by Vicki Delany
Angus turned at the sound of the scream and splash. Miss Witherspoon was fully stretched out in the middle of the road, flat on her front, while the new river rushed downhill as though it were a sourdough heading for the nearest saloon. Her skirt had risen above her knees, and she thrashed about on her belly, feet and legs kicking at nothing but wet air, like a fish on a line. She was only wearing one shoe. She let go of her hat, and it floated away. She lifted her head and handed Angus the notebook. He tucked it into his jacket pocket and asked, “Can you stand up?”
She mumbled something positive, as Angus grabbed her by the arm. She rose out of the mud with a sickening squelch.
“I seem to have lost my hat,” she said once she was standing on her own two feet. She looked down. “And one shoe.” The entire front of her dress, from hem to high collar, was covered in mud. Mud dotted her cheeks and nose like freckles.
“I have your notebook,” Angus said. “Good lad. There it is.” Miss Witherspoon limped across the road to rescue her shoe. The heel dangled uselessly as she examined it. “Do you think this can be repaired? You follow your friends; they seem not to be waiting for us. I’ll make my way back to the hotel, lest my appearance frighten small children. No, you keep that,” she protested as Angus reached into his pocket for the notebook. “I have no way of keeping it dry. Come to the hotel when you’re free. If I’ve gone out, I’ll leave a note at the desk. I didn’t care much for that hat anyway.” She set off down the hill, hobbling on one shoe, holding the other, clutching her ribs, hatless, filthy, but keeping her head high.
Angus passed her as he ran to catch up with Constable Sterling and Mary.
* * *
The NWMP post of Fort Herchmer had come into existence in the early years of the gold discovery, before there was much of a town, and thus it occupied a good slice of precious Dawson real estate. Rows of wooden buildings containing the men’s barracks, officer’s quarters, jail, offices and storage rooms surrounded a large parade square with a Union Jack fluttering on top of a tall flagpole in the centre.
The Fort took up several city blocks near the meeting place of the Klondike and Yukon rivers, which proved not to be a very fortuitous location when the square was knee deep in dirty brown water during the flooding of the spring run-off.
Sterling stopped at the entrance to the Fort. Passersby, the few that hadn’t headed for shelter from the driving rain, observed them with interest. “You’ll have to leave us now, Angus,” he said.
“I want to stay with Mary.”
“I’m sorry, son, but you won’t be allowed in. The inspector’ll want to talk to Mary in private.”
“I’m not leaving.” Angus almost stamped his foot, looking very much like the twelve-year-old boy he was.
“Angus, I’m ordering you to go home. If you want to be a Mountie…”
“Maybe I don’t want to be a Mountie any more. Not if I have to arrest innocent people like Mary.” The boy was trying hard not to cry.
“Angus.” Mary placed one small brown hand on his sleeve. “You go home. Give your mother a message from me: I don’t want her to think I was abusing her trust. The other night, when she saw me in the back of the Savoy, please tell her I was just out for some air. I couldn’t stand being in that place. The noise, the horrible music, the air so dirty with smoke. I couldn’t sleep, so I went outside. That man...that Mr. Jannis, he thought I was there, well, for another reason.”
“Tell her yourself. I’m not leaving you.”
“Go home. I trust Constable Sterling to protect me.”
Sterling shifted uncomfortably. He wouldn’t be any protection for her, not if McKnight intended to arrest and charge her. He couldn’t imagine that this petite, polite woman was a murderer. He had no doubt she’d defend herself if she, or someone she loved, were under attack. But to kill a woman, a dancer like Chloe, whom she barely knew? He didn’t believe it, but his unsubstantiated opinion would carry no weight with the officers in charge.
“Come on, Mary,” he said. “We need to get you dry.” Her thin homespun dress was so wet, he could see the sharp bones of her shoulders and hips beneath the fabric. The end of her long black braid dripped rainwater. She shivered.
