The Bishop's Pawn Page 11

  “Ah, Sturges, you have come promptly. And brought Lieutenant Edwards with you.” The latter remark was more in the nature of a challenge than a mere statement of fact.

  “Mr. Edwards has been asked to lead the investigation into the sorry business on King Street yesterday,” Sturges said bravely.

  “How fortuitous, as that is the very subject upon which I wish to dwell for the next quarter of an hour or so – if I may impose on your good will.” Strachan smiled the pseudo-hearty smile of parsons the world over, but he did not, Marc noticed, use it to disguise the cold calculation or lurking malice behind it. It was a reflex only.

  “It was Sir Arthur’s good will that did the imposin’,” Sturges said.

  “Be that as it may, you are both here, and I wish to ask you one question and then tender you some sage advice.”

  Marc expected that they would asked to sit down at this point, but Strachan continued standing before them, as a colonel might before a pair of subalterns.

  “I am at your service, sir,” Sturges said. “Fire away.”

  “Let me be blunt, as that is the way I was raised to be and have ever since conducted my affairs,” Strachan said, giving free rein to the Aberdeen burr he had staunchly retained since his arrival in North America nearly forty years before. It was easy to picture this man hectoring the American officers and rallying the besieged citizens of this city during the invasion of 1813, or staring down a succession of pompous lieutenant-governors. “I want to know why you are persisting in continuing the investigation of Richard Dougherty’s murder when the assassin has been identified, with ample proofs, and has – conscience-stricken, I am told – hanged himself in your jail? And need I add that the victim is not likely to be missed – here or in Heaven.”

  Sturges looked at Marc, who smiled pleasantly and said, “We are doing so for one reason only, reverend. There is enough evidence to suggest a conspiracy involving at least one other person, someone literate and prosperous and having sufficient motive.”

  “Sir George has just informed me of these flimsy ‘proofs,’ as you call them. Surely the money found at Epp’s home could have come from any number of sources. It may well have been squirreled away years ago.”

  “Epp was illiterate. And the notepaper was expensive.”

  “Epp did odd jobs for dozens of my parishioners to supplement the modest stipend we were forced to pay him because the funds rightfully ours from the Clergy Reserves have been blocked by Methodists and Reformers. He could have acquired that notepaper anywhere and at any time.”

  “But who would have consented to scrawl that obscenity on it for him? And why?”

  “Are you interrogating me, sir?” The black eyes blazed at Marc.

  “Those questions were rhetorical only,” Marc replied calmly. “But I must tell you that the coincidence between the word ‘sodomite’ heard in your diatribe Sunday morning and its appearance on the victim’s back, planted there by your verger, troubles me deeply.”

  Sturges took a step backwards, as if he expected to be slapped with a Bible. Marc stood his ground.

  Strachan took a deep breath. “I find the implications of that statement to be unwarranted and beneath the dignity of a man professing to be a gentleman. I called Dougherty a sodomite because I had good reason to believe he was. In that context the word is not an obscenity. It is a scourge and a call to repentance. Nor did I ask my congregants to take any action against the sinner in question. My words were, ‘If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out!’ I was petitioning Dougherty, on God’s behalf, to repent of his sin and purge himself.”

  Who in blazes is the lawyer here? Sturges wondered.

  “You, sir, did not know Richard Dougherty,” Marc said. “I did.”

  Strachan smiled his parson-smile. “Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken, sir. You see, just after the service on Sunday, I had a visit here from a Mr. Tallman and a Mr. Brenner, attorneys from New York, and my long-time suspicions were confirmed.”

  Marc was stunned. What on earth had those men been doing in Toronto?

  “I see you are taken aback. As well you should be. For those gentlemen informed me that they were in town to testify before the Law Society in regard to Dougherty’s conduct back in New York City.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “They said they had heard that I was the power behind the throne, as it were, and they wished to inform me of what they felt they had to say to the Benchers. I assured them they had been misinformed about my status, but agreed to hear them out – in the strictest confidence.”

