“I see. But what has all this got to do with a snub?”
“As we were navigating our way through the crowd in the lobby of the parliament, I left Dick for a moment to approach and congratulate McDowell on his speech. He had just emerged from the members’ lounge, and I was sure he saw me coming over with a smile on my face. He appeared about to acknowledge me – I believe I had been identified to him as a war hero – when without explanation he wheeled about and fled back into the lounge.”
“You think now that McDowell spotted Uncle somewhere behind you?”
“I do. It’s the only plausible interpretation of the event.”
“But that means that McDowell figured Uncle might recognize him, or already had. And that means – ”
“That he thought Dick must have seen him in the brothel or, more likely, had uncovered his name during his investigation and was about to put a face to it.”
“Yes. McDowell’s friends in Tammany Hall would have given him the details of Uncle’s efforts to unmask the pedophiles. Eliza told us he was definitely here in November of ’37.”
“Exactly. So you can imagine McDowell’s surprise at spotting Dick across the room from him. Remember that McDowell had just arrived in Toronto, his wife having come in October to set up house. McDowell is a Kingston man. He may never have set foot in Toronto before.”
“But he must have heard about the McNair trial and Uncle’s role in it?”
“Possibly. But I think not. He was no doubt preoccupied with winding up his father’s estate. And what he saw there in the foyer, just before he snubbed me, truly shocked and frightened him.”
“I see.”
“Remember too that he seems to have suddenly stopped going to New York. A year goes by, and he hears no word or threat from that quarter. His Tammany pals have done their work well, eh? Then, without warning, Dick Dougherty, larger than life, pops up not twenty feet from him.”
“That would certainly give any man a motive to silence him, but especially one being lionized by the powers-that-be and presented to the public as their saviour.”
“I’m sure we’ve got our man, Brodie. But we’re still some ways from demonstrating how he arranged to have Reuben Epp do his dirty work.”
“We can start in on that as soon as we get back.”
“That is if the governor and attorney-general haven’t already called the inquest.”
At the theatre, Marc had said a long and tearful goodbye to Annemarie before he and Brodie headed for the pier and the trip up the Hudson River. Promises were made, some of which would be kept. Once more a crime had reunited mother and son, and necessity again had pulled them apart.
***
Marc asked the cab-driver to take them directly to Briar Cottage, where they expected to find Celia, Beth and, if God were kind, the newborn babe. The unmasking of a murderer, for the time being, would have to wait upon more urgent matters. Charlene Huggan spotted them coming up the walk and had the door open before they reached the stoop. Seconds later, Celia rushed into her brother’s arms, and Marc was led on tiptoe towards the master bedroom.
“She’s havin’ a nap,” Charlene said, and blushed as she added, “after feedin’ the littl’un.”
Marc stepped softly into the darkened room. Beth lay on top of the comforter with the baby cradled in one arm, its lips still attached to a nipple. For a full minute, Marc just stood and watched them in their peaceful repose, giving silent thanks that he had been blessed thus during his absence.
“Well, stranger, aren’t you goin’ to say hello?” Beth’s eyes were open and fully upon him.
Marc dropped to one knee, kissed her hand, her wrist, her forearm and finally her smooth, warm brow.
“I won’t break, love.”
“I know. But my heart might.” He stared at the baby, whose astonishing blue eyes appeared to be appraising him.
“I’m glad you’re back safe, my darlin’.” She raised herself up on one elbow. “Now say hello to yer son – Maggie.”
Marc lifted his daughter into his arms. They had agreed that, should the child by some quirk of fate turn out to be a girl, they would name it Mary Margaret, after its grandmothers.
“Welcome to the world, Maggie,” he whispered.
