The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  Brodie hesitated, scrutinizing the lawyers. Then he put out his hand. “I am he, sirs. But I’m afraid – ”

  “Oh, you have no reason to remember us,” Brenner said. “We mostly saw you and Celia running about in the yard outside. But your dad and uncle weren’t shy when it came to boasting about you.” Suddenly the smile on his face faded.

  “Please, excuse us,” Tallman said, motioning for the visitors to sit down. “We were so happy to see you that we forgot . . .” He stared at the blotting instrument on his desk.

  “Larry is trying to say how sorry we were to hear about what happened to Dick,” Brenner said. “We were in Toronto when it happened.”

  “Horrible . . . horrible, it was,” Tallman said.

  “Please accept our sincere condolences,” Brenner said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Looking somewhat puzzled, Brenner said, “But you must have left there yourself, since you’re now here and – ”

  At this point Marc intervened to explain who he was and how they had got here so soon. Then he informed the lawyers that he had been chosen to lead the official investigation into Dick’s murder. He sat back and waited for their reaction.

  Again, Brenner and Tallman looked perplexed, exchanging unhelpful glances. Finally Brenner said, “And you’ve trailed the assassin to New York?”

  “We hope to find information here that will help us determine who the killer was,” Marc said craftily, not wishing to give anything away just yet.

  “Then we will do anything we can to assist you, won’t we, Larry?” Brenner said.

  “You could start by telling me how you came to hear about Dick’s death,” Marc said evenly.

  “Of course,” Brenner said. “Larry and I arrived in Toronto on Saturday evening. We had been asked to appear before the Law Society there to give testimony regarding Dick’s request for admission to the Bar.”

  “I see,” Marc said, nicely feigning ignorance of their motives.

  “We were supposed to meet the Benchers at Osgoode Hall on Monday afternoon,” Tallman said.

  “But at nine-thirty or so that morning, a fellow comes rushing into the hotel foyer,” Brenner said, his face tensing at the memory, “shouting loud enough for everyone to hear that the . . . ‘fat Yankee lawyer’ had been stabbed to death in an alley by some madman.”

  “With the dagger still in his back and a note stuck to it – with the most dreadful word written in blood on it,” Tallman said, faltering. “Oh, Brodie, I’m sorry, I – ”

  “It’s all right, sir,” Brodie said bravely, though Marc was becoming accustomed to the young man’s inner strength and determination.

  “We were shocked beyond speech,” Brenner said.

  Marc decided it was time to up the ante. “But not too shocked to pack your bags and scuttle down to the wharf, where you caught a steamer for Burlington.”

  Again, the lawyers appeared more puzzled than upset by the charge and its implicit reproach of their behaviour.

  “We left, sir, because our remaining in Toronto could only have done Dick’s memory and his wards’ future more harm than good,” Brenner said.

  “Dick Dougherty was our friend,” Tallman said.

  “Then why did you tell Archdeacon Strachan on Sunday afternoon that you had come to testify about the scandal that had driven him out of New York?” Marc said quietly.

  “You have been well briefed,” Brenner said, unsmiling. “We told Dr. Strachan that we were there to swear to Dick’s character as we had known it for over thirty years. We told him that Dick was scrupulously honest, had never been accused – despite a tumultuous career in our courts – of a financial misdemeanour or breach of ethics or shady property dealing or political shenanigans. Not once. And that in a city where the mayors routinely rake in thirty thousand dollars per annum in graft, where aldermen award each other building contracts and business monopolies, and where councillors buy up, at fire-sale prices, the property of men they have ruined.”

  “You are telling Brodie and me that you came to Toronto to help get Dick admitted to the Bar?”

  “Insofar as we could,” Tallman said.

  “Because there was still the so-called scandal back here to explain away?” Marc prompted.

  “That’s right,” Brenner said. “We felt honour-bound to tell the Benchers exactly what we knew about it, in hopes that it would be outweighed by his lifetime of unimpeachable service.”

