Lopez returned her smile, and ushered her towards a table to begin negotiations.
When Betsy emerged from the shop a quarter of an hour later, she was so preoccupied that she walked in the wrong direction, across the piazza almost to the entrance of St Paul’s church. Realizing her error, she turned and retraced her steps towards Russell Street. She was still pondering the intriguing information she had gleaned from Shimon Lopez.
Some weeks ago, a man had come to him and asked him privately to obtain several fire salamanders, for which he would pay whatever price Lopez wanted, and in whatever currency. Lopez had tried: such an order took time, he explained, and was most difficult to fill. In the end, through various contacts, he had managed to purchase three such creatures, but disastrously, in transit from the Bay of Biscay, two had perished. So he was able to supply his customer with only one living salamander. Such was his mortification that he refunded the generous down payment the customer had provided, taking only a small sum for expenses. Hence, in view of the outcome of the affair, he no longer felt bound to such secrecy as the customer had insisted upon, and found himself able to give Betsy a fairly full account. Yes, it was a black and orange fire salamander, about ten inches in length … and the man had indeed claimed that he intended it for a joke, to frighten an old friend at a party. The customer…?
Lopez had shrugged, scratched his chin, and reflected a little. The customer was a man of middling height, simply dressed, with no particular distinguishing features. But his name, yes, his name he remembered, for he knew it was not the man’s real name. In fact, he felt vindicated that he was not truly betraying his customer, for it was but a title the man had used. Histrio, he called himself, perhaps not realizing that Shimon Lopez knew Latin. And when Betsy pressed him, the dealer had favoured her with a knowing smile. Why, he said, histrio means ‘actor’.
Betsy arrived at the theatre a short time later, still mulling over what she had learned. Even when rehearsals began, and she was obliged to fling herself into the outrageous role of Tammy Tupp, she was unable to forget the matter. For the stark fact that refused to go away was that the Salamander appeared to be one of the Duke’s Company after all.
It had to be! Who else had such close access to Tom Cleeve and to Joseph Rigg just before they died? An actor would also have known Alderman Blake, at least by reputation, and easily discovered his address. And as for Long Ned, the bagnio was open to all. Hence this man who was so undistinguished that few seemed to notice him, let alone remember what he looked like, had been able to observe his victims, and choose the time of their deaths at his leisure. But then, Betsy knew all the actors of the Duke’s Company, and the King’s too, for that matter. In which case, she asked herself for the twentieth time, who in heaven’s name could the Salamander be?
So preoccupied was she that it soon became evident her mind was not on her work. And after an unproductive hour, James Prout the dancing-master and Downes the fat prompter, who were sitting at the front of the pit, called a halt and suggested everyone take some refreshment. As Betsy was about to leave the stage, Prout called to her.
‘Mistress Brand, a moment if you please.’
She walked to the edge of the forestage and looked down. ‘Mr Prout?’
Prout wore a glassy smile. ‘We are mindful of your efforts to breathe life into Tammy,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless we feel, Mr Downes and I, that the part demands a little more than you are giving. She’s a woman of the streets after all, hence—’
‘You wish me to lower my chemise further, so that my bosom falls out?’ Betsy enquired.
‘Indeed not!’ Prout pretended to be shocked. ‘Perhaps the key lies in Tammy’s speech, and the manner of its delivery.’
Betsy felt her hackles rising. ‘Her speech,’ she retorted, ‘is a poor rendering of the language of the jilts I’ve known. In fact, being well enough acquainted with the playmaker, I’d say that if he spent more time observing their language and less on their charms, he might have crafted a better work than this jiggalorum!’
‘Would you, indeed, Mistress Brand? Then perhaps you should instruct me!’
Betsy looked towards the side door, where Samuel Tripp was standing. How long he had been there she did not know. But as the man came forward, nodding to Prout and to John Downes, she curtseyed elaborately.
‘I regret sir, that I’ve not the time for such endeavours,’ she replied. To Prout, she added: ‘Yet I’ll do my best. If you’ll allow me a little more time to study the part.’
‘Of course,’ Prout nodded, diverted by Tripp’s arrival. And Betsy was quickly forgotten as both the dancing-master and the prompter stood up to greet the playmaker.
