Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t see how that’s possible. I’ve toldno-one in Toronto but you. And I received a letter from my brotherin Montreal just yesterday. Here, I’ve still got it on me – I wasgoing to show it to you later.” She pulled out an envelope, removeda two-page letter, and gave it to Brodie.

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

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

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

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

“Auditioning for Bottom, are we?”

Brodie grinned. Oh, how he adored thismiraculous creature.

***

Late on Tuesday evening next, way up on Lot Street,if there had been any respectable persons abroad at thatless-than-respectable hour, they would have noticed a well-dressedgentleman moving uncertainly along the rutted path that served as asidewalk. He kept peering about him, in part to see whether or nothe was being observed and in part to seek out some signpost thathad so far eluded him. The collar of his cloak was pulled up overhis face and wrapped succinctly about his overly generous body.Despite the tentativeness of his progress, his steps were quick andshort, as if he were hobbled or wearing boots too small for hisfeet. At last he arrived at two barren hawthorn trees, betweenwhich, if you knew what you were looking for, a shadowy path couldbe seen winding away into the dense bush on the north side of thestreet. Behind the bush, and decently hidden from sober eyes, laythe notorious Irishtown – home to penniless squatters, tawdrybrothels, and a dozen gambling and opium dens.

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

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

***

Three of the Shakespeare regulars – Phineas Burke,Ezra Michaels and Dr. Pogue – informed the chairman that they werenot up to the challenge of actually rendering the Bard’s iambicpentameter in the flesh, so to speak. However, they evincedenthusiastic support for the project, and promised both to spreadthe word among their acquaintances about any upcoming performanceat Oakwood Manor and to assist in any material way that didn’tinclude public exposure. Hence it was that Sir Peregrine was ableto announce shortly after eight o’clock that the unalterable orderof events could be altered. The first half-hour would be devoted toa brisk discussion of love and comedy in The Dream (as SirPeregrine called it with a familiarity that intimated he had been abosom friend of the playwright himself). Then the members wouldmove to the lounge area for fifteen minutes of regulatedrefreshment, cigars and social chit chat. The three reluctantthespians would then leave for home, while the remaining membersreturned to the long table for the main event: a discussion ofwhich excerpts from “The Dream” ought to be dramatized and bywhom.

Brodie had arrived with Horace Fullarton, andentered as usual through the tavern. He had noticed as they walkedover to the familiar stairwell that there was no sign of Etta. Henodded to Gillian Budge, who gave him a tight smile before turningback to her husband at the bar and hissing something at him thatbrought a flush to his face. At the far end of the taproom Brodiesaw Nestor Peck lugging a cask of ale up the steps from the cellar- with only moderate success. Whenever he took his hands off thecask to get better leverage, it rolled back onto his toes. Hisrhythmic yelps drew guffaws from the sailors seated nearby. Brodiehoped Etta was all right.

***

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

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

So much for any deliberation of whichexcerpts were to be chosen, thought Brodie. And before the otherscould rummage through the various editions of the play they hadbrought with them, Sir Peregrine held up a sheaf of printed scriptsand 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 byEdmund Kean at Drury Lane – to facilitate the execution of ourenterprise. They contain a judicious selection of the scenes andsub-scenes that comprise acts two and three. The essentials of theplot have been retained, and the running time is about fortyminutes, if memory serves.”

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

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

“And you will be coaching us?” Cyrus Crenshawsaid.

“Indeed, I shall, though I believe the moreappropriate term is directing,” Sir Peregrine smiled. “And my firsttask will be to distribute these scripts and then call on you, insequence, to read a speech or two that I shall designate on yourbehalf.”