  “And did you outline this ‘strategy’ to Dick when you descended on his cottage that Sunday morning?”

  Brenner allowed himself a wry smile. “As a matter of fact, that’s precisely what we did. Dick knew that some of the Benchers had been trying to get damning information about his past from sources here in New York. They wrote dozens of letters, but no-one at this end would put anything on paper – including us.”

  “But Joe and I talked it over,” Tallman said, “and decided that we just had to go up there and see what we could do for him.”

  “That’s why we went to see him,” Brenner explained. “We wanted to confer with him before we testified, our thinking being that if we were likely to do more harm than good, we could always skulk out of town before the event.”

  “So you’re saying that Dick approved of your approach to the Benchers?”

  “He did,” Brenner said. “He thought that the rumours of the scandal here, the worth of which we could neither confirm nor deny, would remain just that, and that our detailed, positive testimony about his character and career would prove critical. He even encouraged us to accept Dr. Strachan’s invitation that afternoon.”

  “I want to come back to that point,” Marc said, “but tell me now, what did you do after you left Strachan’s place?”

  The slight chill in the room indicated that Marc’s interrogation was no longer purely informational. “Why do you ask?” Brenner said.

  “I have my reasons. Would you mind telling me without them?”

  Tallman looked at Brenner, and said, “We went for a walk along the shoreline, all the way out to Fort York and back.”

  “We didn’t get back to The American until nearly six o’clock.”

  “And you did not meet or talk with anyone?”

  “No-one.”

  “Thank you,” Marc said. “That clears up that matter. But I am still puzzled about this business of the scandal. As you are aware, the ugly manner of Dick’s death has left the rumours about his behaviour and character, and the stench from them, still hanging over him – and his family. Brodie and I have come here because we think that whatever did happen here in New York a year and a half ago has some bearing on his murder. And even if we cannot establish that fact, we hope in the least to take back with us some grain of hard truth in his defense.”

  Brenner and Tallman looked at each other, then at Brodie.

  “It is I who needs to know the truth,” Brodie said, “however terrible you may think it. Marc and I have come hundreds of miles. This may be my only chance.”

  “The truth is,” Tallman sighed, “that we don’t know the truth.”

  “Nobody does,” Brenner said. “Except Dick and those who persecuted him.”

  “But did you not ask him when you saw him in Toronto?” Marc said.

  “We did,” Tallman said.

  “We began,” Brenner continued, “by telling him the story that was making the rounds here, and had grown hairs since its first incarnation.” Again he peered uncertainly at Brodie, noted the steely determination there, and said, “It was to us your uncle came that dreadful day to let us know he was packing up and heading for Canada. We were asked to sell the property and be his financial watchdog in the state. He told us nothing about why he was leaving except that he had no choice.

  “It was the next day that one of the police justices, Thurlow Winship – himself thrice charged with graft and malfeasance – deliberately leaked the putative details of Dick’s downfall. According to the story, Dick was found in the bedroom of a sleaz
y tenement in a compromising position – with a fourteen-year-old boy. He had been arrested and charged with buggery.”

  “But that was only a story,” Tallman said quickly, while his cheeks reddened on either side of his moustache. “Out of the mouth of a corrupt official under the protection of Tammany Hall.”

  “That’s right,” Brenner said. “No formal charges, no affidavits, no record of arraignment or writ of habeas corpus was ever produced, though many of Dick’s associates sought them.”

  “You think some sort of deal was made before any of this transpired?” Marc said.

  “We do,” Brenner said. “You see, if he had been charged and convicted, he would have been disbarred as well as sent to prison. The obvious implication of what did happen is that Dick was given the option of voluntary exile – no jail and no disbarment.”

  “But why? It makes no sense,” Marc said. “If Dick had enemies among the political power-group, Tammany Hall, why would they not complete his ruin?”

  “It’s possible that they were content to see him out of the state,” Talman said, “and then leaked the details of his so-called transgression to the public to ensure he didn’t come back.”

