Don Gutteridge - The Bishop's Pawn

“Consistent with the victim being facedownand prone,” Withers continued, “was the absence of any defensivecuts or bruises on the arms or hands. I think, gentlemen, that wehave pinned down what happened and how – at least at the actualsite of the crime.”

“You ain’t forgot the eye, have you?” Sturgessaid.

“Ah, yes. Never seen anything like it in allmy years as a physician.”

“We saw the like a few times in Spain,”Sturges said. “Some poor bugger thought to be a spy by the donswould have both eyes gouged out. They tried not to kill him.”

“At least the victim here did not know whatwas being done to him,” Withers said. “The blow on the skull wasdefinitely first, and then, most probably, the stabbing. Thegouging out of the eye would appear to have been done as some kindof ritual act. But I’ll leave that sort of speculation to thepolice and the magistrate.”

“Thanks, Angus,” Sturges said. “What we’ve been doin’ meantime is tryin’ to figure out whathappened just before or just after the crime – since we know fersure that the stabbin’ took place close to seven-thirty. I sentCobb an’ Wilkie out to talk to the shopkeepers an’ regulars on thatblock. We’re hopin’ that someone saw Dougherty so we can pin downthe time exactly or, if we’re lucky, find somebody who spotted thekiller comin’ or goin’.”

“And they’re still out there?” said themagistrate, not uncritically.

Sturges reddened. “Maybe they decided to domore’n one block,” he spluttered, having no other explanation forCobb’s uncharacteristic tardiness.

“Well, I may be able to help a little,”Robert said. “I was standing in the bow window of our parlour whenI saw Dick go past. I remember remarking to the governess, MissRamsay, that he was right on schedule. The time was ten minutespast seven.” Robert also realized that that was the last image ofhis friend alive he would ever hold: the oversize cloak, the furcap, the huge, loose-flapped boots, the determined amble of a manset on recovering what he could of past triumphs and squanderedopportunities. “If only I had called him in, as I’ve done severaltimes this month. But I knew how dedicated he was to regaining hismobility, and his self-respect. I didn’t want to disrupt hisregimen.”

There were several moments of awkward silencebefore Marc said, “I heard that a note was found pinned to Dick’sback by the murder weapon.”

“That’s right,” Sturges said. “An’ the knifeturns out to be a common type of dirk with no peculiar marks on itthat might’ve helped lead us to the killer.”

“Is that the note there?” Marc said, pointingto the tea table beside the Chief.

“Yup. An’ just like Angus said earlier, thisdisgustin’ word on it was written to look like it was done withblood. But it’s only red ink. Here, have a look.”

Marc took the note. “Yes, I’d say a brush ofsome sort, probably a calligrapher’s instrument, was used tosimulate blood and suggest a frenzied scrawl. But this word wascarefully inscribed here before the event.”

“How c’n you tell?” Sturges said.

“There is no spillover. Despite theapparently ragged edge to the letters, they were neatly composed bya steady hand. I’ve seen such work often in London shops. I’ve evenwatched calligraphers at work.”

“Well, that’s odd, then,” Robert said. “Itdoesn’t seem to fit with the frenzy of the attack and theviciousness of that initial blow to the temple. The note seems tohave been purposefully penned and then carried to the scene withcalculated malice.”

“And the bottom third of this page has beentorn off, perhaps – again – to suggest frenzy at the scene,” Marcsaid, holding up the sheet of paper to illustrate his point.

“Are you suggesting, Marc, that even thefrenzy of the knife attack was simulated?”

“That’s a possibility. Maybe we’re looking ata cold-blooded assassination made to appear like a berserk assaultby some deranged grudge-holder or fanatic.”

Sturges gave a big sigh. “I wish you hadn’tsaid that. I think we’ve all been tryin’ hard to avoid goin’there.”

“Where?” said Magistrate Thorpe, who wasfinding the discussion more puzzling than helpful.

“You weren’t at St. James yesterday?” Angussaid.

“I was in Brantford at my sister’s,” theMagistrate said. “Why do you ask?”

Marc explained: “Archdeacon Strachan preacheda fiery sermon in which, among others, he condemned the dissoluteand unnatural acts of a Yankee lawyer, to use his own words,practising his apostasy mere blocks from the Anglican altar.”

“I see,” said Thorpe, not yet seeing at all.Then he said very slowly, “Are you suggesting that someone in thecongregation was incited to kill Dougherty because he was rumouredto be a pederast?”

“Strachan called him a sodomite, an’ that’swhat’s written on the note there,” Sturges said.

“But such rumours have been flying about herefor over a year,” Thorpe said. “Just last week the local Baptistpreacher attacked homosexuals in a sermon that scorched the pews,I’m told.”

“And there was that slanderous letter in the Gazette last week,” Withers added.

“All true,” Marc said. “Dick had manyenemies, few of whom he had met and none of whom he had harmed. ButI think we need to inform the magistrate of Reverend Strachan’sfinal bit of imagery.”

“There was more?”

“I’m afraid so. The good pastor stared out athis flock with a blazing countenance and roared, ‘If thine eyeoffend thee, pluck it out!’”

“My God!” Thorpe said, looking aghast and,for the first time, acutely aware of the sudden and perilous turnof events. It was now conceivable that the murder of an Americanémigré, whom few men of importance knew or cared about, wasthreatening to reach up into the fragile corridors of power -ecclesiastical corridors to be sure, but in the delicate state ofthe state at this moment in history, church and government werehopelessly enlinked. “It looks, then, as if the killer was not onlyintent on doing away with Dougherty, but was trying to tie thecrime in to the Archdeacon’s sermon.”

“There can be little doubt that some kind ofconnection exists,” Marc said. “What the intention of the killerwas and whether the connection was meant as a positive or negativesign, we won’t know until we find him.”

“You’re sayin’ that the killer might’vethought he was doin’ the Archdeacon a favour?” Sturges said. “Sortof carryin’ out his command an’ makin’ sure with the note an’ thegouged eye that everybody in town would see it?”

“I’m just raising possibilities,” Marcsaid.

“There were over a thousand people in St.James yesterday,” Withers said.

“Then we’ll have to narrow our search down alittle,” 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 acatalyst or a goad.”

When no-one else spoke, Marc said, “We couldstart with people like Bartholomew Burchill, the silversmith. Thatletter he wrote to the Gazette bristled with personalanimosity. And I saw Burchill in his pew yesterday.”

“And I suppose, while we’re speculating, thatwe must not overlook the ethical dilemma of the Benchers of the LawSociety,” Robert said. “They were scheduled to meet later this weekto decide whether Dick’s temporary license to practise would bemade permanent or revoked. More than one of them will be secretlypleased at his fortuitous demise.”

“In that regard,” Marc said excitedly, “Imust tell you that when Dick and I were leaving the Assembly onSaturday evening, Everett Stoneham, a privy councillor, stopped us,and poured invective on Dick. He said that Dick would become amember of the Bar over his dead body. I took it at the time as aserious threat of some sort, even though Dick didn’t.”