Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

At first glance The Sailor’s Arms did not appear to be the sort of place where a group of gentlemen would gather to venerate the Bard and confirm their own worthiness, while sipping brandy, sniffing snuff and nibbling sweetmeats. The primary purpose of this public house was signaled by its location: a hundred yards from the Queen’s Wharf. Its half-dozen second-floor bedchambers attracted officers and sailors from the many passenger-ships, mail-packets and freighters – men seeking overnight accommodation and a noisy, well-lubricated taproom. But at the back of the building, occupying the entire rear half of the upper storey, was a single, commodious room – eminently suited to lodge meetings, folk dancing, or any event where ample space, a generous hearth, and continuous catering from below were prized.

  Some members of the Shakespeare Club, affronted by the raucous, boozy atmosphere of the tavern, preferred to enter the clubroom via the stairs at the rear of the building, although to do so they had to step perilously close to the flotsam and stench of the alley back there. But Brodie, by far the youngest member of the idolators, did not mind passing through the taproom. In his youthful exuberance, he enjoyed tossing the barmaid or her husband a genuine Yankee smile, inhaling the masculine smoke of the seafaring patrons and then, with a wink and a nod, stepping into the narrow stairwell used by the staff to appease the needs of the gentlemen in the clubroom above. (Last week, they had been waited upon by Etta Hogg, the young sister of Jasper Hogg, who lived next door to Marc and Beth and who was courting Charlene Huggan, their servant. Brodie hoped Etta would be on duty again tonight. Her fragile, freckled beauty – so different from Diana’s dark and sensuous allure – stirred in him feelings both erotic and protective.)

  With this latter thought uppermost in his mind, he walked into the taproom, and was confronted by the usual din of argumentative male voices raised ever higher in self-defeating waves. But just as the door clicked closed behind him, the din stopped, as if some invisible choir conductor had given the signal for silence. So abrupt was the cessation of noise that Brodie assumed his entrance had somehow triggered the event, and he braced himself for the onslaught of stares that must soon be trained upon him. But not one of the three-dozen patrons jammed into the room was paying the slightest bit of attention to him. They were all transfixed by a scene unfolding at the far end of the bar – in front of the stairwell to the meeting-room above.

  Tobias Budge, proprietor of The Sailor’s Arms, had both of his hairy-knuckled hands around the coat-collar of a skinny fellow, who was struggling helplessly in the barkeep’s fierce grip, though it was apparent the victim was trying harder to maintain his dignity than he was attempting to escape. Budge was alternately jerking him up off the floor until his feet flailed at the air and dropping him slack-kneed upon its stone surface.

  “You’ve got a helluva nerve stickin’ yer ugly beak back in my pub, mister. But I’m a tolerant kind of guy, eh? Until you start pesterin’ the hired help. Nobody, especially the likes of you, interferes with my maids an’ lives to brag about it!”

  The skinny fellow did not respond to his assailant’s charge. Instead, he peered over at the mesmerized audience with a smug smirk on his face, which seemed to convey the notion that it was the victim who was more likely to come out of this contretemps triumphant. The shaking and bobbing he was suffering, however, was making it difficult for him to portray himself as the eventual victor. As was the red welt on his cheek where, Brodie concluded, Budge had slapped him (producing the sound that had rendered the pub’s patrons speechless).

  “You’d better let me down, Budge, I’m warning you!” This threat came out somewhere between a snarl and a whine, and drew a derisive response from those observing the fun. “I was merely talking to the girl. Ask her!”

  The girl, Brodie now noticed, was cowering behind the combatants and clutching the arm of Gillian Budge, a fiery sprite of a woman with eyes as sharp as cut-glass – whom no-one, obstreperous drunk or overly amorous sailor, dared cross. As Brodie feared, the girl in question was Etta Hogg. He had a sudden urge to step up and slap the impudent villain on the other cheek, although it wasn’t clear whether Etta was cringing from any ill-treatment given her or simply reacting to the violence of her employer’s response to it. Budge’s wife was standing stock-still, staring at her husband’s back with a look that seemed only partially approving.

