Gold Digger: A Klondike Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  “This seems like a respectable home.”

  “Did you think I would live someplace that wasn’t?” I said, too tired to want to continue playing. “Good night, Sergeant.”

  “One moment, please, Mrs. MacGillivray.” He grabbed my arm. He was very big, but mostly soft and flabby— muscle gone to fat. I stared at his hand, and he withdrew it immediately. He blushed, took a deep breath and forced himself to continue. I tried not to sigh too loudly. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Mrs. MacGillivray. But not here, on the street. That don’t seem proper. May I come in for a moment?”

  “Most certainly not! Whatever are you thinking, Sergeant.” I love using propriety on the rare occasion that it suits me to do so. “I’d have to wake up my landlady to serve as a chaperone, and the dear woman deserves her rest.” Embarrassed apologies tripped over Lancaster’s tongue. Sweat dripped off his bald head, and he wiped it away with a shaking hand.

  “Good night, Sergeant.”

  “Mrs. MacGillivray,” he shouted so loudly that I was sure the wolves on the mountainsides could hear. “I can’t bear to see a lady as fine and as lovely as yourself cast adrift, alone in this harsh, godless world. And your son, such a fine young man, he’s in desperate need of the firm guidance of a father’s strict hand.”

  “What?” And then he dropped to his knees and proposed to make an honest woman of me.

  I opened the front door and crept into the house, kicking my shoes off as I walked down the hall to the back. Tomorrow I’d go in search of new ones: bugger the cost. I’d also wait until tomorrow to worry about Sergeant Lancaster’s unwelcome proposal.

  Angus was at the kitchen table, fully dressed, sound asleep with his head resting across his right arm. I leaned over and kissed his soft cheek. Not a trace of whiskers yet. Good.

  “My dear boy,” I whispered. I checked my watch. No point in putting him to bed: Mrs. Mann would be rattling pans, stoking the stove, and gathering up breakfast things in less than an hour. And then it would be time for Angus to head off to his job at the store. “Good night, my dearest.” I touched the tousled blond curls. He looked more like his father every day.

  I went to my room, trying not to make a sound and without lighting a lamp.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Angus listened to his mother’s door closing, and the soft swish of fabric as her clothes dropped to the floor. Water splashed and bedsprings creaked and she sighed once, heavily. Then all fell quiet. Angus’s mother was a very sound sleeper. Bit of bad luck, her coming in on him like that. But tonight she’d got home later than usual, and Angus dared wait no longer. He’d been stuffing the last bit of food into his pack when he’d heard her footsteps on the path and her gentle voice talking to some man.

  He’d shoved the pack under the kitchen table before falling into a chair and pretending to be asleep. Only when he’d heard the door opening did he remember the note he’d left on the table for her to find in the morning. Fortunately, the house lights were all off, and in the gloom she hadn’t seen the paper.

  He gathered his pack and settled it over his shoulders. He tried to open the kitchen door quietly and winced as the hinges creaked. He slipped into the weak light of dawn. They’d be furious, for sure, his mother and Mr. Mann. But Angus couldn’t face another day in that store.

  The town that scarcely slept was stirring back to life as he walked through the streets. Shopkeepers, cooks and housewives were already going about their chores. Drunks staggered back to their lodgings and eager men marched through town heading for the gold fields.

  Angus arrived at the Fort Herchmer gates close to seven thirty and sat on a boulder to wait, not wanting to think about what would happen if he were too late or if plans had changed at the last minute. He mentally reviewed the contents of his pack—one change of clothes, a blanket, extra socks, bread and cheese, some cold meat and dried apples. He’d been careful to take no more food than he would have eaten had he stayed behind, although he couldn’t resist grabbing the tin of yesterday’s scones.

  Traffic to and from the fort was light at this time of day, and no one paid undue attention to the boy sitting off to one side.

  Angus didn’t have a watch, and he was beginning to fear that he’d missed his quarry, when at last he saw Constable Sterling approaching, leading a big white dog with a twosided pack draped across its back. The Mountie’s step was strong and determined: a man setting out on a long journey.