Angus knew he was defeated. “I’ll tell Mrs. Mann you’ll be on time for work tomorrow,” he said. “The laundry’s too much work for her all on her own.”
Mary smiled, whispered, “Thank you,” and turning, walked towards the flagpole with a straight back and proud chin. The Union Jack hung limp and sodden in the driving rain.
Sterling almost had to break into a run to catch up with her. “This way, ma’am,” he said, steering her towards the offices.
It went as he’d feared. McKnight asked him to show Mary the necklace found on Chloe’s body and asked her if she recognized it. She told them it looked like one she’d lost. McKnight then arrested her for the murder of Chloe Jones. A constable was summoned to escort her to the cells. Mary didn’t look back as she was taken away.
Dawson was so isolated and, particularly in wintertime, the environment so harsh, the Mounties in the Yukon had considerable leeway to adapt the law for their needs. There were normally only two punishments meted out, no matter how severe the crime. Either a sentence of hard labour, which meant a month or two chopping wood to feed the stoves, or a blue ticket—banishment from the territory. Murder? Even in Dawson, that was a hanging offence.
“She didn’t do it, sir,” Sterling said, once the door to Inspector McKnight’s office slammed behind Mary and her guard.
“You have proof of that, Constable?”
“No, sir, I don’t, but there’s no reason why an Indian woman would murder a white woman she didn’t even know.”
“She’s a known prostitute.”
“Sold into prostitution, sir, and trying her best to get out of it.”
“There hasn’t been slavery in the Empire in almost a hundred years, Sterling; they don’t even have it in the United States, or so I’ve been told. It takes a certain type of woman to become a prostitute, circumstances be damned.
That sort of woman is capable of doing almost anything if she thinks there’s profit in it.”
“What options do you think a woman like Mary has? It takes a certain type of woman to starve on the street, but I think better of a person… man or woman…who finds a way to survive. That has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t have a single reason for why she would kill this Chloe.”
McKnight stood up. “Look here, Sterling.” He waved his index finger in the air as though he were lecturing a class of naughty schoolboys. Sterling barely managed to refrain from grabbing it and shaking the man at the other end. “The woman is a prostitute, and that’s the end of it. She was offered a respectable job at a laundry and chucked it in after a few days. If you hadn’t found her, she’d be turning tricks by nightfall.”
“We don’t know why she didn’t show up at her job this morning. Christ, Inspector…”
“Watch your mouth, Constable, or I’ll have you up on charges.”
Sterling almost said something a good deal stronger, but at the last moment he bit back a retort. His once illustrious career had suffered enough damage at the hands of his temper. But he damn well wouldn’t apologize. “If there is nothing else. Sir.”
McKnight could have reprimanded him for his tone alone, but instead the inspector sat back down. “I’m not ending it here, Sterling. I want to talk to Irene Davidson about her relationship with the Jones woman. I’ve heard they had an argument a couple of days ago. We’ll be sure to find her at the Savoy tonight. Meet me here at seven thirty, and we’ll head over there.”
“Yes, sir.” Sterling turned and placed one hand on the door knob to let himself out.
“Oh, one other thing, Sterling. It’s common knowledge that you’re soft on Indians. Don’t let that blind you to this Mary’s character.”
Sterling shut the door behind him with great care. It was the only thing he could do other than rip it off its hi
nges.
Chapter Nineteen
Although the afternoon’s rain didn’t last long, it was enough to turn Front Street into an almost impassable sea of mud. Men’s trousers were thick with it up to the knees, the shorter men’s at any rate, and women’s hems deposited black globules of muck across the floor.
I felt a good bit better, having gone home for a longawaited nap after spending an hour in the afternoon, trying to do the accounts while gorging on the chicken soup Helen brought me.
When I got back to the Savoy, the bar was full of talk about Chloe’s death, everyone having an opinion as to the cause of the matter. Men were asking Murray about her, and I told Ray to order his staff not to discuss it. We were busy that night, the increase in custom largely due to the notoriety the Savoy had obtained by its relationship to the dead woman.
