The Bishop's Pawn (8 page)

When Sturges failed to do so, Cobb asked,
“When did that – that business with the eye happen?”

“I’d say after he died. There’s little
bleeding about the gouged socket. I found the eyeball over by the
wall there. Certainly he was rendered comatose by the initial blow
to the temple. He never knew what was happening to him.”

“You mentioned Dougherty’s regular route,”
Sturges said to Withers.

“That’s right,” Cobb interjected. “Some of
this area’s on my patrol. Fer the past month or more, Dougherty’s
been takin’ his mornin’ exercise along a precise route: down Bay to
Front, over to Simcoe, north to King, back over to Bay an’ then on
up to his cottage. I’ve never known him to vary it – rain, snow or
otherwise. An’ many of the storekeepers, those who get up early,
have mentioned it to me. They say they can set their clocks by his
passin’.”

“So a lot of people could have known exactly
where he would be at a specific time?”

“That’s right. Which pins down the time of
the murder right to the minute,” Cobb said, pleased at the ease
with which such conclusions now flowed out – after four murder
investigations carried out in tandem with the talented Marc
Edwards.

“How do you figure that?” Withers said. “I
can only determine – from the state of the blood and the
temperature of the body – that it must have occurred no more than
an hour and a half ago. But that’s all.”

Cobb’s reply was swift and sure. “Simeon
Galsworthy, the jeweller next door, told me that Dougherty joked
with him one mornin’ when they met out front that he timed his walk
every day by checkin’ the big pendulum clock in the shop window.
Seems he tried to rig his constitutional so he got here as close to
seven-thirty as he could manage.”

“We’ll have to speak to Galsworthy an’
anybody else livin’ within a block or so of this alley,” Sturges
said.

“Whaddya make of that message stuck to him?”
Cobb said to the coroner.

“It’s intended to look as if the killer
scratched that obscenity in the victim’s blood,” Withers said.

“Intended?” Sturges said.

“It’s been written – before the event, I
suspect – in red ink with what looks like an artist’s brush. Damn
ghoulish, if you ask me. But it does suggest premeditation,
eh?”

“As does this particular spot bein’ chosen,”
Sturges said. “We’ll be lookin’ fer a fella who planned this ahead
of time, wrote out a note, brought it along with his knife, picked
out a stone as his bludgeon, waited here fer seven-thirty to roll
around, then calmly carried out the deed – becomin’ enraged,
perhaps, after he got started.”

“Or wanted us to think so,” Cobb said, with
the kind of devious logic Marc Edwards might have used.

“Well, we’ve got the means an’ opportunity
part,” Sturges mused, showing that he too had been listening to Mr.
Edwards.

“And the motive, too – have we not?” Withers
said, removing the dirk and the attached note, and drawing the
cloak up over the body.

“Somebody who took offence at queers an’
buggery,” Sturges said.

“That takes in most of the Christian folk in
this city,” Withers said.

“Can we trace the owner of the dagger?” Cobb
said.

“Looks like the weapon favoured by sailors,”
Withers said. “I’ve seen a hundred just like it in my time
here.”

“And I’ve pulled a few outta the mitts of
tavern brawlers,” Cobb sighed.

“Dougherty certainly had his share of
detractors,” Sturges said, “but he was still an important fella in
town. An’ the gruesome details of this crime are bound to get out.”
Sturges looked like a worried man.

“Are you thinking, Wilf, what the rest of us
are?” Withers said.

“I’m thinkin’ not just about that note, but
about that eyeball lyin’ outside the body.”

Cobb said it for the other two: “We all heard
that sermon yesterday, didn’t we? An’ less than a day later, the
lawyer referred to is found with his eye plucked out.”

“And the man who called for the barbaric act
just happened to be Archdeacon Strachan,” Withers added
solemnly.

“Who’s hopin’ to be made our bishop,” Sturges
said.

“This is a crime we’ve got to clear up
quickly and cleanly,” Withers said. “Governor Arthur will be
apoplectic if any ill wind blows, even faintly, in the direction of
John Strachan.”

“I’m gonna send fer Marc Edwards,” Sturges
said, “before the Governor does. I’ll have Rossiter fetch him here
right away, then go on to inform the young lad an’ his sister of
their guardian’s death.”

