The Bishop's Pawn (5 page)

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve, Dougherty,
showing your ugly face in the Queen’s parliament!” He stepped in
front of Dick, blocking the stairwell.

Dougherty was unmoved, or merely sleepy.
“I’ve been told this is a free country,” he said quietly. “Or used
to be.”

“You’d better save your clever lawyer’s talk
for your examination by the Benchers next week,” Stoneham seethed.
“Though I’m here to guarantee you’ll never,
never
, be
admitted to the Bar in this province. The truth about you will come
out, and when it does, you won’t be able to find a hole deep enough
to hide in!”

“Are you forgetting, sir, that I currently
hold a temporary license to practice here, signed by the president
of the Law Society?”

“You may stick a shingle on that hovel of
yours, but do you really suppose any respectable citizen will come
within thirty yards of that – that disgusting seraglio!”

“I’m sorry to inform you, sir, that a
barrister rarely defends ‘respectable’ citizens.”

Stoneham’s retort sputtered and died,
overtaken by the purpling contortions of his cheeks and chins.
Finally, he managed to hiss: “You’ll practise law here over my dead
body!”

“And if I were a hundred pounds lighter, I’d
gladly hop over it.”

Stoneham wheeled about and thundered down the
stairs, frightening two respectable, female citizens.

“Dick, you really must curb your tongue,”
Marc said as he took his friend’s arm.

“He’s not a Bencher, is he?”

“No, but he’s a personal favourite of
Archdeacon John Strachan. He graduated from Strachan’s academy
years ago, and now acts as his voice in the Executive Council, the
only group that Governor Arthur is listening to. And Strachan has
been the single most powerful Tory in the province for three
decades. I suspect that he could, by himself, turn the Benchers
against you.”

Dougherty grunted, then wheezed. “Christ, I’m
glad we’re going downhill.”

***

The foyer was still crowded. Few people wanted to
leave, wishing not to lose the buzz of excitement that McDowell had
stirred up or the faint promise of hope he had held out. The MLAs
were coming out of the members’ lounge and milling about with their
well-wishers. Robert either had left or was still in the committee
room – unaware of what had just been wrought in the House. As he
and Dick were pushing their way towards the exit, Marc heard a
burst of applause behind him. The wunderkind had just entered the
room. On an impulse, Marc said to Dougherty, “Wait for me here,
will you? I’m going to go over and congratulate him.”

“Sense of fair play and all that?”

Marc smiled. “He might even remember me.”

Marc had taken three steps towards the scrum
about McDowell when it unexpectedly opened to give the great orator
a clear view of Marc. A tentative smile flickered at the corners of
his mouth as he stepped forward. Marc was about to put out his hand
when McDowell frowned, stood stock-still, and seemed to be
appraising the figure before him. Then, as if he really did recall
something of significance, he spun around and retreated – all the
way to the members’ lounge.

“Well?” Dougherty said as Marc rejoined him
at the door.

“You won’t believe this, but I’ve just been
given the biggest snub of my life!”

“
Sic transit gloria
,” Dougherty said,
alluding obliquely to Marc’s onetime status as the Hero of St.
Denis.

“I suppose the fellow considers me a kind of
turncoat for resigning my commission and taking up the Reform
cause,” Marc mused, though he found himself far from amused at the
incident.

“After a while, you can get used to being
snubbed,” Dougherty said with a grim little smile.

THREE

Outside, Marc was delighted to see Robert’s coachman
waiting for them, with orders to drive Marc and Dick home. Now more
puzzled than smarting from the snub (the fellow had literally
run
from him), Marc settled beside Dougherty in the
Baldwin’s brougham. As they moved east along Front Street, Marc
gave Dougherty a summary of McDowell’s speech and its worrisome
implications.

“Well, this business is a lot more
entertaining than I realized. Would it be presumptuous of a Yankee
to offer his services in the cause of liberation?”

“I’m sure Robert would be happy to have you
aboard. But first you must concentrate on your admission to the
Bar. Even if you never practise, it puts a stamp of respectability
on you that no rumour-mongering can stain.”

“I must confess that ever since the trial
last January I’ve had the itch to get back into the courtroom.”

They turned north up Bay Street in the
bracing night-air.

“Stoneham was enraged by the sight of that
shingle on your cottage. It’s like a red rag to a bull. Would you
consider removing it until after your formal admission?”

