After the Fire

by John Pilkington

  ‘It doesn’t sit well with the other deaths.’ Catlin was shaking his head. ‘Though clearly,’ he added, ‘the same means was employed … a most powerful toxin. Perhaps he obtained it in the tropics, where I hear there are noxious substances distilled from strange plants, even taken from the skins of certain creatures, such as toads.’ he looked up. ‘Not salamanders, however. Though they produce a secretion when roused, it isn’t dangerous to humans.’

  There was silence, Betsy and Catlin each busy with their own thoughts. ‘I’ve tried to form a picture of this man,’ Betsy said at last. ‘And yet, I can’t see his face. He was a housebreaker, skilled at slipping in and out of places undetected. Hence he is agile, and cunning. But no one seems to know what he looked like. Even Dart, who knew him better than most, didn’t trouble to describe the man,’ she frowned. ‘I wonder now that I didn’t ask him to. Somehow, it didn’t seem important.’

  ‘Perhaps because he’s so ordinary that no one noticed him,’ Catln suggested. ‘For he has the ability to move freely without drawing attention to himself. And hence …’ he hesitated. ‘I was about to suggest, that since all the deaths are linked – however tenuously – to the Duke’s Theatre, your man might even be one of the company. That would have given him ready access to two of his victims, at least. But I doubt it, for such a plain individual would be an unlikely find among the peacocks that populate your world.’

  ‘You’ve never had a high opinion of us, Tom Catlin,’ Betsy said wryly. ‘But we’re agreed that the victims have connections with the Duke’s. So I hope there’s no one else on the Salamander’s list. Another murder would be the end of us. All of London would think us accursed, and we might never reopen.’ With a sigh she got to her feet. ‘Indeed, it’s time I went to Dorset Gardens to see if anyone’s about. I promised to tell Betterton of anything I discovered.’

  Catlin eyed her. ‘Do you think he’ll thank you for it?’

  Betsy did not answer. Within the hour, deep in thought, she was making her way across muddy Fleet Street, and along Water Lane to the Duke’s Theatre.

  But the moment she walked through the door into the pit, news awaited her that drove even the Salamander from her thoughts.

  ‘Tammy Tupp?’ Betsy faced Thomas Betterton, aghast. ‘You wish me to play the part of a fat whore, with false warts and a runny nose, and—’

  ‘Perish the thought!’ The voice was that of Samuel Tripp, who was standing beside Betterton, wearing his driest smile. ‘You can play her thin, not fat.’

  ‘But I thought you wished me to play the Lady Althea.’

  ‘Then you’re mistaken,’ Tripp replied. ‘Mistress Hale is perfect for Althea.’

  ‘Is she indeed!’ Betsy’s temper was rising. She had not forgotten Tripp’s hand grasping her thigh beneath Lord Caradoc’s supper table.

  ‘My dear Mistress Brand,’ Betterton was conciliatory. ‘Think of our position. After the travails of the past week, our best course is to stage a robust comedy, and so divert the minds of our audience – and ourselves – away from Macbeth. And to stage it quickly! Mr Tripp’s new piece, The Virtuous Bawd, more than fulfils my hopes. Hence I’ve already called a rehearsal for this afternoon. The role of Tammy would suit you admirably – you’ll have them roaring with mirth! And besides …’ he glanced at Aveline Hale, who was entering by the street door. Betsy looked round, and saw Jane Rowe coming in behind her.

  ‘Besides, what?’ she asked.

  Betterton cleared his throat, and smiled. ‘You may think differently, when I tell you that Mr Tripp’s comedy has been written especially with the Duke’s actresses in mind. In short: it will be played by an entirely female cast!’

  Betsy blinked. ‘No men at all?’

  ‘None! There are breeches roles, which will be taken by Mistress Rowe and some of the hirelings.’

  Still smiling, Tripp now spoke up. ‘So you see, Mistress Brand, I have your best interests at heart, as always. You will not be required to cross-dress. And after your taxing but splendid performance as First Witch, the role of Tammy – one of the Doves of Venus – should be a true pleasure. As Mr Betterton says, you’ll have them falling off their seats … with laughter, I hope.’

