“But the church has been pretty much closed since the tragedy on Monday,” Mavis was explaining. “Even the bell hasn’t been rung.”
“That means the only way the robber coulda got in is through the back door of the vicarage, like we did.”
“That’s right, constable. Even so, how could he get the box open without a key?”
“There’s no damage to the lock or the hinges on the lid here. But this is a simple lock. It could be jimmied quite easy. Somebody may’ve left the vicarage door unbarred last night an’ even filched a key to the box.”
“To help the thief, you mean?” Constance said, then added ruefully, “Honest servants are hard to come by, I know. I’ve had to dismiss three since October. But I must insist that you consult Mrs. Hungerford before approaching any of her hired help.”
“Consult me about what?”
The lady herself had arrived.
FOURTEEN
Constance suggested that Mavis go back to the vicarage and have a cup of tea while she sorted matters out with the constable. Mavis looked much relieved. Cobb felt otherwise.
Cobb began by going over the points that he and Mavis had just raised between them.
“Of course it wasn’t Missy or Myrtle. I will not have you badgering them. If you insist, I’ll ask them discreetly whether they checked the back door before going to bed. But I know they did. They are punctilious to a fault. Moreover, they are handsomely paid and would have no reason to steal or abet a criminal.”
“Perhaps a penniless boy friend?”
“Don’t be absurd! Myrtle Welsh is a middle-aged spinster and Missy Prue is too young to consort with men. We don’t permit it.”
“Then I’m afraid I ain’t got any leads to follow up,” Cobb said. “All I c’n do is have my snitches keep their ears to the ground.”
“You do realize, constable, that this theft could prove an embarrassment to a man about to be made a bishop and to another man about to take a leadership role in the Tory party? Mrs. McDowell has been placed in a very delicate and fragile position. She feels responsible.”
“So she told me.”
Constance glanced back up the nave, then motioned for Cobb to sit down. She sat next to him with an ominous rustling of skirts. “I’m going to give you a ‘lead,’ as you term it. I want it pursued vigorously but with tact and with a constant eye towards any ill effects your inquiries might have upon St. James and the Archdeacon.”
“You know who done this?”
“I do, though it will be up to you to find the proof.”
“If it’s there, I’ll find it.”
“I’m telling you this in strictest confidence,” she said in a voice that transparently suggested the opposite. “The Reverend Chalmers has money problems. His mother and sisters down in Windsor are destitute, and one of them requires expensive medicines. The Archdeacon – saintly soul that he is – has lent him money, as has my husband. But it seems never to be enough. A few weeks back, ten dollars was embezzled from the church bazaar. Chalmers was the only person who could have taken it, but he denied doing so, and the Archdeacon like a good Christian chose to believe him. Now he has done it again. He has a key to this box. The entrance to the walkway is across the hall from his rooms.”
“But he’ll be sure to deny it,” Cobb said, stating the obvious. “And I can’t very well go in an’ ransack the place.”
“Well, sir, you must think of something. If Chalmers is to be involved in a scandal, it must be exposed and dealt with before the bish – the Archdeacon leaves for England.”
Cobb tried to think of something that he might do. “Ya figure he’ll do this again?” he said.
Constance smiled, sending a chill down Cobb’s spine. “I know he will. The poor wretch is desperate.”
“Then I think there’s somethin’ we can try.”
“Such as?”
Cobb pulled a crumpled banknote out of his pocket. “I got a Halifax dollar here. I’ll just fold an’ tear off a little corner – like this – an’ put the rest of it in the box.” He set the container back on its stand. “You c’n lock this up right away?”
“Mrs. McDowell can. And I see what you’re up to. You think Chalmers will strike after the two services on Sunday when this box is full.”
“I do. And if it is Reverend Chalmers, I’ll get you to let me search his rooms when he’s out on a call to see if I can match up the two pieces of the Halifax dollar.” Cobb didn’t mention that the torn-off part of the Melton Bond had given him this inspired stratagem. Nor did he think it politic to mention that its actual purpose was to clear David Chalmers of any blame – unless Constance Hungerford was even more devious and desperate than he now thought.
“I’ll send for you as soon as another attempt is made,” she said, raising her opinion of Cobb a quarter-notch. “And should you end up losing your dollar, I will replace it myself.”
“I’ll be waitin’,” Cobb said evenly.
She gave him a puzzled look, then turned and walked back down the nave with the confident air of a woman who has – as was her birthright – gotten what she wanted.
***
The silversmith’s shop was only a block east on King near Jarvis. Cobb tried to put the silly business of the Poor Box behind him. While the clerics and their spouses seemed quite capable of Machiavellian plotting and character assassination, he had to admit, reluctantly, that among that crew only the verger was capable of cold-blooded killing or of being involved in its incitement and execution. He would check out Everett Stoneham’s alibi later, but in reality he had whittled their prime suspects down to one: Bartholomew Burchill, whose hatred of Dougherty had been put on public view in the Gazette. Cobb pushed open the shop-door to the jangle of bells. Burchill came out from behind his work-desk, wiping his hands on his apron and slipping off his eyeshade.
