Betsy nodded, then in a casual tone said: ‘I heard something, to do with the Fire. Or I should say, I heard of someone … the Salamander, that was it. Does it strike a memory in you?’
There was a moment, then to Betsy’s surprise Hannah threw back her head and gave a shout of laughter.
‘The Salamander! What’ve you heard about him?’
‘Well … that he was about, during the Fire—’
‘About!’ Hannah gave another laugh. ‘He was that, all right. He was everywhere!’
‘I don’t understand,’ Betsy said.
‘He’s a fable,’ Hannah told her. ‘A sprite you conjure up to frighten children. Show me someone who says he’s seen the Salamander, and I’ll say he was pickled as a herring!’
The woman sniffed, and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her old chemise. ‘I suppose it’s unlikely you’d have heard of him,’ she added. ‘You mix with folk of all stations, Betsy Brand, and you never scoff. But your father was a gent, and you’re a well-bred lady at heart, that once lived in a big house. Isn’t it so?’ When Betsy did not answer, she went on: ‘In the lanes and ginnels where tenant folk like my family dwelt, it’s another tale. Those who had precious little to save, who left their old houses with naught but the clothes on their backs, watched ’em burn without much sorrow, often as not.’ She sighed, then went on: ‘After a couple of days, when the fire spread to the west wall, that was when those tales started up: the Salamander, hopping in and out of burning buildings free as you like, because the flames couldn’t touch him. Every purse, every bit of silver that went missing … blame the Salamander, for he must’ve took it! Why, there’s even women who claim they were violated by him, while the house next door burned.’ She broke off, fixing Betsy with a wry smile. ‘You believe in the Salamander, Mistress, you’ll believe anything!’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have listened to rumour,’ Betsy said ruefully.
Hannah was silent for a while. ‘There was so much panic then, so much fear,’ her face clouded. ‘ ’Twas the devil’s work … and there were those who found a ready scapegoat when something valuable disappeared. They could always blame the Salamander. Some swore blind they saw him, but when it comes to describing him, they’d turn a bit forgetful. Odd, that, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Looters, you mean?’ Betsy met Hannah’s eye. ‘Is that what you meant when you said Tom and Ned were thick as thieves?’
‘Here, don’t you go calling Tom a looter,’ Hannah muttered. ‘He never told me what he did during the Fire, and I never asked.’ She gave another sniff. ‘Is that all you came for?’
‘You asked me to pass on anything I learned,’ Betsy replied. ‘But since it seems it’s nothing to do with what happened to Tom, I’ll take my leave.’ Whereupon Hannah spoke in a softer tone.
‘You know me, Betsy,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve a mouth on me that’d stop a horse and dray. Look for me in a week or two, for I’ll likely be working the Black Spread-Eagle. We’ll take a mug, and laugh about old times.’
Betsy frowned; the Black Spread-Eagle was an evil tavern, notorious for the coarseness of its whores. ‘What of your children?’ she began, but Hannah shrugged.
‘They’ll have a roof and a bite to eat. That’s enough, isn’t it?’
A half hour later, Betsy was in Jane Rowe’s house in Butcher’s Hall Lane, with a welcome cup of ale in her hand. The house was new, one of those rebuilt in the years following the Fire. Jane’s brothers were at their work, helping their widower father at his stall in Newgate Market. Hence the two actresses could talk at leisure, and in a short time Betsy had acquainted her friend with all that had occurred since they last parted, at the Hercules Pillars. But on hearing of the curious fate of Alderman Blake, Jane grew thoughtful.
‘Well now, I don’t know how this salamander business fits, but I do know Blake’s made enemies in his time. Then, he makes such a show of being a pious, God-fearing man you’d guess the old blatherer was a fake, wouldn’t you?’
‘A fake?’ Betsy raised her eyebrows.
Jane shrugged. ‘He made most of his money importing wines … but not all of it. He had the rights to Newgate felons, for transport to the colonies,’ she fumbled for the word. ‘Franchise, that’s what they call it.’
‘You mean, he was paid for shipping them out?’ Betsy asked.
‘Paid by the head,’ Jane told her. ‘More, he had a sideline in selling the shackles for old iron.’ She gave a grim smile. ‘You ask my Cobus what those in prison think of Blake, let alone what they’d do to the bastard if they had the chance!’
