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.
She sighed; she was not the only unmarried actress to have been propositioned at one time or another by the noble lord. Yet in contrast to someone like Samuel Tripp, he had always made his advances with such gallantry that Betsy had usually felt flattered. He had also taken her rebuffs with good grace, saying he was a sporting man who enjoyed the chase, and could laugh in the face of defeat.
But now there was nothing more to be said. Betterton and Caradoc moved aside in private conversation. After a moment John Downes joined them, along with Daggett. The rest of the company made for the doors in a subdued body. Betsy took Jane’s arm. As they neared the doorway Louise the tiring-maid hurried past them, eyes downcast. Yet, Betsy reflected, few in the company would have cause to doubt the girl’s words, knowing George Beale as they did – and Joseph Rigg too. Nevertheless, though few would miss Beale, she knew all would miss Rigg as much as she would.
Soon the two were outside, with the breeze in their faces. Each was busy with her own thoughts, but one was uppermost, as it would be on the mind of every member of the company: an uncertain time lay ahead, without work or wage. So when the familiar, ranting voice of Praise-God Palmer rang out in the lane Betsy and Jane exchanged exasperated looks, before following the rest of the company to the Hercules Pillars.
It was mid afternoon, yet the inn was crowded. One of the largest ordinaries outside the Walls and close to the theatre, it was the usual haunt of actors. As the two pushed their way inside, they adopted their most brazen manner: nothing less would suffice, for women unescorted. Almost at once there came a male voice from behind, but it was Tom Catlin, somewhat out of breath, who had evidently been trying to catch them up.
‘Let’s find a quiet corner,’ he said. ‘I must speak with you.’
A few minutes later the three of them had squeezed behind a table by the window. Catlin called for mulled sack, then began without preamble.
‘I examined Tom Cleeve’s body,’ he said, ‘and found something I didn’t like. But before I tell you what it is, can either of you remember who was close to the man, before he fell down?’
Jane looked taken aback. ‘We weren’t near enough to see, with everyone milling about,’ she answered. ‘As I recall, he was talking with the other scene-men.’
‘Apart from one,’ Betsy put in. ‘Joshua Small was making his way towards us – he’s got designs on Mistress Rowe here.’
Catlin was wearing what Betsy called his ‘puzzling out’ face. ‘I looked his body over, from head to foot,’ he said after a moment. ‘And apart from a few old scars, I found nothing amiss – until I chanced to take a look at his arm. There was a tiny hole above the elbow – little more than a pinprick, but it was recent. Looked like he’d been pierced with a bodkin, or something similar.’
Then, seeing the looks on the two women’s faces, he shook his head. ‘No, it couldn’t have killed him, any more than that blunted dagger killed Rigg. What was odd was the appearance of the puncture. I had to put a lens to it, before I saw it plainly: a trace of some brown substance, about its edges.’
‘But … you said the wound was so tiny, it couldn’t have caused his death,’ Jane objected.
‘Whatever he was pricked with couldn’t have … at least, not in the upper arm,’ Catlin said. ‘But if it was coated with something poisonous, that’s another matter.’
Betsy drew a sharp breath. ‘You thought Long Ned was poisoned,’ she said. ‘And I found out today that they knew each other well. In fact, they went back a long way.’
‘What’s Long Ned to do with it?’ Jane asked.
In a few words, Catlin told her how it was he who had be
en called to attend the man at the bathhouse, but two days previously, and how the manner of his death was almost identical to Cleeve’s. ‘At the time, I thought there was no mark upon his body, either,’ he added. ‘But then I didn’t search it for anything as small as a pinprick.’
A tapster appeared with three steaming mugs of sack and set them down. ‘Betterton told me this morning that rumours were already abroad,’ Betsy said, ‘of some foul play being practised upon the Duke’s Company. Long Ned used to work for him, back at the old theatre, while Cleeve—’
‘Ned, then Tom Cleeve … and now Rigg,’ Catlin broke in, nodding. ‘I’m not a gamester, yet I’d lay odds that if I were to examine Rigg’s body, too, I’d find a pinprick exactly like the one on Cleeve’s arm. Their symptoms were too alike – and in any case, I don’t believe in coincidence.’
Jane Rowe looked aghast. ‘Are you saying they were all poisoned?’ she demanded.
But Betsy turned to her, and answered for Catlin. ‘He’s saying they were murdered. And I believe him!’
CHAPTER FIVE
Thomas Betterton’s house stood to the north of Covent Garden, where many handsome new residences had been built in London’s rapid westward expansion. Here he lived in comfort with his actress wife Mary, the celebrated Mistress Saunderson. But though Betsy had visited their home several times, on the morning after Joseph Rigg’s death she approached the heavy door with some trepidation.
She had taken breakfast with Tom Catlin, a rare occurrence, as it was the doctor’s habit to rise early. But though Betsy had passed a restless night, and there was no performance at the Duke’s, the two of them had matters to talk over. They agreed that Betsy would tell Betterton what they had both learned, and let him decide what course to take. So after Peg had dressed her hair in side-locks and helped her into her tight-boned bodice, Betsy put on her second-best chemise and a cloak of midnight blue, and walked by Wych Street and Drury Lane to Long Acre.
After the Fire Page 5
