The Bishop’s Pawn: A Marc Edwards Mystery

By Don Gutteridge

In March, 1839, "Bishop-in-Waiting" John Strachan, delivers a fiery sermon that has unexpected consequences—including the very brutal and public murder of a suspected "sodomite." Church politics and the ongoing political debate following the arrival of Lord Durham's Report complicate the investigation started by Constable Cobb and Marc Edwards. A culprit is soon found, but Marc suspects he was a hired assassin and that someone higher up in society is pulling the strings. A number of gentlemen, including members of the clergy, appear to have motive .The trail eventually leads Marc to New York (via the Erie Canal), where the victim's sordid past requires his attention. There he is surprised to meet two women whom he thought never to see again. Meanwhile Cobb continues to investigate on his own, boldly confronting members of the Family Compact, with mixed results. Finally, with the help of the two women and that of the victim's ward, Marc finally unearths the horrifying and unexpected truth. He returns to Toronto in time to meet his newborn child and resolve the case.

Don Gutteridge was born in Sarnia and raised in the nearby village of Point Edward. He taught High School English for seven years, later becoming a Professor in the Faculty of Education at Western University, where he is now Professor Emeritus. He is the author of more than seventy books: poetry, fiction and scholarly works in pedagogical theory and practice. He has published twenty-two novels, including the twelve-volume Marc Edwards mystery series, and forty books of poetry, one of which, Coppermine, was short-listed for the 1973 Governor-General's Award. In 1970 he won the UWO President's Medal for the best periodical poem of that year, "Death at Quebec." To listen to interviews with the author, go to: http://thereandthen.podbean.com. Visit his website at dongutteridgewriter.com. Email address: [e-mail]. Don lives in London, Ontario.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649697134

Don Gutteridge

Don Gutteridge is the author of forty books: fiction, poetry and scholarly works. He taught high school for seven years and then joined the Faculty of Education at Western University in the Department of English Methods. He is now professor emeritus and lives in London, Ontario.

Book preview

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. Which meant that the executive branch of the government – the cabinet – would be answerable to the elected assembly, not to the Crown-appointed governor, a suggestion that had turned every true-blue Tory, Orangeman and conservative apoplectic. Robert Baldwin and his disciple Edwards were correspondingly ecstatic with these proposals, though their pleasure had been tempered by the fact that the current provincial parliament was dominated by the right-wingers. And the views of that fractious assembly would weigh heavily upon any decisions to be taken by a nervous and unstable government in London.

Dougherty’s contribution to the 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. And, by all accounts, a prosperous and forward-looking nation it was! Ah, but had this suggestion not been rejected as impractical? Robert had rejoined. At this point, Robert’s brother-in-law and law partner, Robert Baldwin Sullivan, arrived and swung the debate towards his own radical, and racist, solution: the annexation by Upper Canada of Montreal with its English-speaking and mercantile enclave, leaving the impoverished French to fend for themselves.

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. The verbal fireworks between the two Roberts had been highly entertaining – almost, he had interjected, as good as a down-and-out Yankee slugfest. Having got the attention of the combatants, 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 from the Baldwins, 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 – 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 Celia’s smile he was looking forward to most of all.

---

What do you mean, you’re gonna give up yer law studies? Beth said, a little more forcefully than she had intended.

I’m not giving them up, I’m merely postponing them, Marc replied in a most reasonable tone. And you mustn’t go about upsetting yourself, not in your – Marc stopped, but half-a-phrase too late.

Not in my ‘condition,’ eh? The blue eyes he loved so dearly blazed with indignation, and just a hint of amusement. I’ve told you a dozen times, I haven’t got the dropsy or gallopin’ consumption. There’s a healthy, protestin’ babe in here. At which point she rubbed a lascivious palm across her nine-month belly. An’ if she can somehow hear us squabblin’, she ain’t likely to pay much attention – bein’ unfamiliar with the Queen’s English.

"She?"