Betsy took a drink. ‘But if it was a matter of revenge,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘say a freed felon, or a relative of someone he’d sent away, why not just wait for him after dark with a cudgel? If the live salamander was a message, as Tom Catlin thinks, it seems a mighty strange message to me.’
‘And a deal of trouble to go to,’ Jane agreed. ‘And now you’ve reminded me, I might have heard those tales too, about the Salamander. But they didn’t trouble me. Our family were lucky, Betsy. My father and brothers worked fast and we got out before the flames reached us, carried everything we could to Moorfields. Lived under a tent for more than a year.’ She frowned at the memory. ‘Then, nothing that happened in those days surprises me. We’ll never know all that went on, will we?’
It was true. Every Londoner had memories of that fearful conflagration, and Betsy’s were less terrible than most. After a moment she said: ‘Let’s suppose that the Salamander was real, can we?’ When Jane looked sceptical, she went on: ‘If there was someone – a looter, say – who saw easy pickings as people fled the flames, would it not suit such a man to be thought a sprite … a mere fable? He could even have spread the tales himself.’
Jane made a face. ‘You’ve never been one to let your fancies fly away with you, Betsy,’ she remarked. ‘Could it be that watching Tom Cleeve’s death, then Rigg’s, has shook you up more than you know?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Betsy answered. ‘But I yearn to know what connects them. Remember the pinpricks Tom Catlin found?’
‘What does a pinprick matter?’ Jane asked. ‘Whether there’s a brown stain about it or not, does that speak of murder? I’ve thought on it since, and I’ll take a deal more convincing than that!’
It did not surprise Betsy that her down-to-earth friend remained sceptical. Was it likely that the three men – Long Ned, Cleeve and Rigg – had all been murdered, in the space of as many days? She looked up, to see Jane smiling.
‘Now don’t fall into the mulligrubs,’ she said. ‘Whatever you do, you know I’ll help if I can.’
‘I know it,’ Betsy said, returning the smile – whereupon Jane looked thoughtful. ‘There’s some in prison could tell you more,’ she said. ‘About looting, I mean.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t mean my Cobus! He’s no angel, but he never did worse than pocket a bit of silver,’ she hesitated. ‘There’s one I could name knows more than most. Then you wouldn’t want to go looking for him.’
But Betsy’s pulse quickened. ‘Who is that?’
Jane looked uncomfortable. ‘Pay someone else to go seek him,’ she said, ‘for he’s a wicked fellow, and I wouldn’t sleep knowing I set you after him.’
‘Please … tell me who the man is,’ Betsy persisted. ‘Then let me worry about how to find him.’
Finally Jane sighed, and met her gaze. ‘Dart,’ she said finally. ‘His name’s Dart, and he’ll likely be in the Bermudas, where the law can’t get at him.’
Then, as if regretting what she had said, she put out her hand and gripped Betsy’s arm. ‘But if you go seeking that one, Betsy, promise me you’ll take someone to watch your back,’ she said urgently. ‘Or Lord knows what might happen!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Betsy told Tom Catlin that she intended to disguise herself and go into the Bermudas, he was mortified.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ he demanded. ‘The Straits is a lawless enclave! At best you’l
l be robbed, at worst … well, I won’t name it. But I imagine you can guess.’
Betsy waited for him to regain his customary calm. She had spent much of the afternoon walking in St James’s Park, thinking. Now night had fallen, supper was over at Fire’s Reach Court and the candles lit. She remained seated while the doctor paced about. Finally he picked up his mug and took a pull.
‘It’s a foolhardy notion, Betsy, and I urge you to abandon it. As a friend of your father’s, I must have an eye for your safety. Going on a hunt in that warren for some fambler or biter you’ve never set eyes upon – it’s madness. Even if you find him, he’ll likely take your money and tell you nought but lies!’
‘Fambler or biter?’ Betsy smiled. ‘I didn’t know you were so au fait with criminal speech.’
‘It’s because I know something of the netherworld of rogues that I’m qualified to warn you off!’ the other retorted. He sighed, then sat down facing Betsy.
