The Marc Edwards Mystery Series Box Set

A Marc Edwards Mystery

by

Don Gutteridge

ISBN: 978-1-927789-46-9

Published by Bev Editions at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Don Gutteridge

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Author’s Note

The Bishop’s Pawn is wholly a work of fiction, but the political tensions and debate over responsible government following the Durham Report of 1839 were real enough and, as depicted herein, form an important backdrop to the novel’s action. The particular characterization attributed to actual historical personages like Sir George Arthur, John Strachan and Robert Baldwin are fictitious. The portrayal of Tammany Hall and its leaders in New York City is based on the historical record, their corruption and malfeasance having been well documented.

I am indebted to the following works, which provided helpful background information: Gerald M. Craig, Upper Canada: The Formative Years, 1784-1841; Sylvia Boorman, John Toronto: A Biography of Bishop Strachan; George E. Wilson, The Life of Robert Baldwin; Gustavus Myers, The History of Tammany Hall; Jerome Mushkat, Tammany: The Evolution of a Political Machine, 1789-1865; and Mary C. Henderson, The City and the Theatre: New York Playhouses from Bowling Green to Times Square.

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.. Robert Baldwin and his disciple Edwards were ecstatic with this proposal, though their pleasure had been tempered by the fact that the current provincial parliament was dominated by the right-wingers. Dougherty’s contribution to their 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. .

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. Having got the attention of Baldwin and Marc, 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, 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 tend to her. 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 his ward 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, a touch of her southern twang just noticeable.

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 the beginning of March. By then she had discovered that she had been too tired and grumpy to be of use, in either the retail shop or the adjoining dressmaking enterprise. Moreover, Rose Halpenny was quite capable of supervising the latter, and Bertha Bethune was her mainstay among the frocks and bonnets, and gentrified customers who frequented the place. Her current plan was to take the baby and Charlene with her to Smallman’s as often as she could after the birth. Maybe I’ll give up chess or one of them other sports we enjoy late in the evenin’, she said to Marc with a straight face.

The supreme sacrifice, eh?

Beth peered down at her swollen belly. I think this is the supreme sacrifice, she said.

Marc nodded, then reached for his overcoat. He glanced towards the kitchen.

You don’t haveta wait fer Charlene an’ Jasper, Beth said, shifting her body once again. Me an’ the babe’ll behave ourselves till they come.

"All right. I am eager to pick up Dick and Robert and get to the chamber before the fireworks begin. I think our skeptical Yankee will be suitably impressed by the quality of the debate, even if none of his own stunning, republican logic is deployed by either side."

You’re referrin’ to the arrival of Mowbray McDowell?

That’s right. He was spotted this morning on the verandah of his townhouse, and we fully expect he will lead off the debate this evening for the Tories.

I’d like to be there, Beth said wistfully.

Marc leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. They say he’s the best speaker they’ve ever had, better than Justice Robinson or Sweet William Draper.

How come, if he was returned in the Kingston by-election last September, he hasn’t shown up till now?

Marc explained that McDowell had leased a townhouse on George Street just north of Newgate in time for the October opening of the legislature, and had even moved his wife and servants there, but his father, a prominent importer of wines and tobacco, had suffered a stroke. McDowell had stayed behind in Kingston in expectation of his father’s imminent demise, foregoing the golden opportunity to make his parliamentary debut at the beginning of the session when the gallery was packed and public attention high. And to make matters worse, McDowell senior had lingered on, to the great inconvenience of his son, until Christmas day, when he had passed wordlessly into the beyond. By then the Assembly had been prorogued, and its reopening had been purposefully delayed until the arrival of the earl’s Report in the first week of March. A premature spring, however – with rain-squalls and local flooding – had made so many roads impassable that the new session had not got underway until the previous Monday. Poor Mowbray, stuck in Kingston consoling his mother and winding up his father’s affairs, had found himself unable to travel to Toronto by steamer (too much ice, still) or get there overland. The first mail-packet from the east to brave the break-up had reached the Queen’s Wharf only on Thursday: McDowell had apparently been aboard.

