The Bishop's Pawn (32 page)

“Right,” Cobb said. “But from the look of
him
, I don’t think we’ll need no scrap of paper.” He guided
Mavis McDowell slowly out of the room.

***

“Are you ready to tell me about it?” Marc said to
McDowell when the latter had composed himself enough to speak.

He nodded. “You were right about my seeing
Dougherty in the foyer that night. I almost fainted from the
shock.”

“So you knew him by sight?”

“He was famous in New York, or notorious,
depending on your viewpoint. I was in the courtroom when he took on
Tammany Hall and fought them to a draw. I was an admirer of his, if
you can believe that.”

Marc was pretty sure why, but let McDowell
continue.

“We all heard the rumours about his domestic
arrangement, so I wasn’t surprised when he showed up that September
night in the club – in the special rooms at the back.”

Marc
was surprised, however. “So you
were actually there the night the boy died in one of the
anterooms?” It wasn’t, then, merely a question of McDowell’s name
appearing on Dick’s suspect-list: the two men had come face to
face.

McDowell hung his head. But the sudden need
to tell his story, to purge himself of whatever sins he had
committed, however despicable, was too strong. Without looking up,
he said in a wobbly voice, “I was in the pleasure-pad.”

“Jesus!” Marc exclaimed, not hearing Cobb
come in and stand near the doorway. “It was you who killed that
innocent boy!”

“It was an accident, a horrible accident.
We’d done that bit with the dog-collar a dozen times. The lad
enjoyed
it! It was his
specialty
.”

Marc felt like collaring McDowell and
throttling him, but he knew that he must remain perfectly still,
like a priest in the confessional.

“I ran out! The outer room was full of
regulars. All hell broke loose. I spotted Dougherty as I rushed by.
He was the only non-member there. I didn’t know if he had seen my
face clearly or if he knew who I was. I still don’t.”

“But your friends at Tammany Hall managed to
hush the whole affair up?”

“Yes. They even closed down the brothel for a
few weeks. But when no-one, including Dougherty, followed up with
an official complaint, they reopened it.”

“And you were back in New York two months
later. Where you learned from your Tammany contacts that Dougherty
had been secretly gathering evidence about the abuse of these boys,
and that he even had affidavits.”

“We nearly shat ourselves when we heard about
this. But you don’t know Tammany Hall.”

“I’m learning quickly.”

“They framed Dougherty, I was told, and made
a deal with him. He vanished. But the club members knew it had been
a close shave. They shut down the special wing – for good.”

“And you decided it was safer to stay
home?”

“Yes. I came back and tried to save my
marriage.”

“And the province.”

McDowell managed a grim smile.

“So whether or not Dick recognized you
outright or had merely put your face to one of the names on his
roster of pedophiles, you could not take a chance on his remaining
alive?”

“I am not a murderer. I didn’t murder that
boy in New York. I have done penance for that sin, and others, ever
since. I have tried to be a prop to my suffering family and to
become a productive citizen of my country. But I was in a state of
panic that Saturday. I didn’t sleep a wink all night. Fortunately
Mavis was busy Sunday afternoon and evening – after the morning
service. Late in the day, with Hudson and Muriel away on their
evening off, I went into the kitchen when I heard a noise, and
discovered Reuben Epp there. He wasn’t drunk, but he had been
drinking. There was a madness in his eyes that sent chills up my
spine. He started ranting and raving right away. He said the
Archdeacon had condemned the Yankee lawyer and begged his
parishioners to rid the town of such vermin. I had heard the
sermon, so I knew what he was babbling on about. I tried to calm
him down, but he got more and more agitated. He said that he knew
exactly where and when Dougherty would be walking in the morning,
and that he was going to carry out God’s will by killing the man,
after which he intended to hang himself. He went on and on about
what a worthless life he had led and how he wanted to end it all by
doing one good, shining deed.”

