The Bishop's Pawn (13 page)

“Ah, here’s Gussie now,” Sturges said with
evident relief.

Gussie stepped into the room, looking as if
he had forgotten how to spell.

“What is it, man!” Thorpe demanded. “Where’s
the prisoner?”

“We ain’t got him, sir.”

“And why not? I told Strangway – ”

“He’s gone an’ hung himself.”

“Have you lost your wits?”

“Did it with a shirt,” Gussie said. “The
clean one we give him.”

***

After Thorpe and Sturges had confirmed Gussie
French’s incredible story, the investigation team reassembled in
the magistrate’s chamber.

“Well, what the hell do we do now?” Sturges
said to Thorpe.

“It’s a shocking thing to have happen – right
here in our own jail – and I’ll see that Strangway is severely
dealt with. He’s sent for the coroner, of course. But as for the
murder charge, I don’t see that there’s much left for us to do
except inform the lieutenant-governor and the attorney-general on
what grounds we arrested Epp – and then close the case.”

An embarrassed silence greeted this glib
proposal.

“Who is going to care about where the
notepaper came from or what shenanigans a drunk like Epp used to
acquire fifty dollars?” When this logic failed to impress, Thorpe
pushed on. “American money is not uncommon here. Our merchants and
tradesmen often do business in that currency with folks from across
the border. And, for all we know, Epp might have been a secret
gambler. Those notes could’ve been his winnings.”

“Reuben Epp couldn’t read or write,” Sturges
said.

Startled at the impertinent interruption,
Thorpe turned on the chief constable. “And how would you know
that?”

“Constable Wilkie had to bring him up before
the municipal court last Fall for bein’ drunk an’ disorderly. When
ordered to sign a peace bond, he used an ‘X’.”

“So he couldn’t have written that word on the
notepaper?” Thorpe said, trying not to give any ground.

“That’s right,” Marc said. “And he didn’t
keep a handy stock of Melton Bond or red ink or calligraphy
instruments in his hovel.”

“So what if the old geezer tricked some
innocent party into writing it out for him?” Thorpe said
stubbornly.

“It’s possible. But Epp was known to be very
religious. He was a binge drinker, not an habitual drunk. There’s
no evidence that he was a gambler, but we can check that out. The
presence of fifty dollars in large U.S. denominations, in
combination with what we know about the murder-note, strongly
suggests that we’re dealing with a conspiracy, that someone with
access to cash and expensive and exotic notepaper prompted Epp to
murder Dick. I say prompted because there seems little doubt that
Epp was motivated to murder a man who had been branded an apostate
and a corrupter of public morals. The fact that Epp has just taken
his own life indicates that he suffered remorse and could not face
what lay ahead. But he needed help to carry out the crime in the
manner that he did, a manner that must have been conceived by
someone with more imagination and, perhaps, a very different motive
from Epp’s simple fanaticism.”

“That’s quite a speech, Marc,” Thorpe said,
not unkindly. “But there’s still a lot of empty air between
speculation and proof.”

“But if we don’t at least make the effort to
find the proof,” Robert said, “we could be in serious trouble,
politically.”

“Who is going to know of these matters except
those of us in this room?” Thorpe said.

“Lot’s of people out there know that Epp was
ill-letterate
,” Cobb said. “Questions are bound to be
asked.”

“You don’t suppose Governor Arthur – given
the delicate, political circumstances we find ourselves in – will
want the slightest rumour of an official cover-up?” Robert said
blandly.

Thorpe, a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, glared at
the long-time Reformer. “But Dougherty, whatever the truth about
his conduct, has no pubic standing.”

Marc bridled, but Robert cut him off. “Not
amongst the better classes, perhaps, but I can assure you that
after the McNair trial in January he was hailed as a hero by
hoi
polloi .
His morning promenade was more like a royal progress
than a constitutional.”

Thorpe looked thoughtful. “I’m beginning to
see what you’re driving at. But I feel that any decision to
continue the investigation – especially when Epp’s arrest and fate
are known – must come from Governor Arthur himself. I’ll make a
full report to him this evening, and get back to Chief Sturges here
in the morning.”

