The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  “Are you forgetting, sir, that I currently hold a temporary license to practice here, signed by the president of the Law Society?”

  “You may stick a shingle on that hovel of yours, but do you really suppose any respectable citizen will come within thirty yards of that – that disgusting seraglio!”

  “I’m sorry to inform you, sir, that a barrister rarely defends ‘respectable’ citizens.”

  Stoneham’s retort sputtered and died, overtaken by the purpling contortions of his cheeks and chins. Finally, he managed to hiss: “You’ll practise law here over my dead body!”

  “And if I were a hundred pounds lighter, I’d gladly hop over it.”

  Stoneham wheeled about and thundered down the stairs, frightening two respectable, female citizens.

  “Dick, you really must curb your tongue,” Marc said as he took his friend’s arm.

  “He’s not a Bencher, is he?”

  “No, but he’s a personal favourite of Archdeacon John Strachan. He graduated from Strachan’s academy years ago, and now acts as his voice in the Executive Council, the only group that Governor Arthur is listening to. And Strachan has been the single most powerful Tory in the province for three decades. I suspect that he could, by himself, turn the Benchers against you.”

  Dougherty grunted, then wheezed. “Christ, I’m glad we’re going downhill.”

  ***

  The foyer was still crowded. Few people wanted to leave, wishing not to lose the buzz of excitement that McDowell had stirred up or the faint promise of hope he had held out. The MLAs were coming out of the members’ lounge and milling about with their well-wishers. Robert either had left or was still in the committee room – unaware of what had just been wrought in the House. As he and Dick were pushing their way towards the exit, Marc heard a burst of applause behind him. The wunderkind had just entered the room. On an impulse, Marc said to Dougherty, “Wait for me here, will you? I’m going to go over and congratulate him.”

  “Sense of fair play and all that?”

  Marc smiled. “He might even remember me.”

  Marc had taken three steps towards the scrum about McDowell when it unexpectedly opened to give the great orator a clear view of Marc. A tentative smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as he stepped forward. Marc was about to put out his hand when McDowell frowned, stood stock-still, and seemed to be appraising the figure before him. Then, as if he really did recall something of significance, he spun around and retreated – all the way to the members’ lounge.

  “Well?” Dougherty said as Marc rejoined him at the door.

  “You won’t believe this, but I’ve just been given the biggest snub of my life!”

  “Sic transit gloria,” Dougherty said, alluding obliquely to Marc’s onetime status as the Hero of St. Denis.

  “I suppose the fellow considers me a kind of turncoat for resigning my commission and taking up the Reform cause,” Marc mused, though he found himself far from amused at the incident.

  “After a while, you can get used to being snubbed,” Dougherty said with a grim little smile.

  THREE

  Outside, Marc was delighted to see Robert’s coachman waiting for them, with orders to drive Marc and Dick home. Now more puzzled than smarting from the snub (the fellow had literally run from him), Marc settled beside Dougherty in the Baldwin’s brougham. As they moved east along Front Street, Marc gave Dougherty a summary of McDowell’s speech and its worrisome implications.

  “Well, this business is a lot more entertaining than I realized. Would it be presumptuous of a Yankee to offer his services in the cause of liberation?”

  “I’m sure Robert would be happy to have you aboard. But first you must concentrate on your admission to the Bar. Even if you never practise, it puts a stamp of respectability on you that no rumour-mongering can stain.”

  “I must confess that ever since the trial last January I’ve had the itch to get back into the courtroom.”

  They turned north up Bay Street in the bracing night-air.

  “Stoneham was enraged by the sight of that shingle on your cottage. It’s like a red rag to a bull. Would you consider removing it until after your formal admission?”

  “I would, but I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for that.”

  Marc was stunned. “You’re not telling me – ”

  “I am. I’ve already taken on a new case.”

