The Bishop's Pawn (9 page)

“Here, take a bun with you.”

***

Cobb did not immediately relay Dusty Carter’s news to
his chief. When he came out of the bakery, he saw several burly men
lifting Dougherty’s body onto a wagon, with Chief Sturges, Brown
and Rossiter haranguing the mob that milled around them. He did not
see Marc Edwards anywhere. Perhaps he had gone into the alley to
inspect the crime scene. Anyway, he had already made up his mind.
He hailed Wilkie over to him from the doorway of the
confectioner’s.

“We’re goin’ over to Brock Street. Dusty
spotted Reuben Epp actin’ suspicious in the lane behind the
bakery.”

“You think he done it?”

“I don’t know, but he was certainly close by,
an’ might be able to tell us what he saw.”

“But Reuben’ll be at St. James by now. He has
to open the front doors at eight o’clock every day.” The Anglican
Church was part of Wilkie’s regular patrol, and although naturally
indolent, Wilkie knew the comings and goings of his area.

“I thought he’d be at home because Dusty said
he was headin’ west earlier.”

“Could be. But the old fella falls off the
wagon sometimes, an’ the Rector’s been on his case fer bein’ late
an’ sloppy. Drunk or sober, I think he’ll be around St. James by
now.”

Cobb made a decision. “All right. You go on
over to Epp’s shanty. If he’s there, make sure he stays there. I’ll
nip across to St. James an’ see if he’s at work.”

Wilkie, bless him, did not think to question
whether or not Cobb had been given any authority to dictate his
activities. He turned and was about to trudge off when Cobb thought
to ask, “ Do you know anythin’ else about Epp that I oughta
know?”

Wilkie stopped to think. “Well, he’s a kinda
religious fanatic, they tell me. When he ain’t drinkin’ an’
belligerent, he’s floppin’ about on his knees an’ mumblin’
prayers.”

This was an unusually lengthy thought for
Wilke, and Cobb was grateful. Marc had taught him that it was
always best to know a lot about someone you were about to
interrogate or accuse –
before
you arrived. He felt a surge
of excitement. Like Marc, he had come – grudgingly, he was the
first to admit – to admire Doubtful Dick Dougherty. And even though
the man might have done some unsavoury things back in New York
City, Cobb was convinced that they had not been repeated here in
Toronto. Celia and Brodie were proof of that. He hoped, of course,
that his friend and mentor, Marc Edwards, would be pleased that he
was acting on his own, putting the master’s lessons to good
use.

“Say, Cobb,” Wilkie said as the latter turned
to go. “You got any more of them sticky buns?”

EIGHT

Cobb reached St. James ten minutes later. He decided
to go around to the vicarage, situated behind the church proper.
The front of the house faced onto Church Street, but for
convenience in the harsh winters, Archdeacon Strachan had had an
enclosed walkway constructed to connect the church offices and
vestry with the rear portion of the vicars’ residence. (Years
earlier, the bishop-in-waiting had built himself a red-brick
mansion on Front Street between Simcoe and York, aptly dubbed the
Palace.) The main section of the vicarage was occupied by the
Reverend Quentin Hungerford, his wife Constance, and their five
surviving children. The junior vicar, David Chalmers, was assigned
two rooms in the cramped servants-quarters at the rear. Chalmers’
study opened onto the draughty vestibule that led either to the
back door or to the walkway and the church. Cobb hoped to find one
of the vicars at home so that he could determine whether Reuben Epp
had showed up and, while he was at it, pick up any other useful
information that might come his way. It was what Marc would have
done, Cobb thought, rather than merely barging in and demanding to
see the fellow.

A young woman was sweeping the stoop at the
back door of the vicarage.

“Missy Prue?” Cobb said, recognizing the
Hungerford’s servant.

“I am. An’ you’re Cobb, if I ain’t mistaken.”
She flashed Cobb an impish grin that made his heart execute half a
somersault.”

“Is the Reverend in?” he managed to say.

“One of ‘em is. You lookin’ fer the handsome
one or the grumpy one?”

“I’ll take either.”

Missy made an elaborate mock-curtsy and
bounced back inside. A moment later she returned and said formally,
“Reverend Hungerford is in his study – down the hall, through the
double doors, an’ turn right.”

As he stepped around her, she whispered,
“I’ve seen him in better moods.”

