Gold Digger: A Klondike Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  “Thank you, Mrs. MacGillivray. That will suffice.”

  “Do you want to tell me what you were doing yesterday, Sunday, between noon and three o’clock, Mr. Donohue?”

  Graham looked up. His eyes darted around the room. He looked at Richard; he looked at McKnight. But he didn’t look at me. One of the people I’d seen on my Sunday stroll had been Graham Donohue, slipping down a side street as if he wanted to avoid me. I gripped my hands behind my back and said nothing, willing Graham to speak up. He had been out for a walk on a pleasant afternoon. Like half the town, including me. Why wouldn’t he say so?

  It was very close to the Savoy that I’d seen him.

  “Writing.” He shouted out the word. “I remained at my boarding house, writing my regular dispatches to the paper. All day Sunday. Until about six, when I put down my pen and went in search of my dinner. There. Now I remember.” He looked at me at last. His smile was sickening.

  Not one of us believed him.

  “Can anyone confirm that? Your landlady, or a fellow border?”

  “Nope. No one. When I’m writing, I keep to myself. Don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Did you send a boy to get you food, perhaps?”

  “Didn’t see a soul, not all the day long. Not till dinnertime. That’s how I always spend the Lord’s Day.” He looked pleased with himself. If I couldn’t tell by the expression on his face that he was lying, the story was proof enough. He’d told me he got ravenous when writing his newspaper stories and kept a messenger boy occupied most of the day running back and forth to his favourite restaurant, ensuring he was constantly supplied with a stream of hot meals and sandwiches, snacks and coffee.

  “Very well, Mr. Donohue. That’s all for now. You can leave.”

  They weren’t arresting him? “I would hope so.” Graham got to his feet and tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. He stroked his moustache and pulled his watch out of his pocket to check the time. “Won’t say I’m sorry the son-of-a-bitch is dead. But if I’d killed him, I’d be bragging about it all over town.”

  I opened the door and stepped aside, searching Graham’s handsome face to see if the truth were carved there. He avoided looking at me, which was enough to convince me of his guilt. Graham loved looking at me.

  “One more thing, Mr. Donohue.” Graham stopped but didn’t turn around. The tension running across his shoulders and in the hand that rested on the doorknob was almost painful to observe.

  “Don’t leave town.” Graham didn’t shut the door behind him. Downstairs, a >man called for a round for everyone. In the dance hall the lively music ended abruptly, and the orchestra picked up a sad, melodious tune. Time for Irene’s big number, the one that always left the men sobbing into their dust-covered shirtsleeves and unwashed handkerchiefs.

  “He’s lying,” McKnight said.

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid he is.”

  “But men have lots of reasons to lie, Constable. And not all are to do with murder. Find out where he was yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But while we’re here, let’s talk to Walker.”

  “Sir?”

  “Walker, the bouncer. Go and get him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We listened to the heavy tread of Sterling’s boots on the loose floorboards, followed by the creak of the steps.

  “What do you think happened here yesterday, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

  “You’re asking me? Why?”

  “Because I sense you’re a woman who notices everything that happens around you. You may pretend to be the empty-headed, self-obsessed beauty, but you wouldn’t be here, in Dawson, owner of this establishment, if such were true, now would you?”

  I smiled at him. “You never know, Inspector. You seem to think everyone is the possible killer. Why not me?”

  “Because you’re much too intelligent to leave a body on your own doorstep, Mrs. MacGillivray. I have not the slightest doubt that had you decided Ireland needed to die, he would be so. This town hangs on the edge of the wilderness. Plenty of ground in which to hide a body, plenty of wildlife to make sure it stays hidden.”

  “You flatter me, Inspector.”

  “That is not my intention.”

  I smiled again and dipped my head, disguising, I hoped, the shiver of fear that passed through me. I hadn’t met many men who didn’t try to flatter me, and few of them meant me any good. If the Inspector decided to investigate my past, I might have to vacate town without delay. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I liked it here. And Angus loved it.