  Marc braced himself.

  “They told me that Dougherty had been forced to leave New York City because he was about to be charged with buggery – with boys as young as fourteen!”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  That smile again. “Neither did they, oddly enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They said that they were friends of Dougherty, had known him forever. They themselves had never seen him do anything improper nor had they heard of anything of disrepute – until the particular incident that precipitated his flight. They stressed that no formal charges had been laid nor had he been disbarred. They couldn’t prove it, but they suspected he had made a deal with the authorities – to voluntarily exile himself so that he might live to practise law another day somewhere far from New York. They intended to tell this to the Law Society, in part because they knew of the wild and ugly rumours circulating here and hoped to be able to mitigate their impact.”

  “They believed him innocent, then?”

  “They obviously hoped he was. But, remember, the man packed up and fled. He dragged his hapless wards with him. He never denied the rumours, there or here. He shut himself up in that miserable little cottage for over a year with two teenaged children. Are those the actions of an innocent man?”

  Marc was stung by the logic of these remarks. Without thinking, he struck back. “Are you also trying to tell me that there was no connection between your attack on Mr. Dougherty and your receiving a letter written by him on behalf of David Chalmers?”

  This time the dart hit home. Strachan reddened, then moved his indignation up a notch. “That, sir, is none of your business. What transpires between me and my vicars is private. Nor, I might add, had Dougherty any authority to break the confidentiality between him and his client.”

  “Agree. But he did, and I know that you were threatened with a civil suit and possible scandal, and that, in a most unchristian-like manner, you retaliated as soon as you could.”

  Sturges had taken another step backwards, towards the door. But Strachan merely squeezed the rictus of a grin out through his teeth and lips, and said, “I’ll now give you the advice I promised – both of you. This province is on the brink of success or failure. The recommendations of Lord Durham must be debated in an atmosphere free from intrigue and machination, and from scandal-mongering. I will not, I repeat, not have you two or any of your minions interfering with the work of my priests or making unfounded allegations regarding any actions you may suppose involves them with Reuben Epp. There will be no guilt-by-association. And if I get wind of the slightest impropriety on your part, I’ll have the investigation closed down – whatever the Governor thinks. In addition, I’ll see to it that Mister Edwards here never practises law in this province. Good day, gentlemen.”

  The bishop-in-waiting wheeled and swept himself out of the room.

  Sturges led the way to the vestibule. “I’m sure glad I brung you along,” he said to his chief investigator.

  ELEVEN

  Cobb spent Tuesday afternoon in various taverns and public houses about the city, contacting and bribing his snitches to be on the lookout for anyone who might have seen Reuben Epp on Sunday afternoon. It certainly would not be hard for any of them to start a conversation with their pub-crawling clientele: Epp’s name and the horrors of his crime were on every lip. Cobb was so successful in lining up half a dozen of his regular crew that he
arrived home too late for supper and too inebriated to have eaten it even if Dora had been sympathetic enough to indulge him (she wasn’t). Meanwhile, Marc was needed at home, where Celia was in need of comfort and Beth in need of support. In fact, he put her to bed and let Charlene tend to Celia. When the house at last grew quiet, Marc, as was his custom, sat down and wrote copious notes on the case thus far. Beth almost always volunteered to listen as he read them aloud upon completion, and together they would mull over the perplexing details. But Beth was very near her term and increasingly fatigued. Marc found himself alone with his thoughts and the feelings that threatened to overwhelm them.

  Brodie had insisted on spending the day finalizing the funeral arrangements, going through his guardian’s papers, and dealing with the distraught servants at the cottage. It was taken for granted that Dick had been a wealthy man. He had been a successful barrister for more than twenty-five years, in partnership with Dennis Langford, and, upon the latter’s death, had taken over the business and acted as trustee for the Langford estate. According to the will that Brodie found, Dick’s own considerable estate was to pass directly to his wards. Despite a busy and exhausting day, Brodie arrived at Briar Cottage in time for the evening meal, prepared entirely by Charlene (with moral support from Jasper Hogg, her suitor and day-slave).

