The Bishop's Pawn Page 6
SODOMITE!
With his stomach heaving towards his throat, Nestor stumbled around to where the victim’s head should be. He eased back the collar of the cloak. The head was there all right, squashed down against the gravel and pressed sideways. Nestor felt the bile bubble into his throat. The socket where the right eye should have been was nothing but a bloody pulp.
The killer had plucked out the Yankee lawyer’s eye.
SIX
Less than half an hour later, Chief Constable Wilfrid Sturges (nicknamed “Sarge” in honour of his stint in Wellington’s army), Dr. Angus Withers, the coroner, and constables Rossiter, Brown and Wilkie reached the gruesome scene. But it was Horatio Cobb who had been the first to arrive, having been fetched from his patrol by a street urchin dispatched by Simeon Galsworthy, the jeweller. The message had been garbled but alarming enough for Cobb to have the lad carry on to the police quarters to rouse the Chief and whoever else might be needed. Between keeping the throng away from the victim – and from any clues that might lie in the vicinity – and questioning an uncharacteristically reluctant and befuddled Nestor Peck, Cobb had been kept busy until Chief Sturges popped up behind him. And gasped at what he saw in the alley.
“Jesus, Cobb. I ain’t seen nothin’ like this since my days in Portugal.”
“You ain’t seen the worst of it,” Cobb said, indicating Dougherty’s maimed face.
“And Nestor here found the body?”
“He did. And I’ve got everythin’ outta him we’re likely to get.”
Sturges took out a coin and placed it in Nestor’s still-trembling hand. “You go an’ get yerself somethin’ to eat or drink,” he said. “Then come down to the Court House this afternoon. Gussie, my clerk, will need to record a statement of what you saw. An’ we may have some more questions fer you.”
Rossiter and Dr. Withers came into the alley just as Nestor was making his way through the crowd, wondering if he would ever eat anything again and beginning to think of how – when he stopped shaking – he might turn this horror to his advantage at The Cock and Bull or The Crooked Anchor. Ewan Wilkie, the last of the regular constables to show up, was put to work with Rossiter and Brown restraining the crowd, while Cobb and Sturges set out to interview any of the neighbouring shopkeepers who might have been up early enough to spot the killer lurking about. It seemed that the entire west end of the town had been roused. But none had been able to get close enough to ascertain any of the horrific (and usable) details. That the victim was Dougherty was self-evident, as was his fate.
Angus Withers finished his initial examination of the body, and came up to Sturges and Cobb. “Six stab wounds in the back with that vicious dirk – short handle, long, thin blade. Pirate’s special. Any of those thrusts might have been fatal, as they went through the lungs, but the deepest one seems to have penetrated to the heart from the rear. I rolled him over just enough to determine that each thrust entered from the back. They are all jagged and wide, indicating that the attacker was in a frenzy, plunging the blade in, yanking it out, then plunging it back in again.”
“But the poor bastard fell diagonally into the alley,” Sturges said. “How would the killer get him in there and then manage to knife him from behind?”
“There’s a nasty-looking bump on his right temple. I’d speculate that Dougherty – for there’s no doubt it is he – was walking east along his usual route when the assassin stepped out of the shadows here and clobbered him with something solid, like a rock. As the big man staggered under the blow, he could have been pushed or manhandled into the alley, where he toppled right here, facedown. After which, with the victim unconscious, the killer went about stabbing him – in some sort of rage.”
When Sturges failed to do so, Cobb asked, “When did that – that business with the eye happen?”
“I’d say after he died. There’s little bleeding about the gouged socket. I found the eyeball over by the wall there. Certainly he was rendered comatose by the initial blow to the temple. He never knew what was happening to him.”
“You mentioned Dougherty’s regular route,” Sturges said to Withers.
