The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  Cobb sat opposite her on the edge of a chair that appeared to be designed to repel any would-be occupant. He swallowed hard and said, “Well, ma’am, I been told, by an un-peckable source, that you an’ Reuben Epp are cousins.”

  She didn’t blink, but she stayed very still before saying, “We were cousins. Reuben was my mother’s sister’s son.” She gave him a bold stare and added, “Born out of wedlock. Ran away from home at eleven.”

  “I see,” Cobb said, though he wasn’t sure he did. Her candour had caught him off-guard. “You’re tellin’ me, then, that you ain’t seen him since then?”

  “I am. That is, until I moved here in October to set up this house in anticipation of my husband’s arrival.”

  “Ahh.”

  “Is that a meaningful ‘ah’ or a puzzled one?”

  “I been told – ”

  “By your impeccable source.”

  “ – that Reuben came here to get money offa you, which you gave him to keep him . . . ah, quiet.”

  She actually smiled, to Cobb’s disappointment. “Your attempt at being tactful is commendable, constable, though I doubt you’re ready for the diplomatic service. But there is no need, I assure you. This is politics, not diplomacy.”

  “Politics?”

  “Of course. My long lost cousin was not exactly a reputable character in spite of the fact that he was verger of St. James and a tiresome Christian. He was a known drunkard, frequented the dives and brothels of Irishtown, and was adept at extorting a bit of spending money out of the high-and-mighty McDowells. I was happy to give him the occasional guinea. He was my dead aunt’s child. I felt sorry for him. And I damn well didn’t want him jeopardizing Mowbray’s career. Does that shock you, constable?”

  Cobb wasn’t shocked by anything the gentry did, but he was intrigued by her use of the word “extortion.” There was definitely a motive for murder here, but the victim was more likely to have been the extortionist himself, not a reclusive Yankee barrister. Still, he was on a live scent, and had no intention of letting it go cold. “We got reason to believe, ma’am, that Reuben Epp had someone help him kill Richard Dougherty. Reuben couldn’t read or write, could he?”

  She paused before saying, “That’s true. And you’re wondering how that note with the obscenity scrawled on it got into Reuben’s hands?”

  “I am. We also found a lot of American money stashed in his house – ”

  “I never gave Reuben anything but English guineas or sovereigns. He would never take folding money. But I don’t see what – ”

  “We figure someone he knew helped him with the writin’ an’ give him fifty dollars as a bribe to stab Mr. Dougherty to death.”

  She started to rise, indignant and angry. “You go too far, sir. I did not know Mr. Dougherty from Adam, and I have no intention of listening to such absurd accusations!”

  The door to the sitting-room was flung open and a slim, blond gentleman strode through the opening. His sharp blue gaze swept over Mavis and stopped dead on the incongruous figure of Horatio Cobb – red-faced, wart a-wobble, helmet spinning on the tips of his fingers.

  “And just what the hell are you accusing my wife of!” he screamed, as if Cobb were deaf as well as dumb.

  “It’s all right, dear. Mr. Cobb was just about to leave.” She looked over at Cobb imploringly. “Weren’t you?”

  “Well, ma’am, I did want to talk to Mr. McDow – ”

  “I am Mr. McDowell, you impertinent fool! And I will not have a scruffy policeman barging into my home unannounced and trying to intimidate my wife.” The near-albino pallor of his skin doubled the effect of his outrage, which was already considerable.

  “But I come here on police business – ” Cobb stammered.

  “If you wish to speak to me or my wife about police business, whatever that may be, you will in the future arrange for an appointment – at our convenience, not yours.”

  “But – ”

  “I want you to take your malodorous carcase out that door this minute, or I shall send for the Governor’s guard and have you horse-whipped back to your hiding-hole!”

  “Mowbray, please. There is nothing here to be concerned about. I – ”

  McDowell ignored his wife’s plea. He strode to the door and yelled, “Hudson. Come in here!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m leavin’,” Cobb muttered, itching to give his truncheon a workout on McDowell’s skull.

