Don Gutteridge - The Bishop's Pawn

The knife-blade flashed, the rope wasinstantly severed and, with the warning cry stuck in his throat,Marc watched in horror as the deadly missile dropped straight down.It struck the boards with a mighty thump, less than a yard fromMrs. Thedford. The actors, like the audience, were momentarilystunned. Someone had the good sense to begin lowering the curtainjust as mayhem and confusion broke out everywhere.

Seeing his mother safe for the time being,Marc sprinted past the actors, who were looking helplessly up intothe blazing lights or trying to decide which way to run. He hadspotted the knife-wielder scrabbling along the catwalk towards aladder in the opposite wing. Marc arrived there just as the fellowreached the bottom rung. His eyes widened with fright when he sawMarc charging at him like a man gone berserk. He turned and madefor the stairs and the hallway that led to the rooms behind thestage. Marc decided that a crippling tackle was the surest means ofcutting off the villain’s escape. He threw himself into the airwith arms outstretched, just as his quarry stumbled, cursed, andtoppled sideways. Marc went hurtling past him, and felt the suddenemptiness of the space above the stairs before he crashed headlongonto their abrupt angles. At this point, the lights, mercifully,went out.

***

“He’s awake.”

“Thank God.”

“I’m sure nothing’s broken.”

“Did he get away?” Marc said as he opened hiseyes fully and took in Brodie, his mother and the vaguely familiarsurroundings.

“We carried you over here to Mrs. Thedford’ssuite. You’ve got a nasty bump on your forehead,” Brodie said,wanting to be helpful.

Marc’s mother moved behind the arm of thesofa and placed a cold compress on the part of his head thatthrobbed the most. He felt a series of stabbing, needle-like painsalong his right arm and below his right knee.

“You fell down a flight of five stairs,”Brodie said.

“Did you catch the bastard?” Marc said,trying to sit up.

“He got away,” Annemarie said.

“But we know who he was,” Brodie said.

Annemarie sighed. “It was young Withers, thenew stagehand. He knew how to get out of the building quickly. Wefound the knife he used on the catwalk.”

“Then we’ll catch up with him,” Marc said,feeling woozy and taking the compress from his mother. “I’ll be allright. It’s that villain we need to track down: he tried to killyou. We’ll beat the truth out of him.”

“He’s long gone, Marc. The Tammany peoplewill see that he’s never found. And if he had been intending tokill me, he wouldn’t have missed. Withers could put a fly down on aline no wider than a knife-edge.”

“But it barely missed you!” This exclamationinduced a more active throbbing in his head, and Marc sagged backagainst a cushion.

“That sandbag was meant as a warning,”Annemarie said. “As a form of intimidation. That’s the way Tammanyoperates.”

“So they do know you have the fifthaffidavit, and you think they were telling you to hand it over tothem?”

“Something like that.”

Brodie coughed and looked at Annemarie, whonodded.

“What is it?” Marc said. “What else hashappened?”

“Your mother’s dresser told us that sometimeduring the last act someone broke into the dressing-room, rippedthe safe out of the wall, and took it away with him. The rest ofthe room was a shambles.”

“Damn! We should have put a permanent guardthere as soon as we suspected they were on to us.”

“Well, they seem to have gotten what theyreally wanted,” Annemarie said.

“But surely they must believe you yourselfhave looked at those incriminating documents,” Marc said. “If so,you are still in extreme danger.”

“Not really. Tammany now have the swornstatement and the name of the unfortunate informant. All else ismere speculation, and of no real threat to them.”

Marc tried to stand up, but the pain in hisknee caused his leg to buckle, and he sat back down. “Then we havelost,” he said.

“Not entirely,” Annemarie said veryquietly.

“What do you mean?” Brodie said.

“Before he left, your guardian gave me asmall sealed envelope. He said it contained one sheet of paper. Onit he had written down the names of the pedophiles he had gleanedfrom his interviews with the boys. ‘Just the names,’ he said, ‘sothat whatever else happens, you will know who these dreadful menare.’”

“Nothing else, then?” Marc asked, deflatedyet again.

“That’s what he said. But why don’t we lookfor ourselves?”

Marc and Brodie were equally astonished.

“I’ve kept it here, in my desk, these pastmonths – unopened.”

As they watched her, doubting whether such alist would be of any material value but unwilling to abandon hope,she went over to a gleaming, rosewood davenport, opened its drawer,and drew out a sealed, brown envelope. She broke the seal andremoved a single sheet of white paper. Slowly she gazed at what waswritten there, nodding and sighing as she did.

“It’s a roll-call of the high and mighty,”she said. “Some of these names are a shock – beyond belief.” Thepaper now hung limply at her side. “I wish to God I had not lookedat this. Here, Marc, throw it in the fire. It will do none of usany good: you might as well try to bring down the Governor’smansion or the White House.”

She let the paper drift to the floor. Brodiemoved quickly to her side and guided her to the nearest chair. Theevents of the evening, and indeed the past two days, had takentheir toll on her.

Marc picked up the paper and walked over tothe embering fire in the marble-topped hearth.

“Please, son.”

Marc held it out towards a flickering blueflame. As he did so, he could not help but notice one of the nameson the list. He stared at it, momentarily bewildered.

“Don’t punish yourself – ”

“It’s all right, mother.” He let the paperfall into the fire. “I’ve seen enough.” But it wasn’t a sigh thatcoloured this latter remark: it was a rising, unquenchable surge ofexhilaration.

“I think we’ve found our second assassin,” hesaid. “To be certain, we’ll need to go back to Eliza’s place firstthing in the morning. And if I’m right, Brodie and I will be on thefirst boat up the Hudson to the Erie Canal.”

By seven-fifteen Wednesday evening the streets ofToronto were completely dark, except for the modest glow from a fewdozen post-lamps along King and Front and the occasional, wobblyglimmer of a carriage-lantern. The moon would not be up for hours,and the meagre spillage of light from the homes, shops and tavernswas not bright enough to fire a cat’s eyes. A good time to besettled safely in one’s parlour. A better time for thieves,pub-brawlers and roustabouts.

Constable Cobb stood outside the policequarters and impassively observed the elderly watchman place hisstool at the base of the lamp-post on the corner of Church andKing. Even after the formation of the municipal constabulary in1835, the city fathers had kept four or five of the watchmen on thepayroll – to light the street-lamps and stand sentry at the majorintersections. For most of them, “standing sentry” meant finding acomfortable doorway and snoozing the night away. Cobb walked alongto the lamp just lit. He noted with some illicit satisfaction thatthe glow it cast did not disturb the shadows that covered the bigfront doors of St. James a hundred feet away. And the rear door ofthe vicarage was, as always, invisible; even a full moon would castno illumination in the dark alley leading up to it. Pleased withhimself, he returned to his regular patrol.

Having informed Dora of the particularingenuities of his plan (which apparently went unregarded by thatnormally perceptive woman), Cobb did not have to return home whenhis patrol duties ended around ten o’clock. Instead, he slippedunnoticed into the shadows alongside the eastern wall of St. Jamesand sidestepped his way northward until he stumbled upon the littlestoop at the rear of the vicarage, striking his kneecap on itssharp edge and uttering a muffled oath. He held his breath andlistened hard, but the excited rasping of his own breath and thethumping of his heart was all he could hear. He decided that beinga sneak-thief was not as simple as it appeared: give him a noisytavern brawl any day.