Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  “If the grievances of the American settlers had been addressed, perhaps Queen Victoria would still have her Thirteen Colonies,” Brodie said.

  “I take great exception to that remark,” Cyrus Crenshaw said. “My father, God rest his soul, died a hero’s death on the bloody battlefield of Moraviantown in a glorious effort to halt the advance of General Harrison’s Yankee freebooters, who burned and pillaged as they drove into the heart of our land.”

  The direct relevance of this outburst to the debate was not readily discernible, but its passionate delivery overwhelmed any logical inconsistencies. It was not, of course, the first time that Crenshaw had insinuated his father’s martyrdom into the club’s deliberations. It was a subject upon which the candle-maker and legislative councillor was fixated.

  “But we survived that war, didn’t we?” Fullarton said, his banker’s instinct for propriety and equanimity taking hold. “And we have welcomed into our midst thousands of men and women from the Republic and made them loyal subjects of the Queen. And Willie Mackenzie was a disaffected Scot, not a rabid democrat from the United States.”

  “I trust, Cyrus, that you and the Legislative Council will fight against the pernicious tide of Durham fever?” Dutton said, unconscious of both his non-sequitur and the mixed metaphor.

  Crenshaw smiled his gratitude for the question and the opportunity it bestowed. “There will be no union between our province and the French traitors of Quebec as long as I am a member of the Council and have a voice to speak for the living and the dead.” And it was clear that the dead included one particular hero of the War of 1812.

  A chorus of “here-here’s” greeted this bold proclamation.

  “And it should be noted also,” retired attorney Dutton added when the hubbub had subsided, “that Upper Canada is very much a place where a humble farmer’s son can rise though the social ranks and make his mark.” He looked benignly at Cyrus Crenshaw, inviting assent but drawing from that self-made candle-maker only a grudging quarter-smile.

  Brodie was happy to see the elderly lawyer enjoying himself, for he had heard from Horace Fullarton the sad story of the fellow’s life. His first wife, Felicity, the love of his life, had died tragically three years after their wedding. Dutton had been almost forty by then, having married late. Felicity, it seemed, was a fragile and anxious young woman who had suffered two miscarriages. A decision was taken for the couple to sail to her home in Scotland, where it was hoped the bracing air and the comfort of relatives would restore her health. But during a stopover in Montreal, Felicity caught a fever and died. Dutton buried her there and came back home to Toronto. Five years later he married his housekeeper, and then watched in anguish as she succumbed to puerperal fever. Their son was stillborn.

  The discussion continued for another twenty minutes without once veering close to the originating topic. Almost everyone had his say and a portion of his neighbour’s as well – except for Sir Peregrine, who wished he had brought his gavel with him.

  It wasn’t exactly a gavel, but the arrival of Gillian Budge and Etta Hogg laden with trays of food and drink had the same effect as one. All serious talk ceased, and the members of the club moved quickly back across the room to the “lounge” area, where the women were laying the trolleys there with dozens of pastries and bottles of white wine. From a large hamper, Etta removed a decanter of brandy and a box of cigars. The gentlemen settled in without ceremony, and suffered themselves to be served by the fairer sex. Several pairs of eyes lingered upon the pleasing curves of the elder of that gender, but were averted speedily whenever Gillian swung her own gaze in their direction. Mrs. Budge, not yet forty, was still a handsome woman – an ageing but conscientious sprite. However, she brooked no funny business, of word, deed or glance. That she owned The Sailor’s Arms lock, stock and barrel (having inherited it from a wise father who had entailed it to discourage gold-digging suitors) was a fact she was eager to broadcast, and those who crossed her soon found themselves outside looking in.

  Etta was another matter. Her supple figure, not yet in full bloom, and her fair-haired allure drew many a lecherous glance. Moreover, such appreciative attention was usually greeted with a coquettish swish of pink tresses and a shy smile, but only when her employer was looking the other way. This evening, however, Etta appeared pale and distracted, the consequence, Brodie knew, of her run-in with the blackguard in the taproom and the violent reaction of Tobias Budge.