  “Believe me, sirrah, you have not heard the last of this affair!” McDowell called after him as Cobb scuttled down the hallway, tripped on the rug at the back door and stumbled off the porch. He then drew himself up straight and strode with defiant dignity to the gate, where he realized he had dropped his helmet beside the porch steps. He slunk back to retrieve it, drawing a baleful stare from the aforementioned Hudson, a six-foot bruiser of a fellow occupying most of the doorway.

  So much for the direct approach, Cobb thought as he made his way reluctantly towards the police quarters – and the chief constable.

  ***

  Wilfrid Sturges was not in the least amused at Cobb’s tale, even in its most favourable form.

  “You see what you’ve done,” he said, glaring at Cobb across the desk in the cubicle he called an office. “You uncovered an important lead in this case an’ then proceeded to kill it dead.”

  “Well, sir, it ain’t quite – ”

  “It’s dead, Cobb. You blundered into the home of the most revered Tory politician in the province an’ practically accused his wife of conspiracy in the murder of Richard Dougherty. If I’d’ve been her husband, I’d’ve beaten you silly with yer own truncheon!”

  Cobb hung his head. The Sarge, as he called the chief, was a man whom he held in the highest regard. He was honest, fearless and fair. To have disappointed him was almost as hard to swallow as screwing up the case.

  “But she gave him money,” he said quietly. “Epp was in that home many times.”

  “I know that! An’ that’s why I’m angry. We needed to find out, without usin’ a balpeen hammer, who else in that house might’ve talked to Epp.”

  “Well, that husband’s sure got a temper on him,” Cobb offered. “I could still talk to him. Or maybe he’d agree to talk to you.”

  “Of course we can’t. That’s the point I been tryin’ to drive into yer thick skull. You’ve gone an’ give the game away. You’ve spooked him, given him fair warnin’ of what we’re up to. He now knows we’re lookin’ fer a direct connection with Epp an’ those Yankee dollars an’ that horrible note. The missus’ll’ve told him everythin’. So, you think he’s gonna admit he ever whispered a word to Epp or that he’s not gonna go out an’ burn every piece of fancy paper he has – even if he’s not involved. You’ve gone an’ stymied us!”

  “But – ”

  “Buttin’s about all you did up there, like a billy-goat at a garden party!”

  “She did say she give Epp money to keep him quiet about bein’ her cousin,” Cobb persisted. “May be she decided to – ”

  Sturges glowered at him, and then a bemused, slightly mocking look took hold of his expression. “You’re suggestin’ that the McDowells paid Epp to murder a man they knew nothin’ about on the off-chance he’d be caught an’ hanged – an’ thus outta their hair?”

  “Now, Sarge, there’s no need to be scar-castic.”

  Sturges heaved a big sigh. “What’s done is done, eh. Let’s just leave it till Marc gets back from New York. Why don’t you go an’ dictate yer notes to Gussie an’ then head back to yer patrol. The barkeeps’ll be sendin’ out a search party.”

  As if responding to a cue, Augustus French popped his bantam rooster body into the doorway. His eyes were as round as a cockerel’s on the trod. “I got a message for ya, sir. Just hand-delivered by a giant fella called Hudson.” He passed a sealed envelope across the desk to Sturges, then stood back, waiting.

  “Thanks, Gussie.”

  Crestfallen, Gussie back-pedalled out of the office.

  Cobb
said quickly, “That’d be Mowbray McDowell’s bodyguard.”

  Sturges sighed again, and looked wearily at his number one constable. “It didn’t take His Highness long to lodge a complaint,” he said, breaking the seal and removing a thick, white sheet of notepaper. He read its contents aloud.

  Chief Constable:

  This is by way of a formal complaint against Constable H. Cobb who, this very morning, entered my home on the pretext of reporting on the progress of a minor theft at St. James, and then proceeded to bully and badger my wife about some fantastical connection with the recent murder on King Street. I found the dear woman near tears when I arrived in the midst of his unlawful, unwarranted and callous interrogation. I threw him out on his ear. I trust that you will take appropriate disciplinary action immediately, and inform me in writing of its scope and consequences. Further, I shall be speaking privately with Sir George Arthur at Government House this evening, and shall be compelled to broach the entire, disgraceful episode with His Excellency.