He’ll be rarin’ to go, Beth said, struggling to her feet.

I’ll give you a précis, word by bloated word, Marc said, reaching for the latch. That’s a promise.

Beth waddled over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Do you think it’s wise fer Dick to make an appearance in that company? she said with a concerned look.

I don’t see why not, love. He goes for his constitutional every morning, and is greeted by a dozen or more passers-by every day.

I know that. But those are the ordinary folk who respect him fer what he did back in January at the Court House fer young Billy McNair an’ Dolly. But accordin’ to what Rose Halpenny told me yesterday when she come here to make her weekly report, the so-called respectable ladies who gossip away to her in the shop like she was a statue or a mute, are still spreadin’ ugly stories about Dick’s life in New York.

"Oh, I realize that malicious tales about why Dick had to leave New York aren’t ever going to stop, no matter what the man does. You can’t reform a blue-blooded bigot. But, believe me, the Benchers at Osgoode Hall have been looking into Dick’s record back home – remember that he was not disbarred there – and when they are compelled to admit him to the Bar at the Osgoode hearing next week, that particular cloud will no longer hang over his head."

"He won’t tell you what happened back there?"

"No. Besides the fact that he considers it to be a wholly personal matter, he also says that he has to weigh the effects of any disclosure upon Celia and Brodie. He worships those two."

But ain’t the rumours worse?

Apparently he doesn’t think so.

I’m thinkin’ of what Rose told me, though. The worst stories they’re spreadin’ are about what they say he gets up to with his wards in that little cottage of theirs.

Marc stared at Beth. His fingers let go of the door-latch. I thought that brand of nonsense had stopped.

With the earl’s proposals stirrin’ up anti-Americanism an’ fear of aliens with ‘republic’ stamped on their foreheads, they’ve started up worse than ever. Rose said her minister at the Baptist church last Sunday preached a sermon about the sins of Sodom an’ Gomorrah an’ the iniquities of the flesh – with pointed reference to ‘unnatural acts’ committed by ‘strangers in our midst’.

"You’re not telling me that respectable matrons are chatting in Smallman’s about that sort of transgression?" That Beth herself was aware of its nature, he had long since accepted.

They find there’s a suitable quote from the Bible to cover any sin, however unspeakable.

Well, don’t worry about Dick tonight. I’ll be right beside him the whole time.

Beth smiled and held the door open for her husband. I hope you ain’t forgettin’ you don’t carry a sword any more.

Marc kissed her again, patted his dilatory son in his cosy abode, and left.

Beth watched him until he vanished in the gathering dusk.

***

At about the same time that Marc was setting out for Baldwin House, two close-cloaked gentlemen were descending from one of Toronto’s three taxicabs onto the boardwalk in front of the spanking-new, three-storey American Hotel on Bay below Lot Street. While the cabbie fumbled with their leather grips, the gentlemen walked with a weary but nonetheless confident step into the brightly lit foyer. They were looking neither left nor right, as if it were the world’s responsibility to look at them. The night-manager, appraising the cut of their cloth and the shine of their boots with his practiced eye, bustled across the Persian carpet to greet them.

Gentlemen, welcome to The American Hotel. Though you have arrived late in the day, we do have accommodation that you will undoubtedly find first-class.

After the journey we’ve had over the past eight days, that will be a most welcome sight, said the first gentleman as he handed his cloak over to the minion who had miraculously materialized at his elbow.

You’ve just got off the mail-packet from Newark, then?

We have, sir, said the second gentleman, after a miserable day on the coach that got us there from –

Buffalo? the night-manager smiled.

That’s right, but –

I can pick out a Buffalo vowel in a crowded room, sir.