“And I’ll have the body removed now to my
surgery for a more thorough examination. Tell the magistrate that a
written report should reach him by early afternoon.”

“I’ll get Wilkie, an’ we’ll begin to question
the locals,” Cobb said. He wasn’t sure yet whether he was pleased
that Marc would be invited to join (lead?) the investigation or
irritated that the notion had come so readily to his chief.

SEVEN

Constable Rossiter, a large, taciturn man who was
happiest when carrying out explicit commands, arrived at Briar
Cottage on Sherbourne Street before nine o’clock with the news of
Dougherty’s murder. When Marc recovered from the shock of the
constable’s blunt announcement (“The Yankee lawyer’s been stabbed
to death beside the jeweller’s an’ the Chief wants you to come”),
he pressed for more details. But Rossiter merely repeated the last
half of his message (“Sarge just wants you to come”), tipped his
hat to Beth, who had come up behind Marc in her kimono, and started
to walk away.

“You’re sure it’s Mr. Dougherty?”

Rossiter paused. “Ain’t too many fellas over
three hundred pounds wearin’ a gentleman’s duds,” Rossiter said.
“Now I gotta go an’ tell the young ones about it.”

“Marc, you mustn’t let Mr. Rossiter break
such news to Brodie an’ Celia!” Beth said as she squeezed into the
doorway beside her husband.

“You’re right, darling,” Marc said, wishing
Beth had not come out of the kitchen to hear Rossiter’s report.
“You go on back to your chief,” he said to Rossiter, “and I’ll go
to the Dougherty cottage. Tell Wilf that I’ll come to police
quarters as soon as I can.”

Looking much relieved, Rossiter turned and
hurried down the walk.

“I can’t believe this has happened,” Beth
said. “Who would want to hurt Dick?”

Both Marc and Beth had got to know the
curmudgeonly barrister quite well during the McNair affair in
January. Beth in particular had befriended his young wards, having
had them over for supper and gentle conversation several times
since then.

Marc sighed at Beth’s question, fighting
against the anger rising in him, knowing that it was at least a
temporary antidote to the welling sorrow. “Unfortunately, love, I
can think of a dozen or more who might have wished him dead.”

Beth insisted on coming with Marc, despite
his plea that she should neither upset herself nor strain herself
physically.

“The horse is already hitched up,” she said.
“Charlene an’ Jasper were plannin’ to go shoppin’. I’ll throw on
one of my tents an’ be ready to go in three minutes.”

“But – ”

“But I’ll be better
doin’
somethin’
than stayin’ here alone cryin’ my eyes out.”

Ten minutes later they were on their way to
Bay Street.

***

Normally both Brodie and Celia would have been away
from home by nine-twenty – Brodie to the bank and Celia to Miss
Tyson’s. But the failure of their guardian to return from his
constitutional by eight o’clock had worried them. Not at first,
even though his schedule was usually precise to the minute. But
once or twice before, they knew, he had been persuaded to stop for
a coffee at Baldwin House. However, he had never failed to return
before they left home at eight-thirty, for he insisted on hearing,
over his breakfast, from their own lips what excitements or
challenges lay ahead for their day “out in the world,” just as he
demanded a full debriefing over supper. Brodie was getting ready to
head down to Baldwin’s when Marc and Beth pulled up in front of the
cottage.

Marc was glad now that Rossiter had provided
no details of the crime. The mere fact of Dick’s sudden demise was
shock enough for his wards. That he had been murdered (“Some
villain trying to rob him!” Brodie had cried) was not unimportant,
but the loss of the man who had been in their lives since their
birth and had taken their father’s place was the blow that cut most
keenly. Marc was also glad that Beth had insisted on coming, for
Celia collapsed into her arms and had to be helped into the
kitchen, where the elderly cook joined Beth in fruitless attempts
at consoling the distraught girl.

It was then decided that Brodie would go to
Dr. Withers’ surgery to claim the body and learn what he could of
the incident. Marc tried to reassure the lad that he and the police
would find the killer and bring him to justice.

“Justice won’t bring Uncle back,” Brodie
said.

No, Marc thought, but later on, when shock
turned to sorrow and quiet grieving, it would help.

“I’m takin’ Celia back to our place,” Beth
said, brooking no dissent. “She c’n stay with us fer a few days if
she needs to. Brodie, too, if he wants. I’ll send Charlene to Dora
fer some sedatives.”

