by Vicki Delany
My screams brought Ray double quick, followed by most of the staff and a good many of the barflies and gamblers.
News of the murder and the dead body found on our stage had brought out everyone from the mildly curious to the seriously ghoulish. When I’d checked the dance hall shortly after my dinner break, I’d found a man down on the stage on his knees, rocking back and forth and moaning. He was, he informed me, attempting to get the boards to “give up their secrets”. He had no sooner been escorted to the door—the last thing I needed was someone suggesting to the dancers that the stage might be haunted—than another man slipped in. He fell to his knees for a different purpose. I found him rubbing his fingers across the stained boards and licking them. I screamed and the finger-licker wasn’t escorted out quite as politely as had been the moaner.
I escaped to the privacy of Helen’s kitchen slash storage room. Ray followed me.
“Less than a month since these people began flooding into town. I’m beginning to wonder if my nerves can last for the remainder of the summer,” I said.
“Fee, ye’ve got the strongest nerves of any woman—any man, at that—I’ve known. We could close down and open a restaurant, if it’s getting a wee bit too much for you. Serve breakfast and light lunches. How much money did you take to the bank this morning?”
I smiled, embarrassed at my outburst. “Probably more than my father, bless him, earned in his lifetime.”
“There’s always that restaurant.” “If I were doing the cooking, then we’d have the >Mounties investigating us for sure. Go along, Ray. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Light lunches. What d’you suppose that means? Never had a light lunch in me life.” He opened the door and disappeared into the noise and smoke of the saloon.
I pinched my cheeks to put a touch of colour into them and patted my hair. I was wearing my second best dress, promoted to best. It was a pale green satin, the colour of distant ice floes reflecting the weak North Atlantic sunshine. Its clean folds fell, largely unadorned, in a perfect, curving line from high neckline to hem. It went exceptionally well with my dark hair, adorned with nothing but a single ribbon, cut from excess cloth, salvaged when (thank goodness) the over-sized bustle faded from fashion. Because the dress was so simple and the front cut so high, covering my throat, I’d added interest by wrapping strands of fake pearls around and around my neck. But I never felt quite as lovely wearing the green dress as I had in the crimson Worth. Still, I smoothed the fabric over my hips, took a deep breath, and marched into the packed bar.
“You’re looking even more stunning tonight than you normally do, Fiona.” Graham Donohue appeared at my elbow. “That shade of green does your hair perfect justice.” He bowed deeply and held his whisky glass up in a toast.
I recovered, just a bit, from mourning the red dress and gave him a smile. “Quite the crowd tonight.”
“The Savoy’s the talk of the town, as usual. They’re saying Jack Ireland expired in the centre of the stage. Tsk, tsk. Such a loss to American journalism.” He tossed back his whisky.
“Really, Graham! The man’s dead. Have some respect.”
“I hated him in life, Fiona. I won’t pretend I’m sorry about his death.”
We walked through the crowd. Men touched their hats and stepped aside to let us pass. The bartenders were busy.
I eyed Graham. “You knew Ireland before Dawson. Whatever did he do to you?”
“No need to worry about that now, is there, Fee?”
“I’m not worried in the least. But the Mounties might want to know.”
Graham peered into the depths of his glass. “I need another drink.”
Giggling and swaying their hips, a group of women spilled into the room. They walked through the space the admiring men created for them, heading straight for me.
“Ooh, Mrs. MacGillivray. We don’t know if we can perform tonight,” Chloe said with a shiver. The others nodded their agreement. “Killed. Right there on our stage. Suppose there’s blood, or something awful, on the stage, and one of us slips in it?”
“Really, Chloe. Ladies. I can assure you that Mrs. Saunderson has cleaned the entire dance hall thoroughly. You know what a conscientious worker she is.”
They nodded. One girl leaned over to ask another what conscientious meant. A few of the dancers turned to head for the back.
But Chloe couldn’t drop it. “Suppose he’s left his spirit behind? My gran always said…”
The departing girls gasped and stopped in their tracks.