  Leaving town in a hurry was almost a habit of mine. When I was ten years old, frightened and confused, I’d left Bestford, the great estate on Skye where I’d been born, in the company of a group of travellers, with nothing to call my own except the clothes my mother had laid out for me that morning, the last morning of her life. At twenty-seven I had departed London ahead of a particularly vengeful Lord of the Realm and his team of hired inquiry agents. But that time I was not alone: I had a diamond and emerald necklace concealed in my petticoats to smooth the way and a seven-year-old child to complicate matters. I sailed to Canada and settled in Toronto under a new name, but four years later I was on the first available train out of Union Station, which happened to be going all the way to Vancouver, with a scented cedar box crammed with jewellery and a son of eleven.

  Every time I’m driven out of town, I do at least manage to leave in a better situation than the last time.

  We heard Ray complaining all the way up the stairs. “Busiest night of the year so far, got to keep an eye on the lads every minute.” He burst through the door in a whirlwind of tiny Scottish fury. “I’m a busy man, Inspector. Make it fast. Fee. Wondering where you’d gotten to.”

  “We can make it as fast as you want, Walker. Please sit down.” McKnight gestured to the chair behind the desk.

  Ray sat. His small eyes moved from one of us to the other, wet with suspicion. Sterling took his post against the wall, and I settled back into the door. Interesting that McKnight again took the visitor’s chair, the one facing away from the room, looking out over the street, instead of the much better one behind the desk.

  Interesting also that he allowed me to remain in the room.

  “As soon as you tell us where you were yesterday in the early afternoon, you can get back to your business.”

  Ray’s face almost collapsed in relief. “That’s it? That’s all you want to know?”

  “We talked last night. So for now, yes, that’s all I want to know.”

  “I got outta bed around ten. Had breakfast at the Regina Café, good food there, and lots of it. Met a man from my hometown, can ye believe it? an’ we spent most of the day walking around town, talking about Glasgow and the old days. Turns out we know a lot o’ the same people. His granny was great friends with me aunt. Small world, isn’t it?”

  “This fellow’s name?”

  “Johnny Stewart. Nice lad.”

  “What time did you and Mr. Stewart part company?”

  Ray shrugged. His face was unlined, untroubled; his eyes were clear. He was telling the truth: I would bet my life’s savings on it. Come to think of it, Ray and I were so intertwined in the business, I already had.

  “Sometime after five, probably. We went back to the Regina for a wee bit o’ supper around four, ’cause Johnny had to be in bed early. Wanted to have a good night’s kip.”

  “We’ll need to speak to Mr. Stewart.”

  “He’s gone up to the Creeks. Prospecting. That’s why he needed to get himself to bed early. He was leaving with a bunch of cheechakos this morning, first light. Told him the next time he’s in town, we’d treat him real special at the Savoy, Fee. Maybe even give him a room. That all right with you?”

  “Any friend of your grandmother, Ray, is welcome here.”

  “My aunt Lenora,” he corrected me.

  “Are you saying that this man has gone to Bonanza Creek?” McKnight interrupted.

  “Yup,” Ray
said, getting to his feet. “Told him he was wasting his time prospecting. More money to be made here in town, I said. But he has his heart set on finding gold and going back to Glasgow a rich man.”

  “And once you and Mr. Stewart parted company, where did you go?”

  “Back to me room. Where I was when Angus came and fetched me.” The slightest of clouds passed over Ray’s face, and his eyes darted around the room. Once again someone was looking everywhere but at me. “If that’s all, Inspector? It’s a busy night downstairs.”

  “We’ll want to talk to Mr. Stewart. Can you describe him?”

  Ray shrugged, not particularly concerned. “Bit shorter than me. Skinny. Clean shaven. Lost most of his hair on top.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirty, thirty-five.” Ray shrugged again.

  “That’s all for now, Mr. Walker. Thank you.”