“Surely it was just talk – ”

“I thought so, too. But gradually I became
convinced he meant it. He had come to our house to see if his
cousin or I would write the word ‘sodomite’ on a piece of paper. He
wanted to leave it on the body to show the world what he had done
and why. And who had inspired him.”

“Dr. Strachan.”

“As I realized that he was determined to do
this, one way or another, I was suddenly struck with the idea of
helping him along. I suspected that the note was crucial to his
plan. I was also aware that when the drink wore off or the initial
fervour subsided, he might yet get cold feet.”

“So you agreed to write the note?”

“Yes. We were alone in the house. I brought
him in here. I got out a calligraphy pen and in red ink, resembling
blood, I scrawled out the word he wanted.”

Marc wondered if McDowell had noticed the
irony in that gesture, but said, “To suggest a religious
fanatic?”

“Or a lunatic from the asylum here.”

“And you tore it in two to further suggest
the killer’s state of mind?”

“No. Epp ripped it out of my hand before I
could blot the ink! I tossed the torn section in my waste-bin and
forgot about it.”

“But if he intended to hang himself, why did
you give him fifty dollars? That’s a year’s wages.”

“I was pretty certain he would do the deed.
But it’s one thing to stab a fellow in a religious fit but quite
another to loop a rope around your neck and leap into space.”

“You hoped he would run away? Confirming his
guilt and getting out of your hair for good?”

“I suggested Detroit or Buffalo. I promised
him more money later. I knew if he were captured on the run that
no-one would believe his wild story about an accomplice, even if he
proclaimed he was my wife’s cousin.”

“But he killed Dick and then hanged himself.
You must have thought then that you had miraculously escaped
justice twice, once here and once in New York?”

“When Epp was found at home and charged with
the crime, I was terrified that he would implicate me. But by
nightfall he had hanged himself. I was free. It seemed like divine
intervention, as if I had been chosen, despite my past sins and
prodigal existence, to carry out some larger mission here on earth.
I might have to pay later, but for the time being, God was backing
me.”

“So you made no attempt to cover your
tracks?”

“I had no need to. Mavis had assured me time
and again that Epp had kept their secret – he was cunning enough
not jeopardize his money-source. It did occur to me that I ought to
locate that torn piece of paper, but Muriel told me she’d thrown
the trash from this study into the kitchen stove. I knew nothing
about St. James and the Sunday school children. I gave the crime no
more thought until Cobb barged in here on Thursday. And then his
meddling was stopped instantly by Sir George.”

Cobb coughed. So the lieutenant-governor
had
intervened with Sturges. He felt sorry for the
chief.

“And Richard Dougherty was dead,” Marc said,
the enormity of that truth striking him hard one more time.

McDowell looked up at Marc. “I wish I could
say I regretted that fact. But I can’t.”

“Cobb will take you to the magistrate. If you
like, I’ll stay behind and give what comfort and explanation I can
to your wife. I shall be as discreet as possible.”

“I would be most grateful.”

“Come along, then,” Cobb said, feeling oddly
deflated.

And just like that, it was over.

***

As he invariably did, Marc lay next to Beth and told
her the whole story of the investigation. Maggie slept peacefully
in the cradle nearby. Celia had returned to her cottage with
Brodie, who would surely have much to say to his sister about their
disrupted past, the revelations prompted by his New York adventure,
and what the future might hold for them on their own in an adopted
country. Cobb had taken it upon himself to conduct the dazed felon
to the Court House, where – to the delight of Magistrate James
Thorpe – he willingly signed a confession. After which Cobb was
received at home with more than the usual portion of praise and
admiration.

Marc knew enough not to edit out any details
of his account in deference to Beth’s feminine sensibility: there
was little in life that she had not experienced or did not wish to
learn about. So it was nearly an hour, and close to midnight, when
he finally finished.

“So this all started with the Reverend
Strachan’s sermon an’ his denunciation of Dick?” Beth said with a
contented yawn.

“Well, it’s true that poor Reuben Epp would
not have been stirred to commit murder if he hadn’t heard that
sermon. And McDowell, panicked as he was at seeing Dick, would not
have had the courage to kill Dick on his own.”

