by Vicki Delany
“One of the shopkeepers I spoke to said he had an English accent. Another said it was Irish. What was your impression?”
I thought. “He did say MacGillivray correctly. But as that was the only word he said, it’s difficult for me to venture a guess as to his accent.” Culloden, I did not venture to mention, he had pronounced properly. Cull-augh-den, not Cull-o-den as I had heard the ill-informed say.
“He said your name?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing.” I swallowed and glanced over his right ear. I knew better than to look him straight in the eye. A sure sign, I’d been taught, of someone lying.
Silence stretched through the room. From below, we could hear men’s excited voices, a burst of laughter.
“If there’s nothing more …”
“Yet you claim you’d never seen him before?”
“Claim! I don’t claim anything.” I stared into Richard’s eyes. “I told you I’d never seen him before. I’d venture to guess quite a number of people you might not recognize happen to know your name, Corporal.”
“You’re probably right about that, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
I thought he might press me further; instead he rose to his feet in a sudden movement. He put his broad-brimmed hat back on his head. “Think about it further, please. If you remember anything be sure and let me know.”
“Of course.”
He touched the brim of his hat and left my office.
My stomach performed summersaults.
8
Richard Sterling didn’t know what to think about Fiona’s story. If she were a man, he’d be certain she was lying. The way her eyes shifted around the room, looking at everything but his face. But she wasn’t a man — that was certain — and he didn’t know how a delicate, well-brought-up lady such as Fiona MacGillivray should act when confronted with the ruthlessness of a police investigation. No matter how he might try to make it easy on her, a police interrogation was brutal. It had to be, if they were to get the truth out of people.
He stopped halfway down the stairs, thinking over the recent conversation.
No doubt the encounter in the alley last night — the man expiring in her very arms, dress and hands streaked with his lifeblood, the presence of her son, the police questions — would be upsetting to the delicate female constitution. She could not be expected to react as any man might. Sterling sometimes thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to allow women to serve as special constables. They’d know the workings of the female mind more than any man could.
But no decent man would allow his unmarried daughter or widowed mother to work amongst the criminal classes.
So, in the absence of a female constable to tell him what Fiona was thinking, he’d have to try to figure it out himself.
He turned at the sound of a light step on the stairs above him.
“Oh, Richard. Are you still here? Forget something?”
“No, ma’am. Just thinking.”
She smiled. Not her personal smile, the one that made his heart lift, but her professional one. The one she used on the drinkers and gamblers, dancers and musicians. She peered at him from under thick black lashes, the edges of her mouth lifting. She cocked her head slightly to one side and said, “If you’re not in a hurry to get back to work, why don’t you stay for a while and enjoy the show?”
And he knew she’d been lying.
He’d suspected for some time that her expensive gowns, fashionable hats, and gracious manners concealed a layer of steel. That underneath the perfect accent, classical education, excellent breeding, and vivacious charm, her mind was constantly moving, always calculating.
Why she would want to lie to him about a stranger found dead in an alley, he had no idea. But she had lied.
Perhaps because she could.
Perhaps because she knew something.
He made his way down the rest of the stairs. As he reached the bottom, Fiona following, the door to the street swung open.
One by one the men in the room fell silent. In the gambling hall, Jake, the head croupier, cried, “No more bets.” In the back room the chorus line broke into song.
A lady walked into the bar. She wore a plain costume of plum skirt and green blouse with a small pillbox hat atop fair hair braided and scraped back into a tight knot. Her head was high, her shoulders set, her blue eyes determined. It wasn’t totally out of order to see a lady enter a saloon, but it was unusual to see one who was not an employee of the establishment or, in some of the less respectable places, one looking for custom of her own.
“Oh, dear,” Fiona muttered. She pushed past Sterling and headed for the newcomer. Men separated to let her through. Sterling followed.
“Miss Jennings, this is a pleasure,” Fiona said in a voice bright, cheerful, and totally false. “Welcome to my establishment. How may I be of assistance?”