TWENTY FIVE
Constable Ewan Wilkie interrupted a consultation that Cobb was having with one of his snitches in The Crooked Anchor to inform him that Marc Edwards had been seen in a cab heading for his cottage on Sherbourne Street. Cobb thanked Wilkie and hurried off, leaving half a flagon of ale that Wilkie saw no point in wasting. Cobb himself was not so sure why he ought to rush off, since the major’s return could not possibly bring anything positive to the aborted investigation. But he found himself puffing his way east along King Street at a clip that threatened to upset the delicate balance of his body’s peculiar pear-shape.
***
The previous Friday morning, Cobb had run into Missy Prue at the Market and taken the opportunity to show her David Chalmers’ silver locket, which he had kept in his coat pocket since finding it in the church early Thursday morning. He thanked her for helping him catch the Poor Box thief, and then asked her if she would quietly slip the locket back into the junior vicar’s desk, perhaps placing it under something so that he would assume he had merely mislaid it. When Missy inquired as to the reason for this subterfuge, Cobb had put a forefinger to his lips and whispered, “Mum’s the word.” Which gesture prompted Missy to favour him with a conspiratorial nod and a very pretty smile. He then asked her if her mistress had said anything more about the robbery, and Missy replied that Mrs. Hungerford had merely mentioned, in passing almost, that a constable had caught the villain red-handed and hauled him away. She offered no details and had even chastised the two maids when she overheard them speculating on the event. It seemed that that particular case was closed. Moreover, the young Reverend Chalmers, she continued happily, appeared to be back in the good graces of his superior, having been invited to dine with the bishop-in-waiting at the Palace on Front Street. Dr. Strachan, it was rumoured everywhere and especially at the vicarage, had booked his passage for Britain and was due to set sail for Quebec City a few days after Easter. “Well, at least he’s waitin’ fer the Lord to resurrect,” Cobb had quipped, and drew an abashed blush from Missy.
***
Cobb was let in the front door of Briar Cottage by an excited Charlene. Behind her, Cobb could see, in the parlour, the backs of Marc and Brodie and, facing them, Celia, Beth with the swaddled babe, his wife Dora, and even young Jasper Hogg from next door. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. He’d barged in on a camp meeting!
“I’ll come back,” he said to Charlene, happy that he had not yet been noticed.
“Mr. Edwards has been askin’ about you,” she said.
“How’s young Celia?” he said, recalling his gaffe with Bartholomew Burchill.
Charlene smiled knowingly. “Oh, that. Well, sir, she’s taken a right fancy to little Maggie.”
“That’s good.” He turned to slip away, but wasn’t quick enough.
“Cobb!” Marc said with a huge grin. “I’m glad you’ve come. Join the welcoming committee.”
“Good to see ya back, major. But I really wanted to talk to you – alone. About Mr. Dougherty’s murder.”
“That’s fortuitous because I’ve got much to tell you on the same subject.”
“I know who the accomplice was, but they say I got no motive.”
“You do? So do I.”
“It’s that Tory speechifier, Mowbray McDowell,” Cobb said a split second before Marc said, “Mowbray McDowell.”
“There an echo in here?” Cobb said.
“I think you and I had better go for a walk,” Marc said, signalling his intention to Beth and Brodie.
***
“You go first,” Marc said, as they strolled down Sherbourne Street towards the lake in the gathering dusk. “Just give me the gist.”
While Cobb had a rough idea what giving t
he gist meant, he was not about to skimp on the details of his most successful bid at criminal investigation. He gave his mentor not only chapter and verse but a good deal of the gloss to boot. He was particularly at pains to demonstrate the logical inferences he had drawn at each phase of his relentless probing into Dick’s murder and the conspiracy behind it. Marc listened with much more than politeness, and they were moving well along Front Street towards City Hall when Cobb finished up by saying:
“So there you have it, major. I’ve got an accomplice but no motive, an’ the chief’s let me down terribly, callin’ me off the scent just as I got the creature treed.”
“Don’t be too hard on Wilfrid. Given what he knew at the time, he made the only choice he could. But don’t fret. I’ve got a motive for you.”