“I would, but I’m afraid it’s a bit too late
for that.”

Marc was stunned. “You’re not telling me –
”

“I am. I’ve already taken on a new case.”

***

“I couldn’t refuse the fellow,” Dougherty was saying.
The brougham had stopped in front of the cottage with its offending
sign. “His name is David Chalmers. He’s a vicar at St. James
Anglican Church, one of two working under Archdeacon Strachan,
whose own work apparently takes him well beyond Toronto and York
County. I’m not sure how these things operate, but Chalmers, who is
thirty-five, is still junior vicar. The senior man is the Reverend
Quentin Hungerford. According to Chalmers, Hungerford is jealous of
him and suspicious of his ambitions, for which he assures me there
are no grounds. Two weeks ago, Mrs. Hungerford, who runs the Ladies
Auxiliary, accused Chalmers of embezzling or misappropriating ten
dollars from her treasury, following his participation in a bazaar
they held in February. This claim is supported by her own
treasurer. Chalmers, of course, denied the charge, and when the
incident was taken to Strachan, the great man said he believed his
junior vicar, in part because Chalmers had been one of his prize
pupils in the Cornwall school.”

“So why did he end up coming to you?” Marc
said, his anxiety rising at the mention of the Archdeacon’s
name.

“Mrs. Hungerford is not a woman to be lightly
dismissed. She urged Strachan, in light of the ‘fact’ of the
missing ten dollars, to have a close look at the
parish’s
books, which are kept by the same Mr. Chalmers. When Strachan got
around to this, with a Hungerford at each elbow, he discovered
numerous minor discrepancies – above and below the line. It appears
that the Reverend Chalmers is just an inept bookkeeper. However, in
order to keep peace in his bailiwick, Strachan takes Chalmers aside
and suggests that he be moved to a post somewhere in the wastes of
the Huron Tract or down in the wilds of the Talbot settlement.
Chalmers is devastated, even when Strachan assures him that the
move is temporary.”

“There isn’t much he can do about it,” Marc
said. “The Anglican Church is not a democracy.”

“Well, he tried. He went to three different
lawyers to take advice. Once they learned that Strachan was
involved, they showed him the door – politely.”

“I told you he was a powerful man, and a
fearsome enemy.”

“The junior vicar came to see me a few days
ago.”

“And you didn’t show him to the door?”

“I did not. He had been falsely accused. Mrs.
Hungerford had no evidence other than the fact that Chalmers had
ferried the cash-box from the bazaar to his rooms. His study was
unlocked overnight, and any number of persons had access to it.
It’s a clear case of he said/she said.”

“I agree, but what could
you
do?”

“I sat down and wrote a stern, lawyerly
letter to Archdeacon Strachan, suggesting that, if the matter were
not dropped and Chalmers not reinstated, civil action – not
excluding libel and defamation – would seriously be considered. Et
cetera.”

Dougherty looked particularly pleased with
himself.

“Dick, as your friend, I must warn you –
”

“I know, I know. I’ve just rammed a cold
poker up the Devil’s arse!”

He looked even more pleased with himself.

FOUR

“Wake up, Mister Cobb! You’re gonna miss Church!”

Constable Horatio Cobb groaned, rolled away
from the penetrating authority of that voice into a cosier part of
the big bed, tried to pretend he was still asleep, realized the
futility of that assumption and the consequences of disobedience,
opened his eyes, and retorted, “But I
always
miss
church!”

“Not this mornin’, you ain’t,” Dora said, and
it was excitement that Cobb detected in his wife’s reply, not the
customary threat or wheedle. “You’d be mighty regrettable if you
missed
this
show!”

“I’m regrettable already,” Cobb sighed,
sitting up and pulling the nightcap off the permanent
flare-and-tangle of his hair. “You know I didn’t get home till pert
near midnight, an’ me an’ Wilkie got battered an’ bruised breakin’
up a fistfight in The Cock an’ Bull. Lookit the welt I got here
under my eye!”

Dora leaned over, careful to keep her Sunday
frock – and the scrubbed and powdered flesh it encased – well away
from her husband’s greasy locks. “I’ll kiss it better after the
ducks-ology
,” she said, then turned her large but
surprisingly nimble body about and trundelled from the room.

