by Vicki Delany
“My son was unfortunate enough to be present when the body was discovered, yes,” I said. With the height difference and the fact that my nose was high in the air, it was difficult to see Joey’s expression. Probably malicious, as always. “But he was not involved in any way.”
“That’s not the way some see it,” Joey said. “Some are asking why Angus MacGillivray is always around when something bad ’appens.”
My nose dropped, and I stared into her ugly, beady brown eyes. “By some, I assume you mean you are spreading vicious rumour and innuendo, Joey. Which you can do all you want; no one of any consequence will pay the slightest bit of attention to the likes of you. But if you ever dare to interfere with my son…”
Joey gave me the nastiest smile I hope to ever see. “I never bother boys, Mrs. MacGillivray. No need—they come to me readily enough soon as they’re able.”
Before I could rip her hair right out of her head, Graham took my arm. “Leave it, Fiona. Let’s go.”
I allowed him to lead me away. Maggie handed the parcel to Joey. “Five dollars,” she repeated.
“I also ’ear that your protégé, the ugly little Indian, is gonna ’ang for killing poor Chloe,” Joey said to my retreating back. “Didn’t you take against Chloe, Mrs. MacGillivray? Maybe you put ’er up to it, eh? Wonder if the redcoats ’ave thought of that? ’Course some are saying it coulda been you, Irene. Weren’t you and Chloe very close friends once?”
“That’s outrageous.” Irene’s voice broke on the words. “Five dollars,” Maggie said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Angus tapped lightly on the door to the ladies’ sitting room. Miss Witherspoon threw it open. “How dreadfully exciting,” she bellowed, dragging Angus into the suite. Miss Forester lay on the settee, and the doctor was gathering up his bag. He nodded to Angus. “Shock can come on at any time, young man. If you have reason to believe your mother is experiencing the delayed effects of shock, come and fetch me, any time day or night.”
“Yes, sir,” Angus said, wondering why doctors were never concerned about his well-being. He was the one present when Jannis had toppled over, not his mother.
Miss Witherspoon placed her hat on top of her head and stabbed it with a hat pin. “Let us continue our adventures, so rudely interrupted, young Angus.”
“I’ve been thinking, Miss Witherspoon, ma’am.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to be a Mountie, after all. I’d like to be a writer.” Angus’s tongue stumbled over the words. “Would you teach me, ma’am?”
Miss Witherspoon’s eyes lit up. “Of course, Angus, of course. Shining the light of the truth into dark corners to reveal sordid matters some would keep quiet is the noble occupation of the writer. As we were so fortunate as to be at the scene of this dreadful killing, it is clearly incumbent upon us to follow, no matter where our investigation might lead.”
“Okay.”
“Euila!”
“What is it now, Martha?”
“Young Angus and I are off. Please have my notes written up by the time we get back.”
“You know I will.” “Good, let us be off then.” When they came down, the last Mountie had left the hotel. The wooden floor was still damp. Angus and Miss Witherspoon avoided the wet spot.
“This means that Mary didn’t kill Chloe,” Angus said. “Why do you say that?” “Two killings in two days? They have to be connected.
And as Mary’s in jail, she couldn’t have killed Mr. Jannis, could she?”
“Apparently not. But aren’t you jumping to conclusions, dear? There is nothing to say, at least as far as I can see, that these two incidents are connected.”
Angus took Miss Witherspoon’s arm to help her cross the duckboard in front of the hotel. The afternoon sun was doing a good job of drying out the mud, but the streets were still treacherous. A single boot was firmly planted in the middle of the street, as though waiting for its owner to return and put his foot back in. “I know it, Miss Witherspoon, I just know it. Mary can’t have killed Jannis, so she can’t have killed Chloe either. We have to find Inspector McKnight and explain it to him. Come on.”
Angus practically dragged Miss Witherspoon to Fort Herchmer.