  Angus stood up and waited, his heart pounding and his hands sweating.

  Sterling’s eyes widened in surprise. “Morning, Angus. What brings you here, son?”

  “I’m ready to go with you, sir,” Angus shouted. He cleared his throat and tried to lower his voice. “To Bonanza Creek.”

  “What are you talking about? You can’t come with me. I’m on NWMP business.”

  “I know that, sir. I’ll keep you company.”

  “I don’t need company, Angus.”

  “I want to be in the Mounties, sir, just like you. You said you’d show me what policing’s like.”

  Sterling touched the big dog on the head, and it dropped to its haunches. “In a few more years, Angus. You’re still a boy. Give it time.”

  “What other chance will I have to go to the gold fields, sir? And to watch a real police investigation? I won’t get in the way. Really I won’t. I can help you.” Angus eyed the dog. “With your pack and things.”

  “Does your mother know you’re here?” “Yes, sir. She says it’s all right. She knows I want to be a Mountie some day.” He dug into his pocket. “Here’s a letter.” He handed the scrap of paper over.

  Sterling took it with a frown, smoothed out the wrinkles and read.

  Angus forced himself to keep breathing. The letter said that Angus was welcome to accompany Constable Sterling on his journey to Bonanza and Eldorado Creeks in the performance of his police duties. She, Mrs. MacGillivray, believed that the experience would be good for a cityraised, fatherless boy with ambitions of joining the NWMP.

  Sterling tucked the letter into his jacket pocket.

  “I came over the Pass, sir,” Angus said. “I know how to travel in the wilderness.”

  “This is Mrs. Miller.” Sterling nodded to the dog, now sniffing at a tuff of grass. “Named for the prune-faced wife of the meanest son-of-a-gun ever to grace Her Majesty’s Service. We call her Millie. Millie won’t carry your things.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I can’t feed you; I didn’t bring enough for two. Three, counting Millie.”

  “That’s all right, sir. I have my own.” Angus patted his pack.

  “How much?”

  “Enough for five days, sir.”

  “Any money?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What else do you have in there?”

  “Two pairs of socks. Change of clothes. Blanket. Some bandages.”

  “That should be enough. You understand that you do what I tell you, when I tell you, without a word of disagreement?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is probably a wasted trip. We’ll spend a couple of days nosing around the Creeks looking for this fellow Stewart then come back. I’ve little doubt the man we’re looking for will confirm Walker’s story. If we manage to find him, which may not be easy. So I’ll let you come. But don’t assume it’ll happen again, Angus. Police work isn’t done for a lark.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no sir.”

  “Let’s go. It’s a long trail, and it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to other than Millie.” Sterling pulled at the lead and murmured to the dog. Millie set off at a trot, her bushy tail wagging cheerfully.

  Angus shifted his pack and fell into step. It had worked! He’d counted on the fact that it was unlikely his mother had ever written a letter to Constable Sterling. He’d tried to give the handwriting a feminine slant, with a light touch of the pen and a flourish here and there, but he feared that he’d overdone it.

  If his mother and Cons
table Sterling ever got together to discuss this letter, he’d be in real trouble. But he’d worry about that when the time came.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I was dreaming that I was in the Savoy, the real Savoy, the luxurious hotel in London, and the Prince of Wales was on his knees, serving me champagne in the tall black boot of an officer of the Horseguards, when a knock on the door of my bedroom had me struggling to consciousness.

  “What, what!” I shouted.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. MacGillivray, but Mr. Mann wants to have a word with you before leaving for work.”

  I leaned out of bed and fumbled for the dress I’d worn last night, lying in a heap on the floor. My sleepy fingers found the watch still fastened to the waist band. I flipped it open and squinted at the delicate face. Eight o’clock. I’d been asleep for barely an hour.

  “Mrs. Mann, this matter will have to wait. I am still asleep. I got in late last night—this morning that is.”