Eleanor Jennings smiled. “I hoped to be here before the show began, but I was delayed chatting to the delightful Mr. Donohue.” She held a small pile of cards in her hand and smelled of good soap. “I’ve set up a photography studio,” she said, raising her voice so it would carry. She was a tiny thing, but she had a powerful voice. “I intend to specialize in photographs of women. I’d like to introduce myself to your dancers. But I’ll be available for anyone who would like a portrait.” She turned to the table nearest the door. Four men sat around it, still covered in the dust from the Creeks, glasses clenched in dirty hands. She handed them each a square of paper. “My card, gentlemen.”
“I’ll take one o’ those,” a man yelled, and a chorus started up. Miss Jennings moved through the room, handing out her card to every outstretched hand.
“A good businesswoman,” Sterling said to Fiona.
“Humph,” she replied.
Once that task had been completed, Miss Jennings made her way back to where Sterling and Fiona stood watching. A good number of the drinkers edged closer, listening in.
“How about I bring my camera around tomorrow, before the show begins? I’ll take a photograph of your dancers, on the stage perhaps. In a group. You can use it for advertisement.”
“I don’t …” Fiona began.
“No charge. That way I can introduce myself to the ladies and meet those who might want to have a studio portrait taken.”
Sterling saw hesitation cross Fiona’s face. Clearly she didn’t want the photographer around, but she was a sensible enough businesswoman to know the suggested picture would be a good opportunity.
“Are you taking appointments, madam?” A well-dressed and well-spoken man interrupted. “I’d love to have my portrait captured. A small token of my regard to send home to my mother, the dowager countess.”
Jennings whipped out a notebook. Small, clean, unmarked, it looked brand new. “Eleven o’clock tomorrow?”
“Perfect.” He then turned to Fiona. “I don’t believe I’ve met your police friend.”
Fiona made the introductions. The man, it turned out, was a Russian count. He made sure everyone was aware of that fact before insisting he wanted to fit into the new world and thus they must call him Nicky.
The small group was soon joined by Roland the Magnificent.
“Another stupendous performance. I was sorry not to see you standing at the back, Mrs. MacGillivray. You would have been highly impressed, I’m sure.” The twinkle in his eye went a long way toward taking the pomposity out of his braggadocio. “Good heavens, sir, you seem to have lost something.” Roland reached out one hand and plucked Sterling’s pencil off the brim of his hat.
“What on earth?” Everyone laughed, and Sterling found himself grinning as he took his pencil back.
“You must be the photographer lady,” Roland said to Eleanor.
“I am,” she replied. “Can I put you down for an appointment tomorrow? One o’clock is free.”
“Another time, perhaps. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see a gap opening at the bar. Once more, into the breach.” He melted
into the crowd.
“How about you get your ladies to come in at seven tomorrow evening?” Eleanor said to Fiona. “Would that be acceptable?”
“I suppose.”
“Great.” She turned her lovely blue eyes onto Sterling. A single blond curl escaped from the confines of the knot and caressed her cheek. “And you, Corporal. When would you be able to come for your portrait? Full dress uniform, I hope.”
“I’ll have to think it over.”
“Not for long.” Her eyes danced. “I expect to be busy soon.”
He shifted in his boots, and his collar felt very tight. He glanced at Fiona. She did not look happy. “If you remember anything, Mrs. MacGillivray, about what we discussed, be sure and let us know. Now, I must be on my way. Good night.”
“I’m done here,” Eleanor said, holding up her empty gloved hands as evidence. “I’ve handed out all my cards. Would you care to walk me home, Corporal?”
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am,” he said, refraining from wiping his palms on his trousers.
9
Over breakfast, an unappetizing mush of soggy oatmeal, I made the mistake of mentioning the photographer’s visit scheduled for that evening.
“How grand, Mother,” Angus exclaimed as his eyes lit up.