‘Think what you do,’ he said. ‘Your little expedition to the bagnio proved fruitless. This time, even if your disguise fools those you meet, which it may not, you’re taking a far greater risk. The Bermudas may claim old rights of sanctuary, but there’s nothing holy about the place – quite the reverse. Only the desperate go there.’
‘Which is precisely why I may find some clue to the puzzle that has kept me awake half the night,’ Betsy told him. ‘Don’t pretend you’re not curious yourself.’
‘Curious, perhaps,’ Catlin allowed. ‘But I haven’t lost my reason.’ His brow knitted. ‘There’s something very dark behind this whole business. The deaths, I mean.’
‘And now Alderman Blake being scared out of his wits,’ Betsy broke in. ‘Do you think there could be some connection?’
‘I don’t see how.’ Catlin hesitated, then added: ‘I went to see Blake today, as I promised Caradoc. There’s no change. The man’s like a living statue … it’s almost as if he’s given up, and simply wills himself to die.’
‘And if he should die, that would make four deaths,’ Betsy answered. ‘All of them linked in some way with the Duke’s Theatre!’
‘A tenuous link,’ Catlin objected. ‘Long Ned was employed briefly at the old theatre, it’s true. But Blake’s only connection was a desire to see the Duke’s shut down.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Betsy said, and at last told the doctor what Jane Rowe had told her, about the Alderman’s grisly trade of shipping felons from the gaols to the colonies.
Catlin was stunned by the revelation. ‘The old hypocrite!’ he exclaimed. ‘To my mind, that makes him little better than the wretches he packed off.’ He met Betsy’s eye. ‘But I still don’t follow your reasoning. What makes you think those tales of the Salamander have bearing on the deaths of Ned, Cleeve and Rigg?’
‘The Fire,’ Betsy replied. ‘I don’t know how, but all threads seem to lead back to that. Hannah Cleeve wouldn’t speak of it, but it’s my belief Tom was involved in looting at that time. And he and Long Ned were thick as thieves, Hannah said … literally. In which case—’
‘In which case,’ Catlin interrupted, ‘your theory falls flat! For Joseph Rigg – or Joseph Griffiths, the magistrate’s son – had no connection with Ned or Cleeve, back then. The notion that he’d consort with looters is preposterous.’
‘Yet you found the same pinpricks on his body that you found on Tom Cleeve’s.’
After a moment Catlin lifted his mug and drained it. Then he got up again and took a few paces. ‘Well, Mistress Rummager, you have me there.’ He stopped pacing. ‘One thing occurs to me: with Blake out of the way, it seems likely the Duke’s will reopen soon, does it not? Which will be of great relief to quite a number of people.’
Betsy started. ‘You think one of our company was behind that cruel joke at Caradoc’s?’
‘How many would know where the Alderman was dining that evening?’ Catlin countered. ‘Let alone be able to arrange the blind-baked pie in time, and have it sent to Caradoc’s.’ He shook his head. ‘An elaborate plan, carried out with such cunning – a sharp intellect’s behind it, that much is clear to me.’
He paused, whereupon Betsy spoke up. ‘I know you have my safety at heart, yet I still mean to go to the Bermudas and look for this man Dart,’ she said gently.
The doctor sighed … and gave up. ‘Then you must not go alone. I’d better accompany you – and I will be armed.’
But Betsy shook her head. ‘You’re too well known about the Strand and the suburbs,’ she objected. ‘And even if we fashioned a disguise for you, you’re no actor.’ She thought for a moment. ‘If I must have a companion, it should be another woman who can pass herself off as one of Hannah Cleeve’s calling.’
At that moment the door opened, and Peg lurched in with cap awry and sleeves rolled, glaring at them both. ‘If master and mistress have finished,’ she said acidly, ‘I’d like to clear the supper table.’
Betsy looked at Catlin, who let out a sigh of exasperation.
Reprising her role as Mary Peach was easy enough for Betsy; persuading Peg Brazier to accompany her was another matter. Only with Tom Catlin’s promise of a day off, and Betsy’s of a new petticoat, would Peg consent to the enterprise. Even then, as the two women made their way through Covent Garden that night, she made plain her contempt for the whole business.
‘What d’you think to do?’ she asked. ‘Knock on every rotten door in the Bermudas and ask for Mr Dart? They’ll think you’re cracked as an old pot!’
