The Bishop's Pawn (18 page)

“It won’t take a minute next time,” she said
without explanation. “Now follow me to St. James.”

St. James? What now? “Ya mean the
church?”

“Of course, I do. An outrage has been
committed there: our Poor Box has been vandalized!”

Cobb heaved a great sigh, but trailed along
behind Mavis McDowell as they headed the half-block east to Church
Street. He had trouble keeping up, for that grand dame, hatless and
without a coat, marched along in front of him with gazelle-like
strides. She was in every respect an angular woman – long-legged
and bony-hipped – with auburn hair rigidly curbed in several severe
braids. Her eyes, when they pounced upon him, were as brown and
volatile as chestnuts in a bonfire. She was a woman to be reckoned
with.

“We’ve got to go in through the walkway,” she
hollered back at him. “The front doors have been kept locked since
Monday, except when one of the vicars is in the building.”

In order to enter the church through the
walkway, however, they had first to go through the rear door of the
vicarage. Mavis McDowell did not bother knocking. She pulled open
the door, checked to make sure Cobb was at her heel, and barged
into the narrow hall. Missy Prue, who had been expecting them, was
nonetheless startled enough to drop her broom on the carpet.

“It’s all right, Missy,” Mavis said in a much
gentler voice that the one she had used on Cobb. “Please wait for
Mrs. Hungerford to come back from her errand and then inform her
immediately. The vicar’ll have to be told as well when he returns
from Danby’s Crossing.” Then she turned to Cobb. “Follow me.”

Cobb meekly trailed her into the walkway that
connected church and vicarage. As they went past the vestry and
stepped out into the church proper, Cobb felt the hair on his neck
rise. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but the mysterious, hushed
silence of a house of worship never failed to move him, not quite
to awe but something close to it. Mavis McDowell loped down the
nave between the pews towards the big oaken doors. Beyond the last
pew there was a wooden stand upon which the Poor Box normally sat.
At this moment it lay on the floor, its ornate wooden door wide
open, its interior empty.

“That’s the way I found it, constable. Ripped
open and all the money stolen! Such sacrilege! Such blasphemy!”

Cobb wondered whether the loss of a few
dollars or pounds was worth all that indignation. He bent down to
examine the pillaged container.

“I’ve only been in town since October and
Mrs. Hungerford was kind enough to make me treasurer of the Ladies
Auxiliary. One month later, and what happens? Ten dollars goes
missing from the bazaar! And now
this
!”

“You ain’t responsible fer a thief robbin’
you,” Cobb said.

“Perhaps not, but, you see, I am supposed to
check this box every Monday morning – Constance trusted me with the
key – ”

“Why don’t the vicar just empty it after the
evenin’ service?” Cobb said, puzzled as usual by the needless
intricacies of religious practice and protocol.

Mavis seemed startled by the question but
said, “The Poor Box is the province of the Auxiliary, as are the
bazaars and socials we use to raise money for the Widows and
Orphans Fund.”

“Ah . . .”

“But everything was at sixes and sevens on
Monday – as you know – and I was kept busy entertaining
well-wishers come to praise my husband’s speech and seek his
advice. So I didn’t get around to it until half an hour ago. And
here is what I found. You
must
apprehend the thief – at
once!”

“You say the box was locked?”

“Yes. It didn’t use to be, but after the
rebellion Dr. Strachan apparently insisted.”

“Who has a key besides you?”

Mavis had to think about that. “The vicars of
course have keys for every door in the church and vicarage. No-one
else.”

“I hardly think the vicars’d rob their own
poor box,” Cobb said, but he had read Marc’s notes on the interview
with Chalmers and, like Marc, suspected that Mrs. Hungerford was
the likely culprit. However, he noticed that there were two greasy
and distinctly male thumbprints on the Poor Box, made very recently
by the look of them. Perhaps the good parson’s wife had found some
villain from the town to do her dirty work for her. Or it was
possible, though not probable, that this incident had nothing to do
with the Chalmers’ episode.

“But the church has been pretty much closed
since the tragedy on Monday,” Mavis was explaining. “Even the bell
hasn’t been rung.”

“That means the only way the robber coulda
got in is through the back door of the vicarage, like we did.”

