The Bishop's Pawn (16 page)

“So, where do things stand now – between you
and Dr. Strachan?”

“Well, Mr. Dougherty did send him a letter
outlining my position, and although the Archdeacon has said nothing
to me about it, his demeanour towards me has changed, and he has
dropped any idea of sending me to Coventry. I owe a great deal to
Mr. Dougherty. He was a courageous man. And his senseless death has
saddened me immeasurably.”

“As it has me,” Marc said. They shook hands.
At the door, Marc said, “By the way, one of the clues we have
concerns a rare and expensive brand of notepaper. What kind of bond
is used here at St. James?”

“You mean, what am I writing on at the
moment?” Chalmers smiled.

“I’m afraid I had to ask.”

Chalmers held up several sheets. “It’s Church
of England letterhead. We all use it. It comes straight from
London. And not even a rabid Anglican would call it expensive.”

Marc left, thinking that he had learned a
little more about Epp, a lot about the petty plots among these
clerics, and all he needed to know about David Chalmers. If
Chalmers were a conspirator in murder, then Marc was Father
Christmas.

***

Cobb was not asked to sit down. He stood in the
middle of the vicar’s study with his helmet in his hands under
Hungerford’s withering stare.

“I do not appreciate being disturbed in the
midst of my duties, constable. But Miss Welsh informs me that you
are here at the behest of Sir George, and I am therefore happy to
do what I can to be of assistance.” He did not look happy at all,
nor did his vibrating mutton-chops.

“I’ll get right to the hub of the matter,”
Cobb said. “We’re lookin’ fer an accomplice to the murder of Mr.
Dougherty.”

“What on earth are you talking about? Reuben
Epp killed the Yankee!”

“We got some clues that tell us he was
helped.”

“And you expect to find the accomplice, as
you call him, in a vicarage? Have you and Sir George lost your
minds?”

While Hungerford’s face teemed with outrage
and umbrage, Cobb suspected that some of it was of the manufactured
variety worked up for the fire-and-brimstone of the Sabbath pulpit.
“We need to know what Epp might’ve been doin’ after he left here at
noon on Sunday. We got reason to believe he could’ve met with his
co-inspirer.
”

“Well, sir, if
he
left here – and I
saw him go – and
I
remained here, as I did, then how am I
supposed to know his whereabouts thereafter?”

“He coulda told ya,” Cobb spluttered.

“Yes, but he didn’t! I did everything I could
to help the poor devil: I tried to keep him out of Dr. Strachan’s
way, I rang the church bell when he was absent with the drink. But
I knew nothing of his personal life or where he went after he left
these precincts. Moreover, the wretch is dead and buried beyond the
pale: it behooves us to speak of him as kindly as we can.”

“Do you know anybody who mighta wanted to
harm Mr. Dougherty?”

“A hundred or more, I should think.”
Hungerford’s contempt was palpable. “But no-one foolish enough to
arrange for him to be stabbed in an alley. Why should they? The
degenerate was eating himself to death as fast as he could
swallow!”

Cobb switched tack abruptly, as he had seen
Marc do to catch a suspect by surprise. “Are you familiar with a
notepaper called Melton Bond?”

“What the hell are you babbling about?”
Hungerford looked more perplexed than surprised.

“One of the clues is about that kind of
paper. Would you mind showin’ me what you got in that drawer over
there?”

“You’re damn right I mind! This is an
outrage! You are an impudent, unmannered scoundrel, and a disgrace
to the constabulary. Sir George will certainly hear of your
audacious conduct!”

Oh, oh: there goes the investigation, Cobb
thought. He had shifted tack straight into a gale!

Hungerford pushed past him to the door. “You
can see yourself out. If you get lost, Miss Welsh will guide you.
Good day!” And he stomped off.

Cobb took a deep breath, then slipped over to
the roll-top desk in the corner. Carefully he inspected the
numerous sheets of paper scattered there. Every one of them bore
the letterhead of the Church. He peered into each drawer. No
special pens or brushes. No red ink. Too bad. He would have enjoyed
arresting the senior vicar.

TWELVE

Cobb found Marc chatting up Missy Prue near the back
door. She gave Cobb a smile designed to pop the buttons on his
greatcoat.

