The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  “We know about his drinking binges and his religious zeal.”

  “Aah. And you assume like many others that that zeal drove him to slaughter a man he didn’t know?”

  “It looks that way, given the note we found at the scene and the gouged-out eye.”

  Chalmers nodded to indicate he was aware of the veiled reference to the Archdeacon’s sermon. “Still, I was shocked to learn that Reuben did it, but his hanging himself confirms the fact, doesn’t it? You see, he had no family that anyone knows about, but his loneliness and his not being able to read the Bible in whose parables and commandments he found his only comfort – well, they often sent him to the bootlegger’s. The poor chap drank alone or else with strangers in a blind-pig.”

  “He didn’t gamble, then? Or have cronies?”

  “No. Definitely not. As I say, he was unstable. He often came late for work or not at all. Quentin, bless him, covered up these peccadilloes as best he could, not wanting the Archdeacon to get wind of them.”

  “Dr. Strachan would have sacked him?”

  “Possibly, though the Archdeacon is lenient with drinkers, enjoying a tot now and then himself. But not with shirkers.”

  “Did you yourself ever meet Mr. Dougherty?” Marc said disingenuously.

  Chalmers gave Marc a shrewd, appraising look. “I did. About ten days ago.” He paused, not quite certain how he ought to continue. “On a matter pertaining to a legal problem.”

  Marc decided that a judicious lie was in order. “I know something of the matter. We found references to it among Dougherty’s papers.”

  Chalmers sighed. “Then you’ll know that Mrs. Hungerford accused me of theft, and that Mr. Dougherty was the only solicitor who would agree to help me. You see, as a result of her charge – made to the Archdeacon – my work as treasurer for the parish was audited. Well, I admitted up front that I was an inept, although diligent, accountant. Small discrepancies were discovered. I don’t think Dr. Strachan believed I was guilty of actual theft – he’s known me since I was ten – but he is sensitive to any whiff of scandal concerning St. James – ”

  “Especially with his elevation to bishop imminent.”

  “That’s part of it, yes. He suggested I be moved to a wilderness parish in the Huron Tract – till things blew over. I did not wish to go at all, but more important to me was my reputation in general. I had not been clearly exonerated of the accusation of theft, and the odds were good that the news would leak out. And eventually ruin me.”

  “I understand. Would you mind telling me how such an outlandish charge came to be made?”

  “Not at all. Mrs. Hungerford is head of the Ladies Auxiliary. A few weeks ago she organized a bazaar at the Market to raise money for the Widows and Orphans Fund. I always assist in these matters. At the time, Mrs. McDowell, the wife of Mowbray McDowell – ”

  “The MLA from Kingston?”

  “Yes. His wife, who has lived here on her own since October, is a parishioner of St. James, and was made treasurer of the Ladies Auxiliary. But being new to the job, she asked me to take custody of any cash we raised that day. Chits and receipts were carefully kept on site for all goods sold. At the end of the day, I put all the proceeds and chits in a strongbox and carried them here to my rooms. The next day, while I was out, the ‘take’ was counted by Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. McDowell. There was a ten-dollar discrepancy between the total of the chits and the actual cash. And since I was the only one with access to the strongbox overnight, it was I who was accused. I was, of course, stunned. Mrs. Hungerford has never liked me, but I found her charge undignified, unchristian, and certainly untrue.”

  “Could not any volunteer at the bazaar have siphoned off the ten dollars? Or even lost it or mislaid it?”

  “Not really. As they brought their cash to the main counter, it was mentally noted before it was put into the strongbox. We had all agreed that we had roughly seventy-two dollars in there. But Mrs. Hungerford wanted to make sure that all the chits had been made out properly and retrieved, and then matched to the cash total. She suggested this final accounting be left until the next day. As it turned out, we had less than sixty-two dollars in the kitty.”

  “Was the box locked?”

  “Yes. It sat here on my desk overnight.”

  “And you had the key?”

  “I did.”

  “Could there be other keys?”

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Hungerford said not. It’s her strongbox.”