“Stuff and nonsense,” I snapped. Time to stop this foolishness before I had a roomful of petulant dancers on my hands. “This is the Yukon Territory, Canada, in the year 1898. Don’t tell me you believe that Old World peasant nonsense, Chloe? I would have thought you too sophisticated for that.”
The girls glanced at each other out of the corner of their eyes. They weren’t Old World peasants.
“Follow me, and we’ll have a look at the stage, and you can see for yourself how clean it is.” I marched out of the saloon. The girls followed in a neat, obedient row like a flock of strangely dressed nuns behind Mother Superior.
If the finger-licker had managed to get back in, I would strangle him with my own hands.
But there was only the orchestra, unpacking their instruments and warming up, and Ellie and Irene, relaxing on benches before it was time to start the night’s work.
“Some of the less experienced ladies are worried about the state of the stage,” I announced to the room. Two of the girls at the back slipped away from the group to edge towards Ellie and Irene, not wanting to be included among the less experienced.
Ellie laughed. “You should’ve seen some of the places what I’ve danced in. They pushed the corpses up against the wall so we wouldn’t trip over ’em. Sometimes we used ’em as props. I remember the night Big Gertrude…”
Ellie loved to talk about “some of the places I’ve danced in”.
“My gran says…” Chloe murmured, standing alone as the other women gathered around Ellie to hear the story of Big Gertrude before getting ready for their night’s work. But no one was listening to her.
The orchestra struggled to their feet and gathered up their instruments. The dancers scurried off behind the stage in a flurry of lace and ribbons, pearl buttons, white cotton and colourful silk.
I wandered into the gambling room. Graham beckoned to me from his place at a table, where a high-stakes game of poker was underway. Chips were piled in the centre of the table and in front of every man. A cloud of dense, pungent smoke rose from their cigars.
“Fiona, give me a kiss for good luck.” I tossed a wave towards Graham and carried on around the table. As if I would ever appear to prefer one customer to another. Might as well shut the business down on the spot and put myself out to pasture. Or open Ray’s restaurant: breakfast and light lunches.
I continued through to the bar, arriving precisely as Inspector McKnight and Constable Sterling walked through the front door, following the orchestra as it returned from its eight o’clock performance on the street.
We met in the centre of the saloon. The crowd gathered around to eavesdrop.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Evening, Mrs. MacGillivray,” McKnight said. “We’re looking for a fellow named Donohue.” He certainly didn’t worry about observing the social graces, our Inspector McKnight.
I looked at Sterling. He avoided my eyes.
“Your man at the door says Donohue is in the next room. Is that correct?”
“Uh, I’m not sure. Why do you want him?”
“To assist with our investigation, of course. Now, if you could point this Donohue out to me, it would make things much simpler.”
“Certainly.” There was no point in pretending not to know Graham. Anyone in the Savoy, including Richard Sterling, could identify him. But I was not happy about taking McKnight into the gambling hall. I didn’t know what he wanted with Graham, and I didn’t want to find out. I
hesitated.
“Mrs. MacGillivray? If you’re not feeling well, I’m sure one of your employees can assist us.”
“This way.” I led the two policemen into the gambling room. The air was so thick with smoke from the men’s cigars that it was difficult to see the far side of the room. The roulette wheel clattered to the end of its spin, and Mouse O’Brien cheered lustily as he gathered up a pile of chips in his big hands. “Place your bets, gentlemen,” the croupier droned. No one looked up from the faro table, and the men at the poker games stared single-mindedly into their cards.
McKnight looked at Sterling. Sterling gestured with his head to where Graham Donohue was pushing a sizeable stack of chips into the middle of the table. McKnight crossed the room and placed his hand on Graham’s shoulder. “Mr. Donohue, will you come with us, please. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Graham Donohue instinctively pulled his hands back from his chips and clutched his cards to his chest. “I’m busy at the moment.”
“Too bad,” Inspector McKnight said. “I intend to talk to you. We can conduct our business here, if you like.”
