Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  The orchestra didn’t seem inclined to start up where they’d left off with the “Infernal Galop” and the girls gradually drifted off the stage.

  Time for Irene’s big dance.

  But the air of anticipation in the room had departed along with Gerry Sullivan and his police escort. The men at the front were still enthused, but many others had lost interest and a few of those who’d gone out to the street to watch Sullivan being taken away had not returned. Irene went through her dance by rote, her face barely cracking a smile, discarding the lengths of chiffon as if leaving them for the maid.

  I had had the presence of mind to order Angus to leave rather than risk him witnessing the sensuous dance. Which was turning out to be about as sensuous as Mrs. Mann labouring in the laundry shed.

  Irene finished the dance, wrapped in the last length of chiffon, and took a desultory bow. Only a scattering of small nuggets fell at her feet. She gathered them up and stomped off the stage with a scowl.

  The caller laboured to his feet and bellowed at the customers to “grab your partners for that long, dreamy, juicy waltz,” while the benches were shoved aside and the percentage girls either sauntered or careened onto the floor.

  When I returned to the saloon, Richard Sterling was waiting for me.

  “Where’s Angus?”

  “I sent him home. Told him he’d done a good job, but if I found him on the streets tonight he’d be arrested for breaking curfew.”

  “There’s a curfew?”

  “For Angus, there is.”

  I laughed.

  “He takes your safety seriously, Fiona. He thinks himself your protector, and it bothers him a great deal that he’s too young to do much about guarding you.”

  “Perish the thought. My son following me day and night? I suspect he’d get bored fairly quickly.”

  “He’s been spending some time with Roland, he tells me. Roland’s been asking questions about the clientele here. I don’t like to see the men taking advantage of Angus.”

  “I agree. But as you pointed out, it’s hard for me to keep the boy away for long.” I changed the subject. “Where’s Eleanor? Don’t tell me there’s a curfew on her too?”

  He shifted his feet. “No. But I suggested she could do nothing more here. She should have told us about the disappearance of the magnesium. Or at least let Angus do so.”

  I chastised myself, a little bit, for the frisson of pleasure I felt at hearing Richard criticize Eleanor. Still enjoyed it, though.

  “We had a narrow escape.”

  “That we did. I’m going to the fort now. McKnight will want to question Sullivan about the murder the other day. The one you witnessed.”

  “You think he was responsible?”

  “It’s a possibility. I believe he and Stewart may have visited the same bar in Louse Town. I don’t know what they could have argued about in the short time Stewart was in town, but perhaps Sullivan will tell us. Good night, Fiona.”

  “Good night, Richard.”

  As the door swung behind him, three fresh-faced young cheechakos pushed their way in.

  I forced my face into a smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to the Savoy.”

  One of them leered at me, one blew the fumes of near-poisonous liquor into my face, and one belched. “We’re here to see the Lady Irénée,” the leerer said, addressing my décolletage. “Are you her, sweetie?”

  “I am not. Neither am I your sweetie. The dancing, however, has begun. You’d better hurry.”

  They did so, pushing each other aside in their haste.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” I said to Ray a few minutes later when he passed me after having ejected an argumentative alcoholic.

  “What’s over?”

  “That nasty murder business. Gerry Sullivan killed that man in the alley last week and he’ll hang for it. Poor Colleen. I wonder what will happen to her now.”

  Ray peered at me. “You aren’t getting sentimental over the lass, are ye, Fee?”

  “Good heavens, no. Merely speculating aloud.” Colleen would find herself alone in a harsh world. She’d survive.

  I had.

  32

  Unlike Fiona MacGillivray, Richard Sterling wasn’t so sure it was over.

  Gerry Sullivan was loud and argumentative. He denounced British imperialism, sang the phrases of Ireland, vowed revenge for centuries of abuse. He proudly pronounced himself a member of the Brotherhood. He was, as Sterling had suspected, a Fenian.

