That stopped the discussion for a long,anxious moment. Taking a deep breath, Marc proceeded to outline thenature of the case that Dick had taken on, and what he had done toassist Chalmers in clearing his name of the stigma of embezzlementand restoring his chances of promotion when Strachan waselevated.
“You mean to say,” Thorpe said when Marc hadfinished, “that Dougherty wrote a letter to John Strachan, thesecond most powerful man in the province after the governor,threatening a libel suit and demanding that Chalmers be kept on atSt. James?”
“He did just that.”
“With what results?”
“Dick didn’t say. I assume if he had heardfrom the Archdeacon he would have told me.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have to talk toChalmers,” Sturges said glumly. The notion of interviewing thegreat man in his palace was, surely, out of the question.
Robert hesitated before adding, “And Ipresume we have to entertain the possibility that there was adirect connection between the Archdeacon’s receiving thatinflammatory letter and the personal attack he appended to hisSunday sermon.”
“For Christ’s sake, gentlemen,” Thorpeexclaimed, “we’ve got to keep John Strachan’s name out of this! Hehas already booked passage to Britain, where he is certain to begiven a mitre, and where he will join Chief Justice Robinson inlobbying the Whig government on the nonsense in Durham’sReport. And we have just spent a year fending off half adozen Yankee-inspired invasions and hanging their misguidedleaders. I want Dougherty’s killer caught, but not at the expenseof destabilizing the province.”
While the pricking of Strachan’s balloonwould not have dismayed Robert or Marc, they nonethelessappreciated the gravity of the situation.
“Well, sir, if Dick’s letter stirred theArchdeacon to retaliate, it hardly involves him in the murder inany direct way,” Marc pointed out. “We’ll proceed in ourinvestigation with the utmost tact.”
“Speaking again of motives,” Robert said,“since it is common knowledge that John Strachan is abishop-in-waiting, then his lucrative position as Rector of YorkCounty will be open some time in the coming months. Half the peopleat St. James yesterday had their eyes on the two vicars, wonderingwhich one Strachan was likely to appoint.”
Thorpe glared at Baldwin. “You’re notimplying that Hungerford or Chalmers, men of the cloth, wouldcommit murder merely to ingratiate himself with thebishop-in-waiting?”
Robert smiled. “Just tossing uppossibilities.”
“The rivalry between those two is known to beintense,” Marc said. “Witness the dubious accusation that ConstanceHungerford brought against Chalmers for embezzlement. I’m notagreeing with Robert that we ought to consider the vicars as primesuspects, but I am afraid that there is a chain of events here thatwill need tactful probing.”
“Well, for your sake, as well as theprovince’s, I hope to God the killer turns out to be some religiouszealot run amok,” Thorpe said.
“I do, too,” Marc said.
“Nobody’s mentioned the bottom part ofthe note,” Robert said. “Was it found at the crime scene?”
“No,” Sturges said. “That’s why I didn’tmention it. But if we’re lucky, we’ll find it somewhere about themurderer’s lair, an’ then we can match it to the bigger piece.”
Robert nodded, then turned to see Marcstanding by the window, where he was holding the “bigger piece” upto the sunlight. “What’re you up to?” he said.
“I’m checking for the watermark,” Marc said.“This is very expensive rag paper.”
“Good idea,” Sturges said, feeling a littlemore relieved that the man he admired above all others as aninvestigator was on the job – and personally motivated.
“Ah . . . it’s quite clear. It’s an eagleholding an ‘M’ in its talons,” Marc said. “Ring any bells?”
“Never heard of it,” Thorpe said.
Nor had any of the others.
“Then that’s to our advantage,” Marc said.“If it’s a rare breed, then we have a better chance of tracing itsowner.”
“Phineas Burke is the only chap in town who’dsell anythin’ that unusual. Or he’d know who might,” Sturges said.Things were looking up.
“His shop is just across the street fromhere,” Robert said.
“Then I’ll ask my clerk Gussie to trot overthere right now and ask Phineas about the name of the paper an’whether anybody he knows uses the stuff.”
“It’s the best lead we have at the moment,”Robert said.
Sturges got up to step down into his officebelow and send Augustus French on his errand. “I wonder where inhell Cobb got to?” he was heard to mutter as he closed the doorbehind him.
NINE
Cobb hurried up Church Street to Hospital Street,where he turned west and headed towards the far end of the city. Hewanted to avoid King Street and any chance of running into theChief or to Marc Edwards en route to the crime scene. Besides, thetannery was on Brock Street almost as far north as Lot where itwandered off into Spadina Road. Even walking briskly, it was twentyminutes or more before he reached his destination. The tannery yardwas crowded with men and mules, but he attracted little attentionas he slipped past the main building and nearby outhouses, wadedthrough a muddy field, and came up to a dilapidated shanty. Wilkiepoked his head around a far corner.
“This place stinks,” he said.
“It’s a tannery,” Cobb said. “Is Epp inthere? He showed up at St. James about seven o’clock an’ opened thedoors, but ain’t been seen since.”
“He’s at home,” Wilkie said, “if ya c’n callthis dump a home.”
“Has he seen you?” Cobb said, alarmed thatEpp, if he were the killer, might have other knives or weapons tohand.
“He ain’t seen nobody fer some while,” Wilkiesaid. “I peeked through that busted window there an’ seen himslumped over a table. I been checkin’ every five minutes or so, buthe ain’t moved a hair.”
“Well done,” Cobb said, surprised that Wilkiehad taken any initiative of his own. “Let’s you an’ me give thefella a little surprise.”
Cobb pushed the flimsy door open with twofingers and stepped boldly into the musty interior. The single roomappeared to serve Epp as kitchen, bedroom and, if the smells wereaccurate, as his water-closet. The only light, mercifully, siftedthrough the tiny north window. Epp was indeed slumped – comatose -over a table cluttered with broken crockery and partly consumedfood. The verger of St. James, whom Cobb knew well by sight, lookedeven smaller and more pathetic than he did on the street. But hewas nonetheless a muscular chap, all sinew and bone, with verylarge hands that looked as if they had been appropriated elsewhereand attached to his wrists as an afterthought.
“Is he dead?” Wilkie said.
Epp answered with a rasping, indrawn breath -part gasp, part snore.
“He’s drunk,” Cobb said, kicking at an emptywhiskey jug on the floor nearby. “Pissed to the gills.”
“Is that shit all over his hands?”
Cobb lifted Epp’s right hand into the dimlight. “That’s dried blood,” he said, “or I’ll eat Dora’s Sundayhat.”
Wilkie took a step back, as if he were tooclose to some deadly contamination. Cobb, however, took hold ofEpp’s greasy hair, pulled his head upright, then reached down to anarmpit and hauled him up far enough to expose his throat and mostof his torso. His wrinkled gray shirt was spattered with blood.
“I think we’ve found our assassin,” Cobbsaid.
“Jesus,” Wilkie said, “the bugger didn’t evenhave enough sense to take off these disgustin’ clothes.”
“Let’s you an’ me take him down to the CourtHouse, eh? Give the Sarge and the magistrate an Easter present.”Cobb was unable to suppress the elation he felt. Any criticism ofhim for disobeying orders or any suggestion that he haddeliberately undercut his associate, Marc, would dissolve quicklywhen the perpetrator was delivered with his guilt stamped upon himas clear as the brand on Cain’s brow.
“We can’t carry him all that way,” Wilkiesaid.