Desperate Acts (9 page)

How soon and in what guise he could not have
foreseen.

***

About three o’clock on a crisp Friday afternoon,
with the taste of imminent snow on the breeze, Governor Poulett
Thomson and two of his military aides cantered up the forested lane
from Government House onto King Street. While such a demi-royal
entourage did turn a head or two, no particular importance was
attached to the movement of the mounted trio, as His Excellency was
often seen riding out into the countryside to take the air and
exercise the expensive horse provided him. On this occasion, the
Governor and his outriders swung north on Brock Street and followed
it up to the city boundary at Lot Street (soon to be renamed Queen
in honour of the young sovereign). Here it branched off in three
directions, offering the prospect of more than one pleasant ride
through parkland and forest. His Excellency opted for Spadina Road,
a winding north-westerly pathway that brought him eventually to the
gates of a splendid country residence. The Governor dismounted
before an excited groom could reach him and steady the horse’s
bridle. A tall and impeccably attired figure, accustomed to
deference but not disarmed by it, Poulett Thomson strode to the
front door just as it opened to reveal, not a fawning butler, but
the equally imposing figure of Dr. William Warren Baldwin.

The Governor was whisked off to the library,
where half a dozen Durhamites eagerly awaited him. The grand
strategy to win over the Legislative Council and the Legislative
Assembly of Upper Canada to the cause of political union was about
to be set in motion.

***

Diana Ramsay was given every Saturday afternoon off.
Since last May, almost every such afternoon had been spent in the
company of Brodie Langford. Today, as usual, they strolled down to
the bay and took in the fine view offered by the blue water and the
island-spit with the last of its foliage still aflame in these
waning weeks of autumn. After which they ambled up to the Market to
enjoy the hustle and bustle of its Saturday doings. Brodie was
proud of himself for carrying out their customary promenade without
once giving Diana the slightest hint of the anxiety he was feeling
over the blackmail note.

But as they were leaving the Market, Diana
stopped, took his hand, stared into his eyes, and said, “You must
tell me what is bothering you, sweet. We agreed, did we not, to
share everything – our happiness and our sorrows?”

He did not need to be reminded that she
herself had confided to him her own worst fears and the shame she
had recently endured. “Yes,” he said, “it’s only right that you
should know.”

And so he told her about the anonymous note
slipped under his kitchen door, though he did not mention how
ominous the threat had been. He said that some crank had made a
pathetic effort to extort money by making some vague reference to
an indiscretion that Miss Ramsay was supposed to have committed. He
even tried a dismissive chuckle at the end of his account.

“You think this ‘crank’ knows about my baby
girl?” Diana said calmly, but going straight to the point as she
habitually did.

“Well, that thought did cross my mind, but
only briefly. No-one could possibly know about that.” Then, hating
himself, he added, “Could they?”

“I can’t see how that’s possible. I’ve told
no-one in Toronto but you. And I received a letter from my brother
in Montreal just yesterday. Here, I’ve still got it on me – I was
going to show it to you later.” She pulled out an envelope, removed
a two-page letter, and gave it to Brodie.

He read it right through while Diana waited
patiently beside him. Her brother, among other things, assured her
that Baby Sarah, now eighteen months old, was thriving, and that
the story of its being an adopted foundling had been accepted among
their friends and acquaintances. None of the servants – not even
their own son – knew the truth. Hence, she was not to worry about
the child’s health or her own reputation. She was to relax and try
to rebuild her life in Toronto as best she could.

“So you see, sweet,” Diana said, taking him
by the arm, “there is no way this extortionist could know about the
baby. I want you to stop worrying.”

Brodie smiled. “I’ve already torn the note
up.” He gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. He was in fact
both relieved and excited. The note was unquestionably the work of
an ignorant blackguard. Next Wednesday, after the meeting of the
Shakespeare Club, he would beard this fellow in the alley and put a
stop to all this nonsense.

“Come on, love. Let’s go back to Baldwin
House. You can listen to me recite the lines I’ve chosen from
A
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
”

“Auditioning for Bottom, are we?”

