Desperate Acts (39 page)

Don Gutteridge is the author of more than 40
books: fiction, poetry and scholarly works, including the Marc
Edwards mystery series. He taught in the Faculty of Education at
Western University for 25 years in the Department of English
Methods. He is currently professor Emeritus, and lives in London,
Ontario.

Turncoat

Solemn Vows

Vital Secrets

Dubious Allegiance

Bloody Relations

Death of a Patriot

The Bishop’s
Pawn

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Coming Soon in the Marc Edwards Mystery
Series:

Unholy Alliance

Minor Corruption

Governing Passion

The Widow’s Demise

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One

Toronto, Upper Canada: 1840

The blizzard that howled across the icy expanse of
Lake Ontario and struck the defenceless city broadside on this
particular midwinter evening was little noticed by the five
gentlemen seated in the drawing-room of the Bishop’s palace on
Front Street. After all, supper had been lavish, as usual, and more
than satisfying, especially so since not one of the prelate’s
guests felt himself to be less than deserving of the great man’s
largesse. Friday evening was secular night at John Strachan’s
palatial residence, an opportunity for men of worth and promise to
congregate, sup well, gossip idly, and then move on to discuss the
pressing political issues of these turbulent times. Though the
guest-list varied from week to week, those attending invariably
shared a number of beliefs and convictions. That all were adherents
of the Church of England was a given, and whether that fact was
instrumental in shaping the rest of their character or not, they
were, to a man, High Tory in their politics, conservative in their
morals and demeanour, terribly sensitive to distinctions of race
and class, and inclined towards capitalist enterprise. And no less
importantly, they were susceptible to a good cigar and a fine
sherry.

Enjoying the latter post-prandial
refreshments, while the wind scoured and screeched against the
red-brick walls and mullioned windows, were Ignatius Maxwell,
receiver-general of Upper Canada and judge-designate; Ezra
Michaels, local chemist; Ivor Winthrop, furrier and land
speculator; Carson James, a non-practising barrister with a very
rich wife; and their host, John Strachan, the recently elevated
Bishop of Toronto.

“That was one superb dinner, Bishop,” James
said, inhaling deeply, “and, if I may say so, was meticulously
presented. I don’t know where you find such well-mannered and
properly trained servants, but they are most impressive.”

“Worth their weight in gold,” Michaels added,
reaching for the sherry. “We’ve had three maids and two houseboys
since September.”

“You’d think with so many people out of work
and begging for employment, that they’d be happy to do an honest
day’s work without complaining or demanding higher wages,” Winthrop
said solemnly.

“Or dropping the crystal,” Maxwell said with
a chuckle.

“I take no credit for my servants’
performance,” Strachan said in the deep, authoritative voice that
had made his sermons at St. James justly renowned. “It is Mrs.
Strachan alone who manages my household, with thrift and a good
heart.”

“I take it you’ve all heard about poor
Macaulay?” James said.

Several murmurs followed this remark, but
Michaels, looking puzzled, said, “You mean his wife going off to
Kingston to see her specialist?”

“I did hear that,” James said, “but I was
referring to what happened to his butler before Christmas.”

“Ah, yes,” Michaels said, flushing slightly.
“Alfred Harkness had been with the Macaulays for over twenty years,
hadn’t he?”

“Cancer. Out of the blue,” Maxwell said.
“Mercifully, he didn’t suffer long.”

“It is not given to us to know when it is we
are to meet our Maker,” the Bishop intoned. “For which mercy we
should be eternally grateful,” he added.

“Even with all
his
money, Macaulay
won’t find it easy to replace Alfred Harkness,” James said with a
certain degree of satisfaction.

“The fellow was a gem,” Michaels sighed.

For a few moments the assembled worthies
stared into their sherry, contemplating the virtues of the late
Alfred Harkness.

It was Receiver-General Maxwell who broke the
silence. “It’s still a puzzle to me how a chap like Garnet
Macaulay, with his father’s fortune in hand and a splendid estate
like Elmgrove, should have thrown his lot in with the Reformers.
Old Sidney would turn over in his grave if he could see what a
radical his son has become.”