“Good afternoon, constable,” he said without the usual overlay of false bonhomie endemic to retail merchants. “Lookin’ for a gift for your good wife?”
Cobb surveyed the exquisite array of teapots, saltcellars and serving-trays in the display case. Burchill might be considered a misanthrope and a skinflint, but he was undeniably a craftsman in silver. He was also a bear of a man – barrel-chested and thick-boned, with an unfashionable full beard and a bushel of eyebrow that made him resemble an Old Testament prophet more than a moulder of intricate metal doodads.
“Maybe one of them milk pitchers,” Cobb said with a chuckle. “If I c’n save half my salary between now an’ Christmas.”
“Somethin’ need repairin’, then?”
“My temper-mint, accordin’ to Missus Cobb.”
Burchill did not smile at this witticism. He stared hard at Cobb and said with deliberate slowness, “You’re not here because of what I wrote about that pederast?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. We think someone put Epp up to the stabbin’ an’ paid him good money to boot.”
“I’m glad the bugger’s dead,” Burchill said, unfazed by Cobb’s remark. “And if my letter in the Gazette helped convince Reuben Epp to carry out the Lord’s will, then I am even more pleased. Surely you aren’t about to charge me with bein’ an accomplice on those grounds?”
“Well, now – ”
“If you did, then you’d have to arrest the Archdeacon, wouldn’t you?” This thought seemed to give Burchill a perverse pleasure, for he almost smiled.
“All the same, I’m askin’ you – with Sir George’s blessin’ – whether you knew Reuben Epp?”
“Of course I did. I’m a – ”
“I mean, did you talk to him, man to man? Or have him do odd jobs fer you?”
“I did not know him in that way, nor has he worked for me. I have a healthy and obedient son to assist me at all times. We don’t need anybody else.”
Realizing that tact was a word in the same category as humour for Bartholomew Burchill, Cobb said, “Do you get much American paper money in yer business here?”
“That is a foolish
question, even for you,” Burchill snapped. “Of course, I do. Half the worthies in this town use U.S bills and specie. But I fail to – ”
“I’d like to have a look at yer notepaper, if ya don’t mind?”
“Have you lost all your marbles, Cobb?”
“There’s a link to the murder here, so I’d like to see what kind you use.”
“Well, if it’ll speed you on your way, why not?” With a not-too-patient shrug, the silversmith went over to his desk and opened the central drawer. Cobb could hear a gentle, steady tapping from the back room.
“Here. It’s all the same. I’ve used it for years. Ask any of my customers.”
Cobb leafed through a sheaf of unmarked stationery. It was cheap stuff, purely serviceable. No gentleman would use it. But the real thing could easily be tucked away anywhere here in the shop or in the back room or in the living quarters overhead. “You do them engravin’s on yer pots an’ bowls?” he said.
“I do some and Matthew does some.”
“I see,” Cobb said, thinking that such a talent could readily translate into calligraphic work. But he would need a warrant to search the premises and test out that theory, and the magistrate would not give him one without more compelling grounds than he now had.
At this point the bells jangled and a well-heeled gentleman entered.
“Ah, Mr. Throckmorton,” Burchill said with a failed effort at affability.
“I’ll just let myself out the back way,” Cobb said quickly, and before Burchill could stop him, he stepped through a flimsy door and found himself in the silversmith’s repair-shop. Where Matthew Burchill was hunched over a dented tureen.
“Matthew?” Cobb said softly.
The lad had been concentrating so hard on his work that he had not heard Cobb come in. Now he looked up – startled, then vaguely fearful. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Cobb,” he said tonelessly. “Does father know you’re here?”
“He does, Matthew. I’ve come to ask a few questions fer Dr. Withers an’ the inquest he’ll be holdin’ inta the verger’s suicide.” Cobb was pleased with this harmless fib, though he wished he did not need to use it on a young man who, despite the abuse and confinement he habitually suffered, was still trying to view the world through innocent and unjaded eyes.
“I was sorry to hear about Mr. Dougherty and poor Reuben Epp.” Matthew placed the damaged tureen tenderly on his bench.
“Did you know him?”
“A little.”
“You talked to him when you went to church?’
“And the times he came to build the shelves over there and fix up the shed out back.”
Cobb did his best not to show his surprise – and delight. “Recently?” he said.
“A month or so ago was the last time he helped us out. But he didn’t talk much. I gather he had no family at all.”
“Did your father pay him in cash?”
Matthew looked suddenly wary. “Father would not tell me about that sort of thing.”
“Naturally.”
“I’ve got to get back to this repair,” Matthew said, uncertain whether he should be proud of the fact or embarrassed by it.
“Well, thanks. You been a help.”
As Matthew’s tap-tapping resumed, Cobb walked back to the door that led to the retail section of the business. He paused and waited until he heard the doorbell jangle, then abruptly re-entered the shop proper.