The dealer’s eyes opened wide, and he looked at me for instruction.
I gave him a shrug. I had no better idea than he as to what we should do.
“We’re having a serious game here,” a poker player growled. It was the Indian fighter I’d noticed before. Probably not the sort of man who had a healthy respect for Her Majesty’s Officers of the Law.
“Graham,” I said, sensing trouble brewing, “I’m sure it won’t take long to answer Inspector McKnight’s questions. And then your game can continue.”
“You leave this table, pal, game’s over,” the Indian fighter said. He fingered his belt, looking disappointed not to find a six-shooter, or whatever they called it, resting there. Guns were banned from town. The two other players appeared relieved at having their game interrupted. I surmised that they didn’t have promising hands.
“If you don’t come willingly, Donohue,” McKnight said in a low voice, “then I will be forced to place you under arrest.”
Graham tossed his cards at the dealer and gathered up his chips. The Indian fighter growled, deep in his chest.
“If you interfere in this matter,” Sterling said to him, “you’ll find yourself under arrest. Dealer, portion out the remaining chips. This game is over.”
Graham got to his feet with a heavy sigh. The Indian fighter threw his cards on the table. “Don’t know what sort of town you’re running here. I’ll be on the next boat out.” He stuffed his chips into various pockets.
But he didn’t mean “next” in the literal sense: he joined the game at the faro table.
I hurried out the door in pursuit of Graham and the Mounties. The police stood on either side of my friend. Richard Sterling rested a hand on one of Graham’s elbows. The life of the bar swirled all around us. In the dance hall, Betsy’s voice reached a high note, reminding me that I should be in there, watching. Ray was occupied peeling a man up off the floor.
“Do you have a place where we can talk to Mr. Donohue?” McKnight asked. “In private.”
“No,” I said.
“For heaven’s sake, Fiona,” Graham pleaded, “say yes. I want to get this charade over.”
“Very well. You can use my office. Follow me.” I led the way up the stairs. All conversation stopped as every man in the room watched us. And not just those who were hoping to get a peek at my ankles.
I threw the door to the office open, and the three men marched through. I debated leaving, but decided on principle—it was my office—to hang around until they told me to go. I closed the door.
“Sit,” McKnight told Graham. Graham walked around my desk to sit in my chair, facing into the room. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow, and his hands shook as he pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. He avoided looking at me.
McKnight took the visitor’s chair. A match flashed as Sterling lit the lamp on the bookcase before leaning up against the wall.
“It has come to our attention, Mr. Donohue,” Inspector McKnight began, “that you were in a fight with the late Mr. Ireland the day he arrived in town.”
“So?”
“You want to tell me what you had against the fellow?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“If you were under arrest, Mr. Donohue, we wouldn’t be having this conversation on the second floor of a dance hall. I can arrest you if you’d prefer.”
“I met Ireland years ago. I was working at the New York World when they hired him on.”
“Year?”
“Late ’85, early ’86. Around then.”
“Go on.”
“Ireland arrived at the World as if he were cock-of-the-walk, big man around town, instead of the washed-up hasbeen he was even then. He was a right bastard.”
I expected Sterling to reprimand Graham for his language. That he didn’t made me truly understand the seriousness of the situation. What was vile language from someone facing possible murder charges?
“Lots of unpleasant men around,” McKnight said, quite sensibly. “Why’d you dislike this one so much?”
Graham shrugged, trying to appear casual and unconcerned. Which only made matters worse; he looked like a man with something to hide.
Worry touched at the front of my mind. Could he be hiding something?
“Constable,” McKnight said, “take Mr. Donohue to Fort Herchmer. Perhaps he’ll talk to us in the morning.”
“He besmirched the reputation of a gentleman of my acquaintance,” Graham snapped.
“And you’ve carried a grudge for what, almost fifteen years? Seems a bit much. We’ve been told that you had several run-ins with this Ireland since he arrived in town only a couple of days ago. People said you attacked him the moment you first laid eyes on him. Must have been some besmirching, wouldn’t you agree, Constable?”