With that, the meeting broke up. Everyone was
exhausted. It had been a brutal day, in every sense of the word.
With Sturges’ approval, Cobb agreed to meet Marc and Robert at
Baldwin House in the morning: to mull over the events of the day
and map out the strategy they would use to find the man who had
manipulated Reuben Epp and callously orchestrated the death of
their friend. For with or without the lieutenant-governor’s
approval, Doubtful Dick Dougherty’s murderer would be brought to
justice.

***

By nine o’clock Tuesday morning, few citizens old
enough to gossip or live off its avails had not learned that the
three-hundred-pound Yankee lawyer had been stabbed to death (the
number of wounds varying from three to eleven) by the deranged
verger of St. James, unhinged, it was said, by alcohol and
religious zeal (no explicit mention here of the bishop-to-be and
his Sunday jeremiad). The stabbing was generally attributed to the
zeal and the plucked eye to his derangement. That the pitiable
culprit had hanged himself with his own blood-soaked shirt (a
harmless embroidery) seemed a fitting conclusion to the whole sorry
episode. However, there was no public consensus about the degree of
pity that ought to be extended to the victim. For many ordinary
folk, as Robert Baldwin had noted, Dougherty was a hero of sorts,
flawed but brilliant, and fearless in the presence of the high and
mighty. But those for whom respectability compensates for a myriad
of foregone pleasures saw only his character flaws and his contempt
for persons in authority, without whom the province would collapse
and fall prey to Yankeeism. It was these contrary winds that blew
the length and breadth of King Street, from Scaddings Bridge all
the way to Government House and His Excellency’s parlour.

By ten o’clock it was common knowledge that
Reuben Epp, faithful verger of St. James for almost eleven years,
would not be buried in consecrated ground. A murderer could be
forgiven, but not a suicide: Archdeacon Strachan was adamant on
that point. While he was distressed immeasurably (as reported by
Reverend Hungerford to the
Gazette
), it would have to be
Potters Field for Epp. Meanwhile, Broderick Langford spent an hour
with the minister of the Congregational Church, which he and Celia
had been attending since February along with Beth and Marc. Brodie
was there to convince the pastor that his guardian had been raised
in a Congregational church near Albany, and had remained a nominal
member ever since. Would it not be an act of charity to provide the
gentleman with a Christian burial? The young pastor was marshalling
his arguments against such a plan when Beth Edwards arrived on the
arm of Jasper Hogg. Beth’s father had been minister at the
Congregational church in Cobourg before his death, and it was this
card that Beth played with consummate skill. It was soon decided
that a full and proper funeral service would be held, with
interment in the common graveyard operated by the city. Brodie gave
Beth (and a good part of the baby) a hug that brought a blush to
Jasper Hogg’s wind-buffed cheeks.

***

It was mid-morning when Cobb was ushered into Robert
Baldwin’s private chamber, where Robert and Marc were already
seated, sipping coffee and munching on macaroons.

“Have you heard anything from Thorpe about
his visit to Sir George?” Robert said as soon as he had seated
Cobb, handed him a mug of coffee, and placed a bowl of macaroons
next to his guest (and well away from his own reach).

“The Sarge give me the news just as I was
leavin’,” Cobb said, reaching for a sweet before peering up and
adding, “We been given ten days.”

“To continue with the investigation?” Marc
said, hoping he had heard aright.

“Yup. Sir Gorgeous is gonna schedule an
inquest inta Dick’s death an’ Epp’s hangin’ – in ten days. The
Chief is free to gather any evidence he needs until then.”

“Splendid!” Marc said.

“That ought to be enough time,” Robert said.
He looked at Marc. “You know why Sir George has given in, don’t
you?”

“I think I do,” Marc said. “He’s terrified of
giving the Reformers and Durhamites a rallying cry outside of the
Report
itself. Thorpe has admitted that there are
unexplained aspects in the case which he cannot keep from being
made public and which would have to come out at any subsequent
inquest regardless. The slightest hint of an official cover-up,
especially one seen to be protecting a possible conspirator amongst
their own, could be utilized by our party in the Assembly and by
your committee organizing Durham Clubs in the countryside.”