  When the women had finished and departed, the men helped themselves to the various pastries, washed them down with chilled wine, and then moved on to the cigars and brandy, feeling no doubt the supreme satisfaction of having their worthiness recognized and indulged. Just as the comfortable buzz of conversation was winding down and several members were thinking about trying to rise out of their chairs with some dignity, Sir Peregrine surprised everyone by calling for their immediate and solemn attention.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, after giving the stub of his cigar a lubricious lick, “as you know, our theme for next Wednesday is ‘What does Shakespeare tell us about love in his incomparable comedy, A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’ We shall of course devote the main segment of our meeting to a full discussion of that question, and I urge you to reread the play and choose appropriate illustrative excerpts. Thereafter, however, I should like to devote some quarter-hours to a dramatic reading of pre-selected passages – en rôle.”

  This final phrase was delivered with a daintily trilled French “r” and a delicious shiver of the baronet’s jowls.

  “You mean in role as in acting?” said chemist Michaels.

  “In the sense that I am calling for dramatic projection – of voice and gesture – yes. What I am proposing is that such a session, where we try out our voices and talents in various parts from the play, be a prelude to a fully staged version.”

  Seven cigars ceased moving, as if their fiery ends had been summarily and simultaneously snuffed.

  “You’re not talking about putting on a Shakespeare play?” Dr. Pogue said, aghast. “On a stage?”

  Sir Peregrine smiled in a way that was both patronizing and indulgent. “I am, good sirs.”

  “But that’s the sort of nonsense Ogden Frank’s thespians get up to at the Regency – not the sort of thing a gentleman aspires to,” said Phineas Burke, a grocer’s son turned stationer and aspiring gentleman.

  “I heartily concur,” Sir Peregrine said smartly. “Mr. Frank allows anyone at all to join his pathetic little troupe, even ordinary artisans with more schooling than is good for them.”

  “And women of every sort,” Michaels added, feeling he had no need to elaborate.

  “But there are women’s roles in Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Cyrus Crenshaw pointed out, looking to the baronet for help.

  “Indeed there are. And we shall have ladies to play them.”

  “I don’t understand,” Andrew Dutton said.

  “Let me expatiate fully, then,” Sir Peregrine said. “Back in London, Lady Madeleine and I belonged to a delightful clique of ladies and gentlemen who included among their amusements and diversions dramatic evenings in which playlets, pantomimes and tableaux were de rigueur. The audience was composed entirely of personages from our own social class in what I might term a ‘salon setting.’ We set up a proper stage in a drawing-room, donned full costume, and presented. We were amateurs in the purest sense, acting out the Bard and lesser lights for the sheer pleasure of it all and performing solely for the delectation and warm-hearted approval of our friends and acquaintances. And let me assure you, the quality of our efforts was not strained. We rehearsed to a fault, until our work was faultless.”

  If any of the members had ever doubted the wisdom of making Sir Peregrine Shuttleworth their chairman and cheerleader, this description of civilized behaviour among the gentry of the mother country and the possibility of re-creating it in one of her colonies scotched all skepticism and naysaying. The Shakespeeare Club had existed for more than four years in Toronto, but its succ
ess had been intermittent, the low point having been reached last winter when it had all but disbanded. Sir Peregrine, with the same zeal he had used to complete Oakwood Manor and organize his needy in-laws, had re-formed and revitalized the club, and given it fresh prestige and new purpose.

  “Are you suggesting that we find such a drawing-room and – ”

  “We shall use Oakwood Manor, Cyrus. What good is it to have a splendid home like mine and not deploy it to the uttermost?”

  “But there is still the matter of the ladies,” Horace Fullarton said. “You mentioned Lady Madeleine and – ”

  “And in addition to that sterling gentlewoman I can guarantee the avid participation of my wife’s niece, Lizzie Wade. We shall require one or two more, of course, and I would beg you to inquire after your spouses and daughters in that regard. No previous experience is necessary, and you might suggest to them that the gracious hospitality of Oakwood Manor will be lavished upon all who participate.”

