by Vicki Delany
“Well, yes. He’d roughed Irene up. But I can assure you that women don’t murder a man for hitting them. Although we’d be safer if they did.”
“I will ignore that comment, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Ignore it if you want. I don’t know why you’re telling me what I already know.”
“I’m hoping you can remember something you mightn’t have mentioned. Something about the behaviour of Miss Davidson or Mr. Ireland Saturday night.”
“I noticed that Mr. Ireland behaved like the common boor he was. And I noticed that Irene was frightened and upset and happy to see the back of him.”
“Did you see Miss Davidson leave the Savoy after closing on Saturday?”
The traffic of the streets swirled around us. Most passers-by were paying a good deal more attention to us than they should. Black clouds, pregnant with rain, hung over the hills on the far side of the Yukon River. A mosquito buzzed around my ear and I swiped at it. Of all the hardships in the Yukon, the bugs have got to be the worst. They made one almost long for winter.
I hadn’t seen Irene leave. I thought Ruby had taken care of her; I hadn’t asked. “Well, no. I’m sure Ruby saw her back to her lodgings.”
“That would be Ruby Weller, a dancer at the Savoy?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Weller claims that Miss Davidson insisted she was able to manage by herself, so Miss Weller left her in your office.”
“Miss Davidson had gone when I locked up. I always check my office last.”
“Are you sure she wasn’t there? Perhaps you just didn’t see her.”
“What are you getting at, Inspector? I’ve told you what I saw that night. And it isn’t a night I will easily forget.”
“No one seems to be able to confirm Miss Davidson’s movements after the doctor and Miss Weller left her.”
“It was late. It was a Sunday morning. She went home.”
“Her landlady had a toothache. She couldn’t sleep, so she sat up all night in the kitchen, which I can verify has an excellent view of the front door. Apparently Miss Davidson didn’t return to her lodgings at least before the landlady left in the morning to seek relief.”
“Unfortunately, Inspector, as we have both pointed out, this is Dawson. Unmarried women sometimes have admirers, and they might behave inappropriately, as much as you or I might be shocked by such goings on.”
He took a sharp breath. “Don’t play me for a fool, Mrs. MacGillivray.” The dog whined at the change in tone.
“I am doing nothing of the sort, Inspector. I am telling you that nothing you’ve told me this morning has any influence on my interpretation of the events of last Saturday night.” The dog cocked one half-missing ear at me. “But I will tell you that I have, unfortunately, seen too many women beaten and abused by men they thought were their protectors. And not one of them has taken the law into her own hands.” Well, not after the first occurrence anyway. “And that’s all I’m prepared to say to you on the matter.” I lifted my skirts and swept past him.
“You’ll talk to me when the law demands it of you, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
I turned around and faced him, so angry I was almost shaking. “I suggest you feed that dog. For some reason he seems fond of you.”
I meant what I’d said, and not about the dog, either. Women didn’t kill their abusers after one attack. I would swear that Irene had nothing to do with Ireland’s death. But what if she were accused? Would I turn Graham over to the police to save Irene?
I would have to. What a mess. At least McKnight hadn’t accused me of having anything to do with it. From his point of view, I might be considered to have a motive. Ireland had been heard by the entire bar to threaten me. But McKnight earlier acknowledged that I wouldn’t endanger my business by killing someone on the premises and leaving the dead body there to be found. Hadn’t he?
Indeed he had. My head hurt, and here I’d started the day in such good humour. I decided I would simply not think about it again. Everything would settle down. The Mounties would never find out who killed Jack Ireland—they were certainly not under any pressure from the townspeople to solve the case—I could ignore my moral dilemma, and life would soon return to normal.
Whatever passed as normal in Dawson, Yukon Territory. A filthy old drunk leered in my face, groping for my breast. “Let’s have a squeeze, sweetie.” He smelled of cheap whisky, cheaper cigars, rotten teeth and unwashed clothes.
I stiff-armed him off the boardwalk without breaking my stride.
