Minor Corruption
A Marc Edwards Mystery
by
Don Gutteridge
ISBN: 978-1-927789-49-0
Published by Bev Editions at Smashwords
Copyright 2015 Don Gutteridge
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
About the Author
Other Books in the Marc Edwards Mystery Series
Excerpt From Desperate Acts
ONE
Toronto: September 1840
“So you’re finally gonna let me have a peek at the legendary Uncle Seamus?” Beth said to Marc as the brand-new brougham veered off Brock Street north onto the bush-path that meandered its way up to Spadina House.
Marc gave eighteen-month-old Maggie an extra dandle on his right knee and responded to his wife’s remark in a similar bantering tone: “It’s not as if we’ve been hiding him under a bushel, and the dear fellow can’t help it if his antics have made him notorious in the stuffy drawing-rooms of Tory Toronto, now can he?”
“Would anyone be paying attention at all if the man wasn’t a Baldwin?” Brodie Langford called back from his perch on the driver’s bench. He was able to turn only partway around, not because he felt obliged to keep an eye on the pair of spirited horses in front of him but because he did not wish to remove his arm from the willing shoulder of his fiancée seated beside him.
“Possibly not,” Marc laughed as he held Maggie up so she could see the forest flowing past them and marvel at the goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace that bloomed flamboyantly along the edge of the path and in the beaver meadows here and there along their route. It was Maggie’s first trip out of town, and she was wide-eyed with wonder.
“Well, he’s been here since July, hasn’t he?” Beth said without turning her own gaze away from the view on her side of the carriage or disturbing the baby asleep against her breast. “And he hasn’t shown up at Baldwin House or anywhere else that I’ve heard.”
“Seamus Baldwin emigrated here for the sole purpose of retiring to the bosom of his family. Why should he wish to leave the company of his brother and nephew and his nephew’s children and the delights of Spadina-in-the-woods and brave the urban ruckus of the city?”
“What I’d like to know,” Diana Ramsay said from under Brodie’s left arm, “is what exactly makes him notorious?”
Diana was governess to Robert Baldwin’s sons and daughters, and although stationed in the Baldwin’s town-house at Front and Bay Streets with her charges, she had accompanied them often out to their country retreat, Spadina.
“But surely you of all people would know?” Marc teased. “You’ve seen the great man up close more than any of us.”
“I have, and as far as I can see, he’s a jolly elf of an Irishman who loves a jig, a sentimental song and a good joke. What’s more, he’s become the darling of Mr. Baldwin’s children, especially little Eliza.”
It was to celebrate nine-year-old Eliza’s birthday that Marc, Beth, Maggie, baby Marcus Junior, Brodie and Diana were jogging along towards Spadina on an early September morning in full sunshine under a cloudless sky. Brodie had just taken possession of the brougham – with its elegant, retractable roof, Moroccan leather seats and oak trim – and although he could afford to have several servants (and did), he had not yet relinquished the reins to anyone but himself.
“Ah, but what songs! What jigs! What antics!” Brodie laughed as he gave Diana a discreet squeeze.
She gave him in return a gentle elbow in the ribs. “You’ve only seen him once,” she chided, “and that was in July just after he came.”
“It’s you two who are going to be notorious,” Marc said with mock solemnity. “Perhaps you should shorten your engagement, eh?”
The young couple laughed, as they were meant to, but the date set for their wedding, more than a year off, was not really a laughing matter. Although now a wealthy young gentleman and budding banker, Brodie was not yet twenty-one and Diana, several years older, had accepted his proposal only when he promised to wait until all four of Robert Baldwin’s children were comfortably settled in school and she could, in good conscience, leave them in the hands of another governess.
Maggie squealed and clapped her hands as a scarlet tanager flew up out of a pine tree ahead of them and fluttered in surprise over the horses’ heads.
