The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  “I know. So am I. A well-wedded woman, that is.”

  At this point, an inner door opened and a man entered. He was middle-aged, portly, be-whiskered, and round-faced – with large, placid eyes. He smiled at the visitors.

  “This is Fenton Adams, my husband and business partner,” Eliza said with a touch more emphasis on the latter designation.

  Introductions were made all around, and then Eliza said, “Fenton, my love, why don’t you show young Mr. Langford through the cellars and have him sample some of that new Bordeaux, while Marc and I have a cup of tea and reminisce?”

  “A splendid idea, love,” Fenton said amiably, and led a reluctant Brodie away.

  When Marc and Eliza were settled in a cosy sitting-room, not unlike the one they had often shared in Toronto, she stared across at him and said with mock sincerity, “I thought you would be limping – at least.”

  Marc showed his surprise. “So you know about the rebellion?”

  “I know a great deal – about a lot of things.”

  “I didn’t know you had become Mrs. Adams.”

  She smiled wanly: “A merger of interests, you might say.”

  “Related to Quincy Adams, is he?”

  “Second cousin, thrice removed.”

  “Forefather on the Mayflower?”

  “First mate, actually.”

  Marc sipped his tea and then said, “It’s good to see you haven’t changed.”

  “We’ve both changed.”

  “As we must, eh?”

  “I hear your Beth is a beauty in her own right. And that she’s about to produce a son and heir.”

  “You have a paid agent in Toronto, do you?”

  “I don’t need one. We get regular visits from importers – all the way from Montreal, Toronto, Kingston – ”

  “And you trade vintage wine for vintage gossip?”

  “It seems like a fair trade. Where else would I get detailed accounts of your heroics at St. Denis, of your renunciation of the scarlet tunic, of your legendary investigative prowess, of your flirtation with the Bar and radical politics – tales to keep a woman warm through the long, cold winter.”

  “My, but my life didn’t seem that exciting at the time.”

  “It seldom does.” She looked down, then back up. Tears startled her eyes. “To our infinite regret.”

  There came a clumping of footfalls in the hallway, and a moment later Brodie and Fenton Adams joined them.

  ***

  That afternoon seemed to be the longest one Marc had ever endured. He and Brodie were holed up in their rooms, with nothing to do but wait. As far as they could tell, they had not been followed home by the mysterious taxicab, but then there were many other means by which their movements could be tracked and recorded. Everything now depended upon Annemarie Thedford agreeing to let Marc examine the secret documents for possible leads. Marc was afraid that her loyalty to Dick and the imperative of her promise to him regarding their possible use would override his efforts to expose the people who had sponsored the assassination. Moreover, it seemed likely that those very people had learned of the documents’ existence and his mother’s role in the affair as a whole. If so, then she was in more peril than he or Brodie.

  Anxious and frustrated, the two men spent a miserable afternoon together, and were much relieved when they were able to leave the hotel at five o’clock to join Mrs. Annemarie Thedford in her suite for a cold supper before the evening’s performance of The School For Scandal.

  With Brodie present, the conversation during the meal was perforce general and not unpleasant. As a native New Yorker, Brodie was intensely interested in Annemarie’s bantering gossip about the rise and pratfalls of various prominent gentlemen, as well as news about the theatrical life of the great city, of which Annemarie was a fount of knowledge, much of it amusing. For the better part of an hour, all three managed to keep up the pretence of normality. But at last the polite conversation began to weaken, and pall.

  Into one of the awkward silences Marc said, “Do you have an answer for us?”

  “I do. I’ve thought about little else all day.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll let you look at Dick’s papers for a few minutes after the performance – in my dressing-room. Then they’ll go straight back into the safe.” She looked at him long and hard, unsmiling. “I’m trusting you to be discreet. Dick’s name has been sullied enough already. If it’s blackened further, I may not be able to forgive you – or myself.”

  “Thank you. We all want the same thing for Dick. The truth will be discovered and disclosed. That is a promise.”

  Annemarie offered him a smile, but Marc could not read the thought behind it.

