Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  A painting hung on the wall. He’d been with his mother down at the waterfront when she’d seen it. She told him it was of the Black Cuillins, the mountains on Skye where she’d been born. He imagined his father striding manfully across the bare hills, his head high, his back straight, his step firm. Angus’s mother waiting for his father, all girlish giggles and sideways glances. He shook his head, picked up the book and began to read.

  The next thing Angus knew, someone was banging on the door, his neck ached, the book was on the floor, and the light streaming in the window came from the east.

  He stumbled to the front door and opened it.

  “Morning, Angus,” Graham Donohue said. His cheeks glowed pink from a recent shave, his hair was still wet, and his moustache neatly combed.

  “What time is it?” Angus said.

  “Ten o’clock.” Donohue stepped forward as though he intended to enter. Angus stood firm.

  “What brings you here at this hour?”

  “I’ve come for breakfast. Didn’t your mother mention it?”

  “Breakfast? My mother doesn’t eat breakfast on Sundays, much less invite company.” Saturday night was the only night of the week Fiona got a full night’s sleep. She often didn’t rise until late afternoon.

  Angus narrowed his eyes and stared at Donohue. At one time, he thought his mother might marry Mr. Donohue, and he’d take them to America. Angus hadn’t been sure if he either wanted Mr. Donohue as his father or to go to America, but then he’d found out the man frequented prostitutes. From that moment on, Angus was determined to keep the newspaperman away from his mother. “Mrs. Mann’s gone to church and my mother doesn’t cook. There’s nothing to eat. Goodbye.” He began to shut the door. Donohue stuck his foot in it.

  “I know it sounds strange. I thought it somewhat unusual myself. But she did invite me to breakfast and she did say ten o’clock. Really, Angus.”

  Angus relaxed his grip on the door, thinking. It did seem odd, but Donohue had no reason to lie. Easy enough to check, and if Fiona was woken on a Sunday morning without reason, it would be Donohue’s scalp she’d be after.

  Anything that made his mother angry with Graham Donohue was, in Angus’s opinion, a good thing.

  “I’ll go and ask her,” Angus said.

  “Thank you.” Donohue stepped into the hall.

  The Mann’s house wasn’t much larger than the common room in Angus’s school back in Toronto. Four rooms plus the kitchen and a privy in the back yard. The Manns’ room was at the back, beside the kitchen. Angus and his mother each had a tiny bedroom at the front of the house, and Fiona enjoyed a private sitting room where she could, in theory, entertain visitors. That she never had any visitors didn’t really matter. She loved sitting there, curled up in a big chair with the horsehair stuffing escaping, reading. Fanning herself absentmindedly in summer or wrapped in a colourful quilt beside the iron stove in winter.

  Angus tapped lightly on his mother’s bedroom door. No answer. He knocked harder and called out, “Sorry to bother you, Mother, but Mr. Donohue’s here. He says he’s been invited for breakfast, is that right?” No answer. He felt Donohue behind him.

  “Step back, Mr. Donohue,” Angus ordered. “I’m going into my mother’s bedroom.” He’d have been embarrassed to realize just how much he sounded like Fiona.

  Donohue gave way, about the width of a hair, and Angus slowly opened the door while attempting to use his body to block the man’s view. The room was neat, the bed made, blanket and pillows in place.

  Angus took a step forward and Donohue followed. It took no more than a second to ascertain that Fiona was not hiding behind the door or concealed in the closet.

  “What on earth?” Angus said. “She’s not here.”

  “That bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  They jumped as the back door opened. Footsteps sounded on the bare wood of the hall, and Mr. Mann’s baritone grumbled something in German.

  “My mother,” Angus shouted. “She’s gone. Did you see her last night, Mrs. Mann? Sir?”

  Mrs. Mann raised her hands to her face. She threw a worried look at her husband. “No. We were tired after the wedding and went to bed early.”

  “Fetch the police, Mrs. Mann, please. Quickly.”

  “Not again,” Mr. Mann said with a shake of his head as his wife fled. “Okay. Yous goes to Savoy, Angus. Ies checks seh waterfront. Likes seh last times.” He followed his wife.