Neither gentleman smiled in appreciation of the fellow’s talent or the accuracy of his detection, but perhaps they were merely too weary to tend to their manners. For it was obvious that these were proper and prosperous arrivals, whatever their origins. Each man was of middle height, impeccably suited, and boasted the comfortable belly and pink cheeks that suggested a life spent largely behind a desk. Both were fair, slightly balding, and green-eyed. They might have been cousins.

Sensing that polite chatter was likely to annoy more than ingratiate, the night-manager went about the business of directing the porter to take care of the luggage (scant, considering the aforementioned eight-day journey), while he motioned for his distinguished guests to sign in. He took note of what they wrote down in his register:

Joseph Brenner, New York City

Lawrence Tallman, New York City

So you’ve come all the way from New York at this time of year? he said, unable to resist a further comment.

Alas, we have done so, Joseph Brenner said with a curious mixture of rue and Yankee pluck. But we have important business here that could not be postponed.

Ah, I see. Then we shall make certain that you are made as comfortable and relaxed as modern conveniences and American-style hospitality allow.

As the strangers turned to ascend the stairs to their chambers, Lawrence Tallman paused and said to their host, who had trailed them at a discreet distance, There is one thing, besides supper, that you might provide for us, if you can.

Please, sir. Just name it.

While we are here, we would like to pay a social call upon a former acquaintance of ours, who we understand is now residing in your city.

"I know all the respectable people in Toronto, sir."

Good. Then you may know where we can find a retired barrister, a Mr. Richard Dougherty.

The night-manager’s eyes brightened, then, slowly, lost their lustre. I’m afraid I do, he said at last.

TWO

Dougherty and Robert Baldwin were waiting for Marc on the porch of Baldwin House, having dined together and shared a decanter of port and several cigars. They greeted Marc warmly, and the trio set off at a leisurely pace for the legislature two blocks away. The sun had set, but a hazy light lingered on the glassy surface of the bay to their left, and the deep chill of a late-March night was still hours away.

Do you really think this McDowell chap can draw the fractious Tory supporters together to form a united front? Marc was saying.

Some of the Reformers have been suggesting that to me, Robert said, stepping around a mud puddle.

It’s hard to believe that mere rhetoric, however lofty, can paper over the divisions we’ve seen in the conservative camp lately, Marc said. I suspect it’s just fear of the possibility.

Nor ought you to forget that fine speech-making contributed mightily to the success of the revolution in the United States, Dougherty said. Though I suspect this McDowell fellow is no Patrick Henry or Daniel Webster.

What do we know about this wunderkind McDowell anyway? Marc said to Robert.

Francis Hincks tells me that he’s the scion of a wealthy merchant family in Kingston. An only child, and a bit of a ripper in his youth, if the gossip is anywhere close to accurate. Articled law in Montreal, but was taken into the family’s import business, more to keep him under Papa’s thumb, they say, than to augment the McDowell fortunes.

Sounds like an American style success story so far, Dougherty said as he weaved his way around a patch of suspicious-looking ooze and had to be steadied by Marc’s hand on his shoulder.

The tale gets more British, quite quickly, Robert Baldwin smiled, and Marc was pleased to see that his mentor and friend had regained not only his quiet humour but also much of his former enthusiasm for politics and the quest for a truly responsible, locally controlled government. The sudden death of his wife had left him with four healthy children but a hollowed-out heart.

You mean the bugger settled down and became respectable? Dougherty said.

I’m afraid so. Married a patrician lady picked out by his father. Took a keen interest in wines and tobaccos. Travelled abroad. Made money.

Christ, Dougherty chuckled, even American presidents have resisted all attempts to civilize them. Andrew Jackson arrived at the White House with a lead ball in his head, and behaved accordingly.

I suspect it was McDowell’s father who suggested politics, Robert said. The family money and the Tory landslide back in thirty-six made it easy for young Mowbray to take the by-election last September. His emergence on the hustings there as a gifted orator came as a surprise to everyone.

