“And there was that slanderous letter in the Gazette last week,” Withers added.
“All true,” Marc said. “Dick had many enemies, few of whom he had met and none of whom he had harmed. But I think we need to inform the magistrate of Reverend Strachan’s final bit of imagery.”
“There was more?”
“I’m afraid so. The good pastor stared out at his flock with a blazing countenance and roared, ‘If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out!’”
“My God!” Thorpe said, looking aghast and, for the first time, acutely aware of the sudden and perilous turn of events. It was now conceivable that the murder of an American émigré, whom few men of importance knew or cared about, was threatening to reach up into the fragile corridors of power – ecclesiastical corridors to be sure, but in the delicate state of the state at this moment in history, church and government were hopelessly enlinked. “It looks, then, as if the killer was not only intent on doing away with Dougherty, but was trying to tie the crime in to the Archdeacon’s sermon.”
“There can be little doubt that some kind of connection exists,” Marc said. “What the intention of the killer was and whether the connection was meant as a positive or negative sign, we won’t know until we find him.”
“You’re sayin’ that the killer might’ve thought he was doin’ the Archdeacon a favour?” Sturges said. “Sort of carryin’ out his command an’ makin’ sure with the note an’ the gouged eye that everybody in town would see it?”
“I’m just raising possibilities,” Marc said.
“There were over a thousand people in St. James yesterday,” Withers said.
“Then we’ll have to narrow our search down a little,” Robert said. “Who would have an immediate motive – assuming that the villain was prompted by more than a fiery sermon? I can’t see the Archdeacon’s remarks being anything other than a catalyst or a goad.”
When no-one else spoke, Marc said, “We could start with people like Bartholomew Burchill, the silversmith. That letter he wrote to the Gazette bristled with personal animosity. And I saw Burchill in his pew yesterday.”
“And I suppose, while we’re speculating, that we must not overlook the ethical dilemma of the Benchers of the Law Society,” Robert said. “They were scheduled to meet later this week to decide whether Dick’s temporary license to practise would be made permanent or revoked. More than one of them will be secretly pleased at his fortuitous demise.”
“In that regard,” Marc said excitedly, “I must tell you that when Dick and I were leaving the Assembly on Saturday evening, Everett Stoneham, a privy councillor, stopped us, and poured invective on Dick. He said that Dick would become a member of the Bar over his dead body. I took it at the time as a serious threat of some sort, even though Dick didn’t.”
“Those two will have to be interviewed, then,” Sturges said, nodding at Marc, to whom he had already informally assigned responsibility for leading the investigation.
“Stoneham was particularly incensed at Dick’s putting up a barrister’s shingle on his cottage, even though he was legally permitted to do so,” Marc said.
“But the fellow hasn’t had a client since the McNair trial in January,” Thorpe said.
“That’s what we all thought,” Marc said. “Stoneham did, too. He was enraged because he assumed that Dick had put up the sign merely to irritate his detractors. In Stoneham’s view, it must have seemed like a bit of Yankee bravura.”
“You’re saying that Dick had taken a client,” Robert said, unable to hide his surprise.
“He confessed to me that he had done so, after the Stoneham incident. I was appalled, given the delicacy of the situation he was in.”
“Who was the client?” Thorpe asked.
“It gets worse,” Marc sighed. “It was the Reverend David Chalmers.”
That stopped the discussion for a long, anxious moment. Taking a deep breath, Marc proceeded to outline the nature of the case that Dick had taken on, and what he had done to assist Chalmers in clearing his name of the stigma of embezzlement and restoring his chances of promotion when Strachan was elevated.
“You mean to say,” Thorpe said when Marc had finished, “that Dougherty wrote a letter to John Strachan, the second most powerful man in the province after the governor, threatening a libel suit and demanding that Chalmers be kept on at St. James?”
“He did just that.”
“With what results?”
“Dick didn’t say. I assume if he had heard from the Archdeacon he would have told me.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have to talk to Chalmers,” Sturges said glumly. The notion of interviewing the great man in his palace was, surely, out of the question.