  Marc decided not to press the matter further. David Chalmers was obviously a trusting and honest man – for surely it was Mrs. Hungerford, the senior vicar’s wife, who had both motive (Chalmers’ disgrace) and means (a duplicate key) to effect the ‘theft’ herself and blame her husband’s rival. The fact that he did not seem to suspect Mrs. Hungerford spoke volumes about the man’s character.

  “So, where do things stand now – between you and Dr. Strachan?”

  “Well, Mr. Dougherty did send him a letter outlining my position, and although the Archdeacon has said nothing to me about it, his demeanour towards me has changed, and he has dropped any idea of sending me to Coventry. I owe a great deal to Mr. Dougherty. He was a courageous man. And his senseless death has saddened me immeasurably.”

  “As it has me,” Marc said. They shook hands. At the door, Marc said, “By the way, one of the clues we have concerns a rare and expensive brand of notepaper. What kind of bond is used here at St. James?”

  “You mean, what am I writing on at the moment?” Chalmers smiled.

  “I’m afraid I had to ask.”

  Chalmers held up several sheets. “It’s Church of England letterhead. We all use it. It comes straight from London. And not even a rabid Anglican would call it expensive.”

  Marc left, thinking that he had learned a little more about Epp, a lot about the petty plots among these clerics, and all he needed to know about David Chalmers. If Chalmers were a conspirator in murder, then Marc was Father Christmas.

  ***

  Cobb was not asked to sit down. He stood in the middle of the vicar’s study with his helmet in his hands under Hungerford’s withering stare.

  “I do not appreciate being disturbed in the midst of my duties, constable. But Miss Welsh informs me that you are here at the behest of Sir George, and I am therefore happy to do what I can to be of assistance.” He did not look happy at all, nor did his vibrating mutton-chops.

  “I’ll get right to the hub of the matter,” Cobb said. “We’re lookin’ fer an accomplice to the murder of Mr. Dougherty.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Reuben Epp killed the Yankee!”

  “We got some clues that tell us he was helped.”

  “And you expect to find the accomplice, as you call him, in a vicarage? Have you and Sir George lost your minds?”

  While Hungerford’s face teemed with outrage and umbrage, Cobb suspected that some of it was of the manufactured variety worked up for the fire-and-brimstone of the Sabbath pulpit. “We need to know what Epp might’ve been doin’ after he left here at noon on Sunday. We got reason to believe he could’ve met with his co-inspirer.”

  “Well, sir, if he left here – and I saw him go – and I remained here, as I did, then how am I supposed to know his whereabouts thereafter?”

  “He coulda told ya,” Cobb spluttered.

  “Yes, but he didn’t! I did everything I could to help the poor devil: I tried to keep him out of Dr. Strachan’s way, I rang the church bell when he was absent with the drink. But I knew nothing of his personal life or where he went after he left these precincts. Moreover, the wretch is dead and buried beyond the pale: it behooves us to speak of him as kindly as we can.”

  “Do you know anybody who mighta wanted to harm Mr. Dougherty?”

  “A hundred or more, I should think.” Hungerford’s contempt was palpable. “But no-one foolish enough to arrange for him to be stabbed in an alley. Why should they? The degenerate was eating himself to death as fast as he could swallow!�
��

  Cobb switched tack abruptly, as he had seen Marc do to catch a suspect by surprise. “Are you familiar with a notepaper called Melton Bond?”

  “What the hell are you babbling about?” Hungerford looked more perplexed than surprised.

  “One of the clues is about that kind of paper. Would you mind showin’ me what you got in that drawer over there?”

  “You’re damn right I mind! This is an outrage! You are an impudent, unmannered scoundrel, and a disgrace to the constabulary. Sir George will certainly hear of your audacious conduct!”

  Oh, oh: there goes the investigation, Cobb thought. He had shifted tack straight into a gale!

  Hungerford pushed past him to the door. “You can see yourself out. If you get lost, Miss Welsh will guide you. Good day!” And he stomped off.

  Cobb took a deep breath, then slipped over to the roll-top desk in the corner. Carefully he inspected the numerous sheets of paper scattered there. Every one of them bore the letterhead of the Church. He peered into each drawer. No special pens or brushes. No red ink. Too bad. He would have enjoyed arresting the senior vicar.

