Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  The Governor was whisked off to the library, where half a dozen Durhamites eagerly awaited him. The grand strategy to win over the Legislative Council and the Legislative Assembly of Upper Canada to the cause of political union was about to be set in motion.

  ***

  Diana Ramsay was given every Saturday afternoon off. Since last May, almost every such afternoon had been spent in the company of Brodie Langford. Today, as usual, they strolled down to the bay and took in the fine view offered by the blue water and the island-spit with the last of its foliage still aflame in these waning weeks of autumn. After which they ambled up to the Market to enjoy the hustle and bustle of its Saturday doings. Brodie was proud of himself for carrying out their customary promenade without once giving Diana the slightest hint of the anxiety he was feeling over the blackmail note.

  But as they were leaving the Market, Diana stopped, took his hand, stared into his eyes, and said, “You must tell me what is bothering you, sweet. We agreed, did we not, to share everything – our happiness and our sorrows?”

  He did not need to be reminded that she herself had confided to him her own worst fears and the shame she had recently endured. “Yes,” he said, “it’s only right that you should know.”

  And so he told her about the anonymous note slipped under his kitchen door, though he did not mention how ominous the threat had been. He said that some crank had made a pathetic effort to extort money by making some vague reference to an indiscretion that Miss Ramsay was supposed to have committed. He even tried a dismissive chuckle at the end of his account.

  “You think this ‘crank’ knows about my baby girl?” Diana said calmly, but going straight to the point as she habitually did.

  “Well, that thought did cross my mind, but only briefly. No-one could possibly know about that.” Then, hating himself, he added, “Could they?”

  “I can’t see how that’s possible. I’ve told no-one in Toronto but you. And I received a letter from my brother in Montreal just yesterday. Here, I’ve still got it on me – I was going to show it to you later.” She pulled out an envelope, removed a two-page letter, and gave it to Brodie.

  He read it right through while Diana waited patiently beside him. Her brother, among other things, assured her that Baby Sarah, now eighteen months old, was thriving, and that the story of its being an adopted foundling had been accepted among their friends and acquaintances. None of the servants – not even their own son – knew the truth. Hence, she was not to worry about the child’s health or her own reputation. She was to relax and try to rebuild her life in Toronto as best she could.

  “So you see, sweet,” Diana said, taking him by the arm, “there is no way this extortionist could know about the baby. I want you to stop worrying.”

  Brodie smiled. “I’ve already torn the note up.” He gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. He was in fact both relieved and excited. The note was unquestionably the work of an ignorant blackguard. Next Wednesday, after the meeting of the Shakespeare Club, he would beard this fellow in the alley and put a stop to all this nonsense.

  “Come on, love. Let’s go back to Baldwin House. You can listen to me recite the lines I’ve chosen from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Auditioning for Bottom, are we?”

  Brodie grinned. Oh, how he adored this miraculous creature.

  ***

  Late on Tuesday evening next, way up on Lot Street, if there had been any respectable persons abroad at that less-than-respectable hour, they would have noticed a well-dressed gentleman moving uncertainly along the rutted path that served as a sidewalk. He kept peering about him, in part to see whether or not he was being observed and in part to seek out some signpost that had so far eluded him. The collar of his cloak was pulled up over his face and wrapped succinctly about his overly generous body. Despite the tentativeness of his progress, his steps were quick and short, as if he were hobbled or wearing boots too small for his feet. At last he arrived at two barren hawthorn trees, between which, if you knew what you were looking for, a shadowy path could be seen winding away into the dense bush on the north side of the street. Behind the bush, and decently hidden from sober eyes, lay the notorious Irishtown – home to penniless squatters, tawdry brothels, and a dozen gambling and opium dens.

