by Sharon Rowse
Granville was relieved to be nearly back to his rooms. His right arm felt leaden and useless. They’d stitched and bound it for him at the hospital, but the five blocks he’d walked from there had seemed interminable. The day had been too long, the answers too few. Now all he wanted was a whiskey and a good night’s sleep.
“Mr. Granville? Sir?” The boy stepped out of the shadows.
“Trent. Where have you come from?”
“I was worried about you. Specially after the cops came looking for me.”
“The police were looking for you? Why?”
“Dunno. I ran before they asked me anything.”
“So what’re you doing standing there?”
There was a sudden gleam of teeth in the darkness. “Hiding. Waiting for you.”
Granville sighed. He was tired, his arm hurt, and time was running short. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go?”
“Not anymore.”
The reality of Trent’s situation silenced Granville. Thanks to him, the boy’s father had been driven out of town, and whatever job Trent had found was obviously not enough to pay for both food and shelter. With a sigh, he started up the hotel steps, beckoning Trent to follow.
“So who killed Mr. Blayney?” Trent asked as he followed.
Granville kept silent until he’d closed the rickety wooden door behind them with a snap that nearly splintered one of the door panels. He turned to face his eager companion. “I don’t know who killed him. I only know it wasn’t me.”
“But it must’ve been just after he let us go, right?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“So the killer might even have been there.”
Granville wished the idea filled him with one-tenth the enthusiasm Trent obviously felt. Instead, he just felt old and tired and very aware of how much his arm hurt. “Not likely.”
“But if he had been, who do you think might have killed him?”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Go wash up.”
Trent scowled, but took a threadbare towel and headed for the small, grimy bathroom at the end of the hall.
T E N
Sunday, December 10, 1899
Late the following morning Granville reluctantly opened his eyes. His whole body ached. Turning his head slightly, he could see the lump of bedclothes in the corner. He hadn’t dreamed Trent’s return. He levered himself upright. Only the thought of a pot of hot coffee and a huge plate of bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes kept him from falling back and pulling the covers over his head.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Granville reached for his trousers, wincing as the movement pulled on his stitches. As he put on his shirt, he heard a gasp from behind him. Turning, he saw that Trent was awake, and gaping at him.
“What happened to you?”
“What do you mean, what happened?” Granville said, buttoning the shirt.
“Where did the bandage come from?”
He almost sounds as if he’s accusing me of something, Granville thought. But he could sense the worry behind the boy’s words. “The local hospital. I had a little argument in an alley.”
“A little argument? There’s blood on that bandage!”
“That’s what bandages are for.”
“It isn’t funny. You’re hurt.”
“And you are not my keeper. Now, get dressed and we’ll go find some breakfast. I’m in dire need of sustenance.” That seemed to silence Trent, Granville thought in amusement as the boy scrambled into his clothes.
“So, what’re we doing today?” Trent’s eager voice demanded.
“We aren’t doing anything. I thought you had a job? Don’t they expect you to show up?”
“The Turners don’t need an errand boy this week.”
Granville eyed him with suspicion. “Very convenient of them. And exactly why don’t they need you this week, might I ask?”
Trent flushed. “They only have enough errands for Bertie this week.”
“I see. And who would Bertie be?”
“It is me.”
The soft voice at his elbow nearly made Granville drop his coffee cup. He spun in his chair, to see a short, slender young man, wearing baggy gray pantaloons and a long pigtail.
“Bertie?”
He bowed his head.
“Is that your real name?”
“It is Wong Xi Yan, but Mr. Turner find that too hard. It is Miss Emily who choose my new name.”
“Miss Emily?”
“She’s Mr. Turner’s youngest daughter.” This was Trent.
“But why Bertie?”
“She say the name is a favorite of hers. He was husband to the Queen.”
The notion amused Granville, though he allowed nothing of it to show on his face. “I’m pleased to know you, then, Bertie. Why are you here, though? Do the Turners need Trent today, after all?”