  Ray left, still avoiding my eyes.

  “I hope you got most of that, Constable. Was the man speaking English? Mrs. MacGillivray, did Walker confess to murder?”

  My attention snapped back. “What? Of course not! Oh, you’re making a joke.”

  McKnight may have smiled. Beneath that overgrown moustache, it was hard to tell. “My mother came from Paisley. That’s near Glasgow.” He took off his glasses, pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at the lenses.

  “I know where Paisley is.”

  “Now, your late husband, Mrs. MacGillivray, he must have been a true Scottish lad. Although you’ve got a hint of the Highlands yourself when you get overly emotional.”

  I was about to say something—a nice chat about the old country, keep the tone friendly—but at his last comment, I snapped my mouth shut. I have never been overly emotional in my life. And if McKnight could hear Scotland in my voice, he had a very good ear indeed. Next, he’d be reading my mind.

  Sterling extinguished the lamp, and we left my office. McKnight placed his glasses back on his nose and chatted merrily about the variety of accents he’d heard in his travels.

  I wanted to tell him to shut up: I had things to think about. Instead I slapped on my most gracious dance-hallowner smile and ran my pearls through my fingers.

  We stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Find out what Donohue was up to, Constable. No good, I’m thinking,” McKnight said, pulling a cigar out of his coat pocket. “Tomorrow you can head for the Creeks. Locate this Scottish fellow, Stewart. Make sure he backs up what Walker said. Probably not necessary. I’m pretty sure Walker’s story was accurate. That part of it at any rate, the part that covers the time we’re interested in. But something happened once he and Stewart separated that Walker didn’t want to talk about, and I don’t like not having all the answers.

  “Mrs. MacGillivray.” He nodded politely, bit down on the end of his cigar, and made his way through the crowd.

  Constable Sterling raised one expressive eyebrow.

  “And after you’ve finished that,” I said, “you can find out who really killed President Lincoln and in your spare time identify the leaders of the Fenians.”

  “All in a day’s work,” he said with a gentle smile.

  “You don’t really think…”

  “I don’t think anything, Fiona. Mrs. MacGillivray. I’ll dig up the facts and let them think for themselves. Good night.” He touched the brim of his hat.

  “Good night, Constable.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “What are you doing here at this time of night, son?”

  Angus almost leapt out of his skin as the deep voice sounded in his ear. The other boys scurried off into the shadows behind the buildings.

  It was after midnight, but in Dawson in June, still bright enough to read by.

  “Nothing, Constable Sterling, sir. Nothing. Hunting rats, that’s all.”

  In the shadows, one of the boys swore as his shin made contact with a piece of rough lumber. His friends whispered hushes were almost as loud as a steamship whistle when it caught its first sight of town.

  “Rats, eh? Mighty big rats around tonight. Your mother know you’re out?”

  “She doesn’t mind, sir. She says it’s fine.”

  “Angus.”

  “Sorry, sir. No, she thinks I’m at home. You won’t tell her, will you?”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you home. Those rats had better be off home too.” More scurries in the dark. “And no, I won’t tell your mother. She has enough on her mind what with worrying about the Savoy and the trouble there yesterday.”

  “That death, Mr. Ireland, it won’t hurt my ma, will it?”

  “It might, Angus, it might. Murder has a nasty way of touching everyone it comes into contact with. Makes men mistrust each other. Everyone wants to cast blame, to throw suspicion away from himself. Even the innocent try to hide. It’s a nasty business.”

  “But my ma didn’t have nothing to do with it. She didn’t even know this Ireland fellow.”

  “Sometimes that scarcely seems to matter. Watch it!” Sterling grabbed Angus by the arm and pulled him out of the way as a man, stinking of weeks on the creeks and cheap drink, flew around the corner. A screaming whore and her red-faced pimp followed him. At the sight of the uniformed Mountie, all three settled into a somnolent stroll.

