Gold Fever (29 page)

Sterling could have insisted that someone take him in pursuit of Charlie. If Charlie was with his mother and his aunts, then Sterling would feel a right fool chasing through the woods after them. Assuming someone could even be found to lead him to them, rather than on a circular journey going nowhere.

“All right, sir. I'll accept your word as a man of the Church that Charlie Redstone has gone to fish camp with other members of the village and that you vouch that he would not return to Dawson while charged with the care of his mother and aunts. Is that correct?”

Bompas nodded. “If your superiors have any concerns about this, they may speak to me directly.”

They very well might, Sterling thought.

“One more thing. Have you ever encountered, or heard of, an Indian woman going by the name of Mary? She's not from around here. From Alaska, I've heard.” Sterling described Mary quickly.

The bishop shook his head. “Not as far as I know, although your description could fit a lot of women. Why are you asking?”

“She was brought in from Alaska, against her will, and was working as a prostitute in town. She's been caught up in a police matter, and I thought you might have some background on her.”

The bishop's face turned dark with anger. “The exploitation of these poor people is a disgrace. If this woman needs a place of refuge, bring her here.”

“Thank you,” Sterling said. The crowd of children gathered around Millie scattered as Sterling and Angus came out of the cabin. The girl who'd earlier been snatched up by her mother was back. She grinned at Angus boldly and held out her hand.

“If you only have one piece of candy, Angus, don't give it to her,” Sterling said, picking up Mrs. Miller's lead. “It'll only cause a fight once we've left.”

The girl continued to hold out her hand, smiling timidly around a black smudge of dirt running across her nose from cheek to cheek like badly-applied stage makeup.

“Hey,” he said, “didn't Mrs. Mann pack us some cake? Can I give them the cake?”

“Don't see any harm in that.” Angus pulled the lunch packet out of Millie's saddlebags and waded into the crowd of children, breaking off pieces of Mrs. Mann's fruit cake and handing them out. The children shouted in delight, and Angus's smile lit up his face.

Sterling and Bishop Bompas watched, each wrapped in thought. Once the cake had been evenly distributed, Sterling walked towards the river with Angus and Millie. A crowd of happy children followed.

The bishop did not come down to the river to see them off.

On Saturday afternoon, while Angus was on so-called police business and I was at the Savoy, Euila called at the Manns' to leave a note inviting Angus and me to tea at the Richmond the following day.

Dawson closes up as tightly as Joey LeBlanc's purse strings on Sundays. Two minutes before midnight on Saturday, girls step down from the stage, roulette wheels stop turning, bartenders fasten the cap on the last bottle of whisky, and the doors of every business in town slam shut. The men hate it, of course, and grumble heartily. Newcomers—Americans in particular—are simply incredulous when shown the door Saturday at midnight, but the Mounties ruthlessly enforce Sunday closing, and the penalties for doing business can be severe.

For me, Sunday is one less day to make money. One seventh of the week wasted, but I'll admit I love the luxury of an entire day free of obligations to my business, my staff, and my partner. I have been known to bring the ledger home on Saturday night and work on it the following afternoon, checking over the week's accounts. Conscious of the Sunday laws, I do the books in the privacy of my room and slip the ledger under a blanket kept close for that very purpose if anyone should knock on my door.

That particular Sunday, I'd planned on not doing a stitch of work. I would wash my hair, dry it in the sun, read my novel, go for a walk through town by myself, or perhaps even venture a little way outside of town with Angus.

Anything but tea with Euila and Martha.

Promptly on Sunday morning, I sent Angus around with a note accepting the invitation.

The Richmond had replaced the armchair in the lobby with a cracked wooden one that didn't have even a cushion to protect the sitter from the hard wood. One might be poked in the posterior by a splinter, but almost anyone would prefer that to having to brush the residue of dried blood off their clothes.

Tea was served in their suite. Mouse O'Brien overflowed a delicate armchair, and as I entered the room, he leapt up so hastily, I feared for the chair.

“Isn't this pleasant?” I said, taking a seat at the circular table in the middle of the room.

