The Bishop's Pawn (3 page)

“He’ll be rarin’ to go,” Beth said,
struggling to her feet.

“I’ll give you a précis, word by bloated
word,” Marc said, reaching for the latch. “That’s a promise.”

Beth waddled over to him and placed a hand on
his shoulder. “Do you think it’s wise fer Dick to make an
appearance in that company?” she said with a concerned look.

“I don’t see why not, love. He goes for his
constitutional every morning, and is greeted by a dozen or more
passers-by every day.”

“I know that. But those are the ordinary folk
who respect him fer what he did back in January at the Court House
fer young Billy McNair an’ Dolly. But accordin’ to what Rose
Halpenny told me yesterday when she come here to make her weekly
report, the so-called respectable ladies who gossip away to her in
the shop like she was a statue or a mute, are still spreadin’ ugly
stories about Dick’s life in New York.”

“Oh, I realize that malicious tales about why
Dick had to leave New York aren’t ever going to stop, no matter
what the man does. You can’t reform a blue-blooded bigot. But,
believe me, the Benchers at Osgoode Hall have been looking into
Dick’s record back home – remember that he was
not
disbarred
there – and when they are compelled to admit him to the Bar at the
Osgoode hearing next week, that particular cloud will no longer
hang over his head.”

“He won’t tell
you
what happened back
there?”

“No. Besides the fact that he considers it to
be a wholly
personal
matter, he also says that he has to
weigh the effects of any disclosure upon Celia and Brodie. He
worships those two.”

“But ain’t the rumours worse?”

“Apparently he doesn’t think so.”

“I’m thinkin’ of what Rose told me, though.
The worst stories they’re spreadin’ are about what they say he gets
up to with his wards in that little cottage of theirs.”

Marc stared at Beth. His fingers let go of
the door-latch. “I thought that brand of nonsense had stopped.”

“With the earl’s proposals stirrin’ up
anti-Americanism an’ fear of aliens with ‘republic’ stamped on
their foreheads, they’ve started up worse than ever. Rose said her
minister at the Baptist church last Sunday preached a sermon about
the sins of Sodom an’ Gomorrah an’ the iniquities of the flesh –
with pointed reference to ‘unnatural acts’ committed by ‘strangers
in our midst’.”

“You’re not telling me that respectable
matrons are chatting in
Smallman’s
about that sort of
transgression?” That Beth herself was aware of its nature, he had
long since accepted.

“They find there’s a suitable quote from the
Bible to cover any sin, however unspeakable.”

“Well, don’t worry about Dick tonight. I’ll
be right beside him the whole time.”

Beth smiled and held the door open for her
husband. “I hope you ain’t forgettin’ you don’t carry a sword any
more.”

Marc kissed her again, patted his dilatory
son in his cosy abode, and left.

Beth watched him until he vanished in the
gathering dusk.

***

At about the same time that Marc was setting out for
Baldwin House, two close-cloaked gentlemen were descending from one
of Toronto’s three taxicabs onto the boardwalk in front of the
spanking-new, three-storey American Hotel on Bay below Lot Street.
While the cabbie fumbled with their leather grips, the gentlemen
walked with a weary but nonetheless confident step into the
brightly lit foyer. They were looking neither left nor right, as if
it were the world’s responsibility to look at
them.
The
night-manager, appraising the cut of their cloth and the shine of
their boots with his practiced eye, bustled across the Persian
carpet to greet them.

“Gentlemen, welcome to The American Hotel.
Though you have arrived late in the day, we do have accommodation
that you will undoubtedly find first-class.”

“After the journey we’ve had over the past
eight days, that will be a most welcome sight,” said the first
gentleman as he handed his cloak over to the minion who had
miraculously materialized at his elbow.

“You’ve just got off the mail-packet from
Newark, then?”

“We have, sir,” said the second gentleman,
“after a miserable day on the coach that got us there from – ”

“Buffalo?” the night-manager smiled.

“That’s right, but – ”

“I can pick out a Buffalo vowel in a crowded
room, sir.”