  The portly gentleman stepped onto the path and let the shadows swallow him. Still, the full moon managed to spill some of its excess light here and there along the path, enough to prevent the gentleman from bumping into a tree-trunk or stumbling on a fallen limb. He kept glancing to the left as he went, and some moments later was rewarded: there, a few paces from the path in a pool of moonlight, sat an abandoned tombstone, its epitaph washed away and its winged angel disfigured by thoughtless urchins. Bending low and inching his way over to it, he reached into his cloak and drew out a paper-parcel, tied with string. He laid it carefully behind the tombstone, stared at the darkness beyond it for several seconds, then backed out to the path and trotted off towards Lot Street.

  Fully ten minutes later, a second figure slipped out of the brush near the tombstone, picked up the parcel, pocketed it, and retreated – not to the well-worn path but farther into the shadows, where anonymity ruled.

  ***

  Three of the Shakespeare regulars – Phineas Burke, Ezra Michaels and Dr. Pogue – informed the chairman that they were not up to the challenge of actually rendering the Bard’s iambic pentameter in the flesh, so to speak. However, they evinced enthusiastic support for the project, and promised both to spread the word among their acquaintances about any upcoming performance at Oakwood Manor and to assist in any material way that didn’t include public exposure. Hence it was that Sir Peregrine was able to announce shortly after eight o’clock that the unalterable order of events could be altered. The first half-hour would be devoted to a brisk discussion of love and comedy in The Dream (as Sir Peregrine called it with a familiarity that intimated he had been a bosom friend of the playwright himself). Then the members would move to the lounge area for fifteen minutes of regulated refreshment, cigars and social chit chat. The three reluctant thespians would then leave for home, while the remaining members returned to the long table for the main event: a discussion of which excerpts from “The Dream” ought to be dramatized and by whom.

  Brodie had arrived with Horace Fullarton, and entered as usual through the tavern. He had noticed as they walked over to the familiar stairwell that there was no sign of Etta. He nodded to Gillian Budge, who gave him a tight smile before turning back to her husband at the bar and hissing something at him that brought a flush to his face. At the far end of the taproom Brodie saw Nestor Peck lugging a cask of ale up the steps from the cellar – with only moderate success. Whenever he took his hands off the cask to get better leverage, it rolled back onto his toes. His rhythmic yelps drew guffaws from the sailors seated nearby. Brodie hoped Etta was all right.

  ***

  It was eight-forty-five when Sir Peregrine called for order and, with an ostentatious slap of leather upon the table, opened a folio volume of the Great Man’s plays. In turn, he looked each of the four volunteers in the eye with a solemn gaze, raised his plump, right index finger, and dropped it onto the page open before him as a preacher might indicate the Biblical verse animating his sermon.

  “Act two, scene one: the entrance of Oberon, King of the Fairies, from stage left and Titania, Queen of the Fairies, from stage right. Here we shall commence our revels.”

  So much for any deliberation of which excerpts were to be chosen, thought Brodie. And before the others could rummage through the various editions of the play they had brought with them, Sir Peregrine held up a sheaf of printed scripts and flapped them like a sailor practising semaphore.

  “No need to find the entry point, gentlemen. I have brought along these actor’s pages – very like those used by Edmund Kean at Drury Lane – to facilitate the execution of our enterprise. They contain a judicious selection of the scenes and sub-scenes that comprise acts two and three. Th
e essentials of the plot have been retained, and the running time is about forty minutes, if memory serves.”

  “You have performed this version before, then?” Andrew Dutton said.

  “Yes, indeed. My lady and I are veterans of the comedic turn.”

  “And you will be coaching us?” Cyrus Crenshaw said.

  “Indeed, I shall, though I believe the more appropriate term is directing,” Sir Peregrine smiled. “And my first task will be to distribute these scripts and then call on you, in sequence, to read a speech or two that I shall designate on your behalf.”

  “A sort of audition, then?” Dutton said, revealing his lawyer’s instinct for clarity of terms.

