the creatures would scuttle out. But they are harmless amphibians, as I said.’
‘And very colourful,’ Betsy put in thoughtfully. ‘Small wonder those marks would suggest a poisonous nature.’
‘Yet we are no nearer to discovering why it was sent to frighten us,’ Caradoc muttered.
One thing, however, was clear to Betsy. ‘None of us knew what it was, save Alderman Blake,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps it was sent only to frighten him – and he alone saw some significance in it: He lives, and sends me a sign .’
‘I believe Mistress Brand is correct,’ Catlin said with a nod. ‘It was a message – and a most cunningly contrived one.’
‘But it’s bizarre,’ Caradoc said irritably. ‘ He lives? It makes no sense!’
Catlin thought for a moment. ‘I will visit the Alderman in a day or so,’ he said. ‘If he speaks, then perhaps we might learn more of the business.’
‘Well, if he does, be sure to acquaint me of it,’ Caradoc said grimly. ‘For whoever invades my house with such tricks will live to regret it!’
Soon after, Betsy and Tom Catlin took their leave of Bredon House. Lord Caradoc accompanied them outside to the coach. A west wind was blowing, with a promise of rain. As they clambered inside, His Lordship said: ‘Whatever you can discover, doctor, and you too, Mistress Brand, I am most keen to hear it … and I will reward you for your trouble. This wicked prank has made my flesh crawl!’
He signalled to his footman to slam the door, and in a moment the coach was rolling out of the gates into Piccadilly.
Now Catlin turned to Betsy, as if he had been waiting until they were alone. ‘I didn’t tell His Lordship all that I knew,’ he said, ‘for it seemed not the time to do so.’
When Betsy showed her surprise, he went on: ‘You said Blake cried out: He lives, and he sends me a sign. Assuming that the fire salamander was the sign, then perhaps there is an explanation.’
He put a hand to his forehead, as if probing for the memory. ‘During the Great Fire, I recall something – someone, I should say – known as “the Salamander”. It could be because he – was it he ? – seemed to thrive on the conflagration, as if somehow he relished it.’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s vague; I might even have imagined it.’
‘Could it have been a looter?’ Betsy asked. ‘One who took advantage of the catastrophe to prey on people, and to rob their houses?’
‘Perhaps,’ Catlin sighed. ‘But then, those terrible days have become forged into one fearful memory, as no doubt they have for others. It was as if we all stood on the brink of Hades.’
Whereupon Betsy took his arm in a sisterly manner. ‘Yet we survived it,’ she said. ‘And London is rising from the ashes, to become the great city that it was.’
The doctor gave a nod, and gazed out of the window.
A rainy Monday morning, with no performance to prepare for, was not to Betsy Brand’s liking. But she rose early, her mind filled with the events of the previous evening. Tom Catlin saw her briefly before leaving the house, saying he would ‘poke about’ if he found time. So after breakfast she put on a cloak and hood and walked down to Fleet Street, intending to go into the city and call upon Jane Rowe. Talking to Jane always helped her put matters in a clearer perspective.
As she crossed the bridge, her gaze wandered up the narrow, choked expanse of the Fleet River, to fall upon the forbidding bulk of the prison. The Fleet was one of the most notorious gaols in London, and among its inhabitants was Jane’s sweetheart, a handsome but feckless rogue whose name Betsy sometimes forgot. Hall, that was it. Cobus Hall. She sighed, thinking of Jane’s devotion to a man who was unlikely to bring her anything but grief. How was it, she wondered, that the best women seemed so often to pair with the weakest of men? Then her mind jumped to Hannah Cleeve, and she stopped in her tracks.
In her mind’s eye she saw
‘And very colourful,’ Betsy put in thoughtfully. ‘Small wonder those marks would suggest a poisonous nature.’
‘Yet we are no nearer to discovering why it was sent to frighten us,’ Caradoc muttered.
One thing, however, was clear to Betsy. ‘None of us knew what it was, save Alderman Blake,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps it was sent only to frighten him – and he alone saw some significance in it: He lives, and sends me a sign .’
‘I believe Mistress Brand is correct,’ Catlin said with a nod. ‘It was a message – and a most cunningly contrived one.’
‘But it’s bizarre,’ Caradoc said irritably. ‘ He lives? It makes no sense!’
Catlin thought for a moment. ‘I will visit the Alderman in a day or so,’ he said. ‘If he speaks, then perhaps we might learn more of the business.’
‘Well, if he does, be sure to acquaint me of it,’ Caradoc said grimly. ‘For whoever invades my house with such tricks will live to regret it!’
Soon after, Betsy and Tom Catlin took their leave of Bredon House. Lord Caradoc accompanied them outside to the coach. A west wind was blowing, with a promise of rain. As they clambered inside, His Lordship said: ‘Whatever you can discover, doctor, and you too, Mistress Brand, I am most keen to hear it … and I will reward you for your trouble. This wicked prank has made my flesh crawl!’
He signalled to his footman to slam the door, and in a moment the coach was rolling out of the gates into Piccadilly.
Now Catlin turned to Betsy, as if he had been waiting until they were alone. ‘I didn’t tell His Lordship all that I knew,’ he said, ‘for it seemed not the time to do so.’
When Betsy showed her surprise, he went on: ‘You said Blake cried out: He lives, and he sends me a sign. Assuming that the fire salamander was the sign, then perhaps there is an explanation.’
He put a hand to his forehead, as if probing for the memory. ‘During the Great Fire, I recall something – someone, I should say – known as “the Salamander”. It could be because he – was it he ? – seemed to thrive on the conflagration, as if somehow he relished it.’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s vague; I might even have imagined it.’
‘Could it have been a looter?’ Betsy asked. ‘One who took advantage of the catastrophe to prey on people, and to rob their houses?’
‘Perhaps,’ Catlin sighed. ‘But then, those terrible days have become forged into one fearful memory, as no doubt they have for others. It was as if we all stood on the brink of Hades.’
Whereupon Betsy took his arm in a sisterly manner. ‘Yet we survived it,’ she said. ‘And London is rising from the ashes, to become the great city that it was.’
The doctor gave a nod, and gazed out of the window.
A rainy Monday morning, with no performance to prepare for, was not to Betsy Brand’s liking. But she rose early, her mind filled with the events of the previous evening. Tom Catlin saw her briefly before leaving the house, saying he would ‘poke about’ if he found time. So after breakfast she put on a cloak and hood and walked down to Fleet Street, intending to go into the city and call upon Jane Rowe. Talking to Jane always helped her put matters in a clearer perspective.
As she crossed the bridge, her gaze wandered up the narrow, choked expanse of the Fleet River, to fall upon the forbidding bulk of the prison. The Fleet was one of the most notorious gaols in London, and among its inhabitants was Jane’s sweetheart, a handsome but feckless rogue whose name Betsy sometimes forgot. Hall, that was it. Cobus Hall. She sighed, thinking of Jane’s devotion to a man who was unlikely to bring her anything but grief. How was it, she wondered, that the best women seemed so often to pair with the weakest of men? Then her mind jumped to Hannah Cleeve, and she stopped in her tracks.
In her mind’s eye she saw
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