The Bishop’s Pawn
A Marc Edwards Mystery
by
Don Gutteridge
ISBN: 978-1-927789-46-9
Published by Bev Editions at Smashwords
Copyright 2015 Don Gutteridge
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Table of Contents
Author’s Note
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
About the Author
Other Books in the Marc Edwards Mystery Series
Excerpt From Desperate Acts
Author’s Note
The Bishop’s Pawn is wholly a work of fiction, but the political tensions and debate over responsible government following the Durham Report of 1839 were real enough and, as depicted herein, form an important backdrop to the novel’s action. The particular characterization attributed to actual historical personages like Sir George Arthur, John Strachan and Robert Baldwin are fictitious. The portrayal of Tammany Hall and its leaders in New York City is based on the historical record, their corruption and malfeasance having been well documented.
I am indebted to the following works, which provided helpful background information: Gerald M. Craig, Upper Canada: The Formative Years, 1784-1841; Sylvia Boorman, John Toronto: A Biography of Bishop Strachan; George E. Wilson, The Life of Robert Baldwin; Gustavus Myers, The History of Tammany Hall; Jerome Mushkat, Tammany: The Evolution of a Political Machine, 1789-1865; and Mary C. Henderson, The City and the Theatre: New York Playhouses from Bowling Green to Times Square.
ONE
Toronto: March, 1839
Doubtful Dick Dougherty was taking his early-morning constitutional, ambling placidly down the west side of Bay Street as he had done now each day for the past six weeks. “Ambling” would have been his own description of his descent, though the rare city-dweller abroad at seven A.M. in the near-dark might have referred to the locomotion of his three-hundred-pound bulk more aptly as “trundelling.” Still, such ordinary folk seemed pleased enough to see the infamous barrister – touching the peak of a tradesman’s cap in silent greeting or nodding sleepily from the bench of a market-cart or waving a trowel from the other side of the street in jocular salute. These courtesies were invariably acknowledged by the single dip of a Dougherty chin (one of several), as if too fervid a response might upset the delicate balance of the great man’s progress through the streets of his adopted town. On this particular morning Dougherty had slowed his pace, though only he would have noticed. For spring was in the air. Its taste could be detected on the tongue, its scents anticipated in the redolent breeze wafting up from the lake at the foot of the street. The last of the winter slush had melted in yesterday’s sun, while the overnight frost had kept the side-path stiff and conducive to walking for those prudent enough to rise before dawn and venture forth into the free and unfettered air of Queen Victoria’s dominion.
No such thought – and certainly no such constitutional strolling – would have been possible two months ago; indeed, would have been unthinkable. Public disgrace and dishonourable exile had been Dougherty’s lot, and he had, it seemed, given himself up to the inevitable. Only the presence of his wards, Brodie and Celia, and his promise to their dying father that he would look out for them as if they were his own (as they were, in the way that mattered most) had kept him from making an immediate, self-administered exit from an ungrateful and unjust world. Even so, he knew now, with the clarity that usually accompanies hindsight, that he had been subconsciously eating and drinking himself to death. He had not left his cottage for weeks. He had feigned interest in Brodie’s enthusiastic accounts of his daily triumphs at the Commercial Bank where he worked as a clerk. He had shamelessly let Celia, beautiful and intelligent and craving society, cater to his incessant needs and peremptory demands, as if she were no more than a charwoman or a hired nurse.
All that had changed dramatically when, in January, he had permitted himself to be persuaded to become engaged in the defense of a young man charged with murder. His brilliant performance before the Court of Queen’s Bench and Chief Justice Robinson had resulted in the most satisfactory outcome that could have been imagined. Ordinary folk had cheered him as he left the courtroom, and in the numerous taverns of the town his verbal exploits and crafty legal manoeuvres had risen to the status of legend. Even the more elevated classes, who had heretofore fed the rumour mill with lurid and fantastical tales of the iniquities that he was alleged to have perpetrated in his native New York, had been compelled to offer him grudging respect.
But such an unexpected response to his courtroom performance and its happy consequences – a military hero exonerated and a traitor exposed – had put the Benchers of the Law Society in a difficult position. Indeed, they felt themselves to have been thrust unfairly upon the horns of an ethical dilemma. For, against their better judgement and with motives more political than forensic, they had, last January, agreed to grant Richard Dougherty, an ostracized but not-quite-disbarred advocate from a foreign democracy, a temporary license to practise law in Upper Canada. Having taken for granted that he would fail, they had been chagrined and aggrieved at his success and his nettling popularity. How could they revoke his license now? On what grounds, other than incontrovertible proof of the indiscretions and turpitude that had seen him expelled from New York, could they possibly refuse to welcome him into the provincial fraternity? The very thought of that repulsive, waddling, triple-chinned, upstart Yankee occupying a seat in Lawyers Hall at Osgoode made their periwigs tremble. Already they had twice postponed a scheduled hearing to consider his case, hoping that the man himself would come to his senses and return quietly to his retirement. To their consternation, however, he had – not three weeks ago – brazenly tacked a gold-lettered shingle upon the front door of his cottage on Bay Street above King:
R. W. Dougherty: Attorney-at-Law
As far as anyone knew, he had not taken any clients as yet (serious crimes, his specialty, were thankfully few and far between in a capital city that boasted not more than eight thousand souls). Surely the fellow would have the decency to abstain from active practice until the Benchers convened at the end of the month and made their decision.