  I remain, yours truly,

  Mowbray McDowell, Esq., MLA

  Chief Sturges sat back in his chair. “Jesus,” he said. “Them’s the nastiest words I ever saw written in such fancy letters.” He looked up at Cobb, expecting to observe some evidence of remorse or anxiety, however poorly feigned. But all he saw was puzzlement.

  “Lemme see that note, if I might, Sarge,” he said, reaching over and taking it from the chief.

  “Ya don’t wanta read it again, do ya?” Sturges said. “It won’t get any sweeter.”

  But Cobb was not listening. He was standing beside the narrow window in the chief’s office, holding McDowell’s letter of complaint up to the light.

  “What’re you lookin’ at?”

  “An eagle holdin’ up an ‘M’.”

  Sturges got up, took the paper from Cobb and raised it up to the light. “You’re right. This is the same kind of notepaper used by Epp in the murder. Brought in from New York, if I remember.”

  Cobb’s eyes were saucers. “Don’t ya see, chief. We got the bugger by the short hairs!”

  Sturges put the note on the desk. “All we done is find somebody who uses Melton bond-paper. There could be a dozen or two dozen more bigwigs in town usin’ it – an’ writin’ real fancy on it. They teach ‘em to scribble like that in school.”

  At this moment, though, nothing his chief might say could dampen Cobb’s excitement. “But we got a lot more, ain’t we? We got Reuben Epp sneakin’ over to tap his rich cousin fer booze money and a husband who don’t want his good name besmirched just when he’s reached the top – an’ Reuben just happenin’ to have this Melton paper to hand an’ somebody to write on it fer him in curly-kewpie letters.”

  “But the McDowells don’t even know Dougherty. Nobody does. He only come outta his cocoon in January. And if they’d been thinkin’ of killin’ anybody, it would’ve been Epp.”

  “But I now got enough to go back over there an’ fire a few questions at that bugger, an’ even enough to get a warrant to tear the place apart. I’m sure we’ll find them whatchamacallit pens and a stash of Yankee banknotes.”

  “Hold yer horses, Cobb. You’ll get no warrant from a Tory magistrate like James Thorpe, honest as he is. You’ve got no motive. You can show him a connection between Epp an’ the McDowells, but that’s all. The notepaper would be helpful if we had somethin’ else to tie it up with. But we don’t. You can’t ask Thorpe to believe that using Melton bond-paper is a crime or that they would plot the murder of a man they didn’t know an’ had no reason to kill.”

  Cobb was stunned. He had expected his chief to back him up all the way. Was something at play here that he was missing? “Okay,” he said carefully, “I c’n see yer point about the search warrant. But I got a right to go an’ ask McDowell, real tack-ful, whether he ever knew Dougherty, don’t I? An’ whether he himself ever met Epp when he visited the missus, an’ maybe got to know him a little?”

  Sturges leaned on his desk with both fists. He looked up slowly. “If it was anybody else but Mowbray McDowell, I’d say yes – in a blink.”

  Cobb couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re not afraid of the Governor, are ya?”

  Sturges grinned ruefully. “We’re all afraid of the Governor, Cobb. But that ain’t what I’m sayin’ here. You know me better’n that. McDowell ain’t just any bigwig or Tory. Right now he’s seen as the leader of the party fightin’ against Lord Durham an’ this business of responsible government. If we go bargin’ in makin’ wild accusations against their chosen one, they’ll be labelled political, not legal. And we’ll be the ones accused: of takin’ up with the Reformers an’ tryin’ to bring down a Tory leader fer our own gain. You’ve got to realize, ol’ chum, everythin’s political right now. We’re only the city’s police, not the province’s. We gotta walk on eggs here or we’ll soon be nobody’s police.”

  Cobb had sagged somewhat under the force, and logic, of this speech, but he recovered sufficiently to ask, “So you’re sayin’ the investigation’s got to stop? I’m to stay clear of the McDowells?”

  “That’s right. Unless you come up with more evidence – without direct contact.”

  “But we might only have a few more days before the inquest is – ” Cobb stopped. Sturges was examining his fingernails. “The inquest’s already on, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say. I just got word that the coroner has set it fer ten o’clock Monday mornin’.”

  “But that just gives me three days. An’ Marc won’t be back till Saturd’y at the earliest.”

