Don Gutteridge - The Bishop's Pawn

“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 wasquite regular.”

“Still, I find it hard to believe the manwould plan a murder just to ingratiate himself with thebishop-in-waiting,” Robert said. “That sermon fanned a lot offlames, but only one person out of a thousand took its messageliterally.”

“Perhaps murder was not planned,” Marcmused. “As I said yesterday, the manipulator may have prodded Epptowards a little mischief with the scurrilous note, and things gotout of hand.”

“Fifty dollars is a lot of bribe money for aprank,” Robert said.

“I agree. And I can’t see why Chalmers wouldget similarly involved when Dick’s letter to Strachan may well havehelped resolve the embezzlement charges made against him.”

“Are you planning to go into that hornet’snest at St. James and get yourself tangled up in church politics,”Robert said, “on the off-chance that someone in there is remotelyconnected to Epp’s actions?”

“I feel I must,” Marc said.

No-one mentioned John Strachan, but hisspectre was uppermost in their minds.

“What about them law-benders?” Cobb said.

“They may shed a few crocodile tears,” Robertsaid.

“And I have a feeling,” Marc added. “thatStoneham was their designated bowler – speaking aloud what many ofthem felt.”

“So we start with him?” Cobb said.

“Yes.”

“Well, at least we’ve started ,” Robertsaid, reaching for a macaroon only to discover the dish wasempty.

***

Marc walked back with Cobb to report to Chief Sturgeswhat they had decided to do. They would wait until after Dick’sfuneral tomorrow morning, in the hope that Nestor Peck would comeup with a positive lead, after which they would begin accostingtheir shortlist of suspects. Sturges was just emerging from policequarters as they came up the Court House walk.

“Marc, I’m glad to see you!” he cried.

“What’s happened now?” Marc said, braced foralmost anything.

“I’ve just received an order from Sir GeorgeArthur. I am to have an audience with Archdeacon Strachan – at thePalace. Straight away.”

Cobb grinned wickedly. “You gonna be maderector?” he said.

“I’ll rector you, Cobb! If I thought youwouldn’t play Samson at Gaza, I’d drag you along with me!”

“I’ll go with you,” Marc said. “I’ve beenhere 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 (thefirst house to be constructed with local brick!) in the elegant,clean-lined Georgian style – on Front Street between York andSimcoe. Its sloping lawns overlooked the bay and the misty islandbeyond it. Sturges and Marc were ushered in a by an elderlyretainer 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 briefimpression of Armenian carpet, walnut wainscoting, brocadedchair-backs and soaring, sunlit, lead-glazed windows – before hiseyes met those of the Reverend John Strachan.

Strachan was very short, though standing inthe pulpit or gliding about his altar he gave the impression ofheight and the superiority it conveys. His hair, once black, wasgraying evenly and remained thick, providing a forbidding frame forthe face, where the piecing eyes, high forehead, strong nose andthrusting chin collaborated to project both power and unimpeachableauthority. He would not have been out of place in a Michelangelomural. Although it was Tuesday morning and the man was in his ownstudy, he was attired in the formidable vestments of hisoffice.

“Ah, Sturges, you have come promptly. Andbrought Lieutenant Edwards with you.” The latter remark was more inthe nature of a challenge than a mere statement of fact.

“Mr. Edwards has been asked to lead theinvestigation into the sorry business on King Street yesterday,”Sturges said bravely.

“How fortuitous, as that is the very subjectupon which I wish to dwell for the next quarter of an hour or so -if I may impose on your good will.” Strachan smiled thepseudo-hearty smile of parsons the world over, but he did not, Marcnoticed, use it to disguise the cold calculation or lurking malicebehind it. It was a reflex only.

“It was Sir Arthur’s good will that did theimposin’,” Sturges said.

“Be that as it may, you are both here, and Iwish to ask you one question and then tender you some sageadvice.”

Marc expected that they would asked to sitdown at this point, but Strachan continued standing before them, asa colonel might before a pair of subalterns.

“I am at your service, sir,” Sturges said.“Fire away.”

“Let me be blunt, as that is the way I wasraised to be and have ever since conducted my affairs,” Strachansaid, giving free rein to the Aberdeen burr he had staunchlyretained since his arrival in North America nearly forty yearsbefore. It was easy to picture this man hectoring the Americanofficers and rallying the besieged citizens of this city during theinvasion of 1813, or staring down a succession of pompouslieutenant-governors. “I want to know why you are persisting incontinuing the investigation of Richard Dougherty’s murder when theassassin has been identified, with ample proofs, and has -conscience-stricken, I am told – hanged himself in your jail? Andneed I add that the victim is not likely to be missed – here or inHeaven.”

Sturges looked at Marc, who smiled pleasantlyand said, “We are doing so for one reason only, reverend. There isenough evidence to suggest a conspiracy involving at least oneother person, someone literate and prosperous and having sufficientmotive.”

“Sir George has just informed me of theseflimsy ‘proofs,’ as you call them. Surely the money found at Epp’shome could have come from any number of sources. It may well havebeen squirreled away years ago.”

“Epp was illiterate. And the notepaper wasexpensive.”

“Epp did odd jobs for dozens of myparishioners to supplement the modest stipend we were forced to payhim because the funds rightfully ours from the Clergy Reserves havebeen blocked by Methodists and Reformers. He could have acquiredthat notepaper anywhere and at any time.”

“But who would have consented to scrawl thatobscenity on it for him? And why?”

“Are you interrogating me , sir?” Theblack eyes blazed at Marc.

“Those questions were rhetorical only,” Marcreplied calmly. “But I must tell you that the coincidence betweenthe word ‘sodomite’ heard in your diatribe Sunday morning and itsappearance on the victim’s back, planted there by your verger, troubles me deeply.”

Sturges took a step backwards, as if heexpected to be slapped with a Bible. Marc stood his ground.

Strachan took a deep breath. “I find theimplications of that statement to be unwarranted and beneath thedignity of a man professing to be a gentleman. I called Dougherty asodomite because I had good reason to believe he was. In thatcontext the word is not an obscenity. It is a scourge and a call torepentance. Nor did I ask my congregants to take any action againstthe sinner in question. My words were, ‘If thine eye offend thee , pluck it out!’ I was petitioning Dougherty, on God’sbehalf, to repent of his sin and purge himself. ”

Who in blazes is the lawyer here? Sturgeswondered.

“You, sir, did not know Richard Dougherty,”Marc said. “I did.”

Strachan smiled his parson-smile. “Ah, butthat’s where you’re mistaken, sir. You see, just after theservice on Sunday, I had a visit here from a Mr. Tallman and a Mr.Brenner, attorneys from New York, and my long-time suspicions wereconfirmed.”