Desperate Acts by Don Gutteridge Read Free Book Online

the
evening (and the last one as well) took place at the east end of
the room where their hosts, the Budges, had arranged two settees
and several padded chairs around a threadbare carpet – with
cigar-stands and spittoons placed at strategic intervals. Then, at
eight-thirty or so they all moved to the west end of the room where
a long executive table was set up, with comfortable chairs for a
dozen or more. Here the serious discussion of the Bard’s works took
place, punctuated by dramatic renderings of favourite passages to
illustrate a point or indulge an ego. But this evening Sir
Peregrine had suggested that they “get in the mood” for the debate
on the ethical implications of tyrannicide by staging the
assassination scene from Julius Caesar. No-one had been
surprised that Sir Peregrine had brought along a costume for his
self-appointed role as Caesar, as well as several wooden
stage-knives to be plunged hysterically into the bloodied tyrant.
It had been their third run-through (the fervour of the
conspirators’ “plunging” and ululations being not nearly hysterical
enough on the first two tries) that the unwitting Cobb had
interrupted.
    Thus it was close to nine o’clock when the
group finally settled down around the long table to entertain the
question of the week. Self-conscious about his youth and his New
York twang among these British gentlemen, Brodie had spent much of
his time so far listening and observing. He realized, and accepted
the fact, that only the sponsorship of Horace Fullarton, his senior
at the Commercial Bank, had allowed him entry into this exclusive
club of middle-aged gentlemen. Although Marc Edwards and others –
after the scandal and tragedy of last March – had done their best
to disabuse the better classes of Toronto of their misguided
opinion of Brodie’s deceased guardian, the taint of Dougherty’s
supposed “sins” still clung to his wards. And, Brodie told himself,
a desire to re-establish the good name of Dougherty – and, by
association, Langford – had been the prime motive for his accepting
Mr. 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 frame
of mind for discussing this evening’s question, the meat of which
is: When, if ever, is it right to overthrow a legitimate ruler, as
Brutus did Caesar?” Sir Peregrine smiled his most ingratiating
smile, bringing all of his jowls into action and inducing a flush
across the vast expanse of his hairless head. “And, as you were
perusing the text in preparation, I trust also that you reflected
upon what the Great Versifier himself is telling us about the
issue.”
    There was an awkward silence, broken only by
the drumming of Sir Peregrine’s plump, effeminate fingers on the
table-top. As the chairman waited impatiently for someone to leap
into the fray, Brodie recalled what Mr. Fullarton had told him
about this portly caricature of an English nobleman. Shuttleworth,
it was said, had inherited, at the tender age of twenty-five, a
thriving cotton mill from his ruthless father and, having been bred
and raised to be the first true gentleman in the family, had had
the good sense to let the business run itself. His only
contribution to its success was a suggestion that they concentrate
on producing stockings for Wellington’s army in its long fight
against Napoleon. For such “meritorious service to King and
country,” Shuttleworth had been made a baronet and his wife,
Madeleine, by proxy, a lady. Their arrival here on the outskirts of
empire, however, had not been part of the Shuttleworth march to
destiny’s beat. Fate took a hand in that. Lady Madeleine’s sister
had emigrated to Upper Canada with her husband, who became wealthy
speculating in land transactions and hobnobbing with those who
mattered. But the fellow had been irresponsible enough to squander
much of his fortune and then die under a falling tree while
supervising