After the Fire (4 page)

With a smile, and a last look around the grim little room, Betsy opened the door and went out.

Silas Gunn was standing outside, puffing on his blackened pipe. ‘You women’ve had a fine old talk,’ he mumbled. ‘You didn’t forget to give her the money, did you?’

But Betsy walked off down the alleyway as if she had not heard. Somewhat crestfallen, the old man stumbled after her.

It was almost midday, and there was only an hour before the start of today’s performance, but Betsy did not go directly to the theatre. Instead, she took leave of her escort by Holborn Bridge, telling him she had forgotten something. Silas nodded and trudged off down Shoe Lane, whereupon Betsy hurried along Holborn, passed through Holborn Bar and within minutes was in Fire’s Reach Court. But when she opened Tom Catlin’s door, there was no bag in the hallway.

Peg appeared from the kitchen. ‘You’ve missed him,’ she said. ‘He’s been in and out … told me he was going to the theatre.’ She frowned. ‘Is it right, what I heard? One of your lot fell down, stone dead?’ Then seeing Betsy already turning to go out, she called: ‘Its not something contagious, is it?’

By the time Betsy reached the Duke’s there was no time to look for Tom. The theatre was filling up, the orchestra tuning their instruments. The stage was aglow, its great candle-hoops lit and hoisted to the roof. Backstage, scene-men stood by to raise the festoon curtain, while hirelings milled about in costume. There was a new face among the scene-men, and Betsy guessed that this was Joshua Small’s brother. She was hurrying towards the Women’s Shift when a voice hailed her. She turned to see William Daggett fixing her with one of his fearsome stares.

‘I was going to fine you for lateness, Mistress,’ he said. ‘Only Mr Betterton says you were on an errand for him.’

‘Will you tell him I would speak with him after the performance?’ Betsy asked. And without waiting, she began to climb the steps. But a figure emerged from the Men’s Shift, and once again she met the eyes of Mr Samuel Tripp.

‘Mistress Brand … I sought you earlier, but you must have been detained,’ he began. ‘I’m desirous to speak of your role in
The Virtuous Bawd
.’

Betsy frowned: she had not given Tripp’s play a thought. ‘Later, sir,’ she answered. ‘I’m in haste,’ and before he could speak she disappeared inside the Women’s Shift.

After that, all other matters were driven from her mind as she began preparing once again to play First Witch.

Act One was a triumph, as was Act Two. To the delight of the packed house, the witches howled and danced, Macbeth strutted, Lady Macbeth plotted and King Duncan was murdered. Act Three began, and now it was Banquo’s turn. In cloak and wig, perspiring under her witch’s make-up, Betsy stood in the wings with Jane. She had not intended to watch Mr Joseph Rigg expire again, partly because Samuel Tripp was lurking backstage, looking as if the Duke’s were performing one of his works instead of Mr Shakespeare’s. But the Women’s Shift was crowded this afternoon, since Aveline Hale had decided to favour the others with her presence. The rumour that the King himself might come to the play persisted, even though there had been no sign of His Majesty. Hence there was more excitement than usual in the house. Betsy and Jane sensed it as they watched the Three Murderers make their entrance, daggers at the ready.

The Murderers were an oddly matched trio, on stage and off. First Murderer was played by a brash young actor named George Beale, famously ambitious, who felt the role was beneath him and lost no opportunity in telling people of it. But then, at least he was a regular company member who could count on a weekly wage. Second and Third Murderer were hirelings, who had to take whatever work they could get: one of them tall and bony, the other a squat little fellow. As a consequence, their appearance on stage always occasioned laughter, until Mr Rigg’s fine performance as Banquo quelled it. It was no secret that George Beale hated appearing with the other two men, whom he considered inferior creatures.

But today the atmosphere was electric, as once again First Murderer cried ‘Let it come down!’ and raised his dagger. Again the tiresome boy playing Fleance ran off stage, pulling faces; again the murderers performed their grisly task, and once more Banquo staggered, clutching at his chest. Blood spurted, the audience sighed, and the stricken man cried out. This time, however, perhaps to achieve a more dramatic effect, Rigg lurched towards the pit before falling to his knees and stretching out a trembling hand. Then the celebrated actor groaned and collapsed, his hand falling limply to the boards.

