The Bishop's Pawn (21 page)

“Horrible . . . horrible, it was,” Tallman
said.

“Please accept our sincere condolences,”
Brenner said.

“Thank you, sir.”

Looking somewhat puzzled, Brenner said, “But
you must have left there yourself, since you’re now here and –
”

At this point Marc intervened to explain who
he was and how they had got here so soon. Then he informed the
lawyers that he had been chosen to lead the official investigation
into Dick’s murder. He sat back and waited for their reaction.

Again, Brenner and Tallman looked perplexed,
exchanging unhelpful glances. Finally Brenner said, “And you’ve
trailed the assassin to New York?”

“We hope to find information here that will
help us determine who the killer was,” Marc said craftily, not
wishing to give anything away just yet.

“Then we will do anything we can to assist
you, won’t we, Larry?” Brenner said.

“You could start by telling me how you came
to hear about Dick’s death,” Marc said evenly.

“Of course,” Brenner said. “Larry and I
arrived in Toronto on Saturday evening. We had been asked to appear
before the Law Society there to give testimony regarding Dick’s
request for admission to the Bar.”

“I see,” Marc said, nicely feigning ignorance
of their motives.

“We were supposed to meet the Benchers at
Osgoode Hall on Monday afternoon,” Tallman said.

“But at nine-thirty or so that morning, a
fellow comes rushing into the hotel foyer,” Brenner said, his face
tensing at the memory, “shouting loud enough for everyone to hear
that the . . . ‘fat Yankee lawyer’ had been stabbed to death in an
alley by some madman.”

“With the dagger still in his back and a note
stuck to it – with the most dreadful word written in blood on it,”
Tallman said, faltering. “Oh, Brodie, I’m sorry, I – ”

“It’s all right, sir,” Brodie said bravely,
though Marc was becoming accustomed to the young man’s inner
strength and determination.

“We were shocked beyond speech,” Brenner
said.

Marc decided it was time to up the ante. “But
not too shocked to pack your bags and scuttle down to the wharf,
where you caught a steamer for Burlington.”

Again, the lawyers appeared more puzzled than
upset by the charge and its implicit reproach of their
behaviour.

“We left, sir, because our remaining in
Toronto could only have done Dick’s memory and his wards’ future
more harm than good,” Brenner said.

“Dick Dougherty was our friend,” Tallman
said.

“Then why did you tell Archdeacon Strachan on
Sunday afternoon that you had come to testify about the scandal
that had driven him out of New York?” Marc said quietly.

“You have been well briefed,” Brenner said,
unsmiling. “We told Dr. Strachan that we were there to swear to
Dick’s character as we had known it for over thirty years. We told
him that Dick was scrupulously honest, had never been accused –
despite a tumultuous career in our courts – of a financial
misdemeanour or breach of ethics or shady property dealing or
political shenanigans. Not once. And that in a city where the
mayors routinely rake in thirty thousand dollars per annum in
graft, where aldermen award each other building contracts and
business monopolies, and where councillors buy up, at fire-sale
prices, the property of men they have ruined.”

“You are telling Brodie and me that you came
to Toronto to help get Dick admitted to the Bar?”

“Insofar as we could,” Tallman said.

“Because there was still the so-called
scandal back here to explain away?” Marc prompted.

“That’s right,” Brenner said. “We felt
honour-bound to tell the Benchers exactly what we knew about it, in
hopes that it would be outweighed by his lifetime of unimpeachable
service.”

“And did you outline this ‘strategy’ to Dick
when you descended on his cottage that Sunday morning?”

Brenner allowed himself a wry smile. “As a
matter of fact, that’s precisely what we did. Dick knew that some
of the Benchers had been trying to get damning information about
his past from sources here in New York. They wrote dozens of
letters, but no-one at this end would put anything on paper –
including us.”

“But Joe and I talked it over,” Tallman said,
“and decided that we just had to go up there and see what we could
do for him.”

“That’s why we went to see him,” Brenner
explained. “We wanted to confer with him before we testified, our
thinking being that if we were likely to do more harm than good, we
could always skulk out of town before the event.”