  “Nothing quite so formal, my dear Dutton. We are all friends here. We shall try this and that in an atmosphere of encouragement and good cheer until we happen upon the role best suited to our sundry talents.” He smiled broadly and underlined the gesture with both jowls.

  “But won’t it be difficult without the ladies’ parts?” Crenshaw said. “The women are everywhere in here, as far as I can see.”

  “As befits a play about love,” Sir Peregrine said affably. “And ladies we shall have, good sir. That is precisely why we are making this a truly ‘amateur’ production with a carefully selected audience.”

  “By my count, we’ll need three of the fairer sex for these scenes,” Dutton said, ever precise. “Titania, Hermia and Helena.”

  “And count well, you have, my dear Dutton. Lady Madeleine Shuttleworth will lay claim to the exacting role of Titania. My niece Lizzie, who is tall for her age, will be perfect for Helena.”

  “Which leaves the role of Hermia unaccounted for,” Dutton said.

  “Indeed,” Sir Peregrine said. “I was hoping that one or more of you would find it feasible to conscript a wife or daughter for our intrepid band. But, of course, three of our own members themselves declined to participate, leaving us with a corporal’s guard, as it were.”

  He did not have to point out that Fullarton’s wife was an invalid and that Dutton was a lonely widower without issue.

  “You have a young sister, do you not, Langford ol’ chap?” he said to Brodie with more hope in his voice than expectation.

  “I did ask Celia if she would like to join us,” Brodie said, “but she declined. Perhaps another time – ”

  “My good wife would be happy to play any role assigned her,” Crenshaw said. “Clementine has taken part in several tableaux – when she was in school.”

  “Splendid, splendid,” Sir Peregrine enthused. “But do you think she is – ah – right for the role of Hermia?” The thought that Clementine Crenshaw must perforce be of an age with her husband, forty or more, had just struck the director, in addition to the fact that most affluent women in their middle years (his own spouse excepted) were of a certain girth and heavy-footedness.

  “She is most youthful in appearance,” Crenshaw lied loyally, “and has a most pleasing voice. She is very keen on joining us.” He decided it was not necessary to add that her keenness was prompted primarily by the possibility of spending quality time in Oakwood Manor among its aristocratic occupants.

  “Then it is settled. Your Clementine shall play Hermia. We shall have wigs, costumes, make-up and footlights to assist each of us in transforming our ordinary selves into the magical creatures that inhabit the Bard’s dramas.”

  Which was both a comforting and a daunting thought for those seated at the director’s table.

  “I propose, gentlemen, that we begin.” Sir Peregrine stared down at his cast, who themselves were staring down at their scripts. “Mr. Dutton, your slim figure and vigour of movement should suffice to make you a presentable lover. Would you favour us with one of Lysander’s speeches?”

  Sir Peregrine indicated the speech he desired.

  Andrew Dutton found it, fondled his goatee as if speculating whether or not it might have to be sacrificed for art’s sake, and began:

  Content with Hermia? No, I do repent

  The tedious minutes I with her have spent.

  Not Hermia, but Helena, I do love,

  Who will not change a raven for a dove?

  Sir Peregrine cleared his throat. Dutton had got every word right, but the rhythms in which he had cast them were closer to those of a prosecuting attorney with a hostile witness than a teenage lover in an enchanted wood.

  “Perhaps we could try that again, sir. And a little less forensic this time.” Sir Peregrine chuckled at his witticism in hopes of relaxing the fellow. “Try thinking of the beautiful Helena as you do so, or any beautiful woman, if you will. I am told your dear departed Felicity was a dark-haired beauty.”

  Dutton tried to smile to indicate his appreciation of the compliment, but the pain in his eyes was apparent. Nonetheless, he gamely plunged ahead.

  Several more attempts had reduced the pace somewhat but little of the sustained aggression. Sir Peregrine’s smile grew more impoverished with each rendition. Finally he turned to Fullarton and said, “While Mr. Dutton ponders Lysander’s words silently, perhaps you would try the meaty role of Oberon, my dear Horace?” Sir Peregrine directed the banker to the speech he had preselected.