“And all because Dr. Strachan was upset that
Dick wrote a letter to support the Reverend Chalmers, who was
falsely accused by Mrs. Hungerford?”

“That’s a reasonable inference.”

“An’ she did that, thinkin’ she could help
her husband become rector when the Archdeacon is made bishop?”

“True. But she may have acted for nothing.”
Marc smiled ruefully. “There’s no guarantee that Strachan will give
up his rectorship – and the emolument it brings in – even if he
becomes bishop. There’s a rumour going around that the Church in
England is offering him the glory without the gold.”

“Either way, it don’t seem too Christian to
me.”

“Sad, isn’t it? Also, we cannot underestimate
the role played in all this by the horrible events that took place
in New York a year and a half ago. Dick was a victim more than
once.” Marc stifled a yawn. “You know what every element in this
tragedy has in common, don’t you?”

Beth rolled over and rested her head in the
crook of his arm. “Fanatics,” she said. “Too many fanatics.”

“Here and in the States – both. We’ve got
Orangemen and outraged Tories on the right and, on the left,
principled radicals like Mackenzie, who finally went over the edge.
In New York, the Tammany Society was obsessed with keeping America
‘pure’ – free of foreigners – and they were willing to corrupt
their own political process to do so. Eventually they found
themselves having to cling to power by protecting pedophiles and
murderers.”

“An’ poor Reuben took his pastor’s plea to
heart. An’ Mowbray McDowell thought he was carryin’ out the Lord’s
will.”

“God save us from zealots.”

Beth closed her eyes. “We need more people
like Robert. An’ you. It’s goin’ to be a long an’ difficult summer,
isn’t it?”

“I can’t deny it. But we’re lucky. We’ve got
each other.”

“An’ Maggie.”

“Ah, yes. My son,” Marc said with an ironic
twinkle in his eye.

Don Gutteridge is the author of more than 40
books: fiction, poetry and scholarly works, including the Marc
Edwards mystery series. He taught in the Faculty of Education at
Western University for 25 years in the Department of English
Methods. He is currently professor Emeritus, and lives in London,
Ontario.

Turncoat

Solemn Vows

Vital Secrets

Dubious Allegiance

Bloody Relations

Death of a Patriot

Or visit the
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Coming Soon in the Marc Edwards Mystery
Series:

Desperate Acts

Unholy Alliance

Minor Corruption

Governing Passion

The Widow’s Demise

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Editions

One

Toronto, October 1839

“So, tell me about this Shakespeare Club,”
Marc Edwards said to Brodie Langford as they left Sherbourne Street
and turned west onto Front. “Why not simply take up with the
amateur players who hang about Ogden Frank’s theatre?”

Brodie grinned before answering – to let Marc
know that he was aware of the deliberate naiveté of the remark.
They had become fast friends over the preceding nine months, and
enjoyed the kind of gentle teasing which that sort of bond
encourages. “We are as fine wine to plain vinegar,” he said,
squinting into the October sunset that bathed the broad lakeside
avenue in shimmering waves of gold and vermilion. “Our sole purpose
is to read, discuss and otherwise venerate the Bard, and only the
Bard.”

“I suspect the great man himself would feel
more comfortable among a troupe of actors, however sweaty and
thick-tongued,” Marc said.

“Very true. But we do occasionally stoop to
acting out a scene or two – by way of illustration, of course.”

“Of course. You wouldn’t want to tear a scene
to tatters, not with the likes of Sir Peregrine Shuttleworth
keeping a close watch on the proceedings.”

Brodie laughed. “I find my membership in the
club about as amusing as you do. And just as incongruous and
unexpected. But, then, if you had told me a year ago that I would
be where I am today, I would have called the asylum-keepers to come
and get you.”

“You’ve come a long way in a short time,”
Marc said, his tone now as serious as it was full of admiration for
this remarkable young man of nineteen years.