  “Mr. Mann insists he must speak with you, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

  “Tell him I’ll stop by the shop on my way to work later this morning.” I dropped the dress and the watch and snuggled back under the covers.

  “Angus is gone,” she said.

  Mrs. Mann certainly knew how to get my attention.

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” I scrambled for robe and slippers and ran into the kitchen, not at all concerned that my unbound hair tumbled to the small of my back and my brilliant red dressing gown might not suit the Mann sense of propriety at the breakfast table.

  They sat at the scrubbed kitchen table. The kettle hissed on the stove, but otherwise there was no sign of breakfast preparations.

  Mrs. Mann handed me a scrap of paper. The handwriting I knew as well as my own:

  I have gone to the Creeks with Constable Sterling on a NWMP investigation. We will be back in a few days. I want to be a Mountie, not a shopkeeper. Sorry, Mr. Mann. Don’t worry, Mother. Your friend and loving son, Angus MacGillivray.

  I crumpled the paper in my hand and without a word returned to my room. In a blind fury, I washed my face and hands in the cold water in the bowl on the table. I put on drawers, petticoats and stockings and laced up my corset. I pulled a plain day dress over my head, not bothering to check for dust and stains. I stuffed my hair into pins without so much as a glance in the mirror and put on a hat I rarely wore because it was too large, with an ostentatious blue feather hanging off to one side and something resembling a pear plopped into the centre of the whole mess.

  The Manns tried not to stare as I walked back into the kitchen, my head held high, the blue feather bobbing. She was slicing bread for toast and had set a pot of oatmeal on the stove. He held spoon in hand, waiting for his breakfast.

  “I will sort this matter out, Mr. Mann,” I said, expressing a good deal more confidence than I felt. Holding my head high, I sailed through the door. Unfortunately, the blue feather caught on a splinter in the doorframe, and I had to spend a precious moment of righteous indignation freeing it.

  Wasn’t this the God-forsaken patch of earth! In London a lady would never find herself restrained by the woodwork.

  I set off across town, heading for Fort Herchmer. The ground fairly shook under the force of my footsteps. A few passing shopkeepers and dance hall customers of my acquaintance opened their mouths as if to extend me a good morning. They took one look at my face and spun on their heels.

  But gradually my steps began to falter. By the time I reached Fort Herchmer, I had slowed to an indecisive crawl. My original intention had been to march directly to the commander’s office and demand that a force be sent out to retrieve my son. And throw Constable Sterling in the brig, if that was what they called it here. Put him on bread and water and hard labour for a decade or two.

  But a sliver of common sense forced itself through my motherly indignation. It was highly unlikely any of this was Richard Sterling’s fault. No doubt Angus was, at this very moment, creeping along in the wake of the Mountie, hiding behind trees and boulders. Once they were too far from town to turn back easily, Angus would leap out and exclaim, “Imagine finding you here! May I join you?”

  The object of my rage shifted. What was that boy thinking? He’d be the one on bread and water. For the rest of his natural life.

  They couldn’t be far ahead of me. Angus had sat, pretending to be asleep, at the kitchen table not much over an hour ago. Now that I’d decided I would not send the full force of the law in pursuit of the constable, I considered going after them myself. I looked down at my boots. I was wearing the ones that I’d decided to throw out because they pinched. My chances of catching up with the longlegged Richard Sterling and the energetic twelve-year-old Angus were precisely nil.

  “Mrs. MacGillivray, are you in need of assistance?” A handsome young constable stood in front of me. He didn’t look old enough to shave.

  “I…I’ve just remembered that I have forgotten something. Something important. I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Constable.”

  “Can I escort you back to your lodgings, Mrs. MacGillivray?” His innocent brown eyes overflowed with concern. I looked at the fort. In the centre of the large square, the Union Jack fluttered proudly in the stiff breeze.

  Groups of men passed us, coming and going. Every one of them looked at me.

  “Mrs. MacGillivray?” the boy said. “Can I fetch someone to assist you?”

