After the Fire Read Free Page A

the scene-room was filled with a milling crowd of actors, hirelings, and the hangers-on who always gathered at this time. Outside in the pit, the orchestra played a cheerful finale. Betterton, Mistress Hale and the other leading players received the praise of their fellows with good grace, then went to their rooms. Now the gossip flowed, and it was soon apparent which topic was on people’s lips: the demise of Long Ned at the bathhouse. And as witnesses to the event, James Prout, the gangling dancing-master, and the supporting player Julius Hill, were soon the centre of a small circle of listeners, including Betsy.
    ‘I swear, the fellow dropped like a stone!’ Prout said, savouring his role as purveyor of fresh gossip. ‘I was barely a dozen feet away from him, in the tepidarium. I saw him pass by with a pail, heading for the steamroom – fit as a fiddle he looked, as always – then, voilà ! The poor man drops to his knees, shaking like a leaf. Hardly uttered a sound, I swear! See now…’ the dancing-master turned to Hill. ‘Julius will tell you, for he was closer than I. Is it not so, my friend?’
    Hill was still in his costume, and looked uncomfortable. An unassuming man, with few of the airs and graces affected by other players of limited ability, he merely nodded. Then seeing some elaboration was expected, he cleared his throat.
    ‘Whatever befell the man – some strange condition or sickness, perhaps – it was indeed sudden,’ he said. Then seeing one or two anxious faces, for the dreadful Plague of 1665 was yet a recent memory, he added: ‘Yet none that we need fear, I’m sure. By good fortune there was a physician nearby who examined the man, and found no token.’ He shrugged. ‘I can only think that Ned had some weakness of the heart … perhaps he had overexerted himself of late.’
    That brought one or two smiles. And clearly disliking the role of narrator, Hill looked pointedly at James Prout. ‘Very likely,’ the dancing-master agreed. ‘Whatever befell poor Ned must remain a mystery.’ He shook his head. ‘Such a sweet fellow … always so obliging.’
    He glanced round, but there were fewer listeners now. The company was beginning to disperse, as people drifted away to change. William Daggett the stage manager appeared, fearsome with his bristling moustache, and scene-men went off to their tasks. The orchestra had finished, and musicians were clambering up the stairs, talking loudly.
    Betsy stood watching the noisy, colourful pageant, the happy release of tension that always followed a successful performance. The death of a former hired man, even a popular one like Ned, would not dampen the Company’s spirits. She was on the point of following Jane, who had already gone up to the Women’s Shift, when her eye fell upon a man standing by a side door. One of the scene-men, a burly, taciturn fellow named Thomas Cleeve, was staring at the retreating back of James Prout … and her eyes narrowed. It may have been merely the poor light of the backstage area, but to her mind Cleeve looked not merely affected by the news: he looked frightened. His face was pale, and as Betsy watched he put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it. Then, sensing someone was watching him, he met Betsy’s eye, and at once hurried out.
    Betsy turned, only to see Samuel Tripp, who had appeared from nowhere and was smiling at her. Throwing the playmaker a withering look, she began to climb the steps again.
    *
    Betsy and Jane Rowe left the theatre together, by the lane that led through the ruins of Salisbury Court towards Fleet Street. The rebuilding of London was proceeding apace, and many new houses had already risen from the ashes of the Great Fire. But here outside the Walls, the picture was somewhat different. During those terrible few days, not so long ago, the flames had leaped the city’s west wall and consumed the old precinct of Whitefriars, as far as the Temple. And yet, Betsy mused, fortune was an odd jade: