by Vicki Delany
“You’d starve without them out on the streets every day.”
“You can’t keep begging forever. You’re growing up.” He ran his eyes down my body. It was beginning to change, becoming softer, rounder. I was taller than him now. Taller than most of the other children, even the boys.
“When the time comes I am not making money, I will reconsider my options. But be advised, Mr. Jones. I will not be whoring.” I resumed my seat and opened the book. I pretended to read. I flipped a page. He stood against the wall, watching me. And then he left.
The months crawled past. Winter turned to spring. Children came and went. The downstairs business continued to be busy. I was still making money, but I knew the time was coming when things would have to change. I couldn’t stand in the same places more than once. Not telling the same story about the sick mother. Men were beginning to approach me. And not in a way I wanted. More than a few men said they’d give me money. After I took them back to my rooms. Maise fell ill, and I could hear her throughout the night, coughing. She got progressively weaker and soon her stick was barely adequate to enable her to limp around. Mr. Jones did allow her to move to a better spot for begging. A nice corner under the eaves of a not-too-disrespectable pub. She made less money there (not that she made much in her old patch). I knew Mr. Jones would have thrown her out, was I not watching out for her.
Things came to a head in May. I was heading for the house after an unsuccessful day. I was getting too old for this. My childlike innocence and sweet charm were long gone and with my recent height increase and the maturing of my body, I couldn’t even pretend any longer. I was too often being mistaken for a prostitute rather than an upper-class girl down on her luck.
I walked, deep in thought. Too deep in thought. I had neglected to pay attention to my surroundings. A carriage fell into step beside me, and I paid it no mind. I turned into a quiet street. The carriage turned with me.
Who knows what might have happened had not a pub door opened abruptly, bringing me up short and making me aware of my surroundings. Three men spilled out of the pub, loud and drunk, spoiling for a fight.
The publican stood in the doorway, slapping a billy club into his meaty palm. “I’ll not see the likes of you in my house again,” he roared. The men scrambled all over each other to get out of his reach. They ran across the street, frightening the horses pulling the carriage. The publican noticed me and touched the brim of his cap, “Beggin’ your pardon, miss. Some folks.” He went back inside, with a shake of his head and a final slap of the club.
It took the driver a moment to settle his horses. Then he climbed down from his seat, and the carriage door opened. I glanced from one man to the other. The driver was large and heavily muscled. His passenger was slight and well-dressed. He might have been handsome, except for the blackness behind his eyes and the cruel twist to his plump lips.
The very man who had approached me at the brothel some months ago.
The driver held a blanket. He stepped toward me. “Come for a ride, girlie,” he said.
I backed up. I felt the wall of the public house behind me. The street, normally so busy, was quiet. I heard laughter from inside the pub. The carriage driver approached me with a smile so false it turned my blood cold. His employer remained behind, staying with the carriage, watching, saying nothing.
I pressed my back up against the wall. “Please, sir,” I said, my voice quavering. “I don’t want to go.”
“Nothing to be afraid of. Come along and you’ll be nice and warm. You’ll like that, won’t you, dearie? A bit of supper too.”
“No. Go away. Please.”
He leapt toward me, the blanket extended. He intended to wrap it around my upper body and bundle me into the carriage. I dodged to the right; he stumbled past me still reaching for where I had been.
I spun on my left foot and extended my right leg. Brought it hard into the side of his knee. He yelled in pain and surprise and fell forward, crashing into the wall. I danced back, taking myself out of reach. He whirled around, breathing hard. The smile was gone from his face. I flexed my fingers and balanced on the balls of my feet. He came at me with a roar, still holding the blanket. Still not understanding that I was prepared to fight him.
I feigned to the right with a frightened squeal. He closed in. I slipped my hand into the folds of my dress and brought out my knife. I slashed at his arm, tearing the sleeve, opening up a thin line of blood.