There was a moment’s silence before applause rang out, louder even than yesterday. First, Second and Third Murderer had to shout to be heard. George Beale spoke his closing line – ‘Well let’s away, and say how much is done!’ – and the three men hurried off, to some good-natured booing from the side boxes. Then as they entered the wings, Betsy heard the tall hireling say to his fellow:

‘The devil … Rigg forgot to say
O slave
!’

It was true, though few had noticed; but it hardly seemed to matter, for Rigg had stolen the show again with his death scene. Betsy and Jane exchanged glances, whereupon there was a stir from behind. Both looked round to see Joshua Small, gazing out to the stage with a frown. ‘The dunderhead,’ he muttered. ‘He’s gone and fallen in front of the curtain line!’

They looked, and saw for themselves. Seemingly carried away with his performance – did he think the King might be watching, after all? – Rigg was not lying in his usual spot, but several feet forward, on the forestage. Had this been rehearsed, scene-men would have been standing by to bear his body away, so maintaining the illusion of death. But it was not rehearsed, and no one was ready. With a curse, Joshua Small took a step back and called out urgently.

‘Will! Come here, quick!’

His brother had been standing in the scene-room watching more experienced hands at work. Nervously, he hurried up.

‘We’ll have to carry him,’ Joshua said. ‘You take his legs.’

Will gulped. ‘Can’t he get up and walk off?’

The other let out a muffled curse. ‘Don’t argue! Follow me, and do what I say!’

And watched by Betsy and Jane, along with others who had gathered in the wings, the two Smalls walked out on to the stage and took positions at either end of Rigg’s motionless body. At Joshua’s signal they lifted him up, whereupon, in his eagerness to get out of sight of the audience, Will Small started off in the wrong direction. Rigg’s feet slipped from his hand to land with a thud on the stage, prompting a roar of laughter from the pit. Voices rose and fingers were pointed as, red-faced, the fellow grabbed the feet again and waited for his brother. Fuming visibly, the older Small moved forward at a brisk pace, and without further mishap Banquo’s body disappeared into the wings, followed by loud applause and more laughter.

In the scene-room, however, no one was laughing. William Daggett had appeared with a face like thunder, while actors and backstage folk alike tried to keep their faces straight. Will Small’s employment at the Duke’s theatre looked as if it were likely to end the day it had begun.

But Betsy’s eyes narrowed: for suddenly, instinctively, she knew that something was wrong. Rigg had been laid gently on the floor; but instead of getting up and chiding his bearers for their clumsiness as everyone expected, he remained still – apart from his limbs, which were trembling, while his eyes rolled in their sockets … and then at last, the penny dropped.

A hireling woman screamed, while men darted forward, everyone staring at Mr Joseph Rigg – who, it now transpired, was not acting at all.

He was really dying.

A numbness seemed to settle upon the Company, as they stood about the hushed scene-room. Actors and actresses began appearing in various states of undress, and there were gasps of disbelief as the news spread. Quite quickly, two things became clear. The first was that Joseph Rigg was apparently stricken in the same manner as Tom Cleeve had been only the day before. The second was that the performance might have to be cut short, even though the palace screens were already in place and Macbeth, Lady Macbeth and their attendant lords were about to make their entrance.

When Rigg was carried into the scene-room, Thomas Betterton had been among the first to notice the man’s condition. William Daggett was another. But even as the stage manager hurried forward, Betsy Brand moved quickly to Betterton.

‘I think Tom Catlin’s in the playhouse,’ she said.

Her mentor gazed distractedly at her, before his eyes fell upon Silas Gunn, who was staring down at Rigg alongside the dumbfounded Small brothers.

‘Go and seek Doctor Catlin … he’s likely in the Gallery. Bring him here, quickly!’

Silas shook himself and moved off as John Downes the prompter appeared, wearing a sickly expression. Betterton addressed him at once.

