Cobb cleared his throat. “Well, sir, we didfind American banknotes out at Epp’s shack, remember, an’ thatfancy paper was from – ”
“I’ve read your report, Cobb. But allof that nonsense will be explained by Epp when we get him in here.There’s nothing like a heartfelt confession to smooth the way incourt and ensure a proper hanging.”
“Ah, here’s Gussie now,” Sturges said withevident relief.
Gussie stepped into the room, looking as ifhe had forgotten how to spell.
“What is it, man!” Thorpe demanded. “Where’sthe prisoner?”
“We ain’t got him, sir.”
“And why not? I told Strangway – ”
“He’s gone an’ hung himself.”
“Have you lost your wits?”
“Did it with a shirt,” Gussie said. “Theclean one we give him.”
***
After Thorpe and Sturges had confirmed GussieFrench’s incredible story, the investigation team reassembled inthe magistrate’s chamber.
“Well, what the hell do we do now?” Sturgessaid to Thorpe.
“It’s a shocking thing to have happen – righthere in our own jail – and I’ll see that Strangway is severelydealt with. He’s sent for the coroner, of course. But as for themurder charge, I don’t see that there’s much left for us to doexcept inform the lieutenant-governor and the attorney-general onwhat grounds we arrested Epp – and then close the case.”
An embarrassed silence greeted this glibproposal.
“Who is going to care about where thenotepaper came from or what shenanigans a drunk like Epp used toacquire fifty dollars?” When this logic failed to impress, Thorpepushed on. “American money is not uncommon here. Our merchants andtradesmen often do business in that currency with folks from acrossthe border. And, for all we know, Epp might have been a secretgambler. Those notes could’ve been his winnings.”
“Reuben Epp couldn’t read or write,” Sturgessaid.
Startled at the impertinent interruption,Thorpe turned on the chief constable. “And how would you knowthat?”
“Constable Wilkie had to bring him up beforethe municipal court last Fall for bein’ drunk an’ disorderly. Whenordered to sign a peace bond, he used an ‘X’.”
“So he couldn’t have written that word on thenotepaper?” Thorpe said, trying not to give any ground.
“That’s right,” Marc said. “And he didn’tkeep a handy stock of Melton Bond or red ink or calligraphyinstruments in his hovel.”
“So what if the old geezer tricked someinnocent party into writing it out for him?” Thorpe saidstubbornly.
“It’s possible. But Epp was known to be veryreligious. He was a binge drinker, not an habitual drunk. There’sno evidence that he was a gambler, but we can check that out. Thepresence of fifty dollars in large U.S. denominations, incombination with what we know about the murder-note, stronglysuggests that we’re dealing with a conspiracy, that someone withaccess to cash and expensive and exotic notepaper prompted Epp tomurder Dick. I say prompted because there seems little doubt thatEpp was motivated to murder a man who had been branded an apostateand a corrupter of public morals. The fact that Epp has just takenhis own life indicates that he suffered remorse and could not facewhat lay ahead. But he needed help to carry out the crime in themanner that he did, a manner that must have been conceived bysomeone with more imagination and, perhaps, a very different motivefrom Epp’s simple fanaticism.”
“That’s quite a speech, Marc,” Thorpe said,not unkindly. “But there’s still a lot of empty air betweenspeculation and proof.”
“But if we don’t at least make the effort tofind the proof,” Robert said, “we could be in serious trouble,politically.”
“Who is going to know of these matters exceptthose of us in this room?” Thorpe said.
“Lot’s of people out there know that Epp wasill-letterate,” Cobb said. “Questions are bound to beasked.”
“You don’t suppose Governor Arthur – giventhe delicate, political circumstances we find ourselves in – willwant the slightest rumour of an official cover-up?” Robert saidblandly.
Thorpe, a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, glared atthe long-time Reformer. “But Dougherty, whatever the truth abouthis conduct, has no pubic standing.”
Marc bridled, but Robert cut him off. “Notamongst the better classes, perhaps, but I can assure you thatafter the McNair trial in January he was hailed as a hero by hoipolloi .His morning promenade was more like a royal progressthan a constitutional.”
Thorpe looked thoughtful. “I’m beginning tosee what you’re driving at. But I feel that any decision tocontinue the investigation – especially when Epp’s arrest and fateare known – must come from Governor Arthur himself. I’ll make afull report to him this evening, and get back to Chief Sturges herein the morning.”
With that, the meeting broke up. Everyone wasexhausted. It had been a brutal day, in every sense of the word.With Sturges’ approval, Cobb agreed to meet Marc and Robert atBaldwin House in the morning: to mull over the events of the dayand map out the strategy they would use to find the man who hadmanipulated Reuben Epp and callously orchestrated the death oftheir friend. For with or without the lieutenant-governor’sapproval, Doubtful Dick Dougherty’s murderer would be brought tojustice.
***
By nine o’clock Tuesday morning, few citizens oldenough to gossip or live off its avails had not learned that thethree-hundred-pound Yankee lawyer had been stabbed to death (thenumber of wounds varying from three to eleven) by the derangedverger of St. James, unhinged, it was said, by alcohol andreligious zeal (no explicit mention here of the bishop-to-be andhis Sunday jeremiad). The stabbing was generally attributed to thezeal and the plucked eye to his derangement. That the pitiableculprit had hanged himself with his own blood-soaked shirt (aharmless embroidery) seemed a fitting conclusion to the whole sorryepisode. However, there was no public consensus about the degree ofpity that ought to be extended to the victim. For many ordinaryfolk, as Robert Baldwin had noted, Dougherty was a hero of sorts,flawed but brilliant, and fearless in the presence of the high andmighty. But those for whom respectability compensates for a myriadof foregone pleasures saw only his character flaws and his contemptfor persons in authority, without whom the province would collapseand fall prey to Yankeeism. It was these contrary winds that blewthe length and breadth of King Street, from Scaddings Bridge allthe way to Government House and His Excellency’s parlour.
By ten o’clock it was common knowledge thatReuben Epp, faithful verger of St. James for almost eleven years,would not be buried in consecrated ground. A murderer could beforgiven, but not a suicide: Archdeacon Strachan was adamant onthat point. While he was distressed immeasurably (as reported byReverend Hungerford to the Gazette), it would have to bePotters Field for Epp. Meanwhile, Broderick Langford spent an hourwith the minister of the Congregational Church, which he and Celiahad been attending since February along with Beth and Marc. Brodiewas there to convince the pastor that his guardian had been raisedin a Congregational church near Albany, and had remained a nominalmember ever since. Would it not be an act of charity to provide thegentleman with a Christian burial? The young pastor was marshallinghis arguments against such a plan when Beth Edwards arrived on thearm of Jasper Hogg. Beth’s father had been minister at theCongregational church in Cobourg before his death, and it was thiscard that Beth played with consummate skill. It was soon decidedthat a full and proper funeral service would be held, withinterment in the common graveyard operated by the city. Brodie gaveBeth (and a good part of the baby) a hug that brought a blush toJasper Hogg’s wind-buffed cheeks.
***
It was mid-morning when Cobb was ushered into RobertBaldwin’s private chamber, where Robert and Marc were alreadyseated, sipping coffee and munching on macaroons.
“Have you heard anything from Thorpe abouthis visit to Sir George?” Robert said as soon as he had seatedCobb, handed him a mug of coffee, and placed a bowl of macaroonsnext to his guest (and well away from his own reach).