The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  My mother has done well, was Marc’s thought.

  He went up to the notice-board set beside one of the four, pillared lamp-posts, and looked at the playbill.

  TONIGHT!

  Mrs. Annemarie Thedford

  – New York’s Most Celebrated Actress –

  in

  Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra

  with Edwin Forrest

  America’s Finest Tragedian as Antony

  etc.

  Curtain at Seven O’Clock

  Well, the evening promised to be more productive than the afternoon had been.

  Marc decided to walk the dozen blocks back to The Houston Hotel. The sight of his mother’s name in bold letters in front of the theatre she now owned had stirred up memories, images and conversations that required his earnest attention. He felt that he must rework them – cautiously, tenderly – before he came face to face with her once again. In the almost twenty-nine years of his life, he had known her company for less than a week, had not even known of her until they had met, by chance and in difficult circumstances, eighteen months before in Toronto. But she was his mother. The babe that Beth was carrying would be her grandson. With a guilty start he realized that Beth might have given birth already – without him.

  It was thoughts like this, and the mixed emotions they raised, that caused Marc to become careless as he sauntered along the Bowery, oblivious to its attractions and the throng of New Yorkers about him. It was only when he turned onto Houston Street that he noticed a fellow with a battered top-hat turn the corner with him – and remembered that the selfsame top-hat had popped up once or twice before when he had paused to gaze disinterestedly into the display window of a shop. To confirm his suspicions, Marc strode across the street, sidestepping a determined pig and an irritated mule, and walked straight into a tobacconist’s.

  Once inside, he wheeled and peered back out through the soot-smeared glass. Top-hat paused on the sidewalk opposite the shop, and stared uncertainly in Marc’s direction. After a minute or so, the fellow bent down to adjust his bootstrap. Marc purchased a cigar, stuck it unlit between his teeth, and re-entered the street. He did not look at top-hat, but turned and marched briskly ahead.

  At Broadway, the intersection was crowded with shoppers, tradesmen, beggars, carts, and stray beasts of dubious pedigree. Marc stepped into the noisy, shifting mêlée. On reaching the opposite walk, he slipped into the shadows of the nearest doorway. Moments later, top-hat emerged, kicking at a mange-ridden cur that was nipping at his left pant-cuff. Once across the street, he began searching among the crowd for his quarry. He took a few steps in each direction, straining to see what he could amongst the constant movement of men and beasts. At last, he shook his head, removed his hat to reveal a hairless skull, wiped the sweat from it with a grimy handkerchief, replaced the hat, then turned and strode back up Broadway.

  While the fellow was no gentleman – his coat had been well-used and badly cut, his boots cracked and unpolished – and certainly was not a barrister, Marc was in little doubt that someone from the New York Bar Association had set him loose. Was that the reason Marc had been kept there so long? To give top-hat’s handlers time to find and instruct their henchman? But what motive could they have? If Dick did have knowledge that someone of importance in New York wanted kept secret, Dick was now dead. If that same person or persons had arranged for his assassination, then they would already know of their success. If not, word of Dick’s death had surely reached the city via Brenner and Tallman or bush telegraph. Did these people think that one of Dick’s known Toronto associates, like himself or Brodie, was privy to that dangerous knowledge? Or were they just super-cautious about anyone – especially an outsider – seeking information about Dick and the “scandal”?

  Marc now realized that he might have been wiser to have waylaid top-hat and got some answers to these questions. But he had had to be sure that he was indeed being followed. And if top-hat were a mere henchman or hired tough, what would he know anyway? Still, he would be careful when he left the hotel after supper. The Houston’s manager had appeared friendly enough, but Marc and Brodie had registered under their own names. Just how far did the long and hostile arm of the Tammany Society reach here on home turf? How safe would Brodie be if he were exposed as Dick’s ward?

  There was no way to warn Brodie of this new danger, however: at the hotel, a sealed message was handed to Marc by the porter.

  Marc:

  I have spent the afternoon reminiscing with Carleton Buckmaster, my closest friend at prep school. He fancies himself quite a ‘swell’ and has agreed to take me – incognito – to the Manhattan Club tonight. He has contacted several of his chums to make up our party. I’ll report to you sometime in the wee hours.