‘We cannot continue. The play must be halted!’

Downes swallowed, then nodded. ‘Will you tell them, sir? I think it’s best….’

After a moment, Betterton signalled his agreement. He glanced at Aveline Hale who was standing close by, apparently horror-stricken. ‘Mistress Hale,’ he began uneasily, ‘are you unwell, too?’

Mistress Hale’s eyes were fixed upon Joseph Rigg, who was mumbling incoherently. Then, without warning, her eyes closed and she fell into a faint. Luckily, Julius Hill, who was standing nearby, caught her swiftly.

‘Take her away!’ Betterton cried. Betsy’s old mentor looked angry now; and in his anger he was always decisive. She watched as, drawing himself to his full height, he walked out on to the forestage.

The audience had grown restive at the delay in proceedings. When Betterton appeared, a crackle of applause broke out, before realization dawned that something was amiss. Then the man raised a hand, and silence fell. In a sorrowful tone he spoke of Mr Joseph Rigg’s being taken gravely ill, and of the company’s great distress. In view of the circumstances….

A murmur rose, people turning to one another. But though there were some voices of discontent, particularly from fashionable city men in the side boxes, there was no danger of serious protest. Betterton’s presence had a sobering effect, so that Betsy, watching from the wings, breathed a sigh of relief. And now Doctor Tom Catlin came into the scene-room with Silas Gunn in tow, took in the situation quickly, and dropped to his knees beside Rigg.

Suddenly, it seemed that this was like some gruesome repeat performance – not of Rigg’s death scene as Banquo, but of Cleeve’s real death the day before. Again, the gradual stiffening of the body, again the desperate look in the man’s eyes as his voice failed, then finally his breath … and Tom Catlin, his mouth set tight, could do nothing but take Rigg’s hand, and watch his rapid descent. Finally he felt the great artery in Rigg’s neck, before leaning back in silence.

Standing close by, Daggett the stage manager let out a cry of despair. From Betsy’s side there came a sob; she knew it came from Jane Rowe. Then she blinked, as the tears started from her own eyes. And as one, the Duke of York’s Company – men and women, actors and artisans – began to give vent to their emotions. The audience outside was forgotten, even when the noise of their leave-taking arose, so that when Thomas Betterton joined his fellows, he found himself as helpless as the rest. He could only stand with them, still wearing his Macbeth costume, and stare down at Rigg’s lifeless body.

An hour later, the actor George Beale found himself under suspicion of murder.

The audience had melted away; no doubt news of what had happened would soon spread throughout London and its suburbs. In the playhouse itself, doormen stood by the entrance, under Betterton’s orders to admit no one. The entire company, actors and backstage folk alike, sat on the pit benches in silence until their leader came to address them. Like the others he had shed costume and make-up. His face was taut, and his tone was severe, for reasons which would soon be apparent.

‘I’ll not dwell on the manner in which our dear friend Joseph Rigg expired,’ he said. ‘I am as broken by it as any of you. You saw what happened, as many of you saw what happened yesterday, to Tom Cleeve. And though my first thought was that some terrible sickness had afflicted both men, what I have now heard from Doctor Catlin has forced me to revise my opinion.’

There was a stir, and the company glanced uneasily at one another, but Betterton raised a hand. ‘Mr Beale,’ he said quietly. ‘Would you be good enough to tell me what was the cause of your grievance against Mr Rigg?’

There was an intake of breath, as thirty pairs of eyes shifted towards George Beale, seated at the front. After a moment the young man rose stiffly and faced Betterton.

‘You confound me, sir,’ he said, somewhat sharply. ‘For there was no grievance. I had nothing but admiration for Rigg and his abilities.’

‘In which case,’ Betterton retorted, ‘Why did you stab him with such force in the murder scene that the knife pierced his flesh?’

There was a gasp. Beale paled, but stood his ground.

‘How can that be, sir?’ he asked. ‘You know as well as I do that it’s a stage dagger, blunted and with no edge to it. While I confess I may, in the heat of the moment, have been somewhat enthusiastic in my thrust, there’s no possibility that the weapon did serious damage.’