* * *
Constable Richard Sterling and Inspector Rupert McKnight had spent the remainder of the afternoon attempting to find someone to interview about the killing of Tom Jannis. Hard to believe that in the middle of the day, in the middle of a town packed as full as Dawson, a man could be stabbed in the back of the neck and left sitting in an arm chair in the lobby of a reputable hotel, yet not a soul would know anything about it. But that was the way things seemed to be. The desk clerk had been running errands, the guests were either in their room or in the dining room, the bar of the hotel opened directly onto the street, so anyone in search of a drink would have had no reason to cross the lobby. There was no trace of blood at the lobby entrance or anywhere on the floor except around the chair in which Jannis had been sitting when Angus had first seen him and where the body had fallen. Which made it unlikely Jannis had been killed elsewhere and brought to the Richmond: he would have left a trail of blood behind him.
Jannis had been killed sitting in the lobby of the Richmond. His assailant had likely walked behind his chair, and with one stab between the vertebrae at the base of his skull, killed the man. No one had seen, or heard, a thing. No one who was prepared to speak to the police at any rate.
“If we could locate that knife, we’d be a long way to having this solved,” McKnight said as they crossed the parade ground, heading back to the inspector’s office. “It had to have been pretty small.”
“And sharp,” Sterling said.
“And sharp. Owned by someone who either got lucky, or knew exactly where to strike. Go around to some of the miner’s supply stores, see if you can find a blade or tool long and thin and sharp, of the sort that might have done the job.”
“You think a miner did this?”
“No reason to, but I don’t know much about what sort of tools they use. I’ve never watched a miner work, have you?”
“I’ve been to the Creeks, sir. Didn’t pay much attention to their equipment.”
“Awful job, I hear.”
“You think there’s something distinctive about the knife?”
“That wound was made with a long, very thin blade. Not something anyone could grab off a butcher’s block. I’d like to know if there’s something like that around town, that’s all. If it is a miner’s tool, then every single person in town is a possible candidate to own one.”
They walked in silence for a minute, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
“If the knife doesn’t lead us anywhere,” McKnight said as much to himself as to Sterling, “we have to concentrate on finding a motive.”
“Yes, sir.” “What about that Indian fight you broke up?” “What Indian fight?” “Between Jannis and some drunken Indian, couple of days ago.”
“That wasn’t a fight. It was a bully kicking the stuffing out of a man who was in no condition to defend himself.”
“Check out the Indian anyway. He might have wanted revenge.”
“No Indian is going to walk into the Richmond Hotel in midday. And if he did, Tom Jannis wasn’t likely to stand around talking to him. It seems obvious Jannis was killed by someone he knew, or wasn’t afraid of, at any rate. He doesn’t appear to have tried to defend himself; he didn’t cry out; he sat there and let his killer get behind him.”
“Still, wouldn’t hurt to look at the Indian. Check out his movements.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I think that’s a waste of time.” McKnight stopped walking and turned to face the constable. “If you don’t want to do it, Sterling, you can return to town detachment, and I’ll find someone else to help me.”
Sterling held back his rising anger. “I’d like to stay on the case, sir, but I don’t think it’s worth anyone’s time to question the Indian. The Reverend took him back to Moo
sehide village.”
“And left him there, I’m sure. The good reverend is unlikely to stand watch over every sad case that crosses his path. He might have made his way back to town.”
“But…”
“Mining equipment stores after supper, Sterling. Moosehide tomorrow. Unless you’d rather report to town detachment?”
“No, sir.” Sterling could barely get the two words past his teeth without spitting.
“Inspector, Constable, wait up!” A shout stopped the two Mounties at the top of the steps leading to McKnight’s office.
Angus MacGillivray and Martha Witherspoon were hurrying across the parade square. Martha fought to keep her skirts straight in the wind, and Angus held his cap in place with one hand placed firmly on top of it.
Angus bounded up the steps, and Miss Witherspoon struggled to keep up. “What luck!” Angus said. “We’re looking for you, aren’t we, Miss Witherspoon?”
McKnight opened his office door, suppressing a sigh. “What can I do for you this time, son?”