She walked backstage into the scene-room. The marked absence of male actors made the area seem half-empty, as well as producing a somewhat lackadaisical atmosphere. The Small brothers, Joshua and Will, were smoking their pipes. Joshua exchanged gossip with Silas Gunn, while Will was flirting openly with Louise Hawker the tiring-maid. As Betsy appeared, the girl looked up quickly.
‘Is it time for me to practise my scene?’ she asked.
Betsy shook her head. Then Gunn caught her eye, and for some reason a thought flew up. ‘Silas,’ she smiled at him. ‘May I trouble you for a moment?’
Silas’s pleasure was so apparent, Joshua Small sniggered. At once the old man hurried over to Betsy. ‘Whatever service I can perform mistress, consider it done!’ he declared.
Drawing him aside, towards the steps to the Women’s Shift, Betsy spoke low. ‘There’s something I remember hearing,’ she said in a casual tone. ‘Am I right in thinking you were once at close quarters with the Dutch?’
Silas looked surprised. ‘I fought in the first Dutch War,’ he said. ‘Fifty-two … a terrible year.’ He shrugged. ‘Close quarters? You could call it that. My ship was boarded and I was took prisoner. Ransomed soon after, though.’ He gave her a doubtful look. ‘You don’t want to hear about that, do ye?’
‘I’ve no wish to stir bad memories,’ Betsy replied. ‘I merely wondered if you knew any of the Dutch language.’
‘A word or two, maybe,’ Silas said vaguely. ‘Tis a mighty strange tongue, to an Englishman’s ear.’ Then he stiffened as Betsy bent her head closer.
‘Aanaarden,’ she said quietly. ‘Does that word mean anything to you? It doesn’t mean actor, by any chance?’
Silas thought deeply for a moment. ‘Nay, Mistress Brand. I might have heard the word, but I don’t recall what it signifies.’ He stood, somewhat crestfallen, as Betsy thanked him and started to climb the steps. Then all at once he brightened. ‘Here … wait a minute!’ he cried. And when Betsy turned he added: ‘I know what it means – yes, Aanaarden. It’s Dutch for hill.’
Thomas Betterton was expected at the Duke’s theatre at midday, to see how rehearsals for The Virtuous Bawd were progressing. Betsy, whose presence was not required on stage, was waiting for him by the street door. In a short time, the two of them had gone up to one of the side boxes, where she told him all she had discovered.
Her mentor was stunned, but soon shock began to give way to disbelief. ‘Julius Hill?’ he muttered. ‘No … I cannot countenance it. The fellow’s harmless! Why, I’ve never even heard him raise his voice. Indeed, I’ve had to instruct him to speak up when he’s on the stage, so that he might be heard!’
‘Not much of an actor, though, is he?’ Betsy ventured.
‘Perhaps not,’ Betterton allowed. ‘He was previously unknown to me, it’s true … claimed to have some experience touring in the country. I offered him a modest role at a modest wage, which he seemed glad enough to accept,’ he frowned. ‘Are you asserting that he took a job with our company merely in order to do murder!?’
Since Silas Gunn had told her the word aanaarden meant ‘hill’, Betsy’s mind had been in a whirl. For now, it seemed to her that several things fell into place. She drew a long breath and looked Betterton in the eye. ‘The more I think on it,’ she said, ‘the more it seems to fit. Hill was i
n the bagnio, when Long Ned died. Prout told us that he was closer to Ned when he fell, though when Hill gave an account of the matter in the scene-room, he seemed unwilling to say any more than he had to. The place is gloomy – I’ve seen that for myself. Hill could easily have brushed past Ned and stabbed him with a poisoned spike, or whatever it was, without anyone noticing.’
‘This is speculation, Betsy!’ Betterton wore a look of distaste. ‘Think of the risk, in such a public place.’
‘Furthermore,’ Betsy went on firmly, ‘Hill was in the scene-room when Tom Cleeve fell! There was a crush – again, he could have pricked Tom in passing and no one would have seen.’
‘Then what of Rigg?’ Betterton countered. ‘Hill was nowhere near him when he collapsed. It was that young pup Beale, and the two hirelings.’
‘Agreed.’ Betsy nodded. ‘Let’s leave Rigg aside for now – think of Blake. It would not have been difficult for a skilled housebreaker like the Salamander to climb through a window in the night, and spike the old man in his neck.’
