The hirelings, eight or nine in number, had gone off to change. Betsy and Jane, followed by Louise, climbed the stairs to the Women’s Shift where they sank down exhaustedly. Then, along with the loosening of uncomfortable, tight-boned bodices and the pulling off of breeches and periwigs, animated chatter broke out, helped along by the appearance of a bottle and several mugs. But a few minutes later there came a knock on the door, and the unsmiling face of John Downes appeared.
‘Mistress Brand, Mr Betterton asks you to come down. At once, if you would.’
Half-undressed, Betsy was about to ask for a moment’s grace. Then she met Downes’s eye and read the urgency in his gaze. Without a word, she threw on a camelotte gown and went out.
The scene-room was deserted. Without explanation, Downes gestured to Betsy to follow him out on to the forestage. She did so, noticing that the pit was empty, and the musicians had gone. But there was a little group huddled about something at the far side of the stage, near the wings … and her heart jumped. With a growing sense of dread, she hurried towards the men, who made way for her. Then she looked down, and stifled a gasp.
Joshua Small lay in a crumpled heap where he had fallen. About him were Thomas Betterton, William Daggett, Silas Gunn and a couple of doormen, all staring down in dismay. And at once, Betsy knew what had happened.
A distraught Will Small was on his knees beside his older brother, shaking him by the shoulders and calling his name. As Downes and Betsy arrived, the young man looked up desperately.
‘He just keeled over!’ he cried. ‘There was neither rhyme nor reason to it – he dropped like a stone!’
He called Joshua’s name out, again and again, but received only a mumbled answer. After that he paid no heed to the others, as they stood in dumb silence about him. Finally Thomas Betterton placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder, as his shoulders began to shake.
And all the group could do was watch the creeping paralysis that stole over Joshua Small, and the distant look that came into his eyes, as the Salamander’s poison did its terrible work once again.
A short time later, the same group had gathered in the Men’s Shift. Small’s body had been taken away by his brother, and word sent to Doctor Tom Catlin. After speaking with the doormen, Betterton called together those who had witnessed the fellow’s death: Daggett, Downes, Silas Gunn and Betsy. However, it was soon clear that he had done so not merely at his own behest but also that of his wife.
‘This death must be kept secret!’
Mary Betterton, still in her Duchess costume, was at her most formidable when she used her full height. Now, shaken but remarkably resolute, she surveyed each of them in turn.
‘The company cannot bear another catastrophe,’ she went on. ‘If Lord Caradoc hears of it he will close the theatre again – he would have little choice. And this time, it might never reopen. Dorset Gardens is already the subject of malicious rumour. They say we’re jinxed, or haunted by some fey spirit.’ She turned to her husband, who was looking very unhappy.
‘I fail to see how we can keep His Lordship from hearing of the matter,’ he said.
‘We must!’ Mary Betterton’s eyes flashed. And those present, who knew her well, saw the familiar hardness in her gaze. ‘You’ve settled it with the doormen,’ she went on, to which her husband nodded. ‘Then only those in this room know the truth of it.’ She glanced round. ‘And none of us, I am sure, wishes any further hurt to befall the Company. Hence we must put it about that Joshua Small became ill, and was taken home by his brother after the performance. His brother, too, must be brought to our view of the matter … with a purse, if need be. Then later on, we may permit word to spread that the poor man died of some sickness.’ She turned abruptly to Betsy. ‘Mistress Brand, I know you have our best interests at heart. Will you speak of our predicament with Doctor Catlin, and see what might be done?’
The request was plain enough, and it made Betsy stiffen. Like Joseph Rigg’s father, Mistress Mary wanted Catlin to attribute this death to natural causes.
‘He’ll examine Joshua’s body, mistress,’ she answered, meeting the other woman’s eye. ‘But I cannot ask him to lie.’
Mary Betterton’s bosom heaved above her low neckline. ‘He too would be rewarded for his discretion,’ she said.
‘Such arguments count for little with him,’ Betsy replied. ‘He often treats people for no payment.’
Betterton was frowning at his wife. ‘May we speak of this later?’ he asked, in a tone of distaste. ‘For the moment, I would merely request that each of you,’ he eyed Downes, Daggett and Silas Gunn in turn, ‘that you each say nothing about what’s happened, to anyone. When we know more about how Joshua died, we—’ he broke off, as if irritated with his own words. Whereupon his wife spoke up quickly.
