Gold Fever (26 page)

“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 Moosehide 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.

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 why 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.

“The story you're writing for your newspaper,” I reminded him. “I have decided to help.”

He took a step backwards. The customers flowed around us, no one paying us much attention now that the sexual energy had dissipated as quickly as if Ray had tossed Graham out the door without his boots in February.

“Help?” he said.

“Yes, help. Why are you repeating everything I say? I want to help you. Some of the women will speak to me, where they won't talk freely with you. I suggest we begin first thing tomorrow. We can't be too early, the women will still be sleeping, but we can't be too late, as business will be starting up and then no one will talk to me…us. What would be best, do you think? Noon. Yes, noon.”

“Joey won't let you anywhere near her cribs, Fiona, and the men will do what they have to in order to prevent you talking to the girls. Thank you for the offer, but I can't see as to how it will work out.” Some of the colour was coming back into Graham's face.

“That's true,” I admitted, twisting the necklace of fake pearls around one finger. “Not that I care much about the favours of Joey LeBlanc and her ilk. But I wouldn't want to cause the girls any trouble.”

“Oh, well, can't be helped. Will you look at the time, seven thirty already! I have an appointment that can't be missed.”

“So you'll have to bring them to me.”

“What?”

“The girls. Are you being deliberately obtuse, Graham? If I can't visit them at their places of…uh…employment, then you will have to arrange for them to come to me. They can't come here or to Mrs. Mann's; perhaps we can arrange to rent an office where we can interview our subjects in comfortable privacy. That would be best. Look into that first thing tomorrow morning, will you.”

“Fiona,” Graham said.

“Yes?”

“You are the most…incredible woman.”

I am not normally known for being altruistic, and I didn't really give two hoots for the prostitutes. I'd known plenty of whores in the streets of East End London, and few of them had shown me any kindness. Here, most of them were no harder up than men who came to make their fortunes on the gold fields only to find themselves working just as hard, for just as little pay, at whatever jobs they'd foolishly abandoned in the south. But there were women, such as Mary, who were virtual slaves. I'd get their stories out of them; Graham would write them up for his newspaper, and once the story was printed, the authorities would be obliged to do something to stop the underhanded bondage of women.