  ***

  It was difficult to laugh at a play all about scandal and human hypocrisy in a city that seemed to personify it, but Marc found himself doing so. As did Brodie beside him. For better than two hours Mr. Sheridan seduced them away from anxiety on the wings of ridicule and the ultimate triumph of truth. A few minutes before the play ended, Marc, who was seated next to an aisle, whispered to Brodie that he was going to slip backstage and meet his mother as she came off after taking her curtain-calls. He wanted to escort her safely to her dressing-room and make sure they were not being watched. Brodie could come along a few minutes later and stand guard outside the door.

  Marc sneaked past a dozing usher into the wings on the left side of the stage, and stood silently behind one of the flats at the rear. A burst of applause alerted him to the play’s conclusion, and he peered out at the line of actors stepping forward to accept the plaudits of the audience. Although Annemarie had had only a secondary role, her fame was not to be unacknowledged, and Marc’s heart swelled with pride as his mother took two steps forward on her own and curtsied. At that moment, something made Marc look up – into the bright, gas-lit candelabrum that illuminated centre-stage, and then beyond to the flies and scrims towards the complicated rigging that allowed them to be artfully manipulated. One of the stagehands was perched on a catwalk that ran the width of the stage about twenty feet above it. Marc froze. The fellow held a long-bladed knife in one hand and was reaching out in an attempt to slash the rope attached to one of the bulky counterweights. The sandbag was poised directly above his mother.

  The knife-blade flashed, the rope was instantly severed and, with the warning cry stuck in his throat, Marc watched in horror as the deadly missile dropped straight down. It struck the boards with a mighty thump, less than a yard from Mrs. Thedford. The actors, like the audience, were momentarily stunned. Someone had the good sense to begin lowering the curtain just as mayhem and confusion broke out everywhere.

  Seeing his mother safe for the time being, Marc sprinted past the actors, who were looking helplessly up into the blazing lights or trying to decide which way to run. He had spotted the knife-wielder scrabbling along the catwalk towards a ladder in the opposite wing. Marc arrived there just as the fellow reached the bottom rung. His eyes widened with fright when he saw Marc charging at him like a man gone berserk. He turned and made for the stairs and the hallway that led to the rooms behind the stage. Marc decided that a crippling tackle was the surest means of cutting off the villain’s escape. He threw himself into the air with arms outstretched, just as his quarry stumbled, cursed, and toppled sideways. Marc went hurtling past him, and felt the sudden emptiness of the space above the stairs before he crashed headlong onto their abrupt angles. At this point, the lights, mercifully, went out.

  ***

  “He’s awake.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I’m sure nothing’s broken.”

  “Did he get away?” Marc said as he opened his eyes fully and took in Brodie, his mother and the vaguely familiar surroundings.

  “We carried you over here to Mrs. Thedford’s suite. You’ve got a nasty bump on your forehead,” Brodie said, wanting to be helpful.

  Marc’s mother moved behind the arm of the sofa and placed a cold compress on the part of his
head that throbbed the most. He felt a series of stabbing, needle-like pains along his right arm and below his right knee.

  “You fell down a flight of five stairs,” Brodie said.

  “Did you catch the bastard?” Marc said, trying to sit up.

  “He got away,” Annemarie said.

  “But we know who he was,” Brodie said.

  Annemarie sighed. “It was young Withers, the new stagehand. He knew how to get out of the building quickly. We found the knife he used on the catwalk.”

  “Then we’ll catch up with him,” Marc said, feeling woozy and taking the compress from his mother. “I’ll be all right. It’s that villain we need to track down: he tried to kill you. We’ll beat the truth out of him.”

  “He’s long gone, Marc. The Tammany people will see that he’s never found. And if he had been intending to kill me, he wouldn’t have missed. Withers could put a fly down on a line no wider than a knife-edge.”

  “But it barely missed you!” This exclamation induced a more active throbbing in his head, and Marc sagged back against a cushion.

  “That sandbag was meant as a warning,” Annemarie said. “As a form of intimidation. That’s the way Tammany operates.”

  “So they do know you have the fifth affidavit, and you think they were telling you to hand it over to them?”

