The Bishop's Pawn (15 page)

And it was during this meal that Celia, fully
awake and much recovered, dropped her bombshell.

“I’ve been too upset to tell you,” she said,
“but two men came to the door on Sunday morning just before
eleven.”

Marc was able – just – to keep his shock from
alarming Celia, but he felt Beth tense beside him, and saw Brodie’s
eyes widen.

“Do you know whether or not they were
lawyers, from New York City?” Marc said slowly.

“How did you know?” Celia said, sensing what
she most feared: that the appearance of these men and her failure
to stay with her guardian were somehow connected to his death.

“These same gentlemen, Brenner and Tallman,
I’ve been told, showed up at Archdeacon Strachan’s house later the
same day,” Marc said.

“Tallman and Brenner are law partners,”
Brodie said. “I never met them, that I remember, but I know that
Father and Uncle had dealings with them.”

“Did you happen to overhear anything that was
said when they visited your guardian?” Marc asked Celia, and
instantly regretted it.

Celia blushed, then fought back tears. “Uncle
ordered me to leave him alone for an hour with them, and I – I was
supposed to sneak off and meet Matthew at eleven, and so, like a
selfish child, I just left Uncle alone there. I know I should have
– ”

“You should have done exactly as your uncle
asked you to,” Beth said, glancing at Marc. “And I’m sure you
would’ve told him about Matthew – when the time was right.”

Celia beamed a jittery smile at Beth.

“I’m sorry to press the matter,” Marc said,
“but did Tallman and Brenner seem in any way . . .
threatening?”

Celia, buoyed somewhat by Beth’s support,
didn’t hesitate. “Not at all. They looked friendly enough to me,
though I think they were a bit nervous.”

“That’s a common reaction when meeting
Uncle,” Brodie said.

“And your uncle, how did he react when he saw
them?”

“Surprised, I think, but Uncle doesn’t always
give away his feelings,” Celia said. “That’s what worried me –
after I’d left him alone there.”

“Well, luv,” Beth said, “he was fine when you
got back, wasn’t he?”

“Y- yes. Everything seemed normal. We played
chess in the afternoon, and on Monday morning I kissed him before
he went out for his – ” Celia burst into tears and fled the room,
Charlene right behind her.

Beth smiled grimly. “Them tears just have to
flow,” she said by way of explanation. And she knew so from her own
bitter experience with sudden death.

Later, when Marc and Brodie were seated alone
in the parlour, Brodie said, “Do you think it has anything to do
with Uncle’s murder?”

“It doesn’t seem likely,” Marc said. “Tallman
and Brenner visited Strachan after they left your cottage. At
Strachan’s they indicated that they had accepted an invitation to
testify before the Benchers on behalf of your uncle.” Marc had no
intention of telling Brodie the possible nature of their testimony:
the stoic young man had enough on his plate.

“So it’s logical to assume that they were
discussing Uncle’s petition with him before they had to go before
the Law Society?”

“That’s what I tend to think.” Though the
presence of American money hidden away in Epp’s shack and the fact
that, according to Robert, the visiting lawyers had not been seen
back at their hotel on Sunday until dinner at six – were
worrisome.

“But these men are barristers,” Brodie said,
echoing another of Marc’s concerns. “They are supreme poker
players. They could make a living on the stage. If they did come
here to physically harm Uncle, they could have been taking pains to
have their movements
appear
to be ones expected of two men
come to town merely to help the Law Society do its duty.”

“Smiling villains, you mean. Like King
Claudius in
Hamlet
?”

“And they sure left town in an awful
hurry.”

“True. But, then, they did hear of Dick’s
death that morning, and probably just didn’t want to be involved,”
Marc pointed out, though such behaviour didn’t seem compatible with
the claim of friendship they had made at the Palace.

“Anyway, they’re halfway to New York by now,”
Brodie sighed.

“Just to make sure, though,” Marc said,
yawning, “I’ll ask Cobb to have his snitches try to trace their
movements during Sunday afternoon.” What he couldn’t tell Brodie,
who looked as if he didn’t need any more discouraging news, was
that that afternoon provided the only window of opportunity for
Tallman and Brenner to have contacted Epp – if in fact they had
been intent on malice. But how they would have initially got hold
of the illiterate Epp was not easily imagined. Unless, of course,
they were acting in concert with someone in the city, someone who
also wished Dick dead. Marc’s head began to spin. This case was
becoming hydra-like. Each probe produced two new possibilities to
consider.

