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Cleeve’s house is the farthest one.’
    The two of them walked to a door at the end of the closed alley and knocked. For answer, there came the howling of a child, before the door creaked open and a blowsy, sallow-faced woman in a faded taffeta dress appeared. For a moment she and Betsy stared at one another, before recognition dawned on both.
    ‘Hannah?’ Betsy’s eyes widened. ‘Is it you?’
    ‘Betsy Brand.’ The other woman gazed at her, then lowered her eyes. ‘You’d best come in.’
    *
    They stood in Hannah’s small, dingy kitchen while chaos reigned about them. In one corner, a pair of tiny barefoot boys fought over a broken chair-leg, shrieking insults at each other; in another, a baby in a soiled smock howled at the top of its voice. What furniture there was sagged with age, though so little light came through the dirty window it was hard to see anything very clearly, which was perhaps a blessing. Sensing with relief that his presence was not required, Silas Gunn told Betsy he would wait outside. As the door closed behind him, Hannah Cleeve gestured with a listless movement towards the only serviceable chair. As Betsy sat down, Hannah picked up the wailing baby with one hand, loosened the top of her dress with the other and put the child to the breast. Whereupon Betsy explained her reason for coming, and brought out the money Betterton had given her.
    She had not expected Hannah to show gratitude, but the woman did not even look relieved. She took the purse, hefted it in her free hand and shoved it in a pocket. Then she raised her eyes to meet Betsy’s.
    ‘So … you’ve worked with Tom these past weeks, and you never knew I was his wife?’ she said in a hard voice.
    The room stank appallingly, but Betsy could bear it. What shocked her was the change in Hannah’s appearance. She had known her two years ago as Hannah Beck, one of the prettier trulls who worked the Rose Tavern, by the King’s Playhouse in Brydges Street. The Hannah she knew was loud-voiced and lively, as eager for a bawdy song as she was for a mug of mulled sack with the actors. Now….
    ‘I didn’t know, Hannah,’ Betsy told her. ‘Tom never spoke of you. In fact, now I think upon it, he never spoke about anything much.’
    Hannah sniffed. The dark patches under her eyes spoke of a lack of sleep, while a yellowed bruise on one cheek told a more sinister tale.
    ‘I had to get him staggering drunk to do it,’ she said, and gave a grim smile. ‘Fetch him to the altar, I mean. See, I was carrying his child.’ She jerked her head towards the boys in the corner, who were still fighting. ‘What I didn’t know was, there’d be two of ’em.’
    Betsy glanced at the boys: it was obvious now that they were twins. She smiled and indicated the baby. ‘And now, there are three.’
    Hannah’s face clouded. ‘She’s not Tom’s,’ she muttered. ‘I still work the lanes now and then … half of what that buffle-headed sot earned at the playhouse, he spent in the tavern!’
    A weariness seemed to come over the woman, whereupon Betsy got to her feet. ‘You sit,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should go.’
    Hannah did not argue, but sank down on the chair. The baby lifted its head, and quickly she put it to the other breast.
    ‘I’m glad of the money,’ she said after a moment. ‘Only I’d be obliged if you told no one of it. As far as folk round here know I’m penniless. That way, Tom’ll get a parish burial.’
    Betsy nodded – then, quite suddenly, Hannah began to talk.
    ‘I don’t run into many theatre folk now,’ she said. ‘When I think back it seems they were good times, when the Duke’s was in Portugal Row by the Fields, and Nelly Gwyn was at the King’s. Now I hear she’s got her own house, even her own servants. Did you know that?’
    ‘I did,’ Betsy answered.
    ‘They told me there was a bit of a party,’ Hannah went on. ‘And Tom fell, cracked his skull.’ She grimaced. ‘Was he soused?’
    ‘I really