  “I don’t need to ask her! You grabbed her hand when she was tryin’ to get away from yer stink, an’ that’s all I needed to see. Now get the hell out of here an’ don’t ever come back!”

  “Perhaps I would if you had enough sense to let me down!”

  This witty riposte drew sympathetic laughter from the hard-drinking sailors. Seeing no humour in the remark, however, Budge thrust the fellow down so suddenly that his knees buckled and his rump hit the floor with a comical thud.

  “How’s that now? Down far enough?”

  The skinny fellow gave the onlookers a lop-sided grin (made necessary by his swollen left cheek) and tried manfully not to grimace as he tottered to his feet. He did not move immediately towards the door, however, despite the glowering presence of the barkeep a foot behind him, fists clenched. Rather, he brushed himself off with meticulous care, obviously proud of his black morning-coat (one size too large for the thin but muscular body), his frilled blouse and knotted tie. He straightened the latter with slow precision, then glanced about for his top-hat and cloak (on a nearby chair, miraculously upright). He plunked the hat over his rigidly parted, coal-black hair, rolled his enormous black eyes at his audience in a gesture meant to mock the futility of Budge’s crude intervention, pointed the elaborate curvature of his nose towards Brodie and the door, and walked serenely out into the October evening. But not before he swivelled his head around and called back, “You may live to regret this, Budge. If I let you!”

  The taproom was rocked by spontaneous cheering.

  ***

  “Are you all right?” Brodie said to Etta.

  “I think so,” Etta said, releasing her grip on Gillian Budge’s arm and offering Brodie a less than reassuring smile. At this moment, though, she looked more embarrassed than frightened.

  “She’s perfectly fine, Mr. Langford, as you can plainly see,” Gillian said sharply. “And if my husband hadn’t acted like a gorilla, she’d be a damn sight finer!”

  “But, luv, I’d already given that slimy snake fair warnin’ – ”

  “Have you forgot it’s me that gives out the warnings in this establishment?” Gillian said in a way that was itself a kind of warning.

  Tobias Budge’s thick brows arched upward as if they’d been poked with a pitchfork. For a second something rebellious smouldered in the pits of his eyes, but it was promptly extinguished by the hair-trigger smile he routinely manufactured for his customers, which he now turned fully upon them. “I seem to have frightened the ladies,” he grinned. “And all that excitement must’ve made you fellas thirsty. Who’s fer a flagon of ale – on the house?”

  The roar of approval from his clientele drowned out the rebuke that his wife hurled his way, and, moments later, Etta, Gillian and Brodie found themselves swept back towards the stairwell as the crush of parched sailors and their companions pushed up against the bar in quest of free beer.

  “Are you up to looking after us tonight?” Brodie asked Etta above the din. “You’ve had quite a shock.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Langford,” the girl said, glancing sideways at Gillian with a slight tremble of her lower lip. “Mr. Budge always helps me out.” She peered hopefully over at the hubbub around the bar, but as big and burly as the barkeep was, he could not be seen.

  “I’ll be assisting you tonight, Etta dear,” Gillian said in a voice that managed to be both soothing and just a touch menacing. “And you, young sir, should be getting up to your meeting. I can hear Sir Peregrine’s foghorn already.”

  “Yes. Thank you. You’re right,” Brodie said, momentarily nonplussed. He bowed to the women, as he had seen Marc do so many times, then turned and entered
the nearby stairwell. He paused on the third step to glance back. Etta wasn’t staring after him. She was looking towards the bar.

  ***

  By the time Albert Duggan reached the corner of Peter and Wellington, he was whistling. He had turned a near-disaster and lethal humiliation back there into something approaching a triumph. But he was not surprised. He had always had boundless faith in his own abilities, though a callous world had not yet seen fit to crown his efforts with the success they deserved. Not, that is, until the past few weeks. Despite Budge’s outrage and the girl’s reluctance, he had found out what he needed to know. And Budge would soon be sorry – though he would have to be very careful with that one.

  Ah, life was good. And sure to get better.