  B.

  Well, the evening looked to be promising for both of them. And equally hazardous.

  NINETEEN

  There was no trace of his mother in the Cleopatra who dominated the gas-lit, proscenium stage of The Bowery Theatre for almost three hours. Seated in their padded chairs under the arched ceiling with its pale, subtly erotic frescoes and rendered indolent by too much late-day brandy or the best burgundy that dollars could buy, the prosperous patrons of America’s greatest city were nonetheless transported to ancient Egypt and its amorous exploits. Here was passion on the Roman scale of things, tempered and domesticated by the Bard’s pentameter. The Queen of the Nile never seemed to leave her barge. Her gilded and fiery presence projected well beyond the loges and balconies, just as Shakespeare’s drama itself was wafted out to lands and languages undreamt of in Elizabeth’s England. And whenever she was absent, giving the stage over to Edwin Forrest’s Antony, her soft-throated voice and imperiously tall figure shimmered in the ghostly gaslight like an afterimage. Marc had seen her do excerpts from Antony and Cleopatra in Toronto, in fact had shared a small portion of the stage with her. But here the vigorous and tragic rhythms of the entire piece were played out scene by scene – in real and vivid time. The final applause was thunderous and sustained through five curtain calls.

  Marc was about to push his way through the crush of well-wishers towards the dressing-rooms behind the stage when an usher came right up to him.

  “Are you Mr. Edwards?”

  Marc hesitated for a second before saying, “I am.”

  “Mrs. Thedford is expectin’ you in her retiring-room. It’s got her name on the door. The man guardin’ it will let you in.”

  So somehow he had been spotted and identified. Fair enough. She would have the ten minutes or so it would take him to navigate through the crowd to prepare herself, as he himself had been doing ever since he had left the Bar Association, except for the three hours when Mary Ann Edwards, a.k.a. Annemarie Thedford, had made him believe she was an Egyptian love-goddess.

  ***

  Mrs. Thedford was sitting in a silk kimono on a satin-backed Queen Anne chair in her brightly lit room of state. As Marc entered, several other well-dressed men and women were being politely shooed out by her maid, who followed them out and quietly closed the door behind her.

  “Thea Clarkson spied you between the first and second act,” Annemarie Thedford said as if that feat had been inevitable. Thea had been with Annemarie’s travelling troupe in Toronto in 1837, and knew Marc, though she was not privy to his being her manager’s son. “I always knew you would come some day, even though few of the many letters you promised ever arrived.” She smiled to let him know that this latter remark was not meant as a reproof.

  “I thought it best to let a little water flow under the bridge before crossing it,” Marc said, coming across the room and taking her hand.

  “I thought as much. But you are here now, looking well. And you have had the advantage of seeing me this evening at my best and at my worst.” She glanced down at her kimono, which had been hastily thrown over her shift, and then ran her fingers through her thick but untethered hair. Its fair colouring – so like Marc’s – showed the effects of the dye used to
darken it for the play. Her face was still creamy with makeup remover, and one of the artificial eyelashes drooped comically from her right eyelid. But the blue eyes, an Edwards’ signature trait, could not be Egyptianized, nor could her tall and regal bearing be diminished by her being seated – and exhausted after a gruelling performance.

  “You are not in uniform, lieutenant.”

  “That’s a very long story.”

  She stifled a yawn, then reached for the decanter of brandy on her dresser. “But the night is still young,” she said.

  ***

  For the next half-hour – while Annemarie Thedford changed her clothes and performed various ablutions behind a Chinese screen, and the hubbub in the hallway outside gradually subsided – Marc and his mother caught up on each other’s news. Marc gave her a carefully edited account of his experiences during the rebellion in Quebec, a more elaborate (and cheerful) account of his courtship and marriage (including Beth’s “condition”), and a heartfelt explanation of his abandonment of the military in favour of the law. In her turn she told him of the difficult months that had followed her return to New York from Toronto in October of 1837, the gradual recovery of her spirits, and her determination to make The Bowery Theatre and its company a success. While neither of them spoke directly about the nightmarish incident in Toronto that had brought them together and then threatened to tear them apart, it hung between them nonetheless. Marc felt constrained to ask after Tessa Guildersleeve, the young woman who had been his mother’s protégé and, as it turned out, much more.

