“But?”
“But that nice David Chalmers useta beStrachan’s pupil in the Cornwall Academy, an’ some people say thenew bishop is likely to give him the post even though he’s tenyears younger than Hungerford. Others say it’s a bit of a horserace.”
“So you want to go there today to have agander at the two of them, eh? To see which one c’n plant thejuiciest kiss on the deacon’s – ah – ring.”
“That’s part of the fun, yes. But it’sSusannah Hungerford I wanta see.”
“That old battle-axe!”
“An’ battle she will. She runs the ladies’wing of the congregation – in addition to her husband. You rememberI delivered her last baby when the doctor was away on his springfishin’ trip, an’ helped her through the fever she caughtafterwards. Well, I got a good, close-up look at that creature an’,believe me, it wasn’t a pretty sight. She’s mean an’ cunnin’ an’every inch ambitious.”
“About as sweet-tampered-with as LadyMacbeth, I take it?”
Dora grinned. “Come on, Mister Cobb, we wantaget a good seat. Deacon Strachan is gonna preach the sermon thismornin’, an’ it’s expected he’ll be throwin’ hints as to which ofthe two contenders is in the lead.”
Cobb was looking around for a suitablehat.
“An’ just think of the buzzin’ an’ backbitin’that’ll be goin’ on after the service. It’ll be more funthan fair day!”
***
It was still a half-hour before the service, but whenCobb and Dora turned north onto Church Street, they were astonishedto see the broad intersection of Church and King jammed withcarriages, men on horseback, and dozens of pedestrians – more orless impeding one another’s progress. The rumour concerning JohnStrachan’s possible elevation (started, it was said, by thegentleman himself) had spread far and wide, as had the certaintythat the great man had already booked passage for England andLambeth Palace. If so, then they were about to hear his valedictorysermon as Archdeacon and Rector of York. A Strachan sermon at anytime was music to the ears of every Anglican, Tory, and royalist inthe province, many of them having been reprinted in pamphlet andbook form for the edification of Christians everywhere. Nor had thegood reverend been modest about veering in his homilies fromGod’s word to the government’s. It wasn’t his faultif religion and politics were permanently entangled in the closedworld of Upper Canada, and since it was so, he would not flinchfrom his responsibility to guide his flock to the rightconclusions. After all, there were as many of the Devil’s tricksand snares in the prose of the Durham Report as there werein an atheist’s tract. That the Archdeacon would take fulladvantage of his captive audience and his (soon-to-be) enhancedauthority was not in doubt. It would take Christ’s resurrectionitself to trump the anticipated glories and satisfactions ofthis morning!
Cobb and Dora manoeuvred across theintersection in the bright Sabbath sunshine, then paused to catchtheir breath on the gravelled esplanade in front of the church.They were surprised to see, nearby, Marc Edwards and a smartlydressed young couple.
“Well, hello there, major!” Cobb said, usinghis familiar if inaccurate epithet for his friend and sometimeassociate in the investigation of serious crimes. “What’re youdoin’ here in the real church? Without yer better half?”
Marc laughed, as he was meant to, and tippedhis hat to Dora. “Beth was up most of the night with leg crampsand, like all these good, overly curious citizens, I decided toforgo the pleasures of the Congregational service in order to hearthe spit and thunder of the great man himself.”
“I couldn’t’ve said it any better,” Cobbsaid, “but I’d’ve been a tad briefer.”
“I’ve got some balm I c’n rub on Beth’scalves,” Dora said. “I’ll come ‘round after Church an’ give her amassage.”
“That’s kind of you, Dora. Beth will begrateful, and pleased to have someone else to talk to besides me orCharlene.”
“An’ who are yer young friends?” Dorasaid.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marc said. “I forgot thatyou haven’t met Brodie or Miss Ramsay.”
Cobb, of course, had met Brodie during theinvestigation and trial the previous January, but Dora’s responseto him was not untypicaclass="underline" he was so fair-haired and white-skinnedthat one expected his eyes to be as pink as a rabbit’s. But theywere an icy blue, translucent, and disconcerting. However, when hesmiled, as he did in shaking hands with Cobb and bowing to Dora,you forgot any of the anomalies of his appearance.
“And this is my good friend, Diana Ramsay,”Brodie Langford announced with a proprietorial air that promptedher to blush.
“I’ve heard much about both of you,” Dianasaid. “All of it flattering,” she added with an impish glance atBrodie.
“Diana is governess to Robert’s four childrenat Baldwin House,” Marc explained.
“And at Spadina when the older ones are atschool,” Brodie said.
“I’ve seen you in the back yard often,” Cobbsaid, “whilst makin’ my rounds. And I noticed young Broderick herecomin’ in fer the odd bit of legal advice.”
Before Diana could blush again, Dora saidcheerfully, “I guess we’re all here fer the same show.”
“Sideshow’s more like it,” Cobb said as hewas elbowed by a middle-aged, overdressed woman of means.
They decided for their own safety to join thethrong pressing towards the tall oaken doors of the Anglicanchurch.
***
The bells of St. James had just finished tolling forthe eleven o’clock service when Joseph Brenner and LawrenceTallman, following the precise directions provided by thenight-manager of The American Hotel, walked up a stone path to thestoop of a cottage on the west side of Bay Street just above King.They did not pause to admire the snowdrops that peeped bravely upthrough clumps of grass on the lawn. But the curious wooden shingleabove the lintel, and its inscription, did arrest their attentionfor a moment, before they rapped politely on the door.
An attractive, blond-haired young womananswered their knock immediately, and flashed them a pretty smile.“May I help you, gentlemen?”
“Is this the Dougherty residence, ma’am?”said one of the two, though both of them were eyeing hercuriously.
“It is. Who would you like to see?”
“Doubtful Dick, if he’s at home.”
Celia smiled again. “Who shall I say iscalling?”
“Ah . . . two old . . . associates – from NewYork.”
The smile vanished from her face.
***
The ringing of these same bells was duly noted in thecluttered and shuttered workshop at the rear of BartholomewBurchilclass="underline" Silversmith on King Street at Jarvis, a mere blockaway from St. James. When it stopped, Matthew Burchill said “Eleveno’clock” under his breath, like an amen at the end of a prayer. Hisfather would now be safely inside at the family pew. With thebishop-in-waiting about to deliver the gospel in the flesh, nothingshort of a fire would drive him or any other parishioner out intothe sunshine. Matthew had one hour. They would have one hour- together. It wasn’t much, but when you had a father with thepassions and prejudices of Bartholomew Burchill, it was as much asone could hope for. All of which made Matthew adore Celia Langfordeven more, if that were possible.
He stood back and examined the silver teapothe had spent part of the night repairing so that he could slip awayto their morning assignation. Father expected it would occupy thehour he was away and unable to supervise his son, idle hands beingthe Devil’s workshop. The mend was perfect. In spite of hisfather’s severe appraisal, Matthew knew that he was talented andthat, given a chance, he could go into business for himself andmake a go of it. Celia said that she had money, an inheritance fromher dead father (she fatherless and he motherless) and thatsomeday, when she finished school and they could think aboutmarrying, they could open their own silversmith shop. Alas, whatCelia, in her lovable naiveté, did not understand was that hisfather would never relent, would never change his mind about herguardian, Dick Dougherty – pervert, Anti-Christ, Yankee.