The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  While they were waiting, Robert mentioned the odd and unexplained departure of Tallman and Brenner.

  “Good riddance, I say,” was Thorpe’s response. “I don’t see how they could have helped us with our inquiries – except to blacken Dougherty’s name even more.”

  Cobb cleared his throat. “Well, sir, we did find American banknotes out at Epp’s shack, remember, an’ that fancy paper was from – ”

  “I’ve read your report, Cobb. But all of that nonsense will be explained by Epp when we get him in here. There’s nothing like a heartfelt confession to smooth the way in court and ensure a proper hanging.”

  “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.
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  ***

  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.”

  “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.