“That’s right,” Cobb interjected. “Some of this area’s on my patrol. Fer the past month or more, Dougherty’s been takin’ his mornin’ exercise along a precise route: down Bay to Front, over to Simcoe, north to King, back over to Bay an’ then on up to his cottage. I’ve never known him to vary it – rain, snow or otherwise. An’ many of the storekeepers, those who get up early, have mentioned it to me. They say they can set their clocks by his passin’.”
“So a lot of people could have known exactly where he would be at a specific time?”
“That’s right. Which pins down the time of the murder right to the minute,” Cobb said, pleased at the ease with which such conclusions now flowed out – after four murder investigations carried out in tandem with the talented Marc Edwards.
“How do you figure that?” Withers said. “I can only determine – from the state of the blood and the temperature of the body – that it must have occurred no more than an hour and a half ago. But that’s all.”
Cobb’s reply was swift and sure. “Simeon Galsworthy, the jeweller next door, told me that Dougherty joked with him one mornin’ when they met out front that he timed his walk every day by checkin’ the big pendulum clock in the shop window. Seems he tried to rig his constitutional so he got here as close to seven-thirty as he could manage.”
“We’ll have to speak to Galsworthy an’ anybody else livin’ within a block or so of this alley,” Sturges said.
“Whaddya make of that message stuck to him?” Cobb said to the coroner.
“It’s intended to look as if the killer scratched that obscenity in the victim’s blood,” Withers said.
“Intended?” Sturges said.
“It’s been written – before the event, I suspect – in red ink with what looks like an artist’s brush. Damn ghoulish, if you ask me. But it does suggest premeditation, eh?”
“As does this particular spot bein’ chosen,” Sturges said. “We’ll be lookin’ fer a fella who planned this ahead of time, wrote out a note, brought it along with his knife, picked out a stone as his bludgeon, waited here fer seven-thirty to roll around, then calmly carried out the deed – becomin’ enraged, perhaps, after he got started.”
“Or wanted us to think so,” Cobb said, with the kind of devious logic Marc Edwards might have used.
“Well, we’ve got the means an’ opportunity part,” Sturges mused, showing that he too had been listening to Mr. Edwards.
“And the motive, too – have we not?” Withers said, removing the dirk and the attached note, and drawing the cloak up over the body.
“Somebody who took offence at queers an’ buggery,” Sturges said.
“That takes in most of the Christian folk in this city,” Withers said.
“Can we trace the owner of the dagger?” Cobb said.
“Looks like the weapon favoured by sailors,” Withers said. “I’ve seen a hundred just like it in my time here.”
“And I’ve pulled a few outta the mitts of tavern brawlers,” Cobb sighed.
“Dougherty certainly had his share of detractors,” Sturges said, “but he was still an important fella in town. An’ the gruesome details of this crime are bound to get out.” Sturges looked like a worried man.
“Are you thinking, Wilf, what the rest of us are?” Withers said.
“I’m thinkin’ not just about that note, but about that eyeball lyin’ outside the body.”
Cobb said it for the other two: “We all heard that sermon yesterday, didn’t we? An’ less than a day later, the lawyer referred to is found with his eye plucked out.”
“And the man who called for the barbaric act just happened to be Archdeacon Strachan,” Withers added solemnly.
“Who’s hopin’ to be made our bishop,” Sturges said.
“This is a crime we’ve got to clear up quickly and cleanly,” Withers said. “Governo
r Arthur will be apoplectic if any ill wind blows, even faintly, in the direction of John Strachan.”
“I’m gonna send fer Marc Edwards,” Sturges said, “before the Governor does. I’ll have Rossiter fetch him here right away, then go on to inform the young lad an’ his sister of their guardian’s death.”
“And I’ll have the body removed now to my surgery for a more thorough examination. Tell the magistrate that a written report should reach him by early afternoon.”
“I’ll get Wilkie, an’ we’ll begin to question the locals,” Cobb said. He wasn’t sure yet whether he was pleased that Marc would be invited to join (lead?) the investigation or irritated that the notion had come so readily to his chief.
