by Vicki Delany
“Who else’s would they be?”
“Who else indeed.”
Constable McAllen stood on the boardwalk at York Street. Sterling noted with approval that the man wasn’t watching him but faced the street, eyes on the people trying to get a peek into the alley, arms outstretched to keep them back.
Sterling walked carefully, thinking and observing before putting each foot down. Angus was silent behind him, the only sound the boy’s heavy breathing. They reached the corner of the building where the alley met York Street. The ground was churned up, the woman’s footprints disappearing into the mud. Something had lain here, thrashing about by the look of it. That something had been large enough to be a person. An abandoned wagon wheel was propped against the wall of the Savoy, a scrap of cloth caught on a rusting nail. Satin, in a green as pale as sage.
“My mother’s dress,” Angus said.
Fiona had worn the green satin dress to church and had still been wearing it when Sterling said his goodnights and left the wedding party. Her hat, of a sort any respectable matron might wear to church, had toned her dance-hall owner costume down enough so that she looked the role of bridesmaid perfectly. Sterling shook off the image of Fiona peeking out from beneath the raised brim on one side of the hat and giving him a smile as soft and innocent as a schoolgirl. The edges of her mouth had turned up, and he thought he might have seen the flash of a wink before she turned her attention back to Reverend Bowen droning on.
Sterling dropped into a squat. He reached out one hand and brushed his index finger across the scrap of fabric. Then, aware of Angus’s intense stare, he coughed, shook sense back into his head, and studied the area around the wagon wheel. Angus shifted behind him, allowing a shaft of sunlight to hit the ground. It flashed on a sliver of metal half-buried in the mud. Slowly and carefully, Richard Sterling lifted it up. About six inches long, sharpened to a fierce point, a fake pearl mounted on the opposite end. A hat pin.
“Recognize this?” Sterling asked Angus.
“My mother has one like that. Most women do, don’t they?”
“Yes.” But most women didn’t wear such a lovely green satin gown.
He studied the ground. There had been a fight here. Someone, almost certainly Fiona, had fallen or been knocked to the ground. His stomach clenched and a red mist descended behind his eyes.
“Sterling!” He started at the shout.
Inspector McKnight and Mr. Mann were standing with McAllen. Two constables were with them. “What have you got?”
Sterling pushed himself upright. “You can come, sir. I’ve seen all I need to.”
McKnight and his men walked toward them.
“You,” Sterling said to one of the constables. “Guard the corner at King Street. I don’t want every ghoul in town stamping all over this alley.” The man gave him a nod and trotted off.
“Let’s go back inside,” Sterling said.
Everyone in the dancehall jumped as the door opened. Joe Hamilton hastily stuffed a deck of cards into his pocket, Betsy stopped complaining about her sore feet, and one of the prostitutes took her hand off the knee of one of the cheechakos. Sergeant Lancaster’s tale of when he’d been the champion boxer of Winnipeg, told to a yawning Mrs. Mann, died on his lips.
Without laughing, cheering, foot-stomping miners, or badly played music, flickering kerosene lamps, and colourful costumes, the dance hall reminded Sterling of the building where his father, a pastor, held meetings. Stern and unadorned. Bare wood and long, deep shadows.
But most of all, without Fiona MacGillivray, black eyes constantly moving, neck and back straight, perfume subtle, gown and hair immaculate, the room seemed empty and sterile.
He shoved the sentiment aside.
It was just a room. A cheap room in a cheap frontier dancehall.
“Do we need all these people listening in?” McKnight asked.
“No. Walker, unlock the door. Everyone’s to leave except for Walker and Angus.”
“No! I stay.” Mr. Mann said very firmly.
“I guess that’s okay.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I find out what’s happened to my dear friend,” Mrs. Mann said, her chin extended and her tone matching her husband’s.
Everyone began shouting. No one made a move to follow Sterling’s orders.
“You can’t arrest us all, Corporal,” Barney said. “We’re here ’cause we care about Mrs. Fiona and we’re gonna help. Ain’t that right, boys?”
