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observed.
    ‘Indeed, and she shall have it.’ Betterton put a hand in the side pocket of his black coat, and brought out a purse.
    ‘Give her this with my blessing. I’ll send a man with you, for protection. It’s’ – he hesitated – ‘the district she lives in, is not one to be visited by a woman on her own.’
    Betsy knew as well as anyone did that like many of the suburbs, Clerkenwell was a notorious haunt of prostitutes. But it occurred to her that in visiting Cleeve’s widow, she might learn something that had a bearing on his death. And indeed, Betterton’s next words showed that he had anticipated that.
    ‘Furthermore,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘if there’s anything you can find out that might help put an end to the rumours that are already springing up, I’d be grateful.’
    ‘What rumours are those?’ Betsy asked.
    ‘That there’s been foul play, carried out by someone with a grudge against the Duke’s Company.’ Betterton was frowning. ‘It’s well known that Ned Gowden, to give him his proper name, was once employed by me, as Tom Cleeve was. It’s probably nothing to be alarmed about, but …’ he shrugged. ‘As you know, there are some at the King’s Theatre who resent any success we have. Of course, I would not accuse Killigrew or any of his actors of anything unlawful. But they’re not above spreading falsehoods …’ he trailed off, then brightened. ‘I almost forgot. Doctor Catlin sent word to me a short while back: he’s got permission to look over Cleeve’s body. Perhaps he can discern something.’ He glanced towards the constable, who was watching them. ‘Now, I have matters to attend to. Will you do what I ask?’
    With a nod, Betsy took the purse. And a short while later she was making her way through the narrow, crowded lanes north of Holborn, to emerge in Cowcross Street, Clerkenwell.
    The man Betterton had sent with her as protector was the old scene-man, Silas Gunn. Betsy was relieved: she had half-expected it to be Joshua Small, who would have seized the opportunity to speak of Jane Rowe with her closest friend. Silas, by contrast, said little until the two of them entered Turnmill Street. Here, even at this hour, the trulls plied their trade; and now the old man startled Betsy by taking her arm.
    ‘There’s no need to panic, Silas,’ she told him, breaking into a smile. ‘I knew some of these women when they worked the streets near the old theatre. Unless, that is, you wish to pose as my rum cull ?’
    Silas blinked. Though his workaday world was the same as Betsy’s, his manners were those of a bygone age, before the Civil War, when the word ‘actress’ had not yet been heard in England; when rumours of the first King Charles’s French queen, Henrietta Maria, performing in a Court Masque had scandalized London society. With a look of embarrassment, he withdrew his arm and said: ‘I pray you, Mistress Brand, nought was further from my thoughts!’
    But Betsy’s smile widened, and taking the old man’s arm again, she drew him close. ‘It was a joke,’ she told him. ‘And in truth, there’s none at the Duke’s I would rather have as my escort than you!’
    The old man opened his mouth, then closed it. He did not speak again until the two of them had walked the length of the noisy, refuse-strewn street, past open doors where painted jilts lounged. Some laughed at the sight of Betsy Brand in her good sea-green cloak, leading an old man by the arm. But though one or two made lewd remarks, others recognized Betsy and greeted her. By the time they turned out of the lane, Silas was shaking his head.
    ‘Lord, Mistress,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll never hear the last, if word of this gets out!’
    ‘I quite understand,’ Betsy said, keeping her face straight. They had stopped at the entrance to a dim, narrow alleyway. ‘Now, if this is Cooper’s Court, I think we’re here.’
    Gunn nodded. ‘ ’Tis Cooper’s. And according to Josh Small,