Robert hesitated before adding, “And I presume we have to entertain the possibility that there was a direct connection between the Archdeacon’s receiving that inflammatory letter and the personal attack he appended to his Sunday sermon.”
“For Christ’s sake, gentlemen,” Thorpe exclaimed, “we’ve got to keep John Strachan’s name out of this! He has already booked passage to Britain, where he is certain to be given a mitre, and where he will join Chief Justice Robinson in lobbying the Whig government on the nonsense in Durham’s Report. And we have just spent a year fending off half a dozen Yankee-inspired invasions and hanging their misguided leaders. I want Dougherty’s killer caught, but not at the expense of destabilizing the province.”
While the pricking of Strachan’s balloon would not have dismayed Robert or Marc, they nonetheless appreciated the gravity of the situation.
“Well, sir, if Dick’s letter stirred the Archdeacon to retaliate, it hardly involves him in the murder in any direct way,” Marc pointed out. “We’ll proceed in our investigation with the utmost tact.”
“Speaking again of motives,” Robert said, “since it is common knowledge that John Strachan is a bishop-in-waiting, then his lucrative position as Rector of York County will be open some time in the coming months. Half the people at St. James yesterday had their eyes on the two vicars, wondering which one Strachan was likely to appoint.”
Thorpe glared at Baldwin. “You’re not implying that Hungerford or Chalmers, men of the cloth, would commit murder merely to ingratiate himself with the bishop-in-waiting?”
Robert smiled. “Just tossing up possibilities.”
“The rivalry between those two is known to be intense,” Marc said. “Witness the dubious accusation that Constance Hungerford brought against Chalmers for embezzlement. I’m not agreeing with Robert that we ought to consider the vicars as prime suspects, but I am afraid that there is a chain of events here that will need tactful probing.”
“Well, for your sake, as well as the province’s, I hope to God the killer turns out to be some religious zealot run amok,” Thorpe said.
“I do, too,” Marc said.
“Nobody’s mentioned the bottom part of the note,” Robert said. “Was it found at the crime scene?”
“No,” Sturges said. “That’s why I didn’t mention it. But if we’re lucky, we’ll find it somewhere about the murderer’s lair, an’ then we can match it to the bigger piece.”
Robert nodded, then turned to see Marc standing by the window, where he was holding the “bigger piece” up to the sunlight. “What’re you up to?” he said.
“I’m checking for the watermark,” Marc said. “This is very expensive rag paper.”
“Good idea,” Sturges said, feeling a little more relieved that the man he admired above all others as an investigator was on the job – and personally motivated.
“Ah . . . it’s quite clear. It’s an eagle holding an ‘M’ in its talons,” Marc said. “Ring any bells?”
“Never heard of it,” Thorpe said.
Nor had any of the others.
“Then that’s to our advantage,” Marc said. “If it’s a rare breed, then we have a better chance of tracing its owner.”
“Phineas Burke is the only chap in town who’d sell anythin’ that unu
sual. Or he’d know who might,” Sturges said. Things were looking up.
“His shop is just across the street from here,” Robert said.
“Then I’ll ask my clerk Gussie to trot over there right now and ask Phineas about the name of the paper an’ whether anybody he knows uses the stuff.”
“It’s the best lead we have at the moment,” Robert said.
Sturges got up to step down into his office below and send Augustus French on his errand. “I wonder where in hell Cobb got to?” he was heard to mutter as he closed the door behind him.
NINE
Cobb hurried up Church Street to Hospital Street, where he turned west and headed towards the far end of the city. He wanted to avoid King Street and any chance of running into the Chief or to Marc Edwards en route to the crime scene. Besides, the tannery was on Brock Street almost as far north as Lot where it wandered off into Spadina Road. Even walking briskly, it was twenty minutes or more before he reached his destination. The tannery yard was crowded with men and mules, but he attracted little attention as he slipped past the main building and nearby outhouses, waded through a muddy field, and came up to a dilapidated shanty. Wilkie poked his head around a far corner.