  TWELVE

  Cobb found Marc chatting up Missy Prue near the back door. She gave Cobb a smile designed to pop the buttons on his greatcoat.

  On the street, Marc said, “I talked to Missy and Myrtle. Nothing goes on in that vicarage that they don’t see. Both agreed that Epp occasionally came in to visit with Hungerford, but he always sought permission first.”

  “So Hungerford an’ Epp really were close?”

  “Yes. But the maids assured me that it had been a month or more since Epp had come to see his protector in his study.”

  “Still, there was lots of chance fer them to meet in the church or the vestry.”

  “True. Did you get anything from the vicar to suggest that he might have had reason or opportunity to be involved in Dick’s death?”

  “No, I didn’t, dammit. He ain’t got that fancy paper or them pens. But he coulda wanted to have Dick killed to get in good with Strachan.”

  “Possibly. But I had quite a talk with David Chalmers. It seems that it is Mrs. Hungerford who’s taking care of her husband’s climb up the ecclesiastical ladder.” Marc explained to Cobb the implications of what he had learned in Chalmers’ study.

  “So these feudin’ parsons c’n be struck off the list?”

  “For the time being, yes. But remember, we’ve just got started.”

  At this moment, Marc was knocked sideways by a street-urchin.

  “Sorry, sir,” the boy said. “But I was told to git a message to Mr. Cobb here as quick as I could. Matter of life an’ death.”

  “A message from Nestor Peck, no doubt?” Cobb chuckled, slipping the ragamuffin a penny.

  “Yessir. He needs ta see you at The Crooked Anchor.”

  “He may have news about Epp,” Marc said.

  “Either that or he’s awful thirsty.”

  ***

  The Reverend Quentin Hungerford was still shaking when he entered his wife’s sitting-room and noisily poured himself a tumbler of sherry at the sideboard. Constance Hungerford did not look up from her knitting or drop a stitch.

  “A gentleman is not safe in his own home!”

  “He was only a police constable.”

  “I have a good mind to report his unsavoury conduct and baseless insinuations to Dr. Strachan.”

  “Dr. Strachan has many more serious worries besides affronts to your dignity, Quentin. Sip your sherry like a true gentleman and try to calm your nerves.”

  “Must you carry on with that confounded needle-clacking!”

  “It helps me think, my dear. And it is hard thinking that we must do – and quickly.” At last she looked up, and Quentin put his half-drunk sherry down on the sideboard.

  “You mean the rectorship,” he said, not bothering to make it a question.

  “Despite all that has happened, Chalmers appears to be back in the Archdeacon’s good graces. All talk of the Huron Tract has suddenly ceased.”

  “It was that damnable lawyer!” Quentin cried with more exasperation than anger. Strachan had confided in his senior rector upon receiving Dougherty’s stern letter in defense of David Chalmers.

  “And damned he is – now,” his wife replied with evident satisfaction. Constance Hungerford – who had been called ‘handsome’ because her fearsome stare and propensity for retaliation had forestalled the more accurate epithet ‘plain’ – arched her thick, black brows and smiled maliciously through her overbite. “But the good Archdeacon naturally feels that he must now close ranks. The reputation of St. James and all who cleave to it has been besmirched by the inconsiderate actions of Reuben Epp – a man whom you, in your misguided reading of the Scriptures, befriended.”

  “That policeman had the gall to suggest that Epp could have been acting on my behalf – or even the Archdeacon’s!”

  Constance gave her husband a baleful look, one that she had first practised on those feckless beaux beneath her station who had had the temerity to ask her to dance. “The issue at hand, sir, is the fact that Dr. Strachan has given Chalmers a reprieve. Which is all that he will likely need to re-install himself as the favourite.”

  “I never really believed that Dr. Strachan thought David guilty.”

  “But he was!” Constance dropped her knitting, and it missed the basket on the floor. “I tried to warn the Archdeacon that Chalmers has become desperate for money. His crippled sister in Windsor has been stricken with consumption, and requires expensive medicines. He is already supporting his mother and two other sisters down there. That’s why he cannot marry.”

