The Bishop's Pawn (14 page)

“Anybody else?”

“Well, who else had ready access to Epp and a
strong motive?” Robert said.

“Quentin Hungerford, for one,” Marc said. “He
is in a contest with David Chalmers for the rectorship of York
County when it comes open after Strachan is mitred.”

“An’ the fella was Epp’s protector at St.
James,” Cobb said, delighted to have a priest tossed into the stew.
“Covered fer him whenever he toppled off the wagon – which was
quite regular.”

“Still, I find it hard to believe the man
would plan a murder just to ingratiate himself with the
bishop-in-waiting,” Robert said. “That sermon fanned a lot of
flames, but only one person out of a thousand took its message
literally.”

“Perhaps
murder
was not planned,” Marc
mused. “As I said yesterday, the manipulator may have prodded Epp
towards a little mischief with the scurrilous note, and things got
out of hand.”

“Fifty dollars is a lot of bribe money for a
prank,” Robert said.

“I agree. And I can’t see why Chalmers would
get similarly involved when Dick’s letter to Strachan may well have
helped resolve the embezzlement charges made against him.”

“Are you planning to go into that hornet’s
nest at St. James and get yourself tangled up in church politics,”
Robert said, “on the off-chance that someone in there is remotely
connected to Epp’s actions?”

“I feel I must,” Marc said.

No-one mentioned John Strachan, but his
spectre was uppermost in their minds.

“What about them law-benders?” Cobb said.

“They may shed a few crocodile tears,” Robert
said.

“And I have a feeling,” Marc added. “that
Stoneham was their designated bowler – speaking aloud what many of
them felt.”

“So we start with him?” Cobb said.

“Yes.”

“Well, at least we’ve
started
,” Robert
said, reaching for a macaroon only to discover the dish was
empty.

***

Marc walked back with Cobb to report to Chief Sturges
what they had decided to do. They would wait until after Dick’s
funeral tomorrow morning, in the hope that Nestor Peck would come
up with a positive lead, after which they would begin accosting
their shortlist of suspects. Sturges was just emerging from police
quarters as they came up the Court House walk.

“Marc, I’m glad to see you!” he cried.

“What’s happened now?” Marc said, braced for
almost anything.

“I’ve just received an order from Sir George
Arthur. I am to have an audience with Archdeacon Strachan – at the
Palace. Straight away.”

Cobb grinned wickedly. “You gonna be made
rector?” he said.

“I’ll rector you, Cobb! If I thought you
wouldn’t play Samson at Gaza, I’d drag you along with me!”

“I’ll go with you,” Marc said. “I’ve been
here nearly four years. It’s time I met His Eminence face to face,
don’t you think?”

***

The Palace was a two-storey, red-brick residence (the
first house to be constructed with local brick!) in the elegant,
clean-lined Georgian style – on Front Street between York and
Simcoe. Its sloping lawns overlooked the bay and the misty island
beyond it. Sturges and Marc were ushered in a by an elderly
retainer in a gray morning-coat at least one size larger than he.
The bishop-to-be was waiting for them in his den. Marc had a brief
impression of Armenian carpet, walnut wainscoting, brocaded
chair-backs and soaring, sunlit, lead-glazed windows – before his
eyes met those of the Reverend John Strachan.

Strachan was very short, though standing in
the pulpit or gliding about his altar he gave the impression of
height and the superiority it conveys. His hair, once black, was
graying evenly and remained thick, providing a forbidding frame for
the face, where the piecing eyes, high forehead, strong nose and
thrusting chin collaborated to project both power and unimpeachable
authority. He would not have been out of place in a Michelangelo
mural. Although it was Tuesday morning and the man was in his own
study, he was attired in the formidable vestments of his
office.

“Ah, Sturges, you have come promptly. And
brought Lieutenant Edwards with you.” The latter remark was more in
the nature of a challenge than a mere statement of fact.

“Mr. Edwards has been asked to lead the
investigation into the sorry business on King Street yesterday,”
Sturges said bravely.