  The man had probably never been to Ireland in his life, and would no doubt be seriously disappointed if he had, but reality was rarely an impediment to a man with a vision. The Fenians were finished. They’d made a nuisance of themselves for a few years over the sixties and seventies, having some idea that they could capture Canada for the Americans and thus avenge the British control of Ireland. But their dream — illusion more likely — had died, and eventually even the Americans turned against them. Gerry Sullivan, loud and proud, and very stupid, was the last to realize the cause was finished.

  They had no trouble getting him to confess to attempting to start a riot in the Savoy. He’d thought of the idea all by himself, he claimed proudly. Initially he wasn’t pleased that his daughter Colleen had to resort to pounding the boards of the stage in a dance hall, but when she was promoted he recognized the opportunity immediately. She would dance a seductive, illegal dance, stirring men’s passions. When the police tried to shut the dance hall down, as they were sure to, the audience would riot in objection. Sullivan was confident that once their dander had been roused, the Americans could be spurred to a full-scale revolt ending in the eviction of the Canadian presence. The Yukon, at least, would be freed from the crushing yoke that was British imperialism.

  It was, Sterling thought, one of the dumbest revolutionary ideas he’d ever heard. The Americans might be quite happy to see the territory become a possession of the United States, but few of them would countenance any disruption of their single-minded pursuit of finding gold and spending it as quickly as possible.

  “Jim Stewart,” McKnight said, cutting Sullivan off in the midst of an explanation of the noble aims of the noble Fenian brotherhood.

  “Who?”

  “Jim Stewart. Tell us about Jim Stewart.”

  Sullivan scratched his chin. The fake beard had been discarded along with the rest of the disguise. It had been a mighty poor disguise. In better light and without being able to hide in a crush of people, Sullivan would have been spotted almost immediately. “Never heard of him.”

  McKnight said, “Why’d you kill him? Opposed to the aims of your brotherhood, was he?”

  Sullivan did look confused, Sterling had to admit. “I didn’t kill no one.”

  “You did. And we have you now. Tuesday evening before last. A man was knifed in the alley behind the Savoy. Judge’ll think better of you if you confess.”

  Sullivan shook his head. “Nothing to confess. Hey! You aren’t going to pin that on me.” He tried to get out of his chair, but Constable FitzHenry slapped him, none too gently, back down.

  “I didn’t kill no one, I tell you. I don’t even know anyone name of Stewart.”

  “A Scottish fellow. About five feet seven, light build. You were seen in his presence in the Yankee Doodle,” Sterling offered. “Trying to drum up trouble, I suspect.” It was a wild guess, but it hit its mark.

  “Okay, okay. Now I remember him. I met a fellow by that name a couple days ago. Yeah. Stewart. I figured that for his first name. I’ve a cousin by marriage name of Stuart.” He spelled it out. “Same name as the would-be king. I didn’t kill him, though.”

  “You expect us to believe …” McKnight said.

  “What was he doing in the Yankee Doodle?” Sterling interrupted. “An unlikely place for a Scotsman fresh off the boat to find himself.”

  “I figured he figured the Yankee’d be a good place to find like-minded folk.”

  “Like-minded? In what way?”

  “Men wantin
g to free the Yukon.”

  “Yes, yes,” McKnight said, “from the yoke of British Imperialism. Whether we want to be freed or not. I’ve had enough for one night. Constable, take the prisoner to his cell.”

  FitzHenry pulled Sullivan to his feet.

  “You don’t have to be so god damned rough. I’m coming,” Sullivan said.

  “Any more language like that,” McKnight said, “and I’ll add to the charges.”

  “Give me a blue ticket and let me get the hell out of here. I’ll collect my daughter and we’ll be gone.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Sullivan. There’s no blue ticket for murder. You’ll be our guest on the woodpile until next time the judge is in town. And once your trial’s over, you’ll hang.”

  * * *

  Once again Irene didn’t make her grand announcement. I assumed she was waiting until the time was right, and she had the audience’s attention cradled in the palm of her hand. She didn’t have to stay for the remainder of the evening’s entertainment, although she usually did. Tonight she stalked out shortly after the floor was cleared and the bumpy gallop they called dancing began.