Mr. Mann mumbled into his bowl about unnecessary fripperies. Mrs. Mann hesitated in the act of pouring my coffee and said, somewhat wistfully, “I’d enjoy having my photograph taken.”
Mr. Mann almost sprayed oatmeal across the table.
“I’ll come,” Angus said, “and watch.”
I couldn’t think of an excuse quickly enough to keep him away, and so I changed the subject. “No fresh milk today, Mrs. Mann?”
“None to be found. You’ll have to make do with this.” She pushed an opened can toward me.
Dawson produced gold. Gold and nothing else. No farms, thus no fresh vegetables, eggs, or milk. Everything had to be carried in over the Pass or shipped the long way around up the Arctic Ocean to St. Michael in Alaska and up the Yukon River. A man had arrived a short while ago with a cow in tow, and I’d ordered Mrs. Mann to spare no expense in ensuring I had fresh milk for my coffee and Angus had milk to lavish on his oatmeal. No doubt the demand had exceeded the supply, and we were once again reduced to consuming the canned stuff.
“Keep trying,” I said. “An egg would be nice also.” My friend Mouse O’Brien had gone to the outrageous extravagance of serving an egg to each of the guests at his recent wedding. That had come close to decimating the egg supply for the entire territory.
“Do you think this photographer fellow would teach me some of what he knows, Mother?” Angus asked.
“First of all, it’s a lady. A Miss Jennings.”
“A lady!” Mrs. Mann gasped. “How extraordinary. The things ladies do these days.”
Mr. Mann’s expression indicated that he had the same thoughts as his wife. Although not in quite so approving a manner.
“Photography isn’t something you can simply start to do, Angus. Not like writing.” Angus had taken on employment as assistant to one Miss Martha Witherspoon, who fancied herself an author. Miss Witherspoon had soon married Mouse O’Brien, at the aforementioned wedding, and her career as a scribe — and thus Angus’s — abruptly ended. “All of that equipment, the camera, the chemicals, the studio. Plus I understand developing an image onto paper once it’s been captured onto the plate is rather a complicated undertaking.”
“Still,” he said, “I’d like to watch. Are the ladies excited about having their picture taken, Mother?”
Excited wasn’t the word I’d choose.
Irene had closed the show at midnight as she always does, doing a slow provocative dance while unravelling yards and yards of brightly coloured chiffon from her body to drift gently to the floor behind her. No one ever leaves early; they’re all hoping that one day the last length of cloth will accidently come loose. Not that they’d see much if it did. Underneath she wore her regular, none-too-clean shift and many-times mended stockings.
Still, the men continue to live in hope.
Which is a good thing — none of them would be here, in the Klondike, if not for foolish hope.
I’d slipped into the dressing room while Irene was taking her bows and collecting flowers and gold nuggets tossed onto the stage at her lumpy, misshapen feet.
“Attention, ladies,” I called, clapping my hands together as if I were headmistress in a girls’ school. The acrid sent of sweat, cheap perfume heavily applied, burning kerosene, stage paint, and clothes badly in need of the attentions of a good laundress filled the small room. Garments, ranging from Maxie’s mud-spattered bloomers to common-or-garden homespun street dresses to a pink feather boa to Irene’s gown that wouldn’t be out of place at a regimental ball in London, were draped across every possible surface. The women, in various stages of undress, stopped chattering and turned to face me. I waited a moment, not only for Irene to arrive, bearing her collection of flowers and (most importantly) gold nuggets, but to take the measure of them all.
Some of the girls looked frightened, as if I were about to announce they were being let go. Betsy, who I tolerated at the best of times, tried to disappear behind a substantially more robust woman. A few regarded me with wide-eyed interest, expecting perhaps I would announce wage increases all around. (As if!)
The newest dancer went by the name of Colleen. She was unusually demure and shy for a Dawson stage performer. But she was young and pretty and could hold a tune and thus I’d hired her in place of a girl who’d gotten herself married to a man who didn’t approve of his wife working in a dance hall. Colleen kept close to the walls, wanting to take the measure of me, I suspected, before putting herself forward.