  “Or my uncle had incriminating information about a Tammany leader,” Brodie said, confirming what the others were thinking.

  “In which case we had a draw or stalemate,” Marc added. “The police had a charge they threatened to lay and Dick had information they needed to quash. Hence, Dick leaves quietly and everybody is satisfied.”

  “But then the officials sabotage my uncle by leaking details of the charge – whether or not they bore any relation to the truth,” Brodie said bitterly.

  “So you see,” Brenner said, “that was the question we had to ask Dick that Sunday morning. We begged him – didn’t we, Larry? – to tell us what the charge or threat really was. We never believed it was anything close to the one it was claimed to be. But if we knew, we felt we could relay the facts to the Law Society, deflate all the erroneous tales feeding the rumour mill, and paint a full and positive picture of a long and distinguished career.”

  “We were sure there must have been some charge or other,” Tallman said.

  “And Dick did not deny it. He simply refused to tell us what it was.”

  “He was trying to protect Celia and me,” Brodie said.

  “You don’t think it could’ve been something even worse?” Tallman said, horrified at his own suggestion.

  “And I’m wondering,” Marc said, “if there was any misdemeanour committed at all.”

  “What do you mean?” Brenner said. “The police must have had something on him.”

  “True. But if these Sons of St. Tammany are as cunning and ruthless as they are reputed to be, and if they had Dick in their sights over the Wetmore trial, could they not have set Dick up somehow?”

  “But if it was a trumped-up charge, Tammany would have found themselves dealing with the best defense attorney in the state,” Brenner said. “That’s why we dismissed that notion early on.”

  “And in Toronto, Dick never denied that there had been a charge. He just refused to discuss it or to comment on the rumours, except to scoff at them.”

  “And you’ll remember, Larry, how relaxed he appeared about it all. He seemed to feel that our testimony alone before the Benchers would ensure his success.”

  “When all is said and done,” Tallman said, “I think he believed that once he himself got before them, his own eloquence and force of personality would win the day.”

  “As it always had,” Brenner said.

  ***

  Half an hour later, Marc and Brodie were walking east along Bayard Street towards Broadway. Having eliminated Brenner and Tallman as conspirators in murder, Marc had taken time to explain to them the full circumstances surrounding Dick’s death and its aftermath. A loving description of his final triumph in court – interrupted by laughter and the occasional tear – was then provided the two gentlemen who had been the great barrister’s lifelong friends and supporters. Brodie had embraced them, and promised to write often.

  “Well, we’ve accomplished one of our goals here,” Brodie said as they bucked a brisk wind on this last day of March, a reminder that spring still had the sting of winter in it. “Reuben Epp was not hooked up with these two gentlemen. Now, where do we go from here?”

  “Where Brenner and Tallman pointed us,” Marc said. “Dick definitely had something incriminating or embarrassing to Tammany Hall or its interests. They managed to manoeuvre him into a position where he had to bargain his silence for his life, as it were. He could not return. He was safely isolated in exile and gourmandizing himself to death. But suddenly he pops up in a sensational trial in Toronto. News of his recovery and rehabilitation reaches New York. He is seeking admission to the Bar in Upper Canada.”

  “And he still knows what he knows!” Brodie cried.

  “Right. It’s plausible, isn’t it, to think that an organization like Tammany Hall would have access to associates and sympathizers in Toronto. And one of them could have been on the watch for an opportunity to silence your uncle for good. But even if that was true, the motive for doing so lies here in New York.”

  “A city of three hundred thousand souls under the thumb of the very organization we’re hoping to confront or infiltrate,” Brodie felt constrained to point out.

  “Always start by playing the cards already in your hand,” Marc said.

  “Do we have any?” Brodie said, narrowly avoiding an organ-grinder and his emaciated monkey.

  “As a matter of fact, we have. You showed me a list earlier of the families you thought might welcome you here – whose sons were classmates of yours. Surely one of them is a member of the Manhattan Gentlemen’s Club.”

