by Vicki Delany
Knowing my schedule, Graham had arrived in time to escort me to the Savoy for the evening. Graham fancied me, I knew, and aside from constant attempts to assist me to “relax” on the couch in my office, I suspected he might have thoughts of a more permanent relationship. That I resisted. I had not come this far in order to find a man to marry, and I had no intention of giving up my freedom. Not yet, at least. Although I worried sometimes about Angus, growing up in this wild town without a father. I had hoped Graham would provide a manly example to Angus, but the boy intensely disliked the American reporter for reasons I did not understand. Angus got on well with Richard Sterling, worshipped the corporal I sometimes thought. That I wasn’t too pleased about, as I suspected Angus had ambitions to be a Mountie. I had loftier goals for my son. Still, it was better than seeing him running wild through the streets with a pack of boys and falling under the influence of the sort of men who hung around the Savoy day and night.
“May I say you look particularly lovely this evening, Fiona,” Graham said. As he did every night. Nevertheless, I never tired of hearing it, and I nodded my head ever so slightly in acknowledgement.
Tonight I was dressed in my best gown of scarlet silk, although I had worn it the previous evening. I was, in fact, forced to wear this dress far too often. Miners and gamblers and men who were common labourers or farmhands a few short months ago wouldn’t be shocked to see me in the same outfit several times a week. But I knew.
Dawson was proving to be hard on the wardrobe. I’d brought my best gown, a genuine Worth gifted to me in a suite at the real Savoy by a lord of the realm, all the way from London. During one unfortunate encounter, the dress had been ruined. Some of it had been salvaged and patched the lower part of Mrs. Mann’s church dress. My pale-green satin gown with high neckline only hinting at the delights beneath was now not even suitable for rags. After my unwilling expedition into the wilderness wearing it, even Mrs. Mann, who could usually salvage something out of almost nothing, pronounced it fit only to heat the kitchen stove.
I offered Graham my arm, and together we walked through the streets toward the Savoy. He was looking rather nice himself in a moderately clean white shirt and brown trousers that had been dusted off recently. His jacket was threadbare at the elbows and a couple of buttons on his waistcoat were in danger of breaking free, but such was the lot of an unmarried man in a town with a disproportionally low number of women.
It had been a hot day with no wind, and despite the approach of evening, heat clung to the still air. My hair sat heavily on my head. Mrs. Mann had managed to save some of the genuine ostrich feathers that had adorned the Worth, and they were used to top the hat I wore this evening.
The streets were full, as they were day and night, and beside me I felt Graham preen as we passed men of his acquaintance.
We walked down York Street. As we approached the corner of Second Avenue, Graham said, “Seems there’s a new photographer in town. Wonder if he’d be interested in taking some pictures for my paper.”
We studied a large sign hanging over a shop front, dipping noticeably to the right. E. JENNINGS, PHOTOGRAPHER, was written in ornate scarlet script, the paint so fresh it shone. A woman stood in the open door, watching the passing throng. Her dress was an unadorned blue calico over which she wore a long white apron. A bonnet was tied under her pointed chin with a blue satin ribbon. The garb might be plain and inexpensive, but it fit her beautifully.
“It’s not a he, but a she,” I said.
Graham’s ears almost stood up. “Really.” He tightened his grip on my arm. “Let’s meet her.”
“We haven’t been introduced.”
“No one cares about that, Fiona.” Indeed, in Dawson one largely dispensed with the civilized formalities. I knew that, but other than drag Graham away, provided he’d be willing to be dragged, I could do little but follow in his wake. He still had hold of my arm.
“The lady from the bank,” Miss Jennings said, recognizing me.
“I am Mrs. Fiona MacGillivray and this is a countryman of yours, Mr. Graham Donohue.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Donohue,” she said, extending a gloved hand so small it was like that of a child. “Miss Eleanor Jennings, of Chicago.”
“San Francisco,” Graham said. Graham is not a large man, neither bulky nor tall, but he could look over Miss Jennings’ head easily. As could I.