Dougherty ambled past the British-American Coffee House. Its aroma of coffee and fresh baking were as tantalizing as the comfortable chatter of the early-risers already settled at a favourite or privileged table inside. Resisting temptation, he crossed King Street, glancing east and west to note, as he always did, that none of the elegant shops had yet opened, though a wreath or two of smoke above several of them suggested that the servants were up and about. At Market
Street (now called Wellington by those in the know), he had to pause briefly to let a drayman and his mule pass by, the split logs in his cart rattling in discordant tune with the frosted ruts of the poorly gravelled road.
Below King, the side-path became one of the intermittent boardwalks that the city fathers referred to as a public improvement, but the thaws and freeze-ups of a capricious winter and unannounced spring had left them more treacherous than ever. Dougherty teetered to his left and resumed his ambling, discreetly, along the rutted roadway. He tried to suppress the mutinous thoughts that insisted on tweaking him at moments like this: that the fine thoroughfares of his native New York City were cobbled and impervious to weather and wear; that hardwood walkways provided secure paths for promenading or for the brisk, business-like trod of men with purpose and importance. Already, in that great metropolis several of the main streets were being illuminated with the wonder of the gas-lamp! He quickly blotted out the image, fearing it might overwhelm his current resolve.
After all, backwater though it undoubtedly was, Toronto had offered him a second chance, a reprieve from despair and physical decay. Days after the trial had ended in January, he had begun to remake himself. He had tempered his many appetites – for food, drink, cigars, even coffee. With the ever-loyal assistance of Brodie and Celia – bless them – he had started to exercise. At first he had been able merely to circumnavigate the parlour of his cottage no more than three or four times before his ankles ached or his breath seized somewhere in his mountainous chest. Then it was out onto Bay Street, a willing ward on each arm, for an unsteady progress down the half-block to King, across to the other side, and then – woozy, puffing but determined – back up to the cottage. When his legs refused any further abuse, Celia and Brodie would slide him, lock-kneed, along the icy pathway as if he were a marionette on skates. Finally, five weeks ago he had ventured out under his own steam (his keepers an anxious quarter-block behind him). Two weeks later, somewhat slimmer and certainly more robust of leg and lung, he had begun his unsupervised morning constitutional, following the same unchanging route, seven days a week.
More important than his slowly recovering health and the occasional brief bout of optimism was the decision to send Celia off to Miss Tyson’s Academy for Young Ladies to resume the studies she had had to abandon when they had left New York and made their way here over a year ago. A cook and housekeeper were hired during the day to give Celia the time and leisure necessary to scholarly pursuit, for which she had always shown a precocious capacity. (Still, the sainted girl insisted on tending to his every perceived need until ordered to her room and her books.) Brodie, more confident and gregarious, had taken to banking as a duck to its pond, exhibiting his father’s easy ways with both the common people and their betters. Dennis, God rest him, would have been proud of the lad. And now that his guardian seemed able and willing to take care of himself during the day without intimidating the servants overly much or too often, Brodie no longer had to dash home for luncheon and a discreet assessment of the invalid. He could now devote his full attention to the Commercial Bank and to the young governess at Baldwin House. It was amazing, Dougherty thought as he watched the first pale intimation of daylight wash across Toronto Bay below him, how the diminution of guilt and self-loathing improved one’s general outlook.
At the corner of Bay and Front, on the other side of the street, stood the handsome, porticoed residence of Dr. William Warren Baldwin – physician, lawyer, architect, and a gentleman of the most liberal propensities. The solid brick structure served the Baldwin family as townhouse and attorney’s chambers, and Dougherty never passed by without saying a quiet prayer, to whatever god might happen to be listening, for Dr. Baldwin and for his son Robert. Since the trial and his rehabilitation, Dougherty had spent a number of afternoons in those lawyerly chambers and more than one stimulating evening in the family parlour adjoining them. Why, just last night, he had sat before a warm fire upon a welcoming sofa trading witticisms and bons mots with Robert and his father, and with young Marc Edwards, their apprentice and articling clerk. Marc was the man most responsible for the investigation and successful prosecution that had brought Counsellor Dougherty back from the living dead.
