“I must confess that ever since the triallast January I’ve had the itch to get back into the courtroom.”
They turned north up Bay Street in thebracing night-air.
“Stoneham was enraged by the sight of thatshingle on your cottage. It’s like a red rag to a bull. Would youconsider removing it until after your formal admission?”
“I would, but I’m afraid it’s a bit too latefor that.”
Marc was stunned. “You’re not telling me -”
“I am. I’ve already taken on a new case.”
***
“I couldn’t refuse the fellow,” Dougherty was saying.The brougham had stopped in front of the cottage with its offendingsign. “His name is David Chalmers. He’s a vicar at St. JamesAnglican Church, one of two working under Archdeacon Strachan,whose own work apparently takes him well beyond Toronto and YorkCounty. I’m not sure how these things operate, but Chalmers, who isthirty-five, is still junior vicar. The senior man is the ReverendQuentin Hungerford. According to Chalmers, Hungerford is jealous ofhim and suspicious of his ambitions, for which he assures me thereare no grounds. Two weeks ago, Mrs. Hungerford, who runs the LadiesAuxiliary, accused Chalmers of embezzling or misappropriating tendollars from her treasury, following his participation in a bazaarthey held in February. This claim is supported by her owntreasurer. Chalmers, of course, denied the charge, and when theincident was taken to Strachan, the great man said he believed hisjunior vicar, in part because Chalmers had been one of his prizepupils in the Cornwall school.”
“So why did he end up coming to you?” Marcsaid, his anxiety rising at the mention of the Archdeacon’sname.
“Mrs. Hungerford is not a woman to be lightlydismissed. She urged Strachan, in light of the ‘fact’ of themissing ten dollars, to have a close look at the parish’sbooks, which are kept by the same Mr. Chalmers. When Strachan gotaround to this, with a Hungerford at each elbow, he discoverednumerous minor discrepancies – above and below the line. It appearsthat the Reverend Chalmers is just an inept bookkeeper. However, inorder to keep peace in his bailiwick, Strachan takes Chalmers asideand suggests that he be moved to a post somewhere in the wastes ofthe Huron Tract or down in the wilds of the Talbot settlement.Chalmers is devastated, even when Strachan assures him that themove is temporary.”
“There isn’t much he can do about it,” Marcsaid. “The Anglican Church is not a democracy.”
“Well, he tried. He went to three differentlawyers to take advice. Once they learned that Strachan wasinvolved, they showed him the door – politely.”
“I told you he was a powerful man, and afearsome enemy.”
“The junior vicar came to see me a few daysago.”
“And you didn’t show him to the door?”
“I did not. He had been falsely accused. Mrs.Hungerford had no evidence other than the fact that Chalmers hadferried the cash-box from the bazaar to his rooms. His study wasunlocked overnight, and any number of persons had access to it.It’s a clear case of he said/she said.”
“I agree, but what could you do?”
“I sat down and wrote a stern, lawyerlyletter to Archdeacon Strachan, suggesting that, if the matter werenot dropped and Chalmers not reinstated, civil action – notexcluding libel and defamation – would seriously be considered. Etcetera.”
Dougherty looked particularly pleased withhimself.
“Dick, as your friend, I must warn you -”
“I know, I know. I’ve just rammed a coldpoker up the Devil’s arse!”
He looked even more pleased with himself.
FOUR
“Wake up, Mister Cobb! You’re gonna miss Church!”
Constable Horatio Cobb groaned, rolled awayfrom the penetrating authority of that voice into a cosier part ofthe big bed, tried to pretend he was still asleep, realized thefutility of that assumption and the consequences of disobedience,opened his eyes, and retorted, “But I always misschurch!”
“Not this mornin’, you ain’t,” Dora said, andit was excitement that Cobb detected in his wife’s reply, not thecustomary threat or wheedle. “You’d be mighty regrettable if youmissed this show!”
“I’m regrettable already,” Cobb sighed,sitting up and pulling the nightcap off the permanentflare-and-tangle of his hair. “You know I didn’t get home till pertnear midnight, an’ me an’ Wilkie got battered an’ bruised breakin’up a fistfight in The Cock an’ Bull. Lookit the welt I got hereunder my eye!”
Dora leaned over, careful to keep her Sundayfrock – and the scrubbed and powdered flesh it encased – well awayfrom her husband’s greasy locks. “I’ll kiss it better after theducks-ology,” she said, then turned her large butsurprisingly nimble body about and trundelled from the room.
When Cobb reached the kitchen ten minuteslater – reluctantly attired in his wedding suit and a white blouse- a steaming bowl of porridge and mug of freshly brewed tea awaitedhim. Delia and Fabian were still at the Sunday school thatArchdeacon Strachan had recently started, and, to Cobb’sdisappointment, they seemed to be enjoying it. Cobb himself hadbeen raised on a pioneer farm near Woodstock in the days when theywere lucky to see a Methodist circuit rider once every two months.He had, of course, been baptized, but had never bothered to attendthe little wooden church that had eventually been built in thevillage. And while Dora would not describe herself as a scrupulousChristian (being a scrupulously honest soul), she did attendservices at St. James at least once a month and invariably onspecial occasions like Easter and Harvest Home. But sociable as shewas – playing midwife to dozens of families in the “old town” eastof Yonge – she had steered clear of the Ladies Auxiliary and otherfemale support groups. “I’m in the business of savin’ babies ferthe Queen, not souls fer Deacon Strachan!” she proclaimed wheneveroccasion demanded it.
“So what’s the fuss all about this mornin’?”Cobb said. “Somethin’ special with the litter-gee?”
Dora gave him the eye. “You wouldn’trecognize the trinity if it was stuck in yer craw!”
“I was just askin’. It ain’t easy squeezin’inta these trousers. They keep shrinkin’ every time you wash‘em.”
“They haven’t shrunk an inch since we wasmarried. It’s what’s in them that keeps on expandin’.”
“Well, are you gonna tell me, or do I havetaguess?”
“I wonder you haven’t heard the gossip aboutwhat’s goin’ on over there at St. James, spendin’ yer days in an’out of taverns an’ bein’ privy to all that scuttlebutt.”
“My clients don’t discuss thee-ologytoo much.”
Dora chuckled, then tried to look solemn asshe said, “It’s an open secret that John Strachan is goin’ to bemade a bishop. They say he’s gettin’ ready to sail fer England nextmonth to make sure it happens.”
This stunning news did little to disrupt thesteady spooning of porridge.
“You don’t seem impressed,” Dora said.
Cobb licked a sticky gob off his lower lip.“Fer a fella that thinks of himself as Pope, wearin’ amighter-hat seems a comedown to me.”
“Don’t be pertinent,” Dora snapped back.“Anyways, that’s just the first part of the story.”
“Ahh, I figured there was more.”
“When Reverend Strachan becomes bishop, thatmeans he’ll haveta look after the church affairs all across theprovince.”
“Ya mean he’ll be outta our hair once inwhile.” Cobb spilled some tea on his blouse, but took nonotice.
“Which means he won’t be Rector of YorkCounty, ‘cause he’ll have the bishop’s salary, an’ that means thateither Reverend Chalmers or Reverend Hungerford will likely get thepost.”
“I thought the Reverend Hungry-for-itwas next in line,” Cobb said, his interest picking up as he sensedwhat was coming.
“That he is. He’s been vicar under theArchdeacon fer fifteen years or more – bowin’ an’ scrapin’ more toStrachan than to the Lord.”