Burchill was alone. “I thought you’d gone!” he said sharply to Cobb. “If you’ve been keepin’ Matthew away from his work, I’ll complain to Wilfrid Sturges about it.”
“We got more important things to discuss,” Cobb said with quiet menace. “Like your lyin’ to me.”
Burchill placed his large hands on the counter and leaned forward like a baited bear. “You say that again and I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life – constable or no constable!”
“Reuben Epp was here a month ago, buildin’ shelves. You an’ him were chummy as two doves. So don’t tell me you ain’t been lyin’.”
Burchill glared at the door to the workroom.
“I just asked the lad – an’ bein’ an honest son of his father, he told me the truth. You gonna beat him fer that?”
“I don’t beat my son! I don’t have to!”
“So why did you not mention you was chummy with Epp?”
“I wasn’t chummy with him! He came and did his work and went home or off to the bootlegger’s to squander his earnings. We spoke not a dozen words the whole time. And I certainly didn’t persuade him to murder Dougherty.”
“You paid him in cash?”
“A few shillings. When he was finished – and he was a good carpenter – I walked up to Irishtown and paid off his debt to Swampy Sam.”
Well, Cobb thought, they may not have been chums, but Epp was clearly in a position to be manipulated by Burchill. And he had lied, however he chose to rationalize the matter. Cobb now recalled an item in the notes Marc had made on the case: Burchill could have had a purely personal motive. If so, that possibility and his outright lie might be sufficient to get a warrant to turn this place over.
“I believe you had a personal reason fer killin’ a man you already hated,” he said, staring straight at Burchill.
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“The fact that young Matthew was secretly courtin’ Mr. Dougherty’s ward, Celia, must’ve driven you near mad.” Cobb stepped back and waited for the effect of this bombshell.
He didn’t have to wait long. “What in hell do you mean? My son never leaves this shop without my permission!”
“Well, he snuck out last Sunday while you was in church. Celia Langford met him – alone – in a little shed up on – ”
“Jumpin’ Jesus! I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch!”
Cobb thought Burchill’s eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. His lips began to quiver and his beard shook like Jehovah’s in a righteous rage. Ignoring Cobb, he spun about and lurched into the workroom with a thunderous slamming of the flimsy door.
Cobb waited. There was no immediate violence. Not even a raised voice. But the low murmuring was fraught with paternal anger and filial shame. Cobb slipped out onto King Street. On the plus side, he had proven to himself that Bartholomew Burchill did not have a personal motive for having Dougherty murdered. On the negative side, he had complicated young Matthew’s already complicated life and unthinkingly interfered with Celia’s well-being to boot.
Maybe there was something to this business of tact after all.
***
On Thursday morning Cobb hitched a ride up Yonge Street to Potters Field, beyond Lot Street at the city limits, where Reverend David Chalmers spoke a few simple words over the pine coffin of Reuben Epp who, until the double tragedy of Monday last, had served His Maker humbly and without complaint. More than two dozen people were there to witness the interment, having braved the rigours of a mud-slicked road with ruts as deep as a gentleman’s boot. Whether all were there to mourn was a moot question, but Cobb could see no-one who didn’t belong. No mysterious, long-lost relative stepped forward to claim kinship with the disgraced verger.
Later that day Cobb got around to checking out Everett Stoneham’s alibi with the cousins he had claimed would back him up. And they did, cheerfully. Too cheerfully? Well, how could one tell without the rack or a decent thumbscrew? After dictating his notes (kept in his head) to Gussie French, Cobb went into the Chief’s office and reported that he had run down all the leads they had developed and had thought might be productive, and had drawn a blank. Unless Marc and Brodie came up with something useful in New York City or unless Nestor Peck produced new information about Epp’s movements on Sunday afternoon and evening (he had not appeared at Evensong, Marc had been told by Myrtle Welsh), the search for an accomplice was headed for a dead-end.
“Maybe the bugger did it on his own,” Cobb muttered to himself on the way out.
But he didn’t believe it.
FIFTEEN
Beside him, Brodie said, “It’s not this beautiful close-up.”
***
Their journey along the Erie Canal had been long and arduous, but nonetheless had produced its own share of wonders. Marc and Brodie had reached Buffalo just past noon on Thursday. They were assured that, if they wished to wait for a few hours, a craft with accommodation suitable for two gentlemen could be had – for ready cash. But as every hour was critical to their plans, they took passage on the first available vessel, a well-travelled barge hauling cowhides that had originated in Chicago and were destined for France. The single cabin in the middle of the barge had several compartments, and one of these was assigned to the paying passengers. Food and refreshment could be picked up on the go. Drawn along the twenty-foot width of this engineering marvel by mules and horses – changed at intervals – the barge made all of five miles per hour. But it never stopped, except to be lowered like a de-levitating table down one of the several dozen locks on route to the Hudson River three hundred and seventy-five meandering miles away. Marc and Brodie slept in the cabin, bought their meals at a makeshift inn or tavern beside a lock, and took their exercise by occasionally getting off and treading the muddy towpath, often at a faster pace than that of the pitiable beasts of burden.
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