“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?”
“Well, I recollected there’s a shortcut backof that hotel that could take you up to Lot Street near theentrance to Irishtown. You’d use it if ya wanted to slip across tothe bootlegger’s there without anybody seein’ ya.”
“I see,” Marc said. “You think Epp could havebeen spotted behind The American because he was sneaking off tofind cheap booze? Could we check out that possibility?”
Cobb feigned disappointment in his partner’sremark. “Already done,” he said. “That’s why I’m late gettin’ overhere.”
“You tracked down his bootlegger?”
“Easy enough. I asked Phil Rossiter, who hasthat patrol now, where Epp got his ill-lickit drink, an’ hesaid definitely at Swampy Sam’s place. So I go into Irishtown,riskin’ my neck in the progress, an’ roust Sam outtabed.”
“Did he admit that Epp had been there?”
“I had to provide a little persuasion, but hefinally told me that Epp come there about suppertime Sunday an’bought two jugs of whiskey. An’ he left right after. But I wouldn’tstake my life on Swampy Sam’s memory.”
“So that means that Epp could havebeen at The American Hotel earlier in the afternoon to meet withthe New York lawyers,” Marc said.
“And not in the main foyer either,” Brodieadded.
“There’s more,” Cobb said.
There usually was with Cobb.
“Sam said he paid fer the hootch – an’ caughtup on his tab – with a five-dollar Yankee bill.”
“Jesus,” Marc said. “I’ve been dreadingthis.” He looked at Beth.
“What can we do?” Brodie said. “We can’t letthem get away with murder.”
“Well, we sure can’t hop a whoopin’ crane an’fly to New York,” Cobb said.
“I’ll go,” Brodie said, his pale blue eyesflashing. “It’s my uncle who needs avenging.”
“But the roads are impassable,” Beth saidquietly. “It could take weeks. An’ what could you do there besidesaccuse these men? They’d laugh in yer face.”
“I’ll – I’ll think of something when I getthere.”
“It is I who must go,” Marc said.
“Whaddya mean, major? We don’t know fer surethese fellas are guilty of anythin’. There’s plenty of Americanbanknotes in this town, an’ Swampy was sure it was a five, not aten. Besides, we got some real suspects we need to talk to righthere.”
Marc was only half-listening to Cobb. “Weneed to eliminate Brenner and Tallman, if they are not guilty. Andthese men may also have information about why Dick was forced toleave New York in disgrace.”
“I must go with you, then,” Brodie said.“Celia and I deserve to know the truth that Uncle kept from us forour own protection. But we are not children any more. And we havedecided to make our own way in this province. We need to clearUncle’s name and start our lives here free of suspicion and thetaint of moral corruption.”
“You’re right, Brodie,” Marc said. “I meantthat it is I who ought to go. But, of course, I can’t.” Helooked now at Beth and her “condition.”
Beth had been listening with growing interestto the conversation. She touched Marc on the shoulder. “You mustnot hold back on account of me,” she said.