by Sharon Rowse
“You mean you hired him.”
“Well, yes.”
“So Craddock admitted killing Jackson?”
Granville grinned. “Oh, yes. He’s still claiming self-defense, but it’s fairly clear our Mr. Craddock simply got quite angry and hit Jackson. Unluckily for him, it was a killing blow.”
“And Mr. Blayney?”
“Ah, that one Craddock is having more trouble explaining. When I left, Craddock was very busily implicating Gipson. By nightfall, I expect to see them both in jail.”
“And your friend Mr. Scott?”
“A free man.”
“That’s good,” Emily said, then looked down at her hands. With her questions answered, she suddenly felt embarrassed and at a loss for words. It wasn’t a feeling she liked.
She looked up at Granville for a moment, trying and failing to read his expression, summoning her courage. “Granville, what are you doing here?” Realizing what she’d said, she blushed. “I didn’t mean . . . I mean, I cannot imagine how you talked Papa into letting you see me, especially with your face looking the way it does now,” she added with a smile. “He was very angry with you. And with me.”
“Can you not indeed?” He looked amused. “He considers you disgraced, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Isn’t it the most ridiculous thing you have ever heard of? I mean, this is 1899, after all. Not 1849.” She paused. “I’m planning on running away. I’ll get a job.”
“A job? What kind of a job?”
At least he wasn’t dismissing her plans, like her father had, but this was the hard part. Emily gave him the only plausible idea she’d been able to think of so far. “I plan to train as a typewriter. There is a lot of demand now, you know, and they are hiring women as well as men.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed. But what will you live on while you train?”
“That is the only detail I’ve not yet worked out. But I will.”
“I have no doubt of it. But perhaps I have a solution for you.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “I do. I would propose we become engaged, which will save your reputation. We can set a distant date for the wedding. Your father will be appeased, and in the meantime you can take training as a typewriter.”
“Papa would never agree to my marrying you.” She said this gravely, as if by her tone the offense would lessen.
“Emily, have I ever told you who my father was?”
“No, and I don’t see that it could possibly help.”
“My father was the Fifth Baron Granville.” He said it in a tone both reluctant and proud.
“A baron? Then you . . .”
“Alas, I am the fourth son. I have no estate and no title, but I am still of noble birth.”
“And your name?”
“The Honorable John Lansdowne Granville.”
Emily could feel the blood draining from her face and for an awful moment she feared she would faint. “I see. That explains why I’m allowed to receive you. But how would you support me?”
He had the answer ready. “Scott and I are opening our own detective and security agency. We will be hiring Trent as our assistant.”
Emily looked at him for a moment then let out a gurgle of laughter. “You’re serious. How perfect, but I still don’t understand. Why are you offering to marry me?”
“You risked your safety and your reputation to save my life. The least I can do is give you the protection of my name in return.”
“But you don’t want to be married to me.”
“I wonder,” he said. His expression was gentle as he regarded her. “We can at least pretend to be engaged. It will give us time to decide what you want to do, and it will keep your father from sending you off somewhere.”
“Who knows,” he added, taking her hand. “Perhaps we will come to like the idea of being married to each other.”
“Perhaps,” she said, trying to ignore the sense of joy she felt.
“Emily Turner, will you agree to being engaged to me?” he asked, his tone formal but with an odd glint in his eyes.
“I accept,” Emily said, blushing slightly but meeting his gaze steadily.
“And as your fiancé, if only temporary, do you think I am entitled to a kiss?”
“Oh, yes,” Emily said.
Acknowledgment
Thanks to my family and friends for their support. Particular thanks go to my first readers Carla Lewis, Sandy Constable and Roberta Rich for insightful comments on early drafts of the manuscript, to my web designer Laurel Hickey of 2morrow writing & document design for an amazing website and to my graphic designer Virginia Mullin of V. Mullin Design for terrific bookmark and postcard designs.
Thanks also to the staff of the Vancouver Public Library Special Collections for their help in tracking down obscure historical details.
None of the characters in The Silk Train Murder depict actual historical figures, with the exception of the one-armed jailor (I couldn’t pass that one up!) Although the historical detail in this book is as accurate as extensive research could make it, I did move the December, 1899 arrival of the Empress of India up by a week in the interests of the plot. Any errors are the authors. Please check my website at www.sharonrowse.com for historical source materials.
Also by Sharon Rowse:
The Klondike Era Mystery Series:
The Silk Train Murder
The Lost Mine Murders
The Barbara O’Grady Series:
Death of a Secret
Death of a Threat
Death of a Lover
Stories:
Trouble from the Start
Rabbit Stew
About Sharon Rowse:
Sharon Rowse is a Vancouver–based writer who has always loved reading, in every genre and every format. In the absence of a good book (which doesn’t happen often now that we have e-books!) she’s been known to read the back of the cereal boxes. Fulfilling a lifelong dream, Sharon is now writing two mystery series.