  “Something like that.”

  Brodie coughed and looked at Annemarie, who nodded.

  “What is it?” Marc said. “What else has happened?”

  “Your mother’s dresser told us that sometime during the last act someone broke into the dressing-room, ripped the safe out of the wall, and took it away with him. The rest of the room was a shambles.”

  “Damn! We should have put a permanent guard there as soon as we suspected they were on to us.”

  “Well, they seem to have gotten what they really wanted,” Annemarie said.

  “But surely they must believe you yourself have looked at those incriminating documents,” Marc said. “If so, you are still in extreme danger.”

  “Not really. Tammany now have the sworn statement and the name of the unfortunate informant. All else is mere speculation, and of no real threat to them.”

  Marc tried to stand up, but the pain in his knee caused his leg to buckle, and he sat back down. “Then we have lost,” he said.

  “Not entirely,” Annemarie said very quietly.

  “What do you mean?” Brodie said.

  “Before he left, your guardian gave me a small sealed envelope. He said it contained one sheet of paper. On it he had written down the names of the pedophiles he had gleaned from his interviews with the boys. ‘Just the names,’ he said, ‘so that whatever else happens, you will know who these dreadful men are.’”

  “Nothing else, then?” Marc asked, deflated yet again.

  “That’s what he said. But why don’t we look for ourselves?”

  Marc and Brodie were equally astonished.

  “I’ve kept it here, in my desk, these past months – unopened.”

  As they watched her, doubting whether such a list would be of any material value but unwilling to abandon hope, she went over to a gleaming, rosewood davenport, opened its drawer, and drew out a sealed, brown envelope. She broke the seal and removed a single sheet of white paper. Slowly she gazed at what was written there, nodding and sighing as she did.

  “It’s a roll-call of the high and mighty,” she said. “Some of these names are a shock – beyond belief.” The paper now hung limply at her side. “I wish to God I had not looked at this. Here, Marc, throw it in the fire. It will do none of us any good: you might as well try to bring down the Governor’s mansion or the White House.”

  She let the paper drift to the floor. Brodie moved quickly to her side and guided her to the nearest chair. The events of the evening, and indeed the past two days, had taken their toll on her.

  Marc picked up the paper and walked over to the embering fire in the marble-topped hearth.

  “Please, son.”

  Marc held it out towards a flickering blue flame. As he did so, he could not help but notice one of the names on the list. He stared at it, momentarily bewildered.

  “Don’t punish yourself – ”

  “It’s all right, mother.” He let the paper fall into the fire. “I’ve seen enough.” But it wasn’t a sigh that coloured this latter remark: it was a rising, unquenchable surge of exhilaration.

  “I think we’ve found our second assassin,” he said. “To be certain, we’ll need to go back to Eliza’s place first thing in the morning. And if I’m right, Brodie and I will be on the first boat up the Hudson to the Erie Canal.”

  TWENTY TWO

  By seven-fifteen Wednesday evening the streets of Toronto were completely dark, except for the modest glow from a few dozen post-lamps along King and Front and the occasional, wobbly glimmer of a carriage-lantern. The moon would not be up for hours, and the meagre spillage of light from the homes, shops and taverns was not bright enough to fire a cat’s eyes. A good time to be settled safely in one’s parlour. A better time for thieves, pub-brawlers and roustabouts.

  Constable Cobb stood outside the police quarters and impassively observed the elderly watchman place his stool at the base of the lamp-post on the corner of Church and King. Even after the formation of the municipal constabulary in 1835, the city fathers had kept four or five of the watchmen on the payroll – to light the street-lamps and stand sentry at the major intersections. For most of them, “standing sentry” meant finding a comfortable doorway and snoozing the night away. Cobb walked along to the lamp just lit. He noted with some illicit satisfaction that the glow it cast did not disturb the shadows that covered the big front doors of St. James a hundred feet away. And the rear door of the vicarage was, as always, invisible; even a full moon would cast no illumination in the dark alley leading up to it. Pleased with himself, he returned to his regular patrol.

