The Bishop's Pawn (30 page)

Cobb gave Robert a curt thank-you and stomped
out, grabbing a handful of macaroons from the bottomless bowl on
Robert’s desk in order to calm his nerves. He now found himself
completely stymied. He was certain he had flushed out an accomplice
to murder. But he had no motive, and now no means of discovering
one. It was possible that Marc would be back by late Saturday or
early Sunday. But even the major, with all his sophisticated
skills, would be able to do nothing. Once the inquest began on
Monday morning, the investigation would be over. Period.

Cobb headed for The Cock and Bull.

TWENTY FOUR

In fact, it was early Saturday evening when Marc and
Brodie stepped onto the Queen’s Wharf and hailed the lone taxicab
lurking nearby. They had saved a full day on the return trip by
getting off the Erie Canal at Rochester and, by chance, catching a
steamer crossing the lake to Cobourg, Lake Ontario now being free
of ice and its maritime activity fully restored. At Cobourg they
had picked up the mail-packet to Toronto. They arrived there very
much tired, but buoyed by what they had unearthed in New York
City.

First thing the precious Wednesday morning,
after the tumultuous events and disclosures of their evening at The
Bowery Theatre, Marc and Brodie had gone to Eliza’s shop, caught
her in a state of elegant undress, and prevailed upon her to pull
several dusty ledgers off a nearby shelf. In which they found the
evidence they needed to confirm Marc’s suspicions. Mowbray McDowell
had indeed made regular visits to New York City during the first
year or so that Adams-Dewart-Smythe had been in business – that is,
in late-1836 and throughout 1837. Eliza said that he came every two
months or so, winter and summer, and stayed for up to two weeks,
during which time he visited her shop on several occasions on
family business (selecting wines and spirits) as well as for
personal pleasure (he enjoyed Eliza’s lively conversation). A check
of the invoices revealed that he had been in New York during the
critical weeks in late November when Richard Dougherty had been
undone. He had also been present earlier that fall when the
“incident” had taken place at the Manhattan Gentlemen’s Club, the
one that had prompted Dick to initiate the inquiry that ruined him.
Equally interesting was the fact that McDowell’s business trips to
New York had abruptly stopped. Eliza had not seen or heard of him
since November of 1837.

“But this could still be a series of
coincidences,” Brodie had pointed out as they headed back to The
Bowery Theatre to let Annemarie Thedford know what they had found
and to say their farewells.

“It might have been, except for a royal snub
I received.”

“A snub?”

“Yes. On the Saturday evening before Dick’s
death, he and I attended a sitting of the Legislative Assembly to
hear Mowbray McDowell deliver his maiden speech. Dick fell sound
asleep and missed the whole thing.”

“But even though he didn’t see McDowell,
surely the name would have rung a bell, since Uncle wrote it down
on that list your mother showed us,” said Brodie.

“Perhaps. But remember that those names were
supplied to him by his boy-informants. The local ones he certainly
would have recognized. But many of the names would have been those
of outsiders – friends or business associates of the members – from
out of town or out of state or out of the country, like McDowell.
At the time these would merely have been names to Dick, without
faces or pedigrees. He might have learned more about them had he
had more time, but he wasn’t allowed that luxury. Moreover, more
than a year had passed since those traumatic events. Dick had spent
most of that time drinking and gourmandizing. But it is possible
that, given his renewed interest in life and public affairs, he
might eventually have recalled where he had first heard McDowell’s
name.”

“I see. But what has all this got to do with
a snub?”

“As we were navigating our way through the
crowd in the lobby of the parliament, I left Dick for a moment to
approach and congratulate McDowell on his speech. He had just
emerged from the members’ lounge, and I was sure he saw me coming
over with a smile on my face. He appeared about to acknowledge me –
I believe I had been identified to him as a war hero – when without
explanation he wheeled about and fled back into the lounge.”

“You think now that McDowell spotted Uncle
somewhere behind you?”

“I do. It’s the only plausible interpretation
of the event.”

“But that means that McDowell figured Uncle
might recognize him, or already had. And that means – ”

“That he thought Dick must have seen him in
the brothel or, more likely, had uncovered his name during his
investigation and was about to put a face to it.”