Beth smiled, then grew serious again. Can’t Robert Baldwin carry the Reform cause without the aid of his apprentice? she said, leaning back in the big padded chair she had appropriated when her ‘condition’ cried out for its comforts.

I thought you of all people would be keen to have me join the campaign to promote Lord Durham’s recommendations for a united parliament and responsible government.

And I am, darlin’, really. Jess an’ his father and I battled the Family Compact an’ stood up fer the Reform party as hard as anybody in this province – and at such a cost.

Marc wanted to warn Beth not to dwell on her past tragedies – the sudden and brutal deaths of her first husband and her beloved father-in-law – given her condition, but restrained himself in time. Instead he said, You realize as clearly as anyone that we have an uphill fight in the Assembly to get a bill passed that will encourage the Melbourne government in London to implement the earl’s key proposals. Pressure must come from the countryside, from the farmers and tradesmen and shopkeepers. It must be a groundswell so powerful and sustained that even the Tory-dominated legislature will take notice and do their duty!

You ain’t on the platform yet, Beth said with a twinkle. But I gather that Robert has plans fer erectin’ as many as he can construct an’ get away with.

More than that, Marc said, warming to the topic, and grateful that his wife and companion was not only beautiful – in her freckled, Irish way – but intelligent and passionate about her adopted province. Robert and his committee have developed a master plan.

Just then Charlene Huggan, their all-purpose servant, popped into the archway between living-room and kitchen. Is it okay, Beth, if I slip next door fer a few minutes? I’ll be back before Mr. Edwards leaves fer the evenin’.

You c’n bring Jasper back with you, if you like, Beth said. I promised him a rematch.

Jasper Hogg lived next door, when he wasn’t parked in the Edwards’ parlour. The young carpenter, whose principal work was intermittent at best, did all the heavy labour about Briar Cottage: chopping and lugging wood, fetching water for the cistern and stove, and tending to the needs of the horse. Which allowed Marc to spend all his time studying for the Bar – up at Osgoode Hall and in the legal chambers of Baldwin and Sullivan.

Charlene headed for the back door.

It was just after supper on Saturday. Marc was preparing to leave in order to join Robert Baldwin and Doubtful Dick for a stroll to the legislature and the scheduled session of the Assembly. Beth, who had been teaching Jasper and Charlene to play chess over the winter months, now routinely pitted herself against the pair of them, who used the frequent consultations over their next move as a kind of not-so-subtle lovers’ byplay. She would have pleasant company until he got home.

So what’s this master plan, then? Beth said, returning to the topic at hand.

Robert and his associates are going to stump every township between Cornwall and Sandwich, Marc said. They’re also planning to organize Durham Clubs in every region to continue the debate long after the platform rhetoric has faded.

You figure on stumpin’ alongside of Robert? Beth said, eyeing her husband closely.

Marc grinned. "Don’t worry, love. I don’t intend to be absent for the birth of our son."

She’ll be pleased about that when I tell her.

Marc began to pull his boots on. What Robert has asked me to do is to help him write a series of pamphlets that will flesh out the arguments being made in the Assembly and from the podiums across the province, and to compose broadsides that will highlight our principal points. He expects this work will be ongoing, as our tactics may have to be adjusted to any sudden change in the Tories’ counter-arguments or misrepresentation of our views.

Beth shifted slightly to ease a cramp in her left leg. That is somethin’ you’ll be able to do well. And, if you’d like, I’d be happy to help out.

Marc smiled to acknowledge this indirect reference to her proven ability to frame effective political tracts, drawing upon her past experience as a farm-owner who had suffered from several of the thoughtless land policies of the right-wing governments that had controlled the province since its inception more than forty-five years ago.

You could be of real help, love, Marc said slowly, but since you do insist that you’ll be going back to the shop as soon as you’re able, and with our son to occupy the rest of your time, I don’t see how you could manage it.

Beth wanted to object, but had to admit that Marc could be right. She had succeeded in getting down to her business –Smallman’s Fashion Emporium for Ladies (the newly minted name of her expanded shop on King Street between Bay and Yonge) – three days a week up until