Desperate Acts

Chapter One

ONE

"So, tell me about this Shakespeare Club," Marc Edwards said to Brodie Langford as they left Sherbourne Street and turned west onto Front. "Why not simply take up with the amateur players who hang about Ogden Frank's theatre?"

Brodie grinned before answering - to let Marc know that he was aware of the deliberate naiveté of the remark. They had become fast friends over the preceding seven months, and enjoyed the kind of gentle teasing which that sort of bond encourages. "We are as fine wine to plain vinegar," he said, squinting into the October sunset that bathed the broad lakeside avenue in shimmering waves of gold and vermilion. "Our sole purpose is to read, discuss and otherwise venerate the Bard, and only the Bard."

"I suspect the great man himself would feel more comfortable among a troupe of actors, however sweaty and thick-tongued," Marc said.

"Very true. But we do occasionally stoop to acting out a scene or two - by way of illustration, of course."

"Of course. You wouldn't want to tear a scene to tatters, not with the likes of Sir Peregrine Shuttleworth keeping a close watch on the proceedings."

Brodie laughed. "I find my membership in the club about as amusing as you do. And just as incongruous and unexpected. But, then, if you had told me a year ago that I would be where I am today, I would have called the asylum-keepers to come and get you."

"You've come a long way in a short time," Marc said, his tone now as serious as it was full of admiration for this remarkable young man of nineteen years.

Orphaned at the age of thirteen and subsequently raised by his dead father's law partner in New York City, Brodie Langford had, in the past two years, suffered an abrupt and scandal-ridden uprooting from his native land, followed by a constrained and circumscribed existence here in Toronto with his young sister and their beloved guardian, Dick Dougherty. Brodie had idolized Dougherty - in spite of the man's questionable past in New York - and had felt more and more responsible as the health of his "uncle" had deteriorated under the strain of exile and ostracism. Even so, Brodie had managed to secure a position at the Commercial Bank, where he had impressed his skeptical superiors and thrived. Then, just when life had begun to offer him a glimmer of hope, he and Celia had been orphaned once again - in the most sordid and tragic circumstances.

"You know, don't you," Marc said, "that I heartily approve of everything you've done since your Uncle's death, the manner in which you've conducted yourself and the wise decisions you've made for you and your sister?"

"Much of which has been the result of your avuncular advice," Brodie said, only half-teasing. Marc was not yet twenty-nine, and, while recently made a father, he was not quite ready to accept the more senior role of elderly advisor.

"Well, you look every inch the gentleman tonight," Marc said. "If a young man with a New York twang can ever pass for such in Her Majesty's colonies."

Brodie was wearing a dark frock coat cut in the latest style and a matching top-hat that served not only as proof of his affluence and taste but also as a startling contrast to his blond hair, pale complexion and almost transparently blue eyes. In his right hand he swung a silver-tipped walking-stick with a handle carved like a wolf-s head, as if he disdained in the vigour and pride of his youth to have it touch the rotting sidewalk or assist his striding in any discernible manner.

"I hope you don't think me too forward or presumptuous in agreeing to take part in the club's activities?" Brodie said as they strolled past the City Hall, which faced Front Street at the foot of the market. "It was Mr. Fullarton's idea. He thinks it's time for me to move out into society and make my mark."