After the Fire

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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.
    The door was opened by Betterton’s ageing manservant, Matthew. As he showed Betsy into the parlour, the old man bent to whisper in her ear. ‘You’re not the only visitor, Mistress Brand. Alderman Blake’s here … in high dudgeon, too.’
    Betsy knew the alderman of the ward of Farringdon Without, where the Duke’s Theatre stood, only too well. He was an old-style Puritan who, though lacking the zeal of men like Praise-God Palmer, nevertheless viewed the libertarian ways of actors with distaste. If Blake had heard of the deaths of Tom Cleeve and Joseph Rigg, it was likely he had seized the opportunity to make one of his frequent demands for the closure of the theatre. In which case, Betsy thought wryly, he was too late.
    Now she heard voices raised and, putting on a broad smile, walked into the sunlit room. As she entered, Betterton rose to greet her. ‘My dear Mistress Brand,’ he was smiling, but there was a warning look in his eye as he indicated the florid-faced man in black, who occupied a chair by the window. ‘You know Alderman Blake.’
    Betsy faced the Alderman, and made her curtsey. ‘Of course, how do you, sir?’
    Blake made no reply, nor did he rise. To a man like him, an actress was no different from a whore, except that she was likely to earn more money. He glanced at Betsy, then continued to address his host.
    ‘I will press my case once more, Mr Betterton, and once only, for I have more important matters to attend to. You tell me the closure of the Duke’s Theatre is but a temporary measure: I say that for the good of our community, it should be permanent!’
    Betterton crossed the room to fetch another chair for Betsy, who accepted it graciously. Unhurriedly he returned to his own chair, before meeting the other man’s gaze.
    ‘In that respect I fear you will be disappointed, sir,’ he answered. ‘As you know, the Duke of York is our patron. He often favours us with his presence – as indeed, does the King himself, whose affection for the drama is well known. Hence I feel certain they would wish us to continue—’
    But Blake snorted. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you brought their names up!’ he said in a contemptuous tone. ‘Well, two may play at tennis! I am well acquainted with the Duke of Buckingham, who has the ear of the King, and, I may say, sees a deal more of him than do you, sir. More to the point, he’s a good friend of the Lord Chamberlain – and hence I mean to seek an audience with him, this very day. In view of the dreadful events that have occurred, I believe he will see matters as I do, and agree that it is prudent – nay, imperative – that the Dorset Gardens Theatre remains closed. And

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