The table had been cleared, awaiting the arrival of the tea tray. Martha's notebook and a stack of scribbled-upon papers were piled onto a side table beside my chair.

The afternoon was a good deal more agreeable than I'd expected. Mouse had dressed with as much care as if he were going to tea at Buckingham Palace. The patterned cravat at his throat was folded perfectly, his moustache combed until it lay flat, and his hair oiled so it almost glowed. I myself don't care for oil in a man's hair, but some women appear to (or some men think they do). Martha flitted about the room in a dress much too warm for the day—probably the best one she had—pouring tea, passing sandwiches (fish paste again!) and making cheerful chatter.

Either Martha or Euila had been wise enough to know that a twelve-year-old boy and a man only a few inches short of seven feet would consider the contents of a ladies' afternoon tea the equivalent of a scattering of crumbs, so they'd ordered plenty of sandwiches and cake. Mouse drank sickeningly sweet tea by the gallon, devoured the food, and entertained us at length—to Angus's delight as much as Martha's—about his complicated journey from New York to Seattle, where he'd happened to be when news of the strike hit, and so on to Dawson over the Chilkoot. He also regaled us with stories of his exploits on the Creeks. He was an excellent raconteur, and as he talked, Martha's eyes lit with as much intensity as a chandelier in the entrance hall of a Belgravia townhouse the night of a politician's dinner party. Mouse looked extraordinarily pleased with himself, as well as quite handsome with a touch of red in his cheeks and a sparkle in his own eyes.

Euila, on the other hand, scowled into her tea cup and added nothing to the conversation. If Martha Witherspoon and Mouse O'Brien came to an understanding, Euila would—literally—be left out in the cold.

As time to politely take our leave approached, Mouse and Angus got into a discussion about some boxing match that was scheduled to take place in a few days. Martha appeared to find the subject as fascinating as everything else Mouse said, and Euila excused herself. My eyes wandered around the room, eventually falling on the piles of paper on the table beside my chair. I picked up one of Martha's notebooks. No one protested at such boldness, so I flipped randomly through the pages. It was a rather dry list of people met and incidents witnessed. She couldn't even make the finding of Tom Jannis's dead body sound interesting. Martha didn't appear to be familiar with many adjectives other than “big” or “small”. The papers lying underneath the notebook were covered in Euila's neat schoolgirl handwriting. I picked up a sheet to read, and the streets of Dawson came alive. The dirt, the smells, the sawdust covering everything, the noise made by thousands of bored men wandering the streets, the false laughter of women, ladies dragging their skirts through the mud, the desperation in the eyes of many. It was all there, albeit in rough notes and incomplete sentences.

“Isn't that right, Mother?” Angus said.

I replaced the sheet of paper. “Of course,” I said, with no idea at all as to what I was agreeing with. No matter—a lady must never be suspected of not paying attention to gentlemen's conversation, however boring that might be. “This has all been perfectly lovely.” I gathered my gloves. “It's time for us to be leaving, Angus.” I got to my feet, and Angus and Mouse followed. Euila returned to the sitting room, and she and Martha bade us goodbye. Mouse may have lingered over Martha's hand a few moments longer than was proper, and Euila appeared to notice. The unattractive scowl settled back over her face.

“Nice tea, eh, Angus,” Mouse said heartily as we descended the stairs to the lobby. He slapped Angus on the back so hard, my son took the last two steps in a running stumble. “It would be my pleasure to walk you home, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Mouse said as Angus performed a wild dance in an attempt to keep himself on his feet.

“Thank you, Mouse. That would be most enjoyable.”

We walked through the quiet streets. A few citizens were out getting the air, along with men who had nowhere else to be. As they did every Sunday, many of the big-money gamblers had taken the most popular dancers and a steamboat upriver to Alaska for the day, where they would be free from the stern Sunday observance of the Mounties.

Angus saw a boy he knew and asked if he could be excused. With a rushed “goodbye, sir” to Mouse, he was off.

“You have a nice boy, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Mouse said.

“That I do.”

“I'd like a son someday.”

I hid a smile, thinking that I was fairly certain I knew what had brought that on.

