“Was the box locked?”
“Yes. It sat here on my desk overnight.”
“And you had the key?”
“I did.”
“Could there be other keys?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Hungerford said not. It’sher strongbox.”
Marc decided not to press the matter further.David Chalmers was obviously a trusting and honest man – for surelyit was Mrs. Hungerford, the senior vicar’s wife, who had bothmotive (Chalmers’ disgrace) and means (a duplicate key) to effectthe ‘theft’ herself and blame her husband’s rival. The fact that hedid not seem to suspect Mrs. Hungerford spoke volumes about theman’s character.
“So, where do things stand now – between youand Dr. Strachan?”
“Well, Mr. Dougherty did send him a letteroutlining my position, and although the Archdeacon has said nothingto me about it, his demeanour towards me has changed, and he hasdropped any idea of sending me to Coventry. I owe a great deal toMr. Dougherty. He was a courageous man. And his senseless death hassaddened me immeasurably.”
“As it has me,” Marc said. They shook hands.At the door, Marc said, “By the way, one of the clues we haveconcerns a rare and expensive brand of notepaper. What kind of bondis used here at St. James?”
“You mean, what am I writing on at themoment?” Chalmers smiled.
“I’m afraid I had to ask.”
Chalmers held up several sheets. “It’s Churchof England letterhead. We all use it. It comes straight fromLondon. And not even a rabid Anglican would call it expensive.”
Marc left, thinking that he had learned alittle more about Epp, a lot about the petty plots among theseclerics, and all he needed to know about David Chalmers. IfChalmers were a conspirator in murder, then Marc was FatherChristmas.
***
Cobb was not asked to sit down. He stood in themiddle of the vicar’s study with his helmet in his hands underHungerford’s withering stare.
“I do not appreciate being disturbed in themidst of my duties, constable. But Miss Welsh informs me that youare here at the behest of Sir George, and I am therefore happy todo what I can to be of assistance.” He did not look happy at all,nor did his vibrating mutton-chops.
“I’ll get right to the hub of the matter,”Cobb said. “We’re lookin’ fer an accomplice to the murder of Mr.Dougherty.”
“What on earth are you talking about? ReubenEpp killed the Yankee!”
“We got some clues that tell us he washelped.”
“And you expect to find the accomplice, asyou call him, in a vicarage? Have you and Sir George lost yourminds?”
While Hungerford’s face teemed with outrageand umbrage, Cobb suspected that some of it was of the manufacturedvariety worked up for the fire-and-brimstone of the Sabbath pulpit.“We need to know what Epp might’ve been doin’ after he left here atnoon on Sunday. We got reason to believe he could’ve met with hisco-inspirer.”
“Well, sir, if he left here – and Isaw him go – and I remained here, as I did, then how am Isupposed to know his whereabouts thereafter?”
“He coulda told ya,” Cobb spluttered.
“Yes, but he didn’t! I did everything I couldto help the poor deviclass="underline" I tried to keep him out of Dr. Strachan’sway, I rang the church bell when he was absent with the drink. ButI knew nothing of his personal life or where he went after he leftthese precincts. Moreover, the wretch is dead and buried beyond thepale: it behooves us to speak of him as kindly as we can.”
“Do you know anybody who mighta wanted toharm Mr. Dougherty?”
“A hundred or more, I should think.”Hungerford’s contempt was palpable. “But no-one foolish enough toarrange for him to be stabbed in an alley. Why should they? Thedegenerate was eating himself to death as fast as he couldswallow!”
Cobb switched tack abruptly, as he had seenMarc do to catch a suspect by surprise. “Are you familiar with anotepaper called Melton Bond?”
“What the hell are you babbling about?”Hungerford looked more perplexed than surprised.
“One of the clues is about that kind ofpaper. Would you mind showin’ me what you got in that drawer overthere?”
“You’re damn right I mind! This is anoutrage! You are an impudent, unmannered scoundrel, and a disgraceto the constabulary. Sir George will certainly hear of youraudacious conduct!”
Oh, oh: there goes the investigation, Cobbthought. He had shifted tack straight into a gale!
Hungerford pushed past him to the door. “Youcan see yourself out. If you get lost, Miss Welsh will guide you.Good day!” And he stomped off.
Cobb took a deep breath, then slipped over tothe roll-top desk in the corner. Carefully he inspected thenumerous sheets of paper scattered there. Every one of them borethe letterhead of the Church. He peered into each drawer. Nospecial pens or brushes. No red ink. Too bad. He would have enjoyedarresting the senior vicar.
TWELVE
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 wereclose?”
“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.”