by Vicki Delany
“Did Ireland have reason to believe that Irene Davidson might give him more dances than he paid for?”
“Unfortunately, he may have,” I said. Obviously the man knew everything, no point in pretending otherwise. “I believe they spent some time together the previous evening, after closing. Perhaps he thought that gave him the right to certain liberties.”
“Gossip, Fee.” Ray was not doing a very good job of hiding his anger at the direction in which these questions were heading. “Now you’re the one spreading gossip.”
“Sorry, I didn’t quite get that, Mr. Walker.”
“He accused me of listening to gossip. Which I never do. Much too common.” I glared at Ray. He threw daggers back. We must have presented an interesting sight to the observant constable.
I waited for Sterling to ask me what else I knew about Irene’s involvement with Ireland. A meaningless phrase like “spent some time together” covered a lot of sins. But his focus shifted.
“At what time did this trouble take place?” “At about, ahem, the time you arrived to watch us closing down.”
“I didn’t see you, Walker. In fact, a couple of your bartenders were showing Mr. Ireland the door. Under Mrs. MacGillivray’s supervision, if I remember correctly. Where were you at the time?”
“Supervising the closing of the gambling rooms, of course,” I answered for my taciturn partner. “Precisely where he would be expected to be at that time of the night.” I opened the inexpensive watch I keep pinned at the waist of my dress when I’m working. “Goodness me, look at the time. Almost opening. If you have no more questions, Constable?” I got to my feet and gathered up my ledger and pen.
Clearly, Sterling had plenty more questions, but he was too well brought up to remain seated when a lady got to her feet. Unlike Ray, who remained slumped over the table.
I tossed the constable a demure smile and dared to flutter my eyelashes. But only once. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re investigating this horrid business so seriously, Constable Sterling. That such a thing could happen in our establishment is simply beyond belief. Isn’t it, Ray? Ray!” If my partner had been any closer, I would have kicked him.
“You can count on me to do my duty, Mrs. MacGillivray.” Sterling tucked his notebook and pencil back into the pocket of his scarlet tunic. “Inspector McKnight will want to speak to you later. And you too, Walker.”
“I can be found in my office every morning from nine o’clock until shortly before noon, unless I’m running errands. He’s welcome to call on me then.”
Sterling nodded politely, put his hat on his head and made for the door.
I tossed the ledger on the table, collapsed back into my chair, and took a deep breath. “What the bloody hell’s the matter with you, Ray?”
“Lucky the constable isn’t here, Fee. He’d have you up on charges for language like that.”
“Damn the constable.”
The corners of my partner’s mouth turned up.
“Don’t you understand what’s at stake here?” I said. “There hasn’t been a single murder in Dawson this year. And this one happens right in the middle of our place. The police will be dead keen to solve it. Fast. I wouldn’t trust that McKnight not to pick the first available suspect and drag him off to a hanging.”
“Or her?”
“What?”
“Or drag her off to the hanging, Fee.”
“Are you saying they’re going to investigate me?”
“No, I’m not. Sterling wouldn’t arrest you if he came upon you up to your elbows in blood dissecting the corpse with a paring knife.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I didn’t kill Ireland, Fee.”
“But…”
“But I don’t want the police investigating Irene, that’s all.”
I couldn’t see why they would think Irene had murdered anyone. We’d thrown Ireland out, hadn’t we? Irene would scarcely have come back to the deserted Savoy the next day to meet up with him once again.
Would she?
Why was Ray so worried about her? Or was he? Maybe he was trying to be clever: throw suspicion on Irene so that everyone would think he was protecting her. What nonsense. My imagination was galloping away with me.
“If there is anyone in this town who didn’t want Jack Ireland dead, I’ll stand him to a month of drinks,” I said. “I have to get over to the bank. Constable Sterling is much too polite to make any sort of a detective. He could have pushed us a lot harder.”
The edges of Ray’s mouth lifted a fraction higher. “Only with you, Fee. Only with you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Where’s Angus this morning?”