He stared at his arm, as if not understanding what had happened. Then he yelled, “You bitch.” He threw the useless blanket to the ground. More used to street brawls than a stand-up fight, probably accustomed to hitting women who didn’t fight back, he charged me. His hands were clenched into meaty fists. If he got anywhere within striking range, I didn’t have a chance. I squeaked, once more, and half turned as if to run. Instead I ducked and his punch passed my face by a wide margin. I spun around and drove the knife directly into his soft belly. He fell to the ground, mouth open but making no sound. He touched his stomach and his fingers came away soaked with blood.
I took a step backward. Then another. For the first time, I dared take a look at the man standing beside the carriage. He hadn’t moved, but the edges of his mouth turned up in a cruel smile.
He licked his lips. “I’ll enjoy taming you.”
I ran across the street and ducked into an alley that I knew opened onto a main road. I ran for a long time. People looked at me inquisitively; one or two men began to ask if I was in need of assistance. I kept running.
Gradually my panic began to ebb. I slowed to a walk. I kept looking over my shoulder. No one was after me.
Now.
But he would be back. I had absolutely no doubt about that.
I dared not return to the rooms above the brothel to collect what few possessions I owned. Almost certainly Mr. Jones had sold me to the man. He wouldn’t be happy to hear he wasn’t going to get his money.
I briefly wondered how much I was worth.
I walked for a long time. I slipped back to Seven Dials under the cover of night. I found my wallet behind the loose brick. It contained enough money that I should be able to rent a room in a slightly more reputable area for a couple of months and buy some respectable clothes. The money hidden under the loose floorboards would have to be abandoned.
Enough of begging on street corners for pennies. Enough of handing over my earnings to a man in exchange for a scrap of meat and a tattered blanket on a cold floor.
Time to strike out on my own.
I had absolutely no idea what I could do to earn my living. But I had no doubt I’d think of something.
My only regret was leaving Maise. I’d promised myself I’d take her with me. But I didn’t dare return to either Mr. Jones’s house or Maise’s corner. He knew we were close. He’d be watching her, hoping to catch me.
I gathered my courage around me. Lifted my head high. And walked into the London night.
16
It wasn’t long before Eleanor began yawning in the company of Mr. Turner. The man had taken a seat at a poker table and she sat slightly behind him. To Turner’s obvious displeasure, the other players weren’t interested in high stakes. It was too early: the big games didn’t usually begin until much later. After the stage show, when bottles of Champagne had been drunk in the private boxes and men were made bold by drink or anxious to impress their favourite percentage girl. Often both. The occasional professional gambler passed through our doors, but mostly the clientele were miners with more money than they knew what to do with or cheechakos fresh off the boat with more time than they knew what do to with. Real gamblers, the sort of men I’d seen in the backrooms of private London clubs, were unlikely to be the sort to brave the rigours of the Chilkoot or the lengthy journey by sea and river north to the near-Arctic. Count Nicky had chosen to play roulette for a change. He was losing steadily. That was not a change.
Fortunately for Eleanor the night was still young. Irene had only sung one song when Insp
ector McKnight made his way through the rows of benches and mud-encrusted boots and out of the dance hall.
“Leaving us early, Inspector?” I said.
“Regretfully, I must, madam. There is a murderer and a madman loose on our streets. I cannot rest until we have him behind bars.”
I fluttered my eyelashes and smiled my appreciation. McKnight was straitlaced and narrow-minded, but he was no fool and, regretfully, as honest as they came. I’d once hoped to be able to bribe him with Irene’s favours, but he resisted nobly.
Eleanor jumped out of her seat and came to stand with us. I made the introductions and slipped away. It was time for the first play to begin and I wanted to make sure the performers were behaving themselves tonight. But first I’d check the saloon to get an idea of how many patrons we had. We hadn’t yet had a riot in the dance hall as men fought for a good seat or for a turn with their favourite girl, but I lived in fear of such an event.
I entered the front room as Richard Sterling came through the doors. He was in uniform, so this was not a social call or a night out on the town.