  “I realize that. And I’m sorry. I really am. But there it is.”

  Politics, Cobb thought, grinding his teeth.

  ***

  Cobb was still seething when he reached Bay Street and marched south towards Baldwin House. He definitely wanted a second opinion. Robert Baldwin greeted him warmly, asked for news about the new baby, and sat the constable in a comfortable chair until some of the steam went out of his anger. Then he listened respectfully to Cobb’s tale of discovery, frustration and betrayal. And it was with considerable reluctance that he told Cobb he had to agree with Wilfrid Sturges, on both legal and expedient grounds. Legally, a warrant could not, and should not, be granted in the circumstances. Practically, any forceful interrogation of Mowbray McDowell, given the initial confrontation and its unfortunate aftermath, was bound to be seen as a form of intimidation prompted by supporters of the Reform cause and Lord Durham’s proposals, the constabulary being adjudged de facto members of the left-wing party.

  Cobb gave Robert a curt thank-you and stomped out, grabbing a handful of macaroons from the bottomless bowl on Robert’s desk in order to calm his nerves. He now found himself completely stymied. He was certain he had flushed out an accomplice to murder. But he had no motive, and now no means of discovering one. It was possible that Marc would be back by late Saturday or early Sunday. But even the major, with all his sophisticated skills, would be able to do nothing. Once the inquest began on Monday morning, the investigation would be over. Period.

  Cobb headed for The Cock and Bull.

  TWENTY FOUR

  In fact, it was early Saturday evening when Marc and Brodie stepped onto the Queen’s Wharf and hailed the lone taxicab lurking nearby. They had saved a full day on the return trip by getting off the Erie Canal at Rochester and, by chance, catching a steamer crossing the lake to Cobourg, Lake Ontario now being free of ice and its maritime activity fully restored. At Cobourg they had picked up the mail-packet to Toronto. They arrived there very much tired, but buoyed by what they had unearthed in New York City.

  First thing the precious Wednesday morning, after the tumultuous events and disclosures of their evening at The Bowery Theatre, Marc and Brodie had gone to Eliza’s shop, caught her in a state of elegant undress, and prevailed upon her to pull several dusty ledgers off a nearby shelf. In which they found the evidence they needed to confirm Marc’s suspicions. Mowbray McDowell had indeed made regular visits to New Yor
k City during the first year or so that Adams-Dewart-Smythe had been in business – that is, in late-1836 and throughout 1837. Eliza said that he came every two months or so, winter and summer, and stayed for up to two weeks, during which time he visited her shop on several occasions on family business (selecting wines and spirits) as well as for personal pleasure (he enjoyed Eliza’s lively conversation). A check of the invoices revealed that he had been in New York during the critical weeks in late November when Richard Dougherty had been undone. He had also been present earlier that fall when the “incident” had taken place at the Manhattan Gentlemen’s Club, the one that had prompted Dick to initiate the inquiry that ruined him. Equally interesting was the fact that McDowell’s business trips to New York had abruptly stopped. Eliza had not seen or heard of him since November of 1837.

  “But this could still be a series of coincidences,” Brodie had pointed out as they headed back to The Bowery Theatre to let Annemarie Thedford know what they had found and to say their farewells.

  “It might have been, except for a royal snub I received.”

  “A snub?”

  “Yes. On the Saturday evening before Dick’s death, he and I attended a sitting of the Legislative Assembly to hear Mowbray McDowell deliver his maiden speech. Dick fell sound asleep and missed the whole thing.”

  “But even though he didn’t see McDowell, surely the name would have rung a bell, since Uncle wrote it down on that list your mother showed us,” said Brodie.

  “Perhaps. But remember that those names were supplied to him by his boy-informants. The local ones he certainly would have recognized. But many of the names would have been those of outsiders – friends or business associates of the members – from out of town or out of state or out of the country, like McDowell. At the time these would merely have been names to Dick, without faces or pedigrees. He might have learned more about them had he had more time, but he wasn’t allowed that luxury. Moreover, more than a year had passed since those traumatic events. Dick had spent most of that time drinking and gourmandizing. But it is possible that, given his renewed interest in life and public affairs, he might eventually have recalled where he had first heard McDowell’s name.”