“Working. He has a job helping Mr. Mann at the store.”
Helen came into the room, her steps hesitant, wondering if it was safe. As the police had gone and Ray and I didn’t appear to be about to rip each other’s throats out, she started to pile the abandoned coffee things onto her tray. She eyed the plate of largely untouched biscuits. “No one hungry this morning? Not to worry. Murder does that to a person’s appetite. They’ll keep nicely for your afternoon tea, Mrs. Mac.”
Ray stifled a laugh.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The bank clerk winked at me. He was a good-looking young man, French Canadian, who had always greeted me with scrupulous politeness and a no-nonsense attitude as befits two educated persons of business conducting important financial matters.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, my chin up. “Are my books not in order?”
“Everything is in perfect order, Madame MacGillivray, as always.” He leaned closer to the iron grill separating us. “I ’eard you fought a few rounds with a drunk the other night.”
The line behind me curled out of the ramshackle building and snaked a long way down the street. The people closest to me shifted. Sensing that some confidence was being exchanged, they edged closer.
“Broke ’is nose with an uppercut, eh?” The clerk practically drooled.
The things that excite men.
“Most certainly not.” I tossed my head. “I merely explained to the gentleman in question that his behaviour was not at all proper, whereupon he left.”
“Fellows who were there say after you put ’im on the floor, ’e returned after closing to get vengeance, and Walker killed ’im. Non?”
“Non! Absolument, non! Give me my account book. Don’t you dare be repeating that sort of malicious gossip. I didn’t break any noses, and Ray Walker didn’t kill anyone. You tell people we did and I’ll…I’ll…be cross. That’s it, I’ll be cross.”
I snatched up my banking book and whirled around.
Every person in the bank, and a few who stood outside peering in through the windows, watched me.
“What nonsense. Foolish nonsense, like a pack of ill-raised children calling each other names in the park while their nannies’ attention wanders,” I muttered, passing through the crowd. As I hoped, a great many of the onlookers, particularly the handful of women present, took up the words. “Nonsense,” they whispered to each other. “Childish.”
I walked away from the centre of town, heading back to my lodgings on Fourth Street, for no other reason than it was my custom to do so. I didn’t feel much like a nap. Angus would be at work. I contemplated making a detour and dropping in to the store. Would he be pleased to see me or embarrassed that his mother was keeping an eye on him?
I hesitated at the cross street in front of a small shop advertising its purpose as “Sewing done here. For Ladies and Gentlemen”, wondering which way to go.
Irene and Chloe came out of the shop, Irene turning a hat in her hands. It was a nice hat, with a few feathers stuck in the band and a broad brim offering protection for a lady’s face from the effects of the sun. Badly-made stitches tried, and failed miserably, to disguise a wide rip across the crown. But Irene placed the hat on her head with satisfaction. I would have tossed it into the garbage before
even leaving the shop, but in Dawson one makes do.
“Mrs. MacGillivray,” Irene said with a bright smile. Chloe showed her teeth. “Don’t you love what she did with my hat? Why, you can scarcely see the stitches. Right as rain, ain’t it?” She touched the hat brim and gave me a pleased-with-herself smile.
“Lovely.” “I’m glad I ran into you.” She grabbed my arm in a gesture that came perilously close to familiarity. Wasn’t that like an American! I shook her hand off, but she didn’t take offence, scarcely seeming to notice.
“We’re on our way to the Savoy,” she breathed. “The seamstress said Jack Ireland was found dead in the dance hall last night. Is it true?” Irene wore a practical day costume of soft pink blouse with generous sleeves above a cream skirt.
A wide black belt wrapped itself tightly around her waist. The hat, unfortunately, had a purple ribbon drooping down the back that didn’t go at all with the pink blouse. Her cheeks were a too-bright red, and her eyes flashed with enjoyment at the news. She patted her generous chest, the dream of many a man working out on the creeks.
Plain Chloe wore a cotton dress of an unattractive plum, which clashed with her complexion, and an unadorned straw hat.