  There was much to digest in these unlooked-for and gratuitous offers on the part of a genuine English aristocrat. Sensing this, Sir Peregrine said in his summing-up voice, “I have stretched your patience far enough for one evening, gentlemen. In the coming week, I suggest you mull over the possibilities I have presented. Let us meet again as usual at eight o’clock next Wednesday.”

  With that, the meeting broke up. Most of the members left via the cloakroom and back stairs to the alley in order to avoid the clatter and stink of the taproom below. Fullarton and Brodie, however, remained behind until Gillian Budge and Etta Hogg came up to clear away the mess. Fullarton – a considerate man and one who, with an invalid wife, seemed sensitive to a woman’s delicate health – had suggested to Brodie that they send for a taxicab and drive young Etta home, should she not have recovered from her ordeal, the details of which Brodie had earlier conveyed to him.

  Certainly Etta looked even paler and more distracted, dropping a glass and tipping over an ash-tray – before Gillian said, not unkindly, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, girl, go off with these gentlemen and get yourself a good night’s rest. That blackguard, whoever he was, will not set foot in this place again. If he tries to, he’ll have me to contend with, not my ham-fisted husband!”

  “Come on, Etta,” Brodie said. “Let’s get your coat and be off.”

  “You won’t tell Jasper or my mom about tonight, will you?” Etta said as they started down the stairs to the tavern.

  “What did that man say to upset you so?” Fullarton inquired as gently as he could.

  “Oh, I couldn’t repeat it, Mr. Fullarton. Not in a million years!”

  And that, Brodie suspected, was all they were likely to hear about the matter.

  ***

  Some time later, one of the club members might have been observed walking north up Peter Street. Crossing Wellington, he carried on north towards King. But instead of continuing in that direction he paused, made certain he was alone, and turned into the east-west service lane that ran behind the houses and shops on the north side of Wellington. He seemed to be counting the buildings as he went along – cautiously, furtively, perhaps – with only intermittent pools of moonlight to guide him. Then he stopped, appeared to be checking his bearings, spotted some object of significance, and eased over to it. It was a trash-barrel set out behind a butcher shop. From a deep pocket the gentleman drew out a brown-paper package tied up with string. Glancing – fearfully? – from side to side, he slid the parcel onto the lid of the barrel. Then he wheeled about and hurried off, not once looking back.

  It was some minutes later before one of the elongated shadows on the wall of the shop shuddered, and a dark-suited, male figure emerged, moving with surreptitious but confident steps towards the barrel. Peering east and west along the length of the lane, he picked up the parcel and tucked it into his coat. Then he strolled off towards John Street, whistling.

  FOUR

  Brodie and Horace Fullarton dropped Etta off at her house on Sherbourne Street. She had said nothing to them during the entire cab-ride from The Sailor’s Arms at the other end of town. Brodie put this uncharacteristic silence down to her reticence to reveal the details of the insult directed at her in the taproom. As she, her mother, and her brother Jasper lived next door to the Edwards, Etta had met Brodie a number of times in Briar Cottage, and was normally a greater chatterbox than Jasper’s lady-love, Charlene. Moreover, Brodie had caught her more than once casting a furtive glance his way. But tonight she mumbled a “thank you” and vanished up the walk.

  “She’ll get over it,” Brodie said. “She’s young.” That she was not more than a year or so younger than he, did not enter into his calculations.

  “Does anybody know the name of the fellow who accosted her?” Fullarton said, ever solicitous of those in distress.

  “Not really, though I’m pretty sure the villain had been drinking in there on other occasions.”

  Fullarton asked the cabbie to drive them farther up Sherbourne Street to Harlem Place, where Brodie lived. He himself lived downtown on George Street. The night-air was chilly – after all, it was past mid-October – and doubly so after the simmering brightness of an Indian summer afternoon and a spectacular sunset. They drew their lapels up over their scarves and spoke without turning their heads.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, sir, how a recent arrival like Peregrine Shuttleworth managed to revive the Shakespeare Club?” Brodie said as they bumped along the rutted roadway in the moon-washed dark. “I’d heard it was pretty well dead.”