  ***

  “I couldn’t refuse the fellow,” Dougherty was saying. The brougham had stopped in front of the cottage with its offending sign. “His name is David Chalmers. He’s a vicar at St. James Anglican Church, one of two working under Archdeacon Strachan, whose own work apparently takes him well beyond Toronto and York County. I’m not sure how these things operate, but Chalmers, who is thirty-five, is still junior vicar. The senior man is the Reverend Quentin Hungerford. According to Chalmers, Hungerford is jealous of him and suspicious of his ambitions, for which he assures me there are no grounds. Two weeks ago, Mrs. Hungerford, who runs the Ladies Auxiliary, accused Chalmers of embezzling or misappropriating ten dollars from her treasury, following his participation in a bazaar they held in February. This claim is supported by her own treasurer. Chalmers, of course, denied the charge, and when the incident was taken to Strachan, the great man said he believed his junior vicar, in part because Chalmers had been one of his prize pupils in the Cornwall school.”

  “So why did he end up coming to you?” Marc said, his anxiety rising at the mention of the Archdeacon’s name.

  “Mrs. Hungerford is not a woman to be lightly dismissed. She urged Strachan, in light of the ‘fact’ of the missing ten dollars, to have a close look at the parish’s books, which are kept by the same Mr. Chalmers. When Strachan got around to this, with a Hungerford at each elbow, he discovered numerous minor discrepancies – above and below the line. It appears that the Reverend Chalmers is just an inept bookkeeper. However, in order to keep peace in his bailiwick, Strachan takes Chalmers aside and suggests that he be moved to a post somewhere in the wastes of the Huron Tract or down in the wilds of the Talbot settlement. Chalmers is devastated, even when Strachan assures him that the move is temporary.”

  “There isn’t much he can do about it,” Marc said. “The Anglican Church is not a democracy.”

  “Well, he tried. He went to three different lawyers to take advice. Once they learned that Strachan was involved, they showed him the door – politely.”

  “I told you he was a powerful man, and a fearsome enemy.”

  “The junior vicar came to see me a few days ago.”

  “And you didn’t show him to the door?”

  “I did not. He had been falsely accused. Mrs. Hungerford had no evidence other than the fact that Chalmers had ferried the cash-box from the bazaar to his rooms. His study was unlocked overnight, and any number of persons had access to it. It’s a clear case of he said/she said.”

  “I agree, but what could you do?”

  “I sat down and wrote a stern, lawyerly letter to Archdeacon Strachan, suggesting that, if the matter were not dropped and Chalmers not reinstated, civil action – not excluding libel and defamation – would seriously be considered. Et cetera.”

  Dougherty looked particularly pleased with himself.

  “Dick, as your friend, I must warn you – ”

  “I know, I know. I’ve just rammed a cold poker up the Devil’s arse!”

  He looked even more pleased with himself.

  FOUR

  “Wake up, Mister Cobb! You’re gonna miss Church!”

  Constable Horatio Cobb groaned, rolled away from the penetrating authority of that voice into a cosier part of the big bed, tried to pretend he was still asleep, realized the futility of that assumption and the consequences of disobedience, opened his eyes, and retorted, “But I always miss church!”

  “Not this mornin’, you ain’t,” Dora said, and it was excitement that Cobb detected in his wife’s reply, not the customary threat or wheedle. “You’d be mig
hty regrettable if you missed this show!”

  “I’m regrettable already,” Cobb sighed, sitting up and pulling the nightcap off the permanent flare-and-tangle of his hair. “You know I didn’t get home till pert near midnight, an’ me an’ Wilkie got battered an’ bruised breakin’ up a fistfight in The Cock an’ Bull. Lookit the welt I got here under my eye!”

  Dora leaned over, careful to keep her Sunday frock – and the scrubbed and powdered flesh it encased – well away from her husband’s greasy locks. “I’ll kiss it better after the ducks-ology,” she said, then turned her large but surprisingly nimble body about and trundelled from the room.

