Don Gutteridge - The Bishop's Pawn

After thanking Chalmers and watching himtrudge off, Cobb had Gussie French compose a brief note toConstance Hungerford: “Suspect cleared. Alibi vouched for by awitness. No further leads.” He had it delivered. He hoped he wouldnot have to face that harridan again. Nevertheless, some bodyhad taken that money (with the connivance of the senior vicar’swife, no doubt), and it rankled that the culprit was still loose inCobb’s city.

***

If Cobb was hoping to come home at six o’clock to awarm supper and a consoling wife, he was soon disappointed. Dorawas waiting for him at the door – never a good sign.

“Now you went an’ done it, Mister Cobb!”

“Done what? I ain’t put my big toe in heresince the sun come up!”

“I just got back from Beth’s place.”

“Has the babe come?”

“No, not that. Turned out to be false labour.But it should be here real soon.”

“What, then?”

“Celia Langford was there. She had a letterin her hand.”

Oh, oh. Cobb was pretty sure what was cominghis way. “It wasn’t up to me, luv. I had to question the oldmiser. It was my duty .”

Dora pretended he had not spoken, as sheusually did in these circumstances. “It was a letter from MatthewBurchill.”

“That tie-rant of a father’s gone an’forbid the lad ta see her,” Cobb got in quickly before somethingworse could be uttered.

“That’s the least of it, I’m afraid.” Doralooked pained, but – strangely – not angry.

“If he’s hurt the lad, I’ll have him inirons!”

“There’s no need to get yer nose in a knot.Matthew’s fine. He told Celia his father’d found out from talkin’to you that they’d been seein’ each other in secret.”

“It was my duty. ”

“Quit whinin’ an’ listen, will ya? Matthewsaid his father had threatened to disinherit him an’ toss him intathe street instantly unless he quit courtin’ her.”

“Well, that kinda threat usually ups the temper-churn of any courtin’,” Cobb observed.

“Thanks fer the folk wisdom, Mister Cobb. Butwhat the little turd told her was that his love had cooled rightdown, that he’d seen the light an’ pledged to follow his father’splans fer his life. He begged her to be a proper Christian an’forgive him.”

Cobb gulped. “Maybe the old man helped himwrite the letter.”

Dora snorted. “He sent back her locket , the one he promised to keep next to his heartforever – with another messenger.”

“So I guess she’s in a bad way?”

“Tryin’ to be brave, fer Beth’s sake. Butshe’s had two blows in a week. I managed to talk her into stayin’with Beth an’ Charlene fer a while.”

“So, I gotta take the blame fer this, doI?”

Cobb tried to look as pitiable and put-uponas possible.

“You do. But don’t worry. She’ll get overhim. Them two together woulda been a disaster. ”

With appropriate humility and impeccabletiming, Cobb said, “What’s fer supper?”

***

Marc spent a frustrating Monday afternoon cooling hisheels in the reception room of the New York Bar Association. Whenhe made the mistake of mentioning that he wished to speak tosomeone on the executive about Richard Dougherty, the secretary’sface became an impenetrable mask of polite resistance. While notrefusing Marc’s request outright, the fellow made only tokengestures to intercede on his behalf, smiling stiffly after eachsally into the inner offices and suggesting that it would only be amatter of another quarter-hour or so. By five o’clock, Marc got themessage. He took his leave.

Once outside and breathing fresh air again,Marc decided to walk the two blocks along Bayard Street to theBowery. As he turned north on this grand and fabled avenue, laidout by the pioneering Dutch almost two hundred years before, hespotted what he was looking for.

The Bowery Theatre sat in the middle of theblock on the east side, wedged in between a row of sturdy,three-storey brick-structures – housing shops and apartments – andthe New York Theatre Hotel, a handsome stuccoed block withblue-shuttered windows. Neither of these bordering buildingsprepared the newcomer for the grandeur and symmetry of the theatreitself, though their rough-hewn utility did much to emphasize itsvisual delights. Set back a few paces from the paved sidewalk by awide flight of stone steps, the entrance was guarded andembellished by four soaring, fluted columns. As the eye rose withthem, they culminated in elaborate, floral capitals, whichthemselves were framed by a pair of pilasters that served toseparate the theatre’s elegant artfulness from the pedestrianpracticality of its neighbours. Twelve feet above the colonnadedporch and stretched across the entire façade lay a broad balconywith intricate, wrought-iron railings, where patrons could strollbetween acts and gaze out upon the wonders of their city. Above thecastellated wall around the roof, the Stars and Stripes flappedcontentedly in the afternoon breeze.

My mother has done well, was Marc’sthought.

He went up to the notice-board set beside oneof the four, pillared lamp-posts, and looked at the playbill.

TONIGHT!

Mrs. Annemarie Thedford

– New York’s Most Celebrated Actress -

in

Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra

with Edwin Forrest

America’s Finest Tragedian as Antony

etc.

Curtain at Seven O’Clock

Well, the evening promised to be more productive thanthe afternoon had been.

Marc decided to walk the dozen blocks back toThe Houston Hotel. The sight of his mother’s name in bold lettersin front of the theatre she now owned had stirred up memories,images and conversations that required his earnest attention. Hefelt that he must rework them – cautiously, tenderly – before hecame face to face with her once again. In the almost twenty-nineyears of his life, he had known her company for less than a week,had not even known of her until they had met, by chance andin difficult circumstances, eighteen months before in Toronto. Butshe was his mother. The babe that Beth was carrying would be hergrandson. With a guilty start he realized that Beth might havegiven birth already – without him.

It was thoughts like this, and the mixedemotions they raised, that caused Marc to become careless as hesauntered along the Bowery, oblivious to its attractions and thethrong of New Yorkers about him. It was only when he turned ontoHouston Street that he noticed a fellow with a battered top-hatturn the corner with him – and remembered that the selfsame top-hathad popped up once or twice before when he had paused to gazedisinterestedly into the display window of a shop. To confirm hissuspicions, Marc strode across the street, sidestepping adetermined pig and an irritated mule, and walked straight into atobacconist’s.

Once inside, he wheeled and peered back outthrough the soot-smeared glass. Top-hat paused on the sidewalkopposite the shop, and stared uncertainly in Marc’s direction.After a minute or so, the fellow bent down to adjust his bootstrap.Marc purchased a cigar, stuck it unlit between his teeth, andre-entered the street. He did not look at top-hat, but turned andmarched briskly ahead.

At Broadway, the intersection was crowdedwith shoppers, tradesmen, beggars, carts, and stray beasts ofdubious pedigree. Marc stepped into the noisy, shifting mêlée. Onreaching the opposite walk, he slipped into the shadows of thenearest doorway. Moments later, top-hat emerged, kicking at amange-ridden cur that was nipping at his left pant-cuff. Onceacross the street, he began searching among the crowd for hisquarry. He took a few steps in each direction, straining to seewhat he could amongst the constant movement of men and beasts. Atlast, he shook his head, removed his hat to reveal a hairlessskull, wiped the sweat from it with a grimy handkerchief, replacedthe hat, then turned and strode back up Broadway.