He saw me watching and something tightened across his face. He said a word to Ray, who was explaining to an excessively inebriated young gentleman that if he didn’t leave immediately he would not be leaving under his own power. Ray shook his head, indicating he didn’t need assistance. Richard pushed through the crowd toward me.
“Good evening, Mrs. MacGillivray,” he said, sounding quite formal. “Looks as if all’s well tonight.”
“No worse than normal. Richard, I wonder if we might have supper tomorrow evening. I’m quite ridiculously tired of Mrs. Mann’s corned beef and would enjoy a restaurant meal.” I blurted out the words without thinking. Pure horror immediately followed. Had I asked a man to take me to dinner? I knew what a Mountie made — a dollar and a quarter a day for a constable. A corporal probably earned a bit more, but still! In a town where a one-minute dance and drink with a percentage girl cost a dollar, and a steak could set a man back eight dollars or more.
I couldn’t snatch the words back, so I added, “Perhaps something light, rather. Or an evening stroll along the river.”
Richard looked about as horrified as I felt. “That would be very nice, Fiona. Unfortunately, I have a previous engagement tomorrow. Another time?”
“Another time. If I can find the opportunity.”
We were saved from any more dreadfully awkward moments by the arrival of Eleanor Jennings and Inspector McKnight. The inspector had his hand on her arm and was escorting her from the gambling hall. Clearly, the meeting had been a success.
“Richard,” Eleanor said with something approaching delight. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again until tomorrow evening.”
I felt as if I’d swallowed a lemon. And not a thin slice of delicate citrus laid across a perfectly cooked piece of Dover sole either. “I believe I’m needed elsewhere,” I choked out. “Excuse me.” I bolted for the back.
In all my years, I have never been so embarrassed. Or so humiliated.
I glanced around the gambling hall, looking for someone to tear a strip off.
Turner was watching me, a smile on his fleshy lips. Merely a coincidence, I’m sure, that he happened to look toward the door the moment I arrived. He closed one eye in a long slow wink before turning his attention back to his cards.
* * *
“This is boring.”
“Shush.”
“I’m not gonna shush. I’m bored.”
“Go home then.”
“Suppose something happens?”
“Nothing’s going to happen if you keep talking.”
In Toronto, Angus and his friends would slip out of their dorm rooms and clamber down the ivy to the ground. Then a dash across dark lawns and into the woods where they could get into all sorts of trouble. Not that they had much trouble to get into, or any desire to do so. It was enough to know they’d escaped the bounds of supervision. They usually sat under the ancient oaks and told ghost stories for an hour or so before creeping back to bed.
Here, in Dawson, almost at the Arctic Circle, it didn’t get dark enough in summer to provide any sort of cover, and he was reduced to dashing from one street corner or shop doorway to another.
He never should have brought Dave along.
Angus had brooded all afternoon and made his plans at the last minute. His mother had never told him she had feelings for Corporal Sterling, but Angus had read her thoughts in her face. Particularly on Gold Mountain, when he and Sterling had rescued her from a fate worse than death. He’d almost expected them to kiss. Instead they’d greeted each other as if meeting at a garden party.
But Angus knew.
He hadn’t lived close to his mother much. Boys of his class didn’t. In London he’d had a nanny and then a governess; in Toronto he’d gone to boarding school, often spending the holidays with his friends at their summer cottages. She’d never introduced him to gentlemen friends or anyone attempting to court her. Some of his schoolmates had mothers or fathers who’d died. They all had step-parents. He’d heard it was natural for those who’d lost their husband or wife to seek out another.
Then again, his mother wasn’t exactly like other women. Some of the things she knew…. Angus didn’t know much about women, but he didn’t think other boy’s mothers carried a knife in the top of their stockings (as he’d seen on the Chilkoot Trail) or could pick a lock with a hatpin as fast as he could blink (the day they’d been accidently locked out of the house).