SEVEN
Constable Rossiter, a large, taciturn man who was happiest when carrying out explicit commands, arrived at Briar Cottage on Sherbourne Street before nine o’clock with the news of Dougherty’s murder. When Marc recovered from the shock of the constable’s blunt announcement (“The Yankee lawyer’s been stabbed to death beside the jeweller’s an’ the Chief wants you to come”), he pressed for more details. But Rossiter merely repeated the last half of his message (“Sarge just wants you to come”), tipped his hat to Beth, who had come up behind Marc in her kimono, and started to walk away.
“You’re sure it’s Mr. Dougherty?”
Rossiter paused. “Ain’t too many fellas over three hundred pounds wearin’ a gentleman’s duds,” Rossiter said. “Now I gotta go an’ tell the young ones about it.”
“Marc, you mustn’t let Mr. Rossiter break such news to Brodie an’ Celia!” Beth said as she squeezed into the doorway beside her husband.
“You’re right, darling,” Marc said, wishing Beth had not come out of the kitchen to hear Rossiter’s report. “You go on back to your chief,” he said to Rossiter, “and I’ll go to the Dougherty cottage. Tell Wilf that I’ll come to police quarters as soon as I can.”
Looking much relieved, Rossiter turned and hurried down the walk.
“I can’t believe this has happened,” Beth said. “Who would want to hurt Dick?”
Both Marc and Beth had got to know the curmudgeonly barrister quite well during the McNair affair in January. Beth in particular had befriended his young wards, having had them over for supper and gentle conversation several times since then.
Marc sighed at Beth’s question, fighting against the anger rising in him, knowing that it was at least a temporary antidote to the welling sorrow. “Unfortunately, love, I can think of a dozen or more who might have wished him dead.”
Beth insisted on coming with Marc, despite his plea that she should neither upset herself nor strain herself physically.
“The horse is already hitched up,” she said. “Charlene an’ Jasper were plannin’ to go shoppin’. I’ll throw on one of my tents an’ be ready to go in three minutes.”
“But – ”
“But I’ll be better doin’ somethin’ than stayin’ here alone cryin’ my eyes out.”
Ten minutes later they were on their way to Bay Street.
***
Normally both Brodie and Celia would have been away from home by nine-twenty – Brodie to the bank and Celia to Miss Tyson’s. But the failure of their guardian to return from his constitutional by eight o’clock had worried them. Not at first, even though his schedule was usually precise to the minute. But once or twice before, they knew, he had been persuaded to stop for a coffee at Baldwin House. However, he had never failed to return before they left home at eight-thirty, for he insisted on hearing, over his breakfast, from their own lips what excitements or challenges lay ahead for their day “out in the world,” just as he demanded a full debriefing over supper. Brodie was getting ready to head down to Baldwin’s when Marc and Beth pulled up in front of the cottage.
Marc was glad now that Rossiter had provided no details of the crime. The mere fact of Dick’s sudden demise was shock enough for his wards. That he had been murdered (“Some villain trying to rob him!” Brodie had cried) was not unimportant, but the loss of the man who had been in their lives since their birth and had taken their father’s place was the blow that cut most keenly. Marc was also glad that Beth had insisted on coming, for Celia collapsed into her arms and had to be helped into the kitchen, where the elderly cook joined Beth in fruitless attempts at consoling the distraught girl.
It was then decided that Brodie would go to Dr. Withers’ surgery to claim the body and learn what he could of the incident. Marc tried to reassure the lad that he and the police would find the killer and bring him to justice.
“Justice won’t bring Uncle back,” Brodie said.
No, Marc thought, but later on, when shock turned to sorrow and quiet grieving, it would help.
“I’m takin’ Celia back to our place,” Beth said, brooking no dissent. “She c’n stay with us fer a few days if she needs to. Brodie, too, if he wants. I’ll send Charlene to Dora fer some sedatives.”