  “Tell the Mounties to meet me at the Savoy,” Angus shouted.

  “You suspect something,” Donohue said.

  “Last time Ma disappeared, we waited too long before starting a search. But it’s this breakfast invitation that worries me. So completely out of character something must be up. And I’m afraid I know what it is.” Angus thought back to the conversation with Paul Sheridan while they ate Angus’s lunch over a boulder by the Yukon River. Sheridan was determined to follow his treasure map and equally determined that Fiona and Angus would accompany him. Angus asked her why she was encouraging the man, and she replied that Sheridan wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer, so she’d given him the answer he wanted. She’d stay out of his way and he’d soon give up and head off into the wilderness by himself. If necessary, she added, she’d drop a hint that she was considering outfitting an expedition of her own. That would get him out of town fast enough; he was terrified someone else would reach his mountain first.

  Angus had his doubts about that. He’d seen the fire in the man’s eyes as he talked not only about Gold Mountain but also about making Fiona his queen.

  But he’d kept his misgivings to himself.

  That had, obviously, been a mistake.

  He ran out of the house, Donohue hot on his heels, shouting, “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “Later. I know … but I don’t have a bloody clue how we’re going to find them.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Angus expected to have to break into the Savoy. His mother had shown him how the lock didn’t completely catch, and if you gave it a sharp shift to the right as you turned the handle, the lock would pop free. He wondered on occasion about some of the things his mother knew. Unlikely she would have left the faulty lock in place if she hadn’t intended it to be that way. Did she install the lock herself, giving her access if she needed it?

  He’d think about that another day.

  Right now, the door was not locked, and it swung open as Angus touched the handle.

  He sprinted up the stairs to check the office and the spare rooms on the second floor. It was possible, although highly unlikely, she’d simply sat down and fallen asleep.

  But all was dark and empty. The only sounds were floorboards groaning under his feet and Graham Donohue searching below.

  The newspaperman shouted, “Angus. Here. Quickly.”

  Angus hit the stairs so fast his boot slipped, and he tumbled in a mess of windmilling arms and legs toward the bottom. He grabbed the banister and managed to keep himself upright, and then he ran through the building to the dance hall, where Donohue stood by the back wall.

  “Door was standing wide open,” Donohue said. “And look.” He pointed outside. The light in the alley was never bright, but at this time of the morning it was good enough to see a clear imprint of a woman’s shoe in the mud. A larger boot print was beside it.

  “Mother would never leave the front door unlocked and the back standing open. Anyone could come by and help himself to the whisky.”

  Donahue looked up from the footprints and caught Angus’s eye. The boy could see the reflection of his own worry in the newspaperman’s face.

  They turned at the sound of voices in the saloon. “Out here,” Angus shouted.

  Corporal Sterling was first, followed by a constable who didn’t look much older than Angus himself. Mrs. Mann, puffing heavily from her exertions, brought up the rear.

  “Mrs. Mann says your mother’s missing?” Sterling said. He was dressed in uniform, as was the young con
stable, hats straight, buttons done up. Mrs. Mann must have found them at the detachment.

  “It would seem so,” Donohue spoke before Angus could. “Looks like she ran out the back door, and I’m about to go out and have a look.”

  “Step back, please,” Sterling said. “Mrs. Mann would you ...”

  The woman put her arm around Angus’s shoulders. He shook her off. He felt panic rising and tried to force it down. “We’re wasting time.” He was embarrassed at the shake in his voice.

  “Looking for evidence is never a waste of time, Angus. Wait here.” Keeping his eyes on the ground and placing his feet carefully, Corporal Sterling stepped into the alley. Angus felt his heart pounding in his chest and the weight of Mrs. Mann’s arm on his shoulders. The Mountie was back in seconds. “Alley’s clear,” he said. “But the mud’s all churned up. I want to take a closer look, but first, Angus, do you have any idea where your mother might have gone?”

  There was another shout and more footsteps as Mr. Mann joined them. “Wees not seens her at seh waterfront. None of seh boats haves left since yesterday afternoon.” Two scruffy looking fellows followed in his wake.