Brodie grinned. Oh, how he adored this
miraculous creature.

***

Late on Tuesday evening next, way up on Lot Street,
if there had been any respectable persons abroad at that
less-than-respectable hour, they would have noticed a well-dressed
gentleman moving uncertainly along the rutted path that served as a
sidewalk. He kept peering about him, in part to see whether or not
he was being observed and in part to seek out some signpost that
had so far eluded him. The collar of his cloak was pulled up over
his face and wrapped succinctly about his overly generous body.
Despite the tentativeness of his progress, his steps were quick and
short, as if he were hobbled or wearing boots too small for his
feet. At last he arrived at two barren hawthorn trees, between
which, if you knew what you were looking for, a shadowy path could
be seen winding away into the dense bush on the north side of the
street. Behind the bush, and decently hidden from sober eyes, lay
the notorious Irishtown – home to penniless squatters, tawdry
brothels, and a dozen gambling and opium dens.

The portly gentleman stepped onto the path
and let the shadows swallow him. Still, the full moon managed to
spill some of its excess light here and there along the path,
enough to prevent the gentleman from bumping into a tree-trunk or
stumbling on a fallen limb. He kept glancing to the left as he
went, and some moments later was rewarded: there, a few paces from
the path in a pool of moonlight, sat an abandoned tombstone, its
epitaph washed away and its winged angel disfigured by thoughtless
urchins. Bending low and inching his way over to it, he reached
into his cloak and drew out a paper-parcel, tied with string. He
laid it carefully behind the tombstone, stared at the darkness
beyond it for several seconds, then backed out to the path and
trotted off towards Lot Street.

Fully ten minutes later, a second figure
slipped out of the brush near the tombstone, picked up the parcel,
pocketed it, and retreated – not to the well-worn path but farther
into the shadows, where anonymity ruled.

***

Three of the Shakespeare regulars – Phineas Burke,
Ezra Michaels and Dr. Pogue – informed the chairman that they were
not up to the challenge of actually rendering the Bard’s iambic
pentameter in the flesh, so to speak. However, they evinced
enthusiastic support for the project, and promised both to spread
the word among their acquaintances about any upcoming performance
at Oakwood Manor and to assist in any material way that didn’t
include public exposure. Hence it was that Sir Peregrine was able
to announce shortly after eight o’clock that the unalterable order
of events could be altered. The first half-hour would be devoted to
a brisk discussion of love and comedy in
The Dream
(as Sir
Peregrine called it with a familiarity that intimated he had been a
bosom friend of the playwright himself). Then the members would
move to the lounge area for fifteen minutes of regulated
refreshment, cigars and social chit chat. The three reluctant
thespians would then leave for home, while the remaining members
returned to the long table for the main event: a discussion of
which excerpts from “The Dream” ought to be dramatized and by
whom.

Brodie had arrived with Horace Fullarton, and
entered as usual through the tavern. He had noticed as they walked
over to the familiar stairwell that there was no sign of Etta. He
nodded to Gillian Budge, who gave him a tight smile before turning
back to her husband at the bar and hissing something at him that
brought a flush to his face. At the far end of the taproom Brodie
saw Nestor Peck lugging a cask of ale up the steps from the cellar
– with only moderate success. Whenever he took his hands off the
cask to get better leverage, it rolled back onto his toes. His
rhythmic yelps drew guffaws from the sailors seated nearby. Brodie
hoped Etta was all right.

***

It was eight-forty-five when Sir Peregrine called
for order and, with an ostentatious slap of leather upon the table,
opened a folio volume of the Great Man’s plays. In turn, he looked
each of the four volunteers in the eye with a solemn gaze, raised
his plump, right index finger, and dropped it onto the page open
before him as a preacher might indicate the Biblical verse
animating his sermon.

“Act two, scene one: the entrance of Oberon,
King of the Fairies, from stage left and Titania, Queen of the
Fairies, from stage right. Here we shall commence our revels.”