Brodie said goodnight and left for home. Marc
slipped into bed and gently stroked his wife’s knotted calves.

***

More than a hundred mourners crowded into the modest
wooden building on Hospital Street that normally served the several
dozen Congregational adherents of the city – for the funeral of
Richard Dougherty. Besides those few but loyal acquaintances Dick
had made since his emergence from hibernation in January, there
were those ordinary folk who had grown to admire him for the effort
he had made in defense of Sergeant Billy McNair, one of the heroes
of the “patriot wars.” Billy himself was present, with his pregnant
wife Dolly, who had worked in Beth’s shop until marrying Billy
after the trial. But the biggest surprise of all was the arrival of
Kingsley Thornton, the crown prosecutor whom Doubtful Dick had
bested in the Court of Queen’s Bench.

Robert offered to hold the reception
following the service at Baldwin House. Beth was too tired to go,
but Marc and Cobb put in a token appearance before setting out to
begin their investigation. Marc decided that they would start at
the vicarage. Because Cobb had already met Quentin Hungerford, he
volunteered to have another run at him. Meanwhile, Marc would seek
out David Chalmers.

“Let’s focus on Epp,” Marc suggested. “We
need to know how close he might have been to either man.”

“An’ we need to snoop about to see if we can
find any of that fancy paper,” Cobb added as they walked up the
path to the rear door of the vicarage.

“We’ll need to find the housemaids, too,”
Marc said. “They’re never as invisible as their employers
think.”

“There’s two of ‘em,” Cobb said. “Young Missy
Prue and a gnarly older gal called Myrtle Welsh.”

It was the latter – middle-aged,
scrub-toughened, and sceptical – who answered Cobb’s knock. She
recognized the constable immediately.

“The Reverend’s busy,” she said. “He ain’t
seein’ nobody today.”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to,” Marc said
politely. “We’ve been officially assigned to investigate the murder
of Richard Dougherty. I wish to interview Reverend Chalmers and Mr.
Cobb would like to see Reverend Hungerford.”

Myrtle Welsh appraised Marc’s clothing with a
keen eye, and said, “Well, seein’ as you’re a gentleman, I guess
it’ll be alright.”

She let them in, after instructing them to
wipe their boots on the mat. “Mr. Chalmers is in his little study,
right here,” she said, indicating a door just inside the narrow
hallway. Opposite it was the door that must open onto the covered
walkway to the church itself. “Just knock an’ go on in. He won’t
bite ya.”

She led Cobb to the end of the hall and they
disappeared into the main section of the vicarage, which housed the
Hungerfords.

“Come on in!”

Marc hadn’t yet knocked, but did as he was
bid.

In a cramped little room, crowded with books
and papers, sat David Chalmers, junior vicar of St. James –
writing. He was a cherubic man, no longer able to call himself
young, with bright green eyes and a genuine smile. His clerical
collar was askew, and his chin and vest were blotched with
ink-smudges. Despite the smile he gave Marc as he introduced
himself, he looked like a worried man.

“I take it you’ve come about that dreadful
business with Mr. Dougherty,” Chalmers said. “Your reputation as an
investigator precedes you.”

“I have, and I apologize for barging in like
this, but time is of the essence in this case.”

Marc was not surprised, given the obvious
intelligence in Chalmers’ face, when the vicar said, “You believe
that someone else was involved with Reuben in the murder?”

“I do. I’m not at liberty to say exactly what
evidence we have to that effect, but it is compelling. Sir George
Arthur has given us ten days to see if we can find the accomplice,
who may turn out to be the instigator as well.”

Chalmers looked thoughtful. “Reuben Epp was a
man with many fine qualities, but he was also deeply troubled and
unstable. We did our best here to make his life tolerable.”

“We know about his drinking binges and his
religious zeal.”

“Aah. And you assume like many others that
that zeal drove him to slaughter a man he didn’t know?”

“It looks that way, given the note we found
at the scene and the gouged-out eye.”