“This place stinks,” he said.
“It’s a tannery,” Cobb said. “Is Epp in there? He showed up at St. James about seven o’clock an’ opened the doors, but ain’t been seen since.”
“He’s at home,” Wilkie said, “if ya c’n call this dump a home.”
“Has he seen you?” Cobb said, alarmed that Epp, if he were the killer, might have other knives or weapons to hand.
“He ain’t seen nobody fer some while,” Wilkie said. “I peeked through that busted window there an’ seen him slumped over a table. I been checkin’ every five minutes or so, but he ain’t moved a hair.”
“Well done,” Cobb said, surprised that Wilkie had taken any initiative of his own. “Let’s you an’ me give the fella a little surprise.”
Cobb pushed the flimsy door open with two fingers and stepped boldly into the musty interior. The single room appeared to serve Epp as kitchen, bedroom and, if the smells were accurate, as his water-closet. The only light, mercifully, sifted through the tiny north window. Epp was indeed slumped – comatose – over a table cluttered with broken crockery and partly consumed food. The verger of St. James, whom Cobb knew well by sight, looked even smaller and more pathetic than he did on the street. But he was nonetheless a muscular chap, all sinew and bone, with very large hands that looked as if they had been appropriated elsewhere and attached to his wrists as an afterthought.
“Is he dead?” Wilkie said.
Epp answered with a rasping, indrawn breath – part gasp, part snore.
“He’s drunk,” Cobb said, kicking at an empty whiskey jug on the floor nearby. “Pissed to the gills.”
“Is that shit all over his hands?”
Cobb lifted Epp’s right hand into the dim light. “That’s dried blood,” he said, “or I’ll eat Dora’s Sunday hat.”
Wilkie took a step back, as if he were too close to some deadly contamination. Cobb, however, took hold of Epp’s greasy hair, pulled his head upright, then reached down to an armpit and hauled him up far enough to expose his throat and most of his torso. His wrinkled gray shirt was spattered with blood.
“I think we’ve found our assassin,” Cobb said.
“Jesus,” Wilkie said, “the bugger didn’t even have enough sense to take off these disgustin’ clothes.”
“Let’s you an’ me take him down to the Court House, eh? Give the Sarge and the magistrate an Easter present.” Cobb was unable to suppress the elation he felt. Any criticism of him for disobeying orders or any suggestion that he had deliberately undercut his associate, Marc, would dissolve quickly when the perpetrator was delivered with his guilt stamped upon him as clear as the brand on Cain’s brow.
“We can’t carry him all that way,” Wilkie said.
“Right. So I’ll stay here while you go down to the butcher’s an’ borrow his pony-cart. We’ll dump Epp in it, like the piece of garbage he is.”
“All right,” Wilkie said, happy to be out of this place with orders to follow.
“I’m gonna wait fer you outside,” Cobb said. “This hovel stinks, an’ Mr. Epp ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Just before trotting off, Wilkie said to Cobb: “You figure he took what the Archdeacon said to heart?”
***
While they waited for Gussie French to return from his mission at the stationer’s shop, Marc and the others sipped at their tea and nibbled muffins provided by the magistrate’s servant-cum-clerk. Points previously made concerning the investigation were re-made, with little fresh light being thrown upon it. All were grateful when they heard Gussie’s step outside the door.
“Well, sir, what did you learn?” Sturges said to Gussie.
Looking aggrieved, as he did whenever he was asked to perform any task other than the copy-work of which he was inordinately proud, Gussie shuffled all the way into the room with the murder-note in his hand. He squinted about at the luminaries gathered in the chamber, like a belligerent Uriah Heap, and said to Sturges, “Burke says that anythin’ with an eagle holdin’ an ‘M’ is called – ”
He paused, glanced down at the word he had scribbled on the palm of his left hand, and finished his sentence: “– is called Melton Bond, a paper made in New York City. He says he don’t carry it an’ he don’t know of anybody in town who uses it.”
