“This ain’t The Sailor’s Arms,” Cobb saidsharply, grabbing the boy’s left wrist. “What’re you tryin’ topull?”
“B-but it is, Cobb. This is the back end ofit.”
“I’ll back-end yer arse if you’re havin’ meon,” Cobb said just as Squealer broke free of his grip.
“Upstairs! In that big room! I c’n still hear‘em!” Squealer had dashed around the west corner of the building -up to what looked like a door.
Cobb was about to put his threat into actionwhen he heard the faint but precise cries of a number ofvoices.
“I think they’re doin’ it!” Squealer sobbed,overcome by it all.
Cobb brushed past him, found a latch, andstepped into a dark stairwell. Looking up, he could see a partiallyopen door with a light of some kind behind it. Taking the stairstwo at a time, he barged his way into what appeared to be ananteroom, lit by two flickering candle-lanterns. The cries weresuddenly vivid in his ears: they were definitely raised in angerand tinged with a strange kind of exultation.
“Jesus,” he whispered to himself as he drewout his truncheon, “somethin’ awful’s goin’ on in there.” Where “inthere” was he was not quite certain. He was vaguely aware that TheSailor’s Arms might have such a private upper room, and couldeasily imagine it being used as a gambling or opium den where allkinds of mischief might be hatched. It was this thought that madehim hesitate and wonder if he ought to risk going in alone. Then henoticed along the inner wall of the anteroom a row of neatly hunggentleman’s coats and cloaks, a sight which puzzled himmomentarily, until he remembered that gentlemen were capable ofanything when their interests were at stake.
“Aaaghhhh!”
This cry of utter anguish struck Cobb like acold dagger in the belly. Someone was being murdered! Withno thought for his own safety, he shouldered aside the inner doorand plunged into a large, brightly lit room. Directly before him hesaw a ring of five or six well-dressed men, each uttering some sortof triumphant howl in various keys as they hunched forward oversome object amongst them. In their right hand, several of them wereraising and lowering what appeared to be silver-bladed knives.Others were lifting their hands over their heads, then dipping themdown towards what had to be the target of their violence and sourceof their exaltation. He had interrupted some bloodthirsty, satanicritual!
“Stop where you are!” Cobb shouted. “I am thelaw!”
For a brief moment the hunched andgesticulating ring of assassins froze before Cobb in a grotesquetableau: mouths agape, heads swivelled halfway around to take inthe interloper and his awesome command, eyes stiff with surprise.Several knives clattered to the floor. Then the murderers, if thatis what they were, fell back and aside as Cobb inched slowlyforward, truncheon cocked, towards the victim – now exposed in apathetic heap on a small platform or dais.
Keeping a sideways glance on the perpetratorsof the outrage, Cobb stepped up to the corpse, and as he did so itbegan to show signs of life. It rolled lumpily over onto its backand opened its eyes. No knife-wounds rent the white robe the fellowwas wrapped in, nor was it stained with his blood. He sat up, hiscorpulent bulk propped up by his hands splayed out behind him. Onhis head, slightly askew, sat a somewhat tattered wreath composedof vine leaves. The white robe appeared to be a single linenbedsheet inexpertly folded so as to resemble a Roman toga.
“Jesus,” Cobb hissed, “who in blazes areyou? Banquo’s ghost?”
***
The eight assembled members of the Shakespeare Clubinvited Constable Horatio Cobb to join them in a good laugh overthe misapprehended “murder” of Julius Caesar by Brutus, Cassius andtheir fellow conspirators. While Cobb did not see much humour inthe situation, he was moderately mollified by a tumbler offirst-class Burgundy and several pats on the back for “being asport” about it all. Brodie, embarrassed and apologizing profusely,escorted Cobb into the cloakroom and watched him descend the stairsand disappear into the darkness. A spacious window in the rear wallof the cloakroom overlooked the alley, and Brodie took a moment topeer into the moonlit area immediately below, where Cobb had beenstopped by a skinny ragamuffin whose hand was now stretched out,palm upwards. Cobb made a threatening gesture that had no apparenteffect on the lad, took two steps away, paused, turned back, anddeposited a coin in the boy’s hand.
Brodie smiled to himself and went back in tojoin the others, still buzzing and chuckling over the incident.