  And it was during this meal that Celia, fully awake and much recovered, dropped her bombshell.

  “I’ve been too upset to tell you,” she said, “but two men came to the door on Sunday morning just before eleven.”

  Marc was able – just – to keep his shock from alarming Celia, but he felt Beth tense beside him, and saw Brodie’s eyes widen.

  “Do you know whether or not they were lawyers, from New York City?” Marc said slowly.

  “How did you know?” Celia said, sensing what she most feared: that the appearance of these men and her failure to stay with her guardian were somehow connected to his death.

  “These same gentlemen, Brenner and Tallman, I’ve been told, showed up at Archdeacon Strachan’s house later the same day,” Marc said.

  “Tallman and Brenner are law partners,” Brodie said. “I never met them, that I remember, but I know that Father and Uncle had dealings with them.”

  “Did you happen to overhear anything that was said when they visited your guardian?” Marc asked Celia, and instantly regretted it.

  Celia blushed, then fought back tears. “Uncle ordered me to leave him alone for an hour with them, and I – I was supposed to sneak off and meet Matthew at eleven, and so, like a selfish child, I just left Uncle alone there. I know I should have – ”

  “You should have done exactly as your uncle asked you to,” Beth said, glancing at Marc. “And I’m sure you would’ve told him about Matthew – when the time was right.”

  Celia beamed a jittery smile at Beth.

  “I’m sorry to press the matter,” Marc said, “but did Tallman and Brenner seem in any way . . . threatening?”

  Celia, buoyed somewhat by Beth’s support, didn’t hesitate. “Not at all. They looked friendly enough to me, though I think they were a bit nervous.”

  “That’s a common reaction when meeting Uncle,” Brodie said.

  “And your uncle, how did he react when he saw them?”

  “Surprised, I think, but Uncle doesn’t always give away his feelings,” Celia said. “That’s what worried me – after I’d left him alone there.”

  “Well, luv,” Beth said, “he was fine when you got back, wasn’t he?”

  “Y- yes. Everything seemed normal. We played chess in the afternoon, and on Monday morning I kissed him before he went out for his – ” Celia burst into tears and fled the room, Charlene right behind her.

  Beth smiled grimly. “Them tears just have to flow,” she said by way of explanation. And she knew so from her own bitter experience with sudden death.

  Later, when Marc and Brodie were seated alone in the parlour, Brodie said, “Do you think it has anything to do with Uncle’s murder?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely,” Marc said. “Tallman and Brenner visited Strachan after they left your cottage. At Strachan’s they indicated that they had accepted an invitation to testify before the Benchers on behalf of your uncle.” Marc had no intention of telling Brodie the possible nature of their testimony: the stoic young man had enough on his plate.

  “So it’s logical to assume that they were discussing Uncle’s petition with him before they had to go before the Law Society?”

  “That’s what I tend to think.” Though the presence of American money hidden away in Epp’s shack and the fact that, according to Robert, the visiting lawyers had not been seen back at their hotel on Sunday until dinner at six – were worrisome.

  “But these men are barristers,” Brodie said, echoing another of Marc’s concerns. “They are supreme poker players. They could make a living on the stage. If they did come here to physically harm Uncle, they could have been taking pains to have their movements appear to be ones expected of two men come to town merely to help the Law Society do its duty.”

  “Smiling villains, you mean. Like King Claudius in Hamlet?”

  “And they sure left town in an awful hurry.”

  “True. But, then, they did hear of Dick’s death that morning, and probably just didn’t want to be involved,” Marc pointed out, though such behaviour didn’t seem compatible with the claim of friendship they had made at the Palace.

  “Anyway, they’re halfway to New York by now,” Brodie sighed.

