by Vicki Delany
“Probably gone home,” Angus said. “The Savoy’s closed, you see.”
“You should leave also,” Miss Witherspoon said. “Off you go now.” She moved her hands in front of her as if she were shooing away a particularly pesky lapdog.
The woman made no attempt to move; she stood still, in the middle of the saloon, her eyes darting around, attempting to peer into all the dark corners.
“Light’s still on. Late for you isn’t it, Fiona? Mrs. MacGillivray?” Constable Sterling walked into the saloon. “Angus, what brings you here? Where’s your mother? I thought I’d better check, as she’s usually long gone by now.”
The woman screeched at the sight of the red-coated Mountie. She pulled a small-calibre gun out from a pocket in the depths of her dress and held it to Miss Witherspoon’s head. All before Sterling could exhale.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was a lady’s gun, a pretty little thing with a stub nose and a shiny walnut handle.
“Put the weapon down, ma’am,” Constable Richard Sterling said, trying to sound calm, in control, a man of authority. “You don’t want trouble, now do you?”
All the blood had drained from Martha Witherspoon’s face. Angus stood rooted to the spot, shock filling his face. The woman with the gun looked at Sterling then back at Martha, who sat as stiffly as one of the legs holding up the table, the gun pressed to the side of her head, and lastly at Angus.
“Where’s Irene?” she said.
“Gee, ma’am, I don’t know,” Angus cried. “Miss Witherspoon doesn’t know either. Do you, Miss Witherspoon?” Martha Witherspoon croaked something that sounded like “no.”
Sterling’s heart raced; he wiped his palms on the legs of his trousers. He’d been eager to get the hat pin, and his certainty about the nature of the weapon that had killed Tom Jannis, to McKnight. It was too early to find the inspector in his office, so when Sterling had seen the light from a kerosene lamp flickering from the front room of the Savoy, he’d jumped at the chance to have a minute alone with Fiona, in order to confess how badly he felt about Angus’s misplaced faith in him. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he’d be offered the opportunity to escort her home.
Instead he’d stepped into this. The muzzle of the gun was pressed firmly against Martha Witherspoon’s right temple. If this wild-eyed woman was serious, Sterling had no chance of crossing the room and grabbing the gun without it going off.
“Why don’t you sit down, Mrs…?”
“Brandon. Maggie Brandon, and it’s Miss.”
“Miss Brandon. I’m Richard, this is Angus and Martha. Angus, perhaps you could make us a pot of tea. Everything goes better with a cup of tea, isn’t that right, Miss Brandon? May I call you Maggie?”
Angus took a tentative step towards the kitchen.
“Don’t you move, boy,” she said. “I don’t want no tea. No, you cannot call me Maggie.”
“What do you want, Miss Brandon?” Sterling asked, hoping he sounded perfectly calm—not like a man scared out of his wits.
He took a step forward.
“Don’t you move, either, or I’ll finish this one off.”
He held out his hands, pleased to see they weren’t shaking. “Okay, okay. You want to talk to Irene? Why don’t we send Angus and Miss Witherspoon to fetch her? I’ll stay with you while they’re gone.”
“I don’t think so. You find Irene. Tell her there’s a steamboat leaving at noon. I want us to be on it. It’s time to get out of this goddamned town.”
Sterling didn’t bother to reprimand her for her language. He couldn’t leave Angus and Martha alone with this madwoman, but did he have any choice? If he stayed, they could stand here all day, or until Maggie’s hand got tired. Or her patience ran out.
“You, boy.” She turned to Angus. “Go sit over there.” She nodded to the stools at the bar.
“But…” Angus said.
“Sit over there, boy, or I take the lady’s hand off.” The gun swung down and pushed itself into the flesh on the back of Martha’s white hand, lying on the table.
Angus ran across the room to the bar.
Maggie looked at Sterling. “You can’t make it, Redcoat.” The gun returned to Martha’s temple. “By the time you reach me, this lady’s brains be all over her ugly dress.”
Martha moaned. She looked at Sterling, her eyes wide, pleading for him to do something…anything.
