After the Fire (14 page)

‘Run!’ Betsy dropped the candle and turned, even as Peg lurched round and bolted for the doorway. There was a moment which seemed to take an age – then a flame sprang up, filling the kitchen with a garish glow. But both Betsy and Peg were running down the passage without looking back. As they did so the front door opened, and to their immense relief Tom Catlin appeared, bag in hand and a frown on his face.

‘How many times have I told you to take the key out when you lock this door?’ he demanded. ‘Lucky I had my own—’ then he froze, taking in the bizarre sight: both women dishevelled and reeking of oil, with their hands tied together.

Then he saw the fire. Dropping his bag, he pushed Peg and Betsy aside and started along the passage. ‘Go out!’ he shouted. ‘Get some help.’

But he was too late, for the open door had fanned the flames. The house was filling rapidly with smoke, and Catlin entered the kitchen only to fall back, raising his hand to protect himself. Coughing, he staggered backwards along the passage, eyes fixed on a most terrible sight.

There was a piercing scream, and a figure of flame appeared, staggering blindly through the kitchen doorway. In the heart of the flames could be seen a dark shape, limbs thrashing wildly about as it careered towards them. And Betsy and Peg, followed swiftly by Catlin, ran down the steps into the street. There were shouts as windows were flung open, but none of the three looked round. Their eyes remained on the dreadful sight of the Salamander, as he came screaming through the doorway in front of them, and tumbled down the steps.

All of them fell back, gazing helplessly at the human pyre. Once the figure tried to rise, then sank down again. And finally it collapsed into a blazing heap, in which it was impossible to distinguish burning clothing from flesh. The houses were lit by a lurid glare, but still Betsy, Peg and Catlin were unable to take their eyes from the sight until quite suddenly the screams ceased, and the shape stopped moving. Then it became merely a bonfire, its flames gradually subsiding. Slowly they lessened, until only a smouldering mass lay before Tom Catlin’s front steps. Finally, all that remained was a charred and smoking heap that gave off a most unpleasant smell.

Peg was shaking; and as if noticing her for the first time, Catlin turned to her. Sobbing, she fell against him. After a moment he put an arm awkwardly about her.

But Betsy remained motionless, staring at the remains of the Salamander – who was not impervious to fire after all.

The house was saved, though the kitchen was a shambles. With the help of neighbours, Tom Catlin stamped out the blazing patches of oil and doused the floor with water. Then he opened the windows and retired outside to allow the smoke to clear. It seemed a cruel turn of fate, someone remarked, that this old street that had survived the Great Fire, had come close to being destroyed by fire at the hands of a madman. For once it became known that the Salamander had returned, the news spread like wildfire itself.

Betsy and Peg passed the rest of the night at a neighbour’s house, where they were able to clean themselves and borrow some clothing. When dawn broke they went out to find Tom Catlin in the street, talking with the constable of St Dunstan’s. Thankfully, the remains of the Salamander’s charred corpse had been removed, and the three of them were able to enter the house and survey the damage.

The hallway was littered with burnt rags and scraps of charred clothing, though the walls had only been scorched. The kitchen, however, was beyond use. But both Betsy and Catlin were surprised by the energy with which Peg set to work, throwing out the perishables and clearing the floor. Dinner was out of the question, she said, but supper was a possibility; meanwhile, would the doctor be seeking plasterers and painters to make good the walls and ceiling?

Leaving her to her work, Catlin went into the front parlour, signalling Betsy to follow. Now at last she was able to give him a full account of all that happened in the night. When she had finished, the doctor breathed a sigh.

‘I should have known something was amiss,’ he murmured. ‘That boy was a sly little fellow, and he fooled me. Though by the time we were past Smithfield and almost at the Barbican, I had my suspicions. When we reached the house, there was indeed a woman in labour – but she was well attended, and in no difficulty. Having been dragged all that way, I thought I’d stay to help with the birth.’ He frowned. ‘It was after that I discovered the boy had disappeared. It wasn’t his mother!’

Though Betsy nodded, she was past being surprised. Having reflected upon the Salamander’s deeds, and looked him in the eye, she could believe anything. More, the man had almost succeeded in putting both her and Peg to a terrible death. The means by which he had gained entry to the house had also been explained: Peg had not secured the back parlour window. Though in view of what she had been through, Catlin had no mind to reproach her.

‘Will you get word to his lordship, and Betterton?’ Betsy asked finally. ‘They’ll be mighty relieved.’

‘I’ve already done so.’ Catlin fixed her with a shrewd look. ‘Are you sure you’re well? You’ve had a shock.’

With an effort, Betsy smiled. ‘It’s thanks to Peg, and to you, I’m alive,’ she answered. ‘I haven’t quite taken it in yet,’ she sighed. ‘And though the man burned to death in front of me, I still fear his works.’ She met Catlin’s gaze. ‘There’s danger for the Duke’s Company yet, I’m certain of it.’

