Meet Harry Jenkins, Toronto lawyer and hero of The Osgoode Trilogy. This was his very first public appearance.
In his law practice, Harry Jenkins frequently visited the elderly and infirm in their homes. Occasionally, he attended upon the wealthy in their mansions. Today, he was visiting Miss Alicia Markley and her friend of many years, Sarah Carmichael. Affluence and infirmity were married in one appointment.
The Rosedale Valley road was an isolated stretch winding through a deep ravine in the centre of Toronto. Dirty slush spattered his windshield, forcing him to slow down until the wipers had cleared his view. Opening his window to clear the mist, he heard the hollow boom of traffic on the span of concrete bridge above. Forests of branches, waving against the bleak winter sky, reminded him of wild spirits fleeing the night. He checked his watch. He was already late.
The two women shared a stone house wedged between the mansions of Binscarth Road in Rosedale. Alicia had called to say they wanted to open some sort of a business. Harry thought the inquiry unusual, since both of them were well in their sixties and financially well off. Known for their charm and devotion to charity, the ladies were paragons of social propriety. Smiling, he tried to visualize them, sleeves rolled up and embroiled in the daily mess of business affairs. But he knew torrents, raging beneath a calm exterior, could silently foment major upheavals. Solicitors usually touched only the surface of life and remained unaware of dark currents which often guided events.
He frowned in recollection. Last year, Sarah had suddenly taken to her bed after a funeral to remain there ever since. Perhaps she had miraculously recovered. Otherwise, a business venture did seem strange. Such enquiries were often idle notions created by bored minds. Harry sighed and struggled to maintain his optimism.
He slowed down to catch the turn into Rosedale. His bleak thoughts were mirrored by the dismal February afternoon. He had seen the ladies last year at the funeral of Ronald Hobbs, city councillor. His funeral was a sideshow, partially paid from the public purse. Half the city's police force had escorted the hearse and a long line of limousines. In an age of declared fiscal responsibility, Harry wondered at such profligacy, but nonetheless, the show had gone on. Since he was advising city council on various planning issues, Harry considered it politic to attend.
The funeral was held at the cavernous St. Bartholomew's Church on Sherbourne Street, south of Rosedale. The crush of media had attracted overflow crowds. Harry was relieved to squeeze into a pew near the front. When low chuckles rose from behind him, Harry winced. The press was at its post.
"Know where they found Hobbs?" someone behind Harry said. Harry half-turned in his seat.
"Floating in his swimming pool."
"Really?"
"Ya." Harry could hear the reporter cracking his gum in excitement.
"Pictures will be in tonight's paper."
"He drowned?"
"Looks like. But the real story is, he was stark naked. Floating ass-up in his pool!"
More chuckles followed.
"But get this!" the voice said. "Right at his indoor pool, near the cabana, they found champagne on ice and two glasses."
"Open?"
"What?"
"Was the champagne open?"
"I don't know."
More low chuckles followed.
"Wonder who the guest was?"
Hobbs' reputation as a womanizer was legendary, but Harry wondered what city councillor could afford not only an indoor pool, but also a cabana.
