Read Online After the Fire by John Pilkington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Pilkington
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furthermore, that it be boarded up like a plague-house. Only then—’
‘Plague-house?’ Unable to stop herself, Betsy interrupted. ‘There’s no sickness at the Duke’s theatre, sir.’
Blake turned a fiery eye upon her. ‘Two deaths in two days, in the same manner,’ he retorted. ‘What cause would you propound?’
But instead of answering, Betsy let Betterton know by a glance that she had come with tidings for his ears alone. Whereupon her mentor stiffened and spoke up.
‘I have no doubt that a cause will be discovered in time,’ he said to Blake, ‘and that any fears of infection will be allayed. Besides, you were not present when either of those tragic deaths occurred, sir. Hence you cannot comment upon them with any authority.’
‘Authority!’ Blake bristled. ‘I have all the authority I need, sir – and I’ll take no instruction from the son of a cook!’
There was a short silence before, to Blake’s increasing fury, Betterton favoured him with a faint smile. ‘Not just any cook, sir,’ he answered mildly. ‘My father was a royal cook.’
Betsy stifled a laugh. It was well-known that Thomas Betterton was of humble birth; but like others loyal to the first King Charles, he had benefited from the Restoration and the reopening of the theatres, a decade ago. That in itself, Betsy knew, was more than men like Blake could stomach.
The man got to his feet, glaring. ‘You insult me, sir, as you do my office!’ he cried. ‘And I shall take steps to see that you regret it!’ But he was blustering, and he knew it. With perfect dignity, Betterton stood up himself and met the man’s eye.
‘I look forward to seeing how you accomplish that, Alderman,’ he said. ‘Now, since you claim to have more pressing matters – as do Mistress Brand and I – we’ll not impose upon you any longer. Will you permit me to summon my servant?’ And without waiting for a reply he called for Matthew, who appeared with such speed it was obvious he had been listening outside.
The Alderman was fuming. He swung his gaze towards Betsy, who smiled politely and inclined her head. Beside the open door, Matthew waited in silence; and at last, eyes blazing, Blake turned and swept out of the room, and out of the house.
Betsy waited until her host turned and let out a long breath. ‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘will you take a morning draught with me?’
A half-hour later, the two of them were still sitting in Betterton’s parlour. It had not taken Betsy long to tell her mentor everything she had learned from her visit to Hannah Cleeve in Clerkenwell, nor to speak of Tom Catlin’s discovery. By the time she had finished, her old mentor was frowning.
‘I will speak with Lord Caradoc again,’ he said at last. ‘He has always dealt fairly with us, and it’s right he should know the worst.’ He grimaced. ‘I fear he has less influence with the Lord Chamberlain than our friend the Alderman. He’s but a deputy for the Master of the Revels, old Sir Henry Herbert, who, as you know, farms out his office.’
He sighed. ‘Do you know what some of the actors are saying?’ he asked. ‘That Macbeth is an unlucky play, and we should not perform it again. Moreover, according to Blake, having witches on the stage calling up spirits and hatching spells amounts to blasphemy, and meddles with the devil!’
Betsy smiled. ‘Perhaps you should heed Praise-God Palmer,’ she replied. ‘Forsake the theatre, fall upon your knees and beg forgiveness.’
But Betterton was serious. ‘And yet, there’s no denying that evil of some kind has befallen us,’ he said, with a shake of his head. ‘Ned Gowden, Tom Cleeve and now Joseph Rigg! Why, the man had his faults, but I know of no one who disliked him – or at least not enough to murder him! If, that is, I give full credence to Doctor Catlin’s theory …’ he broke off. ‘It’s too strange and too terrible – I wish I could reject it.’
‘Tom Catlin’s the
‘Plague-house?’ Unable to stop herself, Betsy interrupted. ‘There’s no sickness at the Duke’s theatre, sir.’
Blake turned a fiery eye upon her. ‘Two deaths in two days, in the same manner,’ he retorted. ‘What cause would you propound?’
But instead of answering, Betsy let Betterton know by a glance that she had come with tidings for his ears alone. Whereupon her mentor stiffened and spoke up.
‘I have no doubt that a cause will be discovered in time,’ he said to Blake, ‘and that any fears of infection will be allayed. Besides, you were not present when either of those tragic deaths occurred, sir. Hence you cannot comment upon them with any authority.’
‘Authority!’ Blake bristled. ‘I have all the authority I need, sir – and I’ll take no instruction from the son of a cook!’
There was a short silence before, to Blake’s increasing fury, Betterton favoured him with a faint smile. ‘Not just any cook, sir,’ he answered mildly. ‘My father was a royal cook.’
Betsy stifled a laugh. It was well-known that Thomas Betterton was of humble birth; but like others loyal to the first King Charles, he had benefited from the Restoration and the reopening of the theatres, a decade ago. That in itself, Betsy knew, was more than men like Blake could stomach.
The man got to his feet, glaring. ‘You insult me, sir, as you do my office!’ he cried. ‘And I shall take steps to see that you regret it!’ But he was blustering, and he knew it. With perfect dignity, Betterton stood up himself and met the man’s eye.
‘I look forward to seeing how you accomplish that, Alderman,’ he said. ‘Now, since you claim to have more pressing matters – as do Mistress Brand and I – we’ll not impose upon you any longer. Will you permit me to summon my servant?’ And without waiting for a reply he called for Matthew, who appeared with such speed it was obvious he had been listening outside.
The Alderman was fuming. He swung his gaze towards Betsy, who smiled politely and inclined her head. Beside the open door, Matthew waited in silence; and at last, eyes blazing, Blake turned and swept out of the room, and out of the house.
Betsy waited until her host turned and let out a long breath. ‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘will you take a morning draught with me?’
A half-hour later, the two of them were still sitting in Betterton’s parlour. It had not taken Betsy long to tell her mentor everything she had learned from her visit to Hannah Cleeve in Clerkenwell, nor to speak of Tom Catlin’s discovery. By the time she had finished, her old mentor was frowning.
‘I will speak with Lord Caradoc again,’ he said at last. ‘He has always dealt fairly with us, and it’s right he should know the worst.’ He grimaced. ‘I fear he has less influence with the Lord Chamberlain than our friend the Alderman. He’s but a deputy for the Master of the Revels, old Sir Henry Herbert, who, as you know, farms out his office.’
He sighed. ‘Do you know what some of the actors are saying?’ he asked. ‘That Macbeth is an unlucky play, and we should not perform it again. Moreover, according to Blake, having witches on the stage calling up spirits and hatching spells amounts to blasphemy, and meddles with the devil!’
Betsy smiled. ‘Perhaps you should heed Praise-God Palmer,’ she replied. ‘Forsake the theatre, fall upon your knees and beg forgiveness.’
But Betterton was serious. ‘And yet, there’s no denying that evil of some kind has befallen us,’ he said, with a shake of his head. ‘Ned Gowden, Tom Cleeve and now Joseph Rigg! Why, the man had his faults, but I know of no one who disliked him – or at least not enough to murder him! If, that is, I give full credence to Doctor Catlin’s theory …’ he broke off. ‘It’s too strange and too terrible – I wish I could reject it.’
‘Tom Catlin’s the
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