The men muttered their agreement.
“We could be here all day,” McKnight said. “Very well, carry on Mr. Sterling.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray appears to have been kidnapped,” Sterling said.
“Not again!” McKnight groaned as everyone started talking at once.
“Be quiet,” Sterling shouted above the din. “Or I’ll empty the room.”
The voices died down.
“That woman. For the life of me, I cannot understand how one female can so consistently get herself into trouble.” McKnight glared at Angus as if his mother’s conduct was all his fault.
“I say, sir,” Angus began. Sterling cut him off.
“She was here last night at midnight. You left,” he looked at Ray Walker, “out the front door?”
“Aye.”
“And you,” he asked Betsy, “you left through the front door also?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Whereupon Mrs. MacGillivray appears to have walked through to the back to lock the door leading onto the alley. Did she lock the front door after you, Betsy?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sterling gave her a long look. Then he said, “For the moment we’ll assume she did not. Someone entered through the unlocked front door and followed her through the building. He confronted her as she reached the back. I surmise she attempted to flee into the alley, and the man chased her. She got almost to York Street before he reached her. There was ...” Sterling was suddenly aware of the wide-eyed boy watching him. “I’m sorry, Angus, but I believe the man caught her and,” he coughed, “hit her and knocked her to the ground.”
The room erupted. Lancaster looked as though he were about to have a heart attack. Murray pounded his fist into his hand, and Barney spat on the floor. Maxie gasped and Mrs. Mann moaned. One of the men tittered and Joe Hamilton waved a fist in the fellow’s face. The red-headed prostitute leaned against the cheechako to steady herself. The cheechako put a comforting arm around her. Betsy said, “I didn’t think ...”
Sterling had to take a deep breath to steady his nerves. The thought of a lady such as Fiona being assaulted by a brute of a man.... She’d probably never seen an act of violence in her life. Other than the time she was knifed and tied up in the wilderness for the bears and wolves to get her. Or when a lunatic threatened to cut Martha Witherspoon’s throat, and Mouse O’Brien was shot trying to rescue her.
“What happened after that, I can’t tell. There are too many tracks on York Street for me to follow, particularly if the man in question had a horse and wagon, which was probably the case.”
“Do we have a suspect?” McKnight asked.
“I believe we do, yes. Angus, tell the inspector the story.”
Angus stepped forward. He described Paul Sheridan and repeated the story of Gold Mountain and the valley as warm as California.
Barney spat on the floor once again. Sterling saw the two cheechakos exchange glances and the men who’d followed Mr. Mann from the waterfront stand a bit straighter.
“Was this the person you let into the Savoy, Betsy?” Sterling asked.
“He was comin’ in as I was goin’ out.” She lifted her chin, realizing she’d been caught in a lie. “She shoulda locked the door if she didn’t want people trailin’ in. I was so pleased, you see, at being offered a speakin’ part in the play, I wasn’t paying much attention. Anyway, ain’t for me to be chasing customers away. Maybe she’d arranged to meet him once everyone were gone.”
“Why you ...” Walker
said.
“Leave it,” Sterling snapped. “We must assume this fellow Paul Sheridan has taken Fiona MacGillivray against her will and they are on their way to ... wherever this place is he wants to find.”
McKnight read something in the boy’s face. “Angus, do you know ...”
“I’d suggest we adjourn to the Fort, sir,” Sterling interrupted. “Nothing more can be accomplished here.” The last thing this town needed was Angus revealing details of the supposed location of the fabled Gold Mountain. Barney and the old timers knew the story was rubbish, but from the look on the faces of the city boys and the dock-workers, it wouldn’t take much to have them all rushing into the wilderness. Gold had a way of making men plumb crazy.
“What do we do now?” Murray shouted.
“Go home,” McKnight said. “It’s Sunday and these premises are closed. Leave this matter in the hands of the North-West Mounted Police, where it belongs. If you learn anything about the whereabouts of Mrs. Fiona MacGillivray or of this Sheridan, come to the Fort and make a report.”