But Papa’s stroke kept him from pleasuring our ears until now, Dougherty said. I do hope I won’t have to rush home and torch my copy of the preamble to the American Constitution.

Our Assembly isn’t Westminster or Congress, Dick, but I believe you’ll hear more than one well-crafted speech this evening, Robert said. The future of this province may be determined by the decisions this parliament takes in the coming months.

What I’m about to witness, then, is a kind of Constitutional Congress, British style?

Robert was about to reply when he stopped in his tracks and held out his arm to stop his companions. What the hell –

Out of the alley sprang a ragged street-urchin. Only the whites of his eyes were visible in the grime of his face. But they were wild – with fear or anger or simply excitement. His right arm was raised, his fingers wrapped around some kind of missile. Setting himself in the exaggerated pose of a prize-fighter about to deliver a haymaker, he uttered a high-pitched howl and let fly. Marc and Robert had already begun to flinch sideways in a purely reflex action, but Dougherty was too heavy and sluggish of foot to move at all. Only the sudden blink of his eyes indicated that he had registered the possibility of danger. Fortunately, they were closed when the egg struck him on the temple and began to ooze down to his chins and drip onto his gargantuan overcoat.

Marc was the first to react, but the ragamuffin was too quick for him. He scampered out into the street, dodging numerous vehicles on their way to the parliament buildings a hundred yards to the west. And as Robert tried to wipe away the oozing egg – nicely putrefied and stinking – the boy cupped both filthy hands around his mouth and shouted, so that the dozens of citizens now within earshot could take notice:

"Sodomite! May you rot in Hell!"

Then he zigzagged his way through several broughams and buggies, and vanished.

Are you all right? Robert said to Dougherty, who was staring, more amazed than frightened, at the mess on his lapels.

He’s got away, Marc said, coming back to where Robert and Dick were now standing with their backs to the brick wall that surrounded the garden of Somerset House.

God dammit! Dougherty bellowed. It took Celia three weeks to get the winter’s breakfast-egg out of my waistcoat! She’ll be most chagrined at this thoughtless relapse!

You’re all right, though? Robert said as he eased Dick’s cap away from his broad forehead and peered at the red blotch where the missile had struck.

Don’t fuss, Robert. I’m unwounded. The little bastard had cracked the grenade open before propelling it. I hope his hand stinks worse than the rest of him. Dougherty’s growl was clearly disarmed by a rumbling chuckle.

I’ll have Constable Cobb track the man down, Marc said. Cobb knows every alley-dweller and runabout in town.

What’s the point? Dougherty said. The kid was hired by one of his betters to toss that reminder at me, and likely doesn’t even know who slipped him the penny. Another chuckle began forming somewhere deep in Dick’s formidable belly. You don’t think a stray like that could even pronounce ‘sodomite’ without help, do you?

Dick, this could be serious, Marc said. Your application for admission to the Bar comes up next week. It could be that some members among the Law Society or the Family Compact have decided to take a more direct approach to discrediting you.

Marc’s right, Robert said, still swiping at the congealing mess on Dougherty’s lapel. Perhaps you should go back to Baldwin House and –

And miss the oration of the century? Dougherty rumbled. Come on. We’re attracting more attention standing here like a trio of hobbled Clydesdales than if we were dancing the fandango in the buff!

And with that he moved his weight as expeditiously as Marc had ever seen – towards the crowd of Torontonians milling about in the fading light in front of the legislature.

***

In the foyer, Robert was hailed by Francis Hincks, one of the bright young men of the Reform party. An impromptu meeting of sitting members and other supporters of Lord Durham had apparently been arranged in one of the committee rooms adjacent to the Assembly chamber.

They want me there, Robert said apologetically to Dick and Marc. We’ll be plotting our strategy for the coming months while the rhetoric above us keeps the building warm.

Would you like a little gunpowder? Dougherty said.