  “Please, Brodie. Outside the bank, I insist you call me Horace.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Fullarton laughed, something he rarely did, though the lines around his mouth and eyes suggested he had done so often in his younger and happier days – before Bernice’s illness and the realization that they would have a childless marriage. “Well, Mister Langford, I must accept some of the blame myself.”

  “I am not surprised.”

  “Thank you for that, but my role was really more of a prompter than a director or leading man. You see, when the Shuttleworths arrived in the summer, Sir Peregrine came to our bank to do business.”

  “Yes, I do remember seeing him there.”

  “In the course of our conversation he mentioned that he was setting out to complete the construction of Oakwood Manor, and he invited me for dinner that evening. I almost never go out, as you know – I don’t like to leave Bernice alone too much – but her sister was staying with us for a few weeks, so I said yes. After the meal, he toured me about the half-finished wing and outlined the changes he was contemplating for the main section. I made a few comments here and there, and suddenly Sir Peregrine decided that I had an eye for architectural design. He insisted I return and continue our discussion of his plans. Well, the upshot was that I must have gone out there nine or ten times over the course of a month.”

  “So you met Lady Madeleine and her family?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Wade and all six of her children, though the baronet rationed their appearances.”

  “During which time the subject of Shakespeare arose?”

  “Indeed it did. Both the baronet and his lady are mad about plays and play-acting. As he hinted tonight, his ballroom was designed to be converted into an amateur playhouse at an instant’s notice. So, naturally, I told him about the on-again, off-again Shakespeare Club here in town.”

  “And the rest is history.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Have you been out to Oakwood Manor since, to see the finished product?”

  At that moment the cab struck a rock in the road, the horse lurched, and the vehicle came close to tipping over. When the ride had smoothed out (relatively), Fullarton said, “Bernice took a bad turn in September and I – ”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know – ”

  “She’s much better now, Brodie. Much better.”

  The cab pulled up in front of the gates before Harlem Place. The two men, so much
like father and son, said their goodnights – reluctantly.

  Brodie was let in by Petrie, who had been Richard Dougherty’s valet and butler, but was now an all-purpose man-servant who lived in, along with his sister, Mrs. Crockett, the cook and self-appointed “nanny” to young Celia. Stan Petrie and the Widow Crockett arranged for occasional help to come in and do the chores that needed doing about the house and garden. Petrie, however, insisted on looking after the newly purchased horses and anything remotely connected with them.

  “You needn’t have taken a taxicab, Mr. Langford. The mare would’ve given you a good gallop down Front Street on a such a beautiful evening.”

  Brodie smiled, still feeling awkward in his relations with his servants, even though he and Celia had been raised amongst them in New York City. Being master of a household at nineteen (well, almost twenty) was something that would take getting used to, especially by one who had been brought up to revere the egalitarian ideals of the United States of America.

  Celia was still up, reading a book in her study. Brodie poked his head in the doorway and said, “Time for bed, don’t you think?”

  “I just wanted to finish this section. Miss Tyson is giving me a tutorial on French irregular verbs tomorrow.” Celia, as pale and blond as her brother, tried not to yawn as she smiled up at Brodie, whose indulgence she felt guilty taking advantage of, but did anyway.

  Brodie was justifiably proud of Celia’s intellectual accomplishments and her rapid progress at Miss Tyson’s Academy for Young Ladies under the active tutelage of its headmistress. While he had not yet broached the notion to her, Brodie had already visualized Celia operating her own academy some day soon, and indeed he had purchased this large house with its several wings and a spacious park-lot with a view to that end.

  “However, I think I’ll get up early and do it in the morning,” Celia said, setting the French grammar aside.

  “A wise decision.”

  “By the way, Mrs. Crockett gave me this letter.” She drew an envelope out of the folds of her frock. “It’s addressed to you.”