“Yes. McDowell’s friends in Tammany Hall
would have given him the details of Uncle’s efforts to unmask the
pedophiles. Eliza told us he was definitely here in November of
’37.”

“Exactly. So you can imagine McDowell’s
surprise at spotting Dick across the room from him. Remember that
McDowell had just arrived in Toronto, his wife having come in
October to set up house. McDowell is a Kingston man. He may never
have set foot in Toronto before.”

“But he must have heard about the McNair
trial and Uncle’s role in it?”

“Possibly. But I think not. He was no doubt
preoccupied with winding up his father’s estate. And what he saw
there in the foyer, just before he snubbed me, truly shocked and
frightened him.”

“I see.”

“Remember too that he seems to have suddenly
stopped going to New York. A year goes by, and he hears no word or
threat from that quarter. His Tammany pals have done their work
well, eh? Then, without warning, Dick Dougherty, larger than life,
pops up not twenty feet from him.”

“That would certainly give any man a motive
to silence him, but especially one being lionized by the
powers-that-be and presented to the public as their saviour.”

“I’m sure we’ve got our man, Brodie. But
we’re still some ways from demonstrating how he arranged to have
Reuben Epp do his dirty work.”

“We can start in on that as soon as we get
back.”

“That is if the governor and attorney-general
haven’t already called the inquest.”

At the theatre, Marc had said a long and
tearful goodbye to Annemarie before he and Brodie headed for the
pier and the trip up the Hudson River. Promises were made, some of
which would be kept. Once more a crime had reunited mother and son,
and necessity again had pulled them apart.

***

Marc asked the cab-driver to take them directly to
Briar Cottage, where they expected to find Celia, Beth and, if God
were kind, the newborn babe. The unmasking of a murderer, for the
time being, would have to wait upon more urgent matters. Charlene
Huggan spotted them coming up the walk and had the door open before
they reached the stoop. Seconds later, Celia rushed into her
brother’s arms, and Marc was led on tiptoe towards the master
bedroom.

“She’s havin’ a nap,” Charlene said, and
blushed as she added, “after feedin’ the littl’un.”

Marc stepped softly into the darkened room.
Beth lay on top of the comforter with the baby cradled in one arm,
its lips still attached to a nipple. For a full minute, Marc just
stood and watched them in their peaceful repose, giving silent
thanks that he had been blessed thus during his absence.

“Well, stranger, aren’t you goin’ to say
hello?” Beth’s eyes were open and fully upon him.

Marc dropped to one knee, kissed her hand,
her wrist, her forearm and finally her smooth, warm brow.

“I won’t break, love.”

“I know. But my heart might.” He stared at
the baby, whose astonishing blue eyes appeared to be appraising
him.

“I’m glad you’re back safe, my darlin’.” She
raised herself up on one elbow. “Now say hello to yer son –
Maggie.”

Marc lifted his daughter into his arms. They
had agreed that, should the child by some quirk of fate turn out to
be a girl, they would name it Mary Margaret, after its
grandmothers.

“Welcome to the world, Maggie,” he
whispered.

TWENTY FIVE

Constable Ewan Wilkie interrupted a consultation that
Cobb was having with one of his snitches in The Crooked Anchor to
inform him that Marc Edwards had been seen in a cab heading for his
cottage on Sherbourne Street. Cobb thanked Wilkie and hurried off,
leaving half a flagon of ale that Wilkie saw no point in wasting.
Cobb himself was not so sure why he ought to rush off, since the
major’s return could not possibly bring anything positive to the
aborted investigation. But he found himself puffing his way east
along King Street at a clip that threatened to upset the delicate
balance of his body’s peculiar pear-shape.