Sterling grunted. He wasn’t looking any too happy either. He and Donohue weren’t exactly friends, but I’d always believed that they respected each other, perhaps even trusted each other, as much as a police officer and a newspaperman can. The constable glanced at me, then his eyes slid away.
“It was my sister’s husband, my brother-in-law,” Graham said, “who Ireland accused, in print, of knowingly selling faulty rifles in the war.”
“What war would that be?”
“The War Between the States, you fool. What war do you think?”
McKnight didn’t respond to the insult. I suspected he’d deliberately provoked it. “Plenty of wars to choose from. Did he?”
“Did who what?”
“Did your brother-in-law sell faulty rifles? Knowingly?”
“No, he did not.”
Sterling spoke for the first time. “Your sister’s husband must be a good deal older than you. That war ended more than thirty years ago.”
“He was. My sister, named Garnet after our mother, was eighteen years my senior and more of a mother to me than a sister. She raised me after our parents died when I was a baby. She didn’t marry, spent her youth caring for me. She was forty when she met Jeremiah MacIsaac. He was widowed, had grown sons he didn’t care much for, loved her enough not to mind her age. She was happy. They were happy. Until that bastard Ireland ruined it all.”
“Did the newspaper publish the story?” McKnight asked.
“Yes. Jeremiah sued. And won. Ireland had forged some of his documents. The World fired him.”
“So it ended happily.”
Graham leapt up from his seat, knocking the chair to the ground. His dark eyes blazed. “No, it didn’t end happily, Inspector. Some people believe everything they read in the papers. And a good many more don’t care whether it’s true or not. The scandal put an enormous strain on Garnet. Acquaintances cut her dead in the street; friends closed their doors in her face. Naturally, she was delighted when Jeremiah was vindicated, but she was never the same again. The affair broke her
heart. She died about a year later.”
I believed him. I’d seen Ireland at work; his story about Helen Saunderson, lies interwoven amongst the truth, would have killed the woman’s reputation if anyone in Dawson were inclined to care about such things.
“Please, Mr. Donohue,” McKnight said, “sit down.” He hadn’t batted an eyelid at Graham’s explosion, just sat in my visitor’s chair as if he were ordering cucumber sandwiches for tea.
Richard Sterling expressed my thoughts. “Sounds like Ireland to me, sir. Fellow hadn’t been here a day before he was stirring up trouble and threatening a lady’s reputation.”
For the first time since we’d entered the room, McKnight glanced behind him.
“Not me,” I said, answering the question in his eyes. “I don’t have a reputation worth threatening. My charwoman, Helen Saunderson.”
McKnight turned back to Donohue. I guessed he’d be talking to Helen next.
“Now that we’ve established that you had a motive for the murder of Jack Ireland…”
“What the hell? Are you trying to frame me?”
“Sit down, Mr. Donohue. I’m not attempting to frame anyone. Her Majesty’s North-West Mounted Police don’t operate in that fashion.” He didn’t bother to mention what police forces he thought did operate in that fashion. “Where were you yesterday in the early afternoon?”
“When?” Graham’s eyes shifted at the question. The colour rose in his neck, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His moustache drooped. He looked down at his hands, folded neatly across my desk. The knuckles were white.
“Sunday between, say, noon and three in the afternoon? Where were you?”
“I, uh, don’t remember.” “You don’t remember? That’s odd. It was only yesterday. I remember perfectly well what I was doing yesterday afternoon, although I might not remember a month from now. What were you doing yesterday at noon, Constable?”
“Me? I was in my bunk writing a letter to my sister.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray? Can you tell us what you were doing yesterday in the early afternoon?”
I didn’t want to. It was none of their business; let McKnight prove his point without involving me. I hesitated. McKnight didn’t bother to turn around to look at me. Graham studied his hands, his expression unreadable. If I said I didn’t remember, then I would be the one looking as if I had something to hide. “I took a stroll through town. I spoke to Mr. Alex McDonald and Miss Belinda Mulroney. Among others. I then…”