“In New York?” Cobb said. His desire to find out how Marc and Brodie could have come up with Mowbray McDowell’s name as prime suspect while sashaying about the streets of an American city several hundred miles away had almost prompted him to suggest that Marc tell his story first.
“Very much so,” Marc said, pausing to look out over the desiccated marsh grasses, just beginning to green, towards the dewy haze that lay like a bride’s veil along the dark swelling of the lake’s surface. “Dick’s death is all about what happened in New York, and what the would-be bishop bespoke from the arrogance of his pulpit.”
Cobb was taken aback by the vehemence and bitterness of this latter remark, but he realized that he felt much the same way about the machinations and pettiness he himself had discovered in the closed world of St. James, and the human consequences of its recklessness.
Marc proceeded to give Cobb a summary of what he and Brodie had found out in New York, unglossed and unvarnished. Cobb did not interrupt, but several times Marc heard him whistle through the gaps in his teeth.
“Jesus Murphy,” was Cobb’s succinct response at the conclusion of Marc’s story. “That’s some motive. We got the bugger, ain’t we?”
“Not quite. But we certainly have enough to beard the lion in his den.”
Cobb turned, looked at his friend and investigative associate, and grinned: “An’ we’re only three blocks away!”
***
Whatever song and dance Marc used to seduce Hudson at the front door of the McDowell residence on George Street, it was working because the giant manservant gave him a welcoming smile, left Marc momentarily standing in the vestibule, and returned shortly with a positive reply. To the butler’s astonishment – and chagrin (the grinding of his teeth being audible) – Cobb had slipped out from behind a forsythia bush and popped up behind the gentleman he was leading towards the master’s study.
Mowbray McDowell greeted Marc with a ready-made smile, which withered dramatically when he spied the impudent constable.
“You told Hudson you wished to see me regarding a political matter,” he said coldly to Marc. “Do you require police protection to do so?”
“What we have come to discuss, sir, may very well affect the politics of the province in the coming months,” Marc said. “I have been asked by His Excellency to pursue further the investigation of Richard Dougherty’s death, in which we have good grounds to suspect a conspiracy. Constable Cobb and I wish to ask you a few questions in that regard. That is all.”
McDowell paled, though with his alabaster complexion it was not easy to see him do so. But an anxious tightening around the eyes was clearly visible. He managed a small smile. “Well, then, if Sir George wishes to pursue such a matter, however frivolous it might appear to be, then I am happy to cooperate. But he mentioned no such operation to me when we last shared a carafe of Amontillado.”
He directed Marc to a chair opposite his own. Cobb remained standing, helmet in hand. Hudson, who had already taken Marc’s coat, stood outside the half-open door for a moment, then discreetly retreated. The study itself was lavishly furnished in the French manner. An elegant escritoire took pride of place beneath a bay window of exquisite leaded-glass. A bowl of Dutch tulips graced a swan-legged table. Several sombre paintings of the Flemish school brooded on the interior walls. Here was a man of substance unashamedly proclaiming his worth.
“The reason we have come here so many days after the fact,” Marc began, “is that we have just recently discovered that Reuben Epp, the man who did the actual stabbing of Dougherty, is a cousin of Mrs. McDowell.”
“Your henchman here has already made that all too clear,” McDowell said. Any initial sag in his confidence at the abrupt arrival of the police had quickly been corrected. McDowell’s eyes, a translucent blue, had the capacity to contract amazingly, giving the impression of fierce concentration and cunning intelligence. Breaking through this barrier would not be a simple task. “In addition, Cobb insulted my wife and uttered a series of preposterous accusations.”
“I do apologize, sir, for any over-zealousness on the part of Constable Cobb. I assure you that I shall be discreet and respectful of your privacy and of your position in the legislature.”
“Well, then, why don’t you proceed with whatever it is you feel compelled to ask me.”
“First of all, sir, did you know your wife’s cousin?”