‘Betsy, I pray you!’ Betterton was aghast. ‘These are wild leaps of imagination. You have no proof, nor are there witnesses …’ he broke off, then laid a fatherly hand on her arm.
‘Think on what you say,’ he went on in a gentler voice. ‘The man’s the unlikeliest candidate for murder that I ever saw.’
‘Precisely!’ Betsy’s eyes were alight. ‘That’s his skill, this unassuming manner, the ability to remain in the background without anyone noticing him. In fact, it seems to me now that he’s the best actor we have!’
Betterton fell silent. ‘There is one thing,’ he said finally. ‘If he’s indeed the one who purchased the salamander to taunt or frighten Blake, calling himself Histrio, then I see vanity behind it. As if he has a weakness for nicknames – like “the Salamander”. If Aanaarden were his real name, then surely calling himself “Hill” amounts to a considerable risk? How long did he think it would be before someone discovered the connection?’
At that, Betsy started. ‘Perhaps that’s what excites him: he gambled on it … and he has won. For now that the actors have dispersed, we may be too late!’
Betterton looked unhappy; but finally he came to a decision. ‘You have a sharp mind, but then, you always did. And though I still find it hard to believe your theory, I will at least test it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’ll send word to Caradoc, but first I’ll go to Hill’s lodgings myself with a constable. Then we may question him, and see what account he gives of himself. Will that content you?’
At which, Betsy could not resist a smile of satisfaction.
Fortunately, she did not have long to wait. For in the mid afternoon Betterton sent a scribbled message to Fire’s Reach Court via a link-boy: Julius Hill had paid off his landlord two days ago, vacated his lodgings in Aldersgate Street, and left no word as to where he was going. The message added that Mistress Brand should come to Betterton’s house that evening, to talk further of the matter.
Catlin was home, and stood in the hallway while Betsy read the message. When she passed it to him he scanned it quickly, then turned to the messenger who was waiting.
‘D’you wish me to take a reply, sir?’ the boy asked.
Catlin nodded, and felt in his pocket for a coin. ‘Tell him Mistress Brand will be there,’ he said. ‘And Doctor Catlin will accompany her.’
The boy hurried off, while Betsy met Catlin’s gaze in some surprise. But before she could speak, he said: ‘Don’t imagine that I’m convinced by your theories … or at least, not entirely.’
Whereupon Betsy nodded felt a surge of excitement. The trail may have gone cold for a while, but somehow she knew it was the right one.
That evening in Betterton’s parlour in Long Acre, she and Catlin listened to her mentor’s account of his visit to Julius Hill’s modest rooms in Aldersgate Street, close by the Cooks’ Hall. According to his landlord, the actor had been a model tenant: absent much of the time, and when he was home, so quiet the family barely heard him. Nor did he entertain visitors. In fact, if truth be told, the landlord could not be certain when Hill was home and when he was not. After some hesitation he had conducted Betterton and the constable to Hill’s rooms, which had been cleared of every trace of their occupant. All that remained were ashes in the fireplace, as of some papers that had been burned.
‘It’s odd, I have to admit such,’ Betterton mused. ‘The man said nothing to me about changing his lodging. He had every reason to expect further employment, if not with me, then at the King’s theatre. Why leave so abruptly, unless …’ he eyed Betsy, who sat opposite him.
‘Unless he didn’t want to be found,’ she finished.
‘What else do you know about this man?’ Tom Catlin asked.
Betterton shrugged. ‘Not a great deal, I now realize.’
‘You say he was in the bagnio when Ned Gowden died,’ the doctor went on. ‘Was he in the habit of frequenting the place?’
‘If you mean did he seek the company of molly-men, rather than of women,’ Betterton replied, ‘I’ll confess my ignorance. You might ask James Prout.’ He turned to Betsy in some embarrassment. ‘Can you shed any light on the man’s tastes?’
‘Are you asking if he has ever put his hands on me, or any of the other actresses?’ she asked. When Betterton merely raised an eyebrow, she made a wry face. ‘Not to my knowledge, but that proves nothing. I always thought him a timid man, for an actor. Now I see it may have been a clever mask.’