“Unfortunately, it is true,” I said.
Irene leaned closer, out of the hearing range of the small crowd of men surrounding us. The moment we stopped walking, they had gathered around, as eager to soak up the presence of the most-popular dance hall girl in the Yukon Territory and (if I may say so) the most beautiful woman. They were like a litter of new-born puppies pushing and shoving each other aside to get at their mother’s teats. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “Do you think Ray did it? For me?”
I stepped back. “I most certainly do not. And there was nothing wonderful about it in the least.” I looked her up and down. “You seem to be much improved this morning. Aches and pains gone away, have they?”
Chloe tugged at her friend’s arm. “Come on, Irene.”
Irene shook her off.
“I tell you, Mrs. MacGillivray, as soon as I heard the news, my bruises seemed to heal themselves. Ain’t that right, Chloe?”
One old fellow, braver than the rest, had edged forward. He shivered at the mention of Irene’s bruises. I turned to our crowd of admirers. “If you gentlemen are looking for somewhere to pass the time this morning, the Savoy is open for business. Please tell the bartender that Mrs. MacGillivray sent you.” They scattered, a few of the men who were newer to town naïvely thinking that mention of my name would give them a discount.
I lowered my voice. “If you know anything about Ireland’s death, Irene, you had best speak to the police.”
She adjusted her hat ever so slightly and pouted. “Me? Heavens, Mrs. MacGillivray, I don’t know nothing. I’m just glad he’s dead. The bastard. See you tonight.” She waved her fingers cheerfully and walked past me.
I watched her go. Another person not too sad at the demise of Jack Ireland. A young dandy, dressed like a proper English country gentlemen in a tweed suit with gold-topped walking stick, stepped up to offer Irene his arm. She accepted it, and they strolled down the street, the feather on her hat bobbing with enthusiasm as she chattered away. Chloe, forgotten, tagged along behind.
Chapter Twenty-Six
He had only been working at the hardware store for ten minutes before Angus MacGillivray knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the life of a shopkeeper wasn’t for him. He stuck it out through the morning, dragging stock from boxes stacked at the back of the tent as the stuff up front was sold off, and waiting on customers, although Mr.
Mann wouldn’t let him handle any money or gold dust. Mr. Mann’s shop was down by the waterfront. It fact, it sat smack dab on the waterfront, on a marshy patch of land that had been underwater during the spring floods. But it was close to where the steamboats and rafts tied up after their trip up the Yukon River.
More than a few men staggered off the boats, took one look at the town they’d tried so hard to reach, and offered to sell the nearest merchant all they had. For pennies on the dollar. And merchants such as Mr. Mann were more than happy to help them out. There were as many men eager to buy as to sell, and at the highest prices in all of North America. Mr. Mann specialised in hardware— construction supplies such as nails, hammers and saws— although he was agreeable to handling anything and everything that he could buy for one price and sell for a higher amount. His canvas tent was one of the largest of the multitude that stood storage-box-to-storage-box, guyrope-to-guy-rope, and tent-peg-to-tent-peg all along the sandbar. The tent on one side of them sold tinned goods, on the other, men’s clothes, most of which were heavily worn and many-times repaired.
When Angus and Mr. Mann left for work that morning, Mrs. Mann had handed Angus a large package, wrapped in brown paper, and Mr. Mann had told him that he would have half an hour for his lunch.
He’d never so much as thought about where food came from and how it was prepared before he and his mother had headed for the Chilkoot trail and the Yukon Territory, but he’d soon learned enough to help feed the porters and themselves. Angus had begun to think that he might like to be a chef in a fancy restaurant some day. That was, of course, if for some reason he didn’t become a Mountie. Or a cowboy, riding the range, herding cattle.
But working in the hardware store, along side the taciturn Mr. Mann? He couldn’t imagine anything worse.
At noon, delighted to escape from the narrow world of the canvas tent and Mr. Mann’s watchful, hooded eyes, Angus carried his meal down to the docks to watch the boats coming in and the crowds gathering.