  Betsy ignored the jibe, as she digested the news. From behind the stage came the sound of sawing: already the carpenters were at work. She was about to greet Jane, when she remembered.

  ‘Have you heard that Alderman Blake has died?’ she asked Betterton.

  ‘I have not.’ His brow knitted. ‘A consequence of that dreadful jest, at Caradoc’s?’ Then catching the look in Betsy’s eye, he started. ‘Does his Lordship know of it?’

  ‘I expect he does by now,’ Betsy answered. ‘Doctor Catlin viewed the man’s body this morning. He’ll send word.’

  But Tripp stirred, and his smile merely broadened. ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said. ‘But not for the Duke’s Theatre. Surely there will be little opposition now to your reopening?’

  Betterton stiffened, not liking the man’s tone. ‘Very likely,’ he replied. ‘Now, with your leave …’ And turning his back on the playmaker, he moved away to greet Aveline Hale. Betsy followed, throwing Tripp one of her most withering looks. But the man merely gave a mocking bow, and walked off.

  So it was arranged: rehearsals would begin at once for The Virtuous Bawd, with a cast made up entirely of women. Though such performances had taken place before at Court, this was a new venture for the Duke’s Company. There was already an air of excitement about the theatre, which intensified later when Betterton gathered all the actresses on the forestage. Even Louise the tiring-maid was being given a small role in the play, which filled the nervous girl with fear. But all the women approved, when it transpired that Mary Betterton herself would take a part, sharing principal billing with Aveline Hale. Some eyebrows were raised at this news, though Mistress Hale appeared delighted. The reason for that soon became clear; and even Betsy was impressed by the announcement.

  ‘A Royal performance! How splendid!’ Aveline favoured Betterton with a radiant smile.

  ‘Indeed!’ Betterton raised his hands to quell the chatter that had broken out. ‘Hence we must be on our mettle. The King and the Duke will both attend, along with many of their friends.’ He too was smiling now. ‘I have great confidence in you, ladies. There’s hard work ahead, but the rewards will be substantial.’ His gaze wandered to his wife, who was standing to one side. ‘And we have a wealth of acting experience between us, to make The Virtuous Bawd our finest endeavour!’

  But Jane, standing close to Betsy, spoke in a low voice. ‘I wonder how much money they’ll save by employing only women?’ she mused. ‘It could be the cheapest show ever!’

  Soon afterwards, however, they were obliged to put speculation about The Virtuous Bawd aside. For Lord Caradoc arrived at the theatre, and sent word immediately that Betsy should join him and Thomas Betterton in private conversation.

  They sat in one of the empty side boxes, while below them James Prout the dancing-master took the hirelings through some steps upon the stage. Betterton and Lord Caradoc listened in silence while Betsy told them all she had learned of the Salamander, and what she and Catlin had theorized. By the time she came to the end of her account, both men were subdued.

  ‘If it’s a matter of vengeance,’ Betterton said at last, ‘this man, whoever he is, must be consumed with hatred!’

  ‘Indeed.’ Caradoc was troubled. Glancing from Betterton to Betsy, he said: ‘And I ask of you both that we keep the matter secret. The company would be greatly distressed if they learned of this. And I ask you, Mistress Brand, to make the same request of Doctor Catlin.’

  ‘Doctor Catlin’s servant already knows of the matter, my lord,’ Betsy said, ‘though I trust her completely.’ She did not add that Jane Rowe also knew of it. In fact, rather a lot of people knew. She bit her lip, thinking that in her eagerness to investigate the matter she might have been somewhat careless.

  But Caradoc wasn’t listening. With a frown at
Betterton, he said: ‘The notion that one of your company may be a murderer, sir, fills me with horror.’

  Betterton looked dismayed. ‘Surely it cannot be. Even George Beale, whom I dismissed for his behaviour … I’m certain he would not be capable of such wickedness! It’s bad enough to learn that Cleeve’s a criminal, let alone Ned Gowden, who was hard working and courteous, even if he could be a sly one at times. As for Rigg …’ he fixed Betsy with a bewildered look.

  ‘His death remains a mystery,’ Betsy admitted. ‘Yet with your leave, and yours, my Lord,’ she added tentatively, ‘I would like to try and follow the scent as far as I may.’