Still, she was just a woman, and it was Angus’s responsibility as her only male relative to protect her. If she had feelings for Corporal Sterling, feelings Angus had believed — hoped? — were reciprocated, then it was no more than Angus’s duty to ensure she was warned if Sterling was involved with another woman.
It was Saturday night, thankfully, and everything would shut down at midnight. They had dinner at six and then his mother went to dress for the evening. Angus had come in as she was arranging her hair. She looked almost vulnerable, with the long black tresses falling across her shoulders, the pearl earrings in her ears, the folds of silk draped around the chair.
He waited until she was out of sight before leaving the house in time to be in position at Miss Jennings’, well before eight. He ran into his friend Dave, heading his way.
Angus didn’t want a companion tonight, but then again it might be useful if he needed to watch two doors at the same time. He informed Dave he was on a secret assignment and they had to stay quiet.
The boys went to the photography studio. Miss Jennings lived in the rooms above, where a lamp was lit, indicating they weren’t too late. Angus and Dave crept into the shadows of the bakery opposite. Fortunately, the shop was closed. Dave tried to talk but Angus hushed him. Secrecy, he whispered, was of the essence.
Smack on time, Corporal Sterling arrived and knocked on the studio door. Upstairs the lamp was extinguished, and a few seconds later the door opened. Miss Jennings hadn’t bothered to dress up for the evening, Angus noticed with relief. She wore a plum-coloured dress that fell in simple lines to the ground, with an unadorned belt wrapped tightly around her thin waist. Her hat was a square straw thing plopped on top of her head. A few blond curls peeked out to fall around her face. She locked the door behind her. Sterling, dressed in a tweed suit, held out his arm. She accepted it.
They walked downhill, heading toward Front Street and the dance halls, unaware of two shadows silently following.
First stop was the Horseshoe. Angus positioned himself across the street, behind a boulder. He assigned Dave the closer spot, near the door.
The streets were busy. Saturday night and everyone knew the dance halls would be closing in a few hours. A light rain began to fall. More than a few people gave the boy couched in the lee of the boulder an odd look, but no one stopped to ask what he was doing. No doubt they figured he was waiting for his father.
Not more than half an hour passed before Sterling and Miss Jennings reappear
ed. They strolled down the boardwalk, chatting, laughing, and Angus and Dave fell into step behind them. It was good that the street was crowded. If Sterling should happen to stop and look back, the boys would be hidden by the throng. The Monte Carlo, the Savoy’s strongest competition, was next. A portrait of the Queen hung over the front door and the name of the establishment was mounted above the second-floor windows. Like the Savoy, it was nothing more than a wooden shack with pretentions.
The rain was falling harder now. A couple of people brought out umbrellas but most walked on, heedless of the wet. Angus and Dave couched behind a sign advertising the Dawson Headquarters of the Post Intelligencer. They had no cover and before long cold rain water was leaking through his jacket and dripping down the back of his neck.
“I’m bored,” Dave complained and Angus shushed him.
A few minutes passed.
“I’m getting wet,” Dave said.
Angus rolled his eyes. Some people simply weren’t cut out for a life of adventure and danger.
“What are we doing anyway?” Dave asked. “I know that guy. He’s a Mountie. I don’t think the police’ll like it much if you’re sneaking around after them.”
“We’re watching the lady. She mustn’t know we’re here.”
“Why?” Dave repeated.
“Does a soldier question his orders? Does a Mountie put up his hand and ask, ‘Superintended Steele what are we doing this for?’ No. They do what they’re told.”
“We’re not soldiers or police,” Dave said, perfectly sensibly. “Don’t tell me the Mounties have called you in for special duty, Angus. They don’t use boys.”
“You can go home if you want.”
“I’ll stick around a bit. You’re watching them because you think the Mountie’s sweet on that lady and he has an understanding with your ma, right?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Angus said.
The rain continued to fall. A mangy dog came to investigate. Angus held out his hand and the dog growled, showing a row of teeth, yellow but still sharp. Angus snatched his hand back. He took out his watch. Only ten o’clock.
