The Bishop's Pawn Page 7

  “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 bordere
d 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.”

  “You ain’t forgot the eye, have you?” Sturges said.

  “Ah, yes. Never seen anything like it in all my years as a physician.”

  “We saw the like a few times in Spain,” Sturges said. “Some poor bugger thought to be a spy by the dons would have both eyes gouged out. They tried not to kill him.”

  “At least the victim here did not know what was being done to him,” Withers said. “The blow on the skull was definitely first, and then, most probably, the stabbing. The gouging out of the eye would appear to have been done as some kind of ritual act. But I’ll leave that sort of speculation to the police and the magistrate.”

  “Thanks, Angus,” Sturges said. “What we’ve been doin’ meantime is tryin’ to figure out what happened just before or just after the crime – since we know fer sure that the stabbin’ took place close to seven-thirty. I sent Cobb an’ Wilkie out to talk to the shopkeepers an’ regulars on that block. We’re hopin’ that someone saw Dougherty so we can pin down the time exactly or, if we’re lucky, find somebody who spotted the killer comin’ or goin’.”

  “And they’re still out there?” said the magistrate, not uncritically.

  Sturges reddened. “Maybe they decided to do more’n one block,” he spluttered, having no other explanation for Cobb’s uncharacteristic tardiness.

  “Well, I may be able to help a little,” Robert said. “I was standing in the bow window of our parlour when I saw Dick go past. I remember remarking to the governess, Miss Ramsay, that he was right on schedule. The time was ten minutes past seven.” Robert also realized that that was the last image of his friend alive he would ever hold: the oversize cloak, the fur cap, the huge, loose-flapped boots, the determined amble of a man set on recovering what he could of past triumphs and squandered opportunities. “If only I had called him in, as I’ve done several times this month. But I knew how dedicated he was to regaining his mobility, and his self-respect. I didn’t want to disrupt his regimen.”

  There were several moments of awkward silence before Marc said, “I heard that a note was found pinned to Dick’s back by the murder weapon.”

  “That’s right,” Sturges said. “An’ the knife turns out to be a common type of dirk with no peculiar marks on it that might’ve helped lead us to the killer.”

  “Is that the note there?” Marc said, pointing to the tea table beside the Chief.

  “Yup. An’ just like Angus said earlier, this disgustin’ word on it was written to look like it was done with blood. But it’s only red ink. Here, have a look.”

  Marc took the note. “Yes, I’d say a brush of some sort, probably a calligrapher’s instrument, was used to simulate blood and suggest a frenzied scrawl. But this word was carefully inscribed here before the event.”


  “How c’n you tell?” Sturges said.

  “There is no spillover. Despite the apparently ragged edge to the letters, they were neatly composed by a steady hand. I’ve seen such work often in London shops. I’ve even watched calligraphers at work.”

  “Well, that’s odd, then,” Robert said. “It doesn’t seem to fit with the frenzy of the attack and the viciousness of that initial blow to the temple. The note seems to have been purposefully penned and then carried to the scene with calculated malice.”

  “And the bottom third of this page has been torn off, perhaps – again – to suggest frenzy at the scene,” Marc said, holding up the sheet of paper to illustrate his point.

  “Are you suggesting, Marc, that even the frenzy of the knife attack was simulated?”

  “That’s a possibility. Maybe we’re looking at a cold-blooded assassination made to appear like a berserk assault by some deranged grudge-holder or fanatic.”

  Sturges gave a big sigh. “I wish you hadn’t said that. I think we’ve all been tryin’ hard to avoid goin’ there.”

  “Where?” said Magistrate Thorpe, who was finding the discussion more puzzling than helpful.

  “You weren’t at St. James yesterday?” Angus said.

  “I was in Brantford at my sister’s,” the Magistrate said. “Why do you ask?”

  Marc explained: “Archdeacon Strachan preached a fiery sermon in which, among others, he condemned the dissolute and unnatural acts of a Yankee lawyer, to use his own words, practising his apostasy mere blocks from the Anglican altar.”

  “I see,” said Thorpe, not yet seeing at all. Then he said very slowly, “Are you suggesting that someone in the congregation was incited to kill Dougherty because he was rumoured to be a pederast?”

  “Strachan called him a sodomite, an’ that’s what’s written on the note there,” Sturges said.

  “But such rumours have been flying about here for over a year,” Thorpe said. “Just last week the local Baptist preacher attacked homosexuals in a sermon that scorched the pews, I’m told.”