  “Still, it’s hard to believe that a man of the cloth – ”

  “Quentin, stop talking nonsense!”

  Hungerford glared at the cherubim on the carpet. “So you really think he’ll try again?” he mumbled, wishing he had polished off the sherry.

  “I do. The fellow is still the parish treasurer. All I’m asking you is to be vigilant.” She stood up, the stiff taffeta of her dress crinkling like tinfoil. She came across and placed an encouraging hand on her husband’s shoulder. “And when we catch his fingers in the cash-box next time, we’ll see that they’re broken – for good.”

  ***

  Marc had asked Cobb to report to him at home if anything came out of his meeting with Nestor Peck at The Crooked Anchor. Beth had not felt well enough to attend the interment or the reception, and Marc, worried about her and the baby, hurried straight to Briar Cottage after the interviews at the vicarage. Both Beth and Celia (the latter having collapsed at the cemetery) were resting comfortably, however, and Cobb did not appear during the afternoon. Brodie arrived just before supper, and informed Marc that he now had been through all of his guardian’s extant papers (most of them having been abandoned or destroyed back in the States). He had discovered nothing there that might throw light on Dick’s death. The will, however, had one surprise in it. Dick had left two thousand dollars to The Bowery Theatre in New York City, a fraction of his total worth but, still, a sizeable sum.

  Marc was quite interested in this bequest. “Did your uncle like the theatre?” he asked, thinking of his own past experiences with play-acting.

  “Yes, he did,” Brodie said. “He went often. I was looking forward to my eighteenth birthday, at which time Uncle promised to take me along. But of course that unhappy event happened here – last year.”

  At this point Beth appeared, refreshed from her nap. “Can I have a peek at your notes?” she asked Marc, who had spent an hour or so writing down the gist of the interviews at St. James.

  “There’s not much to read, alas,” he said, “but I’m always happy to have your opinion of them.” Beth was particularly astute at interpreting character and motive.

  However, Beth’s opinion was forestalled by the sound of Cobb clumping across the front stoop.

  “What have you found out?” Marc said as he opened the door and saw the look on Cobb’s face.

 
“Good afternoon to you, too,” Cobb said. “An’ Missus Edwards.” He removed his helmet to expose the wayward spikes of his hair.

  “Did Nestor Peck have anything significant to say?” Marc said, pulling Cobb fully into the parlour.

  “Most of what Nestor tells me is drivel, major, but he may’ve struck the mother load this time.”

  Beth and Brodie came up on either side of Marc.

  “He told me one of his pals spotted Reuben Epp skull-king about in back of The American Hotel on Sunday.” Cobb delivered this arresting news in a matter-of-fact, almost offhand, tone.

  “What time on Sunday?” Marc said.

  “Middle of the afternoon.”

  “My God,” Brodie said, “maybe he was looking for Brenner and Tallman.”

  “It’s possible,” Marc said, not wanting to believe it or to consider the implications if it were so. “What do you think, Cobb?”

  “Well, I recollected there’s a shortcut back of that hotel that could take you up to Lot Street near the entrance to Irishtown. You’d use it if ya wanted to slip across to the bootlegger’s there without anybody seein’ ya.”

  “I see,” Marc said. “You think Epp could have been spotted behind The American because he was sneaking off to find cheap booze? Could we check out that possibility?”

  Cobb feigned disappointment in his partner’s remark. “Already done,” he said. “That’s why I’m late gettin’ over here.”

  “You tracked down his bootlegger?”

  “Easy enough. I asked Phil Rossiter, who has that patrol now, where Epp got his ill-lickit drink, an’ he said definitely at Swampy Sam’s place. So I go into Irishtown, riskin’ my neck in the progress, an’ roust Sam outta bed.”

  “Did he admit that Epp had been there?”

  “I had to provide a little persuasion, but he finally told me that Epp come there about suppertime Sunday an’ bought two jugs of whiskey. An’ he left right after. But I wouldn’t stake my life on Swampy Sam’s memory.”