“That’ll be all, Myrtle.”
Myrtle vanished with alacrity.
Getting control of her anger with difficulty,Constance turned back to Cobb. “Well, then, constable, it appearsas if Mr. Chalmers could not himself have removed the money.”
“Or stashed it in his own desk.”
“Then I submit that he has anaccomplice.”
My God, Cobb thought, not another conspiracy.“How do ya figure that?”
“I figure it this way. Mr. Chalmersknows that I suspect him of thievery. I have already accused him ofan earlier theft, the details of which you need know nothing. Afterlast week’s robbery here, he realized that if he were to deflectsuspicion, he would need an accomplice – and an alibi.”
“But who could he get to steal from the PoorBox?”
“The town is crawling with cutthroats andburglars. The Reverend Chalmers wastes much of his time amongstsuch lowlife in hopes of bringing them to God. It would be simpleenough for him to bribe one of them and provide him with thenecessary keys.”
Cobb sighed. “And if Reverend Chalmers deniesall this? After all, we know he didn’t do the deed himself. Anyburglar could’ve jimmied those locks an’ planted the cash in thereverend’s desk to make mischief.” Cobb tried not to smile as headded, “Fer some reason we know nothin’ about.”
“That is patently absurd! It is you who arebeing mischievous!”
“All I’m sayin’, ma’am, is that unless thereverend was to confess, or unless we can find this accompliceamong the lowlife hereabouts, we ain’t got a case to make.”
Constance glared at him with such malice thathe thought he could hear the metal buttons on his coat sizzle. “Howwill we know he really was in Streetsville if you don’t goout there and interview this so-called brother?”
“You’re cluckin’ at straws,” Cobb saidmeekly.
“You don’t seem to realize, sir, thatDr. Strachan is about to be elevated to the position of bishop. Ifthere is evil in this establishment, then it must be exposed to thelight and purged, so that no taint of scandal or maladministrationtouches that saintly man’s robes. David Chalmers has slipped thesnare, twice. But I am not one to give up.” She stood up. “Now Iexpect you to report to me that you have interrogated the suspectand checked his alibi. Good day to you.”
Any chance of it being a good day had longsince gone by the boards.
EIGHTEEN
David Chalmers himself appeared at the policequarters later that afternoon. He looked haggard and hag-ridden,which made Cobb even more impressed by his calm demeanour andstraightforward testimony. He seemed to regard Constance Hungerfordas a millstone sent by the Almighty to test his patience andforbearance. Not only did he state that he had indeed visited hissick brother in Streetsville, but added that Dr. Withers hadaccompanied him, and both had spent the night there. When Cobbpointed out, diffidently, that the marked money had been found inhis desk-drawer, Chalmers did not seem surprised. But when pressedfor some plausible explanation, he suggested that there werecertainly a few citizens in Irishtown and elsewhere among thedowntrodden in the city who resented his intrusions into theirlife, and who might well have decided to implicate him in a crime.Lots of people had seen him and Withers riding west along KingStreet towards his brother’s home fifteen miles way: so theopportunity was there.
“Still,” he said with a resigned smile, “Ithink they would have kept most of the money, especially theHalifax dollar.”
After thanking Chalmers and watching himtrudge off, Cobb had Gussie French compose a brief note toConstance Hungerford: “Suspect cleared. Alibi vouched for by awitness. No further leads.” He had it delivered. He hoped he wouldnot have to face that harridan again. Nevertheless, somebodyhad taken that money (with the connivance of the senior vicar’swife, no doubt), and it rankled that the culprit was still loose inCobb’s city.
***
If Cobb was hoping to come home at six o’clock to awarm supper and a consoling wife, he was soon disappointed. Dorawas waiting for him at the door – never a good sign.
“Now you went an’ done it, Mister Cobb!”
“Done what? I ain’t put my big toe in heresince the sun come up!”
“I just got back from Beth’s place.”
“Has the babe come?”
“No, not that. Turned out to be false labour.But it should be here real soon.”
“What, then?”
“Celia Langford was there. She had a letterin her hand.”
Oh, oh. Cobb was pretty sure what was cominghis way. “It wasn’t up to me, luv. I had to question the oldmiser. It was my duty.”
Dora pretended he had not spoken, as sheusually did in these circumstances. “It was a letter from MatthewBurchill.”
“That tie-rant of a father’s gone an’forbid the lad ta see her,” Cobb got in quickly before somethingworse could be uttered.
“That’s the least of it, I’m afraid.” Doralooked pained, but – strangely – not angry.
“If he’s hurt the lad, I’ll have him inirons!”
“There’s no need to get yer nose in a knot.Matthew’s fine. He told Celia his father’d found out from talkin’to you that they’d been seein’ each other in secret.”
“It was my duty.”
“Quit whinin’ an’ listen, will ya? Matthewsaid his father had threatened to disinherit him an’ toss him intathe street instantly unless he quit courtin’ her.”
“Well, that kinda threat usually ups thetemper-churn of any courtin’,” Cobb observed.
“Thanks fer the folk wisdom, Mister Cobb. Butwhat the little turd told her was that his love had cooled rightdown, that he’d seen the light an’ pledged to follow his father’splans fer his life. He begged her to be a proper Christian an’forgive him.”
Cobb gulped. “Maybe the old man helped himwrite the letter.”
Dora snorted. “He sent back herlocket, the one he promised to keep next to his heartforever – with another messenger.”
“So I guess she’s in a bad way?”
“Tryin’ to be brave, fer Beth’s sake. Butshe’s had two blows in a week. I managed to talk her into stayin’with Beth an’ Charlene fer a while.”
“So, I gotta take the blame fer this, doI?”
Cobb tried to look as pitiable and put-uponas possible.
“You do. But don’t worry. She’ll get overhim. Them two together woulda been a disaster.”
With appropriate humility and impeccabletiming, Cobb said, “What’s fer supper?”
***
Marc spent a frustrating Monday afternoon cooling hisheels in the reception room of the New York Bar Association. Whenhe made the mistake of mentioning that he wished to speak tosomeone on the executive about Richard Dougherty, the secretary’sface became an impenetrable mask of polite resistance. While notrefusing Marc’s request outright, the fellow made only tokengestures to intercede on his behalf, smiling stiffly after eachsally into the inner offices and suggesting that it would only be amatter of another quarter-hour or so. By five o’clock, Marc got themessage. He took his leave.
Once outside and breathing fresh air again,Marc decided to walk the two blocks along Bayard Street to theBowery. As he turned north on this grand and fabled avenue, laidout by the pioneering Dutch almost two hundred years before, hespotted what he was looking for.
The Bowery Theatre sat in the middle of theblock on the east side, wedged in between a row of sturdy,three-storey brick-structures – housing shops and apartments – andthe New York Theatre Hotel, a handsome stuccoed block withblue-shuttered windows. Neither of these bordering buildingsprepared the newcomer for the grandeur and symmetry of the theatreitself, though their rough-hewn utility did much to emphasize itsvisual delights. Set back a few paces from the paved sidewalk by awide flight of stone steps, the entrance was guarded andembellished by four soaring, fluted columns. As the eye rose withthem, they culminated in elaborate, floral capitals, whichthemselves were framed by a pair of pilasters that served toseparate the theatre’s elegant artfulness from the pedestrianpracticality of its neighbours. Twelve feet above the colonnadedporch and stretched across the entire façade lay a broad balconywith intricate, wrought-iron railings, where patrons could strollbetween acts and gaze out upon the wonders of their city. Above thecastellated wall around the roof, the Stars and Stripes flappedcontentedly in the afternoon breeze.