Well, then, Dick and I had better go on up to the gallery, Marc said, before we get jostled to death.

The foyer was rapidly filling with the cream of local citizenry. Marc recognized many of the faces, and while he nodded pleasantly to them, he was quite aware that his transformation from war hero and defender of the Crown to radical Reformer and Durhamite had left most of these former acquaintances coldly courteous – at best. And the sight of the mountainous and disgraced Yankee lawyer puffing obscenely at his side – with his coat-lapels besmirched and malodorous – did not help matters. Marc steered Dougherty to the stairway that led up to the spectator’s gallery. With Dick gripping the handrail in all ten digits and Marc heaving and pushing against various portions of the big man’s anterior, they managed to reach the upper landing. Marc spotted a space on the front bench, and they coasted down to it. Dougherty collapsed there with a Falstaffian wheeze, and proceeded to pant like a hound at the end of the day’s hunt. The gentleman next to him rose quietly and found a seat elsewhere.

Well, what do you think? Marc said when Dougherty’s breathing had settled down and a little colour had returned to his cheeks.

Impressive, I must admit, he replied. It looks like the House of Commons I have always pictured in my mind whenever I think of the English Parliament and that centuries-long struggle against the tyranny of monarchs and their blue-blooded henchmen.

Marc smiled, knowing that when this chamber – and its counterpart next door, where the Legislative Council or Upper House met – was built in 1828, no expense had been spared in making it a worthy extension of the Mother Parliament in London. The thick-carpeted aisle, the Moroccan-leather chairs on either side of it, the gleaming banisters and polished railings, the raised and ornate speaker’s throne, the cathedral-like windows gracing the tall walls – these were not merely lavish or ostentatious: they were charged with historical meaning, with tradition that stretched back to King John and Runnymede. Doubtful Dick Dougherty might well boast of the boldest experiment in democracy since the Athenians, of the inalienable logic of the American Constitution, but he was also aware of exactly how much his British forebears had contributed to the making of laws and the institutions that buttressed them. Marc felt honoured to have met this man, and to be seated here beside him.

The session was already in progress. A Tory member was speaking to the question: the debate on the committee report just received. The report contained the members’ response to Lord Durham’s principal recommendations: a union of the two Canadas, a unicameral or single legislature, and responsible government. Marc had assumed that the Tory group would assign their star performer the task of leading off the debate and setting the tone for the rest of the evening. But not only was Mowbray McDowell not on his feet dazzling the Assembly, he was not, as far as Marc could see, anywhere in the chamber.

And just where is this reincarnation of Aaron Burr? Dougherty rumbled, his tiny, pig-like eyes darting about at the scene below him.

I don’t see him anywhere. There’s an empty chair down there next to Ignatius Maxwell, the Receiver-General. I suspect that’s where he’ll be sitting.

Dougherty suppressed a yawn. Christ, I may have had one or two glasses too many of Baldwin’s excellent port. Someone behind him tut-tutted, and a woman coughed into her hand.

I’m sure they won’t hold him back too much longer, Marc said. "This gallery is packed, and I’ve rarely seen this many members present."

Well, they certainly didn’t come to hear the fellow droning away down there. He’s an insomniac’s delight!

Shh!

Dougherty swivelled around as far as his corpulence would permit. I am deeply sorry, ma’am, if I have interrupted your slumber.

This riposte earned him a full-throated harrumph!

Fortunately the speaking member had finished his oration, though it was a minute or more before anyone realized it. Every head in the gallery now tilted forward in expectation. Would Mowbray McDowell make a dramatic entrance, stride down the aisle under the blazing candelabras, bow to the Speaker, and take his rightful place in the front row?

He did not. A barely suppressed groan shuddered through the gallery as a well-known Orangeman was recognized, stood, and launched his jeremiad with the throttle wide open. That anyone could reach such a pitch of umbrage so rapidly seemed to startle the usually unflappable barrister from New York.