‘Yet the man was bleeding,’ Betterton countered. ‘And I for one would—’

‘Mr Betterton, may I speak?’ All heads turned, for it was Tom Catlin who had interrupted. The doctor rose from his seat at the end of the front row.

‘I merely mentioned that the knife had drawn blood,’ Catlin said mildly. ‘But the wound was shallow, little more than a scratch. It could not have been fatal.’

Betterton was frowning. ‘Could it not have brought on some seizure, or sudden flux to the head?’ he asked. ‘You saw the way the man fell, staggering forward in a manner he had not practised. It’s my opinion Rigg ceased acting very soon after Beale stabbed him. Otherwise, he would never have failed to deliver his last line – it was utterly unlike him!’

‘God in heaven, sir, this cannot be borne! Do you accuse me of murder!?’

Beale’s face was flushed now, with fear as well as anger. Betterton made no reply, and a murmur arose. Some people glanced at the two hirelings who had played Second and Third Murderer, sitting together in shocked silence.

‘I can only repeat,’ Catlin said, ‘that the stab-wound to Mr Rigg’s chest was not serious. As you stated, the manner of his death was akin to that of Cleeve yesterday, the cause of which—’

‘Very well, doctor!’ Betterton nodded. ‘I thank you for your assistance.’ He faced the company again. ‘I must give credence to the doctor’s findings,’ he went on. ‘And’ – this with a look at Beale – ‘I accuse no one of murder.’

He lowered his gaze, the strain upon him now obvious to all. ‘We have suffered a terrible shock,’ he said, ‘and no doubt you wish to go to your homes. Yet I ask you all, in view of what has happened, to be ready to answer questions: the forces of law already view Cleeve’s death as suspicious—’ he broke off. Anxious looks were flying about, but George Beale, who was still on his feet, addressed Betterton again.

‘Sir, I am in torment yet, and I will be heard!’ he cried. ‘You have already come close to accusing me of despatching Rigg with a blunted dagger. Do you now intend to ask whether I had some grudge against Cleeve too?’

‘Of course not.’ Betterton maintained a level tone. ‘Yet since you press me, I note you have not answered my question: even if we accept the Doctor’s view that your dagger thrust could not have inflicted serious injury upon Mr Rigg, I ask again: what was the nature of your grievance against him? For from what I have learned today, I feel certain there was one!’

Beale’s face reddened further. ‘I resent this deeply, sir!’ he answered, ‘as I resent the suggestion that, even if there had been any discord between myself and Rigg, I would have allowed it to encroach upon our professional endeavours—’

‘Yet you did so!’

A high female voice rang out. In surprise everyone looked round at the unexpected sight: Louise Hawker, the shy little tiring-maid, on her feet in the middle of the group, pointing at George Beale. Aveline Hale, who had recovered from her fainting fit and was sitting beside the girl, gaped at her in astonishment.

Beale stiffened, and some looked perplexed: there was more to this than they had imagined. Betterton gestured to Louise to come forward, but the girl shook her head.

‘They were like two cockerels that fight over a hen!’ she cried. ‘I heard them in the street – they did spit and cry insults at each other, so that I thought they would draw their swords! Beale called Rigg a rook and a bulker, and swore he would have his blood!’

Now voices rose in dismay, as well as in anger. Betsy looked round and saw that while some were casting suspicious looks at George Beale, others appeared unmoved, as if Louise’s revelation was not news to them. Among those who kept silent, she noticed, were Joshua Small, William Daggett and James Prout … and Samuel Tripp, who sat in a corner. Apparently unfazed by anything that had been said, the playmaker wore his habitual cynical smile.

‘Is this true, sir?’ A hard look had spread across Betterton’s handsome features. ‘Answer me!’

Beale’s mouth had gone dry. He moistened his lips, then seeing Betterton was about to repeat his demand, spoke up.

‘Very well!’ he cried. ‘It’s true we were at loggerheads, but it was of no consequence. A quarrel between two friends over a loan of money – nothing more. I swear it!’