Angus’s eyes filled and the boy struggled not to let the tears fall. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do for my mother?” Mrs. Mann touched his shoulder and he shrugged her off.
“I’m forming a search party. Who’s with me?” Joe Hamilton yelled. Some of the men shouted their agreement and stepped forward. Mr. Mann raised his hand, avoiding his wife’s angry glare.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” McKnight said. “You all go haring off into the wilderness you’ll be lucky to find your way back, never mind bring Mrs. MacGillivray with you.”
The cheechako signalled to his friend. The man unwound himself from the red-headed prostitute and the two men slipped away. The woman pouted. Several other men saw them leave, and a rush for the back door began.
McKnight continued talking as his audience got smaller and smaller. “If Mrs. MacGillivray has gone, against her will or not, with Sheridan, we can only hope the man has enough sense to turn around when he realizes this Gold Mountain’s a pipe dream.”
“If you won’t do anything, then I will,” Angus stretched to his full height. “Mr. Hamilton, I’m with you.”
“Angus,” Sterling snapped. “No one said we’re going to do nothing. Calm down. Hamilton, if I need you, I know where to find you. Walker, you and Angus come with me. I have some ideas. Everyone else, this place is closed. Get out or you’ll be arrested.”
The women began to leave. Miss Vanderdaege gave Angus a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Sterling saw the red-headed prostitute start to do the same, but her hand lingered on Angus’s chest and he growled, “Kate, one more charge and it’s a blue ticket for you.”
She snatched her hand away. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ Mr. Sterling,” she whined. “Just figured the boy needs a hug, what with his ma being missin’ and probably dead. Or somefin’ worse.”
Angus swallowed heavily.
Having scored a direct hit, she gave Sterling a smirk full of malice and left the dance hall. Her two companions scurried after her.
The Mounties did not have the facilities or supplies to accommodate prisoners. There were only two sentences handed out in the Yukon: a term spent chopping wood for the NWMP’s ravenous stoves, or a blue ticket, banning the miscreant from the territory permanently.
One of these days, Sterling thought, he’d find an excuse to see both Kate and her Madame, Joey LeBlanc, run out of town.
“Anyone else want to stand here and argue?” he said.
Mr. Mann took his wife’s arm. “Comes Helga, home now. Yous needs help, Sterling, I gives it.”
“Thank you.”
Betsy lumbered to her feet. “Are you sure the streets are safe, Corporal?” She shivered in terror and opened her eyes wide. “Mr. Walker, would you be so good as to walk a girl home. I’m that frightened.”
“No,” Walker said.
“I’ll protect you, Betsy,” Maxie said with an unladylike snort of laughter. She turned with a flounce of her skirts and stalked out, trailing mud behind her. Murray grinned and he and Betsy followed her.
Soon only Ray Walker, Graham Donohue, Angus MacGillivray, and the police were left.
McKnight coughed. “Well done clearing the room. Good job, Corporal. I suggest that we... uh.”
“Angus,” Sterling said. “Am I right that you’ve seen this map of Sheridan’s?”
“Yes, sir. I have.”
“Donohue, you’ve always got paper and pen on you. Give a blank sheet to Angus. Start drawing what you remember.”
Chapter Eighteen
I was a few days short of my eleventh birthday when my parents were murdered and I ran for my life. My father had been groundskeeper on a great estate, and he and I had walked the Black Cuillins of Skye together since I took my first steps. The Earl had eleven sons and one lonely, shy daughter, and I was being educated in the big house in order to provide her with companionship. Neither of my parents had stepped foot out of Western Skye in their lives, and my father never understood why anyone would possibly want to, but I knew something of the wider world. I dreamed of one day travelling to London, to Paris or Rome, perhaps even to New York.
I found the wider world far sooner than I wanted.
I ran from our neat white-washed croft, the bloodied bodies of my parents, and the man who had killed them. I hid in the wilds for three days, knowing he’d kill me if he found me. It was November and the Highland nights were cold and rain fell hard. Eventually, the scent of food cooking over an open fire lured me down from the hills.