The subject of the debate, as spirited and compelling as any he had heard in the legislative chambers at Albany, had of course been the contents and recommendations of Lord Durham’s Report, which had reached the colony from England just two weeks ago. Young Edwards had met the infamous earl when His Excellency had visited Toronto last June on his fact-finding mission following upon the rebellions in both Upper and Lower Canada. Child’s play they were, when compared with the glorious revolution of 1775, but Dougherty had been too polite to say so. Besides, however miniscule its scale, the struggle of the ordinary citizens of Upper Canada against the tyranny and arrogance of the local oligarchy – dubbed the Family Compact – was real enough. And blood had been shed, including that of Lieutenant Edwards, and families had been burned out or driven off their land. Moreover, the constitutional and governmental questions that had sparked the rebellions (and were still unresolved) provided an inexhaustible grist for the mill of any self-respecting lawyer, whatever his politics or country of origin.
Lord Durham had recommended that the British government promote the union of Upper and Lower Canada, with a united legislature and a parliamentary system modelled on “British principles.”. Robert Baldwin and his disciple Edwards were ecstatic with this proposal, though their pleasure had been tempered by the fact that the current provincial parliament was dominated by the right-wingers. Dougherty’s contribution to their discussion had been to point out that Lord Durham had initially considered the best constitutional option to be a federal union of all the provinces of British North America – a notion, he felt obligated to remark, that echoed uncannily an arrangement that had been worked out in a nation not too far distant from them. .
Dougherty now directed his amble west along Front Street, pleasantly assaulted by the maritime scents of fish from the shanties and stalls along the beach and from a mist-laden breeze from the broad bay. He was still chuckling reminiscently as he approached York Street. Having got the attention of Baldwin and Marc, Dougherty had taken the opportunity to emphasize that the critical issue for Upper Canada was the persistent and pernicious presence of an “aristocracy” that was such in name only. Furthermore, any government based on “British principles” was unworkable without the weight of tradition and authority as a counterbalance to an elected assembly. Having acknowledged this problem in 1775, Franklin and Jefferson had set about designing a republican system with an ingenious set of checks and balances. Unfortunately, the indisputable logic of this argument had been dismantled not by any counter-thrust, but rather by the sudden appearance of Diana Ramsay, the governess of Robert’s children. One of the wee tots had a fever, and she thought that Mr. Baldwin ought to tend to her. And Mr. Baldwin had agreed, excusing himself but not before reminding his guests that they had arranged to attend the Saturday evening sitting of the Legislative Assembly. After which, young Marc Edwards had driven Dougherty home before going on to Briar Cottage and his wife Beth, now nearing the end of her “term.”
While disappointed in the abrupt conclusion to their discussion, Dougherty was otherwise pleased to have gotten a clear-eyed look at Miss Ramsay, for it was she who had recently caught the fancy of his ward Brodie. It was obvious that her tidy figure, dark curls and big black eyes would appeal to any young man inclined that way, but it was the frank intelligence in her face and her self-possessed bearing – despite the anxiety of the moment – that appealed to Dougherty, and made him glad that Brodie was beginning to settle into life in a British colony after the glamour and promise of New York. They could never return there, not after all that had happened, unjust as it had been – at least not as long as he himself lived, for both Brodie and Celia had sworn to stand by him to the end. That such an end now seemed more distant was a prospect to be welcomed.
At York Street, even in the early-morning mist off the bay, the monstrous folly of Somerset House loomed, and affronted. Its cupolas, belvederes, balconies, colonnade and portico had been expensively and haphazardly yoked together to create a residence that was part chateau, part castle and part Moroccan mosque. No doubt it suited the pretensions of Receiver-General Ignatius Maxwell, one of the faux aristocrats at the heart of the province’s political deadlock. Fortunately, as Dougherty swung north along Simcoe Street, with his breathing a touch more strained but holding up nicely, he was able to cast a more favourable eye upon the parliament buildings that faced Front Street. Their handsome red-brick and simple but graceful lines spoke well of both the practicality and the modest aspirations of a North American citizenry struggling to define itself. They weren’t the White House or the Capitol – nothing could or ever would be – but then again they weren’t a clone of their “betters” at Westminster. He was looking forward to the debate there this evening.
At King Street once again, he walked east towards Bay, increasing his pace slightly as he entered the home stretch of this daily race against the ravages of time and mortality. The displays in the shop windows held little appeal for him, and thus he was able to concentrate on negotiating the worn and broken planks of the boardwalk. Only at the jeweller’s shop did he pause long enough to note the time on the garish English pendulum clock that reared amongst the pocket watches, necklaces and other baubles in the bow window: 7:33 A.M. He was three minutes behind schedule! More ambling and less meditation, he concluded – and moved on.
A few steps up Bay Street, he felt his stomach rumble in anticipation of the breakfast that Celia would have ready for him: sausages, eggs, flapjacks, maple syrup and steaming black coffee – American style. But it was his ward Celia’s smile he was looking forward to most of all.
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