But Hungerford was waiting for his visitor
outside the study with a welcoming smile on his face. “Come along,
Horatio. There’s a cozy fire in here.”

Cobb followed him in, unbuttoned his
greatcoat, sat on the edge of a fragile-looking chair, and eased
his helmet down on the floor beside him.

Hungerford strode over to the fireplace and
rubbed his hands with more vigour than Pontius Pilate before the
Crucifixion. “What can I do for a member of our intrepid
constabulary?” he said heartily.

Cobb eyed him for a moment before answering.
The senior vicar was of medium height, large-boned (his hands,
though pale and uncallused, could have comfortably cradled a
blacksmith’s hammer), craggy-faced, and alarmingly bald on top. He
compensated for the latter infelicity by letting the rest of his
hair sprout wherever it wished, while his sideburns flourished
unchecked. A middle-aged paunch was poorly disguised by his purple
waistcoat. The dark eyes, deep in their bony sockets, seemed
opaque, incapable of emotion whatever else the face and
body-gestures might be communicating.

“There’s been some trouble on King Street
near Galsworthy’s shop,” Cobb said with deliberate vagueness. “We
think maybe your Mr. Epp might’ve been a witness to the incident –
on his way to work, like.”

Again Hungerford smiled with everything but
his eyes. “I gather you don’t wish to reveal the details of the
‘incident,’ as you term it?”

“It was a murder,” Cobb said. “Happened about
seven-thirty. Somebody saw Reuben in the area about that time. I’d
like to talk to him about it.”

“I see,” Hungerford said, but instead of
continuing he went across to a pipe-stand, fiddled with filling one
of the bowls there, abandoned it, then turned and said coldly,
“Tell me, who was murdered?”

Cobb hesitated, but had to respond. “Mr.
Richard Dougherty. He was stabbed several times in an alley whilst
out on his morning walk.” Something or other registered – briefly –
in Hungerford’s eyes. Surprise? Satisfaction? Concern?

“And you have reason to believe that our Mr.
Epp was . . . close by, as you say?”

Cobb detected an edge of threat in the
question. He began to sweat, wishing now that he had taken his coat
right off. “Dusty Carter saw Reuben movin’ along the service lane
behind the bakery around seven-thirty.”

“Coming to work,” Hungerford said with a
twitch that was meant as a smile. “He’s supposed to unlock the
front doors of the church at eight o’clock and then ring the
bells.”

“He was seen headin’ west, not east,” Cobb
said quietly.

Hungerford did not seem pleased with what he
considered to be Cobb’s impertinent probing, but managed to say, “I
think I can explain that, constable. When I came into the vestry to
fetch a garment I’d left there after evensong last night – at about
a quarter to eight – I noticed one of the front doors ajar. It
appears, for some reason you’ll have to get from Mr. Epp, that he
came in early to unlock the doors, and then returned home.”

Cobb said quickly, “Then you haven’t seen him
this mornin’?”

“Are you implying that I ought to have seen
him?”

Cobb wriggled to let the sweat run freely
down his back. “I just need to know, sir, if he’s in the church
right now, so’s I can talk to him.”

“And I’m telling you that I haven’t the
slightest idea where the verger is. It is not my duty to supervise
his every move!”

Cobb took note of the anger in Hungerford’s
reply, but he began to suspect that it wasn’t directed merely at
the impudence of a lowly constable. “Did the bell ring at eight
o’clock?” he asked.

“Of course it did. Reverend Chalmers did the
honours.”

“Did he say whether Reuben helped him?”

“Damn you! Epp hasn’t been here since he
opened the doors at seven o’clock! Is that what you want to
hear?”

“Now, reverend, there’s no need to pop yer
collar. If Reuben ain’t here, then I’ll go an’ find him.” He
started to get up.

But Hungerford said to him in a tone that
bordered on pleading, “Stay for a moment, constable. I’ll try to
explain the source of my uncalled-for outburst.”

Feeling he had gained the high ground, Cobb
stood with his helmet in his hands.