‘Indeed! Meanwhile, we’ll see Small’s widow is helped.’ She turned to William Daggett. ‘Did the man have a wife?’
Daggett shook his head. ‘She died in the Plague Year. His brother’s the only family I know of.’ He glanced at Downes, who remained tight-lipped, then at Gunn, who was looking like a tired, spent old man. It seemed to Betsy as if the three of them were only now taking in the import of what had happened: Tom Cleeve had died, as had Rigg, and James Prout too, supposedly at the hands of the one they had known as Julius Hill – who was also dead. But now, another scene-man had perished! What terrible force was at work? And who was safe?
Gunn spoke up anxiously. ‘Who will work the scenes and the curtain tomorrow, sir?’ he asked Betterton. ‘Young Will’s so torn up by what happened, I doubt he’ll be back.’
But Daggett broke in. ‘There are others I can call upon,’ he answered. ‘Otherwise, my old sparrow, you and I must fall to, and do our best.’
After a moment Gunn nodded, and now there seemed little more to be said. Looking relieved, Betterton thanked his backstage men and saw them out. But when Betsy started to follow, he put a hand on her arm.
‘A moment if you please, Mistress Brand.’
The door closed upon Downes, the last to leave, who threw a suspicious look at Betsy as he went. Then, it was common knowledge that the man trusted no one … especially actresses. Betsy faced Betterton, and found both his and his wife’s eyes upon her. Having an idea what was coming, she braced herself.
‘Mistress Brand,’ Mary Betterton said, ‘we would ask your help.’
‘I can only repeat what I said,’ Betsy began, but Betterton raised a hand.
‘You mistake us,’ he said quickly, with a glance at Mary. ‘What we ask is that you and Doctor Catlin – who know more of the terrible events of the past fortnight than anyone else – combine your resources, and try to find out what in God’s name is going on!’
‘I’m unsure of your meaning,’ Betsy began, but the other interrupted.
‘My meaning,’ Betterton told her, ‘is that despite the confession of Julius Hill, or whatever his real name was, someone appears bent on continuing his murderous work among the Duke’s Company!’ The man’s voice had risen, as if only now was he able to vent his feelings. ‘And more, none but another member of this company – player or scene-man, doormen or whoever it be – could’ve got close enough to Joshua Small to do what was done! Assuming, that is,’ Betterton drew a breath. ‘Assuming he died by the same poison Hill used, which seems more than likely.’
‘I would swear to that readily enough,’ Betsy said.
‘Then let’s face the truth!’ Mary Betterton cried. ‘And the truth is that there’s a murderer in the Company, who must be found, in the shortest possible time. So, Mistress Brand, if your pious Doctor Catlin won’t show delicacy in naming the cause of Small’s death, I pray he will at least help in uncovering who killed him!’
Will Small stood in the gloomy little parlour of his family home, beside the body of his brother. It was but a few hours since the man had expired on the forestage of the Duke’s Theatre. Night had now drawn in, and the room was illuminated by a couple of smoky tallow candles. With the
help of neighbours, Joshua Small had been laid out upon a bed raised on trestles, covered to his neck by a linen sheet. His handsome face was calm in death, his long hair unbound and combed out to his shoulders. Betsy and Tom Catlin, having offered a few words of comfort, were about to take their leave when Will turned to them.
‘I knew something wasn’t right,’ he muttered. ‘For a week or more, he’d been troubled. I never asked what it was.’ The young man was close to tears. ‘Now I wish to God I had!’
‘It’s been a dreadful ordeal for you,’ Catlin began, but Will was not listening.
‘Josh was never himself after Rigg died,’ he went on, as if trying to make sense of things. ‘It bothered him more than Tom Cleeve.’ He frowned. ‘Then, they went back a deal further – them and George Beale.’
‘Beale … what was he to your brother, Will?’ Betsy asked.
The young man shrugged. ‘There was a few of them, used to drink in the Fleece.’ He named the tavern on the corner of the Strand and Brydges Street, which had a bad reputation. ‘Only after cockfighting and such,’ he added. ‘That was when Rigg and Beale were at the King’s Playhouse. They’d go a bit wild, sometimes.’ He gazed sadly at his brother’s corpse. ‘I hope he’ll be able to enjoy a mug, where he’s gone.’