  “Would you believe it, Marc, she ran off and got married – to some puffed-up state senator.” The tone was light, but Marc caught the pain under it.

  She came out from behind the screen, attired in a handsome dress that accentuated her figure and regal demeanour. Her hair was brushed and, as it dried out, radiant. She motioned Marc to a chair and drew hers up close. She stared into his eyes as if any thought of releasing their blue gaze might betray a doubt in their reality, in the unwarranted love they were pouring into her own. Against the odds, and logic, and all that was just, the young man seated before her was her flesh and blood, and he had forgiven all.

  When at last Marc looked away, she said softly, “I want to know everything about Dick.”

  ***

  News of Dick Dougherty’s murder had hit New York that very morning, just one week after it had happened, and had spread rapidly among those who might be thought to have an interest in it beyond the lurid details. Marc told his mother of the trial in January during which he had come to know Doubtful Dick, and of their subsequent friendship. Briefly he outlined his reasons for coming here, and recounted his meeting with Brenner and Tallman. She listened without comment, her face registering shock, grief and anger.

  “So I came here not only to interrogate Brenner and Tallman but to talk to you about the man who bequeathed your theatre two thousand dollars. I was certain that such a bequest indicated much more than an interest in plays and playhouses. You and Dick had to be friends.”

  “We were,” she said, not bothering to brush away the tears staining her face-powder. “Like brother and sister. He came backstage after one of my performances. We talked for hours, and we never stopped talking until the day they drove him away – like a common felon.”

  “That’s the day I want to know about,” Marc said, taking her hands in both of his, “if you can bear to talk about it. I’m positive that someone or other here in New York actually planned and incited Dick’s murder. I need to understand the motive and who might be associated with it. And young Brodie needs to know for his own sake.”

  She smiled. “I only met Brodie and Celia once, shortly after Dick moved into their house on Broome Street. Dick kept his life carefully compartmentalized. I saw him in the evenings only, before or after a performance. I have a suite of rooms in the hotel next door, and we would sit up in the wee hours discussing all manner of things. That we were thought to be a couple scandalized his legal associates and amused us – vastly.”

  The wry smile she gave him prompted him to say, “Dennis Langford and Dick Dougherty were lovers, then?”

  “Yes, but they were so much more than that,” she replied almost wistfully. “Dick and Dennis were parents to Brodie and Celia – devoted, protective, proud as punch.”

  “Was this . . . ah, relationship . . . widely known?”

  “They were very discreet. There were whispers, of course, but Dick’s flamboyant success in the courtroom here and the absolute privacy of his family life kept the whispers from growing into something ugly and dangerous.”

  “But someone, who had a reason to envy or begrudge Dick’s success, found out? And ruined him?”

  She gave Marc a grim little smile. “If it had been only that, Dick would have stayed and fought it out – and won. After all, Dennis was dead, and there was never a question of anyone else. Even with Tammany Hall set against him he would have prevailed. No, it wasn’t that; it was something much, much worse.”

  With a shudder, Marc recalled the “story” he had heard at Brenner and Tallman’s that morning. He braced himself.

  ***

  As it happened, Annemarie Thedford was the only person in New York or elsewhere who knew the whole story. Dick came to her in November of 1837, shortly after her return from Upper Canada, and confided to her that he had taken the most important case of his illustrious career. But it would not be fought out in a courtroom, at least not yet. It seemed that, against his better judgement, he had allowed himself to be taken to the Manhattan Gentleman’s Club by a long-time colleague with whom he had just concluded a complicated civil suit. When the colleague suggested that they celebrate further by taking advantage of the attached brothel, Dick had firmly declined. “Ah, but I’m not talking about young women,” was the reply. Dick had registered his shock, and disbelief. “Come and have a peek, Dick. It won’t hurt to look.” Still sceptical and thinking that his colleague was more drunk than he appeared, Dick followed him into the back section of the rambling house. A series of discreet and coded knocks opened doors that finally led them to a shuttered, dimly lit parlour. Dick had a brief impression of naked males – of various ages and body-shapes – draped across or wriggling in over-padded chairs and sofas. Moments later, a horrified cry cut through the heavy, malodorous air of the room. It came from one of the adjacent cubicles, out of which staggered a slim, pale-skinned male, who, properly attired, might have passed for a gentleman. He was covered in blood.

