Free The Bishop's Pawn by Don Gutteridge Page B

about
seven-thirty?”
    Dusty placed another tray of buns before him.
“Sometimes I do, if I happen to be out front here. Regular as rain,
he is, waddlin’ along. But today I was in back, at the oven.”
    Well, Cobb thought, it had been worth a try.
And he could buy a sticky bun while he was here – as
consolation.
    “But I did see someone else – in the lane
behind,” Dusty said, keeping a sharp eye all the time on the stream
of icing.
    “You did?” Cobb said, forgetting his stomach
for a moment. “Somebody you knew?”
    “Matter of fact, it was. And I thought it was
damn strange, too.”
    This could be it, Cobb thought. “Go on.”
    “From the window in back, just about
seven-thirty – I know because I was just taking out a timed batch
of bread – I saw this fella kind of weavin’ his way along, keepin’
to the shadows on the other side, an’ lookin’ about him all the
while.”
    “It wasn’t Nestor scoutin’ garbage?”
    “No, no, I seen him comin’ along,
goin’ the opposite way about fifteen minutes later. This fella
wasn’t scoutin’, he was skulkin’, or else runnin’ away from
someone.”
    “And you recognized him?”
    “I did. In fact, I saw him just yesterday –
in church.”
    “Who?”
    Dusty deliberately overshot a bun and reached
down to smooth away the errant icing. Then he looked up and said,
“It was the verger at St. James: Reuben Epp.”
    Cobb got a double shock. Epp had been verger
at St. James for years – a loner and a misanthrope. And he
certainly would have heard the Archdeacon’s sermon with its closing
clarion-call. Cobb wasn’t sure whether or not he ought to be
elated. If Epp was involved in Dougherty’s murder, the way ahead
was fraught with dangers and pitfalls.
    “I better go an’ talk to him, then,” Cobb
said.
    “He lives out at the edge of town,” Dusty
said, choosing a bun. “In a shanty on Brock Street behind the
tannery.”
    “I know the place.”
    “Here, take a bun with you.”
    ***
    Cobb did not immediately relay Dusty Carter’s news to
his chief. When he came out of the bakery, he saw several burly men
lifting Dougherty’s body onto a wagon, with Chief Sturges, Brown
and Rossiter haranguing the mob that milled around them. He did not
see Marc Edwards anywhere. Perhaps he had gone into the alley to
inspect the crime scene. Anyway, he had already made up his mind.
He hailed Wilkie over to him from the doorway of the
confectioner’s.
    “We’re goin’ over to Brock Street. Dusty
spotted Reuben Epp actin’ suspicious in the lane behind the
bakery.”
    “You think he done it?”
    “I don’t know, but he was certainly close by,
an’ might be able to tell us what he saw.”
    “But Reuben’ll be at St. James by now. He has
to open the front doors at eight o’clock every day.” The Anglican
Church was part of Wilkie’s regular patrol, and although naturally
indolent, Wilkie knew the comings and goings of his area.
    “I thought he’d be at home because Dusty said
he was headin’ west earlier.”
    “Could be. But the old fella falls off the
wagon sometimes, an’ the Rector’s been on his case fer bein’ late
an’ sloppy. Drunk or sober, I think he’ll be around St. James by
now.”
    Cobb made a decision. “All right. You go on
over to Epp’s shanty. If he’s there, make sure he stays there. I’ll
nip across to St. James an’ see if he’s at work.”
    Wilkie, bless him, did not think to question
whether or not Cobb had been given any authority to dictate his
activities. He turned and was about to trudge off when Cobb thought
to ask, “ Do you know anythin’ else about Epp that I oughta
know?”
    Wilkie stopped to think. “Well, he’s a kinda
religious fanatic, they tell me. When he ain’t drinkin’ an’
belligerent, he’s floppin’ about on his knees an’ mumblin’
prayers.”
    This was an unusually lengthy thought for
Wilke, and Cobb was grateful. Marc had taught him that it was
always best to know a lot about