“No. I look for you. Miss Emily send me to find you.”
“Why would a daughter of Turner’s send you to look for me?” Granville asked Bertie, then turned to glare at Trent, “And what’s your role in this?”
“Me? None! Well, maybe I did tell Miss Emily about meeting you, and how you were tracking Mr. Jackson’s real killer . . .”
Granville groaned.
The tips of Trent’s ears turned red, and he wouldn’t meet Granville’s eyes.
“If I might,” Bertie’s soft voice sounded louder in the sudden silence. “Miss Emily is kind to help me. My uncle’s last son Wong Yu Fung is lost, and she think maybe you can help.”
“She did, did she? And how does she think I could help?”
“Bertie’s cousin was on that steamer that arrived, the one from China.”
“The Empress of India?”
Trent nodded.
“You mean the one you and your father tried to steal the silk from?”
Trent looked stricken, but he persevered. “That’s the one. It was delayed by a big storm. When she docked, Bertie’s cousin was gone. They figure he got washed overboard, but Bertie here says that can’t be.”
Granville looked at Bertie, who was shaking his head slowly.
A sudden suspicion struck Granville. “Does Miss Emily know I work for her father?”
Trent nodded.
“Did she overhear our conversation?”
Trent shrugged but his ears turned red again.
Granville nodded. It was beginning to make a kind of sense; he’d told Turner he was investigating Jackson’s death, deliberately making it sound official. “She thinks I’m a detective.” He turned to Bertie. “Why don’t you think your cousin was washed overboard in the storm?”
“He get most seasick. He stay below decks.”
“But he might have gone up on deck for fresh air.” Granville watched Bertie decisively shaking his head. “Is there something else?”
“He bring opium for my uncle’s factory. His bag is found, but no opium.”
“How much opium?”
“Fifty pound.”
Granville whistled. “That’s a lot. Why come to me?”
“We think a white man steal the opium.”
“Why? I thought all the factories were run by Chinese.”
Bertie nodded. “In Victoria, yes. In Vancouver, too, for licensed ones. But we hear of illegal factory, and smugglers to United States. Can you help us?”
“No, I’m sorry. Miss Emily was wrong. I can’t help you.”
“Why?”
“Yeah, why?”
Granville let out an exasperated sigh. “Because I am not a detective. And because I must find Jackson’s killer.” Hearing the contradiction in his words, Granville wished he’d phrased it differently; he had a feeling Bertie would not be easy to discourage. He was right. Bertie looked at him in silence for a long moment, as if weighing him against some invisible measure, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
“If you help me, I help you,” Bertie finally said.
“You know something about Jackson’s death?”
/> Bertie’s face showed nothing of his thoughts. “If you help me, I help you.”
“OK, I’ll help you. But first I need to clear my partner.”
Bertie inclined his head. “You come with me.”
Granville followed Bertie down one of the alleys that ran north of Dupont Street, where narrow buildings loomed over them, four and five stories high. The recessed balconies and wrought-iron railings that decorated the building facades were nowhere in evidence here, only steep walls of sooty red brick. Granville was glad it was still daylight.
Ahead of him, Bertie’s pigtail bounced between his shoulder blades with every quick step, while Trent paced at his side. Granville’s eyes darted from one rubbish heap to another, from dark doorway to dark doorway, alert for any motion, any sound, but the alley seemed deserted. He looked behind him. Nothing moved, yet he could feel the heat of unseen eyes burning into his back and he was relieved when Bertie reached the end of the alley. Granville expected him to turn back to the street, but Bertie stopped in front of a plain green door.
He knocked, and after a moment a peephole set in the door opened. An eye considered them, then the peephole closed and the door silently opened inward. They were ushered through a short, covered passage into a courtyard, surrounded by buildings on all four sides. Granville looked around him in astonishment; it was like a city within a city. Chinese shoppers clad in tunics and pantaloons and carrying baskets hurried by. Granville’s and Trent’s were the only white faces in sight, and this was earning them uneasy glances. Bertie, however, didn’t hesitate, cutting straight through the crowd toward the buildings on the far side of the square, Trent in his wake.