“Go get Irene,” Maggie said forcefully. All he could do was to go for help. He walked backwards with great deliberation, still holding his hands out in front of him in a gesture of what—submission? friendship? What a mess. If he called for reinforcements, they’d have the place surrounded, and no one would be likely to get out without bloodshed. But he couldn’t just walk off in search of Irene Davidson and ask her to handle this situation.
Strange that it was a woman who had a fixation on Irene. Men, particularly lonely men far from home, often got much too emotionally tied-up in the worship of their favourite dancer. But a woman?
He felt the door at his back and grabbed the handle. Sterling took a last look at the almost empty bar. Martha Witherspoon looked close to fainting; Angus was pale but appeared to be keeping himself under control; Maggie Brandon watched Sterling like an eagle might watch a mouse crossing an open field. He knew she was capable of doing what she threatened.
As he moved to open the door, it opened itself and slapped against his back. He whirled around to come what under better circumstances would have been delightfully face-to-face with Fiona MacGillivray.
“What on earth?” she said. He grabbed her around the waist and half-carried, halfpushed her out into the street. Fiona twisted, and without Sterling quite knowing how, she freed herself. “Have you gone mad?” She looked like a madwoman herself, with her black hair billowing like a storm cloud about to break and her dress half undone.
Sterling had no time to appreciate the view. “You can’t go in there, Fiona.”
“Of course I can. Angus is there, with Martha. And my dressmaker, although why she’s calling at this time of day, I have no idea.”
“Maggie Brandon is your dressmaker?”
“Yes.” Fiona stepped around him. He grabbed her arm. She moved her body to break the grip, but this time Sterling was ready for her, and he took hold of her other arm as she turned.
“Fiona, you have to listen to me.”
“Let go of me.” Her voice was deep and dark, the look in her black eyes matching the state of her hair.
“I’ll release you, if you promise to hear me out.”
“You have thirty seconds,” she said, as though she wasn’t the one being restrained, “to tell me why my son is sitting at the bar, and I can’t go to him.”
Sterling released her. Fiona was a tall woman, but still a good deal shorter than he. In the back of his mind, he’d thought that something was different. Now he realized what it was—she was shorter than normal. He looked down. Her bare feet were covered with mud. Splashes of mud coated the hem of her dress—a dress he hadn’t seen before, in a fantastic red. She had thrown a shawl over her shoulders, but it was slipping, revealing that the top two buttons were undone. Her face was flushed red with anger.
Attracted by Fiona’s state of dishevelment and her public tussle with the big Mountie, a small crowd began to gather. “You’ve got her now, Constable,” someone called, to cheers from the onlookers.
Sterling lowered his voice. “She has a gun, Fiona. You go in there, she’ll shoot. Step one foot closer, buddy, and I’ll have you arrested for using vile language.”
“I ain’t said nothin’.”
“You will if I arrest you.”
The miscreant removed himself from earshot.
Fiona lifted a hand to her mouth. “Angus?”
“Everyone’s fine, Fiona, but I don’t know for how long. I have to go for help.”
“Irene?”
“How do you know?”
“I guessed. Oh my God. Angus.” Her eyes filled with tears,
and her lower lip quivered. “Angus.”
Sterling wanted to do nothing but gather her in his arms and promise her that he’d make everything all right. Instead he said, “Do you know where Irene is likely to be? Can you find her and bring her here?”
Fiona looked up. “Bring her here? Isn’t she inside?”
“Irene Davidson? No. That’s why we need her.”
“You said she had a gun on Angus.”
“Irene? I didn’t say that. It’s some woman I’ve only seen around town. You said she’s your dressmaker. She’s asking for Irene. Maybe she has some sort of fixation on Irene, or else her man is spending too much of his time and money at the Savoy, and she blames Irene.”
A light crossed Fiona’s face. “Oh,” she said. “Maggie Brandon killed Chloe and Tom Jannis.”