  When Cobb reached the kitchen ten minutes later – reluctantly attired in his wedding suit and a white blouse – a steaming bowl of porridge and mug of freshly brewed tea awaited him. Delia and Fabian were still at the Sunday school that Archdeacon Strachan had recently started, and, to Cobb’s disappointment, they seemed to be enjoying it. Cobb himself had been raised on a pioneer farm near Woodstock in the days when they were lucky to see a Methodist circuit rider once every two months. He had, of course, been baptized, but had never bothered to attend the little wooden church that had eventually been built in the village. And while Dora would not describe herself as a scrupulous Christian (being a scrupulously honest soul), she did attend services at St. James at least once a month and invariably on special occasions like Easter and Harvest Home. But sociable as she was – playing midwife to dozens of families in the “old town” east of Yonge – she had steered clear of the Ladies Auxiliary and other female support groups. “I’m in the business of savin’ babies fer the Queen, not souls fer Deacon Strachan!” she proclaimed whenever occasion demanded it.

  “So what’s the fuss all about this mornin’?” Cobb said. “Somethin’ special with the litter-gee?”

  Dora gave him the eye. “You wouldn’t recognize the trinity if it was stuck in yer craw!”

  “I was just askin’. It ain’t easy squeezin’ inta these trousers. They keep shrinkin’ every time you wash ‘em.”

  “They haven’t shrunk an inch since we was married. It’s what’s in them that keeps on expandin’.”

  “Well, are you gonna tell me, or do I haveta guess?”

  “I wonder you haven’t heard the gossip about what’s goin’ on over there at St. James, spendin’ yer days in an’ out of taverns an’ bein’ privy to all that scuttlebutt.”

  “My clients don’t discuss thee-ology too much.”

  Dora chuckled, then tried to look solemn as she said, “It’s an open secret that John Strachan is goin’ to be made a bishop. They say he’s gettin’ ready to sail fer England next month to make sure it happens.”

  This stunning news did little to disrupt the steady spooning of porridge.

  “You don’t seem impressed,” Dora said.

  Cobb licked a sticky gob off his lower lip. “Fer a fella that thinks of himself as Pope, wearin’ a mighter-hat seems a comedown to me.”

  “Don’t be pertinent,” Dora snapped back. “Anyways, that’s just the first part of the story.”

  “Ahh, I figured there was more.”

  “When Reverend Strachan becomes bishop, that means he’ll haveta look after the church affairs all across the province.”

  “Ya mean he’ll be outta our hair once in while.” Cobb spilled some tea on his blouse, but took no notice.

  “Which means he won’t be Rector of York County, ‘cause he’ll have the bishop’s salary, an’ that means that either Reverend Chalmers or Reverend Hungerford will likely get the post.”

  “I thought the Reverend Hungry-for-it was next in line,” Cobb said, his interest picking up as he sensed what was coming.

  “That he is. He’s been vicar under the Archdeacon fer fifteen years or more – bowin’ an’ scrapin’ more to Strachan than to the Lord.”

  “But?”

  “But that nice David Chalmers useta be Strachan’s pupil in the Cornwall Academy, an’ some people say the new bishop is likely to give him the post even though he’s ten years younger than Hungerford. Others say it’s a bit of a horse race.”

  “So you want to go there today to have a gander at the two of them, eh? To see which one c’n plant the juiciest kiss on the deacon’s – ah – ring.”

  “That’s part of the fun, yes. But it’s Susannah Hungerford I wanta see.”

  “That old battle-axe!”

  “An’ battle she will. She runs the ladies’ wing of the congregation – in addition to her husband. You remember I delivered her last baby when the doctor was away on his spring fishin’ trip, an’ helped her through the fever she caught afterwards. Well, I got a good, close-up look at that creature an’, believe me, it wasn’t a pretty sight. She’s mean an’ cunnin’ an’ every inch ambitious.”

  “About as sweet-tampered-with as Lady Macbeth, I take it?”

  Dora grinned. “Come on, Mister Cobb, we wanta get a good seat. Deacon Strachan is gonna preach the sermon this mornin’, an’ it’s expected he’ll be throwin’ hints as to which of the two contenders is in the lead.”

  Cobb was looking around for a suitable hat.

  “An’ just think of the buzzin’ an’ backbitin’ that’ll be goin’ on after the service. It’ll be more fun than fair day!”

