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
‘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
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