“We’ve got to get you inside the Assembly as
well as writing pamphlets for us,” Robert said, reaching across and
picking off a macaroon with the tips of his fingers. “Added to this
concern,” he continued, “is the fact that the speech delivered
Saturday evening by Mowbray McDowell has given the Tories a sense
of unity they haven’t had since last Fall. Sir George doesn’t want
to disturb that delicate soufflé.”

“So we’ve got free rein?” Marc said to
Cobb.

“Well, not quite, major. No rain is free is
this town. Sarge said that we was not to ruffle any feathers. But
the governor did tell him if it turns out that some bigwig is mixed
up in the stew, then so be it.”

“Arthur’s a hard man,” Robert said, “but he’s
honest and shrewd. If someone in the Family Compact or the
governor’s party bribed Epp and assisted him in the commission of
the crime, then Arthur wants him exposed quickly and just as
quickly disposed of. He knows he has six months or more before the
Melbourne administration in London decides to move on Durham’s
recommendations. Chief Justice Robinson is already there lobbying
the House of Lords, and John Strachan has booked his passage. It’s
to Arthur’s benefit to have this murder and suicide cleared up and
off his plate as soon as possible.”

“But I can’t see him extending the deadline
much,” Marc said. “He’ll call the inquest, claim every reasonable
effort has been made to investigate the crime, and let any loose
ends hang loose. The jury’s verdict will be final.”

Cobb finished off his coffee. “They why don’t
we start investigatin’?” he said.

***

Marc began, as he usually did, by laying out the
lines of enquiry they ought to pursue. They had three pieces of
physical evidence. The American ten-dollar bills helped point them
to someone with adequate means, but otherwise they were not useful.
The Melton Bond was likely to prove much more productive because,
in the course of interviewing suspects, the subject of such
notepaper could be raised, tactfully or obliquely, and even
surreptitiously checked out. Likewise, the presence of calligraphy
instruments and a red-ink bottle in a suspect’s study could be used
to press the fellow and perhaps jar loose an admission or two.

“What about the torn-off bit?” Cobb
asked.

Marc felt it was unlikely that Epp’s
manipulator had done the ripping, but if he had – in order to
further suggest the killer’s “frenzy” – then surely he would have
destroyed such incriminating evidence by now. If it did turn up,
though, it would be the definitive proof they needed. The second
line of enquiry, Marc continued, should focus on connecting Epp
with his manipulator. If this was a conspiracy, it appeared to one
that had been developed
after
the Archdeacon’s sermon on
Sunday and
before
the murder on Monday morning.

Robert mentioned here that Epp was always
given Sunday afternoon off so that he could return and assist with
the clean-up after the evening service. Where, then, did he go on
Sunday afternoon? Who was he seen talking to? And so on. Cobb would
need to alert Nestor Peck and his other snitches: triple the usual
rate would be offered for useful information. (Any snitch who had
been foolhardy enough to supply Cobb with false leads had felt the
toe of his boot on a sensitive body part!) With any luck, they
would have a genuine lead in a day or two.

“I hate to bring this up,” Cobb said at this
point in the discussion, “but so far we got plenty of lions to
inquire about but no suspects with
names
attached to
‘em.”

“Oh, but we have,” Marc said.

“You’re thinking of people like Everett
Stoneham, who threatened Dick at the Assembly?” Robert said.

“I am. He fits the bill on all counts. He is
wealthy, arrogant, a pew-holder at St. James, and he has a powerful
motive. If we can place Epp anywhere near him on Sunday afternoon,
we could get a warrant and go looking for the Melton Bond.”

“Who else?” Cobb said, somewhat discouraged
at the task ahead.

“Bartholomew Burchill, the silversmith.”

“Just ‘cause he wrote that
scourge-i-lous
letter last week?” Cobb said. “We’d have half
the people of Toronto in jail if that was made a crime.”

“What I found out only yesterday,” Marc said,
“was that Celia Langford and young Matthew Burchill have been
meeting secretly and are, I gather, very much in love.”

Cobb whistled through the generous gaps in
his teeth. “You figure the old man found out an’ went after
Dick?”

“It’s possible. We’ll need to check that out.
Certainly Burchill is wealthy enough. He’s a notorious skinflint
and, from what I’ve heard, a tyrant who keeps his apprentice-son
practically under house arrest.”