Chalmers nodded to indicate he was aware of
the veiled reference to the Archdeacon’s sermon. “Still, I was
shocked to learn that Reuben did it, but his hanging himself
confirms the fact, doesn’t it? You see, he had no family that
anyone knows about, but his loneliness and his not being able to
read the
Bible
in whose parables and commandments he found
his only comfort – well, they often sent him to the bootlegger’s.
The poor chap drank alone or else with strangers in a
blind-pig.”

“He didn’t gamble, then? Or have
cronies?”

“No. Definitely not. As I say, he was
unstable. He often came late for work or not at all. Quentin, bless
him, covered up these peccadilloes as best he could, not wanting
the Archdeacon to get wind of them.”

“Dr. Strachan would have sacked him?”

“Possibly, though the Archdeacon is lenient
with drinkers, enjoying a tot now and then himself. But not with
shirkers.”

“Did you yourself ever meet Mr. Dougherty?”
Marc said disingenuously.

Chalmers gave Marc a shrewd, appraising look.
“I did. About ten days ago.” He paused, not quite certain how he
ought to continue. “On a matter pertaining to a legal problem.”

Marc decided that a judicious lie was in
order. “I know something of the matter. We found references to it
among Dougherty’s papers.”

Chalmers sighed. “Then you’ll know that Mrs.
Hungerford accused me of theft, and that Mr. Dougherty was the only
solicitor who would agree to help me. You see, as a result of her
charge – made to the Archdeacon – my work as treasurer for the
parish was audited. Well, I admitted up front that I was an inept,
although diligent, accountant. Small discrepancies were discovered.
I don’t think Dr. Strachan believed I was guilty of actual theft –
he’s known me since I was ten – but he
is
sensitive to any
whiff of scandal concerning St. James – ”

“Especially with his elevation to bishop
imminent.”

“That’s part of it, yes. He suggested I be
moved to a wilderness parish in the Huron Tract – till things blew
over. I did not wish to go at all, but more important to me was my
reputation in general. I had not been clearly exonerated of the
accusation of theft, and the odds were good that the news would
leak out. And eventually ruin me.”

“I understand. Would you mind telling me how
such an outlandish charge came to be made?”

“Not at all. Mrs. Hungerford is head of the
Ladies Auxiliary. A few weeks ago she organized a bazaar at the
Market to raise money for the Widows and Orphans Fund. I always
assist in these matters. At the time, Mrs. McDowell, the wife of
Mowbray McDowell – ”

“The MLA from Kingston?”

“Yes. His wife, who has lived here on her own
since October, is a parishioner of St. James, and was made
treasurer of the Ladies Auxiliary. But being new to the job, she
asked me to take custody of any cash we raised that day. Chits and
receipts were carefully kept on site for all goods sold. At the end
of the day, I put all the proceeds and chits in a strongbox and
carried them here to my rooms. The next day, while I was out, the
‘take’ was counted by Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. McDowell. There was
a ten-dollar discrepancy between the total of the chits and the
actual cash. And since I was the only one with access to the
strongbox overnight, it was I who was accused. I was, of course,
stunned. Mrs. Hungerford has never liked me, but I found her charge
undignified, unchristian, and certainly untrue.”

“Could not any volunteer at the bazaar have
siphoned off the ten dollars? Or even lost it or mislaid it?”

“Not really. As they brought their cash to
the main counter, it was mentally noted before it was put into the
strongbox. We had all agreed that we had roughly seventy-two
dollars in there. But Mrs. Hungerford wanted to make sure that all
the chits had been made out properly and retrieved, and then
matched to the cash total. She suggested this final accounting be
left until the next day. As it turned out, we had less than
sixty-two dollars in the kitty.”

“Was the box locked?”

“Yes. It sat here on my desk overnight.”

“And you had the key?”

“I did.”

“Could there be other keys?”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Hungerford said not. It’s
her strongbox.”

Marc decided not to press the matter further.
David Chalmers was obviously a trusting and honest man – for surely
it was Mrs. Hungerford, the senior vicar’s wife, who had both
motive (Chalmers’ disgrace) and means (a duplicate key) to effect
the ‘theft’ herself and blame her husband’s rival. The fact that he
did not seem to suspect Mrs. Hungerford spoke volumes about the
man’s character.