“How fortuitous, as that is the very subject
upon which I wish to dwell for the next quarter of an hour or so –
if I may impose on your good will.” Strachan smiled the
pseudo-hearty smile of parsons the world over, but he did not, Marc
noticed, use it to disguise the cold calculation or lurking malice
behind it. It was a reflex only.

“It was Sir Arthur’s good will that did the
imposin’,” Sturges said.

“Be that as it may, you are both here, and I
wish to ask you one question and then tender you some sage
advice.”

Marc expected that they would asked to sit
down at this point, but Strachan continued standing before them, as
a colonel might before a pair of subalterns.

“I am at your service, sir,” Sturges said.
“Fire away.”

“Let me be blunt, as that is the way I was
raised to be and have ever since conducted my affairs,” Strachan
said, giving free rein to the Aberdeen burr he had staunchly
retained since his arrival in North America nearly forty years
before. It was easy to picture this man hectoring the American
officers and rallying the besieged citizens of this city during the
invasion of 1813, or staring down a succession of pompous
lieutenant-governors. “I want to know why you are persisting in
continuing the investigation of Richard Dougherty’s murder when the
assassin has been identified, with ample proofs, and has –
conscience-stricken, I am told – hanged himself in your jail? And
need I add that the victim is not likely to be missed – here or in
Heaven.”

Sturges looked at Marc, who smiled pleasantly
and said, “We are doing so for one reason only, reverend. There is
enough evidence to suggest a conspiracy involving at least one
other person, someone literate and prosperous and having sufficient
motive.”

“Sir George has just informed me of these
flimsy ‘proofs,’ as you call them. Surely the money found at Epp’s
home could have come from any number of sources. It may well have
been squirreled away years ago.”

“Epp was illiterate. And the notepaper was
expensive.”

“Epp did odd jobs for dozens of my
parishioners to supplement the modest stipend we were forced to pay
him because the funds rightfully ours from the Clergy Reserves have
been blocked by Methodists and Reformers. He could have acquired
that notepaper anywhere and at any time.”

“But who would have consented to scrawl that
obscenity on it for him? And why?”

“Are you interrogating
me
, sir?” The
black eyes blazed at Marc.

“Those questions were rhetorical only,” Marc
replied calmly. “But I must tell you that the coincidence between
the word ‘sodomite’ heard in your diatribe Sunday morning and its
appearance on the victim’s back, planted there by
your
verger, troubles me deeply.”

Sturges took a step backwards, as if he
expected to be slapped with a Bible. Marc stood his ground.

Strachan took a deep breath. “I find the
implications of that statement to be unwarranted and beneath the
dignity of a man professing to be a gentleman. I called Dougherty a
sodomite because I had good reason to believe he was. In that
context the word is not an obscenity. It is a scourge and a call to
repentance. Nor did I ask my congregants to take any action against
the sinner in question. My words were, ‘If
thine
eye offend
thee
, pluck it out!’ I was petitioning Dougherty, on God’s
behalf, to repent of his sin and purge
himself.
”

Who in blazes is the lawyer here? Sturges
wondered.

“You, sir, did not know Richard Dougherty,”
Marc said. “I did.”

Strachan smiled his parson-smile. “Ah, but
that’s where you’re mistaken,
sir.
You see, just after the
service on Sunday, I had a visit here from a Mr. Tallman and a Mr.
Brenner, attorneys from New York, and my long-time suspicions were
confirmed.”

Marc was stunned. What on earth had those men
been
doing
in Toronto?

“I see you are taken aback. As well you
should be. For those gentlemen informed me that they were in town
to testify before the Law Society in regard to Dougherty’s conduct
back in New York City.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“They said they had heard that I was the
power behind the throne, as it were, and they wished to inform me
of what they felt they had to say to the Benchers. I assured them
they had been misinformed about my status, but agreed to hear them
out – in the strictest confidence.”

Marc braced himself.

“They told me that Dougherty had been forced
to leave New York City because he was about to be charged with
buggery – with boys as young as fourteen!”

“I don’t believe it!”