“Thanks, Gussie,” Sturges said. “You’ve done well.”
Gussie nodded as if to say ‘I always do,’ and scuttled back to his copy-table in the police quarters below.
“I believe he has,” Marc said. “If that scurrilous word was written on a kind of rag paper rarely found in these parts, then we have at least something to look for when we’ve got our list of possible suspects narrowed down.”
“I’d have been happier if Burke had given us the names of some locals who actually bought the stuff,” Thorpe said.
“Finding a murderer is never that easy,” Sturges said.
“I’ve just thought of something,” Robert said. “It didn’t seem relevant until Gussie mentioned New York.”
All eyes turned to Baldwin, but it was Thorpe who said skeptically, “The paper could have been the victim’s?”
“Not that,” Robert said. “But there are two gentlemen in town who might have brought such notepaper with them.”
“Who?” Sturges said.
“Well, as I mentioned earlier, the Law Society was planning to hear Dick’s request for permanent admission to the Bar this coming week. My father, who is a Bencher, told me that several members had been trying to get information about why Dick was run out of New York two years ago – with a view to discrediting him. People like Everett Stoneham were putting enormous pressure on the Society. But apparently no-one in New York would commit to anything in writing, so an invitation was extended to anyone who would come down here and testify in person.”
“And two of them did?” Withers said.
“Yes. Father told me last night that he had received word from The American Hotel that two barristers from New York had checked in on Saturday evening. According to what the manager there told my father, they were very close-mouthed about why they were here, but father and I assumed that they were going to give evidence, for or against Dick.”
“Are you implying that they might have come for some darker purpose?” Thorpe said, ever shocked at any suggestion of impropriety among the privileged classes.
“I don’t think so,” Robert said. “But they were here all day yesterday. They could have had a visitor.”
“Who might have come into possession of that notepaper and seen an opportunity to implicate the New Yorkers in a crime he himself was planning to commit,” Marc added.
“Whoa back a minute!” Sturges said. “We’re flyin’ kites without a tail here. Whaddya say we just put these fellas on our list of people to talk to.�
�
“You’re right, of course,” Marc said, annoyed at having let his desperation show. “What we can get from these gentlemen, in the least, is some explanation – at long last – of what really happened to Dick back in New York.”
“Yes,” Robert agreed quickly. “And it’s possible that what did happen there has something to do with Dick’s murder here.”
Sturges, who was keen to get the investigation pointed towards the practical, said to Marc, “Why don’t you start with these chaps, then.”
With that suggestion, the meeting was about to break up when Gussie French stumbled through the doorway, saucer-eyed and unable to blurt out his news.
“What is it, Gussie?” Sturges said. “Spit it out, man!”
“Cobb an’ Wilkie just come back – luggin’ a fellow in Gandy Griffith’s butcher-cart!”
“What on earth are you babblin’ on about?”
“They say they’ve caught the villain that did the Yankee in!”
***
The police quarters consisted of two rooms on the ground floor of the Court House, at the rear and close to the tunnel that connected it with the Jail next door. The smaller room, a cubicle really, was Wilfrid Sturges’ office, containing a table, two chairs and a filing cupboard. The larger one, no bigger than the modest-sized parlour of a peasant’s cottage, served as reception area, clerk’s office and interview room. It boasted Gussie’s table and three ladder-backed chairs. Into it now were jammed the five gentlemen from the magistrate’s chambers, Gussie French, Ewan Wilkie, Horatio Cobb, and the captured suspect. Wilkie and Cobb had carried Reuben Epp from the butcher’s cart into the reception room and arranged him so that he was sitting at Gussie’s “desk” with his head in his arms folded on the table’s surface.
“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Magistrate Thorpe said, sensing he ought now to be in charge. “He looks damn near dead!”
Cobb prodded Epp in the ribs with his truncheon. Epp emitted a soft moan, but did not otherwise respond. “He’s drunk a quart of whiskey, sir – after what he done, I figure.”
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