  “Evening, Constable. Nice night, ain’t it?” The pimp, a sallow-faced fellow, spoke through a mouthful of rotten teeth.

  “Hold up there, you,” Sterling called. “Do you owe this lady something?”

  “No,” the drunk mumbled.

  The woman winked at Angus. She wore a lot of paint on her face, and her skirt was hitched into her belt, making it too short to be decent. Once-white bloomers peeked out from under the skirt. Suddenly Angus felt as if he had a raging fever. Sweat dripped down the back of his shirt and an uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant, feeling stirred between his legs.

  “Then we’ll have to take it to the Fort,” Sterling said. “Come on, all of you.”

  “All right.” The man fumbled in his pockets. “Ain’t worth two bits, that lump of lard.” He tossed a tiny nugget into the mud.

  The woman spat. “Couldn’t get it up with block and tackle, he couldn’t. I ain’t got all night to watch him play with it.”

  “Watch your mouth, Iris.”

  The pimp scrambled through the mud in pursuit of the gold. “Don’t you come around here again,” he said to the drunk, who sprinted away.

  “Get back to work.” The pimp raised his fist to the woman, but Sterling warned him off with a growl. She ducked her head and disappeared into the shadows.

  “Why do they do it, Constable?” Angus asked when they were alone again.

  “Do what, son?”

  “Those women. Why do they do what men like that tell them? Why don’t they say no?”

  “Lots of women aren’t like your mother, Angus. They don’t know how to get by on their own. Other than that, I can’t say.”

  “There are some things I don’t want to ask my ma about any more.”

  “I can understand. Remember this, when you’re older and you start thinking about women, you don’t want to do anything that’d make your mother ashamed of you, if she hears about it. Not that you have to tell her everything, mind.”

  “Yes, sir.” Angus didn’t really know what Sterling was talking about. But the constable’s cheeks were turning red, and Angus decided it would be best not to ask any more questions.

  No doubt everything would be perfectly clear as soon as he was a man.

  They walked in companionable silence, enjoying the warm air of the strange northern half-night. Past midnight, yet the streets were a jostling mass of men. Most were heading towards the dance halls or staggering away, but there were a good number of men with not enough money left in their pockets for either another drink or a place to spend the night. They wandered through town, waiting for morning to catch the first boat out of town or join the next group of workers heading to the gold fields. A few women dotted the crowd, the majority not at all re
spectable. Several NWMP officers exchanged greetings with Sterling and Angus.

  “How was the day’s work?” Sterling asked.

  “Awful. Just awful. I’d sooner die than spend my life working in a store like Mr. Mann does.”

  Sterling laughed. “Man’s gotta do what he can to get by.”

  “Well, I won’t!”

  “If you’re lucky, son, you may not have to. But don’t look down on men who…”

  “Sterling. I need to talk to you.” Graham Donohue stepped out from the doorway of a tiny cigar store. A lamp burned inside, and a pretty young woman in a dress cut daringly low came to the door to see what was going on.

  “What are you doing, Donohue, hiding in the shadows?”

  “Keep your voice down. Come over here.” Donohue beckoned.

  Sterling walked over. Angus tagged along behind. “Isn’t this a bit melodramatic, Donohue, even for you?” the Mountie said.

  “I have to talk to you. Is that Angus MacGillivray behind you?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s me.”

  “If you have something to say about Ireland, we’d better find Inspector McKnight,” Sterling said.

  “No! You have to listen to me. Angus, go home. This is men’s business.”

  Angus looked at Sterling. The constable nodded. “Get off home, son. Sounds like this is a police matter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men moved around the side of the building. The woman standing at the entrance to the store shrugged and went inside. Angus had never had reason to go into a cigar store. But now that he was making some money working for Mr. Mann, it would be nice to get a present for Ray or Constable Sterling if he could find out when their birthdays were. He followed the woman.

  She raised one eyebrow. “You’re a young one. Looking for something special?” She ran her tongue across her lips, and Angus felt himself flushing.