Don Gutteridge - The Bishop's Pawn

Cobb found Marc chatting up Missy Prue near the backdoor. She gave Cobb a smile designed to pop the buttons on hisgreatcoat.

On the street, Marc said, “I talked to Missyand Myrtle. Nothing goes on in that vicarage that they don’t see.Both agreed that Epp occasionally came in to visit with Hungerford,but he always sought permission first.”

“So Hungerford an’ Epp really were close?”

“Yes. But the maids assured me that it hadbeen a month or more since Epp had come to see his protector in hisstudy.”

“Still, there was lots of chance fer them tomeet in the church or the vestry.”

“True. Did you get anything from the vicar tosuggest that he might have had reason or opportunity to be involvedin Dick’s death?”

“No, I didn’t, dammit. He ain’t got thatfancy paper or them pens. But he coulda wanted to have Dick killedto get in good with Strachan.”

“Possibly. But I had quite a talk with DavidChalmers. It seems that it is Mrs. Hungerford who’s takingcare of her husband’s climb up the ecclesiastical ladder.” Marcexplained to Cobb the implications of what he had learned inChalmers’ study.

“So these feudin’ parsons c’n be struck offthe list?”

“For the time being, yes. But remember, we’vejust got started.”

At this moment, Marc was knocked sideways bya street-urchin.

“Sorry, sir,” the boy said. “But I was toldto git a message to Mr. Cobb here as quick as I could. Matter oflife an’ death.”

“A message from Nestor Peck, no doubt?” Cobbchuckled, slipping the ragamuffin a penny.

“Yessir. He needs ta see you at The CrookedAnchor.”

“He may have news about Epp,” Marc said.

“Either that or he’s awful thirsty.”

***

The Reverend Quentin Hungerford was still shakingwhen he entered his wife’s sitting-room and noisily poured himselfa tumbler of sherry at the sideboard. Constance Hungerford did notlook up from her knitting or drop a stitch.

“A gentleman is not safe in his ownhome!”

“He was only a police constable.”

“I have a good mind to report his unsavouryconduct and baseless insinuations to Dr. Strachan.”

“Dr. Strachan has many more serious worriesbesides affronts to your dignity, Quentin. Sip your sherry like atrue gentleman and try to calm your nerves.”

“Must you carry on with that confoundedneedle-clacking!”

“It helps me think, my dear. And it is hardthinking that we must do – and quickly.” At last she looked up, andQuentin put his half-drunk sherry down on the sideboard.

“You mean the rectorship,” he said, notbothering to make it a question.

“Despite all that has happened, Chalmersappears to be back in the Archdeacon’s good graces. All talk of theHuron Tract has suddenly ceased.”

“It was that damnable lawyer!” Quentin criedwith more exasperation than anger. Strachan had confided in hissenior rector upon receiving Dougherty’s stern letter in defense ofDavid Chalmers.

“And damned he is – now,” his wife repliedwith evident satisfaction. Constance Hungerford – who had beencalled ‘handsome’ because her fearsome stare and propensity forretaliation had forestalled the more accurate epithet ‘plain’ -arched her thick, black brows and smiled maliciously through heroverbite. “But the good Archdeacon naturally feels that he must nowclose ranks. The reputation of St. James and all who cleave to ithas been besmirched by the inconsiderate actions of Reuben Epp – aman whom you, in your misguided reading of the Scriptures, befriended. ”

“That policeman had the gall to suggest thatEpp could have been acting on my behalf – or even theArchdeacon’s!”

Constance gave her husband a baleful look,one that she had first practised on those feckless beaux beneathher station who had had the temerity to ask her to dance. “Theissue at hand, sir, is the fact that Dr. Strachan has givenChalmers a reprieve. Which is all that he will likely need tore-install himself as the favourite.”

“I never really believed that Dr. Strachanthought David guilty.”

“But he was !” Constance dropped herknitting, and it missed the basket on the floor. “I tried to warnthe Archdeacon that Chalmers has become desperate for money. Hiscrippled sister in Windsor has been stricken with consumption, andrequires expensive medicines. He is already supporting his motherand two other sisters down there. That’s why he cannot marry.”

“Still, it’s hard to believe that a man ofthe cloth – ”

“Quentin, stop talking nonsense!”

Hungerford glared at the cherubim on thecarpet. “So you really think he’ll try again?” he mumbled, wishinghe had polished off the sherry.

“I do. The fellow is still the parishtreasurer. All I’m asking you is to be vigilant.” She stood up, thestiff taffeta of her dress crinkling like tinfoil. She came acrossand placed an encouraging hand on her husband’s shoulder. “And whenwe catch his fingers in the cash-box next time, we’ll see thatthey’re broken – for good.”

***

Marc had asked Cobb to report to him at home ifanything came out of his meeting with Nestor Peck at The CrookedAnchor. Beth had not felt well enough to attend the interment orthe reception, and Marc, worried about her and the baby, hurriedstraight to Briar Cottage after the interviews at the vicarage.Both Beth and Celia (the latter having collapsed at the cemetery)were resting comfortably, however, and Cobb did not appear duringthe afternoon. Brodie arrived just before supper, and informed Marcthat he now had been through all of his guardian’s extant papers(most of them having been abandoned or destroyed back in theStates). He had discovered nothing there that might throw light onDick’s death. The will, however, had one surprise in it. Dick hadleft two thousand dollars to The Bowery Theatre in New York City, afraction of his total worth but, still, a sizeable sum.

Marc was quite interested in this bequest.“Did your uncle like the theatre?” he asked, thinking of his ownpast experiences with play-acting.

“Yes, he did,” Brodie said. “He went often. Iwas looking forward to my eighteenth birthday, at which time Unclepromised to take me along. But of course that unhappy eventhappened here – last year.”

At this point Beth appeared, refreshed fromher nap. “Can I have a peek at your notes?” she asked Marc, who hadspent an hour or so writing down the gist of the interviews at St.James.

“There’s not much to read, alas,” he said,“but I’m always happy to have your opinion of them.” Beth wasparticularly astute at interpreting character and motive.

However, Beth’s opinion was forestalled bythe sound of Cobb clumping across the front stoop.

“What have you found out?” Marc said as heopened the door and saw the look on Cobb’s face.

“Good afternoon to you, too,” Cobb said. “An’Missus Edwards.” He removed his helmet to expose the wayward spikesof his hair.

“Did Nestor Peck have anything significant tosay?” Marc said, pulling Cobb fully into the parlour.

“Most of what Nestor tells me is drivel,major, but he may’ve struck the mother load this time.”

Beth and Brodie came up on either side ofMarc.

“He told me one of his pals spotted ReubenEpp skull-king about in back of The American Hotel onSunday.” Cobb delivered this arresting news in a matter-of-fact,almost offhand, tone.

“What time on Sunday?” Marc said.

“Middle of the afternoon.”

“My God,” Brodie said, “maybe he was lookingfor Brenner and Tallman.”

“It’s possible,” Marc said, not wanting tobelieve it or to consider the implications if it were so. “What doyou think, Cobb?”