsy went on. ‘Save for one thing: how you learned Julius Hill’s true identity, and how—’
But at that moment Madame Colporteur, who had been watching Betsy intently, gave a cry and wrung her hands in dismay.
‘In the name of God … please, speak not of this!’
The men’s heads snapped towards Louise’s mother. Though her French accent was heavy, the words were clear enough.
Gould was quick to recover. ‘So you do speak English!’ he said harshly. ‘I wondered about that, after all the years you’ve lived here.’
‘Monsieur, I beg,’ the old woman looked as if she would fall to her knees. ‘My daughter is all I have – do not take her.’
‘Enough!’ The constable was unmoved. Turning to Louise, he made an impatient gesture. ‘Speak!’ he ordered. ‘You’re bound for Newgate whatever happens, but if you don’t admit your crime, I’ll take your mother too!’
‘No.’ Louise stepped forward, her hands at her sides. ‘You will not.’
Her voice was ice cold, and along with the others Betsy regarded the girl in surprise. After a moment, Madame Colporteur moved to a nearby chair and sank down upon it.
‘She knows naught of it!’ Louise looked Gould in the eye, and now Betsy saw a spark of the rage that was within her. At once she was reminded of the look in the eyes of Julius Hill – the Salamander. Here indeed was his creature – his boast had not been idle, for she had continued his terrible work.
‘You’ll have your confession.’ The girl stared at Gould with contempt. ‘I’ve done what I could … what a good daughter should, to avenge her father!’
There came a choking sound, and Louise glanced at her mother, who burst into tears. But instead of going to her, the girl turned back to the others.
‘You didn’t know my father,’ she said, ‘which is your misfortune, for a kinder, gentler man never lived!’
She eyed Betsy, her delicate mouth flattening into a thin line. ‘Of course I burned for revenge,’ she said scornfully. ‘Who would not, who suffered what I did? And when my brother proved unequal to the task, a weakling who drowned himself in drink like the rogues who rampaged through the streets that night, I knew it was my duty to see it done!’ She glanced at her mother, but the old woman had buried her face in her hands.
‘You think you’re quite an intelligencer.’ Louise threw Betsy a bitter look. ‘It took you long enough to come to the nub of things, did it not?’
But Betsy did not flinch from the girl’s hate-filled gaze. For now that she saw the true face of the tiring-maid, she felt little but relief. ‘When did you learn it was Hill who killed Long Ned and Tom Cleeve?’ she asked. ‘Did he make himself known to you, or did—’
‘He had no need!’ Louise almost spat the words. ‘You know nothing of me,’ she said, her mouth curling into a sneer. ‘I’m the one helps you in and out of your clothes, laces your stays, tucks your breasts into your bodice, fetches and carries for you – and you barely notice me! So with the men, who flaunt themselves at me in their undress, vying with each other to see who can make me blush … stinking of drink, their eyes on my neckline, hands at my skirts …’ she broke off, and threw a scathing look at the constables.
‘But he wasn’t like that, was he?’
Betsy spoke calmly. Meeting Louise’s gaze, she went on: ‘Aanaarden – he was different from the others, was he not?’
‘More than you’ll ever know,’ Louise said softly, and for the first time she lowered her eyes. ‘So that I gave him the only precious gift I had, in return for his help.’
The girl’s mother started, gazing at her in horror, then began weeping anew. But Betsy met Catlin’s eye. Of course, Louise had been Hill’s lover: what else had she, but her body, with which to tempt such a man?
‘Jan Aannarden,’ Louise spoke the name with such an accent that she had clearly been taught how to say it. ‘He saw me not for the part I played … compliant little Louise, afraid of her own shadow… the timid girl you thought you knew! He saw me as he was himself: an avenging angel, come to bring justice!’
‘Justice!’ Gould had had enough. Lunging forward, he seized the girl’s arm so sharply she winced in pain. ‘You’ll have your justice, at the end of the hangman’s rope!’ he cried. ‘You and that murdering villain have sent half a dozen men to their graves between you. Avenging angel? Devil, more like!’
There was a moment, before something unexpected happened. Louise had remained still, staring at the constable with a look of defiance. Then her right foot shot out, connecting with the man’s shin. As he grunted with pain, his grip loosened, which was all the girl needed. In a trice she had torn herself free of him and ducked aside, so suddenly that the under-constables were caught off guard. Cursing, one of them grabbed for the girl, but snatched only thin air. Like an eel, she darted between them, head low, and leaped for the stairwell, but Tom Catlin was quicker.
The doctor, who had been watching her intently, had moved a split second after Louise. As she was about to jump down the stairs, he caught her by her waist, his strong arms folding tightly about her. Then she was confined and, despite the writhing and kicking, the spitting and screeching, she was helpless, and she knew it. The constables hurried to take the girl from him, one seizing her legs, another her arms, while the third stumbled forward to take her waist. And clumsily she was transferred, so that at last Catlin was able to step back, somewhat red in the face, and recover his breath.
So at the final turn, Louise Hawker, who was named Louise Colporteur, knew she had lost. Her strength failed, she went limp, and finally slumped to the floor, surrounded absurdly by three burly men, each holding a part of her. Over her stood Gould, furious at how close he had come to losing her. But Betsy’s eye had been caught by Madeleine Co
lporteur, who had risen from her chair. And as the men turned sharply, the old woman came forward, to peer down at her daughter with a tear-stained face.
The eyes of mother and daughter met, then Madeleine raised her hand and pointed. Betsy followed her outstretched arm, as did the others, to see a black crucifix hanging on the wall. And after crossing herself, in a shaky voice the woman spoke.
‘Mon dieu … pardonnez-moi, votre pauvre servante … j’ai donné naissance a une meurtrière!’
Gould looked impatiently to Catlin. ‘What did she say?’
‘She asked God to forgive her,’ the doctor said quietly, ‘for giving birth to a murderess.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The night of the first of December brought a snowfall that covered London with a mantle of pure white. The day dawned sunny, however, which meant that the lanes would soon turn to slush; but for now Betsy Brand and Jane Rowe, walking down to Dorset Gardens in the morning, could admire the beauty of it. Before them the river sparkled in the sunlight, which was also reflected from the cupola above the Duke’s Theatre.
‘Let’s hope that’s a good sign,’ Jane said, pulling her bertha about her. ‘Not that I’m much of a one for omens,’ she glanced round. ‘Talking of that, it’s quiet without old Palmer shouting at us, is it not?’
‘So it is.’ Betsy thought of the incorrigible ranter, recalling his wild stare. ‘I heard he’d left the suburbs. Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Taken up a new pitch by St Paul’s,’ Jane told her. ‘Do you know they’re going to blow up the ruins with gunpowder, and build it all anew? They’re even talking about a monument, to mark where the Fire started,’ she sighed. ‘With all this rebuilding, I won’t recognize the old place.’
Betsy took her arm, and together they walked to the theatre’s side door. There were many footprints in the churned-up snow, showing that others had arrived ahead of them. But beside the doorway, a newly pasted sign stopped both women in their tracks.
After the Fire Page 19