“But I’ve felt the same all these years about
Dr. Baldwin and his intransigent son,” Strachan said forcefully.
“They sit in their pew before me Sunday after Sunday, professing to
be loyal Anglicans, and then do everything in their power outside
of church to destroy the foundations upon which it stands by
spreading the infections of liberalism and democracy amongst
us.”

“Well, they are Irish, after all,” Maxwell
said with another chuckle. “That often explains the
inexplicable.”

“True,” James said, not chuckling. “But the
Macaulays were as English as Cheshire cheese, weren’t they?”

Ivor Winthrop, who had been following the
conversation closely but not contributing, suddenly said, “English
or Irish, the man’s already solved his butler problem.”

This remark, apparently incontrovertible,
left the others without a reply. Finally, the Bishop said, “You
mean he’s already replaced Harkness?”

Winthrop, lantern-jawed with bold black eyes
that rarely came to rest in their bony sockets, smiled and said,
“I’m
sure
he has.”

“Then you’ve got a sharper ear on the rumour
mill than any of us,” Michaels said, impressed despite himself. “My
lad delivered some medicine to Elmgrove a few days ago, and there
was no sign of a butler.”

Pleased with the attention he’d garnered,
Winthrop said slowly, “Quite so. You see, my sources tell me that
the new butler has not yet arrived, but is most assuredly on his
way here.”

As it was now clear that Winthrop intended to
keep them dangling, James happily fed him his next cue: “On his way
from where?”

“England,” Winthrop said, and leaned over to
the trolley near the blazing hearth to refill his sherry glass.

“Garnet Macaulay is importing a butler all
the way from England?” the Bishop said in a tone so accusatory that
the bloodhound dozing by the coal-scuttle flinched.

“At
this
time of year?” Maxwell said,
incredulous.

“Some stranger he hasn’t even met?” Michaels
said, more incredulous still.

“What in the world is he trying to prove?”
James said.

“I’m told the fellow is already on his way
overland from New York City,” Winthrop said, glancing at Michaels.
“The roads are as passable as they ever get – with the winter we’ve
had.”

“But a sea voyage in February?” said
Michaels, ever practical and not a little awed.

“And just how did you come by this
information?” Strachan inquired, visibly irritated that such a
singular event should be unfolding among the better class without
his knowledge or consent.

“My brother’s butler, in Cobourg,” Winthrop
said, but not before he had taken a measured sip of his sherry. “It
seems these chaps have some sort of fraternity. Whatever the case,
news of Macaulay’s efforts has reached as far as Cobourg.”

But not, the glower on Strachan’s face
suggested, as far as the bishop’s palace, seventy miles closer.

“Know anything about him?” James asked.

“Not much. Macaulay has numerous relatives
back home, so I assume he got a recommendation from one of
them.”

“Some snooty cast-off,” Michaels said.

Maxwell was heard to chuckle again as he
said, “Believe it or not, I understand that Alfred’s younger
brother, Giles, thought he might be offered the post.”

“Macaulay’s coachman?” Michaels said, amazed.
“A mere stableman? You can’t be serious. The fellow’s a boor. Even
the pigs out there keep clear of him.”

“Well, I’m told
he
took the idea
seriously,” Maxwell said.

The Bishop cleared his throat. “You see,
gentlemen, what comes of too much social levelling – stable hands
aspiring to be butlers and valets. What next?”

The deluge
apparently, for a deep,
chastening silence settled on the company, during which there was
heard only the wheeze of cigars and the silky slither of sherry
over lip and tongue.

“I wonder if this present storm has made the
township roads impassable?” the Receiver-General mused, nodding
towards the windows on the south wall of the large room, upon which
the snow was beating with pale, padded fists.

“Or even the Kingston Road,” Michaels added,
referring to the main overland link between Kingston and
Toronto.

