‘He may well have done,’ Betsy answered. ‘For despite his gentle nature, it was no secret what services he performed for certain wealthy patrons … of both sexes.’ When Tom said nothing, she went on: ‘But why do you ask? Surely you don’t think he was murdered?’
‘Well, it’s hard to see how, since there wasn’t a mark upon him. But then I didn’t examine him very closely. Perhaps I should have done.’
The two of them sat in silence, mulling the matter over. Then recognizing the distant look in Tom’s eye, Betsy rose from her chair. ‘Time I went to my bed,’ she said with a smile. ‘There’s a part in a new play, that of a grand lady, that Betterton would have me reflect upon.’
Coming out of his reverie, Tom Catlin rose from the table in turn. ‘What play is that?’
‘It’s a comedy called The Virtuous Bawd,’ Betsy told him, ‘by that fop-doodle Samuel Tripp.’
Tom knew well enough what Betsy thought of Tripp, and was swift to divert her from that topic. ‘Then I’ll wish you goodnight,’ he said quickly, and picked up The London Gazette.
The next day’s events, however, would drive all thoughts of Tripp from Betsy’s mind. For though the second performance of Macbeth had packed the house like the first, it would soon become talked of for reasons which the Duke’s Company would prefer to forget.
There was no doubt now that the play was a success. And if at times Mr Betterton’s version of it strayed from Mr Shakespeare’s, as far as the Dorset Gardens crowd was concerned that was all to the good. The added scenes, along with the music, turned a dark play into something closer to an opera, giving the cast ample opportunity to show off their singing and dancing. Each act closed to thunderous applause, and by the time Act Five ended, the air of satisfaction backstage had turned to one of jubilation. It was clear the play would run for longer than the customary three nights. And what was more, wags in the company joked, since the man had been dead for over half a century, there need be no Benefit Night for the author!
The cast took their bows to cheers and shouts of approval, even from the rakes in the galleries, before crowding into the scene-room. This time, instead of going off to their closets, Betterton and other leading players stayed to join in the general celebration. Hangers-on were even more in evidence than yesterday, along with a sprinkling of actors from the rival King’s Company, eager to share in the spoils. Glasses of a passable claret soon appeared, along with a keg of ale for the scene-men. To the wry amusement of Betsy and Jane, even Aveline Hale was in expansive humour, the reason for which soon became clear.
‘Mr Betterton!’ she cried, elbowing her way through the chattering throng. ‘Is it true what I’ve heard … that we are to play before the King?’
The Company’s leader turned to her. ‘More than likely, madam,’ he answered. ‘His Majesty has made it known that he wishes to see the play. I await his pleasure.’
Mistress Hale’s smile widened in delight, prompting droll looks from some of her fellow actors. The doormen and scene-men, puffing on their pipes, grinned and clinked mugs. But if anything, the news was welcomed even more by the supporting actresses, and not merely because any of them might attract the attention of King Charles or one of his friends: should Aveline Hale make her catch, she would be gone from the Duke’s Theatre, leaving room for others to advance themselves.
‘It’s an ill wind, I suppose,’ Jane Rowe observed cheerfully, taking a pull from her cup. ‘And if an orange-wench can bear the King’s bastards, why not a butcher’s daughter from Cheap?’
‘You’d hate being anyone’s kept woman,’ Betsy said dryly. ‘As would I … even the King’s.’
‘In time, perhaps,’ Jane answered with a sly look. ‘But I’d make the best of it while it lasted.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Now then, look who’s about to try his luck.’
Betsy followed her gaze to see that Joshua Small, the chief scene-man, had left his fellows and was making his way towards them.
‘Don’t go!’ Jane hissed under her breath. While Small’s feelings for her were obvious to everyone, Jane had already made it plain to him that his attentions were unwanted. There was only one man Mistress Rowe cared about, and he was in the Fleet Prison for debt. But her other would-be suitor, a handsome enough fellow, was not one to give up easily. As he drew close, Jane spoke to Betsy out of the side of her mouth.
‘Small by name, small of brain,’ she muttered. ‘Why don’t he leave me be?’
Then both of them started. From a short distance away had come a thud, followed by a commotion. Heads were craned, as everyone tried to discern the cause. Quickly the crowd shifted, as a circle widened in the corner nearest the door to the forestage. Actors, hirelings, hangers-on, all were now taken aback at sight of the burly scene-man, Thomas Cleeve, lying sprawled on his back with a frightened look in his eyes. There was a moment of confusion before some stepped forward. The first was William Daggett, the stage manager, who called loudly to everyone to stand back.