Sterling felt as if his head were about to explode. What this had to do with the two murders that had rocked Dawson, and Fort Herchmer, in the last two weeks he had no idea. One problem at a time. “You, come here,” Sterling saw a familiar face in the crowd. Not one of the more respectable citizens, but someone who could be trusted to carry a message.
Joe Hamilton looked pleased to be picked out of the pack. No one could quite hear what was being said between the Mountie and the woman every man in town dreamed about, but her state of frantic near-undress, and the look on their faces, was enough to keep the multitude entranced and growing.
Sterling called Hamilton closer and spoke into his ear. “You breathe a word of this outside of Fort Herchmer, and I’ll see you run out of town. Understand?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sterling.” Sterling told Joe to make for the Fort as fast as he could.
If he passed any Mounties on the way, he was to tell them they were needed at the Savoy. At the Fort he was to go straight to Inspector McKnight’s office and tell anyone there that there was a hostage-taking at the Savoy.
Hamilton sucked in his breath. “One word out of place,” Sterling growled, “and you’ll be lucky to be run out of town in one piece.”
Hamilton took off at a sprint. The crowd opened before him.
The men were edging closer. Sterling didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to keep them back. Fortunately, everyone knew that the Savoy was closed this time of day, so no one was trying to get in for a drink.
“Richard,” Fiona said, so softly he had to bend forward to hear her, “what can I do?”
“Do you know where Irene Davidson lives?”
“I know something better. I know where she went for breakfast. They might still be there.”
“It would help.”
Without another word, Fiona turned. The look on her face was so intense, the men stood back and let her pass.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I flew up King Street, my bare feet slapping against the muddy boardwalk. I remembered the day Angus had been born and the joy amidst the pain that was the wonder of it all. I remembered that I’d felt sorry, that one time only, for his father, who hadn’t been there to see what we had produced. I remembered scraped knees, exasperated nannies, expensive schools, and the dogged determination on the young face that he be the sole protector of his mother. People stepped out of my way as I ran, and no one was foolish enough to attempt to stop me and inquire as to where I was headed in such a hurry.
I burst through the doors of the Imperial Restaurant. The place was almost empty at this early hour. A sourdough scowled as he attacked a plate stacked high with pancakes. Big Alex MacDonald, who everyone called the King of the Klondike, sipped his coffee while he listened to the man seated across the table. A single bored waiter dressed in a long white apron leaned against the wall while involved in an intense examination of his ragged fingernails.
In the far corner, well away from the windows letting in the soft morning light, sat Irene, in her red-and-black silk, and a delicately pretty young percentage girl, wearing a dress that might have come out of her grandmother’s closet. The remains of a lavish breakfast were on the table in front of them, not yet cleared away. Streaks of yellow egg yolk ran across the girl’s plate. More precious than gold, the eggs alone would have cost Irene a fortune.
Everyone looked up as the door slammed behind me.
Irene’s painted mouth opened in an ‘o’ of surprise. The percentage girl squealed. “Good heavens, Mrs. MacGillivray, are you all right? You look a dreadful sight.”
I ignored her and stared at Irene. “You have to come with me.”
She gestured to her coffee cup, still filled almost to the brim. “I haven’t finished yet…”
I grabbed Irene’s arm and lifted her half out of her chair. The chair clattered to the floor. “Come with me, Irene.”
Indecision crossed her face. She was being accosted in a public place, for no reason, by her employer, who, judging only by her appearance, not even by her actions, had clearly gone mad. How, Irene was no doubt wondering, could she take advantage of this?
“Maggie,” I hissed, not wanting everyone in the restaurant to know our business, “has Angus.”
“I scarcely know what that’s got to do with me.”
Seeing an opportunity, the percentage girl piped up. “I’d be happy to help you, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
Still standing, Irene picked up her coffee cup and touched it to her lips. I sent the cup flying. Big Alex’s chair scraped on the floor. “Can I help here, Mrs. MacGillivray?” he asked.
I leaned into Irene’s face. “Your friend Maggie killed Chloe, then she killed Jannis, and now she wants you, Irene, but she has my son instead. So you will come with me.”
