Free After the Fire by John Pilkington Page A

least I could do for Mr Justice Griffiths,’ he said, ‘for whatever you may think of him he is a grieving father, who wishes his son’s memory to be untainted.’
    But Betsy could hardly contain her curiosity. ‘So, you examined Rigg’s body?’
    ‘I did.’ Catlin raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem mighty eager to hear about it.’
    Taking a breath, she now told the doctor what had passed between her and Thomas Betterton that morning. By the time she had finished, the man was frowning.
    ‘Might it not have been prudent, or at least polite, to ask my approval before enlisting me as your co-intelligencer?’ he enquired drily.
    ‘But I know how much you enjoy a riddle,’ Betsy answered, favouring him with one of her disarming smiles. ‘Don’t pretend your own curiosity isn’t aroused … and has been ever since Long Ned expired so mysteriously at the bagnio.’
    Catlin considered. ‘Well then, I’d better tell you what I found … even though it will merely add to the riddle,’ he said. ‘For there wasn’t just one of those odd little pinpricks on Joseph Rigg’s body: there were at least three of them, very close together.’
    ‘Three?’ It was Betsy’s turn to frown.
    ‘In his right side, just below the ribs. Again, I’d say the perforations alone couldn’t have caused death. But again, there was discolouration about each … dark brown, like the one on Tom Cleeve’s arm.’
    ‘So again, you think whatever pierced him could have been coated with some poisonous substance?’
    ‘It seems plausible.’
    ‘But how could that have happened, on the stage in full view of hundreds of people?’ Betsy asked. ‘George Beale may have stabbed Rigg with too much force – he admitted as much. But from what you say, the puncture wounds—’
    ‘Were a long way from the scratch made by the dagger,’ Catlin finished.
    For a while, neither of them spoke. ‘Those other fellows playing the Murderers,’ Catlin said at last. ‘The tall one and the short one: might they—’
    ‘They weren’t allowed to stab him,’ Betsy replied. ‘That was Beale’s task, with the blunted dagger. They’re hirelings, just there to speak the words and make Banquo’s death look real.’
    ‘It was certainly that,’ Catlin observed, meeting Betsy’s eye again. ‘So, Mistress Rummager – perhaps I will call you that henceforth – how will you begin your investigations?’
    Betsy thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps I should take the deaths in the order they occurred – starting with Long Ned’s – and try to question those who were present at each one. That way I may build up a picture of what happened.’
    ‘You don’t intend to seek admittance to the hammam ?’ Catlin raised his eyebrows. ‘Only one type of woman goes in there.’
    But Betsy fixed him with her most brazen look. ‘Then I shall need all Peg’s skills as a dresser,’ she said, and got briskly to her feet.
     
    An hour after dark, with a stiff breeze blowing from the river, a shambling figure moved along the Strand and turned into Brydges Street. The woman wore an old pink gown trimmed with tattered Colberteen lace, divided and tied back to show a bright red underskirt. Her breasts bulged at the neck-line, thrust upwards by bone stays. If the shiny golden hair was her own, it looked somewhat unnatural, perhaps owing its colour to the old nostrum of white wine and rhubarb juice. Her face was whitened, the lips coloured with Spanish red. Even without the vizard-mask which dangled from the woman’s wrist, her profession was obvious to all. It was a new role for Betsy Brand, and one she had not rehearsed; this time, she had only her wits to rely upon. For a moment she hesitated, then, adopting a bold manner, strolled up the dark thoroughfare to the corner of Russell Street.
    She turned the corner, and the familiar night-time sounds of Covent Garden assailed her. Traders called from their stalls, gallants in garish coats and long periwigs strutted about talking