The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  “So that means that Epp could have been at The American Hotel earlier in the afternoon to meet with the New York lawyers,” Marc said.

  “And not in the main foyer either,” Brodie added.

  “There’s more,” Cobb said.

  There usually was with Cobb.

  “Sam said he paid fer the hootch – an’ caught up on his tab – with a five-dollar Yankee bill.”

  “Jesus,” Marc said. “I’ve been dreading this.” He looked at Beth.

  “What can we do?” Brodie said. “We can’t let them get away with murder.”

  “Well, we sure can’t hop a whoopin’ crane an’ fly to New York,” Cobb said.

  “I’ll go,” Brodie said, his pale blue eyes flashing. “It’s my uncle who needs avenging.”

  “But the roads are impassable,” Beth said quietly. “It could take weeks. An’ what could you do there besides accuse these men? They’d laugh in yer face.”

  “I’ll – I’ll think of something when I get there.”

  “It is I who must go,” Marc said.

  “Whaddya mean, major? We don’t know fer sure these fellas are guilty of anythin’. There’s plenty of American banknotes in this town, an’ Swampy was sure it was a five, not a ten. Besides, we got some real suspects we need to talk to right here.”

  Marc was only half-listening to Cobb. “We need to eliminate Brenner and Tallman, if they are not guilty. And these men may also have information about why Dick was forced to leave New York in disgrace.”

  “I must go with you, then,” Brodie said. “Celia and I deserve to know the truth that Uncle kept from us for our own protection. But we are not children any more. And we have decided to make our own way in this province. We need to clear Uncle’s name and start our lives here free of suspicion and the taint of moral corruption.”

  “You’re right, Brodie,” Marc said. “I meant that it is I who ought to go. But, of course, I can’t.” He looked now at Beth and her “condition.”

  Beth had been listening with growing interest to the conversation. She touched Marc on the shoulder. “You must not hold back on account of me,” she said.

  “But I must be here for the birth of our son.”

  “Well, as I recall, you weren’t plannin’ on helpin’ with the delivery, were you?” She smiled. “Don’t be foolish, love. Dora is ten minutes away. Charlene is here day an’ night, an’ Jasper would like to be. Besides, I’ll ask our daughter to wait a while. That shouldn’t be hard: women know how to wait.”

  Beth’s speech was met with various degrees of silence. Finally, Cobb said, “But until the roads get better after the spring rains let up, you can’t get very far on land. An’ there’s still enough ice on the lakes to keep the bigger boats in dry dock. I don’t see how you can get to New York quickly, or at all.”

  “But we could,” Marc said, glancing at Brodie. “The Erie Canal will be unfrozen all the way from Buffalo to Albany by now. That’s the route that Brenner and Tallman were taking.”

  “But it could be dangerous there,” Cobb said. “All them Yankees an’ you a stranger.”

  “I was a Yankee once,” Beth said, smiling.

  “Well, I know many of the important families,” Brodie said with mounting excitement. “I went to boarding school with the sons.”

  And Marc, though he didn’t plan on telling Brodie just yet, had contacts of his own in New York. “If Brodie and I left on the early morning steamer to Burlington – ice permitting – we could cross over to Niagara and be in Buffalo before noon. We can travel light and sleep on the deck of a barge if we have to. From what I’ve been told, we might arrive on Manhattan Island as early as Sunday evening.”

  “But Sir Gorge’s might call fer the inquest a week from next Monday. That’s about when our ten days’ll be up.” Cobb said.

  “I think he might be persuaded to extend the deadline,” Brodie said, “when he knows what we’re up to.”

  “What’s really bothering you, Cobb?” Marc said.

  Cobb gave his partner a sheepish grin. “There’s still a lot of interviewin’ to be done here, major. You ain’t expectin’ me to head up the case all by myself, are ya?”

  “Why not?” Marc said. “You know what to do and how to go about it. Just mix in a little tact, as Sir George suggested.”

  “It seems I already got too many tacks,” Cobb said, still smarting from his encounter with the Reverend Hungerford.

  “Then it’s settled,” Marc said.

