Minor Corruption by Don Gutteridge Page B

as far afield as
Port Sarnia, Sandwich and Goderich?” said Robert Sullivan, the
suave Irish-looking gentleman with the velvet tongue, who had,
while no rabid Reformer, served them all well in presiding over the
Legislative Council and steering the Union Bill over the political
shoals last Fall.
    “He is,” Robert sighed. “But there is so much
to do here, in Toronto and in these chambers.”
    “And it has to be you, cousin and
brother-in-law,” Sullivan said. “The Baldwin name is magic in this
province.” He glanced slyly at Dr. Baldwin and added, “That’s why I
chose it for a middle name.”
    “How many cases do you have at the upcoming
assizes?” Hincks asked him.
    “We have five,” Sullivan said. “All minor,
wouldn’t you say, Marc?”
    Marc, who had offered to help with two of
them – a forgery and an embezzlement charge – replied, “So far,
yes. Nothing that Bob and I cannot handle in your absence.”
    “And I would be happy to take up the forensic
cudgel once again, if need be,” Dr. Baldwin said. He had had a
distinguished career as a barrister and a Bencher of the Law
Society before medicine and then architecture and business had
taken hold of his many-faceted curiosity. “I don’t fancy standing
up and preaching before a periwigged justice any more, but I could
help with research and preparation.”
    “And I understand you now have your uncle to
assist Clement in the profit-making half of these chambers,” Hincks
said with a wink at Robert.
    Though meant as an ironic sally, Hincks’s
remark came closer to the truth than he had anticipated. He was
quite aware of the foibles and follies of Uncle Seamus, having been
to several picnics and soirées out at Spadina since the old
gentleman’s arrival last July. But after an initial spree of pranks
yesterday morning, Uncle Seamus surprisingly had settled down to be
of material assistance. Indeed, by the end of the day both he and
his nephew were in good spirits. Robert had confided to Marc that
for the first time he held out real hope that his uncle would be
able to work his way out of what was evidently a form of manic
depression, wherein he swung between moods of deep depression and
exhilarating episodes that almost always involved the children or
the young servants. Only when he went trout fishing did he seem to
find a becalmed, median place where his spirit could rest and
breathe. Even though the imminent freeze-up would end all trout
fishing, the kind if crusty presence of Clement Peachey and the
routine tasks they shared throughout the day seemed ready to
provide a reasonable substitute. To balance this there were the
Baldwin children next door and weekends away at lively Spadina.
“I’ll keep a close watch,” Marc had reassured him, and then added,
“on the macaroons.”
    “Well, then, gentlemen,” Robert now said to
his associates, “I take it I have been volunteered to reconnoitre
the hinterland. What do you say we get right down to practical
details. I’ve got a list here of the men I ought to be bearding
before the London meetings. I need from you specific suggestions
for dealing with each one. What about Ferguson in Port Sarnia?”
    The pause that followed Robert’s request was
ended not by sage political advice but rather by the door opening
halfway and Clement Peachey poking his head in warily.
    “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but Constable
Cobb is in the vestibule. He wants to see you, Robert, right
away.”
    “But we’re – ”
    “He says he’s come with bad news. Very bad
news.”
    ***
    The news of Betsy Thurgood’s death at the hands of
an abortionist cast an immediate pall on Baldwin House. Dr. Baldwin
was saddened and outraged. Betsy had been coming to Spadina off and
on since she was twelve, helping out on special occasions and soon
becoming a favourite of the family and of the cook, Mrs. Morrisey
and her husband Herb, the gardener. Then late last July, just after
she had turned fifteen, she had asked Dr.