  “What on earth is going on here?” Ray Walker shouted. The buttons on his shirt were done up incorrectly, only one of his boots laced, and he wasn’t wearing a hat. He also had a retinue of followers. “Joe Hamilton here,” Walker said, with a jerk of his thumb to the man close behind him, “came round to tell me the Mounties are crawling all over the Savoy and someone’s been asking if Fiona got on a boat?”

  “Is there a party?” A woman’s voice said. It was Betsy, one of the dancers. “Why Maxie and me, we’s walking out this morning and here’s the door open and people coming in.” She peered at the group, growing by the minute. “It’s Sunday but must be all right if’n the Mounties are here.”

  “Walker,” Sterling said, “you’d better lock the front door before the rest of the town gets here.”

  Ray Walker passed his key to Joe Hamilton with a jerk of his head, and the man scurried off.

  “Angus,” Sterling said, “you were about to tell me what’s going on.”

  Maxie and Betsy settled themselves onto a bench. Maxie tidied her hat, and Betsy arranged her skirts carefully around her legs and kept her eye on Ray Walker. He ignored her.

  Hamilton returned at a fast clip, not wanting to miss any of Angus’s revelations. He was followed by Old Barney, the bartender Murray, a fresh-faced young cheechako Angus didn’t recognize, two grizzled sourdoughs, and Anna Marie Vanderhaege from the bakery, wiping her hands on her flour-covered apron. Walker pointedly held out his hand for the key. Hamilton passed it over with obvious reluctance.

  “Almost got myself locked out,” Barney said with a chuckle. “That would never do. What’s your ma gone and done now, boy?”

  One of the sourdoughs coughed and spat a lump of bloody phlegm into his filthy hand. He wiped the hand on the seat of his pants. His eyes were red and dripping mucus, and he didn’t have a tooth in his mouth.

  “Don’t tell us Mrs. MacGillivray’s in trouble again,” Miss Vanderhaege said, clearly hoping to hear just such news.

  Angus looked at Corporal Sterling and Ray Walker, trying to ignore the press of people. “Paul Sheridan. We told you about him, remember, sir? Part of Soapy Smith’s gang from over in Skagway.”

  The words Soapy Smith and gang moved through the crowd.

  “I remember. I spoke to the man myself. He said he wasn’t with Soapy any more.”

  “That was true. He left Skagway because he has this map, a map he says will take him to,” Angus looked around the room, everyone leaning closer to hear better, “a valley where it’s tropical all year round, even though it’s north of here, because of the hot springs.” Angus decided best not to mention the mountain of gold.

  Barney snorted. “Not that damn fool story again.” Long unwashed hair and unkempt beards shook as the other sourdoughs indicated their agreement. “Every couple o’ years, as long as I kin remember, someone comes lookin’ for that valley. Bet he told you the hills are solid gold too, right?”

  Angus nodded.

  “You ever seen a hot springs, boy?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Water’s hot all right. Man kin have a nice bath outdoors middle o’ winter. But one foot away from the water, the snow’s as deep as a moose’s ass. Beggin’ your pardon, Corporal, ladies.”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Sterling said. “Continue, Angus.”

  Barney found something of interest in his back teeth and began excavating for it.

  Angus said, “He’s got this map and he wants my ma and me to come with him. To live in this valley.”

  Ray Walker slapped his forehead with his hand. “Is the man insane?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Angus said. “He told her we would leave Sunday morning. Right about now actually. But she didn’t come home last night and ...”

  “I left her here,” Walker said. “Alone. Never thought a thing about it. Even if this was a rough town ye ken, and it isn’t, Fiona never needs protection. We closed up and I forgot to lock the back door. Remembered when we were standing on the stoop out front. She came back inside to do it and I left. I’m sorry, Angus. So sorry.”

  That was about the longest speech Angus had ever heard Ray Walker give. The man’s accent was so strong, particularly when he was stressed or worried, Angus could barely understand one word in two. But he got the point. As did Sterling.

  “You couldn’t know, Walker,” the Mountie said. “Don’t blame yourself.” Angus could see by the anguished look on his mother’s partner’s unwashed and unshaven face that he did.

  Walker suddenly whirled around and glared at Betsy. “No, that’s nae right. I dinna leave her alone. You stayed behind because she wanted a word.”