Her debut novel, THE SILK TRAIN MURDER is the first book in the “Klondike Era Mystery” series. The book received starred reviews in Booklist and Quill & Quire and was nominated for an Arthur Ellis award for Best First Novel. In this book, a down on his luck gentleman washes up in Vancouver, hungry and broke. Running from his past, afraid of his future. Until he his best friend’s arrest for murder.
Granville’s desperate hunt to find the real killer before they hang his friend takes him to the seedy side of the city; to burlesque halls, gambling joints, brothels and opium dens. Along the way he finds companionship in odd places and an ally—and more—in Emily Turner, the emancipated daughter of a very Victorian father.
DEATH OF A SECRET is the first book in the “Barbara O’Grady Series”. These are urban private eye novels, based in Vancouver and seen through the eyes of failed artist turned investigator Barbara O’Grady. In this book, long forgotten scandals and murders erupt with the murder of Senator Ed McMather. Barbara frantically searches for a serial killer in an investigation with roots deep in the past. Upper-crust Vancouver families reveal dark secrets and the body count rises as Barbara unravels lies within lies and finally reaches the truth. A twisting tale of old secrets, death and treachery.
For more information about Sharon’s work, visit her website at www.sharonrowse.com
Free Preview of THE LOST MINE MURDERS by Sharon Rowse:
ONE
Saturday, December 30, 1899
John Lansdowne Granville eyed the grimy old man standing in the middle of their new office, feet defiantly planted and rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He glanced at his partner, Sam Scott, and the big man gave him a wry grin.
“Why choose us?” Granville asked.
“You’re detectives, ain’t you?” Marty Cole ran a rheumy eye over them. “You look like you c’n take care of yourselves. And rumor has it you know a thing or two about mining. He coughed, a deep hacking sound, then stared at Granville. “And since you’re gentry, I figure you
won’t try to cheat me.”
Which showed how little he knew about the English nobility. “Where exactly is this mine?”
“Out past Pitt Lake. I figure it’ll take us two, three days to get there. More if the snow’s drifted.”
“Why not wait ‘til spring?” Scott asked. He stood with one shoulder leaning against the wall, deceptively casual.
Cole shook his head. “I want to get that claim staked and registered before anybody else happens on it. No-one’ll be getting in ahead of us, not this time of year.” He chuckled wetly and spat.
Granville stepped back as the stream of tobacco juice barely missed his feet. He’d met Cole’s like before, prospectors who’d spent years chasing rumors of gold – and finding it wouldn’t breathe a word to a soul before the mine was safely registered. So why was he telling them? “And what role would we play?”
“You know something about locating mines. Plus you’re witnesses, ain’t you? And protection, in case anybody gets ideas. Specially since I’ll be bringing gold out.”
“This time of year? You’ll get nothing out of the ground or the streams now,” Scott said.
“Do I look fresh off the train to you? I’m not planning on digging it out. There’s a cache, ain’t there?”
Granville and Scott exchanged glances. If there was enough gold already out of the ground, why hadn’t a claim been staked? And who had mined it? But the unwritten rules of the miner, learned the hard way on the frozen creeks of the Klondike – don’t ask, don’t tell – held them back.
“How do you plan to bring the gold out?” Granville asked.
“Don’t plan on taking much this time – just what a couple of pack mules can carry.”
Granville’s eyes met Scott’s, and his friend shrugged.
“Assuming we were foolish enough to sign on for this adventure of yours, what would it be worth to us? We’d expect adequate compensation for the hazards, of course.”
“Course.” Cole rubbed gnarled hands together. Granville noted he’d lost the fingertips on his right hand to frostbite. He obviously knew the dangers of undertaking a winter expedition, but gold hunger could trap even the wariest.
“You and your partner here will be entitled to as much gold as you can carry out between you. But only on the first trip.”
“The cache is that large?”
Cole nodded, but there was a furtive look in the old man’s eyes that Granville didn’t like.
It sounded too good, especially given the lies and half-truths the old man was trying to slide by them. Under truly bad conditions, they might be able to bring out almost nothing. He’d known miners lucky to carry each other out. Before he could speak, Cole smiled, showing long, yellowed teeth.
“Too smart to miss the problems in my offer, are ya? And not greedy enough to think you can overcome them. That’s good, that’s good.” He looked from Granville to Scott and back. “So I’m also offering five percent of the profit of that mine, for as long as I mine it.”
“What if you sell it?” Scott said, frowning at their would-be client.
“Said you were smart, didn’t I? If I sell, you get five percent of the sale.”
Cole had sweetened it too much. He had to be desperate to make such an offer. “If this mine of yours is as rich as you say it is, that’s a lot of money. Why are you willing to pay us so much?”
“Because without your help I might be lucky to get the gold out.”
“Why’s that?” Scott asked.
“Storms c’n be pretty bad up there,” Cole said, but his eyes shifted away from theirs.
Granville didn’t think it was weather the old miner was worried about. “Is someone after this map of yours?”
“Hope not.”
Which meant they were. Granville scanned Cole’s weathered face, but the old man’s expression gave nothing away.
“If we’re so important, maybe we should get more of the profits,” Scott said.
“You want to stay on, help me work it?”