Chapter Forty-One
I walked into Helen’s scullery to find Ray with his hands firmly planted on either side of Betsy’s ample rear end. Her dress was gathered up around her hips, giving me a much better view of her drawers, now sliding to the floor, and the wide expanse of her white bottom, than I wanted.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
Betsy shrieked and fell over trying to free her nether regions from Ray’s grip, pull down her dress, and pull up her drawers. She hit the floor with a loud thud and lay there, looking up at me. I was comforted by the sheer terror in her eyes.
Ray fumbled to do up the buttons of his trousers. “This isn’t what you think, Fee.”
“Betsy, wait for me outside my office. I will determine what wages you are owed.”
“Please, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“Tidy your hair and return your clothes to some semblance of decency. I don’t want the clientele wondering what sort of establishment I run here.”
She struggled to her feet, pushed hair back into its pins, straightened her dress, burst into tears and fled.
I looked at my business partner, stuffing his shirttails back into his pants. “What you do with my girls in your own time is your business. But on the premises! How could you? Suppose I had been Inspector McKnight! Do you want to see us closed down?”
“Don’t blame Betsy.”
“If I don’t, then I have to blame you. And I can’t fire you, can I?”
He did have the good grace to look ashamed. Not at the act, I was sure, but only at being caught in it.
I turned to leave. “Give her a break, Fee.” He fastened his belt. “Betsy doesn’t deserve to be fired. I called her in here. Said I had something to tell her.”
“I warned her, Ray. I warned her what would happen if she continued fooling around with you. I can’t have problems between the girls. Trouble between her and Irene will come out on the stage and ruin their performance, and before you know it the men will be going to the Monte Carlo or the Horseshoe in search of a better show.”
Ray rubbed his face. “D’ye think Irene would care one bit, Fee? Is that it? I doubt Irene would mind if I lined up the whole chorus in here. One after the other.”
“Don’t be vulgar. By tomorrow it might not much matter to anyone what Irene thinks. I came to tell you that McKnight is focusing his investigation on her. I thought you would be concerned. Apparently I was wrong.”
I swept out of the room. The only thing better than a dramatic entrance is a dramatic exit.
If Irene were arrested for murder! Heavens, it didn’t bear thinking about. The most popular dance hall girl in Dawson, dragged off the stage in chains! I’d thought that nothing could dampen custom at the Savoy, but that might well do it. The men would be furious at me for letting such a thing happen, regardless of anyone’s guilt or innocence.
Betsy was sitting on the floor outside my office, sobbing her heart out. Her nose was a bulbous red, and she was wiping snot onto the sleeve of her dress. She struggled to her feet when she saw me approaching.
“We business people walk an exceedingly fine line, Betsy,” I said, opening the office door. “The police tolerate the dance halls because the men insist on it. Give them a hint of impropriety outside the boundaries they’ve set, and they’ll close us down in a minute.”
“I’m not a whore, Mrs. MacGillivray. I quite fancy Mr. Walker.” She wiped her sleeve across her face.
“If you want to pursue Mr. Walker, yo
u’re welcome to do so.” I raised one hand. “But not as long as you’re an employee of the Savoy. If you wish to remain here, you’ll ignore him from now on. I’m the boss of the dance hall girls. You have no reason to deal with Mr. Walker. Ever. Shall I prepare your wages?”
She blew heartily onto her sleeve. “No.”
“Be back at eight o’clock for the show. But until I decide otherwise, you’re to dance in the back row. With commensurate wages.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray…”
“I’ll assign one of the others to sing your songs. Of course, if that’s not a suitable arrangement, you can seek employment elsewhere.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
Betsy bowed her head and mumbled, “Please, Mrs. MacGillivray. I don’t want to work nowhere else.”
“Be back by eight. And be prepared to dance in the back row.”
I went into my office fully aware that I should’ve thrown the useless cow into the street. I’d made the same mistake as she once: failed to understand who was the real boss. But I’d learned, fast, and not repeated that error again. Betsy had been warned twice now, and still I kept her on.