‘You mean those hints he gave you about others carrying on his wickedness?’ Catlin looked sceptical. ‘It sounds like humbug to me … bravado and defiance. The man’s mind was so deformed he seems to have believed himself immortal!’

But Betsy did not look convinced. ‘He admitted he had no quarrel with Joseph Rigg,’ she objected. ‘So the question yet remains: who did?’

‘Perhaps we’ll never learn the answer to that,’ Catlin said.

Then he too frowned. ‘You haven’t seen my tobacco jar anywhere, have you?’

The Virtuous Bawd
was ready to open.

It was almost a week since the events in Fire’s Reach Court, which had culminated in the death of the Dutch murderer Aanaarden, alias the one-time actor Julius Hill, but better known as the Salamander. The story of his wicked deeds and his terrible demise had spread through London and its suburbs, providing much fodder for
The London Gazette
. Yet it was not only people like Praise-God Palmer who saw the hand of divine justice in the man’s death by fire. Memories of the city’s fearful conflagration of September 1666 remained raw in the minds of many of its citizens.

In the past few days, Tom Catlin’s house had been made habitable again, and life had returned almost to normality. Normality for the Duke’s Company at Dorset Gardens Theatre, however, meant suppressed panic, and the kind of heady disorder that always preceded the opening of a new play. Four days earlier most of the company had attended the funeral of James Prout, the dancing-master. A supper at Thomas Betterton’s house followed, in which their leader and his wife had been at pains to cheer everyone’s spirits. Mr Prout, Betterton reminded them, would have been the first to urge his friends to put these dreadful events behind them, to throw themselves into their work, and fill the theatre again. The Duke’s Company’s reputation would soon be restored, and this unfortunate period of ill luck and scandal would be but a fading memory for the theatre-going public. Such was the man’s optimism that the company took heart, and began to look forward to the success of Mr Tripp’s new comedy. And once again, the word from Whitehall Palace was that the King himself would very likely be attending.

In the Women’s Shift early on that Friday afternoon there was a mood of high excitement. Aveline Hale, splendidly costumed for her role of Lady Althea, was taking a glass of strong water to calm herself. Louise Hawker, in a red gown both garish and revealing, was even more nervous than usual in her part of a young dell, Foggy Moll. Jane Rowe, however, cross-dressed as Lord Feverish in breeches, velvet coat and long periwig, was in reflective mood.

‘I can scarce believe it,’ she said to Betsy, who sat beside her applying her make-up. ‘Dart dead, too … but then if anyone had it coming, it was him. Mayhap there’s justice, even in the Bermudas!’

Betsy nodded absently. Lately, she had found the chain of events of which she was a part so bizarre they seemed like a play in themselves, one that had run for longer than expected. Sometimes she woke in the night, imagining she heard a cry. And try as she might, she could not rid herself of the troublesome notion that the Salamander’s spree of fear was not yet ended. Despite Tom Catlin’s view, shared by Peg, that the man’s hints about others following in his wake were but wicked boasts, she remained uneasy. Even readying herself for the role of Tammy Tupp could not drive the matter from her thoughts.

‘At least we’re working again, I suppose,’ Betsy said, sticking the last of several false warts to her nose. ‘And my landlord, for one, is mighty glad of it.’

Jane peered into the looking glass and adjusted her periwig. ‘And if we show that a company of women can pack the Duke’s out, it could be we’ll have no further need of actors!’

There was a snort from the doorway, and the portly figure of Downes the prompter appeared. ‘Give me actors any day,’ he grunted, ‘rather than this flock of harpies! Curtain’s up in five minutes, and half of you still undressed.’ He peered about, then fixed his small, piglike eyes on Louise.

‘You’d best get yourself downstairs, girl. Scene One’s the street, in case you needed reminding.’

Louise stood and picked up her vizard mask. ‘I’m not likely to forget,’ she replied in a shrill voice, ‘since it’s my first time on the stage!’

Downes sniffed. ‘Mistress Brand, you’ll be showing her the ropes, I take it?’

‘There’s no need to fret, Mr Downes,’ Betsy answered, picking up her own mask. ‘We street trulls can shift for ourselves.’

And taking Louise’s arm, she followed the prompter as he turned and clumped down the stairs. As they left, Aveline Hale’s voice floated through the doorway. ‘I’d not be the least surprised if the Duke of York attends too,’ she breathed excitedly. ‘Do you think this yellow will catch his eye?’

In the scene-room there was an air of quiet expectation. Joshua Small would raise the curtain, while Will Small and Silas Gunn stood by to shift the screens. William Daggett, his moustache twitching more fiercely than usual, was standing in the wings. Beside him, two hirelings who had non-speaking roles as street women were waiting. As Betsy and Louise appeared, Daggett nodded to them.