  Sergeant Lancaster was crossing the parade ground. He hadn’t seen me.

  I ducked behind a patch of thin, ill-nourished shrub.

  “Thank you, Constable. If it’s not out of your way, you may walk me home.” I peeked out from the shrubbery. Lancaster had taken a right turn and was walking away from me. I straightened up and slipped my arm through the young man’s. He blushed to the very roots of his hair.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Reginald McAllen, Mrs. MacGillivray, ma’am.”

  “Do you know my son Angus, Constable McAllen?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He hangs around the fort sometimes, usually tagging after Constable Sterling. If I may be so bold as to say so, Mrs. MacGillivray, that’s a mighty fine hat you’re wearing. Don’t see hats of that quality in Dawson much.”

  I tossed him my warmest smile and opened my mouth to invite him to drop into the Savoy and enjoy a drink on the house.

  “My ma used to have a hat like that. Goat ate the feather. She wasn’t half mad.”

  I withdrew the unspoken invitation. “Well, here we are. This is my residence. Thank you, Constable McAllen.” I freed my hand from his arm.

  He touched his hat. Two of his fellow Mounties strolled by. They stared at McAllen, and one of them pursed his lips in a silent whistle of astonishment.

  I started up the path. “Constable McAllen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re a credit to your mother. You may tell her I said so.” This time even the edges of his ears turned pink. I couldn’t begin to imagine him confronting any member of the criminal classes.

  Mrs. Mann stood at the sink, washing up the dishes. Mr. Mann had left for work, for which I was most grateful. No doubt he would blame me for everything, and I wasn’t in the mood to find myself under the force of his wrath.

  I hung my hat on the hook by the door and sank into a chair.

  Mrs. Mann wiped her hands on her apron. “Gone?”

  “Gone. When I get my hands around his scrawny neck…” She poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of me.

  “This policeman? He’s a good man?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then Angus will be back in a day or so, and very pleased with his adventures and very proud of himself. And very surprised that he has caused you pain. And then very sorry.”

  I looked at her. “How can you be so sure?”

  “I have a brother. We were five good girls and one wild boy in my family. He drove my mother to dis… dis… worrying, that boy did.”

  I filled in the word she was sea
rching for, “To distraction,” and sipped my coffee.

  “Distraction. Ready for breakfast?”

  “Might as well. I’ll never get back to sleep. Is Mr. Mann terribly angry at Angus?”

  She busied herself with the bag of oatmeal, a pail of water and a pot.

  “Yes,” she said. “But he was boy also. He’ll forgive.”

  Of course Angus would be forgiven. A tongue lashing, followed by a hearty pat on the back, and the incident would never be mentioned again. But if he were a girl, things would be different. As a child, I’d received some education beside the Earl’s daughter. Euila’s governess drove it into our heads every single day that one tiny slip, one scarcely considered indiscretion, was enough to ruin a lady’s reputation for life. And then we would die—poor, abandoned, lonely, dependent on the charity of distant relations. Unmarriageable. When she said so, she always looked at me out of the corner of her eye with a smirk, silently telling me that my reputation, unlike Euila’s, was worth nothing. And wasn’t that the truth: if I had guarded my reputation, I might very well be washing some man’s underwear or birthing my twelfth child this very minute.

  “I don’t think Angus likes working at the store.”

  “No.” Mrs. Mann handed me a steaming bowl of oatmeal.

  The fresh milk was finished. I poured a generous serving of canned.

  “Angus wants to be a mounted policeman,” she said, passing the sugar bowl. “Boys have their dreams.”

  “That they do.” I stirred sugar into my oatmeal.

  “He took food. A tin of biscuits, some bread, cheese.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll pay you for it.”

  “He took no more than he’d eat if he was here. Less.”

  “Mrs. Mann, do you think that hat makes me look old? Like someone’s mother? A man’s mother, I mean, not a boy’s?”

  She sat opposite me with her own mug of coffee and addressed me by my Christian name for the first time.