I was getting soft.
Chapter Forty-Two
Angus had loved every minute spent on the Creeks. Questioning the woman outside the miserable hovel scratched out of mud she called a hotel, sleeping on the naked hillside, eating five-day-old supplies. It had been wonderful and confirmed that all he wanted in life was to be an officer in the North-West Mounted Police. But here he was, once again, standing behind the box that served as a counter in the canvas tent that served as a hardware store.
If he weren’t twelve years old, he’d cry. The only thing Angus regretted about the expedition to the Creeks was that he’d missed the boxing match. By all accounts it had been a good one. Most of the men down at the waterfront were talking about it—even Mr. Mann had been there. Sergeant Lancaster had come into the store yesterday and entertained Angus, accompanied by Mr. Mann’s robust actions, with details of every punch, every feint, every duck. Big Boris Bovery had won, and maintained the honour of the Empire, but only after a hard fought battle.
Sergeant Lancaster suggested that Angus return for his lessons, starting the next day, and Mr. Mann approved.
Angus agreed, eagerly. They hadn’t had to forcibly arrest anyone up at the Creeks, or pressure a reluctant witness into submission. But if he was going to live his dream and become a member of the NWMP, Angus knew he had to learn how to defend himself.
At last, seven o’clock arrived. Time to pull the flap down over the front of the canvas tent.
“Go, Angus,” Mann said in his gruff, broken English. “I vill close.”
Angus knew he should offer to stay and help, because it was the right thing to do. But because he hated the store so much, he simply said, “See you later, sir,” and slipped into the maelstrom of Dawson on a Saturday night.
It was early still. His mother would be at the Savoy, and Mrs. Mann wouldn’t have dinner ready yet. He had things to think about, important things, confusing things, so he decided to walk through town before going home.
An unusually high number of people smiled at him or tossed him a wicked grin or stopped for a moment to talk. It seemed as if every person in Dawson, from children scarcely out of nappies to the oldest sourdough, had heard all about Angus’s disappearance.
Angus walked through the streets with his head down and his shoulders hunched. He wondered if, until the end of his days, people would be talking about him as the boy who ran off to the Creeks in a silly attempt to be a Mountie. Perhaps they would carve it on his tombstone:
Angus MacGillivray
Wanted to be a Mountie
Ha ha.
He walked across the mudflats and looked towards Front Street and the Savoy. His mother would be there, all fancy silk and lace, but warm hugs also. And Helen, with a mug of hot tinned milk and maybe a cookie or two. He looked up at the sun, still high in the sky, and sat behind a giant boulder overlooking what passed as the docks in Dawson: a soft indentation in the Yukon River, where vessels constructed of nothing more than hope tied up.
From behind his veil of gloom, Angus MacGillivray saw Ray Walker coming towards him. He started to stand. Ray was a great guy. Angus never gave up hope that his mother would some day marry Ray. Or, if not Ray, then Graham Donohue— but after what he’d overheard the other night in the cigar store, maybe Mr. Donohue should come off the list—or, best of all, Richard Sterling. Even Sergeant Lancaster seemed fond of Angus’s mother. Although Angus did have his doubts as to whether Sergeant Lancaster would be the type of father Angus had long dreamed of.
Before he could get to his feet and shout out a greeting, Ray passed the boulder and Angus heard the soft murmur of voices. Someone had joined Ray.
“They suspect ye,” Ray’s voice said.
“Rubbish. I ain’t done nothin’. I haven’t killed no one.”
“It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. What matters is what the police think.”
“Where did you hear this nonsense?”
“Never you mind.” The woman’s voice collapsed upon itself. Fading, softening.
“I didn’t kill him. Do you understand, Ray? Do you care?”
The man struggled for breath. “You know I care.”
The woman almost purred. “Then we can forget all about it.” She sounded like a huge Persian cat Angus faintly remembered his mother owning when they lived in London. That cat was always washing her fur and licking her paws and stretching luxuriously—and hunting rats in the alley at night.