Marc sat back with his daughter in his lap and let her excitement play itself out. How much more content could a man get? he thought. Last April Beth had presented him with a son, Marcus Junior (now purring away in his mother’s arms). Soon after, work began on the five-room addition to Briar Cottage, more than doubling its size, and by midsummer it was completed. Maggie had a nursery to herself, Marc a study and library, Beth a sewing-room (also used as an office in her capacity as owner and manager of Smallman’s ladies shop on fashionable King Street), and their new live-in servant, Etta Hogg, had a small but satisfactory bedroom. And for all of them, a spacious parlour with a fieldstone fireplace. Their long-time servant, Charlene Huggan, had left them in June to marry Etta’s brother, Jasper. The couple took up housekeeping next door in the Hogg family home, caring for Jasper’s sickly mother and doing their best to expand the Hogg dynasty.
Whenever he was not supervising the construction – carried out by Jasper and his new business partner, Billy McNair – or keeping watch on an unpredictably mobile Maggie, Marc found some time to assist his friend Robert Baldwin in his law chambers and to confer with Robert, Francis Hincks and other key members of the Reform party. Even politics, against all odds, seemed to be moving in their favour as both Reformers and Tories continued to lobby and plot in the run-up to the new order of things: the union of Upper and Lower Canada in a single colony with a common parliament. The Act of Union had been passed in the British Parliament in July, and it required only the Governor’s official declaration to become an irreversible reality, a move widely expected early in the new year. After that, of course, fresh elections would be held in each of the constituent provinces, and then it would soon become apparent whether French and English, Catholic and Protestant, Tory and Reformer could resolve their ingrained differences and make the unified state prosper where its individual parts had so glaringly failed. Unbenownst to the Tories, however, the Upper Canadian Reformers, last February, had concluded an accord with the Quebec radicals, and their hopes were high that together they could effectively dominate the new parliament. And that alliance had held and been kept secret now for over six months.
“You aren’t gonna talk politics today, are you?” Beth said as they rounded a bend and came in sight of Spadina. It was not really a question.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Marc said. “We’re here to celebrate a little girl’s birthday, aren’t we?”
A skeptical tittering from the driver’s bench seemed the only comment required.
***
It was a glorious late-summer day, and the festivities were organized to t
ake full advantage of its blessings. A picnic luncheon was to be served on the broad, sweeping lawn behind the grand Georgian manor-house that Dr. William Warren Baldwin had designed and had had constructed out here northwest of the city proper. Extra servants had been commandeered just for the occasion; the fruits of the season – snow-apples, melons, grapes and several species of sweet, ripe nuts – had been gathered and prepared; and three trestle-tables had been set out in white-clothed splendour beneath a towering elm. For Robert Baldwin, a widower now for four years, this birthday celebration was both a homage to the absent Eliza and a joyous, grateful day of thanksgiving for the one still alive and thriving.
Before being ushered onto the picnic grounds, Marc and his party were greeted at the front door by Robert and his father and mother, and seconds later Beth was introduced to, and took a first impression of, the infamous Uncle Seamus. Before her, holding onto her gloved hand and kissing it lightly, was a short, wiry gentleman impeccably dressed in morning-coat and freshly pressed trousers. He sported a great shock of grey-white hair, which alone gave the illusion of bulk and height, but it had been at least partly tamed by pomade. The face was angular and pixyish, completely unlike the strong, regular and handsome features of his younger brother William and his nephew Robert. But it was the eyes that arrested Beth’s attention. They were large and a pale blue, their size and roundness exaggerated by the bony sockets that attempted to contain them, as if a pair of moonstones had been inadvertently dropped there and left to fend for themselves. When he stepped back and straightened up, Beth noticed that his clothes, though covering his nimble limbs appropriately enough, seemed somehow incongruous, as if his body had suddenly shrunk inside them. Beth had the feeling that he had come out of the womb as a fully-formed gnome and had grown older and marginally larger in slow, measured degrees.
“I am most honoured to meet the lady who takes such good care of our Mr. Edwards,” smiled the elfin uncle.