That smile again. “Neither did they, oddly
enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“They said that they were friends of
Dougherty, had known him forever. They themselves had never seen
him do anything improper nor had they heard of anything of
disrepute – until the particular incident that precipitated his
flight. They stressed that no formal charges had been laid nor had
he been disbarred. They couldn’t prove it, but they suspected he
had made a deal with the authorities – to voluntarily exile himself
so that he might live to practise law another day somewhere far
from New York. They intended to tell this to the Law Society, in
part because they knew of the wild and ugly rumours circulating
here and hoped to be able to mitigate their impact.”

“They believed him innocent, then?”

“They obviously
hoped
he was. But,
remember, the man packed up and fled. He dragged his hapless wards
with him. He never denied the rumours, there or here. He shut
himself up in that miserable little cottage for over a year with
two teenaged children. Are those the actions of an innocent
man?”

Marc was stung by the logic of these remarks.
Without thinking, he struck back. “Are you also trying to tell me
that there was no connection between your attack on Mr. Dougherty
and your receiving a letter written by him on behalf of David
Chalmers?”

This time the dart hit home. Strachan
reddened, then moved his indignation up a notch. “That, sir, is
none of your business. What transpires between me and my vicars is
private. Nor, I might add, had Dougherty any authority to break the
confidentiality between him and his client.”

“Agree. But he did, and I know that you were
threatened with a civil suit and possible scandal, and that, in a
most unchristian-like manner, you retaliated as soon as you
could.”

Sturges had taken another step backwards,
towards the door. But Strachan merely squeezed the rictus of a grin
out through his teeth and lips, and said, “I’ll now give you the
advice I promised – both of you. This province is on the brink of
success or failure. The recommendations of Lord Durham must be
debated in an atmosphere free from intrigue and machination, and
from scandal-mongering. I will not, I repeat,
not
have you
two or any of your minions interfering with the work of my priests
or making unfounded allegations regarding any actions you may
suppose
involves them with Reuben Epp. There will be no
guilt-by-association. And if I get wind of the slightest
impropriety on your part, I’ll have the investigation closed down –
whatever the Governor thinks. In addition, I’ll see to it that
Mister
Edwards here never practises law in this province.
Good day, gentlemen.”

The bishop-in-waiting wheeled and swept
himself out of the room.

Sturges led the way to the vestibule. “I’m
sure glad I brung
you
along,” he said to his chief
investigator.

ELEVEN

Cobb spent Tuesday afternoon in various taverns and
public houses about the city, contacting and bribing his snitches
to be on the lookout for anyone who might have seen Reuben Epp on
Sunday afternoon. It certainly would not be hard for any of them to
start a conversation with their pub-crawling clientele: Epp’s name
and the horrors of his crime were on every lip. Cobb was so
successful in lining up half a dozen of his regular crew that he
arrived home too late for supper and too inebriated to have eaten
it even if Dora had been sympathetic enough to indulge him (she
wasn’t). Meanwhile, Marc was needed at home, where Celia was in
need of comfort and Beth in need of support. In fact, he put her to
bed and let Charlene tend to Celia. When the house at last grew
quiet, Marc, as was his custom, sat down and wrote copious notes on
the case thus far. Beth almost always volunteered to listen as he
read them aloud upon completion, and together they would mull over
the perplexing details. But Beth was very near her term and
increasingly fatigued. Marc found himself alone with his thoughts
and the feelings that threatened to overwhelm them.

Brodie had insisted on spending the day
finalizing the funeral arrangements, going through his guardian’s
papers, and dealing with the distraught servants at the cottage. It
was taken for granted that Dick had been a wealthy man. He had been
a successful barrister for more than twenty-five years, in
partnership with Dennis Langford, and, upon the latter’s death, had
taken over the business and acted as trustee for the Langford
estate. According to the will that Brodie found, Dick’s own
considerable estate was to pass directly to his wards. Despite a
busy and exhausting day, Brodie arrived at Briar Cottage in time
for the evening meal, prepared entirely by Charlene (with moral
support from Jasper Hogg, her suitor and day-slave).