“So you’re saying that Dick
approved
of your approach to the Benchers?”

“He did,” Brenner said. “He thought that the
rumours of the scandal here, the worth of which we could neither
confirm nor deny, would remain just that, and that our detailed,
positive testimony about his character and career would prove
critical. He even encouraged us to accept Dr. Strachan’s invitation
that afternoon.”

“I want to come back to that point,” Marc
said, “but tell me now, what did you do
after
you left
Strachan’s place?”

The slight chill in the room indicated that
Marc’s interrogation was no longer purely informational. “Why do
you ask?” Brenner said.

“I have my reasons. Would you mind telling me
without them?”

Tallman looked at Brenner, and said, “We went
for a walk along the shoreline, all the way out to Fort York and
back.”

“We didn’t get back to The American until
nearly six o’clock.”

“And you did not meet or talk with
anyone?”

“No-one.”

“Thank you,” Marc said. “That clears up that
matter. But I am still puzzled about this business of the scandal.
As you are aware, the ugly manner of Dick’s death has left the
rumours about his behaviour and character, and the stench from
them, still hanging over him – and his family. Brodie and I have
come here because we think that whatever did happen here in New
York a year and a half ago has some bearing on his murder. And even
if we cannot establish that fact, we hope in the least to take back
with us some grain of hard truth in his defense.”

Brenner and Tallman looked at each other,
then at Brodie.

“It is I who needs to know the truth,” Brodie
said, “however terrible you may think it. Marc and I have come
hundreds of miles. This may be my only chance.”

“The truth is,” Tallman sighed, “that we
don’t know the truth.”

“Nobody does,” Brenner said. “Except Dick and
those who persecuted him.”

“But did you not ask him when you saw him in
Toronto?” Marc said.

“We did,” Tallman said.

“We began,” Brenner continued, “by telling
him the story that was making the rounds here, and had grown hairs
since its first incarnation.” Again he peered uncertainly at
Brodie, noted the steely determination there, and said, “It was to
us your uncle came that dreadful day to let us know he was packing
up and heading for Canada. We were asked to sell the property and
be his financial watchdog in the state. He told us nothing about
why he was leaving except that he had no choice.

“It was the next day that one of the police
justices, Thurlow Winship – himself thrice charged with graft and
malfeasance – deliberately leaked the putative details of Dick’s
downfall. According to the story, Dick was found in the bedroom of
a sleazy tenement in a compromising position – with a
fourteen-year-old boy. He had been arrested and charged with
buggery.”

“But that was
only
a story,” Tallman
said quickly, while his cheeks reddened on either side of his
moustache. “Out of the mouth of a corrupt official under the
protection of Tammany Hall.”

“That’s right,” Brenner said. “No formal
charges, no affidavits, no record of arraignment or writ of
habeas corpus
was ever produced, though many of Dick’s
associates sought them.”

“You think some sort of deal was made before
any of this transpired?” Marc said.

“We do,” Brenner said. “You see, if he
had
been charged and convicted, he would have been disbarred
as well as sent to prison. The obvious implication of what did
happen is that Dick was given the option of voluntary exile – no
jail and no disbarment.”

“But why? It makes no sense,” Marc said. “If
Dick had enemies among the political power-group, Tammany Hall, why
would they not complete his ruin?”

“It’s possible that they were content to see
him out of the state,” Talman said, “and then leaked the details of
his so-called transgression to the public to ensure he didn’t come
back.”

“Or my uncle had incriminating information
about a Tammany leader,” Brodie said, confirming what the others
were thinking.

“In which case we had a draw or stalemate,”
Marc added. “The police had a charge they threatened to lay and
Dick had information they needed to quash. Hence, Dick leaves
quietly and everybody is satisfied.”

“But then the officials sabotage my uncle by
leaking details of the charge – whether or not they bore any
relation to the truth,” Brodie said bitterly.