  THIRTEEN

  After a snowy January, the winter of 1839 had turned unseasonably warm with frequent thaws, sleet storms and, finally in early March, torrential rains. All this had made the roads impassable, and a sudden return to cold weather in the middle of the month had left the waterways dotted with ice-floes and more than one ice-jam. However, several of the smaller, more manoeuvrable steamers had begun venturing out into Lake Ontario, and an irregular mail-packet now plied cautiously between Toronto and Burlington. It was one of these latter that Marc and Broderick Langford boarded at the Queen’s Wharf about eight o’clock of a Thursday morning. Only Cobb stood by to wave them Godspeed. Other goodbyes had been said at Briar Cottage, several of them tearful.

  Marc had sat with Cobb the previous evening and gone over plans for the continuing investigation in Toronto. Cobb had taken home all of Marc’s notes to date just in case he needed to refer to them. Now he stood on the wharf watching his breath balloon in the crisp, clear air, and realized that he was truly on his own as investigator. Marc insisted that he and Brodie would be back in ten days, but North America wasn’t England: any sort of travel here was hazardous and wholly unpredictable. Moreover, no-one knew what kind of troubles Dick Dougherty had been embroiled in back in New York City or what manner of enemy he may have made. If one of them had plotted to assassinate Dick, using poor Epp as his pawn, would he not do the same to anyone bent on exposing him? Beth had not seemed alarmed about this possibility, however, telling Cobb that “He come back from the wars, didn’t he?”

  The ship’s whistle startled Cobb out of his reverie, and he watched the wood-burning side-wheeler until it disappeared around the island-spit that protected the harbour. Then he walked slowly back up to Front Street.

  ***

  Wilfrid Sturges was not happy when Cobb conveyed the news to him. It was his opinion that Marc was more concerned with rehabilitating Dougherty’s reputation than he was in catching an accomplice to murder. Cobb didn’t disagree. Being a practical man, however, Sturges allowed as they would have to “make do.” Cobb was to combine his regular patrol duties (self-directed and idiosyncratic anyway) with judiciously timed interrogation of the suspects whom he and Marc had targeted. Cobb was relieved that Sturges had lost none of his enthusiasm for continuing the case, despite the risks. He was also pretty certain that the royal summons to the Archdeacon’s “palace” on Sunday had as much to do with his chief’s determination as the pursuit of justice.

  An hour later, Cobb was ushered into the study of Everett Stoneham, Executive Councillor and lifetime member of the ruling Family Compact. Cobb noted the book-lined walls and felt the carpet caressing his boots. He was never intimidated by books and those possessing them, however, even though he himself read little. His father, who had just died in February, had owned a small but cherished library, had worshipped Shakespeare, and had paid homage to the Bard by naming his sons Laertes and Horatio (or Larry and Harry as the boys preferred to call themselves).

  Stoneham waited a good thirty seconds before he removed his spectacles with a bored gesture and turned partway around in his chair to acknowledge the visitor. He stared at Cobb’s muddy boots before scanning the rest of him – upwards.

  “What do the police want with me?” he said, but there was no hint of concern in his face.

  “I’m lookin’ into Mr. Dougherty’s death,” Cobb said.

  “Shouldn’t you be out on your patrol preventing murder?”

  “We’ve caught one of the villains,
sir, but the other one’s still abroad.”

  “You mean that there’s another madman like Reuben Epp running loose in the city?” Stoneham feigned shock nicely, as he had done innumerable times when he had sat in the Assembly.

  “Not exactly, sir. We got reason to think Epp was helped to carry out the crime, by someone who wanted Mr. Dougherty out of his hair but didn’t wanta do the deed himself.”

  Stoneham now looked genuinely appalled. “Are you accusing me of such a crime?”

  So much for tact, Cobb thought. It was hard to see how tact could be managed with these bigwigs. “No, sir. Of course not.”

  “Then why in blazes are you here?”

  Good question – alas. “Well, sir, we was told you threatened Mr. Dougherty at the Legislature last Saturd’y evenin’. An’ my chief just needs to make sure you weren’t in any way involved – ”

  Stoneham was in the process of turning three shades of crimson when Cobb said quickly, “Ya see, we don’t want people spreadin’ nasty rumours about you, now do we?” He was pleased with this tactful ploy.