“Miss Witherspoon is a fine lady.”

“I agree, Mouse.”

“She ever said anything to you, Mrs. MacGillivray, about uh…well about…getting married?”

“As it is for any woman,” I lied, “it is her fondest dream.”

On Monday morning, a heavy knock sounded at the front door shortly after I had returned from the privy. I was the only one in the house. Angus and Mr. Mann had left for the store some time earlier, and Mrs. Mann was in the laundry shed.

“Who is it?” I said through the door.

“Graham. I'm afraid I have some bad news, Fiona.”

Although I was only in my dressing gown, and my unbound hair streamed down my back, I threw open the door, terrifying images of what Graham's bad news could be rushing through my head. An accident? Another killing? Angus?

Graham froze in the doorway, his mouth half open. His eyes lingered over my red silk dressing gown. In near panic, I hadn't bothered to tie my gown properly, and my plain white cotton nightgown (with the merest touch of Belgian lace dressing up the scooped neckline) peeked out.

“What's happened?” I had no desire to stand on my doorstep and be admired in my deshabille. “Has something happened to Angus?”

“Angus? Why would…? Oh, gosh Fiona, no. Nothing like that. Can I come in?”

“If you are asking why I don't shoot you on the spot, Graham Donohue, the answer is, I truly don't know.” I stepped aside. “There should be coffee in the kitchen.”

He followed me to the back. I was well aware that the expensive red silk emphasized the sway of my hips and that the gold dragon shooting across my back under a curtain of black hair provided a most dramatic effect. I'd punish Graham for scaring me so then send him on his way.

“What do you want?” I said, turning after checking the coffee pot.

Graham gulped and tore his eyes away from the Belgian lace. “Fiona,” he said, “you must be aware that I have always adored…”

The back door flew open. “Hi, Ma. Oh, hi, Mr. Donohue.”

“Angus,” Graham croaked. I hid a smile.

“Shouldn't you be at work, dear?”

“Mr. Mann forgot his lunch, so he sent me to fetch it.”

The big parcel was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. “What brings you here so early, Mr. Donohue?” Angus looked at Graham suspiciously.

“Mr. Donohue has news of importance to tell me,” I said. “It can wait while I straighten my appearance. Please, pour Mr. Donohue and me a cup of coffee, dear, and I'll be back momentarily.”

I tied my hair into a loose knot, splashed a couple of handfuls of water onto my face and slipped into a housedress.

I was back in the kitchen in less than five minutes. Graham and Angus were glaring at each other.

“Now,” I said, taking a seat and pouring tinned milk into my coffee, “what is so urgent?”

“Don't you have to be back at work, Angus?” Graham asked.

“Not immediately.”

“I've received bad news from my publisher, Fiona. It seems that he isn't interested in my series of articles on the more unfortunate women of the Yukon.”

“Why ever not?” Graham shrugged and swirled his coffee around in the mug. “He doesn't think our readers would be interested.”

“Nonsense. I'll write to this publisher and inform him that this is a story the readership of your paper will be most eager to hear. I'll prepare the letter this morning. How did he hear about it so quickly, anyway? We only discussed the idea yesterday.”

“I…uh…that is…I told him about it some time ago. I just got the reply this morning and came right over. Someone brought the letter in on the steamboat.”

Graham peered into his mug. He seemed to be concerned about his coffee. It was quite dreadful, but no worse than any other served in the North. “You needn't bother writing to him, Fiona. He's notorious for not caring about the opinions of women.”

“He will have mine, nonetheless.”

“Oh, Mother.” Angus got up from his chair and grabbed Mr. Mann's massive lunch parcel. “Don't waste your time. There isn't going to be such a story.”

“Not if we don't inform this publisher about its importance.”

“Even then,” Angus said. “Mr. Donohue, will you be so kind as to allow my mother to get on with her day?” He rather pointedly held the back door open.

Graham stood. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Fiona.”

“These things happen,” I said. “Angus, I intend to speak to Inspector McKnight and Constable Sterling this afternoon. I'm going to send a message asking them to meet me at the Savoy at four. You might want to come along.”