  Having informed Dora of the particular ingenuities of his plan (which apparently went unregarded by that normally perceptive woman), Cobb did not have to return home when his patrol duties ended around ten o’clock. Instead, he slipped unnoticed into the shadows alongside the eastern wall of St. James and sidestepped his way northward until he stumbled upon the little stoop at the rear of the vicarage, striking his kneecap on its sharp edge and uttering a muffled oath. He held his breath and listened hard, but the excited rasping of his own breath and the thumping of his heart was all he could hear. He decided that being a sneak-thief was not as simple as it appeared: give him a noisy tavern brawl any day.

  Satisfied that no-one inside had been alerted to his presence, he clambered up onto the stoop and fumbled in the pitch dark for the doorknob. As he took hold of it, it rattled like a dinner-bell. When his hand stopped shaking, he gave the knob a slow turn, heard a decisive click, and pushed inward. So, Missy Prue had been as good as her word. She had made sure the door was unlocked and unbarred.

  He stepped into the dark hallway, then reached around and, fumbling again, found the key still in the lock. He gave it a turn and left it where it was. Although he didn’t expect to have to use the door later, it represented an escape route, should he need it. He left the bar unlatched for the convenience of the thief, should the fellow choose this port of entry. Groping his way down the covered and windowless walkway to the church proper was not as straightforward as it ought to have been. While Cobb assumed he was walking dead ahead towards the pale rectangle at the far end, the frightful bumping that each of the walls gave his shoulders and elbows suggested otherwise. After several more ungainly manoeuvres through the vestry area, he emerged at last into the vaulted chamber of the Lord.

  He inched his way up the main aisle without making a sound, as if the Holy Ghost were indeed present and casting a sceptical eye on his movements, however noble their purpose might be. Fortunately the moon was just beginning to rise in the south-east, and so there was a wash of pale and window-refracted light beginning to fill the vast void of the
nave. The Poor Box sat on its pillar beyond the last row of pews. And he was pretty certain that it had not been emptied after the christening ceremony earlier in the day.

  Well, he had made it safely into the trap he had devised. All he had to do now was find a convenient perch from which to spring as soon as the miscreant got his fingers tucked into the cookie-jar. He chose a pew a few feet away, which no moonlight now reached nor ever would if his calculations were correct. He sat down, swung his boots up onto the bench, and laid his head on his helmet against the arm at the end of the pew.

  Now all he had to do was wait.

  ***

  Falling asleep had not been one of the ingenious particulars of Cobb’s plan. He had taken a long nap after lunch and had restricted his intake of ale to the minimum his duty and conscience would allow. Nevertheless, he was in danger of drifting off, and Dora was telling him so in no uncertain terms. He was in the midst of a devastating retort when he realized that he had not brought Dora along with him to St. James. If that were true, then Dora was part of his dream, and if he were dreaming, then he was – alas – asleep. With a gasp that shook the wart on the tip of his nose, Cobb sat up and forced his eyelids upward.

  The Poor Box sat on its pedestal, unravaged. The only sound was the wind strumming the belfry. The moon had crossed the southern sky and was now illuminating the windows in the west wall, but very faintly. It must be near dawn. Damn! He had slept the night away. With every limb protesting and a neck that felt as if it had been stiffened with a hot poker, he got up and hobbled over to the Poor Box. He tugged at the door. It was still locked. If the robber had come in while the police slept, he could have unlocked the box with his contraband key, removed the cash, and relocked the confounded thing! And Cobb, keyless, could not find out one way or the other. There was nothing to do now but admit defeat and hightail it out the vicarage door before he himself was discovered and accused of being the thief.

  That’s when he heard a loud click – at the big front door.

  With his heart doing sit-ups, Cobb scuttled back into the shadows. Just as he ducked low, one of the oaken doors squealed open and a dark-clad figure slipped into the church. Just then, a cloud must have blocked the fading moonlight, for the chamber went gray and fuzzy before Cobb’s straining eyes. Though he could not see the intruder, he could hear him padding along towards the Poor Box. It was difficult to do so, but Cobb knew he had to wait until that box was opened and the intruder’s intentions crystal clear before he could pounce.