‘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, 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 can’t say,’ Betsy said after a moment. ‘The room was crowded … I didn’t see him fall.’
‘But you saw him die.’
Hannah’s tone was sharp. Betsy returned her gaze and nodded. ‘It was quick. I’m sure he didn’t feel much pain.’
But Hannah dismissed that impatiently. ‘What I’m asking you, Betsy, is this: is there something they’re not telling me?’
‘Why should there be?’
‘Because for the past week – maybe longer – Tom was scared witless, that’s why!’
Betsy felt her pulse quicken. ‘Scared of what?’
‘Of who, more like,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s what I’d like to know. Some rook or biter he’d cheated, or owed money to – I don’t know what lay behind it, and I don’t care. But if he died by another’s hand there’s men I can call upon, would slit the devil’s throat if I asked them to!’
‘Whatever Tom died of, it wasn’t by any means I could see,’ Betsy told her. ‘He was among his fellows when he keeled over. There were plenty who witnessed it.’
‘Well, it seems mighty strange to me,’ Hannah said. ‘Of late, ’twas like he was looking over his shoulder – when he wasn’t sousing himself. Jumpy as a hare, too. The night before he died he was gibbering like a bedlam fool. I couldn’t get a scrap of sense out of him. He even talked about doing a flit, to the Bermudas.’
The baby shifted on her lap, and Hannah glanced down. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fetched up in that warren,’ she muttered. ‘He had a foggy past behind him, did Tom Cleeve.’ Looking up at Betsy, she added: ‘Did you know ’twas me got him that place at the Duke’s new theatre? First honest job he’d had in years!’
Betsy shook her head.
‘Aye, even if I had to lift my skirts for free, to seal the bargain,’ Hannah said in a harsh voice. ‘But it paid off: at least we had a wage coming in … and now, this!’
She was a bitter woman. But Betsy would not summon words of comfort, for she knew how empty they would seem. In any case, it seemed Hannah had more to say.
‘So you take my meaning, mistress,’ she went on. ‘If you hear of anyone who was dogging Tom, I’d be obliged if you’d send word to me.’
In her mind, Betsy had a clear picture of Tom Cleeve, standing by the scene-room door staring after James Prout, and looking badly shaken by the news of Long Ned’s death.
‘I’ll help you any way I can, Hannah,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Yet you make me curious: you say Tom seemed terror-stricken, the day before he died?’
Hannah gave a nod. ‘It’s no use asking why, for I don’t know. Whatever he was blathering about made no sense.’
‘What was he blathering about?’
‘Ned Gowden,’ Hannah replied, and frowned. ‘You remember Long Ned?’ When Betsy gave a nod, she added: ‘That’s why I knew ’twas all gibber, for he hadn’t set eyes on that cove in years.’
‘Then they knew each other?’ Betsy asked.
‘Knew each other? They were thick as thieves at one time,’ Hannah told her. ‘And thieving’s the right word: what those two got up to don’t bear thinking about!’
Clearly Hannah had not yet heard of Long Ned’s death. Then it was hardly a surprise, stuck here as she was with her children. Fashionable Covent Garden may have been only a mile away, but it seemed like another country. Betsy decided to break the news.
‘Long Ned died,’ she said.
Hannah jerked as if she had been struck. ‘When?’
‘Two days ago, in the bathhouse in Covent Garden. He was working there.’
The other stared at her. ‘I like not the sound of it,’ she said, becoming agitated. ‘I thought ’twas nothing, Tom babbling about Ned, I mean. He spoke of the Fire, too; but who doesn’t talk of that, or dream of it?’
The baby had finished feeding and rolled her head sleepily. H
annah got heavily to her feet, carried the child to a corner of the room and laid her down. The twins had stopped fighting, and were looking at her expectantly.
‘I better feed these, too,’ she said.
Betsy moved towards the door. She had much to think upon; but when she turned to make her farewell, Hannah was gazing levelly at her. ‘I thank you for coming here,’ she said. ‘And if there’s more to tell, I’d be glad to hear it … I mean, from you.’ She paused. ‘You’re one of the few I’d trust.’
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 Rig
g – who, it now transpired, was not acting at all.
He was really dying.
CHAPTER FOUR
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.
After the Fire Page 4