  Brodie stopped. “That should be no problem. There are at least three families that I’m sure of. I could hire a carriage and be in the suburbs in an hour.”

  “Then I want you to arrange a visit to the Manhattan Club with one or more of your chums – this evening, if you can. Don’t use your real name there. Make sure your friends are on side.”

  “Don’t worry, Marc. I can pull it off!” Brodie said as they began to push through the traffic towards Broadway one block distant. Like most young men he was happiest when doing something: the journey along the Erie Canal had been frustrating in the extreme. “But what do I do once I get there?”

  “Find out what goes on in the back rooms – gambling, prostitution, whatever. Pretend to get drunk. Start bad-mouthing Dick Dougherty. Toss out names like Wetmore and Winship. See what dregs you can stir from the bottom of the pot.”

  “Wonderful! It’s just the sort of lark my old school chums might go for!”

  “But, please, be careful.”

  “I will, Marc. And I won’t disappoint you.”

  “You haven’t yet,” Marc smiled.

  They came up to a food-vendor, from whom they bought a hot potato and a glass of cider. “What are you going to be doing?” Brodie said between mouthfuls.

  “I’m going to beard the lions in their den. I’m going to the Bar Association and pose as a journalist from Toronto, seeking background information on a story I’m writing for the Upper Canada Gazette on Richard Dougherty’s life and untimely death. I want to see what I can stir up.”

  “I know where the offices are. But you might get more reliable information from someone like Horace Greely, editor of the New Yorker, one of the few independent and honest newspapermen in the state, according to Uncle.”

  “I’ll start with the legal profession.”

  “What will you do with your evening? You could come to the Manhattan Club, I suppose,” Brodie said dutifully.

  Marc smiled and finished his cider. A beggar, skin and bone and pop-eyed, lurched against Brodie and righted himself clumsily on the vendor’s cart.

  “Get yer filthy paws offa my vee-hicle!” the vendor snarled.

  “Here,” Marc said, flipping a shilling at him, “give this g
entleman a potato and all the cider he can drink.”

  The vendor caught the coin, glowered at Marc, but did as he was bid. A coin was true specie, whatever its origin.

  “You’ll recall that your uncle left two thousand dollars to The Bowery Theatre in his will,” Marc said when they were moving again.

  “That’s right. He loved the theatre, as I told you, especially that one.”

  “My mother, Annemarie Thedford, is the principal shareholder of that establishment.”

  Brodie stopped. His eyes grew wide.

  “You think Uncle might have known Mrs. Thedford?”

  “I do. And I intend to find out for sure this evening.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Cobb generally looked forward to Mondays. Sunday was the Lord’s day, and even those long since evicted from His Presence paid lip-service to the Sabbath rituals. Most taverns closed (though bootleggers here and there in their hidey-holes thrived), which meant there were no brawls to break up and few domestic disputes to umpire. Shops were shuttered and the Market untended, leaving the streets deserted except for promenading family groups. Some of this serenity, spiritual or otherwise, carried over into Monday, when the workday began sluggishly, and even the shopkeepers and tradesmen did not bother to open up until almost noon.

  This past Saturday, with no fresh breaks in the Dougherty case, Cobb had been back on his regular patrol. It might have been the tension building everywhere as the great debate over the province’s future heated up – in the legislature where Mowbray McDowell was said to have delivered another mesmerizing speech or in the public houses where speech was cheap and loud and no less partisan – or it might have been just the fickleness of the weather (it had snowed briefly on Friday), but the last Saturday in March had been a humdinger for the police. Cobb had been called to a house on Frederick Street where it was reported that a husband was threatening his wife and children with a carving knife. By the time he and Wilkie arrived, the fellow, drunk as a skunk, had been locked out of his home by his adroit spouse, and was found hammering on the door with the butt-end of the knife. The constables managed to collar and disarm him – while being cursed and spat upon – but just as they began to subdue him, the woman stepped out onto the porch and levelled him with one blow of her skillet. They didn’t know which one to charge.