Catlin was nodding. ‘I saw him on your stage, in the role of the Doctor in Macbeth,’ he said to Betterton. ‘It struck me as an indifferent performance. Yet if we give credence to Mistress Brand’s suggestion that he was acting a part in the first instance – the part of Julius Hill – then he must be a very clever fellow indeed. For he was acting the doctor, as Hill would have acted him.’
‘And if he’s Dutch, as I was told,’ Betsy put in, ‘he conceals it well enough to pass for an Englishman.’
‘Moreover,’ the doctor continued while Betterton frowned, ‘when I was called to the bagnio after Ned Gowden fell ill, I have no recollection of seeing Hill there. It was as Mistress Brand said, as if he could vanish into the background.’
‘And now he has vanished from his lodgings,’ Betsy put in, eying Betterton. ‘Do you still doubt this is the man we seek?’
Finally, her mentor spoke up. ‘Well, one thing is clear at least,’ he sighed. ‘He must be found, if only to answer for himself.’ He rose, and drained his glass. ‘I’ll confer with Caradoc, who I’m sure will put matters in motion. Likely he will order a search.’
‘With your leave, I’d like to make one enquiry of my own,’ Betsy said. When both men looked to her, she added: ‘I believe you were right that Mr Prout could tell us more about Julius Hill. The two of them spent some time together, during Macbeth.’ she put on a winning smile. ‘And if you’re concerned for my welfare, doubtless Doctor Catlin will accompany me.’
Catlin met her eye, and sighed.
A half hour later, Betsy and the doctor descended from a hackney coach outside James Prout’s rooms in Whitecross Street by Cripplegate. The house was an old timbered structure with an overhanging jetty, this being a district that had been spared the ravages of the Great Fire. Lights were visible in the upper storey, but when Catlin knocked loudly there was no answer. He knocked again, and finally with a squeal of rusty hinges the door was opened by a tiny girl in a bonnet and a nightgown too long for her.
‘If you seek the fiddler, he’s not home,’ she said.
‘The dancing-master,’ Betsy said kindly. ‘Is he home?’
The girl sniffed. ‘Him? He must be, for I heard him doing his steps a while back … top floor.’
She stood aside, permitting Betsy and the doctor to enter the dimly lit passage. Soon they had climbed a narrow stair to the second floor, finding themselves in a broad chamber that overlooked the street. It was comfortably furnished and lit by several candles, but there was no sign of the oc
cupant.
‘Mr Prout!’ Betsy called, looking about.
No answer. Catlin too was taking in the surroundings. Part of the room, presumably the bedchamber, was screened off by an oak panel. With a glance at Betsy, the doctor crossed to the screen and peered round it. Then he stiffened, and Betsy felt a chill run down her spine like cold silk. Slowly she walked to his side … but already she had smelled the sharp, iron tang of blood, and steeled herself for what she might see.
What she saw was James Prout, lying across his bed with a fixed look of surprise on his face. As for the blood, his body, and the bed, were awash with it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was late that night before Betsy and Tom Catlin returned home. Peg had gone to bed, but enough glowing embers remained in the parlour fireplace for the doctor to stir it into life. He poured a mug of sack for each of them, before lighting his pipe. The room was soon filled with pungent blue smoke.
They had sent word to Betterton, then waited at Prout’s lodging for him to arrive with a constable from nearby St Giles. The owner of the house, and father of the diminutive girl, also returned soon afterwards to learn what had occurred under his roof. The man was horror-struck: his tenants were all respectable folk, he insisted. There had never been trouble in his house before. As for murder….
Catlin had examined the body, and concluded that the dancing-master had been stabbed through the heart with a narrow blade. It was a brutal attack, but far from frenzied: the killer knew where to strike. Moreover, the body was still warm, which testified to the crime being recent. Indeed, the young girl’s account of hearing the dancing-master ‘doing his steps’ shortly before, now took on a sinister hue.
‘So, this time he had no need of secrecy,’ Betsy said quietly. ‘No poisoned pin….’
Catlin had been gazing into the fire. ‘For that reason, can you be certain that Prout died by the same hand?’ he asked.
‘I can’t,’ she admitted, ‘but in my heart I know it’s the Salamander. Look how easily he made his escape, for one thing. The landlord didn’t even know someone else had been in the house.’
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