The interior of her shop — I suppose she would call it her studio — was uncommonly bright. A big window faced south, letting in light. We could see lamps and camera equipment and a plain white screen I presumed she used as a backdrop. A few props were arranged about: a mining pan, some picks and axes, a couple of empty crates.
“Don’t think I’ve ever met a lady photographer before,” Graham said, showing her his best smile.
“Now you have,” she replied.
“I must be getting to the Savoy,” I said.
They ignored me. I do not care to be ignored.
“My newspaper would be interested in getting some photographs to accompany my dispatches. I’m going out to Bonanza Creek next week, Miss Jennings. Would you be interested in coming with me? Plenty of good opportunity for photos at the Creeks.”
This was the first I’d heard of any trip to the Creeks. Graham had only just returned from our expedition into the wilderness. He’d told me he’d be staying close to town until he recovered from the ordeal.
Not that he’d had much of an ordeal. That had all been mine. I glared at him.
“I might be interested,” Miss Jennings said. “But first I need to get my measure of the town.” She turned her blue eyes on me. She had to tip her head back to look into my face. “I’ve been told people in Dawson will be more accepting of a female in my profession than they might be in Chicago, where I sometimes had trouble attracting respectable customers. Is that your impression also, Mrs. MacGillivray?”
“Sure,” Graham answered. “Fiona here’s a businesswoman herself. She owns the Savoy Saloon and Dance Hall.”
She clapped her hands in pleasure. “How fortuitous. I’ve a mind to photograph women in particular. I’ll bet some of your employees would love to have their pictures taken!” She tilted her head to one side and studied me. I shifted uncomfortably. I do not care for the attentions of women. They’re too difficult to manipulate.
“As for you yourself, Mrs. MacGillivray, I’d be delighted if I could photograph you. I’ll do it for free, if I can use the result to advertise my business.”
I wrenched my arm out of Graham’s grip. “Most certainly not. I never permit my image to be captured. I must be off now. Good day, madam. Graham, are you coming?”
“In a minute, Fiona.”
I marched off. Behind me I heard Graham say, “How about if I come ’round tomorrow? Say ten-ish? We can talk more then.”
I rounded the corner into Front Street. I could see the Savoy ahead. A satisfying stream of men entering. Even more satisfying, no one leaving.
I smiled to myself, but the sense of self-satisfaction died as I felt a cold shiver run down my spine and the small hairs at the back of my neck lift. I slowed my pace and glanced around. A small woman dressed in a tattered brown homespun dress, hair pulled sharply into a knot under an ugly straw hat, stood in the shadows of a building on the opposite side of the street. A man was beside her, large arms crossed over beefy chest. Neither of them were smiling. When she saw she had my attention, the woman crossed the street, not bothering to check for oncoming traffic, nor to lift her skirts out of the dirt. The man followed, half a pace behind.
“MacGillivray,” she said.
“What do you want, Joey?” I asked. I addressed her, but kept my eyes on the man. He was a mean-looking creature and in this case appearances were not deceiving. She was Joey LeBlanc, the most notorious madam in town; he was called Mr. Black, and he was her enforcer. Mr. Black could be counted on to ensure that customers paid and the whores were kept docile. One way or the other.
�
�To wish you a good evening,” Joey said, not smiling.
I swished my skirts and walked away, holding my head high. Sharply pointed daggers pounded into my back. Joey LeBlanc did not wish me well at any time. At Angus’s pleading, I’d taken one of her unfortunate employees under my wing and helped the girl get out of town. Joey did not intend to let me forget that as far as she was concerned we had unfinished business.
I didn’t allow myself to worry about Joey. Much. She might want to get her revenge on me, but she couldn’t afford to do anything to draw police attention to herself or the cribs she controlled under the barely-approving eye of the law.
