After the Fire by John Pilkington

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