  ‘But it grows more sinister by the day,’ Caradoc objected. ‘And I would not have you put yourself in further danger.’

  ‘Nor I!’ Betterton gave Betsy a severe look. ‘Had I known you’d act so recklessly, I would not have asked you to investigate at all.’

  ‘It was my own notion,’ Betsy told him. ‘And I see now that a woman may sometimes uncover matters more easily than a man, just as she gains access to certain places.’

  ‘If she impersonates a woman of the streets, perhaps,’ Caradoc said drily. ‘You should not take such risks again!’

  But Betsy could not help giving Betterton a dry smile. ‘And yet, my performance should serve as good preparation for my role as Tammy Tupp, should it not?’

  For once, even the great actor was lost for a reply.

  By the time the afternoon’s rehearsals were over, Betsy had decided on a course of action. Her talk with Tom Catlin had set her thinking there were certain trails she might pursue to find some clue to the identity of the Salamander. Though after the conversation with Caradoc and Betterton she thought it best to make her enquiries without telling anyone … at least, not yet. So after taking farewell of Jane, she slipped out of the Theatre, made her way down to the Whitefriars stairs and hailed a boat. Within minutes she was being rowed downriver on an outgoing tide, with the Bridge looming ahead.

  She was not certain of her destination save that it would likely be below the Bridge, close to the wharves where the larger seagoing vessels landed their wares. But after casual enquiry of her waterman, she discovered that there was a dealer of the type she sought near St Botolph’s. A short time later she was clambering ashore and making her way up Billingsgate stairs. Then, with the tang of fish and tar in her nostrils, she walked the crowded quays, seeking the whereabouts of a Mr Thomas Vane, purveyor of exotic beasts.

  The shop was a revelation. Creatures from foreign lands, brought back by sailors, were not uncommon in London. Like most people, Betsy had seen monkeys and parrots, just as she had been taken as a child to gape at the royal menagerie in the Tower, especially its famous lion. But nothing prepared her for the smell and the cacophony of noises that greeted her as she entered Vane’s cramped premises. In cages stacked from floor to ceiling were creatures of many kinds, from the commonplace to the bizarre: squirrels, a polecat that spat and marmosets that shrieked. From a corner, a large ape gazed mournfully at her. Brightly coloured birds in willow cages swung above her head, some singing melodiously, others screeching. Towards the rear was the most unsettling sight of all: a great shiny snake in a box, with strange markings along its back. Though the creature never moved, it was all Betsy could do not to flinch as she passed it. But here at last was Mr Vane, a smiling man in a chestnut-brown coat and horsehair periwig, rising from a stool to greet her.

  ‘What do you seek, mistress? A furry creature to share your bed on these cold nights, perhaps?’ Betsy blinked, whereupon the man laughed. ‘I mean no slight,’ he said. ‘How can I be of service?’

  ‘A fire salamander,’ she said shortly. ‘Have you ever had one?’

  ‘A salamander?’ the fellow echoed. ‘Heaven forbid! Who would wish to own such a creature?’

  ‘I understand they hide in stacks of wood. Have you heard of any being found in cargo, for example?’

  Vane considered. ‘If so, I imagine whoever found one would kill it. Are they not poisonous?’ When Betsy feigned ignorance, he added: ‘Well, I fear I cannot help. If you’re set upon obtaining such, perhaps you could ask at the timber wharves,’ he brightened. ‘But if it’s a woolly monkey you seek, or a guinea pig – that’s a charming little animal from South America – then permit me to show you …’ he broke off, for Betsy was shaking her head.

  ‘Another time, perhaps,’ she managed a smile. ‘In the meantime, can you point me to the timber wharves?’

  Vane sighed, and accompanied her out to the street.

  But the timber merchants were a disappointment.

  There were many, and they were busy men. So when Betsy made her enquiries, she met with rather less courtesy than she had received from Thomas Vane. Did she not realize, several demanded, that since the Fire, London was in the throes of a building boom the like of which had not been seen for centuries? If it was wood she wanted, then they might do business. But as for lizards scuttling out of stacks of timber … had she nought better to occupy herself, than to ask such questions?

  Discouraged, Betsy took her leave of a dealer by the Customs House Quay, deciding to make him the last one. But as she was about to walk to the stairs and hire a westward boat, unexpectedly the man called her back.

  From his accent she had guessed he was German. A heavy-set man with thick blond hair, he waited until she had retraced her steps towards him. Then she saw a second man approaching: younger and slimmer, but so like the other in his features that he had to be the merchant’s son. Leaving this one to do the talking, the older man walked off.

  ‘You asked about salamanders, mistress?’ the young man asked. His manner was civil, and when Betsy smiled and nodded, his face softened. ‘My father is from the Black Forest country,’ he said. ‘There are salamanders there. They hibernate in the wood piles against the houses. When logs are brought in for the fire they run out and scare the children. They’re most colourful – yellow spots from head to tail.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Betsy warmed to her new informant at once. ‘Have you ever seen any here, in England?’

  The young man shook his head. ‘Never.’

  Disappointment threatened again, but Betsy tried a final question. ‘Do you know of some that have orange marks?’

  The other considered. ‘I’ve heard of such. But they come from the south, from countries like Spain and Portugal.’

  At that, Betsy caught her breath. ‘I thank you,’ she said after a moment. ‘You’ve helped me more than you know.’

  The young man smiled broadly. ‘I’m honoured,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would care to stay for a mug of—’ then he broke off. For Betsy had turned quickly and was walking off, to vanish between stacks of timber.

  She had not meant to be sharp, but the young man’s words had struck a chord: perhaps the journey downriver had not been wasted after all. For in Covent Garden there was a man who sold strange things from foreign lands: jewellery, trinkets and carvings, bought by the wealthy to beautify their houses. He was called Lopez, and he was a Portuguese Jew.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The morning brought grey skies and a chill breeze from the river. But by ten o’clock Betsy had left Fire’s Reach Court and was walking briskly towards Covent Garden. Emerging from Russell Street into the piazza, she turned right along a row of shops, above which hung a series of brightly painted signs: a white hand denoting a glover, a stag for a breeches-maker, a civet cat for a perfumer. But the one she sought bore no sign: only a little gold bell over the doorway, that tinkled in the wind. In a moment she had passed through the entrance into a windowless interior, lit by a couple of small lanterns.

  Shimon Lopez had been a part of Covent Garden for almost a decade. Earlier – almost twenty years back – Oliver Cromwell had invited the sage Menasseh ben Israel to lay the foundations of a new Jewish community here. After King Charles’s restoration, others – refugees from the Dutch provinces, who had aided him in his exile – were made welcome in their turn. Some were now w
ealthy men, merchants and importers. But Lopez had never sought advancement beyond the modest premises he had obtained, and from where he still sold the curious assortment of goods for which he was noted. As Betsy paused to let her eyes grow accustomed to the dimness, the man came forward in his long coat and inclined his head.

  ‘How may I aid you, mistress?’

  ‘I’m looking for a rare animal, sir,’ Betsy replied, meeting his unblinking eyes. ‘And I was told you were the man who could find such. Or you might know where to direct me.’

  Lopez raised his heavy eyebrows. ‘It’s called…?’

  ‘A salamander.’

  The other digested the information. ‘And this salamander – what manner of animal is it?’

  ‘Like a lizard … dark, and spotted with orange,’ Betsy told him. ‘Though it isn’t a lizard, but a newt.’

  Lopez watched her. Then, when it became clear that he was waiting, Betsy added: ‘Its proper name is the fire salamander. It’s found in warm countries like Spain … and Portugal, which I think was your homeland, Mr Lopez.’

  The man made a polite movement of his head. ‘And might I ask what you wish to do with this spotted newt?’ he enquired.

  ‘I would put it in a pie, to frighten my dinner guests,’ Betsy told him.

  At that, Lopez started. ‘Most peculiar.’ He put a hand to his beard and rubbed it, his smile gone as quickly as it had appeared. Finally he said: ‘Permit me to make a guess, mistress: my guess is that you do not wish a salamander for yourself, but information about another who did. Am I correct?’

  ‘If that were so,’ Betsy asked after a moment, ‘would you be able to help me?’

  Lopez hesitated. ‘If you were a customer of mine, perhaps,’ he began.

  ‘Of course,’ Betsy smiled. ‘I see a charming little ivory fan there. How much might that cost?’