I moved slowly through the trees. I’d thrown off the uncomfortable shoes I wore in the big house and was in my bare feet. I knew how to move in the wilds without making a sound.
A cart was pulled into a clearing beside a swift-moving creek, swollen with rain water. A sway-backed horse hobbled nearby chewed a patch of grass and lifted its head at my approach. It let out a soft whinny. I stood still until it lost interest and bent its big brown head back to its meal. Firelight flickered through the bare branches of the trees, water gurgled as it rushed over rocks, and people spoke in loud voices. A man shouted and a woman laughed. It was a nice laugh, I thought.
There are not many trees on Skye, and what there are tend to be small and scraggly, but the campsite was in a grove of alders. A large iron pot was suspended over the fire, emitting clouds of fragrant steam. My mouth watered.
“Come forward child,” a woman’s voice said.
No one had moved and no one had looked in my direction.
“The fire’s warm,” she said, “and the sloorich’s ready.”
The voice belonged to a woman squatting beside the pot. She held a large wooden spoon in her hand. She lifted her eyes and held out the spoon. “Stew. Hot and good.”
I stepped into the circle of light. Nine people watched me. No one moved, no one spoke. No one smiled. I knew they were Travellers, Gypsies. My father was charged with sending them on their way if they tried to set up camp on the Earl’s property when they weren’t needed, or giving them work at berry picking time.
The woman reached behind herself and found a bowl. Not looking at me, she dipped her spoon into the cauldron and slowly poured a long line of stew. I smelled rich broth, cooked vegetables, spices. She held out the bowl. “Eat, child.”
My manners fled and I dashed forward. I grabbed the offering. It was almost too hot to eat but I spooned it up quickly.
“Good?” she said when I paused for breath.
I nodded.
“Then sit.”
I squatted on the ground.
“What’s your name?” A man asked. His accent was very rough and the words broken. He was seated closest to the fire. The only one of them in a proper chair.
I hesitated. He had a large beard and long unkempt hair the colour of smoke rising from the fire. His eyes were cloudy and the skin on his face folded over and over itself. His hands were scarred and thick with calluses, the knuckles swollen with arthritis. He was missing the
thumb on his right hand. He smelled as if his teeth were rotting inside his mouth.
“I am called Fiona and I thank you for the dinner, ma’am, sir,” I said, remembering my manners at last. “It was most delicious.” I pulled my handkerchief out of my skirt pocket and dabbed at my lips.
The old man’s bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise. He threw a glance at the woman. She studied my face for a long time and then leaned over to put a log on the fire and as the flames shot up I could see she was as grey and well-worn as he although her brown eyes were bright and clear.
“What’re you doing out by yourself?” a younger man asked. “Are you lost?”
“No,” I replied, “I am not lost.”
“A runaway then,” he said.
I did not speak.
“You can eat with us tonight,” the old man said. His voice rumbled deep in his chest. “Sleep in the tent. Tomorrow I’ll decide.”
I thanked him. The woman began passing around bowls of stew. Sloorich, she explained to me. Everything into the pot with a lot of potatoes. A girl close to my age, dressed in a plain brown skirt with faded yellow blouse, shifted over on the log where she was sitting. She patted it, indicating that I could join her.
I smiled my thanks and did so.
Her hair was matted and dirty, but her face and hands were clean. She told me her name was Moira and pointed out the others. As well as the old man and woman, there was a younger woman, three boys older than I, one of whom stared openly at me, and two small girls, poking each other in the ribs and giggling at I knew not what.
The old woman handed around bowls of stew.
The men and boys were in working-man’s overalls and caps. Their collars and cuffs were shredding and stained with grime, but like the girl, their faces and hands were clean for eating. The two younger girls wore once-white dresses and pinafores. Their hair was a mass of blond curls, and one had a red ribbon looped through it and tied in a bow at the top.