  Just as well, as her scowl would put the toughest sourdough off his stride.

  It was approaching closing time; the dancers were asleep on their feet, smiles frozen into place; the violinist had forgotten how to make a tune and was dragging his bow across the strings without rhyme or reason. Murray wiped the counter, and wiped the counter, and continued to wipe the counter, his strokes so rhythmic they were lulling him to sleep. Most of the customers had left, but a few hearty souls possessed of limitless energy danced on. And drank on.

  My feet were aching, and I dared be so bold as to rest my backside against the arm of an unoccupied chair. My eyelids fluttered shut. “Tired, Fiona?” said a soft voice.

  My eyes few open and I jerked myself upright. “Certainly not.” I pulled my watch out of my pocket and flipped it open. The hands had scarcely moved since the last time I’d checked. I refrained from shaking it to see if it were still working. “Good heavens, is it that late already? Almost closing time. Is Mr. Sullivan tucked in for the night?”

  “He is,” Richard said. “He’ll be charged in the morning with the murder of James Stewart.”

  “Good.” I didn’t ask why he’d done it. It was largely irrelevant. As long as it didn’t have anything to do with me.

  “I’m not so sure. That’s why I’ve come back. To talk to you. Fiona, are you sure Stewart said nothing more before he died? Perhaps even something that didn’t make any sense at the time?”

  I glanced around the room. Murray was wiping the counter. Barney had left long ago and his stool had not been claimed. Ray was pouring drinks and chatting to the customers. Ray never looked tired. He’d tried to follow Irene out when she left, but she gave him an angry growl, and he retreated back to his post. I could hear the roulette wheel spinning, Jake calling for last bets. I could smell cigar smoke, damp sawdust, and the acrid odour of a man losing far more money than he could afford.

  I shook my head. The lie so ingrained I could not now take it back. Besides, it made no difference.

  “What was the name of the last king of Scotland?”

  The change of topic was somewhat abrupt. “What?”

  “The last king of Scotland. Angus told me about Bonnie Prince Charlie and some big battle for the throne.”

  “James. James VII was Charlie’s grandfather. James was deposed, sent to exile in France. His son, also named James, should have been king on his death.”

  “Did these Jameses have a last name?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yes, they did. Stuart.”

  “James Stuart. Jim Stewart. I wonder if that means anything?”

  I was prevented from answering when a man sitting on a stool at one end of the bar fell off it. He crashed to the floor, glass and whisky flying. He lay where he fell, blinking. Then he rolled over and tucked his hands underneath his head to make a pillow.

  Ray lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Richard went to give him a hand. If the man wanted to sleep, he’d find the mud of the street nice and soft.

  33

  As I feared, Angus was rather full of himself, having prevented the destruction of the Savoy (or at least a section of the floorboards). He was describing his thought process in great detail to Mr. Mann when I came into the kitchen the next morning. Judging by the expression on Mr. Mann’s face, this was not the first time he’d heard the story. Probably not the first time today, either.

  “You’re up early, Fiona,” Mrs. Mann said.

  “I wanted to catch Angus before he left for the shop. I have important news. I’ll have a coffee, please.” I sat down. I hadn’t dressed yet and wore my scarlet dressing gown, the one with the gold dragon streaking across the back, my hair tucked into a rough knot at my neck.

  I waited until I was sure I had everyone’s attention. And a cup of coffee. No cream again today. Drat.

  “Mr. Sullivan has been charged with the killing of that unfortunate man outside the Savoy last week.”

  “He has?”

  “The judge has been sent for and there will be a trial as soon as he’s able to arrive.”

  Mr. Mann nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Then he will hang. Trouble us no longer.”

  Angus didn’t look as pleased at the news as I expected.