“The Mounties won’t leave it.”
“You’re worried about this McKnight. Don’t be. He’s a fool.”
“He’s not a fool. But even more dangerous than McKnight, there’s Sterling.”
The woman laughed, a deep, hearty laugh so convinced of its own merits Angus was willing to agree with every word she said. “Sterling’s so besotted, he’s useless.”
“Don’t underestimate Sterling. He might appear blind where she’s concerned, but nothing’ll distract him from his duty. I’m telling you, they think you did it.”
“But I didn’t!” The woman moaned. “I didn’t kill him. Sure, I was thrilled to hear he was dead, but I’d nothing to do with it. They’ll always find a woman to blame, won’t they? The bastards. Curse every last one of them. Can’t find the killer, so to save themselves, they’ll blame it on a woman.”
A mosquito landed on Angus’s arm. He swiped at it, but was too late. Blood oozed from the pinprick of a bite.
“What should I do?” the woman said with a deep sigh.
Angus peeked out from behind his rock. He should stand up and say hello, but he’d been listening for too long. Ray and Miss Irene would think he’d been eavesdropping, spying maybe.
“It might be best if you left town.”
“Leave town! I didn’t kill no one. Why should I run away? I can’t leave Dawson. I’ll never make this kind of money anywhere else.”
“This is about more than money, Irene. How much’ll you be making in the Fort Herchmer jail? Or on the gallows?”
“You wouldn’t let that happen, would you, Ray? You’d make sure they knew I didn’t have nothing to do with it?”
“Who’s going to listen to me?”
The woman’s voice dropped. “All you have to do is tell them I was with you that night. All night long.”
“But, Irene…”
“I can make it happen, Ray. A bit late, but it can still happen.”
Angus dared to lift his head above the protection of his boulder. Irene’s chubby white hands stroked the front of Ray’s shirt. She undid the top button; her fingers moved down to the next.
Ray grabbed her moving hands in one of his. “Not here.” His voice sounded exceptionally deep; he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath.
Irene laughed, low in her throat. “All the night long, Ray.”
“Christ wom
an, I canna…”
They broke apart as two men appeared on the deck of the nearest steamboat. The men were arguing, their heads close together, their voices raised. They paid no attention to the private drama going on under their noses: the small, fierce man and intense, frightened woman in conversation, the hidden boy listening.
“We can’t talk here,” Irene said. “But understand what I’m saying, Ray Walker. I worked too hard to get here, and I ain’t leaving Dawson, running from something I didn’t do. And as I didn’t do it, it wouldn’t hurt you none to tell them we was together.” She stretched the last word on her tongue. “Now would it?”
“But I’ve already told ’em I was with me pal till about six…”
“They’re men. They’ll understand.” The voices faded away. Angus pressed his back into the shelter of the rock. The men on the steamboat had stopped arguing and were looking at him.
Angus waved. They waved back. He got to his feet and ran to the street. Miss Irene, his mother’s best dancer, had asked Ray Walker to lie for her. To give her an alibi for the time Mr. Ireland had been murdered.
He had to tell Constable Sterling. Right away. But she said she hadn’t done it. She only wanted to avoid trouble.
The police would never convict an innocent woman. So by pretending to be somewhere she wasn’t, Irene would only confuse the investigation. Make things harder for the Mounties.
And what did Miss Irene mean that Sterling couldn’t solve the murder because he was besotted? Besotted with what? Sterling was a good officer. The best the NWMP had in the Yukon. Maybe in all of Canada.
Angus knew where his duty lay. He had to tell Constable Sterling what he’d heard. If he moved quickly, Ray wouldn’t have time to tell a lie and get himself into real trouble.
Chapter Forty-Three
Ray disappeared for the rest of the afternoon, and I was glad of it. God spare me from having to deal with men, their precocious pride and overactive libidos. When he got back, I’d have a serious talk with him about the dangers involved in messing with the staff.
