The Bishop's Pawn (26 page)

Later that afternoon, when he spotted Missy
Prue sweeping the stoop at the rear entrance to the vicarage, he
sidled up to her. And while she batted her eyelashes at him, he put
his proposal to her. Yes, she would gladly help him catch the thief
who had so upset the missus. And yes, she would tell no-one. It
would be
their
secret. Cobb left, whistling. The major – on
a wild-goose chase in New York and unaware of the babe just born –
would be proud of his apprentice’s deductive powers, his cold
logic, and his low cunning. Cobb was certain that, by Thursday
morning, at least one of the mysteries would be brought to a
satisfactory conclusion.

TWENTY ONE

“We’re going to take the scenic route,” Marc said to
Brodie as they got into the cab in front of The Houston Hotel. “The
cabbie is puzzled, but he’s put my bizarre instructions down to the
eccentricities of a foreigner.”

Instead of heading up to Broadway and moving
straight down to Park Place, they turned west, and soon found
themselves zigzagging through the Greenwich area. In broad daylight
the devastation of the great fire was even more apparent than it
had been early Sunday evening: everywhere they bore witness to
charred walls, tangled timbers, makeshift shanties and dilapidated
tents. The consequences of the economic collapse that had followed
the great fire could be seen in the shambling and starved figures
of men on every street corner, who stared at the passing carriage
with hollow and malevolent eyes. Brodie wondered why they had come
this way, but said nothing.

Ten minutes later they emerged onto Hudson, a
wide thoroughfare, and followed it until it ended at Read Street,
where they swung east again and came out onto Broadway. They passed
the City Hall and its pleasant park and arrived, at last, at Park
Place, where they turned east again. Brodie could no longer hold
his peace.

“Why on earth have we been zigzagging all
over town?”

“I wanted to be certain that the cab with the
spotted horse was truly shadowing us.”

“What cab?”

“The one that just carried on down Broadway –
as if he
wasn’t
on our tail.”

“They – whoever they are – want to make
certain we do leave town?”

Marc nodded.

A block farther up they halted in front of a
handsome brick building and the business it housed: ADAMS and
DEWART-SMYTHE:
Imported Wines and Spirits
.

Eliza was waiting for them in the retail shop
at the front of the establishment. Marc heard Brodie’s intake of
breath, and smiled. Eliza’s dark beauty had changed little, except
perhaps to have matured slightly in her favour. The bold black eyes
and ebony ringlettes, in stark contrast to her milky complexion,
would make the heart of a misogynist stutter.

“It is really you,” Eliza said, holding out
her hand for the ritual kiss and making no effort to quell her
excitement. “And who is the stunning young man you have brought
with you?”

Marc introduced Brodie, who stammered out a
greeting but had no idea what to do with the lady’s hand or the bow
he had initiated but forgot to complete.

“How is Uncle Sebastian?” Marc said.

“The old dear is up in Boston making us
richer,” Eliza said with an irreverent smile aimed at Brodie.

“Leaving you to mind the store,” Marc
said.

“No need to worry, Marc, darling. You brought
your own chaperone.”

Brodie tried to suppress a blush, making it
worse.

“Ah, but I’m now a well-married man,” Marc
said lightly.

“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.”