  Fullarton began to recite in a deep, rich baritone voice:

  My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb’rest

  Since once I sat upon a promontory

  And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back

  Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath

  That the rude sea grew civil at her song

  And certain stars shot madly from their spheres

  To hear the sea-maid’s music?

  The silence that followed Fullarton’s recitation indicated that something in the poetry had genuinely moved his listeners. Perhaps too they were startled by the passionate and melodious voice of the speaker, who was after all a banker and an usher at St. James, a man of rectitude and solitary habits. But Brodie was not surprised, for he had long suspected that there was a lot more to the man than his public persona. He was grateful that Mr. Fullarton had suggested their joining this club: it was going to be good for them both.

  “Splendid, sir,” the chairman burbled. “More than splendid. Somewhere above, seated on his divine actor’s stool, the Bard himself is surely watching and nodding approval.”

  This effusive dollop of praise had a double effect: it embarrassed Horace Fullarton and left Cyrus Crenshaw dry-throated in the knowledge that such a performance would be impossible to follow. Moreover, Sir Peregrine was now blessing him with a multi-chinned grin.

  “My dear Crenshaw, as you may have begun to surmise, we have saved the plum role for your formidable talents.”

  “P-Puck?” was all Crenshaw could squeeze out, though it may not have been as precise an enunciation as intended.

  Sir Peregrine’s grin vanished. “I am obviously referring to one of the supreme comedic roles in the entire Bardic canon.”

  “He means Bottom the weaver,” Dutton whispered in the manner he had often used to toss devastating asides to the jury.

  “You want me to play Bottom?” Crenshaw said, letting his jaw drop.

  “I do, sir. I believe you will make the perfect clown. Why, you have the face of a Will Kemp, Shakespeare’s own favourite among the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”

  Crenshaw struggled heroically to take this remark as a compliment. “But Bottom is a common mechanic,” he protested, “an ignorant weaver who muddles his diction. And he is pompous and vain to boot.”

  “Ah, I see you have penetrated to the nub of the character already. My directorial instincts have proven to be unerring, have they not?” Sir Peregrine said with much heartiness and a rippling smile.

  “But I am a man of means, milord, the owner of a prosperous factory and a fine residence. I have graduated grammar school. I can read Latin and a little Greek – ”

  “Then you are further advanced than the Bard,” Sir Peregrine quipped.

  “I was hoping to be assigned a role with some dignity – l
ike Oberon.”

  “But my dear Crenshaw, am I not correct in recalling that your father was a hard-working farmer and a mere corporal in the Canadian militia when he fell in the line of duty?”

  Whether this was a deliberate putdown or a misguided attempt to bolster Crenshaw’s confidence did not matter. The candle-maker knew he was beaten. He also knew that his wife Clementine would poison his coffee if he failed to obtain roles for them in the baronet’s play.

  “I will do my best, then” he said. “What do you want me to read?”

  “Act four, scene one: the place where Bottom wakes up with the ass’s head on him and finds himself in the arms of the beautiful Titania.”

  Crenshaw blinked. The image of donkey’s ears vied with the happier one of an amorous Titania in the guise of Lady Madeleine, whose svelte figure and lustrous tresses he had furtively glimpsed in her pew at St. James.

  “Ass’s head?” he gulped.

  “Of course. Bottom is, after all, fundamentally an ass,” Sir Peregrine said with an ill-concealed smirk of satisfaction at this brief excursion into wit. “This passage is prose. Just read it straight ahead, beginning at ‘Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur.’”

  Crenshaw gritted his teeth and began. Whether he was nervous, humiliated or inept – or all three – it had an immediate effect on his delivery. It started out at quick march and fever pitch, and gained momentum from that point. It rode roughshod over commas and periods, devoured vowels, and deconstructed consonants.