for the doors in a subdued body. Betsy took Jane’s arm. As they neared the doorway Louise the tiring-maid hurried past them, eyes downcast. Yet, Betsy reflected, few in the company would have cause to doubt the girl’s words, knowing George Beale as they did – and Joseph Rigg too. Nevertheless, though few would miss Beale, she knew all would miss Rigg as much as she would.
Soon the two were outside, with the breeze in their faces. Each was busy with her own thoughts, but one was uppermost, as it would be on the mind of every member of the company: an uncertain time lay ahead, without work or wage. So when the familiar, ranting voice of Praise-God Palmer rang out in the lane Betsy and Jane exchanged exasperated looks, before following the rest of the company to the Hercules Pillars.
It was mid afternoon, yet the inn was crowded. One of the largest ordinaries outside the Walls and close to the theatre, it was the usual haunt of actors. As the two pushed their way inside, they adopted their most brazen manner: nothing less would suffice, for women unescorted. Almost at once there came a male voice from behind, but it was Tom Catlin, somewhat out of breath, who had evidently been trying to catch them up.
‘Let’s find a quiet corner,’ he said. ‘I must speak with you.’
A few minutes later the three of them had squeezed behind a table by the window. Catlin called for mulled sack, then began without preamble.
‘I examined Tom Cleeve’s body,’ he said, ‘and found something I didn’t like. But before I tell you what it is, can either of you remember who was close to the man, before he fell down?’
Jane looked taken aback. ‘We weren’t near enough to see, with everyone milling about,’ she answered. ‘As I recall, he was talking with the other scene-men.’
‘Apart from one,’ Betsy put in. ‘Joshua Small was making his way towards us – he’s got designs on Mistress Rowe here.’
Catlin was wearing what Betsy called his ‘puzzling out’ face. ‘I looked his body over, from head to foot,’ he said after a moment. ‘And apart from a few old scars, I found nothing amiss – until I chanced to take a look at his arm. There was a tiny hole above the elbow – little more than a pinprick, but it was recent. Looked like he’d been pierced with a bodkin, or something similar.’
Then, seeing the looks on the two women’s faces, he shook his head. ‘No, it couldn’t have killed him, any more than that blunted dagger killed Rigg. What was odd was the appearance of the puncture. I had to put a lens to it, before I saw it plainly: a trace of some brown substance, about its edges.’
‘But … you said the wound was so tiny, it couldn’t have caused his death,’ Jane objected.
‘Whatever he was pricked with couldn’t have … at least, not in the upper arm,’ Catlin said. ‘But if it was coated with something poisonous, that’s another matter.’
Betsy drew a sharp breath. ‘You thought Long Ned was poisoned,’ she said. ‘And I found out today that they knew each other well. In fact, they went back a long way.’
‘What’s Long Ned to do with it?’ Jane asked.
In a few words, Catlin told her how it was he who had been called to attend the man at the bathhouse, but two days previously, and how the manner of his death was almost identical to Cleeve’s. ‘At the time, I thought there was no mark upon his body, either,’ he added. ‘But then I didn’t search it for anything as small as a pinprick.’
A tapster appeared with three steaming mugs of sack and set them down. ‘Betterton told me this morning that rumours were already abroad,’ Betsy said, ‘of some foul play being practised upon the Duke’s Company. Long Ned used to work for him, back at the old theatre, while Cleeve—’
‘Ned, then Tom Cleeve … and now Rigg,’ Catlin broke in, nodding. ‘I’m not a gamester, yet I’d lay odds that if I were to examine Rigg’s body, too, I’d find a pinprick exactly
Soon the two were outside, with the breeze in their faces. Each was busy with her own thoughts, but one was uppermost, as it would be on the mind of every member of the company: an uncertain time lay ahead, without work or wage. So when the familiar, ranting voice of Praise-God Palmer rang out in the lane Betsy and Jane exchanged exasperated looks, before following the rest of the company to the Hercules Pillars.
It was mid afternoon, yet the inn was crowded. One of the largest ordinaries outside the Walls and close to the theatre, it was the usual haunt of actors. As the two pushed their way inside, they adopted their most brazen manner: nothing less would suffice, for women unescorted. Almost at once there came a male voice from behind, but it was Tom Catlin, somewhat out of breath, who had evidently been trying to catch them up.
‘Let’s find a quiet corner,’ he said. ‘I must speak with you.’
A few minutes later the three of them had squeezed behind a table by the window. Catlin called for mulled sack, then began without preamble.
‘I examined Tom Cleeve’s body,’ he said, ‘and found something I didn’t like. But before I tell you what it is, can either of you remember who was close to the man, before he fell down?’
Jane looked taken aback. ‘We weren’t near enough to see, with everyone milling about,’ she answered. ‘As I recall, he was talking with the other scene-men.’
‘Apart from one,’ Betsy put in. ‘Joshua Small was making his way towards us – he’s got designs on Mistress Rowe here.’
Catlin was wearing what Betsy called his ‘puzzling out’ face. ‘I looked his body over, from head to foot,’ he said after a moment. ‘And apart from a few old scars, I found nothing amiss – until I chanced to take a look at his arm. There was a tiny hole above the elbow – little more than a pinprick, but it was recent. Looked like he’d been pierced with a bodkin, or something similar.’
Then, seeing the looks on the two women’s faces, he shook his head. ‘No, it couldn’t have killed him, any more than that blunted dagger killed Rigg. What was odd was the appearance of the puncture. I had to put a lens to it, before I saw it plainly: a trace of some brown substance, about its edges.’
‘But … you said the wound was so tiny, it couldn’t have caused his death,’ Jane objected.
‘Whatever he was pricked with couldn’t have … at least, not in the upper arm,’ Catlin said. ‘But if it was coated with something poisonous, that’s another matter.’
Betsy drew a sharp breath. ‘You thought Long Ned was poisoned,’ she said. ‘And I found out today that they knew each other well. In fact, they went back a long way.’
‘What’s Long Ned to do with it?’ Jane asked.
In a few words, Catlin told her how it was he who had been called to attend the man at the bathhouse, but two days previously, and how the manner of his death was almost identical to Cleeve’s. ‘At the time, I thought there was no mark upon his body, either,’ he added. ‘But then I didn’t search it for anything as small as a pinprick.’
A tapster appeared with three steaming mugs of sack and set them down. ‘Betterton told me this morning that rumours were already abroad,’ Betsy said, ‘of some foul play being practised upon the Duke’s Company. Long Ned used to work for him, back at the old theatre, while Cleeve—’
‘Ned, then Tom Cleeve … and now Rigg,’ Catlin broke in, nodding. ‘I’m not a gamester, yet I’d lay odds that if I were to examine Rigg’s body, too, I’d find a pinprick exactly
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