“It might well delay the arrival of His
Excellency,” James said. Governor Poulett Thomson was expected to
pay a visit to the capital of Upper Canada sometime in the next few
weeks.

“Possibly,” the Bishop said. “In the least it
may serve to disrupt the impious gathering of Reform leaders that
my agents tell me is planned for later this month, probably out at
Spadina House.”

“Assuming God is still in our camp,” Maxwell
said.

“Let them meet and chatter like monkeys all
they want,” James said bravely. “We have little to fear from that
rabble once the Union Bill is passed and a new parliament is
elected.”

“I’m not sure we should be
that
confident, Carson,” Maxwell said. “After all, we did oppose the
Union Act last fall for good reason. No-one with a shred of decency
wanted Upper Canadians to be yoked with French rebels and
seditionists, or the populace that blindly supported their pathetic
uprising. But I still think we were right in accepting the
inevitable – and then making sure the new proposals worked in our
favour.”

“What do you think, Bishop?” James said. “Can
our British values and our way of life prevail?”

Strachan put down his sherry. “I don’t see
why not. We’ve managed, haven’t we, to get a single legislative
assembly in which we have as many seats as Quebec with a third less
population? And Lower Canada will assume our share of the huge
public debt.”

“And English will be the language of record
in that Assembly,” Maxwell beamed.

“And I would expect that the twenty members
of the upper body, the Legislative Council, will be appointed
judiciously from our midst by the Crown, as they are now,” said
Winthrop, who had never disguised his desire to be one of the
chosen himself. “With that body to check the excesses and
shenanigans of the Assembly, and a British governor to select and
ride herd on his Executive Council, it’s hard to see how we cannot
carry on as we always have.”

“Of course, there will have to be some
Councillors appointed from Quebec,” Maxwell conceded, “and two or
three cabinet posts as well. But surely we’ll elect sufficient
English-speaking members from Montreal and elsewhere to supply a
quorum of like-minded souls from that province.”

“My contacts in Quebec,” Winthrop said, “have
informed me that some creative gerrymandering is already proposed
for the Montreal area, and that our man in London, Robert Peel, has
even suggested these ridings each be represented by
two
members to ensure an English presence from Quebec.”

“What do you hear about the capital?” James
said to Winthrop.

“It will not be Quebec City or Toronto,”
Winthrop said. “It’s almost certainly Montreal or Kingston.”

“With Kingston the most likely site,” the
Bishop added, with a nod that left little doubt about the
reliability of his information, “despite the fact that there are no
parliamentary facilities and not a single habitable hotel in that
fortress of stone.”

Ivor Winthrop smiled, something he normally
did only when all other responses failed him. “That is so, sir. I
have spent much time in that grim town in recent months pursuing
the fur business, and been appalled at the condition of some of its
roads and buildings. But from the point of view of any businessman
with an entrepreneurial spirit, it is a potential lodestone.”

“How so?” Michaels inquired.

“If no facilities now exist there to house a
legislature of a hundred and four members and provide them with
suitable living quarters and commercial shops appropriate to their
needs and station, then such facilities will have to be
constructed, furnished and serviced, will they not?”

The thought of such unbounded mercantile
possibility left the gathering without speech for some moments.

“I hesitate to toss a fly into the ointment,”
James said after a while, “but I would be remiss if I did not
relate to you the substance of a rumour making the rounds in our
circle.”

“About Hincks and some of the French rebels?”
Maxwell said.

James’s face fell, then he looked merely
relieved. “You mean there’s nothing to it?” he said hopefully.

“Oh, there’s something to it all right,”
Maxwell said. The others sat forward in their chairs, except for
the Bishop who, it seemed, knew exactly what was coming. “We know
that Hincks and Louis LaFontaine have been corresponding for
several months.”

Francis Hincks was a leading Reformer and
editor of the radical newspaper, the
Examiner.
Louis
LaFontaine had been a prominent MLA and a rebel supporter during
the revolt in Quebec in 1837. Since his release from prison by Lord
Durham following the failed uprising, he had become the leading
spokesman for the malcontents among the French populace.