  Stoneham’s dudgeon began to subside somewhat, and his cheeks faded from crimson to a not-unpleasant pink. “Well, I was rather loud in my denunciation of the degenerate that night. But all I intended to do was to let him know that he had no chance of being admitted to the Bar, and that his putting out his shingle was an act of outrageous presumption.”

  “That’s what we been told,” Cobb soothed.

  “By that turncoat Edwards, no doubt!” Some of the flush returned to Stoneham’s cheeks.

  “But you have to admit, sir, that the phrase ‘over my dead body’ has an unfortunate ring to it.”

  “Damn that meddling fool!”

  “If I may say so, sir, you seem to have a rather sharp temper.”

  Stoneham started to respond angrily but stopped himself as he realized his response was about to prove the impudent constable’s point. And as a superb debater in his Assembly days, he did not relish the thought of being out-argued by an illiterate. “Only when the object of my temper is deserving of such sharpness,” he said with practiced aplomb.

  “Well, sir, I’m sure we can cross you off our list quickly if you’ll just answer one or two questions.”

  Stoneham now looked bemused. “Only if they do not border on impertinence.”

  “Of course, sir. Did you know Reuben Epp?”

  “Everyone who has a pew in St. James knows Reuben Epp. The man’s been verger there for donkey’s years.”

  “Did you ever chat with him?”

  “Never. The fellow knew his place. I spoke not a single word to him – ever. And he did not dare approach me or my family.”

  “Were you with your family after church on Sunday?”

  Again Stoneham’s cheeks bulged crimson, but he gathered himself and said, “I was here all day. My wife’s cousins were visiting and we were together the entire time. You may believe me or check with them if you doubt the word of a gentleman.”

  Cobb considered the word of a gentleman to be not much more reliable than that of a horse-thief, but he said, “That won’t be necessary, sir. Thank you for yer time.”

  At the door Stoneham said, “But I was right, wasn’t I? Doubtful Dick didn’t make it to the Bar. And it was over his dead body.”

  ***

  Back on the street, Cobb remembered that he had neglected to ask Stoneham what brand of notepaper he used and whether he kept American money about the household. He did, however, get the names of the visiting cousins from the maid before he left. And she herself had declared that the card-playing (on the Sabbath!) had gone on till midnight. So it didn’t look as if Stoneham was a prize suspect. That temper of his was more suited to a sudden lashing-out than to elaborate conspiracy. Still, Marc was assuming that Epp was motivated by the Archdeacon’s sermon and that his accomplice had subsequently taken advantage of the verger’s rage to set the deadly train of events in motion. But Cobb thought it was possible that any conspiracy might have pre-dated the Sunday sermon. If so, then knowing Epp’s whereabouts on that day, or the accomplice’s, was useless. Stoneham and Epp could have plotted the whole thing weeks before.

  Cobb had planned to drop in to Bartholomew Burchill’s shop after lunch, but was delayed when he was called to the Market to assist Rossiter and Wilkie. Two wagons had collided on West Market Lane, and the drivers had decided to settle the question of blame through single combat. Several bystanders chose a favourite and joined the dispute. It took the three constables more than an hour to subdue the battered gladiators, untangle the harnesses, calm down the horses, and haul five people off to jail. Cobb then had to calm himself down at The Cock and Bull.

  He was just returning to police quarters to dictate the report of his interview with Stoneham to Gussie French when he was accosted on the boulevard of the Court House by an imposing, and extremely vexed, woman.

  “Are you Constable Cobb?” she cried, coming right up to him and placing her own elongated nose next to Cobb’s blemished snout.

  “I am, madam, though the wife calls me other things from time to time.”

  “Well, then, come with me, sir.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’ve come to report a crime! A dastardly crime!”

  “Well, then, we need to go inside – ”

  “We need to examine the scene of the crime. Follow me.”

  “C’n I have yer name, ma’am?”

  “Well, if you must. I am Mavis McDowell.” She uttered her name as if it were her most precious possession and one she suffered to be admired only by those personally selected to do so.

  “You been robbed, or molested?” Cobb said.