  “Just to make sure, though,” Marc said, yawning, “I’ll ask Cobb to have his snitches try to trace their movements during Sunday afternoon.” What he couldn’t tell Brodie, who looked as if he didn’t need any more discouraging news, was that that afternoon provided the only window of opportunity for Tallman and Brenner to have contacted Epp – if in fact they had been intent on malice. But how they would have initially got hold of the illiterate Epp was not easily imagined. Unless, of course, they were acting in concert with someone in the city, someone who also wished Dick dead. Marc’s head began to spin. This case was becoming hydra-like. Each probe produced two new possibilities to consider.

  Brodie said goodnight and left for home. Marc slipped into bed and gently stroked his wife’s knotted calves.

  ***

  More than a hundred mourners crowded into the modest wooden building on Hospital Street that normally served the several dozen Congregational adherents of the city – for the funeral of Richard Dougherty. Besides those few but loyal acquaintances Dick had made since his emergence from hibernation in January, there were those ordinary folk who had grown to admire him for the effort he had made in defense of Sergeant Billy McNair, one of the heroes of the “patriot wars.” Billy himself was present, with his pregnant wife Dolly, who had worked in Beth’s shop until marrying Billy after the trial. But the biggest surprise of all was the arrival of Kingsley Thornton, the crown prosecutor whom Doubtful Dick had bested in the Court of Queen’s Bench.

  Robert offered to hold the reception following the service at Baldwin House. Beth was too tired to go, but Marc and Cobb put in a token appearance before setting out to begin their investigation. Marc decided that they would start at the vicarage. Because Cobb had already met Quentin Hungerford, he volunteered to have another run at him. Meanwhile, Marc would seek out David Chalmers.

  “Let’s focus on Epp,” Marc suggested. “We need to know how close he might have been to either man.”

  “An’ we need to snoop about to see if we can find any of that fancy paper,” Cobb added as they walked up the path to the rear door of the vicarage.

  “We’ll need to find the housemaids, too,” Marc said. “They’re never as invisible as their employers think.”

  “There’s two of ‘em,” Cobb said. “Young Missy Prue and a gnarly older gal called Myrtle Welsh.”

  It was the latter – middle-aged, scrub-toughened, and sceptical – who answered Cobb’s knock. She recognized the constable immediate
ly.

  “The Reverend’s busy,” she said. “He ain’t seein’ nobody today.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll have to,” Marc said politely. “We’ve been officially assigned to investigate the murder of Richard Dougherty. I wish to interview Reverend Chalmers and Mr. Cobb would like to see Reverend Hungerford.”

  Myrtle Welsh appraised Marc’s clothing with a keen eye, and said, “Well, seein’ as you’re a gentleman, I guess it’ll be alright.”

  She let them in, after instructing them to wipe their boots on the mat. “Mr. Chalmers is in his little study, right here,” she said, indicating a door just inside the narrow hallway. Opposite it was the door that must open onto the covered walkway to the church itself. “Just knock an’ go on in. He won’t bite ya.”

  She led Cobb to the end of the hall and they disappeared into the main section of the vicarage, which housed the Hungerfords.

  “Come on in!”

  Marc hadn’t yet knocked, but did as he was bid.

  In a cramped little room, crowded with books and papers, sat David Chalmers, junior vicar of St. James – writing. He was a cherubic man, no longer able to call himself young, with bright green eyes and a genuine smile. His clerical collar was askew, and his chin and vest were blotched with ink-smudges. Despite the smile he gave Marc as he introduced himself, he looked like a worried man.

  “I take it you’ve come about that dreadful business with Mr. Dougherty,” Chalmers said. “Your reputation as an investigator precedes you.”

  “I have, and I apologize for barging in like this, but time is of the essence in this case.”

  Marc was not surprised, given the obvious intelligence in Chalmers’ face, when the vicar said, “You believe that someone else was involved with Reuben in the murder?”

  “I do. I’m not at liberty to say exactly what evidence we have to that effect, but it is compelling. Sir George Arthur has given us ten days to see if we can find the accomplice, who may turn out to be the instigator as well.”

  Chalmers looked thoughtful. “Reuben Epp was a man with many fine qualities, but he was also deeply troubled and unstable. We did our best here to make his life tolerable.”