When no one spoke, the man sought to defend himself further. ‘I’ve never harmed a soul in my life!’ he shouted. ‘You may ask anyone who is acquainted with me. I confess I was angry with Rigg. What man wouldn’t be, when he plays at cards with a fellow who can’t make good his debts? I made him a loan in good faith, and he failed to repay it! And moreover—’

‘Moreover,’ a voice chimed in, ‘you coveted Rigg’s role, and felt you had more right to it than he!’

It was James Prout who had spoken. All turned to the dancing-master, who still wore his rhinegrave dancing-breeches.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said to Betterton, ‘yet I cannot remain silent. Rigg was a fine tragedian, and it was a measure of the man that he laughed off the jibes of a mere supporting actor, who is not worthy to play his page-boy!’

Betsy glanced from Prout to Beale, who had gone white. Louise Hawker sat down hurriedly. This was threatening to escalate into a verbal battle. Fortunately, Betterton was equal to the task of defusing it.

‘I thank you, Mr Prout,’ he said briskly, ‘yet I fear we make little headway. However, one thing at least is clear to me.’ He looked deliberately at Beale, who flinched.

‘I will not question you further, sir,’ he said. ‘If the forces of the law wish to take up the matter of your quarrel with Rigg, that is their right. We in the Company will mourn the passing of our fellow, before gathering the strength to continue – as we have done before in the face of adversity, and will again!’ Seeing that his words met with approval, he went on: ‘Yet I will not have personal conflicts spilling on to the stage of the Duke’s Theatre. You will not play here, ever again. You are dismissed, sir – and further, you are barred from entering this building. I wish you good day!’

A tense moment followed. Beale gave Betterton a long look, of impotent anger mingled with shame; then at last he puffed out his chest, turned on his heel and strode to the side entrance. The walk was a long one; and by the time he had reached the door, a doorman had flung it wide. From outside, the cries of the watermen could be heard from the river, before Beale disappeared from sight.

There was a general sigh of relief. Some of the actors rose, and by the look of them, were bound for the nearest tavern. Betsy, too, felt that she had heard enough for one afternoon, and Jane Rowe’s expression suggested that she was of similar mind. Yet as voices rose, Betterton raised his hand again.

‘I will not keep you here any longer,’ he called. ‘You of course understand that the run of
Macbeth
is over. We will not play tomorrow, nor the day after, which is in any case the Lord’s day. Yet it is my wish that next week we may gather with renewed vigour, and prepare a favourite piece from our repertoire—’

But at that moment there came a sonorous voice from the doorway, and the sudden entrance of an imposing personage put paid to that notion in an instant.

‘I regret that will not be possible, Mr Betterton. The theatre must close until further notice, by order of the Lord Chamberlain.’

The silence that followed was one of dismay. All eyes fell upon a stocky, handsome man in his middle forties, richly dressed in a maroon suit, flat-crowned hat and gold stockings. Lord Caradoc, the Master of the King’s Revels, was a familiar face at the playhouses, even if his presence was not always welcome. Yet the man’s good humour and wit were such that few could find it in their hearts to dislike him. Unhurriedly, His Lordship walked forward.

‘My lord.’ Betterton made his bow, and other men rose to follow suit while women curtsied. But Caradoc ignored the formalities, and it was clear from his grave expression that he had heard the news.

‘I am sorry for it,’ he said, ‘as I am for your tragic loss.’ He hesitated. ‘For do I hear correctly, that Mr Rigg was not merely taken ill, but has since died?’

In reply to that Betterton’s brief nod was all the man needed.

‘Then, even though the Lord Chamberlain has yet to be appraised of the matter,’ Caradoc continued, ‘I take it upon myself to anticipate his will. In view of the fact that two deaths have occurred here in as many days, there can be no other course of action.’

Nobody spoke. The theatre’s closure was more than a passing inconvenience for the Duke’s Company: it meant the loss of their income. Many of them, from the older actors to Louise the tiring-maid, were the breadwinners for their families. Betsy caught Tom Catlin’s eye, then she glanced at Lord Caradoc, and found his eyes upon her.