  Betsy squeaked. “I didn’t do nothin’. She wanted to tell me I’d done a great job in the play and she’s thinkin’ o’ givin’ me a speaking part.”

  Maxie laughed.

  “I doubt that very much,” Walker said. “What have ye done with her?”

  “What!” Betsy leapt to her feet. “Now see here ...”

  “Enough!” Sterling bellowed. “Sit down, Madam.” Betsy sat so hard the bench rattled. “And tell us what happened after Walker left.”

  “Like I said,” she sniffed, “Mrs. MacGillivray had a word with me. And then I left too. Couldn’t of been more than a minute or two behind Mr. Walker and the rest.”

  “Was anyone with her when you left?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone approaching the Savoy?”

  She twisted her hands and then lifted her chin and looked directly into Sterling’s eyes. “No. I saw no one.”

  The words hung in the room, and Betsy snuck a peek at Ray Walker.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Sterling said. “Right now, I need all you people ...”

  “What seems to be the problem here?” Sergeant Lancaster stuck his head through the back door. “Goodness me. Word came to the Fort that there’s trouble at the Savoy, so naturally I volunteered to investigate.”

  Sterling suppressed a groan. “Please come in, sir. And watch where you step. Is anyone else out there with you?”

  A burst of female laughter answered him, and three women who worked out of the cribs on Paradise Alley peered around Lancaster’s bulk into the room.

  Sterling finally lost his patience. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. This is a crime scene, not a lady’s garden party. McAllen, get outside and block the entrance to this alley. Not one more person is to come this way under threat of arrest. Watch where you step. You,” he bellowed at a lady with painted cheeks and hair far redder than found in nature. “Do not move. Sergeant, get in here so those ladies can get their feet out of the evidence.”

  “Oh, evidence,” a second woman said. She peered at the ground around her, looking for such a thing.

  “I don’t care for ...” Lancaster began, b
ut the red-headed woman pushed him aside and came in. She was comfortably padded, fat almost, with small brown eyes in a face the colour and consistency of uncooked pastry. Cheap rings were trapped in the flesh of her pudgy fingers, and wiry grey hairs protruded from her chin and upper lip. Her companions followed. They were both younger, and one of them might have been pretty, if not for the eye that drooped to one side and a slack mouth that dripped drool. A wave of cheap scent accompanied them. Lancaster followed meekly.

  “Bar open?” one of the prostitutes inquired of Ray. He growled in answer. McAllen went through the door sideways, head down, cheeks burning, taking great care not to brush up against the women’s skirts.

  Sterling rolled his eyes and sighed. “Mr. Mann, go to the Fort, if you will. Find Inspector McKnight and request more men to secure this area. Walker, let him out and be sure to relock the door. I’m going outside and anyone who follows me, male or female, will spend the rest of the month chopping wood at the Fort. Do you understand?” He swept the room with his eyes. Angus followed his gaze. Most of the people had begun to realize that this was not an impromptu party. Even Old Barney was looking worried.

  “Sir,” Angus said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m coming with you.”

  Sterling studied him. “Very well. But keep your footsteps inside mine.”

  * * *

  It was a sunny day and the light in the alley was good. The print from a woman’s shoe had been trodden on by Sergeant Lancaster, but Sterling had seen it before it was destroyed. The three prostitutes had confused matters, but he should be able to distinguish their footprints — coming into the Savoy — from the set he was interested in — leaving the Savoy. “Shut the door behind you, Angus,” he said. “We don’t need everyone and their dog helping.”

  Angus did as he was told, shutting off the wave of excited voices. “What do you think’s happened, sir?”

  “I think that she isn’t here, in this alley, and that’s good.” Sterling pointed to a line of footsteps. “See how far apart the prints are and how deep? She was running. Those bigger prints, they were following her, running also. They overlay the lady’s print in places, but the lady’s shoe prints do not overlay the larger ones. I’m not saying someone was chasing her, mind, anyone at all might have come this way after the lady put down those prints. As we’ve seen, the doors of the Savoy, Sunday or not, get a lot of traffic. Nor am I saying the footprints belong to your mother.”