Then he bowed his head. And without further word, Betsy and Catlin made their exit.
At Moorgate the two of them turned right to begin their homeward journey, skirting the city’s north wall. In the distance, a watchman was crying the hour. For a while neither spoke. Then, unable to contain herself any longer, Betsy turned to Catlin. ‘When you helped lay the body out, did you see—’
‘Pinpricks? No, I did not.’ Catlin kept his eyes on the darkened street. ‘But I’m certain Small’s death was caused by the same poison that the Salamander used. So the question is, how was it administered?’
But Betsy stopped, for the answer came at once. ‘The drink – it could have been in his flask!’
Catlin stopped too. ‘Where is it? Could you get it to me?’
‘I’ll try.’ Betsy was thinking fast. ‘Joshua often had a flask of strong water or Nantes in his pocket; it was no secret. If someone wanted to poison him, without having to get close, that is—’
‘And not arouse suspicion?’ Catlin started walking again, and Betsy fell in beside him. ‘Then we seem to be back where we started,’ the doctor added grimly. ‘Only now we’re looking for another link … not to the Salamander, but to those who work backstage at the Duke’s.’ He put on an exasperated look. ‘Perhaps someone merely wants you out of business, in which case the chief suspect, to my mind, would be Mr Killigrew of the King’s Company!’
But at that Betsy stopped again, so that Catlin carried on a pace, and was obliged to halt and turn. ‘Let me guess, Mistress Rummager,’ he said dryly. ‘Inspiration has struck again, like a divine thunderbolt.’
‘Not quite,’ she answered. ‘But perhaps you’re close to the nub of things, after all,’ s he frowned. ‘I don’t mean Killigrew … but you remember how suspicion fell upon Beale when Rigg died, and he’d wounded him with his stage dagger?’
‘A superficial wound only,’ Catlin reminded her.
‘Nevertheless.’ Despite the afternoon’s unhappy outcome, Betsy felt a stirring of hope. Now, it seemed as if another avenue of investigation had opened. After a moment she took Catlin’s arm, and the two of them walked on.
‘Nevertheless, what?’ the doctor asked.
‘Beale,’ Betsy replied. ‘I should have talked to him sooner. Now, I need to find out where he lodges. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
George Beale lived above the shop of a gold-lace maker, whose sign – a peacock – seemed fitting enough for the abode of the haughty young actor. The shop was in Russell Street, a few doors from Wills’s coffee-house. The morning after Joshua Small’s death Betsy Brand arrived to be told that Mr Beale was indeed at home. In fact, the landlord added, he seldom appeared before midday. So having been directed, Betsy thanked the man and made her way to a stairway. But as she climbed the narrow steps there came a muffled oath from above, and a flurry of movement. Gingerly, she poked her head above the top floor, finding herself in a darkened chamber that stank of orange perfume, unwashed clothing and human sweat.
‘Mr Beale?’ she called. ‘It’s Betsy Brand.’
A figure loomed menacingly above her. Here was Beale in a greasy nightshirt and no periwig, gazing down. To her alarm, he was holding a dagger.
‘God in heaven, Mistress – I came close to spiking you!’ Relaxing somewhat, the man gestured to her to come up. As she did so he went to a cluttered table, dropped the dagger and fumbled with a tinderbox. He struck a flame and applied it to a candle, then sat down heavily on the bed. His shaved head gleamed in the flickering light.
‘I confess you’re one of the last people I expected to see,’ he said, looking at her suspiciously. ‘Do you bear a message from Betterton?’
Looking about, Betsy shook her head. After a moment Beale pointed to a chair piled with dirty linen. ‘Throw that aside, and be seated,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll have to forgive your surroundings.’
‘In fact, I do have news,’ Betsy said as she sat down. ‘Sad tidings, I’m afraid: Joshua Small’s dead.’
Beale’s mouth fell open, but he made no reply.
‘In the same, sudden manner as Tom Cleeve,’ Betsy continued. When the man still stared, she added: ‘Perhaps you’ve already heard of the deaths of James Prout, and of Julius Hill?’