  TWO

  Constable Horatio Cobb sauntered along Wellington Street with the ease of a man at home in his element. For almost five years now he had patrolled the streets of his town with diligence and dedication (in his own modest assessment). He had dispensed a necessarily rough justice without fear or favour, keeping at first the King’s, and then the Queen’s, peace. He had weathered dozens of tavern brawls, outmuscled a hundred drunks, survived the people’s revolt intact, and had materially assisted Marc Edwards (or the major, as he affectionately called him) in five murder investigations. He had kept his nose (a handsome, purplish projectile tipped with a decorative wart) out of politics, as far as that was possible in these trying times – though he knew where his sympathies lay. So it took more than a serious shift in his routines and a change of venue to disturb his legendary equanimity.

  The city council, notorious skinflints, had surprised everyone, including themselves, by coming to the conclusion that the five-man constabulary they had established in 1835 – to ensure public safety and keep the poor from becoming overly meddlesome – was now inadequate. The town was, some said, approaching a population of ten thousand. Immigrant ships continued to debouch their wretched occupants upon Toronto’s wharves throughout the sailing season. The majority of them moved on to the hinterland, but many stayed in the city. Its northern and western boundaries were inching outwards, blighted by pockets of squatters on public lands, by the ramshackle cabins of the working poor, and by tents and lean-to’s tucked into the parklands reserved for the future occupation of the affluent. In the older sections of town the demand for living space was met by overcrowding, by the dubious severance of existing lots, and by workers’ huts erected cheek by jowl with the smoking factories they laboured in.

  All of which, the council concluded, had resulted in an alarming increase in crime – petty theft, drunk and disorderly, domestic violence, and burglary. It was the latter in particular which caught the attention of the people’s representatives, for it seemed that the mansions and fine residences along Front Street – with their silver spoons and jade jewellery and such – had become prime targets. Moreover, the owners of said residences were increasingly unamused. Thus it was that the city fathers suddenly saw where their duty lay. Two more full-time constables were hired, and four supernumerary ones placed on call. The most vulnerable streets would now be patrolled around the clock in two shifts: seven to seven. Three teams of two were set up to put this ingenious plan into effect. Cobb had been paired with Ewan Wilkie, and assigned the south-west patrol. This was relatively new terrain for him (he had patrolled here occasionally when relieving one of his mates or supervising special events like the opening of the Legislature). He and Wilkie had chosen to take the seven-to-seven night-shift on alternate weeks, and so far – though the burglaries continued – Cobb had found the arrangement satisfactory. (Missus Cobb – his Dora – was often out all night applying her midwifery magic in the east end, and they had had some splendid early-morning reunions!)

  The more difficult adjustment had been the moving of the police quarters from the Court House to the City Hall, an elegant brick building that faced Front Street at the foot of the market. Cobb had come to love the stuffy, two-room suite jammed into the rear corner of the Court House close to the county magistrate’s chamber and the tunnel that led conveniently to the adjacent jail. But with six constables now, their chief, a clerk, and the expanding filing-cupboards, new facilities had become necessary. So, at the back of City Hall, lower level, three spacious rooms had been found for their use – with a small holding-cell just inside the main door. Chief Constable Wilfrid Sturges was given an office, though he continued to spend much of his time on the streets and in the salons of power, whether he was welcomed or not. The reception-room housed a filing-cupboard, a desk and the writing instruments of Augustus French (the clerk), a woodstove, and coat racks for the constables and visitors. The third room was reserved for interviews or incidental uses – like a snooze on the sly. And since most of the town’s anti-social acts were of the misdemeanour variety, the presence of the municipal courtroom just above them, presided over by the mayor or an alderman, was happily convenient.

  Still, three months after the change of venue, Cobb found himself walking up the stone path to the old quarters before catching his mistake, muttering to himself about the perfidy of aldermen, and sheepishly retreating to King Street. This evening, however, he found his thoughts drifting inevitably towards the recent spate of burglaries. Last week, while Wilkie had apparently been checking out a noise behind the Legislative Assembly building (the apprehension of a gunpowder plot was high among those who had good reason to fear such an expression of discontent), a thief or thieves had – at four A.M. – entered nearby Somerset House, the abode of Receiver-General Ignatius Maxwell. They made off with a pair of silver candlesticks before being surprised by an alert footman (kept alert, it was said in the taverns, by an equally alert maid). Other servants had been dispatched to seek out the night patrolman, who was discovered dazed, heavy-lidded and uncomprehending in the bushes beside the Assembly.

