Free After the Fire by John Pilkington

cleverest man I know,’ Betsy said. ‘He’s not given to flights of fancy.’
    ‘So,’ Betterton broke in, ‘must we assume the rumours were right from the outset, and someone hates the Duke’s Company enough to kill two of us?’ He rose and took a few paces about the room, finally turning with a look of despair.
    ‘I may as well confess to you, Betsy,’ he said, ‘that I have no idea how to proceed. The constable – Gould, I mean – is no fool, but neither is he a friend. The Alderman wants to close us down. To whom then may we turn? For someone must find out how and why these deaths have been inflicted upon us.’ He looked up. ‘Suppose there is one with a grudge? Whatever the cause of it, might this only be the beginning? If he’s able to strike down his victims with such ease, how many more might perish?’
    Betsy said nothing. But there was an appetite within her that she barely understood. It had been growing ever since the death of Thomas Cleeve. ‘I … I would like to follow the scent, and try to discover what lies behind these deaths,’ she said quietly. ‘That is, if you’ll permit it. With the help of Doctor Catlin perhaps I can, as he would put it, puzzle the matter out.’
    Betterton stared at her. ‘You?’
    ‘Well,’ Betsy gave a little shrug, ‘while the Duke’s is closed I haven’t a great deal else to occupy me, have I?’
    *
    Tom Catlin returned that evening to find Betsy waiting for him. He was tired, and barely muttered a greeting before dropping his bag in the hall and removing his hat and Brandenburg coat. Then he went into the parlour to pour himself a glass of sack. Betsy followed, to find as she hoped that he had poured two glasses. Without a word she picked hers up and sat down on one of the fireside chairs, while her landlord struck a flame and lit a couple of candles. Outside the light was fading, and Fire’s Reach Court, gloomy at the best of times with its overhanging jetties, was already in near-darkness. Betsy took a sip from her glass and waited.
    ‘I’d have come home hours ago,’ Catlin said at last, ‘but I took a hackney to Aldgate Street, where Rigg’s body lies.’
    ‘I thought he had lodgings in Hatton Garden,’ Betsy said.
    ‘He did. But there I learned that his body had been taken across London, to his father’s house. He’s a magistrate, did you know that?’
    ‘No, I didn’t,’ Betsy answered in surprise.
    ‘He’s a magistrate,’ Catlin repeated, ‘but his name isn’t Rigg. He’s Sir Anthony Griffiths, who until yesterday had disowned his son, the celebrated actor. Joseph Griffiths, it seems, had taken a different surname, on his father’s instructions – or risk being cut out of Sir Anthony’s will.’
    ‘Moreover,’ the doctor went on, as Betsy took in the news, ‘Sir Anthony has asked me to make it plain to those connected with the Dorset Gardens Theatre that they will be unwelcome at his son’s funeral. In fact, should they presume to attend, they’ll be turned away on pain of arrest. In view of which’ – Catlin paused, then gave a little smile – ‘I confess myself surprised to be granted permission to examine the body of the deceased. At first I was refused, until that is, the deceased’s father learned that I was the one who attended his son in his dying moments. Whereupon he gave me to understand that as a member of the Royal College of Physicians, he expected me to pronounce a verdict of death by some common but non-contagious cause. That is, he wished it to be known that Joseph died an unfortunate but acceptable death. Hence he may be buried with all honour, and laid to rest in the family vault in Essex, where their country house lies.’
    Betsy met Catlin’s eye. ‘So, what was your verdict?’
    ‘Apoplexy. Brought on by the strain of a particularly energetic performance.’
    ‘And was that deemed acceptable?’
    ‘It was.’
    Carrying his glass to the chair opposite Betsy, Catlin sat down. ‘It seemed the