The first person I saw on entering the Savoy was the Russian count I’d met the previous evening. Now he, I thought, would simply adore having his picture taken. Tonight he had a diamond stick pin piercing his cravat, and the starched tips of his wing collar stood at perfect attention. The part in his oiled hair was as straight as my roulette table.
He approached me with a stiff bow. “Good evening, Madame MacGillivray. How lovely you look.”
I gave him a radiant smile while noticing that Ray and Murray were behind the bar; Not-Murray was heading for the back with a bottle of Champagne; Irene was pretending to be enchanted by the attentions of a scruffy old miner without a tooth in his head (who everyone knew owned one of the most productive claims on the creek); our bouncer, Joe Hamilton, whose breath I could smell from ten feet away, was watching me with adoring eyes; Helen Saunderson was heading for the broom closet bearing a mop and a pail that didn’t stand close inspection; Barney was telling his stories to a couple of cheechakos with faces as shiny as their boots; someone in the gambling room was shouting in anger; and Roland the Magnificent was leaning against the wall under the stairs, watching everything.
“When the dancing begins later,” Count Whatever-His-Name-Is said, “may I have the honour of being your partner?”
“I do not dance, sir.”
“You do not dine, you do not dance. What does a gentleman have to do, madame, to spend time in your company?”
Not-Murray came out of the gambling hall. He spoke to Joe Hamilton and both men went into the back, moving fast. I heard a shout, and then a roar, and they were back, dragging a struggling man between them. The drinkers stood politely aside to give them room, and the malefactor was unceremoniously tossed into the street.
“Most … unusual … establishment you have here,” the count said.
I smiled. “That I do. Do you have plans to play poker tonight, sir?”
“I enjoy a hand on occasion.”
“After the show begins I’d be happy to watch you play.”
He beamed like a ten-year-old being told he could stay up to watch guests arrive and dipped his head in a short bow. I snapped my fingers at Murray, pointed to the count’s rapidly emptying glass, lifted my skirts, and walked away.
You may note that I did not offer the count a drink on the house, nor did I offer to do more than watch him play poker. I wanted to get him to the tables somehow. He looked like a big loser.
“You’re ready for your performance?” I asked Roland the Magnificent. He was dressed, as the previous evening, in a suit with white shirt and tie, black coat with tails and black velvet lapels, and a clean bowler hat. When he performed he put on an aristocratic accent that put me in mind of the Prince of Wales, but his normal voice spoke of a good education without being too posh.
“I had the pleasure of making your son’s acquaintance this afternoon.”
“Did you indeed?”
“I asked the lad to show me around town. Not much to see, is there?”
“No.”
“One pass down Front Street and that was about it for the sights. You’ll be pleased to know that he refused to take me to what I hear they call Paradise Alley.”
I smiled.
“He’s a fine lad, Angus.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Wants to be a policeman. Like that gentleman arriving now.”
I looked to where Roland was pointing. Richard Sterling stood in the doorway. He glanced around, letting his eyes become accustomed to the weak light of the saloon. Spotting me, he headed for us.
“Good evening, Fiona. Roland.”
“Good evening, Richard. Roland, you will be on first tonight, as usual. Perhaps you need to check your props and ensure everything is in order?”
“A good idea.” He touched the top of his hat and left us.
“Nice fellow,” Richard said.
“Although not much of a magician.”
“I need to talk to you about that business yesterday.”
I waved my hand in the air. “Nothing to discuss. I have no idea who that man was or who might have attacked him.” I checked my watch. “Look at the time. Almost eight. I’d best …”
“Your people are quite capable of doing their jobs and putting on the show without your supervision, Mrs. MacGillivray. Shall we go upstairs to your office? The sooner I ask my questions, the sooner you can get back to work.”
I swallowed a sharp retort. The corporal was watching me, but he did not have a smile on his lips, and the warm affection I sometimes saw in his eyes was not there.
“Very well,” I said, “if I must.” I turned and led the way up the creaky stairs to my office.