***

The previous Friday morning, Cobb had run into Missy
Prue at the Market and taken the opportunity to show her David
Chalmers’ silver locket, which he had kept in his coat pocket since
finding it in the church early Thursday morning. He thanked her for
helping him catch the Poor Box thief, and then asked her if she
would quietly slip the locket back into the junior vicar’s desk,
perhaps placing it under something so that he would assume he had
merely mislaid it. When Missy inquired as to the reason for this
subterfuge, Cobb had put a forefinger to his lips and whispered,
“Mum’s the word.” Which gesture prompted Missy to favour him with a
conspiratorial nod and a very pretty smile. He then asked her if
her mistress had said anything more about the robbery, and Missy
replied that Mrs. Hungerford had merely mentioned, in passing
almost, that a constable had caught the villain red-handed and
hauled him away. She offered no details and had even chastised the
two maids when she overheard them speculating on the event. It
seemed that that particular case was closed. Moreover, the young
Reverend Chalmers, she continued happily, appeared to be back in
the good graces of his superior, having been invited to dine with
the bishop-in-waiting at the Palace on Front Street. Dr. Strachan,
it was rumoured everywhere and especially at the vicarage, had
booked his passage for Britain and was due to set sail for Quebec
City a few days after Easter. “Well, at least he’s waitin’ fer the
Lord to resurrect,” Cobb had quipped, and drew an abashed blush
from Missy.

***

Cobb was let in the front door of Briar Cottage by an
excited Charlene. Behind her, Cobb could see, in the parlour, the
backs of Marc and Brodie and, facing them, Celia, Beth with the
swaddled babe, his wife Dora, and even young Jasper Hogg from next
door. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. He’d barged in on a
camp meeting!

“I’ll come back,” he said to Charlene, happy
that he had not yet been noticed.

“Mr. Edwards has been askin’ about you,” she
said.

“How’s young Celia?” he said, recalling his
gaffe with Bartholomew Burchill.

Charlene smiled knowingly. “Oh, that. Well,
sir, she’s taken a right fancy to little Maggie.”

“That’s good.” He turned to slip away, but
wasn’t quick enough.

“Cobb!” Marc said with a huge grin. “I’m glad
you’ve come. Join the welcoming committee.”

“Good to see ya back, major. But I really
wanted to talk to you – alone. About Mr. Dougherty’s murder.”

“That’s fortuitous because I’ve got much to
tell you on the same subject.”

“I know who the accomplice was, but they say
I got no motive.”

“You do? So do I.”

“It’s that Tory speechifier, Mowbray
McDowell,” Cobb said a split second before Marc said, “Mowbray
McDowell.”

“There an echo in here?” Cobb said.

“I think you and I had better go for a walk,”
Marc said, signalling his intention to Beth and Brodie.

***

“You go first,” Marc said, as they strolled down
Sherbourne Street towards the lake in the gathering dusk. “Just
give me the gist.”

While Cobb had a rough idea what giving the
gist meant, he was not about to skimp on the details of his most
successful bid at criminal investigation. He gave his mentor not
only chapter and verse but a good deal of the gloss to boot. He was
particularly at pains to demonstrate the logical inferences he had
drawn at each phase of his relentless probing into Dick’s murder
and the conspiracy behind it. Marc listened with much more than
politeness, and they were moving well along Front Street towards
City Hall when Cobb finished up by saying:

“So there you have it, major. I’ve got an
accomplice but no motive, an’ the chief’s let me down terribly,
callin’ me off the scent just as I got the creature treed.”

“Don’t be too hard on Wilfrid. Given what he
knew at the time, he made the only choice he could. But don’t fret.
I’ve got a motive for you.”

“In New York?” Cobb said. His desire to find
out how Marc and Brodie could have come up with Mowbray McDowell’s
name as prime suspect while sashaying about the streets of an
American city several hundred miles away had almost prompted him to
suggest that Marc tell
his
story first.

“Very much so,” Marc said, pausing to look
out over the desiccated marsh grasses, just beginning to green,
towards the dewy haze that lay like a bride’s veil along the dark
swelling of the lake’s surface. “Dick’s death is all about what
happened in New York, and what the would-be bishop bespoke from the
arrogance of his pulpit.”

Cobb was taken aback by the vehemence and
bitterness of this latter remark, but he realized that he felt much
the same way about the machinations and pettiness he himself had
discovered in the closed world of St. James, and the human
consequences of its recklessness.

Marc proceeded to give Cobb a summary of what
he and Brodie had found out in New York, unglossed and unvarnished.
Cobb did not interrupt, but several times Marc heard him whistle
through the gaps in his teeth.