“It’s been far too long between visits,” Robert said to Beth. “Your husband and I really must withdraw from politics and the law long enough to observe and enjoy the more important things in life, mustn’t we?” Then by way of illustration he reached out and took a willing Maggie out of Marc’s arms.
“You mustn’t chide yourself,” Beth said, giving the baby an affectionate squeeze. “We’ve all been far busier than we ought to. And you have four very fortunate children, who see you every day.”
“Who are already in the back yard whooping it up,” Dr. Baldwin said. “We’d better see to them, eh?”
“And I hear more little rascals coming up the drive,” Brodie said as shouts of laughter echoed through the open front door.
“You good people go on through to the garden,” Uncle Seamus said affably. “I’ll stay here and play butler. Go on with you, Miss Diana. Eliza’s been waiting for your arrival since breakfast.”
“Yes, yes,” Dr. Baldwin said. “Please do. Let us not stand upon ceremony.”
As Diana, Brodie, Robert (with Maggie tucked under his arm), Marc and Beth (babe in arms) moved down the hall towards the rear of the house, Beth whispered to Marc, “Robert’s uncle seems like a proper gentleman, doesn’t he?”
“Disappointed, are we?” Marc teased, then squeezed her hand.
Behind them a roar of laughter and a cacophony of little-girl giggles erupted.
***
It was a children’s party all the way. Eliza was Robert’s favourite, and he had spared no expense and overlooked no detail to make the day as perfect as possible, given the whims and vagaries of nine-year-olds. Eliza’s older sister Maria and her brothers William and Robert had been assigned various supervisory and administrative roles, and carried them out with a lawyerly eye for protocol and decorum. The birthday girl herself was supported by a cast of almost two dozen of her peers, who included not only several cousins and the children of Robert’s friends and associates (Robert Sullivan, his law partner, Clement Peachey, the firm’s solicitor, and Francis Hincks) but the offspring of neighbours in town and half a dozen youngsters from the nearby cluster of homes housing several of the mill-hands who worked for the local miller, Seth Whittle. Even eleven-year-old Fabian Cobb had ridden out in one of the special carriages arranged by their host, seduced as he was by visions of bonbons and prizes for the swift and dextrous.
For the first hour or so the children were allowed to roam freely about the wide lawns, amusing themselves nicely with improvised games of tag and Simon Says, punctuated by frequent trips to the sweets table where peppermints, Turkish delight and macaroons seemed to be in endless supply. (This latter miracle was accomplished by three bustling, red-faced housemaids attired in black uniforms with white caps.) Meanwhile, the ladies and gentlemen reclined in garden chairs at the base of a horse-chestnut tree, sipping punch and chatting idly. Marcus Junior woke up, of course, demanding to be fed, and Maggie waddled happily in the direction of the nearest celebrant. In addition to various aunts and uncles were Marc’s party of four, Robert himself, Clement Peachey, Francis Hincks and their wives. Dr. and Mrs. Baldwin were inside supervising the parade of goodies. If Beth were puzzled by the absence of Uncle Seamus, she was too polite to comment.
Marc was beginning to wonder how Robert planned to corral the free-ranging youngsters, whose squeals and yips were growing more and more frantic, when the answer presented itself. Chalmers, the Baldwin’s elderly butler, had emerged from the house carrying a wooden pail that resembled a miniature butter-churn. Behind him he was trailed by the two youngest maids – Betsy and Edie, if Marc recalled correctly – one with a smaller pail and the other with a large bowl of what appeared to be cream. Chalmers set the churn-like contraption on a nearby table and waited for the maids to reach him. He gestured to Betsy and she carefully poured the frothy contents of the bowl into the churn. Then he took the pail from Edie and tipped it up to the rim of the churn. There followed the tinkle of ice-chips into the hollow space between the churn’s inner and outer walls. What happened next was as dramatic as a headmistress striking the school’s dinner gong!