“That’s right, constable. Even so, how could
he get the box open without a key?”

“There’s no damage to the lock or the hinges
on the lid here. But this is a simple lock. It could be jimmied
quite easy. Somebody may’ve left the vicarage door unbarred last
night an’ even filched a key to the box.”

“To help the thief, you mean?” Constance
said, then added ruefully, “Honest servants are hard to come by, I
know. I’ve had to dismiss three since October. But I must insist
that you consult Mrs. Hungerford before approaching any of her
hired help.”

“Consult me about what?”

The lady herself had arrived.

FOURTEEN

Constance suggested that Mavis go back to the
vicarage and have a cup of tea while she sorted matters out with
the constable. Mavis looked much relieved. Cobb felt otherwise.

Cobb began by going over the points that he
and Mavis had just raised between them.

“Of course it wasn’t Missy or Myrtle. I will
not have you badgering them. If you insist, I’ll ask them
discreetly whether they checked the back door before going to bed.
But I know they did. They are punctilious to a fault. Moreover,
they are handsomely paid and would have no reason to steal or abet
a criminal.”

“Perhaps a penniless boy friend?”

“Don’t be absurd! Myrtle Welsh is a
middle-aged spinster and Missy Prue is too young to consort with
men. We don’t permit it.”

“Then I’m afraid I ain’t got any leads to
follow up,” Cobb said. “All I c’n do is have my snitches keep their
ears to the ground.”

“You do realize,
constable
, that this
theft could prove an embarrassment to a man about to be made a
bishop and to another man about to take a leadership role in the
Tory party? Mrs. McDowell has been placed in a very delicate and
fragile position. She feels responsible.”

“So she told me.”

Constance glanced back up the nave, then
motioned for Cobb to sit down. She sat next to him with an ominous
rustling of skirts. “I’m going to give you a ‘lead,’ as you term
it. I want it pursued vigorously but with tact and with a constant
eye towards any ill effects your inquiries might have upon St.
James and the Archdeacon.”

“You
know
who done this?”

“I do, though it will be up to you to find
the proof.”

“If it’s there, I’ll find it.”

“I’m telling you this in strictest
confidence,” she said in a voice that transparently suggested the
opposite. “The Reverend Chalmers has money problems. His mother and
sisters down in Windsor are destitute, and one of them requires
expensive medicines. The Archdeacon – saintly soul that he is – has
lent him money, as has my husband. But it seems never to be enough.
A few weeks back, ten dollars was embezzled from the church bazaar.
Chalmers was the only person who could have taken it, but he denied
doing so, and the Archdeacon like a good Christian chose to believe
him. Now he has done it again. He has a key to this box. The
entrance to the walkway is across the hall from his rooms.”

“But he’ll be sure to deny it,” Cobb said,
stating the obvious. “And I can’t very well go in an’ ransack the
place.”

“Well, sir, you must think of
some
thing. If Chalmers is to be involved in a scandal, it
must be exposed and dealt with
before
the bish – the
Archdeacon leaves for England.”

Cobb tried to think of something that he
might do. “Ya figure he’ll do this again?” he said.

Constance smiled, sending a chill down Cobb’s
spine. “I
know
he will. The poor wretch is desperate.”

“Then I think there’s somethin’ we can
try.”

“Such as?”

Cobb pulled a crumpled banknote out of his
pocket. “I got a Halifax dollar here. I’ll just fold an’ tear off a
little corner – like this – an’ put the rest of it in the box.” He
set the container back on its stand. “You c’n lock this up right
away?”

“Mrs. McDowell can. And I see what you’re up
to. You think Chalmers will strike after the two services on Sunday
when this box is full.”

“I do. And if it
is
Reverend Chalmers,
I’ll get you to let me search his rooms when he’s out on a call to
see if I can match up the two pieces of the Halifax dollar.” Cobb
didn’t mention that the torn-off part of the Melton Bond had given
him this inspired stratagem. Nor did he think it politic to mention
that its actual purpose was to
clear
David Chalmers of any
blame – unless Constance Hungerford was even more devious and
desperate than he now thought.