Minutes later, Marc found himself quick-stepping down Bay Street. He was certain that the body would have been removed by now and that he was likely to learn more at the police quarters than at the scene of the crime. He could go there later. Feeling slightly abashed that he was already thinking more like an investigator than a mourning friend, he swung west onto King and headed for the Court House.
***
Cobb and Wilkie left Chief Sturges and Constable Brown to the thankless task of keeping the crowd back from the body, and set out to interview any of the neighbouring shopkeepers who might have been up early enough to have spotted the killer lurking about. Some of them might well be in the crowd by now, but most would not leave their premises unattended.
“You take the shops on that side of the street,” Cobb said. “I’ll do this side.”
“What do I say?” Wilkie asked sleepily.
“Ask them if they saw anybody suspicious-looking hangin’ about just before seven-thirty – anyone really that they wouldn’t expect to see hereabouts.”
“Then what?”
“You come an’ tell me,” Cobb said. If there were any lead – and that was a remote possibility – Cobb wanted to know first, before the Chief did and, he had to admit, before Marc Edwards.
“But I ain’t had my breakfast,” Wilkie complained.
“And that poor bastard in the alley won’t have any ever again!”
Cobb watched Ewan Wilkie trundle across the street and head for the little tearoom that didn’t open for business until ten. Well, no matter. Cobb had an idea about where he should start first: Dusty Carter’s bakery, even though it was three doors down. Dusty was up working at five, and he was a nosy parker.
Dusty was behind the counter, drizzling icing on a tray of buns. He looked up and gave Cobb a gap-toothed greeting.
“What’s all the commotion out there?” he said, licking his baby finger. “Somebody into fisticuffs this early on a Monday?”
“Worse,” Cobb said. “That lawyer fella from New York got himself stabbed to death in the alley between the jeweller’s an’ the grocer’s.”
“Ya don’t say. I woulda come out fer a gander, but I had loaves in the oven,” the baker said, feeling he needed to explain his lack of interest in such a calamitous event.
Cobb could smell the fresh bread, and heard his stomach rumble. He briefly told Dusty as much as he felt he ought to about the grisly slaying, then said, “What I need to know, is whether you saw Mr. Dougherty go past here about seven-thirty?”
Dusty placed another tray of buns before him. “Sometimes I do, if I happen to be out front here. Regular as rain, he is, waddlin’ along. But today I was in back, at the oven.”
Well, Cobb thought, it had been worth a try. And he could buy a sticky bun while he was here – as consolation.
“But I did see someone else – in the lane behind,” Dusty said, keeping a sharp eye all the time on the stream of icing.
“You did?” Cobb said, forgetting his stomach for a moment. “Somebody you knew?”
This could be it, Cobb thought. “Go on.”
“From the window in back, just about seven-thirty – I know because I was just taking out a timed batch of bread – I saw this fella kind of weavin’ his way along, keepin’ to the shadows on the other side, an’ lookin’ about him all the while.”
“It wasn’t Nestor scoutin’ garbage?”
“No, no, I seen him comin’ along, goin’ the opposite way about fifteen minutes later. This fella wasn’t scoutin’, he was skulkin’, or else runnin’ away from someone.”
“And you recognized him?”
“I did. In fact, I saw him just yesterday – in church.”
“Who?”
Dusty deliberately overshot a bun and reached down to smooth away the errant icing. Then he looked up and said, “It was the verger at St. James: Reuben Epp.”
Cobb got a double shock. Epp had been verger at St. James for years – a loner and a misanthrope. And he certainly would have heard the Archdeacon’s sermon with its closing clarion-call. Cobb wasn’t sure whether or not he ought to be elated. If Epp was involved in Dougherty’s murder, the way ahead was fraught with dangers and pitfalls.
“I better go an’ talk to him, then,” Cobb said.
“He lives out at the edge of town,” Dusty said, choosing a bun. “In a shanty on Brock Street behind the tannery.”
“I know the place.”
“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.