Minutes later, Marc found himself
quick-stepping down Bay Street. He was certain that the body would
have been removed by now and that he was likely to learn more at
the police quarters than at the scene of the crime. He could go
there later. Feeling slightly abashed that he was already thinking
more like an investigator than a mourning friend, he swung west
onto King and headed for the Court House.

***

Cobb and Wilkie left Chief Sturges and Constable
Brown to the thankless task of keeping the crowd back from the
body, and set out to interview any of the neighbouring shopkeepers
who might have been up early enough to have spotted the killer
lurking about. Some of them might well be in the crowd by now, but
most would not leave their premises unattended.

“You take the shops on that side of the
street,” Cobb said. “I’ll do this side.”

“What do I say?” Wilkie asked sleepily.

“Ask them if they saw anybody
suspicious-looking hangin’ about just before seven-thirty – anyone
really that they wouldn’t expect to see hereabouts.”

“Then what?”

“You come an’ tell
me
,” Cobb said. If
there were any lead – and that was a remote possibility – Cobb
wanted to know first, before the Chief did and, he had to admit,
before Marc Edwards.

“But I ain’t had my breakfast,” Wilkie
complained.

“And that poor bastard in the alley won’t
have any ever again!”

Cobb watched Ewan Wilkie trundle across the
street and head for the little tearoom that didn’t open for
business until ten. Well, no matter. Cobb had an idea about where
he should start first: Dusty Carter’s bakery, even though it was
three doors down. Dusty was up working at five, and he was a nosy
parker.

Dusty was behind the counter, drizzling icing
on a tray of buns. He looked up and gave Cobb a gap-toothed
greeting.

“What’s all the commotion out there?” he
said, licking his baby finger. “Somebody into fisticuffs this early
on a Monday?”

“Worse,” Cobb said. “That lawyer fella from
New York got himself stabbed to death in the alley between the
jeweller’s an’ the grocer’s.”

“Ya don’t say. I woulda come out fer a
gander, but I had loaves in the oven,” the baker said, feeling he
needed to explain his lack of interest in such a calamitous
event.

Cobb could smell the fresh bread, and heard
his stomach rumble. He briefly told Dusty as much as he felt he
ought to about the grisly slaying, then said, “What I need to know,
is whether you saw Mr. Dougherty go past here about
seven-thirty?”

Dusty placed another tray of buns before him.
“Sometimes I do, if I happen to be out front here. Regular as rain,
he is, waddlin’ along. But today I was in back, at the oven.”

Well, Cobb thought, it had been worth a try.
And he could buy a sticky bun while he was here – as
consolation.

“But I did see someone else – in the lane
behind,” Dusty said, keeping a sharp eye all the time on the stream
of icing.

“You did?” Cobb said, forgetting his stomach
for a moment. “Somebody you knew?”

“Matter of fact, it was. And I thought it was
damn strange, too.”

This could be it, Cobb thought. “Go on.”

“From the window in back, just about
seven-thirty – I know because I was just taking out a timed batch
of bread – I saw this fella kind of weavin’ his way along, keepin’
to the shadows on the other side, an’ lookin’ about him all the
while.”

“It wasn’t Nestor scoutin’ garbage?”

“No, no, I seen
him
comin’ along,
goin’ the opposite way about fifteen minutes later. This fella
wasn’t scoutin’, he was skulkin’, or else runnin’ away from
someone.”

“And you recognized him?”

“I did. In fact, I saw him just yesterday –
in church.”

“Who?”

Dusty deliberately overshot a bun and reached
down to smooth away the errant icing. Then he looked up and said,
“It was the verger at St. James: Reuben Epp.”

Cobb got a double shock. Epp had been verger
at St. James for years – a loner and a misanthrope. And he
certainly would have heard the Archdeacon’s sermon with its closing
clarion-call. Cobb wasn’t sure whether or not he ought to be
elated. If Epp was involved in Dougherty’s murder, the way ahead
was fraught with dangers and pitfalls.

“I better go an’ talk to him, then,” Cobb
said.

“He lives out at the edge of town,” Dusty
said, choosing a bun. “In a shanty on Brock Street behind the
tannery.”

“I know the place.”