“Ice cream!” a wee female voice trilled.
“Ice cream!”
“Ice cream!”
The cry echoed over the grass and through the shrubbery. A minute later every child, regardless of age or gender, had raced to the table where Chalmers was stoically turning the churn’s handle. He was soon ringed by children, squatting or fidgeting or hopping from foot to foot. (Even the young maids sank daintily to their knees and stared.) All eyes were on the magic bucket that they knew, or surmised, would transform ordinary cream into a chilled ambrosia you could boast about for the rest of your days. And almost as magical was the sudden silence, so deep you could detect a cricket stretching a foreleg.
“It’ll take some time, children,” Chalmers said.
“We know, we know. And we can help you churn if your hand gets tired,” offered young Fabian Cobb, who was quickly seconded by several of his male companions.
“You’re a genius,” Beth said to Robert, who was observing the scene with some satisfaction.
“It was Chalmers’ idea,” Robert said with his customary modesty.
“Won’t ice cream spoil their luncheon?” said the ever practical Diana.
“By the time it’s churned and chilled, the sandwiches and cake will have been served and eaten,” Robert said. “That is if the candies haven’t dulled their appetite entirely.”
“Surely they’ve run off those effects,” Brodie said.
At this point Maggie went tumbling to the ground just beyond Marc’s chair. He jumped up, ran over to her, picked her up in both hands, and raised her over his head. She had considered crying but decided to turn her protest into a squeal of pleasure. Marc grinned over at Beth, but she seemed preoccupied.
She was wondering why they had seen no sign of Seamus Baldwin.
***
The luncheon went as smoothly as a barrister’s summation: with the three maids serving up the sandwiches, meat tart
s, and gallons of fresh milk; with Diana Ramsay leading the children in song; and with Robert cutting the birthday cake with exaggerated strokes and numerous winks. Chalmers then carried the ice cream over to the head of table, and Dr. Baldwin had the pleasure of doling it out as if it were goose and he were Father Christmas.
Following such unalloyed excitement, Governess Ramsay concluded that a few minutes quiet time was in order. So, while the adults partook of their luncheon – cold chicken, cucumber sandwiches and chilled champagne – the boys and girls slumped down in the nearest shade and dozed contentedly in the early-afternoon sun. Robert had just finished making a toast to his assembled friends and neighbours when the first notes of a pipe fluttered upon the breeze. The guests followed Robert’s gaze and the source of the music. There upon a knoll at the far edge of the yard stood the piper. At first blush it appeared to be a leprechaun materialized out of the greensward itself, for the figure was short and bandy-legged and loose-limbed and clothed entirely in Kendall-green broadcloth. Its shoes were of green leather and as pointed as an elf’s foot, and they were hopping merrily to the ethereal ditty his long, nimble fingers were producing on the Irish fife they held as lightly as a pheasant’s plume. Upon his head, but barely covering the wild sheaf of his grey-white hair, there swayed in time to the other rhythms of his body a pointed cap, topped by a tinkling bell.
Uncle Seamus had made his entrance.
While the adults gaped, this incarnation of the god Pan danced a sprightly jig that brought him floating – it seemed – across the lawn towards the resting children. Then one by one, as if awakened and entranced by the music, the little ones rose to their feet and, without guile or prearrangement, fell in behind him, prancing and lalling some wordless child’s song in tune with the melodious notes of the fife and its manic master. The white lace and muslin of the girls’ dresses and the flagrant blouses of the lads behind them fanned out on a musical breeze like so many pristine petals. It was all so innocent and beautiful and ephemeral that there was not one of the adults watching whose heart did not lurch at the sight. The melody and the gay parade seemed to go on forever, but it was less than a minute before Pan and his pipe reached a grassy knoll and the music stopped in mid-note and their goat-footed deity planted both feet on the ground, stared blue-eyed at his acolytes, and blew a single, high, fierce note – so loud the air itself seemed momentarily stunned.
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