  Other cries and shrieks – of horror, fear, command – soon filled the parlour, which had become within seconds sheer bedlam. Flight seemed to be the primary response, as clothes were flung over limbs and boots, and fleeing grandees tripped over one another and cursed, and tripped again. Dick’s colleague vanished. Dick himself walked across to the cubicle and drew back the crushed-velvet curtain. In the glow of a single candle, he saw the naked, and very still, body on the bed, cooling in its own blood. Around its neck was a spiked dog’s collar. It had somehow become twisted, in the contortions of lust, and one of its metal protrusions had imbedded itself in the victim’s throat, puncturing the jugular. Dick went over to the bed and peered at the face in its rictus of death. It was a boy. He could not have been more than thirteen.

  “What did Dick do?” Marc asked his mother.

  Before he could do anything, she said, one of the toughs employed by the club manhandled him out of the parlour and pushed him into the street. There was nothing to do but go home. The door of the club was slammed behind him. “Now, before you condemn him, Marc, you must understand the politics of this city.”

  “Brodie has given me an introductory lesson.”

  Dick had realized that the crime, for that it was several times over, would be hushed up. The victim was undoubtedly some homeless urchin recruited for the vile purposes of that brothel. No-one would report him missing. Dick had recognized several of the faces in there, and knew that they would come under the protection of Tammany Hall
. If he himself went to the police, he would be the sole witness to the crime. Nor could he identify the fellow he had seen fleeing the death-chamber. Moreover, with the whispers about town regarding his own eccentric sexuality, he would quickly be discredited and, if push came to shove, more than likely incriminated. Nevertheless, he did send an anonymous note to one of the police justices. After which he heard no more about the event.

  However, Dick had other plans for the pedophile section of the Manhattan Club. He had one of his firm’s “operatives” watch the club and obtain information about the youths seen frequenting the area or coming out of the house itself. It took more than a month, but Dick was able to locate four of the boy-whores, all of them under the age of fourteen. He visited the hovels they lived in, gained their confidence, and eventually got them to sign affidavits in return for a promise to stake them to a new and better life outside the city. Whether the lads fully comprehended what they were doing was a moot question. Dick’s purpose in gathering evidence – dates, times, preferred sexual acts, names, the exchange of money – was to take it to the attorney-general in Albany, a Federalist with no love for Tammany Hall, in an effort to have the operation shut down. He realized that he could not have the perpetrators prosecuted, but he was certain that the probity of the evidence and the threat of its exposure would be enough to frighten the “invulnerable” members of the club and its executive.

  “But something went wrong,” Marc said.

  “Yes. And nothing went right for him thereafter.”

  While Dick was trying to work out just how he should approach the attorney-general, events overtook him. One of his informants must have alerted the higher-ups, for Dick got an urgent message that Barney Wright wanted to see him. Barney was a fourteen-year-old catamite who had run away from his home upstate and taken to prostitution to survive in the city. He was also Dick’s most reliable witness. Barney lived in two rooms at the rear of a ramshackle tenement in the gritty Five Points district. When Dick arrived, he discovered a very nervous youngster who was having second thoughts about what he had signed his name to. Dick calmed him down, reassured him that he would personally escort the lad back to his parents and help him rebuild his life with them. They then shared a pot of tea and some biscuits. Minutes later, Dick began to feel very drowsy, and that was his last thought before he woke up to a pounding in his head and a louder pounding at the door. It burst open to reveal Thurlow Winship, the corrupt police justice, flanked by two burly constables. Dick himself was naked. His clothes were neatly arranged on a nearby chair. Barney Wright lay beside him on the bed, equally naked and not nearly as terrified as he should have been.