Jesus, Dougherty whispered to Marc, did the fellow start warming up in the lobby?

Rant and invective though it was, the member’s speech was music to the ears of every Durhamite in the chamber, for the Loyal Orange Lodge – the staunchest monarchists and anti-republicans in the province – had abruptly switched their tune. It seemed that there were some features of Lord Durham’s report that ought to be considered, supported even. The suggestion that this softened attitude was the result of Lieutenant-Governor Arthur’s recent suggestion that the Loyal Orange Lodge should be outlawed was indignantly denied. Indeed, the current spokesman denied it yet again, amid the hoots and catcalls of men around him who had once taken his support for granted. Three times the Speaker had to call for order to silence the desk-thumping and shouts of shame and sit down.

Just like home, Dougherty said, vastly amused.

However, when the member did sit down – unshamed – and the fellow next to him rose to address the House, the gallery’s cheerful engagement quickly changed to sullen resignation. It had become evident that the Tory strategy for the evening was to have a number of members, from several camps, speak to the pertinent issues, set them clearly in the minds of all those present, and then have Mowbray McDowell make his entrance and have the last – and devastatingly potent – word. Although disappointed, Marc could see the sense in this plan. The Reform group in the Assembly was a shadow of its former self. It had been dealt a near death-blow in the 1836 election. Mackenzie’s abortive rebellion the next year had further depleted their ranks and disillusioned many of their moderate supporters in the countryside. Perry, Bidwell, Rolph, Robert Baldwin, Mackenzie himself – all had been silenced, some of them now in exile in the United States. Only the arrival of Lord Durham last year and his subsequent Report had breathed new life into the movement. But, alas, its most eloquent spokesmen were not here in this chamber.

However, after two years of heavy-handed (but not inefficient) rule by George Arthur and the Tory-controlled Assembly, the conservative alliance itself had begun to show cracks in its solidarity. The Orange Order was disaffected. Long-time Tory stalwart, William Merritt, had begun making noises in support of the union proposal. Many in the Family Compact, the ruling clique, simply wanted no change of any kind, despite the fact that it was the status quo that had prompted the rebellion. Others wanted to cut the backward and Pope-ridden Quebecers adrift by annexing Montreal and Anglicizing it. How anyone, whatever his rhetorical prowess, could forge a consensus out of this political hodgepodge, was beyond Marc.

One hour and six speeches later, with the gallery glassy-eyed and sitting members slumped in their Moroccan leather, the wunderkind, at some cue Marc did not detect, stepped onto his stage. Mowbray McDowell, MLA, entered the chamber quietly and walked demurely down the aisle towards the Speaker’s chair as if he were just an ordinary member arriving somewhat late for an ordinary evening of parliamentary palaver. He wasn’t halfway along, however, before the restless and muttering gallery went silent. People simply gawked.

Marc was expecting someone tall and imposing, but McDowell was not much over five feet in height, and exceedingly slim. His hair, slicked back and neatly brushed, was blond – and further bleached in the dazzle of the chamber’s central candelabrum. The skin of his face was correspondingly pale, the eyes a remarkable blue, the features subtle, almost ascetic. But he walked like a patrician, with the practiced ease of a Roman senator. For a moment Marc thought that the Speaker might bow to the new member, reversing the tradition.

Seconds later, McDowell stepped sprightly up to the chair beside Ignatius Maxwell, shook hands with the Receiver-General, tilted his head towards someone in the gallery, and turned as the Speaker, by prearrangement, called on the Member from Frontenac to deliver his maiden speech in Queen Victoria’s colonial assembly.