Granville met Scott’s eye, raised an eyebrow. Scott’s grimace had him grinning. They’d both had a bellyful of groveling in the dirt and the cold. Gold fever had been frozen out of them long ago. “No thanks.”
“Then you get five percent. It’s good pay for a week’s work.”
Too good. “If we find this mythical mine of yours. If not, I assume we get nothing?” Granville said, curious to see how far the old man would go.
“See, I said you warn’t stupid.”
“Then why come to us with this job? You must have known we wouldn’t be foolish enough to take it on.”
“It’s just a week, Granville. And we have the time,” Scott broke in.
Where had that come from?
“I’ll need a moment to discuss this with my partner,” Granville said as he ushered their would-be client back into the waiting room Emily Turner had decorated for them. With walls papered in a soft cream with a faint blue stripe, a gently faded oriental carpet and upholstered mahogany chairs, the room spoke of the success they hadn’t yet achieved. Closing the door, he looked over at Scott.
“You really think we should take this on? Even if the mine is real, it may be impossible to find.”
Scott’s face took on a closed look. “We know something about looking for mines, and we’ve nothin’ better to do until we get word from Denver. If we do find it, that kind of money would give us a solid start. So why not?”
His voice had a reckless edge to it that Granville didn’t like. They hadn’t talked about their fruitless search through Denver’s back alleys for Scott’s baby niece, left behind by her unscrupulous father nearly three years before, but that failure and their fear for the child hung heavily between them. Hope for new information on the little girl’s whereabouts diminished with each passing day. “We haven’t a stellar record for actually finding mines. And Cole is lying to us. He’s worried about protection from more than the weather.”
“We’re both decent shots. And this beats the boring jobs we’ve been offered. I’m willing to risk a week on a gamble like this one. We’ve nothing to lose.”
“Nothing except our lives,” Granville said with a grin that covered his concern at the fatalistic note in Scott’s voice. He’d known anxiety over little Sarah’s fate was taking a toll on his friend, but he’d had no idea it was this bad. Perhaps searching for this lost mine would be a distraction.
“But we’ll do it, right?”
“Yes.” There was nothing either of them could do for little Sarah without more information and at least this job would give Scott something else to think about. “But only if this map of his is good.”
“Alright then,” Scott said, opening the office door.
Five minutes later, the three of them were poring over the map. Cole had put up an argument, but when Granville stood fast, he caved in.
Nearly illegible in places, the hand-drawn map was rain spattered and frayed around the edges and along the folds. It was dated 1889, or maybe it was 1896; the last digits were smudged. It was signed, too, but the ink had run and the scribbled signature was nothing but a blur. Fading blue lines showed what Cole said was Pitt Lake and a long funnel-shaped valley with a stream meandering through it some distance beyond. Gold deposits were marked along the stream at the narrow end of the valley for what looked to be a good fifty yards. The main landmarks on the map were a couple of steep mountains, the valley itself with the lake and the river beyond it and a formation to the west of the valley.
Scott peered at the yellowed paper. “Is that a hill?”
“It’s a triangular rock, ya fool,” snapped the old man. “Anyone can see that.”
“How do we know this map is authentic?”
“It’s real.”
“We’ll need more than that. How did you get it?”
“James, my late … partner.”
It was a very slight hesitation, but Granville and Scott exchanged glances. “Is James his first name or the last?” Granville as
ked.
“Last.”
“How’d he die?” Scott threw at him.
“Gut shot. Near dead from blood loss when I found him.”
“But he still had the map?” Granville asked.
“Yeah.”
“And no-one knew he had it?”
Cole looked at him like he was an idiot. “Folks knew, or maybe just suspected. Why d’you think he was shot?”
“Then how come he still had it?” Scott asked.
“Poor shot from a distance. He told me he crawled away, they couldn’t find him.”
“They couldn’t follow the trail left by a badly wounded man who was bleeding heavily?”
“I got to him first.”
“I see. So whoever shot your partner knows you have the map now?”
Cole shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. They didn’t see me, and I covered my trail.”
Right. Granville didn’t believe the old man for a moment, but this was clearly all they’d get out of him for now. “What makes you so sure the find is worthwhile?”
The old man looked from Granville to Scott, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a grimy, creased leather bag. Mutely he spilled a plum-sized nugget into his palm and held it out to them. Pure gold, with rounded edges and white quartz veins.
“Holy Christopher!” Scott exclaimed, bending closer. “How long have you been carrying this without cashing it in?”
“There were two. The other was even larger. That one I cashed to pay expenses.”
“James gave them to you?” Granville asked, extending his hand.
The old man closed his own hand protectively for a moment, then dropped the nugget into his palm, nodding as he did so. “Yeah. He’d… no kin.”
Cole’s words didn’t match his tone. Granville studied his expressionless face for a moment, then looked at the nugget, hefting it in his palm. There was no doubt it was genuine; soft, nearly pure gold. If there truly were a mine this rich, even five percent of it would be worth a fortune. For a moment, a vista of all the things he could do with that much money unrolled before him, and he felt gold madness grip him once again.