“So you see,” Brenner said, “that was the
question we had to ask Dick that Sunday morning. We begged him –
didn’t we, Larry? – to tell us what the charge or threat
really
was. We never believed it was anything close to the
one it was claimed to be. But if we knew, we felt we could relay
the facts to the Law Society, deflate all the erroneous tales
feeding the rumour mill, and paint a full and positive picture of a
long and distinguished career.”

“We were sure there must have been some
charge or other,” Tallman said.

“And Dick did not deny it. He simply refused
to tell us what it was.”

“He was trying to protect Celia and me,”
Brodie said.

“You don’t think it could’ve been something
even worse?” Tallman said, horrified at his own suggestion.

“And I’m wondering,” Marc said, “if there was
any
misdemeanour committed at all.”

“What do you mean?” Brenner said. “The police
must have had
some
thing on him.”

“True. But if these Sons of St. Tammany are
as cunning and ruthless as they are reputed to be, and if they had
Dick in their sights over the Wetmore trial, could they not have
set Dick up somehow?”

“But if it
was
a trumped-up charge,
Tammany would have found themselves dealing with the best defense
attorney in the state,” Brenner said. “That’s why we dismissed that
notion early on.”

“And in Toronto, Dick never denied that there
had been a charge. He just refused to discuss it or to comment on
the rumours, except to scoff at them.”

“And you’ll remember, Larry, how relaxed he
appeared about it all. He seemed to feel that our testimony alone
before the Benchers would ensure his success.”

“When all is said and done,” Tallman said, “I
think he believed that once he himself got before them, his own
eloquence and force of personality would win the day.”

“As it always had,” Brenner said.

***

Half an hour later, Marc and Brodie were walking east
along Bayard Street towards Broadway. Having eliminated Brenner and
Tallman as conspirators in murder, Marc had taken time to explain
to them the full circumstances surrounding Dick’s death and its
aftermath. A loving description of his final triumph in court –
interrupted by laughter and the occasional tear – was then provided
the two gentlemen who had been the great barrister’s lifelong
friends and supporters. Brodie had embraced them, and promised to
write often.

“Well, we’ve accomplished one of our goals
here,” Brodie said as they bucked a brisk wind on this last day of
March, a reminder that spring still had the sting of winter in it.
“Reuben Epp was not hooked up with these two gentlemen. Now, where
do we go from here?”

“Where Brenner and Tallman pointed us,” Marc
said. “Dick definitely had something incriminating or embarrassing
to Tammany Hall or its interests. They managed to manoeuvre him
into a position where he had to bargain his silence for his life,
as it were. He could not return. He was safely isolated in exile
and gourmandizing himself to death. But suddenly he pops up in a
sensational trial in Toronto. News of his recovery and
rehabilitation reaches New York. He is seeking admission to the Bar
in Upper Canada.”

“And he still knows what he knows!” Brodie
cried.

“Right. It’s plausible, isn’t it, to think
that an organization like Tammany Hall would have access to
associates and sympathizers in Toronto. And one of them could have
been on the watch for an opportunity to silence your uncle for
good. But even if that was true, the motive for doing so lies here
in New York.”

“A city of three hundred thousand souls under
the thumb of the very organization we’re hoping to confront or
infiltrate,” Brodie felt constrained to point out.

“Always start by playing the cards already in
your hand,” Marc said.

“Do we have any?” Brodie said, narrowly
avoiding an organ-grinder and his emaciated monkey.

“As a matter of fact, we have. You showed me
a list earlier of the families you thought might welcome you here –
whose sons were classmates of yours. Surely one of them is a member
of the Manhattan Gentlemen’s Club.”

Brodie stopped. “That should be no problem.
There are at least three families that I’m sure of. I could hire a
carriage and be in the suburbs in an hour.”

“Then I want you to arrange a visit to the
Manhattan Club with one or more of your chums – this evening, if
you can. Don’t use your real name there. Make sure your friends are
on side.”

“Don’t worry, Marc. I can pull it off!”
Brodie said as they began to push through the traffic towards
Broadway one block distant. Like most young men he was happiest
when
doing
something: the journey along the Erie Canal had
been frustrating in the extreme. “But what do I do once I get
there?”