  Then, two nights ago, while Cobb had been on duty (and actually awake), someone had broken into the pantry at the rear of Bishop Strachan’s Palace. When a maid noticed the bar on the back door ajar, she sent for the butler who sent for Cobb. Expecting the worst, Cobb arrived in time to encounter a distraught cook, who complained bitterly about the theft – not of her best cutlery or irreplaceable pans, but of two loaves of bread and half a dozen sweet-rolls destined for the Bishop’s breakfast table.

  Convinced now that the only way to find the serious burglars (he was inclined to cheer on the starving father or youngster who had deprived the mitred master of his breakfast treat) was to make use of his network of snitches, he had decided to spend part of his evening seeking them out in their various watering-holes. Up at The Cock and Bull on York Street, he had shared a flagon with Itchy Quick, but had got nothing useful out of him except that it was rumoured that most of the burglaries were being carried out by a single, organized gang. As for the purloining of the Bishop’s breakfast, Itchy knew who had done it but vowed he would never tell, however much money the police might offer as inducement. Cobb had declined to test the strength of the claim.

  He was now trundelling east along Wellington towards Bay Street, where The Crooked Anchor would no doubt be accommodating Nestor Peck, the most reliable of his snitches. Cobb was motivated, in part only (he assured himself), by the offer of a ten-dollar reward, made by several worthies, for anyone – public servant or ordinary citizen – who identified or helped capture the thief. While he did not consider himself venal, Cobb was worried about how he was going to pay his daughter Delia’s school fees for the second term. But pay he must, for the girl was brilliant, and he would not contemplate her “going into service,” as the slavery of servantdom was politely termed. Miss Tyson’s Academy for young women was not quite a grammar school, but there Delia could study French, continue to read her Shakespeare, explore the pleasures of music and painting, and so on. What she might do afterwards, he was not yet prepared to consider. What was important was that Delia was now thriving there, and had become fast friends with Celia Langford, a senior student and occasional instru
ctress in the junior section. Surely this maddening colony he was born to would at last settle its political and economic future, and in it there would be a place for people like his daughter, as well as his son Fabian. If what he had gleaned from Marc Edwards were true, the upcoming session of the Assembly would be the make-or-break point for Upper Canada.

  The Crooked Anchor welcomed him in with its familiar allure of pipe-smoke, the harmonious buzz of idle conversation, the aroma of fish-pie and bad breath, and the clink and rattle of flagon and tumbler.

  “He’s over there by the window!” the red-cheeked barkeep shouted at him. “Do you want an ale first?”

  “Depends how thirsty the sight of Nestor’s ugly gums makes me,” Cobb said with a wink. “I’ll give ya the distress signal, if I do.”

  With the rumble of the barkeep’s laughter like a breeze at his back, Cobb sallied through the crowd to one of the few tables in the room. Nestor, nursing the dregs of his ale, motioned for the fellow sitting opposite to vacate his pew, then grinned up at Cobb.

  “You’re just in time, constable,” he said. “I’m about to run outta beer an’ shillin’s at the same time.”

  Cobb sat down, and smiled – which seemed to offer Nestor much relief. But when Cobb’s smile faded to a frown, Nestor said hastily, “Ya don’t believe me?”

  “Where did you pinch them fancy duds?” Cobb said, the smoke in the room having cleared sufficiently for Cobb to take his gaze off Nestor’s sallow, rheumy-eyed face and take in the tie, clean shirt and suitcoat. Even the untameable tufts of hair had been pomaded and parted stylishly down the middle.

  Nestor feigned umbrage. “You know I don’t steal, Cobb. I may be poor but I always been honest.”

  “You always were. But them pennies you scrounge hereabouts or squeeze outta me wouldn’t pay fer that twisted tie you’re sportin’.”

  “You won’t believe this, I know, but I got me a job.”