“I’ll send for you as soon as another attempt
is made,” she said, raising her opinion of Cobb a quarter-notch.
“And should you end up losing your dollar, I will replace it
myself.”

“I’ll be waitin’,” Cobb said evenly.

She gave him a puzzled look, then turned and
walked back down the nave with the confident air of a woman who has
– as was her birthright – gotten what she wanted.

***

The silversmith’s shop was only a block east on King
near Jarvis. Cobb tried to put the silly business of the Poor Box
behind him. While the clerics and their spouses seemed quite
capable of Machiavellian plotting and character assassination, he
had to admit, reluctantly, that among that crew only the verger was
capable of cold-blooded killing or of being involved in its
incitement and execution. He would check out Everett Stoneham’s
alibi later, but in reality he had whittled their prime suspects
down to one: Bartholomew Burchill, whose hatred of Dougherty had
been put on public view in the
Gazette.
Cobb pushed open the
shop-door to the jangle of bells. Burchill came out from behind his
work-desk, wiping his hands on his apron and slipping off his
eyeshade.

“Good afternoon, constable,” he said without
the usual overlay of false bonhomie endemic to retail merchants.
“Lookin’ for a gift for your good wife?”

Cobb surveyed the exquisite array of teapots,
saltcellars and serving-trays in the display case. Burchill might
be considered a misanthrope and a skinflint, but he was undeniably
a craftsman in silver. He was also a bear of a man – barrel-chested
and thick-boned, with an unfashionable full beard and a bushel of
eyebrow that made him resemble an Old Testament prophet more than a
moulder of intricate metal doodads.

“Maybe one of them milk pitchers,” Cobb said
with a chuckle. “If I c’n save half my salary between now an’
Christmas.”

“Somethin’ need repairin’, then?”

“My
temper-mint
, accordin’ to Missus
Cobb.”

Burchill did not smile at this witticism. He
stared hard at Cobb and said with deliberate slowness, “You’re not
here because of what I wrote about that pederast?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. We think someone
put Epp up to the stabbin’ an’ paid him good money to boot.”

“I’m glad the bugger’s dead,” Burchill said,
unfazed by Cobb’s remark. “And if my letter in the
Gazette
helped convince Reuben Epp to carry out the Lord’s will, then I am
even more pleased. Surely you aren’t about to charge me with bein’
an accomplice on those grounds?”

“Well, now – ”

“If you did, then you’d have to arrest the
Archdeacon, wouldn’t you?” This thought seemed to give Burchill a
perverse pleasure, for he almost smiled.

“All the same, I’m askin’ you – with Sir
George’s blessin’ – whether you knew Reuben Epp?”

“Of course I did. I’m a – ”

“I mean, did you talk to him, man to man? Or
have him do odd jobs fer you?”

“I did not know him in that way, nor has he
worked for me. I have a healthy and obedient son to assist me at
all times. We don’t need anybody else.”

Realizing that tact was a word in the same
category as humour for Bartholomew Burchill, Cobb said, “Do you get
much American paper money in yer business here?”

“That is a foolish question, even for you,”
Burchill snapped. “Of course, I do. Half the worthies in this town
use U.S bills and specie. But I fail to – ”

“I’d like to have a look at yer notepaper, if
ya don’t mind?”

“Have you lost
all
your marbles,
Cobb?”

“There’s a link to the murder here, so I’d
like to see what kind you use.”

“Well, if it’ll speed you on your way, why
not?” With a not-too-patient shrug, the silversmith went over to
his desk and opened the central drawer. Cobb could hear a gentle,
steady tapping from the back room.

“Here. It’s all the same. I’ve used it for
years. Ask any of my customers.”

Cobb leafed through a sheaf of unmarked
stationery. It was cheap stuff, purely serviceable. No gentleman
would use it. But the real thing could easily be tucked away
anywhere here in the shop or in the back room or in the living
quarters overhead. “You do them engravin’s on yer pots an’ bowls?”
he said.

“I do some and Matthew does some.”

“I see,” Cobb said, thinking that such a
talent could readily translate into calligraphic work. But he would
need a warrant to search the premises and test out that theory, and
the magistrate would not give him one without more compelling
grounds than he now had.