‘Mr Betterton’s in one of the boxes,’ he said, ‘and Tripp’s with him.’

The sounds of an expectant audience outside were such that Betsy found sympathy even for the odious playwright, whose very livelihood depended on the piece’s success. And at least he wasn’t backstage fumbling with her skirts. She glanced aside, seeing Louise wetting her lips with her tongue. The poor girl was clearly terrified.

‘I felt as you do when I first took a speaking role,’ Betsy said, favouring her with a smile. ‘You think you’re about to empty your stomach, but the moment you speak your first line, you know all will be well.’

Louise looked at her, aghast. ‘My first line,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ve forgotten what it is!’

Betsy told her. A minute later the orchestra struck up, the elder Small heaved on the curtain rope, and the trulls stepped out on the candlelit stage to shouts of male approval.

The Virtuous Bawd
’s first performance, however, was something less than a success.

The danger signals began before the end of the first act. There was a growing restlessness in some sections of the audience, and more than the usual number of hoots and barbed observations from ‘Fops’ Corner’, the area populated by city gallants. The cast struggled on valiantly, pointing up the wittier passages and aiming for broad comedy whenever they could. By the time Betsy and Louise made their exits at the end of the act, the young tiring-maid was hoarse from raising her voice. She stood in the wings taking a breath, while Betsy offered words of encouragement.

‘Here … take a mouthful of this.’ Joshua Small was nearby, wearing a knowing look. Unstopping a small leather flask, he offered it to Louise.

‘Thank you, but no.’ She forced a smile. ‘Your Nantes is too strong for me. I’ll take a mug in the Women’s Shift.’

Small shrugged, and was about to take a quick drink himself. Then catching the eye of William Daggett, who stood by with a frown, he stoppered the flask and tucked it away.

Louise walked off towards the stairs, but Betsy glanced at the scene-man, recalling her conversation with him a week ago in the empty theatre. Feeling her eyes upon him, Small met her gaze and quickly looked away. But in that moment she saw the man’s nervousness, which she felt certain had little to do with the strain of an opening performance. Small, normally a phlegmatic man, was as jittery as a hare … as jittery, Betsy recalled suddenly, as Tom Cleeve had been that time, shortly before his death, only feet from where Small now stood. The memory troubled her more than she liked.

The performance rolled on, generating more restlessness in the theatre and more tension backstage. By the final act the cast was fighting off gloom. And more than once, scene-men were heard muttering that the play would have gone a deal better with a Betterton, a Rigg or even a George Beale in the leading male roles. Most disappointed of all, however, was Aveline Hale, on learning that neither the King nor the Duke of York had attended the performance.

‘Once again, Mr Betterton assured me of a Royal visit,’ she said in an acid tone. ‘Well, this time I intend to give free vent to my feelings on the matter!’

Mistress Hale, Betsy and Jane Rowe stood by the forestage watching Mary Betterton take a solitary bow. Their leader’s wife had turned in a creditable performance as the Duchess, and her fame was such that she was applauded as of right. Whether the play itself merited such applause was another matter. Finally Mistress Betterton turned to walk off, and at once, as if relieved, the orchestra struck up with some lively, house-clearing music.

While the audience dispersed outside, the scene-room as always filled with people. But this time there was no jubilation, more the sense that the all-woman cast had survived the performance, and little more. So when Thomas Betterton appeared with a tense-looking Samuel Tripp, the company stood about in muted fashion. At sight of their master’s expression, Silas Gunn and the Small brothers decided to busy themselves clearing the stage. Only William Daggett remained to hear what looked like bad news. Beside him, Downes the prompter stood with a sour expression.

‘My good friends … ladies,’ Betterton’s eyes sought out the actresses, who were still in their costumes. ‘You have done sterling work this afternoon. None could deny it!’

‘None could deny the absence of the King either, sir.’ Aveline Hale’s voice rose from the centre of the little throng.

‘May we talk of that later, Mistress Hale?’ Betterton’s glance strayed to his wife, who stood by in a dignified pose. In fact, it was only her presence which prevented Aveline from giving further rein to her frustration. Biting her lip, she lowered her gaze and fussed with her saffron yellow frock.

‘Now hear me, all of you,’ Betterton raised his voice. ‘Contrary to rumour, the play will run a second night – that much I have decided. Whether it enjoys a third performance, that is, a Benefit Night for the author, remains to be seen.’ He hesitated, looking about for Tripp, but the playmaker seemed to have disappeared.

‘Whether that is the case or not,’ Betterton went on, ‘I urge you to put today’s tiresome audience aside, and think of tomorrow. Until then.’ He smiled and made a farewell gesture, before he and his wife moved off towards the Men’s Shift. The rest of the company, seeing there would be no further announcement, began to disperse. At least, some murmured, closure had been staved off for another day; and who could say that the King might not come tomorrow?

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.