The more theatrical of the dancers and performers insisted they needed an armed police escort when walking home after work. I managed to calm them down by implying, without coming right out and saying it, that Chloe had been up to no good.
The orchestra were in the back warming up (a relative term, as most of them do their “warming up” in other bars) prior to advertising our evening’s performance, when Inspector McKnight and Constable Sterling arrived at the Savoy. It was Sterling’s job to keep an eye on the dance halls up and down Front Street, but I wasn’t happy to see McKnight with him.
I approached them with a welcoming smile. “Inspector McKnight. How nice to see you this evening. The show will be starting shortly.” Richard tossed me a warning frown. I ignored him. “Would you care for a drink before taking your seat?”
“Regretfully, I’m here on business,” the inspector said without preamble. “I want to talk to Irene Davidson.”
“I don’t believe Miss Davidson has arrived yet.” The words hadn’t even left my lips when she walked in, tossing smiles right and left, along with hair and shoulders.
Richard nudged McKnight, and the inspector turned.
Irene tried to duck around a group of drinkers when she saw McKnight, Richard, and me watching her. McKnight had a soft speaking voice, but he could raise it when he wanted to. Perhaps he’d been a drill sergeant at one time.
“Miss Davidson,” he called, “might I have a word?” She could hardly pretend she hadn’t heard; every man in the saloon looked up from his drink, and a few stuck their heads out of the back room.
Irene attempted a smile, but the edges were brittle and her eyes wary. She had changed her dress and was wearing another wonderful gown: a jet black silk with flashes of scarlet in the skirt panel, the folds of the sleeves, and across her breasts. The dress was so well made that the fashionable forward-tipping waistline took about three inches off her more-than-adequate middle. Ray was pouring a glass of whisky as he watched Irene cross the room. He watched…and watched…and watched…until the liquor spilled over his hand onto the bar. I felt the first uncomfortable stirrings of jealousy—Irene was dressing better than I! The only way she could possibly afford such extravagance would be if she had a rich lover. Could she be seeing a man as well as the woman Maggie?
Ray shoved the overflowing glass towards his happy customer and came to glower within ear shot of us.
All business, McKnight didn’t pause to appreciate the beauty of the black and red gown. “I have a few questions for you, Miss Davidson.”
Beads of sweat broke out above Irene’s upper lip, and she wiped her hands on her hips. Her eyes settled on the middle of McKnight’s chest.
“Perhaps later,” she said to the buttons on his uniform jacket. “I’ve got to prepare for the show. We’re doing scenes from Macbeth tonight.”
“Mrs. MacGillivray, if we could make use of your office…” “Uh,” I said. “What’s this about, anyway?” Irene asked, in a poor attempt to sound indignant. I hadn’t hired her for her acting abilities.
“Now see here.” Ray stepped forward, bristling with manly concern. “Miss Davidson doesn’t have to talk to ye, if she doesn’t want ta.”
“You were friends with Chloe Jones,” McKnight said. “That’s none of…” Ray said. “Stay out of this, Walker,” Richard said. “No,” Irene said. “Perhaps we should all go upstairs for some privacy,” I said.
“Good idea,” McKnight said. “Ray, tell Ellie that Irene might be late. They’re to go on with the first dance, and then that dreadful act with the dummy. Move Ellie’s song forward. Irene will be ready to continue with the show at that point.”
“Why don’t you speak to Ellie,” Ray said. “I’ll make sure these officers don’t browbeat Miss Davidson.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Irene can’t be unchaperoned in the company of three men!”
Even Irene raised her eyebrows at that. “You can fetch Helen on your way,” Ray suggested sensibly. “Perhaps Miss Davidson would prefer Mrs. MacGillivray’s company while we talk,” McKnight said, cutting off debate. “Ladies.” He gestured to us to go ahead.