“It was I who recommended Reuben Epp for the
post of verger, some years ago, at the behest of a woman whose
judgement I trusted. The man has been a burden to me ever since, a
cross which, as a Christian, I’ve had to bear. Epp has always had a
problem with alcohol. He’s not an habitual drunkard, but he gives
in to his demons two or three times month, arrives late for work,
or not at all. Reverend Chalmers and I cover for him as best we can
– we don’t want to bother the Archdeacon with such a petty matter,
as that great man carries the weight of the country and its
fortunes on his shoulders. I assume that Chalmers noted Epp’s
absence and tolled the eight o’clock bell. You can check with him
when he comes back from his pastoral visits at noon, if you like.
But I myself have seen no evidence in the church that Epp did
anything more than open the doors early and then desert his
post.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Cobb said at the
door. “I’ll head across town to Epp’s place. I’m sure I’ll find him
there.”

“Sober, I dearly hope. And I hope, too, that
you don’t for a moment think the man had anything to do with
murder.”

“I won’t know that, sir, till I ask him.”

“True, but you should know that despite his
weakness the fellow is a model Christian, pious to a fault. That is
precisely why I have made allowances for his erratic behaviour over
the years.”

“I see,” Cobb said, substituting, in his
mind, the word “fanatic” for “pious.”

“Moreover, I can’t for the life of me see
what connection Mister Epp could have had with an apostate and
pederast like Dougherty. May God forgive me, but I feel that the
world will be a better place with that fellow dead, however heinous
a crime has been committed to render him thus.”

Cobb froze. He knew he ought to wheel and
hurry away. But he didn’t. “I would’ve thought the connection was
obvious, sir. Wasn’t it the great man himself who just yesterday
called fer an eye to be plucked out?”

“What the hell are you saying, you impious
upstart!” The vicar’s rage was as fierce as it was sudden. His bald
pate glowed crimson. “How dare you come into my home and – ”

“The killer stabbed Mr. Dougherty six or
seven times in a blind fury. Then he left a note stuck to him,
callin’ him a sodomite,” Cobb said calmly. He stared into
Hungerford’s anger and added, “Then he gouged out the fella’s right
eye!”

Hungerford reeled back as if struck. His jaw
dropped between his side-whiskers. There was fear in his eyes. And
dismay.

Cobb stomped all the way down the hall and
out onto the stoop.

***

It was just after eleven o’clock, and the chamber of
Magistrate James Thorpe in the Court House was the scene of a
post-mortem concerning the horrific death of Richard Dougherty. The
magistrate himself took little part in the discussion, but he was
nonetheless an interested party. Seated about him were Marc
Edwards, Wilfrid Sturges, Robert Baldwin (who had arrived in
company with Marc) and Angus Withers (who had decided to deliver
his autopsy report in person).

“Angus, why don’t you start things off,”
Sturges said.

“Well, I have examined the body carefully in
my surgery,” Withers said in his straightforward, no-nonsense
manner. “There were six stab wounds in all, every one of them in
the upper back. The angle of entry indicates that they were most
likely inflicted while the victim was lying facedown. They were
executed with great force. As I suspected, one of them penetrated
through to the heart, and was most likely the fatal stroke.”

“Then he
was
struck on the head
first?” Sturges said.

“Yes, a blow to the right temple. As
Dougherty was no doubt walking east towards home, I speculate that
the killer sprang out of the alley between the two shops and took
the victim by surprise. The blow fractured the skull and certainly
rendered the man unconscious, if not dead. He was either dragged or
he staggered into the alley, where we found him facedown. All the
blood found there was consistent with the body not having moved
once it had hit the ground. There was bruising on the face and grit
in the skin to suggest an unimpeded fall.”

“Any idea what was used to knock him out?”
Marc asked.

“A large, rounded stone of some sort, I’d
guess.”

“We found it,” Sturges said. “Constable Brown
searched the entire length of the alley, an’ found nothing. But a
woman in the crowd around us stumbled on a bloodied stone about the
size of a muskmelon, lyin’ on the road. The killer must’ve struck
Dougherty an’ tossed the bludgeon away without thinkin’.”

“More concerned with getting poor Dick into
the alley and out of sight,” Marc said. He was finding it difficult
to pretend that he was calm and detached, as he knew he ought to
be: one salient detail overlooked could result in the murderer
going free. And that, he had vowed to Celia and Brodie, he would
never allow.

“Consistent with the victim being facedown
and prone,” Withers continued, “was the absence of any defensive
cuts or bruises on the arms or hands. I think, gentlemen, that we
have pinned down what happened and how – at least at the actual
site of the crime.”