‘Give him air!’ he cried, and dropped to one knee beside the supine figure, who seemed to be shaking. Most did step back – in fact, for reasons of their own, several people chose this moment to move away. Betsy, on the edge of the circle, saw that James Prout was one of them. Some of the actors, including Joseph Rigg and Aveline Hale, also decided this was a good moment to head for the tiring-rooms. Others stood about, wondering if some altercation had broken out between the scene-men, or whether the fellow was merely drunk. But now Thomas Betterton arrived and bent down beside Daggett, peering at the fallen man.
‘Cleeve, are you badly hurt?’ He asked. When the fellow merely mumbled incoherently, Betterton turned to his stage manager. ‘What happened?’
Daggett shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir.’ He glanced up quickly, searching the crowd. Joshua Small was pushing his way forward to stand beside white-haired Silas Gunn, the oldest of the scene-men, a loyal servant of Betterton’s for over a decade. Both men looked down at Cleeve, non-plussed by the event.
‘Did any of you see what happened?’ Daggett asked. Small shook his head, while Silas Gunn spread his hands.
‘Nothing happened, master,’ he answered in a bewildered voice. ‘One moment he’s taking a drink, then he jerks a bit, drops his mug and keels over. No reason for it that I could see.’
‘Well, he can’t seem to move,’ Daggett said worriedly. ‘One of you’d best go and fetch a physician.’
Then it was that Betsy Brand, staring down at Cleeve, recalled the man from the previous day, apparently shaken by the news of Long Ned’s death. And in a moment, she knew somehow that what was happening to the scene-man was identical to what had happened to Ned. Quickly she stepped forward.
‘Send a boy to Doctor Catlin’s house in Fire’s Reach Court,’ she said. ‘If he’s home, he’ll come at once.’
Betterton and Daggett looked at her, but knowing her neither would question her judgement. Betterton nodded to Joshua Small, who hurried off.
‘Tom!’ The stage manager brought his face close to Cleeve’s. ‘It’s Will Daggett … can you hear me?’
The scene-man was trembling. It was clear that something was terribly wrong with him, but none could guess the cause. Suddenly he whimpered. ‘My toes … I can’t feel ’em!’
A murmur went up from the watchers, as portly John Downes the prompter appeared. Kneeling down on the other side of Cleeve, he held a mug to his lips. ‘Take a mouthful, Tom,’ he said. ‘It’s good Nantes—’
But Cleeve’s only response was a groan. His arms and legs were twitching uncontrollably. ‘I’m sinking,’ he said, and threw a terrified look at Betterton. ‘For the love of God, sir, can’t you help me?’
The great actor, humble in the face of the man’s desperation, gritted his teeth. ‘In heaven’s name, is there nothing to be done?’ he asked Daggett.
‘It’s beyond me, sir,’ the man muttered. ‘I can only think he broke his back when he fell, or his neck.’
At that Cleeve rolled his eyes to mee
t Daggett’s. ‘Aye … the neck,’ he said in a whisper. And now the company watched in dismay, as all at once the man stopped moving.
‘His legs are stiff,’ Downes exclaimed. ‘His arms, too!’
Not knowing what else to do, Daggett slapped Cleeve’s cheeks. ‘Tom!’ He shouted, and shook the man by the shoulders. ‘Hold on, lad, the doctor’s on his way.’
But Cleeve did not seem to hear. His eyes no longer saw: the pupils were dilated, fixed on nothing. And as one, the watchers – from Louise the tiring-maid to the few actors who, like Betsy and Jane, yet remained – grew still, sensing the presence of death. As they gazed, Cleeve’s breathing slowed until it was too faint to detect, so that Daggett had to press his ear to the man’s chest. Then he sat up, and turned to Betterton with a grim expression. A silence fell.
The great actor bowed his head, and others followed suit. Downes the prompter got stiffly to his feet, looking shaken. One of the women sniffed. And to everyone’s surprise, a tear fell from gruff Will Daggett’s eye, and rolled down to his bristling moustache.
Twenty minutes later Doctor Tom Catlin hurried into the theatre, only to learn that for the second time in as many days, there was nothing he could do.
*
It was a subdued company who gathered in the empty auditorium a while later, to hear Betterton utter a few consoling words. Some had already left; for if truth be told, Tom Cleeve had not been liked by many. He was a close-mouthed fellow who seldom smiled, and was known to become pugnacious when drunk. Yet the death of any man was a loss, and the way in which he had met his end was a shock. The doormen and scene-men, standing in a solemn group, seemed stunned by the event. Finally, after dismissing the remainder of the company, Betterton turned to Tom Catlin, who still stood by.