“Not really. We were never actually introduced. I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks. Mavis told me of his past visits and the few shillings she had given him out of pity. She pointed him out at St. James, of course, and I might have seen him leaving this house one day through the back door.”
“So you have never spoken with him?”
“What would I have to say to such a man?”
“Did you approve of your wife giving him money to keep him at bay?”
The blue eyes flinched ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t phrase her charity in such a manner. Until this sorry business with the Yankee lawyer, I considered Epp harmless. Mavis thought his uncontrolled drinking might prove an embarrassment to me as a political figure, but I have real enemies to worry about. If she wished to indulge him, that was her concern.”
“But I understand that you and Mrs. McDowell are partners in your political career.”
“We are,” he said with obvious sincerity. “We have no children, you know, and so we have decided to work together and combine our talents. Mavis is very intelligent, a talented organizer, and equally ambitious for the future well-being of our troubled province. We are committed to the cause of stopping republicanism in its tracks.”
“You are conscious no doubt of the extravagances and corruption that too much freedom has unleashed among our southern neighbours?”
“Aren’t we all? That’s why we put down the recent rebellions.”
“And you yourself would have observed such moral and political turpitude in places like New York City?” Marc said, as if he were merely nudging the dialogue along a natural, and innocent, track.
But McDowell’s expression narrowed. He paused before saying, “You are referring to the shenanigans of Tammany Hall?”
“I’ve been told that you visited the metropolis on behalf of your family’s business in Kingston.”
“That is so. I have had occasion to go there a number of times in the past. But over a year ago, when my father’s health began to decline, I decided to devote myself entirely to my family and to politics. Mackenzie’s revolt was a wake-up call for me. My brother took over the business and I began to work for the Tory cause in Kingston. As you know, I won a recent by-election and made the decision to move to Toronto permanently – following my father’s death.”
Marc nodded sympathetically. Cobb had remained standing, apparently bored by this gentlemen’s palaver but actually studying every move that Marc was making in the chess match of the interrogation.
“Then it is conceivable that you may have met Richard Dougherty at some time?” Marc said amiably.
But there was nothing amiable in McDowell’s reply: “I never met the creature, in New York or anywhere else. If you had any idea of the outrages he committed that got him tossed out of that state, you would
not have the effrontery to ask me such a question. I heard all about his malodorous exploits before I last left New York, and I had no inkling that the vile degenerate had landed in Toronto until I heard that Epp had dispatched him straight to Hell.”
“You didn’t hear about the trial here in January?”
“Of course not. I was immersed in my family’s affairs in Kingston. And I do not appreciate the deteriorating tone of your remarks. I have given you too much of my valuable time as it is. I never met Reuben Epp and I never knew Richard Dougherty. Surely that is all you need to know.”
Just as Cobb assumed that his partner was about to give up – for the moment – Marc said, “Epp left his dagger in Dougherty’s back, pinioning a note with the word ‘sodomite’ scrawled in red ink upon it. Everybody in town knows about that word, but only the police know that it was written on a rare type of bond-paper, manufactured in New York – the very brand that you yourself happen to use.”
McDowell rocked back in his chair. He glared at Marc as he might an opponent across the aisle who had callously interrupted his speech. But behind the politician’s stare he was feverishly reassessing Marc and this sudden turn of events. A slow, gelid smile crept back into his face. “You come into my home, sir, to accuse me of somehow being connected to the heinous actions of a lowly verger on the grounds that a piece of notepaper, allegedly my brand, was found attached to the corpse?”
“Your complaint against Constable Cobb here was written on Melton bond,” Marc said evenly.
McDowell almost laughed. “A brand of paper that my father’s company has imported for several years, a brand that I have begun promoting here in Toronto, numerous samples of which my dear wife has been distributing gratis among my political colleagues since November. Are you planning to accuse each of them? You must be mad.”
The Bishop's Pawn Page 23