They all crowded into the office. The room was small, filled by a battered and scarred desk with a jumble of papers piled dangerously high and two visitor’s chairs. Beside the cold stove, a stack of logs waited for sharp fall nights, and a carpet that had seen much better days sprawled across the centre of the room. A huge Union Jack was pinned to one wall, facing a portrait of a young Queen Victoria on the other. The wallpaper wouldn’t have been out of place in a dance hall.
McKnight sat behind his desk. Miss Witherspoon verbally admired the decor before taking a chair and pulling out her notebook. Angus paced. McKnight lit his pipe and signalled to Sterling that he could do likewise. The inspector took a deep breath of fragrant tobacco before he spoke. “What brings you here, Angus?” He watched a smoke ring rise to the ceiling.
Angus looked at Martha Witherspoon, who sat stiffly in her chair, pencil posed over a fresh sheet of paper. “Well, sir, we, Miss Witherspoon and me, are wondering if you’re going to release Mary now. I’d like to take her home. Mrs. Mann needs her help at the laundry.”
“What makes you think I’d choose to release the Indian woman known as Mary?” McKnight said.
Sterling studied the objects on the walls. There was a photograph of McKnight sitting in the front of a group of young Mounties, a poorly-executed cross-stitch reminding him that they were all on the verge of entering the Valley of Death, a portrait of a distinguished-looking gentleman, and a bad painting of a tree. Other than the cross-stitch, there were no mementos of family.
“She couldn’t have killed Jannis, could she?” Angus said. “Being in jail and all.”
“No,” McKnight said, “but she isn’t accused of doing so.”
“Well then, as the same person who killed Mr. Jannis probably killed Miss Chloe, you can let Mary go.” Angus smiled, satisfied of the validity of his argument.
“We don’t know that the same person was responsible for both killings,” McKnight said, pulling a piece of paper from the top of the pile in front of him.
“It makes sense, sir,” Angus said. “There aren’t so many killings in Dawson that these two might not be related. Jannis saw who killed Chloe, and so the killer knew he had to get rid of him too.”
“If Jannis saw someone killing a dance hall girl, why didn’t he report it to the Mounties, Angus? I’m sorry, but your idea doesn’t work.”
“What about the method of killing?” Miss Witherspoon looked up from her notebook for the first time. “The similarity of both events.”
“There is no similarity,” McKnight said. “Chloe was bludgeoned, pardon my frankness, madam, but you did pose the question, and Jannis was stabbed. I see no similarity.”
“Wasn’t Chloe stabbed as well?” Miss Witherspoon said.
“By a thin blade to the right side of the chest. Only when she failed to expire on the spot, we can assume, did the killer resort to more drastic methods.”
“Gosh,” Angus said.
Sterling leaned forward. The same thought had occurred to him, but he’d wondered how to broach the topic without stepping into the prickly McKnight’s area of authority.
“Miss Witherspoon!” McKnight dropped the official paper. “How do you know that?”
She smiled out of the corner of her mouth and tapped the side of her nose. “A writer has her sources, sir.”
“I’ll ask you to keep your information to yourself, madam. Police business is no concern of a lady.”
“I am here in my professional capacity.”
“You are still a lady, unless I am mistaken?”
Miss Witherspoon let the insult pass.
“You must see, sir. Mary can’t have killed them both, so you can let her go. I promise I’ll look after her.” Angus was close to pleading.
“Angus,” Sterling said quietly, “you can’t look after an adult woman.”
“My mother then. And Miss Witherspoon.”
The writer looked less than delighted at that idea.
“A moot point,” McKnight said. He picked up a stack of official papers and settled back into his chair. “As I won’t be releasing the Indian. The two killings might have a surface similarity, but unacquainted as you both are with the mind of the common criminal, you are probably not aware, Angus, madam, that killers are often known to deliberately imitate the work of someone else. It’s quite common in larger cities. Good day.”
“But…” Angus said.
“I say…” Miss Witherspoon said.