  “Of course not! No-one would dare harm the wife of Mowbray McDowell!”

  Cobb had to think for a moment before saying, “Ah . . . the fella that give the fancy speech on Saturd’y.”

  But his hesitation had been noticed: “You did not recognize the name, did you?”

  “Well, ma’am, it took a minute but – ”

  “It won’t take a minute next time,” she said without explanation. “Now follow me to St. James.”

  St. James? What now? “Ya mean the church?”

  “Of course, I do. An outrage has been committed there: our Poor Box has been vandalized!”

  Cobb heaved a great sigh, but trailed along behind Mavis McDowell as they headed the half-block east to Church Street. He had trouble keeping up, for that grand dame, hatless and without a coat, marched along in front of him with gazelle-like strides. She was in every respect an angular woman – long-legged and bony-hipped – with auburn hair rigidly curbed in several severe braids. Her eyes, when they pounced upon him, were as brown and volatile as chestnuts in a bonfire. She was a woman to be reckoned with.

  “We’ve got to go in through the walkway,” she hollered back at him. “The front doors have been kept locked since Monday, except when one of the vicars is in the building.”

  In order to enter the church through the walkway, however, they had first to go through the rear door of the vicarage. Mavis McDowell did not bother knocking. She pulled open the door, checked to make sure Cobb was at her heel, and barged into the narrow hall. Missy Prue, who had been expecting them, was nonetheless startled enough to drop her broom on the carpet.

  “It’s all right, Missy,” Mavis said in a much gentler voice that the one she had used on Cobb. “Please wait for Mrs. Hungerford to come back from her errand and then inform her immediately. The vicar’ll have to be told as well when he returns from Danby’s Crossing.” Then she turned to Cobb. “Follow me.”

  Cobb meekly trailed her into the walkway that connected church and vicarage. As they went past the vestry and stepped out into the church proper, Cobb felt the hair on his neck rise. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but the mysterious, hushed silence of a house of worship never failed to move him, not quite to awe but something close to it. Mavis McDowell loped down the nave between the pews towards the big oaken doors. B
eyond the last pew there was a wooden stand upon which the Poor Box normally sat. At this moment it lay on the floor, its ornate wooden door wide open, its interior empty.

  “That’s the way I found it, constable. Ripped open and all the money stolen! Such sacrilege! Such blasphemy!”

  Cobb wondered whether the loss of a few dollars or pounds was worth all that indignation. He bent down to examine the pillaged container.

  “I’ve only been in town since October and Mrs. Hungerford was kind enough to make me treasurer of the Ladies Auxiliary. One month later, and what happens? Ten dollars goes missing from the bazaar! And now this!”

  “You ain’t responsible fer a thief robbin’ you,” Cobb said.

  “Perhaps not, but, you see, I am supposed to check this box every Monday morning – Constance trusted me with the key – ”

  “Why don’t the vicar just empty it after the evenin’ service?” Cobb said, puzzled as usual by the needless intricacies of religious practice and protocol.

  Mavis seemed startled by the question but said, “The Poor Box is the province of the Auxiliary, as are the bazaars and socials we use to raise money for the Widows and Orphans Fund.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “But everything was at sixes and sevens on Monday – as you know – and I was kept busy entertaining well-wishers come to praise my husband’s speech and seek his advice. So I didn’t get around to it until half an hour ago. And here is what I found. You must apprehend the thief – at once!”

  “You say the box was locked?”

  “Yes. It didn’t use to be, but after the rebellion Dr. Strachan apparently insisted.”

  “Who has a key besides you?”

  Mavis had to think about that. “The vicars of course have keys for every door in the church and vicarage. No-one else.”

  “I hardly think the vicars’d rob their own poor box,” Cobb said, but he had read Marc’s notes on the interview with Chalmers and, like Marc, suspected that Mrs. Hungerford was the likely culprit. However, he noticed that there were two greasy and distinctly male thumbprints on the Poor Box, made very recently by the look of them. Perhaps the good parson’s wife had found some villain from the town to do her dirty work for her. Or it was possible, though not probable, that this incident had nothing to do with the Chalmers’ episode.