Irene tossed Ray a weak smile which went some way towards soothing his disappointment at not being allowed to act as protector. I considered sticking my tongue out at him, but we’d made enough of a spectacle of ourselves for one evening.
No one made themselves comfortable in my office. Irene walked behind my desk and stood by the window to stare out onto what must have been a miserable sight, what with all the mud. Richard stood with his back against the door, and McKnight planted himself in the middle of the floor. The room was electric with tension between the two Mounties. I wondered how I could turn their problems to my own advantage as I sat on the couch. A spring poked into my bottom.
McKnight pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began cleaning his glasses. “I want to ask you about your relationship with Miss Jones. Then you can get to your show.”
“I didn’t have a relationship with Miss Jones. I didn’t even know that was Chloe’s last name,” Irene told the window.
“I’ve been informed you were good friends. Was that not the case?”
“Sorta,” Irene said. “Until we had a falling out.”
“Oh?”
“Well, not really a falling out. More like we drifted apart. We weren’t that much of friends to begin with. Isn’t that right, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Irene turned to face me.
“Uh…” I said. So this was what had Irene so spooked. I’d assumed McKnight wanted to ask her who Chloe’s friends were, if she had any enemies, any bad habits, that sort of inanity. Instead he wanted to know why Irene and Chloe had argued only a few days before her death. Heavens, women argue with their friends all the time. A few days pass, then everyone is crying and hugging and saying how sorry they are. Not that I would know—I’ve never had any female friends. Not since Euila and I were children.
“‘Inseparable’ is how your friendship was described.” McKnight held his glasses up to the dim light coming in through the window. Not satisfied, he rubbed at them again. “Perhaps you can think of a reason why your ‘inseparable’ friend met her untimely end?”
“I’d like to know who’s been gossiping about me. Who was it? I’ll set her straight, no matter who it is.” She glared at me. Truly innocent, I shook my head.
“That’s of no consequence.” McKnight plopped his glasses back onto his nose. “I am asking you what happened between yourself and Miss Jones to end your friendship.”
Irene collapsed into my chair in a storm of black silk. Her scarlet bosom heaved. “I thought she liked me, but she only made friends with me because she thought I’d get her better parts in the show. She was horribly jealous of me.” Irene held a red handkerchief, a perfect match to the scarlet in her gown, to her face. “When I told her I couldn’t do anything to help her, she took a knife to one of my best costumes. The Helen of Troy one. She was a mean, nasty girl. I’m not sorry someone killed her. So there.” Irene burst into tears.
McKnight and Sterling had the grace to look uncomfortable.
The whole building started to shake. It wasn’t an earthquake, it was
the men below us hooting and stamping their feet. The music had started in the dance hall.
“Do you know where Miss Jones was the night before her death?” McKnight asked.
“No.” Irene spoke into her handkerchief. “I didn’t see her after Mrs. MacGillivray fired her.”
“Do you know where she lived?” Irene peeked out from behind the square of cloth. “She had lodgings on Harper Street.”
“She vacated those rooms on Tuesday around noon, without informing her landlady that she was leaving. She didn’t even collect what remained of the rent she’d paid in advance.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Very well, Miss Davidson, that’s all for now.”
“I didn’t like her,” Irene said, “but I didn’t kill her.”
“Thank you, Miss Davidson.” Irene sat there, blowing her nose into her handkerchief.
“Do you have anything further to tell us, Miss Davidson?” McKnight asked.
“Irene,” I said, “the show has started. Throw some cold water on your face and get downstairs.”
“Yes, Mrs. MacGillivray.” She scurried away.
“If you gentlemen have nothing more…” I said, standing aside to ensure they understood I was asking them to leave. “I have a business to run.”
They put their hats back on their heads.
“Who told you about Irene and Chloe having a disagreement?” I asked, following them to the landing. “I’d scarcely think girl talk of that sort would be of interest to the Mounties.”