With a last glance around him, Granville lengthened his stride and followed. The farther he got from the door where they’d come in, the more the back of his neck prickled.
After they’d negotiated several twisting passageways, Bertie ushered them into a long, narrow room. There were no windows, but in the warm glow of the oil lamps Granville saw that scrolls and paintings covered the walls. Waist-high dragon statues grinned on either side of the fireplace, their bronze flanks catching the flickering light. Granville regarded the man who sat at the far end of the room.
“This is my uncle, Wong Ah Sun,” said Bertie in formal tones as a lean, white-haired gentleman wearing an elaborate robe stood up behind the wide rosewood desk. “Honorable uncle, here is detective I tell you about, Mr. Granville.”
Wong Ah Sun bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.” His English had a British accent laid over a rising and falling intonation, which Granville found fascinating.
Granville bowed in return; it seemed the thing to do. “Your English is very good.”
“Thank you,” Wong Ah Sun said. “I studied in British schools in Hong Kong.”
“And this is Trent,” Bertie said.
Wong Ah Sun bowed to the boy and Granville saw Trent redden, then awkwardly return the bow.
I’m sure that’s not a courtesy he learned from his father, he thought, pleased that the boy was turning out to be such a quick study.
“Mr. Granville, has my nephew told you of our loss?” Wong Ah Sun asked.
Granville nodded. “He has. I am sorry.”
“I thank you. And also I thank you for agreeing to help us. Not many would have done so. There are things that you as a white man are able to do that we cannot.”
Wait a minute, Granville thought, I haven’t agreed to anything yet. “You must understand,” he said, choosing each word with care. He was intensely aware that this was foreign territory, tantamount to a different country from that on the other side of the green door. “I am not free to help you until I have freed my partner.”
The older man inclined his head. “So my nephew has informed me. You seek the killer of Clive Jackson.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I can offer my assistance with that problem, if you in return will assist me with my own.”
Granville nodded. “That would seem fair. But you understand that I must find Jackson’s murderer first.”
Wong Ah Sun bowed. “I understand. Then we are agreed.”
Granville bowed in return. “We are,” he said, then waited.
A brief smile flickered across Wong Ah Sun’s face, then his formality returned. “You have learned patience, I see. It is not a common thing among your countrymen.”
It is among those of us who have sluiced endless pans full of gravel to find a few flecks of gold, Granville thought. He said nothing.
Wong Ah Sun chuckled, the sound like dry twigs snapping. “Very well. I will give you what information I can. Your partner did not kill Mr. Jackson. He was shot by a woman.”
“A woman!” The words were startled out of him. “But who?”
“That I do not know. Only that she was tall, with dark hair. And that she was white.”
For a moment Granville was too stunned to think what to ask next. Trent solved the problem for him. “Was it Miss Frances, Franny from Frisco she’s billed as?” he blurted. “It wasn’t, was it?”
“I am sorry, I do not know.”
“Have you any idea why?” Granville asked. “Why a woman, I mean?”
“Mr. Jackson was involved in very many things. Some say he owned an establishment where he treated the women badly. If you were to ask questions there, it might be that you would find your answers.”
“Where is this establishment?”
Something passed across Wong Ah Sun’s face, but it was gone before Granville could read it. “It is said that it can be found at the end of Dupont Street. Number Twenty-one.”
Nearly to Westminster. “Anything else I should know?”
“There is nothing more I am able to tell you at this moment.”
Clearly the audience was over. Granville bowed. “Thank you for your assistance. You have been most helpful. I look forward to returning the favor.”
Wong Ah Sun bowed in return. “The pleasure was mine. We will talk again when your partner is released from the jail.”