When Irene had dumped her loot onto a table, stopped fussing, and also waited for me to proceed, I did so.
“Tomorrow evening, we will have a very special opportunity. Mr. Walker and I have decided it would be terribly modern to advertise this establishment through photography.”
A buzz began at the back of the room. “What’d she say?” one of the older women bellowed. She was instantly shushed. I folded my hands in front of me and waited for the noise to die down.
I could hear the men shoving benches against the walls, clearing room for the dancing, and the musicians taking their place on the stage. A man shouted, another one laughed, and one said, “What’s keepin’ ’em?” The interior walls of the Savoy are none too thick. In the boxes above, a foot began to stomp, and others joined in. The floors and ceilings of the Savoy are none too thick either, and I hoped the boxes and their patrons would not be making a sudden, unexpected descent into the ladies’ dressing room.
“We have therefore,” I continued, “arranged for a photographer to come to the Savoy tomorrow evening. She will be taking a photograph of those who wish to participate. No one will be compelled to do so.” I’d eat the fake flowers on my hat if anyone of them declined.
The women burst into excited chatter. I lifted my hand, and waited for the hullabaloo to die down. “I believe I am still speaking.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Pardon, Mrs. MacGillivray,” they muttered. I knew, from listening at closed doors, they called me Mrs. MacPruneFace behind my back. If any one of them said that to my face, they’d be seeking employment elsewhere.
“Be ready tomorrow promptly at seven o’clock. Anyone arriving late will not be allowed in. If you would like to wear your stage costumes for the photograph, that would be ideal. But be sure and look … suitable for the quality of clientele we wish to attract.”
Maxie put up her hand.
“Yes?”
“C’n I bring my sister, Mrs. Mac? She’s real pretty.”
“My name is Mrs. MacGillivray. I’d suggest you remember that in future. You cannot bring your sister, as she is not in my employ. Any other questions?”
They all began speaking at once.
“No?” I said. “Very good. Carry on.”
I swept out
of the room, carried forth on a wave of high-pitched chatter and almost visible excitement.
I had no doubt the shops would be emptied of rouge tomorrow.
“Excited?” I said in answer to Angus’s question over the breakfast table. “Perhaps a small bit.”
* * *
Angus arrived at the Savoy at six-thirty. I couldn’t help but notice he’d put on his cleanest shirt, scrubbed his face until it shone, and added a touch of oil to his neatly combed hair. He was accompanied by Mrs. Mann, matronly presentable in her church dress and hat, and Mr. Mann who had discarded his shopkeeper’s apron and checked shirt for a coat and tie. His hair and moustache were so freshly trimmed that tiny pieces of hair clung to his face.
I’d ordered the dancers to be in position by seven o’clock. At least half of them were here already. Hair had been washed and arranged, hats puffed, rouge applied in excessive amounts, corsets pulled in a few extra inches, highly impractical shoes donned. I almost choked on the scent emanating from Betsy. Did she think the photograph would pick up her perfume if it were of sufficient strength?
The women looked like a flock of South American birds. They were followed, as the parrots had no doubt also been, by scavengers looking for droppings. Where women dressed to impress, men wanted to be impressed.
Not yet seven o’clock and the front room of the Savoy was almost full to bursting.
I chased the women off, telling them to wait in the dance hall. Mrs. Mann was examining the room with wide interested eyes while her husband tried to block her view of the nudes hanging behind the bar.
I’d said nothing to the male employees about the photograph, but clearly word had spread, and they’d also gone to some trouble to clean themselves up. Faces were washed, moustaches trimmed, teeth cleaned, hands scrubbed. Joe Hamilton appeared to be wearing a borrowed jacket, so large was it across the shoulders. Not-Murray had a diamond stick pin through his tie, a gold watch chain across his chest, and a large shiny buckle attached to his belt. Murray was resplendent in a brand-new pair of suspenders.