Thus did he begin. Coming from such a small man, the voice startled the spectators: it was deep, richly modulated, authoritative. There was no rant in it, no bombast, no manufactured dudgeon. Here was a man reasoning with men, laying out the home truths that they, like him, must come to accept because all the alternatives were worse. Far worse. In spite of himself, Marc was enthralled – and very worried. McDowell’s approach was masterful. He began by pointing out a few sad but incontrovertible facts. Whatever the merits or demerits of Lord Durham’s recommendations, the earl had been chosen for the job because his own caucus had found him too radical and unreasonable to bear, and hence he was safer off in North America than in England. The earl had then selected several advisors whose own past was morally suspect. Edward Gibbon Wakefield, who had undoubtedly penned much of the Report, had once been imprisoned for kidnapping an heiress. Moreover, the earl himself had spent less than a week in Upper Canada, while devoting most of his time and effort to Quebec – with his sights set on freeing the French rebels or ensuring that those convicted were exiled to sunny Bermuda instead of Van Diemen’s Land. This latter folly had broken the terms of his commission, for which legal indiscretion he had been summarily recalled. Back in England he had promptly fallen ill from some mysterious ailment, letting his ill-starred advisors, and even his wife, complete the Report. The Melbourne administration balked at even tabling the document, but finally relented under public pressure. It was clear to any objective eye that the Whig government in London was in disarray, and due to collapse any day now. Little wonder that the earl’s Report – whatever its merits or demerits – was languishing in parliamentary limbo.

Now what did all of this mean for Upper Canada? It meant that fractious debate, of the kind heard here this evening and earlier in the week, had split both parties several ways. Why should this be so? Because Lord Durham’s recommendations were a mishmash of contradictory and self-cancelling proposals! Why, then, should a fledgling provincial legislature be saddled with the responsibility of making sense out of nonsense – nonsense penned by men whose probity itself was dubious? Surely what esteemed members of this Assembly must do is cease and desist from bootless debate, especially those who valued tradition and authority. Within months the Whig government in London must fall, and be replaced by a sane and just and loyal administration under the stewardship of the great Robert Peel. Let that gentleman and his cabinet propose a sensible solution to Canada’s problems, using whatever aspects of the infamous Durham Report they deemed practicable.

Let each of us in this hallowed chamber unite in our determination to wait upon developments in the mother country, to wait upon proposals that are clear and unambiguous – whether they be favourable to one side or the other. Then, and only then, shall we be able to enter into a reasoned debate with any hope of a just and durable outcome!

My God, Marc thought, the fellow has done it! He’s articulated a strategy to hold the warring factions of his group together until the Whigs reject the Report out of expediency or the British Tory party recovers the power it lost in 1835! Robert and his fellow Reformers were going to have a tough row to hoe, as were those who had agreed to write broadsides for them.

The roar of approval that cascaded down upon the desk-thumping members from the gallery above made it clear that Mowbray McDowell had struck the right chord. As McDowell stood up to acknowledge the cheers, Marc suddenly remembered that he had met this man! It had been more than three years ago, in June or July of 1835, just weeks after his arrival from England. He had been at a soiree at Government House, where Sir John Colborne had taken him around and introduced him to half a dozen debutantes and as many gentlemen. One of them had been Mowbray McDowell, but the name – like so many others in those first hectic months in a new and strange country – had not stuck.

Marc now turned to Dougherty for the first time since McDowell had entered the chamber and mesmerized all within it. Well, Dick, what do you make of that?

Dougherty’s eyes popped open. The pouches surrounding them were puffed and red. Has the wretched fellow got here yet? he muttered between blinks.

You slept through the whole thing!

I must have. Everybody seems to be leaving, including the Speaker.

Marc helped his sleepy friend to his feet. McDowell may not have been Daniel Webster or Lord Wellington, Dick, but he was the next best thing.

***

Marc guided Dougherty, still drowsy from his forty-minute nap, up the four steps to the stairwell. Most of the galleryites had preceded them, but one of them appeared to be lingering near the stairs, awaiting their arrival. Marc recognized the man as Everett Stoneham, postmaster-general in the current Executive Council. The fellow was busy working himself into a rage.

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.