  “Are you sure, Mother?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t see it myself. Mr. Sullivan wanted to create a big explosion, attract lots of attention. He wasn’t even all that concerned at getting caught. He could have put the magnesium into a cigar, hidden it under a table with a long, slow fuse. He could have done something so he’d be well away before it went off. But he didn’t. He waited around. He wanted to be there. He wanted to use the commotion to start his so-called revolution. That’s not the work of a man who stabs anyone in a back alley.”

  I didn’t want to know how my son managed to become so intimately acquainted with the workings of the criminal mind. “Perhaps this Mr. Stewart became aware of Mr. Sullivan’s nefarious plot and had to be silenced.” I myself am quite acquainted with the workings of the criminal mind. A fact I try not to advertise.

  “But Mr. Sullivan didn’t have a nefarious plot, Mother, not when Stewart was alive. He didn’t see Miss Jennings’ flash powders, and thus come up with the idea, until a few days ago.” Angus shook his head thoughtfully. I attempted to distract him.

  “What do you have on today?”

  “Work at the store. Then meeting Sergeant Lancaster.”

  “Why on earth would you be meeting Sergeant Lancaster?”

  All the blood rose into his face before draining rapidly away. He gaped at me and struggled to find words. “Because he … uh … he wants to … I mean I want to …”

  “Continue with the boxing lessons,” I said, sipping overly strong coffee.

  “You know about that?”

  “I know about everything, my dear. Now, time to be off. Are you assisting Miss Jennings later?”

  “Yes. She’s teaching me how to develop the plates. It’s really interesting. Red light doesn’t destroy the image, but other light does, so you have to work in this really low red light.”

  “I do believe I said it’s time to be off. Mr. Mann has gone in search of his hat.”

  Mrs. Mann handed Angus his lunch packet and he stumbled all over his big feet in the effort to get out the door. I drank coffee, quite pleased with myself. I had not known Angus was taking boxing lessons from Sergeant Lancaster. However, I knew the sergeant offered such lessons (I doubt there is anyone in town not informed that he was once the champion of Winnipeg). I had, on occasion, seen a bruise or two on Angus’s face and noticed chapped knuckles, which I’d believed to be the result of overly enthusiastic boyish antics. When Angus mentioned a meeting with the sergeant, with whom he had absolutely nothing in common, I simply put the facts together.

  The police would do well to employ women as det
ectives. I might suggest that to them someday.

  * * *

  I stood in front of the windows of the Savoy. The advertisement was still on display, still with a notice indicating Colleen would be performing tonight. I’d seen several other photographs and notices to that effect around town. We should probably have them taken down.

  One of our regulars accosted me when I came through the doors. He wanted to know when the “sweet young thing” would be back. “I was very disappointed, Mrs. MacGillivray, not to hear her last night. I enjoyed her song very much, I did.” The men within earshot all nodded.

  I babbled something nonsensical and headed to the back to check on progress in the ladies’ changing room. The twins at the Monte Carlo had been a dud. The performers were “No more twins,” I’d overheard one fellow complain, “than me and my aunt Fanny.” Tonight I could expect custom at the Savoy to be back to regular levels — meaning bursting at the seams.

  Which, I reminded myself happily, would mean that when I went to the bank tomorrow morning, the sack I carried would also be bursting at the seams.

  Irene normally had little to do with the other women, performers or percentage girls. She kept herself to herself as befitting her lofty status as headliner. Tonight, she was even more aloof. She sat on a chair in the corner, wrapped in her own thoughts, while all around her women dressed, made themselves up, and chatted. She seemed so sad, so lonely, I actually leaned over and asked in a low voice, “Is everything all right, Irene?”

  She looked at me through dark and angry eyes. I took a step backward. “Right as rain, Mrs. Mac. Absolutely peachy keen. Why wouldn’t they be?”

  The words themselves were such a contrast to the hiss with which she spoke them, I didn’t even bother to reprimand her for the familiar use of my name. “Glad to hear it. Carry on.” I scurried away. She’d had a fight, no doubt, with her lover. With Eleanor. Did female lovers fight? Presumably they did. They were still human, after all.