Irene looked behind her—the percentage girl’s eyes were open almost as wide as her mouth—then back at me. She hesitated for only a moment. “I swear, Mrs. MacGillivray, you have to believe me: I knew nothing of this.”
“What you knew or not is hardly my concern right now. If you don’t agree to come with me to the Savoy right this minute, I will have these men drag you there. You know they’ll do anything I ask.”
“I’ll come.”
Trusting she was behind me, I headed out the door. The waiter stepped away from the wall. “You ain’t settled the bill yet, lady,” he said.
“Stuff it up your ass,” Irene replied, tumbling into the street after me.
The percentage girl squealed again. “You’re not gonna stick me with it. She said it was her treat.”
I glanced over my shoulder only once as we ran back down King Street. Irene was behind me, her lovely gown streaming out behind her; the percentage girl was trying to keep up, but she was falling back, about to be overtaken by Big Alex and his companion. Far behind, the sourdough stumbled, having abandoned his pancakes to join in the chase. The waiter brought up the rear, waving a slip of paper—Irene’s bill, presumably.
The crowd outside the Savoy had begun to disperse, as nothing of interest appeared to be happening. When Irene and I arrived, they turned as one and resumed their position in the street.
Two Mounties were talking to Richard in low voices. I pushed the onlookers aside, ignoring the babble of shouts and questions. Irene and I climbed up onto the boardwalk.
Richard looked into my eyes. “No further developments,” he said.
A wave of relief washed over me—I hadn’t dared think of what might await me upon my return.
Sterling filled Irene in on the situation. “You probably don’t even know this Maggie Brandon, but people sometimes get the strangest fixation on popular performers such as yourself.”
The Mounties’ broad-brimmed hats bobbed in agreement. Neither Irene nor I disabused the men of their assumptions.
“What are you going to do?” I asked Richard Sterling.
“First, he’s going to request that you move back, Mrs. MacGillivray.” Inspector McKnight came up behind me.
“You’re serving no purpose here.”
“My son…”
“Is in there. I know that, madam, but there’s nothing you can do. If you’ll stand out of the way and let
us get on with our work.” McKnight was trying to be kind. And failing >miserably—he made the saving of my son sound as important as clearing a drunk from the sidewalk.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“Mrs. MacGillivray,” Richard said in his deep, calm voice, “you must realize that your state of dress is attracting onlookers. The fewer people around, the easier it will be for us to deal with the Brandon woman and thus rescue Angus and Miss Witherspoon.”
I looked down. I’d lost the shawl I’d tossed over my shoulders, and my breasts were spilling out of my exposed over-corset. In order to facilitate running, I’d tucked my skirt into the waistband, revealing a generous amount of ankle and lower leg. My stockings were so badly torn, I was virtually barefoot.
“Perhaps you should see to your feet, ma’am,” one of the Mounties said. Only once he pointed them out to me did I realize how much they hurt. Blood was leaking into the dirt of Front Street.
I’d worry about pain later.
I let the skirts drop but could do nothing about the button I’d ripped off the front of my dress. “I’m not going home to change,” I protested.
Richard beckoned to Irene’s breakfast companion, the percentage girl who’d followed us rather than be responsible for the extravagant breakfast bill. “Would you be so kind as to lend Mrs. MacGillivray your coat,” he asked in a tone that said it was not a question.
She wore a short jacket over her dress. It was the colour of dog dirt, accented by a double row of mustard-coloured braid running around the collar and down both sides of the front. I momentarily thought that I wouldn’t be caught dead in it but remembered quickly enough that that might be a possibility. I’d risk my life to save my son, if I had to.
She hesitated. “I’ll buy you another,” I said and slipped on the garment she quickly discarded. Perhaps she thought it as ugly as I did. She was a good deal stockier than I, and the jacket buttoned up with room to spare.
I had not failed to notice that while this exchange of clothing was going on, the Mounties held a quick conference. McKnight stepped forward and rapped on the door of the Savoy. “May I come in, Miss Brandon?” he asked with perfect manners.