So much for any deliberation of which
excerpts were to be chosen, thought Brodie. And before the others
could rummage through the various editions of the play they had
brought with them, Sir Peregrine held up a sheaf of printed scripts
and flapped them like a sailor practising semaphore.

“No need to find the entry point, gentlemen.
I have brought along these actor’s pages – very like those used by
Edmund Kean at Drury Lane – to facilitate the execution of our
enterprise. They contain a judicious selection of the scenes and
sub-scenes that comprise acts two and three. The essentials of the
plot have been retained, and the running time is about forty
minutes, if memory serves.”

“You have performed this version before,
then?” Andrew Dutton said.

“Yes, indeed. My lady and I are veterans of
the comedic turn.”

“And you will be coaching us?” Cyrus Crenshaw
said.

“Indeed, I shall, though I believe the more
appropriate term is directing,” Sir Peregrine smiled. “And my first
task will be to distribute these scripts and then call on you, in
sequence, to read a speech or two that I shall designate on your
behalf.”

“A sort of audition, then?” Dutton said,
revealing his lawyer’s instinct for clarity of terms.

“Nothing quite so formal, my dear Dutton. We
are all friends here. We shall try this and that in an atmosphere
of encouragement and good cheer until we happen upon the role best
suited to our sundry talents.” He smiled broadly and underlined the
gesture with both jowls.

“But won’t it be difficult without the
ladies’ parts?” Crenshaw said. “The women are everywhere in here,
as far as I can see.”

“As befits a play about love,” Sir Peregrine
said affably. “And ladies we shall have, good sir. That is
precisely why we are making this a truly ‘amateur’ production with
a carefully selected audience.”

“By my count, we’ll need three of the fairer
sex for these scenes,” Dutton said, ever precise. “Titania, Hermia
and Helena.”

“And count well, you have, my dear Dutton.
Lady Madeleine Shuttleworth will lay claim to the exacting role of
Titania. My niece Lizzie, who is tall for her age, will be perfect
for Helena.”

“Which leaves the role of Hermia unaccounted
for,” Dutton said.

“Indeed,” Sir Peregrine said. “I was hoping
that one or more of you would find it feasible to conscript a wife
or daughter for our intrepid band. But, of course, three of our own
members themselves declined to participate, leaving us with a
corporal’s guard, as it were.”

He did not have to point out that Fullarton’s
wife was an invalid and that Dutton was a lonely widower without
issue.

“You have a young sister, do you not,
Langford ol’ chap?” he said to Brodie with more hope in his voice
than expectation.

“I did ask Celia if she would like to join
us,” Brodie said, “but she declined. Perhaps another time – ”

“My good wife would be happy to play any role
assigned her,” Crenshaw said. “Clementine has taken part in several
tableaux – when she was in school.”

“Splendid, splendid,” Sir Peregrine enthused.
“But do you think she is – ah – right for the role of Hermia?” The
thought that Clementine Crenshaw must perforce be of an age with
her husband, forty or more, had just struck the director, in
addition to the fact that most affluent women in their middle years
(his own spouse excepted) were of a certain girth and
heavy-footedness.

“She is most youthful in appearance,”
Crenshaw lied loyally, “and has a most pleasing voice. She is very
keen on joining us.” He decided it was not necessary to add that
her keenness was prompted primarily by the possibility of spending
quality time in Oakwood Manor among its aristocratic occupants.

“Then it is settled. Your Clementine shall
play Hermia. We shall have wigs, costumes, make-up and footlights
to assist each of us in transforming our ordinary selves into the
magical creatures that inhabit the Bard’s dramas.”

Which was both a comforting and a daunting
thought for those seated at the director’s table.

“I propose, gentlemen, that we begin.” Sir
Peregrine stared down at his cast, who themselves were staring down
at their scripts. “Mr. Dutton, your slim figure and vigour of
movement should suffice to make you a presentable lover. Would you
favour us with one of Lysander’s speeches?”

Sir Peregrine indicated the speech he
desired.

Andrew Dutton found it, fondled his goatee as
if speculating whether or not it might have to be sacrificed for
art’s sake, and began:

Content with Hermia? No, I do repent