Neither gentleman smiled in appreciation of
the fellow’s talent or the accuracy of his detection, but perhaps
they were merely too weary to tend to their manners. For it was
obvious that these were proper and prosperous arrivals, whatever
their origins. Each man was of middle height, impeccably suited,
and boasted the comfortable belly and pink cheeks that suggested a
life spent largely behind a desk. Both were fair, slightly balding,
and green-eyed. They might have been cousins.

Sensing that polite chatter was likely to
annoy more than ingratiate, the night-manager went about the
business of directing the porter to take care of the luggage
(scant, considering the aforementioned eight-day journey), while he
motioned for his distinguished guests to sign in. He took note of
what they wrote down in his register:

Joseph Brenner, New York City

Lawrence Tallman, New York City

“So you’ve come all the way from New York at
this time of year?” he said, unable to resist a further
comment.

“Alas, we have done so,” Joseph Brenner said
with a curious mixture of rue and Yankee pluck. “But we have
important business here that could not be postponed.”

“Ah, I see. Then we shall make certain that
you are made as comfortable and relaxed as modern conveniences and
American-style hospitality allow.”

As the strangers turned to ascend the stairs
to their chambers, Lawrence Tallman paused and said to their host,
who had trailed them at a discreet distance, “There is one thing,
besides supper, that you might provide for us, if you can.”

“Please, sir. Just name it.”

“While we are here, we would like to pay a
social call upon a former acquaintance of ours, who we understand
is now residing in your city.”

“I know
all
the respectable people in
Toronto, sir.”

“Good. Then you may know where we can find a
retired barrister, a Mr. Richard Dougherty.”

The night-manager’s eyes brightened, then,
slowly, lost their lustre. “I’m afraid I do,” he said at last.

TWO

Dougherty and Robert Baldwin were waiting for Marc on
the porch of Baldwin House, having dined together and shared a
decanter of port and several cigars. They greeted Marc warmly, and
the trio set off at a leisurely pace for the legislature two blocks
away. The sun had set, but a hazy light lingered on the glassy
surface of the bay to their left, and the deep chill of a
late-March night was still hours away.

“Do you really think this McDowell chap can
draw the fractious Tory supporters together to form a united
front?” Marc was saying.

“Some of the Reformers have been suggesting
that to me,” Robert said, stepping around a mud puddle.

“It’s hard to believe that mere rhetoric,
however lofty, can paper over the divisions we’ve seen in the
conservative camp lately,” Marc said. “I suspect it’s just fear of
the possibility.”

“Nor ought you to forget that fine
speech-making contributed mightily to the success of the revolution
in the United States,” Dougherty said. “Though I suspect this
McDowell fellow is no Patrick Henry or Daniel Webster.”

“What do we know about this wunderkind
McDowell anyway?” Marc said to Robert.

“Francis Hincks tells me that he’s the scion
of a wealthy merchant family in Kingston. An only child, and a bit
of a ripper in his youth, if the gossip is anywhere close to
accurate. Articled law in Montreal, but was taken into the family’s
import business, more to keep him under Papa’s thumb, they say,
than to augment the McDowell fortunes.”

“Sounds like an American style success story
so far,” Dougherty said as he weaved his way around a patch of
suspicious-looking ooze and had to be steadied by Marc’s hand on
his shoulder.

“The tale gets more British, quite quickly,”
Robert Baldwin smiled, and Marc was pleased to see that his mentor
and friend had regained not only his quiet humour but also much of
his former enthusiasm for politics and the quest for a truly
responsible, locally controlled government. The sudden death of his
wife had left him with four healthy children but a hollowed-out
heart.

“You mean the bugger settled down and became
respectable?” Dougherty said.

“I’m afraid so. Married a patrician lady
picked out by his father. Took a keen interest in wines and
tobaccos. Travelled abroad. Made money.”

“Christ,” Dougherty chuckled, “even American
presidents have resisted all attempts to civilize them. Andrew
Jackson arrived at the White House with a lead ball in his head,
and behaved accordingly.”

“I suspect it was McDowell’s father who
suggested politics,” Robert said. “The family money and the Tory
landslide back in thirty-six made it easy for young Mowbray to take
the by-election last September. His emergence on the hustings there
as a gifted orator came as a surprise to everyone.”