‘I heard about Prout,’ Beale said shortly. ‘As for Hill,’ he swallowed. ‘The ghastly tale’s all over Covent Garden. But why do you carry it to me?’
Betsy gave a shrug. ‘It was Small I came to talk to you about. I spoke with his brother. He told me about the time you and Joshua used to carouse together, in the Fleece.’
‘What of it?’ Beale’s voice was sharp. ‘It’s a cheap tavern – many of the King’s Company frequent it. And at that time, I was among them.’
As if wishing to occupy himself, the man rose suddenly and started looking about. ‘I must dress,’ he said. ‘Had I known I was going to have female company I’d have put some breeks on … unless, that is….’
He stopped with a leer, which needed little interpretation. But reaching down, Betsy picked up a pair of wrinkled hose from the floor. ‘Will these serve?’ she asked, and threw them to Beale, who caught them awkwardly. ‘I wouldn’t want to raise your hopes.’
Beale sniffed as if to show it mattered not a jot and, sitting down on the bed, began to pull on his breeches.
‘I can guess at your feelings towards Betterton,’ Betsy resumed, ‘after he dismissed you. Yet I would ask—’
‘Dismissed me?’ the other’s voice was harsh. ‘He all but called me a murderer before the entire company! He’s lucky we weren’t in the street – I’d have drawn my sword at the man!’
‘You were there!’ Beale went on, jabbing a finger at Betsy. ‘You heard them turn on me – Betterton, that smooth-faced molly-man Prout – even the blasted tiring-maid shrieked at me! And I for one have never laid a hand on the girl!’
‘The company had been badly shaken by Rigg’s death,’ Betsy said.
‘As was I!’ Beale retorted. ‘I knew the man for years, since I first walked upon the stage as a youth …’ he trailed off – and Betsy judged her moment.
‘Rigg, and now Joshua Small,’ she said, ‘who was as nervous as a rabbit in his last days. Why do you think that was?’
‘How in Christ’s name should I know?’ Beale countered, then drew breath, and gave Betsy a long look. ‘Ah … now I begin to know your game, Brand. Then, you’re Betterton’s creature … you always were! You and Rowe, that blowsy little butcher’s daughter … you never had to lift your skirts to get a role, did you? Unlike some!’
Betsy’s temper rose, but she kept her voice low. ‘You know Betterton has never abused his powers in that way,’ she replied, ‘and the
actress he most admired, he married.’
‘So, was it Mistress Mary who sent you?’ the other asked, with a sneer. ‘I’ll bet a sovereign this scandal at the Duke’s has made her piss her petticoats!’ He gave a sour grin. ‘Perhaps I’m well out of Dorset Gardens, after all.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ Betsy said flatly, as if to imply that she wasn’t leaving until he did. ‘Why do you think someone killed Rigg and Joshua Small, who had no connection to the Salamander or his grievances?’
This time Beale merely looked away, but Betsy sensed more than bitterness on his part. In fact, she now realized, he was more shaken than she had first thought.
‘Could it be another matter of revenge?’ she persisted. ‘Like that of Hill – or Aanaarden, to use his real name – yet unrelated to it?’
‘I’ve said I know naught of it,’ Beale said in a sulky tone.
But now Betsy was certain he was hiding something. Deliberately she said: ‘Whoever it is, they seem to have had no difficulty tracking down their victims. Rigg, for example: he wasn’t Joseph Rigg then, was he? He was Joseph Griffiths.’
Beale frowned at her. ‘What’s that to me?’ he demanded. ‘Now, I’d like to dress, so if you’ve said all you came to say, mistress, I suggest you take your leave.’
But Betsy remained seated. ‘I spoke with Small a week before he died. He was troubled … there seemed to be something on his conscience that went back years, to the Great Fire. That would be about the time you and he were carousing at the Fleece with Rigg, would it not?’
Abruptly Beale got to his feet. ‘You’re beginning to bore me, Betsy Brand,’ he said, and gestured to the stairs. ‘Forgive me if I don’t show you out.’
Still Betsy did not move. ‘What was it you did, in the Fire?’ she asked quietly, sensing with some excitement that she was on the brink of a discovery. ‘You, and your drinking and gaming friends?’
After the Fire Page 17