Betsy’s mind was busy, however. She was mulling over not only her conversation with Catlin, but those she had had earlier with Hannah and Jane. Despite her fears, which she could not admit to Peg, she felt elated. She was on the scent; and though she did not know where it might lead, it excited her.
Peg’s presence was a mixed blessing. Though she looked the part of a street-walker well enough, in a torn taffeta chemise and an old red wig, her heart was not in the role. And what Betsy feared was that the first man who accosted her might receive a kick to the shins followed by a mouthful of abuse. Her advice was that Peg should wear the vizard-mask they had fashioned, and let Betsy do the talking. Her one concession had been that Peg could take an old dagger of Catlin’s, which was strapped to her thigh under her skirts. Thus armed, the two sallied forth among the night-time crowds, and were able to make their way unhindered to Maiden Lane, parallel to the Strand. Turning left into Half Moon Street, which was less crowded, they arrived at the large inn on the corner which bore the same name. The Half Moon was a disreputable tavern, despite being directly opposite the fashionable New Exchange. The difference between the south side of the Strand, lined with grand houses that gave on to the river, and the north side, was never more marked than it was here.
Now both women tensed as they walked the last yards to the dark opening of Round Court, the south entry to the lawless little community of the Bermudas. Debtors had once fled to the distant Islands of Bermuda; and though this less balmy district was on the fringes of London, it had earned the nickname because it too offered a haven, a respite for those wishing to escape the reach of the law. With a glance at each other, Betsy and Peg entered the rookery. And though there was no obstacle, Betsy felt as though she passed through some invisible barrier. More alarmingly, the feeling grew that unseen eyes were upon her, and that henceforth her every movement would be watched.
Gingerly, they walked under creaking, overhanging jetties, past boarded windows. But soon there was light ahead: a lurid red glow. The two of them emerged in Round Court, a rough quadrangle with several exits, and doorways opening on to what looked like noisome hovels. Now came a hum of low voices, and at last there were people: a group of men standing about an iron brazier, warming their hands at the fire within it. As the two women emerged from the alley the men turned, and some laughed at sight of a pair of blowsy-looking trulls, who appeared to be lost.
‘Whom do ye seek, Miss?’ The questioner was a rat-faced little man in fustian. When Betsy hesitated, he grinned. ‘Come into th
e light – or d’you wish to hide your charms from us?’
Behind, Betsy heard Peg mutter under her breath. Quickly she summoned a Mary Peach smile, and stepped forward. ‘Looking won’t cost you, master,’ she said. ‘But don’t think there’s any laced mutton for free!’
Another man, less good-humoured than the first, glowered at her from across the fire. ‘If you want the Red Sash it’s back the way you’ve come, in Long Court.’
‘I know that,’ Betsy said. ‘I’m looking for a fellow. I’ve brought news for him.’
‘Who’s that then?’ the first man asked. His glance strayed past Betsy to Peg, who hung back.
‘Dart,’ Betsy answered, and was quickly alert, for all of the men stiffened.
‘Dart, eh?’ the rat-faced fellow seemed to ponder the matter deeply. ‘Sure it wasn’t “fart”?’
‘It’s Dart,’ Betsy said. ‘Are you deaf, or sumfing?’
The man gave a laugh. But now Betsy heard Peg draw close behind her. ‘We haven’t got all night, you little weasel,’ she said caustically. ‘Either point us to him, or go tug yourself off.’
There was a brief silence before the men reacted, most with amusement. Finally the weasel spoke.
‘Give me your news and I’ll pass it on,’ he said. But his smile was fading, to be replaced by a hard look. Betsy glanced round, and stifled a groan. For Peg had disregarded her instruction: not only was she not wearing her mask, she was twirling it impudently about her wrist.
‘I’d tell you to boil your ears,’ she retorted, fixing the small man with a stare to match his own. ‘If I hadn’t guessed you’d lost ’em already. Nailed to the Charing Cross pillory, were they?’
Now there was danger in the air. The men gazed at them, until, cursing inwardly, Betsy rounded on Peg.
‘Shut it, buffle-head!’ she cried. ‘You’ve got a mouth on you like Bow Bell.’ She turned to the others. ‘She don’t mean nothing by it,’ she said. ‘She’s not been right in the head since she got sent to Bridewell.’
After the Fire Page 9