It was a pleasant day, the sun warm in a white and blue sky. The docks didn’t offer any place to sit as every tree or patch of green grass had been chopped down or pounded underfoot long ago. Angus placed his lunch on a tall wooden box and unwrapped it. Mrs. Mann didn’t disappoint, and he dug enthusiastically into a thick sandwich. This working stuff made a man hungry.
A poster had been nailed to the box advertising a prize fight between Slim Jim, “The Pride of New York City” and “Canada’s Own” Big Boris Bovery. Angus wished he could go to the match. But they’d never let a boy like him across the threshold.
The sandwich was dry, could do with a lot more butter, and the bread wasn’t fresh. But the beef filling was thick, and there were two more sandwiches in the packet, along with a pile of cookies.
“What are you doing down here, my lad?” Sergeant Lancaster bellowed into Angus’s ear. “Sterling gave me your message. Said you can’t make the lesson ’cause you have to work. In a store. That’s no excuse for a man missing his boxing lesson. Take me to meet this boss of yours.”
“That’s probably not a good idea, sir. He wouldn’t understand.”
“Nonsense, boy. Soon as the fellow knows what’s what, he’ll let you off work. Nice lunch you have there. Your mother make it for you?”
“No, sir. Mrs. Mann, our landlady.”
Lancaster eyed the remaining sandwiches.
“Would you like one, sir?”
“No. No. Can’t take your food, eh? You’re a growing boy.”
“There’s more here than I can eat.” Angus said. Reluctantly, he pushed the package over.
Lancaster snatched a sandwich and bit off a generous mouthful. “Let’s go talk to this boss of yours.”
“I don’t think…”
“Lead the way, boy.”
Before Angus could fold up his lunch wrappings, Lancaster snatched a couple of cookies. Angus’s boxing instructor was big, burly—owing more to fat than muscle these days—nose broken multiple times, almost bald, with a bullet-shaped head, ears like cauliflowers, and as ugly as sin. All that good stuff, Angus thought, that came with being a genuine boxing champion.
Mr. Mann agreed that Angus could take the occasional afternoon off work in order to have his boxing lesson. Mrs. MacGillivray had no need, he said with a heavy wink, to know that her boy wasn’t working in the store in the afternoons. He also told Angus that his
pay on lesson days would be cut in half. Oh well, if his mother asked what happened to half his pay, Angus would explain that Mr. Mann decided he didn’t need help some afternoons. But he didn’t expect her to have much interest in counting the few cents that would amount to his day’s wages.
Lancaster led Angus through town to the fort. “Shopkeeping’s no job for a man,” he said at one point, stepping around the carcass of a horse that had moments before simply decided to stop working and to lie down to die in the middle of the street.
“Mr. Mann does well at it,” Angus ventured to say, feeling some need to be loyal to his employer. “He makes good money.”
“Shop work’s for immigrants and women,” Lancaster explained. “You can stay there for awhile. It’s important you begin to earn some money to support your mother, but not for long.”
Angus was happy to be given the chance to take lessons. And from a former champ at that. After all, there was no one else who could be relied upon to protect his mother. But his face still hurt from the “accidental” blow Lancaster had landed on it at the first lesson.
“Tell you what,” Lancaster said, as they crossed the Fort Herchmer central square. The wind was low, and the Union Jack hung limply on the flag pole. “There’s a match Thursday at the Horseshoe between Slim Jim and Big Boris Bovery. How’d you like to come with me,?”
“Would I? Yes, sir! That would be wonderful, sir!”
“Good lad.” Reality intruded, and Angus’s heart sank.
“But they won’t let me in, sir. I’m only twelve.”
“Don’t worry about it, son. I’ll vouch for you.” Lancaster slapped him so hard on the back, Angus almost tumbled across the square. But he scarcely minded. A real prizefight. He couldn’t wait.
Now all he had to do was make sure his ma didn’t catch wind of it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