“Until then.” Granville turned to Bertie, who led them back along the alleys and through the green door.
“So now what?” Trent asked Granville as they watched Bertie hurry away.
“Now we start looking for the killer, whether it’s a man or a woman.”
“You don’t think it was Miss Frances, do you?” Trent asked, glancing up at Granville, then quickly away. “I mean, I know she’s tall and has dark hair and all, but she couldn’t be a killer. Could she?”
It might explain why Scott was being so closemouthed, thought Granville. Looking into Trent’s anxious eyes, he said, “She was probably working that night.”
“Oh, right. Of course, she’d be working. I forgot.”
Granville didn’t remind him that she wouldn’t have been onstage the entire evening. “Now the question is, do we talk to Miss Frances first? Or do we go talk to the ladies at Number Twenty-one?”
E L E V E N
Emily Turner sat with her mother and sisters in the sewing room, demurely stitching a sampler. Her expression was calm, yet her mind darted from thought to thought. She had vowed to herself that she would blend in with her sisters today, especially as there were several subjects that she preferred not to discuss. Like what errand she’d sent Bertie on, and why she’d persuaded Cook to give their new errand boy several days off. Mama knew she was up to something, though; Emily could tell, because she kept giving her sharp little looks.
I’m being too docile, she decided, it isn’t like me to stitch without protest. Besides, I can’t bear to sit still any longer! Putting aside her embroidery hoop with relief, Emily looked at the three heads bent so intently over their work, then glanced around the stuffy room. She drew in a breath and stood up, shaking out her long gray skirt. “I think I will go for a walk, Mama,” she said. “I need some fresh air.”
“Very well, if you must. Take Sally with you, then, unless one of your sisters would go?”
Miriam and Jane b
oth shook their heads. They far preferred stitching to walking, especially in December.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Be sure to wear your heavy jacket. It’s gone colder and you don’t want to catch a chill.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And do not go dashing about. It is unbecoming.”
“Yes, Mama.” But she wasn’t going to invite a companion along on her escape. The maid had more important things to do than be her chaperone, anyway.
Finally free, Emily strode along Georgia, the sharp wind whipping at her long skirts. She took an appreciative sniff of the crisp air and sighed happily. The smell of snow was on the wind, which meant they were sure to have a white Christmas. Maybe Lost Lagoon would freeze again as it had last year, and they could all go skating.
Even Papa approved of skating, which was odd, because he strongly disapproved of her bicycling. To her mind, the sense of freedom was the best part of both sports. It was when she felt most alive. For a moment, Emily regretted the cold weather and the slippery streets, which made bicycling impractical now. She quickened her stride. Even walking could be invigorating; not for her the drooping posture, the ladylike gait.
Perhaps if she walked far enough, she might meet Bertie coming back. She desperately wanted to know how his meeting with Mr. Granville had gone.
“Why, it’s Miss Emily Turner.”
The voice of one of her mother’s friends broke into her reverie. To be caught walking without a maid, and by such a gossip, meant Mama would soon know she’d disobeyed her. Ignoring Mrs. Smithers’s disapproving look, Emily exchanged pleasantries with her and her daughters, then the three of them took their leave.
Emily sighed. She really should have brought Sally along, but the girl dawdled so. Ah, well, it was too late now. It was beginning to grow dark, though. Mama would be annoyed enough that she’d gone out alone; she’d be furious if she knew she’d been out alone after dark.
Turning to retrace her steps, she heard the clatter of the streetcar and paused, hoping to see Bertie hanging off the back. Spotting him, she was pleased to note he carried a brimming basket of produce, as that had been her excuse to send him out. At least I won’t have to walk home alone, she thought. As she waited for him, she realized her mother might prefer she walk alone rather than be seen in the company of the houseboy. She shrugged. Hearing about Bertie’s meeting with Mr. Granville was more important than society’s silly strictures about proper young women.