On the street, Marc said, “I talked to Missy
and Myrtle. Nothing goes on in that vicarage that they don’t see.
Both agreed that Epp occasionally came in to visit with Hungerford,
but he always sought permission first.”

“So Hungerford an’ Epp really
were
close?”

“Yes. But the maids assured me that it had
been a month or more since Epp had come to see his protector in his
study.”

“Still, there was lots of chance fer them to
meet in the church or the vestry.”

“True. Did you get anything from the vicar to
suggest that he might have had reason or opportunity to be involved
in Dick’s death?”

“No, I didn’t, dammit. He ain’t got that
fancy paper or them pens. But he coulda wanted to have Dick killed
to get in good with Strachan.”

“Possibly. But I had quite a talk with David
Chalmers. It seems that it is
Mrs.
Hungerford who’s taking
care of her husband’s climb up the ecclesiastical ladder.” Marc
explained to Cobb the implications of what he had learned in
Chalmers’ study.

“So these feudin’ parsons c’n be struck off
the list?”

“For the time being, yes. But remember, we’ve
just got started.”

At this moment, Marc was knocked sideways by
a street-urchin.

“Sorry, sir,” the boy said. “But I was told
to git a message to Mr. Cobb here as quick as I could. Matter of
life an’ death.”

“A message from Nestor Peck, no doubt?” Cobb
chuckled, slipping the ragamuffin a penny.

“Yessir. He needs ta see you at The Crooked
Anchor.”

“He may have news about Epp,” Marc said.

“Either that or he’s awful thirsty.”

***

The Reverend Quentin Hungerford was still shaking
when he entered his wife’s sitting-room and noisily poured himself
a tumbler of sherry at the sideboard. Constance Hungerford did not
look up from her knitting or drop a stitch.

“A gentleman is not safe in his own
home!”

“He was only a police constable.”

“I have a good mind to report his unsavoury
conduct and baseless insinuations to Dr. Strachan.”

“Dr. Strachan has many more serious worries
besides affronts to your dignity, Quentin. Sip your sherry like a
true gentleman and try to calm your nerves.”

“Must you carry on with that confounded
needle-clacking!”

“It helps me think, my dear. And it is hard
thinking that we must do – and quickly.” At last she looked up, and
Quentin put his half-drunk sherry down on the sideboard.

“You mean the rectorship,” he said, not
bothering to make it a question.

“Despite all that has happened, Chalmers
appears to be back in the Archdeacon’s good graces. All talk of the
Huron Tract has suddenly ceased.”

“It was that damnable lawyer!” Quentin cried
with more exasperation than anger. Strachan had confided in his
senior rector upon receiving Dougherty’s stern letter in defense of
David Chalmers.

“And damned he is – now,” his wife replied
with evident satisfaction. Constance Hungerford – who had been
called ‘handsome’ because her fearsome stare and propensity for
retaliation had forestalled the more accurate epithet ‘plain’ –
arched her thick, black brows and smiled maliciously through her
overbite. “But the good Archdeacon naturally feels that he must now
close ranks. The reputation of St. James and all who cleave to it
has been besmirched by the inconsiderate actions of Reuben Epp – a
man whom you, in your misguided reading of the Scriptures,
befriended.
”

“That policeman had the gall to suggest that
Epp could have been acting on my behalf – or even the
Archdeacon’s!”

Constance gave her husband a baleful look,
one that she had first practised on those feckless beaux beneath
her station who had had the temerity to ask her to dance. “The
issue at hand, sir, is the fact that Dr. Strachan has given
Chalmers a reprieve. Which is all that he will likely need to
re-install himself as the favourite.”

“I never really believed that Dr. Strachan
thought David guilty.”

“But he
was
!” Constance dropped her
knitting, and it missed the basket on the floor. “I tried to warn
the Archdeacon that Chalmers has become desperate for money. His
crippled sister in Windsor has been stricken with consumption, and
requires expensive medicines. He is already supporting his mother
and two other sisters down there. That’s why he cannot marry.”

“Still, it’s hard to believe that a man of
the cloth – ”

“Quentin, stop talking nonsense!”

Hungerford glared at the cherubim on the
carpet. “So you really think he’ll try again?” he mumbled, wishing
he had polished off the sherry.

