“Thea Clarkson spied you between the firstand second act,” Annemarie Thedford said as if that feat had beeninevitable. Thea had been with Annemarie’s travelling troupe inToronto in 1837, and knew Marc, though she was not privy to hisbeing her manager’s son. “I always knew you would come some day,even though few of the many letters you promised ever arrived.” Shesmiled to let him know that this latter remark was not meant as areproof.
“I thought it best to let a little water flowunder the bridge before crossing it,” Marc said, coming across theroom and taking her hand.
“I thought as much. But you are here now,looking well. And you have had the advantage of seeing me thisevening at my best and at my worst.” She glanced down at herkimono, which had been hastily thrown over her shift, and then ranher fingers through her thick but untethered hair. Its faircolouring – so like Marc’s – showed the effects of the dye used todarken it for the play. Her face was still creamy with makeupremover, and one of the artificial eyelashes drooped comically fromher right eyelid. But the blue eyes, an Edwards’ signature trait,could not be Egyptianized, nor could her tall and regal bearing bediminished by her being seated – and exhausted after a gruellingperformance.
“You are not in uniform, lieutenant.”
“That’s a very long story.”
She stifled a yawn, then reached for thedecanter of brandy on her dresser. “But the night is still young,”she said.
***
For the next half-hour – while Annemarie Thedfordchanged her clothes and performed various ablutions behind aChinese screen, and the hubbub in the hallway outside graduallysubsided – Marc and his mother caught up on each other’s news. Marcgave her a carefully edited account of his experiences during therebellion in Quebec, a more elaborate (and cheerful) account of hiscourtship and marriage (including Beth’s “condition”), and aheartfelt explanation of his abandonment of the military in favourof the law. In her turn she told him of the difficult months thathad followed her return to New York from Toronto in October of1837, the gradual recovery of her spirits, and her determination tomake The Bowery Theatre and its company a success. While neither ofthem spoke directly about the nightmarish incident in Toronto thathad brought them together and then threatened to tear them apart,it hung between them nonetheless. Marc felt constrained to askafter Tessa Guildersleeve, the young woman who had been hismother’s protégé and, as it turned out, much more.
“Would you believe it, Marc, she ran off andgot married – to some puffed-up state senator.” The tone was light,but Marc caught the pain under it.
She came out from behind the screen, attiredin a handsome dress that accentuated her figure and regaldemeanour. Her hair was brushed and, as it dried out, radiant. Shemotioned Marc to a chair and drew hers up close. She stared intohis eyes as if any thought of releasing their blue gaze mightbetray a doubt in their reality, in the unwarranted love they werepouring into her own. Against the odds, and logic, and all that wasjust, the young man seated before her was her flesh and blood, andhe had forgiven all.
When at last Marc looked away, she saidsoftly, “I want to know everything about Dick.”
***
News of Dick Dougherty’s murder had hit New York thatvery morning, just one week after it had happened, and had spreadrapidly among those who might be thought to have an interest in itbeyond the lurid details. Marc told his mother of the trial inJanuary during which he had come to know Doubtful Dick, and oftheir subsequent friendship. Briefly he outlined his reasons forcoming here, and recounted his meeting with Brenner and Tallman.She listened without comment, her face registering shock, grief andanger.
“So I came here not only to interrogateBrenner and Tallman but to talk to you about the man who bequeathedyour theatre two thousand dollars. I was certain that such abequest indicated much more than an interest in plays andplayhouses. You and Dick had to be friends.”
“We were,” she said, not bothering to brushaway the tears staining her face-powder. “Like brother and sister.He came backstage after one of my performances. We talked forhours, and we never stopped talking until the day they drove himaway – like a common felon.”
“That’s the day I want to know about,” Marcsaid, taking her hands in both of his, “if you can bear to talkabout it. I’m positive that someone or other here in New Yorkactually planned and incited Dick’s murder. I need to understandthe motive and who might be associated with it. And young Brodieneeds to know for his own sake.”
She smiled. “I only met Brodie and Celiaonce, shortly after Dick moved into their house on Broome Street.Dick kept his life carefully compartmentalized. I saw him in theevenings only, before or after a performance. I have a suite ofrooms in the hotel next door, and we would sit up in the wee hoursdiscussing all manner of things. That we were thought to be acouple scandalized his legal associates and amused us -vastly.”
The wry smile she gave him prompted him tosay, “Dennis Langford and Dick Dougherty were lovers, then?”
“Yes, but they were so much more than that,”she replied almost wistfully. “Dick and Dennis were parents toBrodie and Celia – devoted, protective, proud as punch.”
“Was this . . . ah, relationship . . . widelyknown?”
“They were very discreet. There werewhispers, of course, but Dick’s flamboyant success in the courtroomhere and the absolute privacy of his family life kept the whispersfrom growing into something ugly and dangerous.”
“But someone, who had a reason to envy orbegrudge Dick’s success, found out? And ruined him?”
She gave Marc a grim little smile. “If it hadbeen only that, Dick would have stayed and fought it out – and won.After all, Dennis was dead, and there was never a question ofanyone else. Even with Tammany Hall set against him he would haveprevailed. No, it wasn’t that; it was something much, muchworse.”
With a shudder, Marc recalled the “story” hehad heard at Brenner and Tallman’s that morning. He bracedhimself.
***
As it happened, Annemarie Thedford was the onlyperson in New York or elsewhere who knew the whole story. Dick cameto her in November of 1837, shortly after her return from UpperCanada, and confided to her that he had taken the most importantcase of his illustrious career. But it would not be fought out in acourtroom, at least not yet. It seemed that, against his betterjudgement, he had allowed himself to be taken to the ManhattanGentleman’s Club by a long-time colleague with whom he had justconcluded a complicated civil suit. When the colleague suggestedthat they celebrate further by taking advantage of the attachedbrothel, Dick had firmly declined. “Ah, but I’m not talking aboutyoung women,” was the reply. Dick had registered his shock,and disbelief. “Come and have a peek, Dick. It won’t hurt to look.”Still sceptical and thinking that his colleague was more drunk thanhe appeared, Dick followed him into the back section of therambling house. A series of discreet and coded knocks opened doorsthat finally led them to a shuttered, dimly lit parlour. Dick had abrief impression of naked males – of various ages and body-shapes -draped across or wriggling in over-padded chairs and sofas. Momentslater, a horrified cry cut through the heavy, malodorous air of theroom. It came from one of the adjacent cubicles, out of whichstaggered a slim, pale-skinned male, who, properly attired, mighthave passed for a gentleman. He was covered in blood.
Other cries and shrieks – of horror, fear,command – soon filled the parlour, which had become within secondssheer bedlam. Flight seemed to be the primary response, as clotheswere flung over limbs and boots, and fleeing grandees tripped overone another and cursed, and tripped again. Dick’s colleaguevanished. Dick himself walked across to the cubicle and drew backthe crushed-velvet curtain. In the glow of a single candle, he sawthe naked, and very still, body on the bed, cooling in its ownblood. Around its neck was a spiked dog’s collar. It had somehowbecome twisted, in the contortions of lust, and one of its metalprotrusions had imbedded itself in the victim’s throat, puncturingthe jugular. Dick went over to the bed and peered at the face inits rictus of death. It was a boy. He could not have been more thanthirteen.