‘Doctor, will you aid us? Can you make arrangements to have the body removed?’
‘I can.’ Catlin hesitated. ‘Is there a family?’
‘I believe so – wife and children both,’ Betterton answered, and his brows knitted. ‘It would also set my mind at rest, to know precisely why Cleeve died.’
‘I’ve given you my opinion, Mr Betterton,’ Catlin said quietly. ‘The man died from an asphyxia.’
‘But how?’ The other countered. ‘What brought it on?’
‘I’m not a surgeon.’ Catlin shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone more skilled than I should examine the corpse.’
‘Yet you are a friend,’ Betterton said, and turned to Betsy, who stood near. ‘At least you are Mistress Brand’s friend, and she has always spoken highly of you.’
Catlin made no reply, but glanced at Betsy, who had been burning to speak. She seized her chance.
‘Mr Betterton, there’s something you should know,’ she said. And quickly she told of Cleeve’s behaviour the day before, adding that the way he had died seemed very like the way Long Ned had met his end at the bagnio.
Betterton looked taken aback, but the doctor was nodding. ‘It’s most odd,’ he agreed. ‘I was the one called to the hammam when the man collapsed. He fell over quite suddenly, as Cleeve did, for no apparent cause. From what I’ve learned, his symptoms were similar.’
‘What are you implying, sir?’ Betterton asked sharply. ‘That there’s some pestilence abroad?’
‘I think not,’ Catlin replied. ‘Yet the more I turn the matter about, the more I believe something is amiss.’ He hesitated. ‘Were the two victims known to one another?’
‘They may have been.’ Betterton was frowning. ‘I dislike the way this moves, Doctor. Are you suggesting a more sinister explanation?’
‘I don’t know what to suggest, but I’ll find out what I can.’ Catlin turned to go, adding over his shoulder: ‘I’ll seek leave to examine the body, and speak with you again.’
But as he went he caught Betsy’s eye, and a look of understanding passed between them. And somehow she too knew that there was a link between these deaths, though its cause was hidden. She also sensed that it was important, and that it must be uncovered; and more, Mistress Betsy Brand wanted to be the one to uncover it.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning Betsy was woken by Peg coming into her room with water for washing and a bowl of curds for her breakfast. She remained long enough to tell her that the Doctor had left the house already and that she was off to market, before stalking out.
Betsy sat up, as the memory of yesterday’s events flooded back. After a while she rose and began to dress, thinking of Betterton’s last words as she took leave of him outside the theatre. He had been walking to the Duke’s stairs to take a boat when Julius Hill hurried up to ask whether the Company would play the next afternoon, as usual.
‘Indeed we shall!’ Betterton had told the actor brusquely. ‘The best thing this company can do is to give an even better performance tomorrow than we did today!’ Then he had turned away from Hill, to gaze at the grey waters of the Thames. ‘In any case,’ he added, ‘the King himself may pay us a visit. We must remain on our mettle.’
So to everyone’s relief, Macbeth would take to the stage for the third time; and little trace would remain of Tom Cleeve, whose body was taken away to his parish of St John’s in Clerkenwell. Joshua Small, with a speed that surprised some, had already approached Will Daggett to suggest a replacement scene-man: his own younger brother.
It’s an ill wind indeed, Betsy thought. In fact the only alteration in her routine was that Betterton had sent a link-boy with a message the previous night, asking her to come to the theatre in the morning. This was unusual, since no rehearsal had been called. So with curiosity aroused, she arrived at the Duke’s an hour later, to find a small group gathered in the scene-room.
Betterton was there, along with William Daggett, Downes the prompter and James Prout the dancing-master. There was someone else: a fat, unsmiling man in a brown coat and heavy boots. Then Betsy remembered: he was Gould, the dour constable of Farringdon Ward Without. It seemed the law was now taking an interest in Cleeve’s death.
‘Mistress Brand!’ Betterton greeted her. ‘I have a request to make of you.’ Taking her arm, he drew her aside. ‘It’s a somewhat delicate matter: I would like you to visit Tom Cleeve’s widow in Clerkenwell, on behalf of the Company.’ And when Betsy showed her surprise, he added: ‘No doubt she is in distress, as she’s likely in dire need. I’m desirous to send someone of tact and discretion.’
‘Perhaps a gift of money would be of best use to the woman,’ Betsy 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!’
After the Fire Page 3