I had long ago hardened my heart against emotional involvement with any man. Living on my wits since the age of eleven, nothing but disaster had struck when I relaxed my defences. I trusted few people in this world. Angus, of course, who would love me no matter what. Ray Walker, I trusted with our business. I had friends here in Dawson, an experience that was somewhat new to me, but no one I would permit to know the details of my life or of my secrets.
Only Richard Sterling came close. And when I sometimes looked into his warm brown eyes or saw the edges of his mouth turn up in a rare private smile, I thought that if I were looking for a man this is the one I would choose.
But I was not looking for a man, and so those thoughts would be allowed to go no further.
A few times I’d almost thought he’d been on the verge of saying something to me. Something that could never be taken back. But the moment always passed, and we slipped away from the edge of the precipice back to the strict bounds of formality.
I settled myself behind my desk and made a steeple of my fingers over which I watched the big, handsome Mountie lower himself into the visitor’s chair. He did not relax but rather perched on the edge. He pulled a notebook and the stub of a pencil out of the breast pocket of his red tunic.
“You never saw that man before last night?”
“That is what I said.”
“Just checking.”
“Very well. I have never seen him before in my life.”
“What did he say to you?”
“My name. My surname. MacGillivray. Then he sighed and expired. I was highly startled, as you can understand. Angus had run off, heaven knew where, in pursuit of the scoundrel who had set upon the unfortunate gentleman. My thoughts bounced between the man dying in my arms, and my son who, in his determination to see justice done, might well have been confronting, at that very moment, an armed and dangerous criminal.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed, and I mentally gave myself a good sharp slap. What on earth was I doing, babbling on? I was not inexperienced in the arts of deception. I have been questioned by police officers more senior than he at other times and in other places and been in far more danger.
I had become accustomed to considering Richard Sterling my friend. On one memorable occasion, even my rescuer. I must not forget that he was first and foremost an officer of the law.
The Yukon, which served to toughen up everyone else, was making me soft. Making a living legally was causing me to let my guard slip.
“It was most distressing,” I concluded. My office window was open. Down below the orchestra stuck up a tune. I almost jumped out of my skin.
“Why do you say one man? Did you see him?”
&n
bsp; “No, I did not. Angus said there was one. I think that’s what Angus said at any rate. Wasn’t it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Do you know who he was? The deceased?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard above the cacophony below.
“Why don’t you close that window, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Richard said. “A man can hardly hear himself think.”
It was not, I decided, a good sign that he was speaking so formally. I leapt up and wrenched the window down. It stuck for a moment before falling with a resounding crash.
“The men and I have been asking around. We had a photograph taken.”
“A photograph? Of a dead man? Oh, dear.”
“Much better than relying on a drawing. The future of policing, Mrs. MacGillivray, lies in science, I believe. Science, in combination with common sense. Have you heard about this art of fingerprinting? Everyone, they say, has unique and individual fingerprints, and they always leave a trace of them behind.”
“I’ve heard something to that effect. I don’t see that it will be of much use, however. You have this man’s fingers, thus his fingerprints, but that means nothing if he committed a crime in London, say.” Shut up you fool, I ordered myself. Why did I mention London?
“True. We’ve been showing the photograph around. Looks like he came to town on the Victoria, which docked Saturday afternoon. I was down at Bowery Street earlier. A couple of shop owners recognized the image, but no one could give me a name or an idea of where he was staying. He didn’t seem to be up to much, they said, wandering around, checking things out. Unless we get lucky, we’ll have trouble finding out where he was staying. I simply don’t have the manpower to look into every nook and cranny.”
Down below, the musicians stopped playing and they trooped back inside. I listened to them crossing the floor of the saloon, heading for the back. An excited murmur followed as the men gathered for the stage show.
“Mrs. MacGillivray,” Richard said, a snap in his voice, “am I boring you?”
“Certainly not. I am hanging onto your every word. As fascinating as all of this is, I do not understand what business it is of mine. I was unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity when this gentleman fled his assailant and attempted to find help. Nothing more.”