When Cobb reached the kitchen ten minutes
later – reluctantly attired in his wedding suit and a white blouse
– a steaming bowl of porridge and mug of freshly brewed tea awaited
him. Delia and Fabian were still at the Sunday school that
Archdeacon Strachan had recently started, and, to Cobb’s
disappointment, they seemed to be enjoying it. Cobb himself had
been raised on a pioneer farm near Woodstock in the days when they
were lucky to see a Methodist circuit rider once every two months.
He had, of course, been baptized, but had never bothered to attend
the little wooden church that had eventually been built in the
village. And while Dora would not describe herself as a scrupulous
Christian (being a scrupulously honest soul), she did attend
services at St. James at least once a month and invariably on
special occasions like Easter and Harvest Home. But sociable as she
was – playing midwife to dozens of families in the “old town” east
of Yonge – she had steered clear of the Ladies Auxiliary and other
female support groups. “I’m in the business of savin’ babies fer
the Queen, not souls fer Deacon Strachan!” she proclaimed whenever
occasion demanded it.

“So what’s the fuss all about this mornin’?”
Cobb said. “Somethin’ special with the
litter-gee
?”

Dora gave him the eye. “You wouldn’t
recognize the
trinity
if it was stuck in yer craw!”

“I was just askin’. It ain’t easy squeezin’
inta these trousers. They keep shrinkin’ every time you wash
‘em.”

“They haven’t shrunk an inch since we was
married. It’s what’s
in
them that keeps on expandin’.”

“Well, are you gonna tell me, or do I haveta
guess?”

“I wonder you haven’t heard the gossip about
what’s goin’ on over there at St. James, spendin’ yer days in an’
out of taverns an’ bein’ privy to all that scuttlebutt.”

“My clients don’t discuss
thee-ology
too much.”

Dora chuckled, then tried to look solemn as
she said, “It’s an open secret that John Strachan is goin’ to be
made a bishop. They say he’s gettin’ ready to sail fer England next
month to make sure it happens.”

This stunning news did little to disrupt the
steady spooning of porridge.

“You don’t seem impressed,” Dora said.

Cobb licked a sticky gob off his lower lip.
“Fer a fella that thinks of himself as Pope, wearin’ a
mighter-hat
seems a comedown to me.”

“Don’t be pertinent,” Dora snapped back.
“Anyways, that’s just the first part of the story.”

“Ahh, I figured there was more.”

“When Reverend Strachan becomes bishop, that
means he’ll haveta look after the church affairs all across the
province.”

“Ya mean he’ll be outta our hair once in
while.” Cobb spilled some tea on his blouse, but took no
notice.

“Which means he won’t be Rector of York
County, ‘cause he’ll have the bishop’s salary, an’ that means that
either Reverend Chalmers or Reverend Hungerford will likely get the
post.”

“I thought the Reverend
Hungry-for-it
was next in line,” Cobb said, his interest picking up as he sensed
what was coming.

“That he is. He’s been vicar under the
Archdeacon fer fifteen years or more – bowin’ an’ scrapin’ more to
Strachan than to the Lord.”

“But?”

“But that nice David Chalmers useta be
Strachan’s pupil in the Cornwall Academy, an’ some people say the
new bishop is likely to give him the post even though he’s ten
years younger than Hungerford. Others say it’s a bit of a horse
race.”

“So you want to go there today to have a
gander at the two of them, eh? To see which one c’n plant the
juiciest kiss on the deacon’s – ah –
ring.
”

“That’s part of the fun, yes. But it’s
Susannah Hungerford I wanta see.”

“That old battle-axe!”

“An’ battle she will. She runs the ladies’
wing of the congregation – in addition to her husband. You remember
I delivered her last baby when the doctor was away on his spring
fishin’ trip, an’ helped her through the fever she caught
afterwards. Well, I got a good, close-up look at that creature an’,
believe me, it wasn’t a pretty sight. She’s mean an’ cunnin’ an’
every inch ambitious.”

“About as
sweet-tampered-with
as Lady
Macbeth, I take it?”

Dora grinned. “Come on, Mister Cobb, we wanta
get a good seat. Deacon Strachan is gonna preach the sermon this
mornin’, an’ it’s expected he’ll be throwin’ hints as to which of
the two contenders is in the lead.”