“I do. The fellow is still the parish
treasurer. All I’m asking you is to be vigilant.” She stood up, the
stiff taffeta of her dress crinkling like tinfoil. She came across
and placed an encouraging hand on her husband’s shoulder. “And when
we catch his fingers in the cash-box next time, we’ll see that
they’re broken – for good.”

***

Marc had asked Cobb to report to him at home if
anything came out of his meeting with Nestor Peck at The Crooked
Anchor. Beth had not felt well enough to attend the interment or
the reception, and Marc, worried about her and the baby, hurried
straight to Briar Cottage after the interviews at the vicarage.
Both Beth and Celia (the latter having collapsed at the cemetery)
were resting comfortably, however, and Cobb did not appear during
the afternoon. Brodie arrived just before supper, and informed Marc
that he now had been through all of his guardian’s extant papers
(most of them having been abandoned or destroyed back in the
States). He had discovered nothing there that might throw light on
Dick’s death. The will, however, had one surprise in it. Dick had
left two thousand dollars to The Bowery Theatre in New York City, a
fraction of his total worth but, still, a sizeable sum.

Marc was quite interested in this bequest.
“Did your uncle like the theatre?” he asked, thinking of his own
past experiences with play-acting.

“Yes, he did,” Brodie said. “He went often. I
was looking forward to my eighteenth birthday, at which time Uncle
promised to take me along. But of course that unhappy event
happened here – last year.”

At this point Beth appeared, refreshed from
her nap. “Can I have a peek at your notes?” she asked Marc, who had
spent an hour or so writing down the gist of the interviews at St.
James.

“There’s not much to read, alas,” he said,
“but I’m always happy to have your opinion of them.” Beth was
particularly astute at interpreting character and motive.

However, Beth’s opinion was forestalled by
the sound of Cobb clumping across the front stoop.

“What have you found out?” Marc said as he
opened the door and saw the look on Cobb’s face.

“Good afternoon to you, too,” Cobb said. “An’
Missus Edwards.” He removed his helmet to expose the wayward spikes
of his hair.

“Did Nestor Peck have anything significant to
say?” Marc said, pulling Cobb fully into the parlour.

“Most of what Nestor tells me is drivel,
major, but he may’ve struck the mother
load
this time.”

Beth and Brodie came up on either side of
Marc.

“He told me one of his pals spotted Reuben
Epp
skull-king
about in back of The American Hotel on
Sunday.” Cobb delivered this arresting news in a matter-of-fact,
almost offhand, tone.

“What time on Sunday?” Marc said.

“Middle of the afternoon.”

“My God,” Brodie said, “maybe he was looking
for Brenner and Tallman.”

“It’s possible,” Marc said, not wanting to
believe it or to consider the implications if it were so. “What do
you think, Cobb?”

“Well, I recollected there’s a shortcut back
of that hotel that could take you up to Lot Street near the
entrance to Irishtown. You’d use it if ya wanted to slip across to
the bootlegger’s there without anybody seein’ ya.”

“I see,” Marc said. “You think Epp could have
been spotted behind The American because he was sneaking off to
find cheap booze? Could we check out that possibility?”

Cobb feigned disappointment in his partner’s
remark. “Already done,” he said. “That’s why I’m late gettin’ over
here.”

“You tracked down his bootlegger?”

“Easy enough. I asked Phil Rossiter, who has
that patrol now, where Epp got his
ill-lickit
drink, an’ he
said definitely at Swampy Sam’s place. So I go into Irishtown,
riskin’ my neck in the
progress
, an’ roust Sam outta
bed.”

“Did he admit that Epp had been there?”

“I had to provide a little persuasion, but he
finally told me that Epp come there about suppertime Sunday an’
bought two jugs of whiskey. An’ he left right after. But I wouldn’t
stake my life on Swampy Sam’s memory.”

“So that means that Epp
could
have
been at The American Hotel earlier in the afternoon to meet with
the New York lawyers,” Marc said.

“And not in the main foyer either,” Brodie
added.

“There’s more,” Cobb said.

There usually was with Cobb.

“Sam said he paid fer the hootch – an’ caught
up on his tab – with a five-dollar Yankee bill.”

“Jesus,” Marc said. “I’ve been dreading
this.” He looked at Beth.