  ***

  It was still a half-hour before the service, but when Cobb and Dora turned north onto Church Street, they were astonished to see the broad intersection of Church and King jammed with carriages, men on horseback, and dozens of pedestrians – more or less impeding one another’s progress. The rumour concerning John Strachan’s possible elevation (started, it was said, by the gentleman himself) had spread far and wide, as had the certainty that the great man had already booked passage for England and Lambeth Palace. If so, then they were about to hear his valedictory sermon as Archdeacon and Rector of York. A Strachan sermon at any time was music to the ears of every Anglican, Tory, and royalist in the province, many of them having been reprinted in pamphlet and book form for the edification of Christians everywhere. Nor had the good reverend been modest about veering in his homilies from God’s word to the government’s. It wasn’t his fault if religion and politics were permanently entangled in the closed world of Upper Canada, and since it was so, he would not flinch from his responsibility to guide his flock to the right conclusions. After all, there were as many of the Devil’s tricks and snares in the prose of the Durham Report as there were in an atheist’s tract. That the Archdeacon would take full advantage of his captive audience and his (soon-to-be) enhanced authority was not in doubt. It would take Christ’s resurrection itself to trump the anticipated glories and satisfactions of this morning!

  Cobb and Dora manoeuvred across the intersection in the bright Sabbath sunshine, then paused to catch their breath on the gravelled esplanade in front of the church. They were surprised to see, nearby, Marc Edwards and a smartly dressed young couple.

  “Well, hello there, major!” Cobb said, using his familiar if inaccurate epithet for his friend and sometime associate in the investigation of serious crimes. “What’re you doin’ here in the real church? Without yer better half?”

  Marc laughed, as he was meant to, and tipped his hat to Dora. “Beth was up most of the night with leg cramps and, like all these good, overly curious citizens, I decided to forgo the pleasures of the Congregational service in order to hear the spit and thunder of the great man himself.”

  “I couldn’t’ve said it any better,” Cobb said, “but I’d’ve been a tad briefer.”

  “I’ve got some balm I c’n rub on Beth’s calves,” Dora said. “I’ll come ‘round after Church an’ give her a massage.”

  “That’s kind of you, Dora. Beth will be grateful, and pleased to have someone else to talk to besides me or Charlene.”

  “An’ who are yer young friends?” Dora said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Marc said. “I forgot that you haven’t met Brodie or Miss Ramsay.”

  Cobb, of course, had met Bro
die during the investigation and trial the previous January, but Dora’s response to him was not untypical: he was so fair-haired and white-skinned that one expected his eyes to be as pink as a rabbit’s. But they were an icy blue, translucent, and disconcerting. However, when he smiled, as he did in shaking hands with Cobb and bowing to Dora, you forgot any of the anomalies of his appearance.

  “And this is my good friend, Diana Ramsay,” Brodie Langford announced with a proprietorial air that prompted her to blush.

  “I’ve heard much about both of you,” Diana said. “All of it flattering,” she added with an impish glance at Brodie.

  “Diana is governess to Robert’s four children at Baldwin House,” Marc explained.

  “And at Spadina when the older ones are at school,” Brodie said.

  “I’ve seen you in the back yard often,” Cobb said, “whilst makin’ my rounds. And I noticed young Broderick here comin’ in fer the odd bit of legal advice.”

  Before Diana could blush again, Dora said cheerfully, “I guess we’re all here fer the same show.”

  “Sideshow’s more like it,” Cobb said as he was elbowed by a middle-aged, overdressed woman of means.

  They decided for their own safety to join the throng pressing towards the tall oaken doors of the Anglican church.

  ***

  The bells of St. James had just finished tolling for the eleven o’clock service when Joseph Brenner and Lawrence Tallman, following the precise directions provided by the night-manager of The American Hotel, walked up a stone path to the stoop of a cottage on the west side of Bay Street just above King. They did not pause to admire the snowdrops that peeped bravely up through clumps of grass on the lawn. But the curious wooden shingle above the lintel, and its inscription, did arrest their attention for a moment, before they rapped politely on the door.

  An attractive, blond-haired young woman answered their knock immediately, and flashed them a pretty smile. “May I help you, gentlemen?”