“Constable Sterling, escort Mr. MacGillivray and Miss Witherspoon back to town, if you please. Then you can check the mining stores.”
“Come on, Angus,” Sterling said.
Miss Witherspoon tucked her notebook into her cavernous handbag and headed out the door. Head down in defeat, Angus followed. Then he stopped.
“I want to see Mary,” he said.
McKnight dropped his papers back onto the desk. He’d been holding them upside down, Sterling noticed. “Most certainly not!”
“She must have the right to have visitors,” Angus said firmly. “I insist upon seeing her. If you refuse, I’ll find a lawyer.”
Miss Witherspoon came back into the office. “I’ll accompany the lad.”
“Good,” Angus said, “in case the inspector insists I need an adult female escort.”
McKnight looked quite lost. Sterling stifled a laugh. The boy was as hard-headed as his mother.
McKnight sighed. “Sterling, give these people ten minutes with the prisoner. Then the miner’s stores.”
“Yes, sir.” Sterling hustled Angus and Miss Witherspoon out of the inspector’s office before one of them could smirk and make McKnight change his mind.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Once again my day was a mess. It was close to six o’clock by the time I’d finished at the dressmaker’s and taken a furious walk through town to let off some of the steam that was threatening to boil over at the thought of Joey’s ugly insinuations. If my son ever dared to cross the threshold of one of her hideous cribs! Not for the first time, I was sorry that I hadn’t had a daughter, a sweet thing I could dress in pretty clothes and mould into my own image. Well, the image of the girl I’d been a long time ago, at any rate.
I went home to change into my evening gown and have a quick bite of dinner. Angus wasn’t there, and I could only hope he was still following Martha Witherspoon around town. I didn’t like the idea of him being on his own, not with a killer loose, but it was impossible to keep a motherly eye on the boy considering the schedule I had.
Mr. Mann was full of questions about the killing at the Richmond. He’d heard that Angus was involved, so I couldn’t pretend I knew nothing about it. I explained as briefly as I could without being too impolite, wolfed down the perfectly hideous corned beef hash and escaped to my room. I looked at the green satin with different eyes. I don’t know why I’d bought it—probably because the fabric looked so lovely lying on the seamstresses’ cutting table— but now that I knew wh
y I didn’t like it, I felt better about wearing it. I put it on, reflecting happily that there were only a few more days until I would take possession of my wonderful new clothes. Perhaps Maggie could re-cut the green satin into something for day wear. A skirt perhaps, or the lower part of a dress, to be worn with a top more suitable to my colouring. For a few blissful minutes, I forgot about Joey LeBlanc and her nasty insinuations about my son. But soon enough, my temper returned with a vengeance.
* * *
Graham Donohue sat at the centre of the bar, interviewing two men who were telling him they were on the scene immediately after the finding of the body and before the Mounties showed up to spoil all the fun. I stuck my head into the back room to ask Helen to make me a cup of tea, then joined Graham at the bar. The men were delighted to make room for me.
“When you have a moment, Graham,” I said, “I’d like to talk with you. Privately.” I dragged the last word out, rolling it over my tongue before letting it slip through my lips. Graham almost choked on his whisky. “When you’ve finished what you’re doing, of course,” I said, to be polite.
“I’m finished.” He abandoned his drink and practically pushed me across the room. He headed for the stairs, but I put a hand on his arm and slipped into the reasonably quiet alcove at the bottom of the steps. “This will do,” I said.
“Fiona, I…” he said, his voice thick. He tilted his head towards me.
The alcove might be reasonably quiet, but it certainly wasn’t private. A group of drinkers stared at us. “I’ve decided to help you,” I said in a low voice, placing a firm hand on Graham’s chest to stop his forward movement.
“And I’ll help you, Fiona,” he said.
“Any way I can.”
“With your story.”
“What story?”
“The story you’re writing about the women of Dawson who’ve been forced into prostitution. Do you gentlemen have nothing better to do?” I said to our crowd of onlookers.
“What?” Graham said, sounding rather stupid, which I knew he most certainly was not.