“But Papa’s stroke kept him from pleasuring
our ears until now,” Dougherty said. “I do hope I won’t have to
rush home and torch my copy of the preamble to the American
Constitution.”

“Our Assembly isn’t Westminster or Congress,
Dick, but I believe you’ll hear more than one well-crafted speech
this evening,” Robert said. “The future of this province may be
determined by the decisions this parliament takes in the coming
months.”

“What I’m about to witness, then, is a kind
of Constitutional Congress, British style?”

Robert was about to reply when he stopped in
his tracks and held out his arm to stop his companions. “What the
hell – ”

Out of the alley sprang a ragged
street-urchin. Only the whites of his eyes were visible in the
grime of his face. But they were wild – with fear or anger or
simply excitement. His right arm was raised, his fingers wrapped
around some kind of missile. Setting himself in the exaggerated
pose of a prize-fighter about to deliver a haymaker, he uttered a
high-pitched howl and let fly. Marc and Robert had already begun to
flinch sideways in a purely reflex action, but Dougherty was too
heavy and sluggish of foot to move at all. Only the sudden blink of
his eyes indicated that he had registered the possibility of
danger. Fortunately, they were closed when the egg struck him on
the temple and began to ooze down to his chins and drip onto his
gargantuan overcoat.

Marc was the first to react, but the
ragamuffin was too quick for him. He scampered out into the street,
dodging numerous vehicles on their way to the parliament buildings
a hundred yards to the west. And as Robert tried to wipe away the
oozing egg – nicely putrefied and stinking – the boy cupped both
filthy hands around his mouth and shouted, so that the dozens of
citizens now within earshot could take notice:

“
Sodomite! May you rot in Hell!
”

Then he zigzagged his way through several
broughams and buggies, and vanished.

“Are you all right?” Robert said to
Dougherty, who was staring, more amazed than frightened, at the
mess on his lapels.

“He’s got away,” Marc said, coming back to
where Robert and Dick were now standing with their backs to the
brick wall that surrounded the garden of Somerset House.

“God dammit!” Dougherty bellowed. “It took
Celia three weeks to get the winter’s breakfast-egg out of my
waistcoat! She’ll be most chagrined at this thoughtless
relapse!”

“You’re all right, though?” Robert said as he
eased Dick’s cap away from his broad forehead and peered at the red
blotch where the missile had struck.

“Don’t fuss, Robert. I’m unwounded. The
little bastard had cracked the grenade open before propelling it. I
hope his hand stinks worse than the rest of him.” Dougherty’s growl
was clearly disarmed by a rumbling chuckle.

“I’ll have Constable Cobb track the man
down,” Marc said. “Cobb knows every alley-dweller and runabout in
town.”

“What’s the point?” Dougherty said. “The kid
was hired by one of his betters to toss that reminder at me, and
likely doesn’t even know who slipped him the penny.” Another
chuckle began forming somewhere deep in Dick’s formidable belly.
“You don’t think a stray like that could even pronounce ‘sodomite’
without help, do you?”

“Dick, this could be serious,” Marc said.
“Your application for admission to the Bar comes up next week. It
could be that some members among the Law Society or the Family
Compact have decided to take a more direct approach to discrediting
you.”

“Marc’s right,” Robert said, still swiping at
the congealing mess on Dougherty’s lapel. “Perhaps you should go
back to Baldwin House and – ”

“And miss the oration of the century?”
Dougherty rumbled. “Come on. We’re attracting more attention
standing here like a trio of hobbled Clydesdales than if we were
dancing the fandango in the buff!”

And with that he moved his weight as
expeditiously as Marc had ever seen – towards the crowd of
Torontonians milling about in the fading light in front of the
legislature.

***

In the foyer, Robert was hailed by Francis Hincks,
one of the bright young men of the Reform party. An impromptu
meeting of sitting members and other supporters of Lord Durham had
apparently been arranged in one of the committee rooms adjacent to
the Assembly chamber.

“They want me there,” Robert said
apologetically to Dick and Marc. “We’ll be plotting our strategy
for the coming months while the rhetoric above us keeps the
building warm.”