***
The topic for discussion on this particularWednesday evening, assigned last week by their chairman – SirPeregrine Shuttleworth, bart. – was “Were Brutus and hisassociates justified in overthrowing the legitimate ruler of Rome?”The normal procedure for these weekly gatherings, as far as Brodiecould tell from his first two sessions, was to begin with a roundof drinks, during which pleasantries and light gossip wereexchanged and everyone got into a relaxed state. This part of theevening (and the last one as well) took place at the east end ofthe room where their hosts, the Budges, had arranged two setteesand several padded chairs around a threadbare carpet – withcigar-stands and spittoons placed at strategic intervals. Then, ateight-thirty or so they all moved to the west end of the room wherea long executive table was set up, with comfortable chairs for adozen or more. Here the serious discussion of the Bard’s works tookplace, punctuated by dramatic renderings of favourite passages toillustrate a point or indulge an ego. But this evening SirPeregrine had suggested that they “get in the mood” for the debateon the ethical implications of tyrannicide by staging theassassination scene from Julius Caesar. No-one had beensurprised that Sir Peregrine had brought along a costume for hisself-appointed role as Caesar, as well as several woodenstage-knives to be plunged hysterically into the bloodied tyrant.It had been their third run-through (the fervour of theconspirators’ “plunging” and ululations being not nearly hystericalenough on the first two tries) that the unwitting Cobb hadinterrupted.
Thus it was close to nine o’clock when thegroup finally settled down around the long table to entertain thequestion of the week. Self-conscious about his youth and his NewYork twang among these British gentlemen, Brodie had spent much ofhis time so far listening and observing. He realized, and acceptedthe fact, that only the sponsorship of Horace Fullarton, his seniorat the Commercial Bank, had allowed him entry into this exclusiveclub of middle-aged gentlemen. Although Marc Edwards and others -after the scandal and tragedy of last March – had done their bestto disabuse the better classes of Toronto of their misguidedopinion of Brodie’s deceased guardian, the taint of Dougherty’ssupposed “sins” still clung to his wards. And, Brodie told himself,a desire to re-establish the good name of Dougherty – and, byassociation, Langford – had been the prime motive for his acceptingMr. Fullarton’s offer to join this club.
“Gentlemen, I trust our little stage-play,with its truly dramatic climax, has put you all in the proper frameof mind for discussing this evening’s question, the meat of whichis: When, if ever, is it right to overthrow a legitimate ruler, asBrutus did Caesar?” Sir Peregrine smiled his most ingratiatingsmile, bringing all of his jowls into action and inducing a flushacross the vast expanse of his hairless head. “And, as you wereperusing the text in preparation, I trust also that you reflectedupon what the Great Versifier himself is telling us about theissue.”
There was an awkward silence, broken only bythe drumming of Sir Peregrine’s plump, effeminate fingers on thetable-top. As the chairman waited impatiently for someone to leapinto the fray, Brodie recalled what Mr. Fullarton had told himabout this portly caricature of an English nobleman. Shuttleworth,it was said, had inherited, at the tender age of twenty-five, athriving cotton mill from his ruthless father and, having been bredand raised to be the first true gentleman in the family, had hadthe good sense to let the business run itself. His onlycontribution to its success was a suggestion that they concentrateon producing stockings for Wellington’s army in its long fightagainst Napoleon. For such “meritorious service to King andcountry,” Shuttleworth had been made a baronet and his wife,Madeleine, by proxy, a lady. Their arrival here on the outskirts ofempire, however, had not been part of the Shuttleworth march todestiny’s beat. Fate took a hand in that. Lady Madeleine’s sisterhad emigrated to Upper Canada with her husband, who became wealthyspeculating in land transactions and hobnobbing with those whomattered. But the fellow had been irresponsible enough to squandermuch of his fortune and then die under a falling tree whilesupervising the clearance of a prime lot – leaving a wife and sixchildren with little money and a half-constructed mansion. Havingworn out their welcome on the fringes of London society, theShuttleworths made the magnanimous decision to sell off thenettlesome business, pack up their accumulated trinkets, and sailfor the New World. Arriving only last July, they had managed tocomplete the construction of Oakwood Manor in one of the park lotsup on Sherbourne Street north, with a generous (albeit separate)wing provided for the widow and her destitute brood.