by Vicki Delany
The doctor’s chest rose, and he puffed up all over, reminding Angus of a frog the boys had watched for what seemed like hours on a summer’s day at the creek behind his school in Toronto. “I was of course referring to the fact that Mrs. MacGillivray is a lady.”
Angus held his breath, expecting that Ray would take offence at the blatant insult to his own mother. Instead, the Scotsman chuckled. “We know exactly what you were suggesting, Doc. Don’t we, lads?”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. He struggled to think of something appropriately cutting to say.
“Thank you for your time, Doctor,” Sterling said. “An officer will be around tomorrow to get that certificate.”
“Someone should check that man’s credentials,” Sterling said as the door swung closed behind the doctor. “He wouldn’t be the first fellow to arrive in Dawson pretending to be something he isn’t.”
“I don’t think his intentions towards Mrs. MacGillivray are entirely honourable.” Sergeant Lancaster wagged a finger at Angus. “You watch out for him, young fellow. Until she marries again, it’s up to you to protect your mother’s reputation.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Sergeant,” Angus said. And he was. At school, they’d lectured the boys extensively about a man’s responsibility to his mother, a God-given responsibility, particularly important in the case of a widowed mother such as Angus’s. But it was a hard job, in a place like Dawson, with the sort of company that came into the Savoy and the fact that, as a child, he wasn’t allowed to spend much time in the dance hall.
McKnight rolled the body over, checking to see if there was anything underneath. There wasn’t and he let it fall back. The limbs were stiff, as if Jack Ireland were exerting all his control to keep them from moving.
“What’s the matter with him, Constable Sterling?” Angus whispered, forgetting in his curiosity that he should be keeping quiet.
“He’s dead, Angus,” Sterling said, not laughing.
“I mean other than that, sir. Why are his arms so stiff? It looks like he’s frozen solid.”
“Rigor mortis, son,” Inspector McKnight said, standing up with a soft grunt. “Happens in the hours after death. It wears off after a few days.”
“Rigor helps us determine how long a man’s been dead,” Sterling explained. “It starts in the head and moves down. Now, Ireland here is pretty stiff most of the way down, but his feet still have a ways to go yet.”
“So at a guess, I’d say he’s been dead anywhere from six to nine hours. No more than twelve. Constable?”
“Probably, sir. But it would have been cold in here last night. Cold delays rigor. Might be more.”
“Good point,” the inspector said.
“Pardon me, sir, but that doesn’t seem quite so clever. It’s close to six o’clock now. Me and my ma found him around five. The Savoy was full of customers at midnight, and Ma and Mr. Walker and the staff would have been here for a while after that, say until about one. Anyone would’ve noticed a dead body lying in the middle of the stage. So he couldn’t have been killed more than sixteen hours ago. Common sense tells me that.”
“That’s true, Angus,” Sterling said. “But suppose he wasn’t killed here, in the Savoy? Maybe he was killed a couple of days ago. I know everyone saw him here last night, but I’m saying suppose. And then the body was carried in here after closing?”
“I see,” Angus said.
“I’m guessing you want to be a Mountie, young man, and good for you,” McKnight said. “We could stand here all night talking about police methods and medical clues. But that’ll have to wait for another time.”
Angus beamed. He had been included in the men’s talk, not sent home under his mother’s skirts.
“His pocket watch is missing, Inspector,” Sterling said. “It was a good one?” “Looked good, but I didn’t see it close up. I think he had a diamond stickpin as well.”
“Theft?” “On the stage of the Savoy, on a Sunday night? Unlikely Ireland would have wandered in here all on his own, to be waylaid by a pickpocket.”
“Maybe someone wanted it to look like a theft gone wrong,” Angus suggested. “I read a story where that happened. Is there any money missing?”
“No wallet,” McKnight said.
“Ireland liked to flash his money around,” Sterling muttered. “He would have been carrying some.”
“Something to think about. You fellows can take him away now,” McKnight said to the undertaker’s assistants, standing silently in the shadows.
Angus turned his head as they hoisted the stiff body onto their makeshift stretcher. The scent of death hung heavy in the air. Angus had smelt death in the piled carcasses of the abandoned horses they trudged past on their way from Dyea to the Chilkoot Pass. But this was different. Surprisingly sweet. Whether because the body was that of a man, not a horse, or because it was fresh, or because it was being moved, he didn’t know. He held his breath and avoided looking at the dark patch and the pattern of splashes left behind.
“A half-competent doctor might have been able to find out more,” McKnight said, once the men had left with their burden. “But in this case, I doubt it. There isn’t much of a mystery around what happened here. Only about who. Sterling, you know these people. Did this Ireland fellow have any enemies?”
Ray Walker laughed.
“Pretty much everyone he met,” Sterling said, giving Walker a hard look. “I know there was trouble here last night. Trouble bad enough that if the Mounties knew about it, it might have had the Savoy closed down for a few days. You want to tell me what happened, Ray?”
“No.”
“All I have to do tomorrow morning is ask around. Mention a few words: Ireland, Walker, Irene. And everyone’ll assume I know all about it and be happy to talk till the cows come home.”
Ray examined his fingernails. Lancaster got up and found another bench on which to place his ample posterior.
“And once they start talking, who knows what people’ll say. Give some folks a listening ear, and they’ll make up all sorts of wild embellishments, just to keep you paying attention to them. Have you found that happens, Inspector?”
“All the time. And the longer a story grows, the more incredible it becomes in the telling.”
Ray wiped one hand across his brow and down the side of his face.
“You want to tell the Inspector and me what happened last night, Ray? Or do you want to make us work at getting a story that might be more than the truth?”
“Ireland.” Ray spat on the floor. “Hit Irene. In front of everyone. Attacked Fee too. Don’t worry Angus, your mum fought back. Your mum protects herself. And what’s hers. But Irene, she don’t know how to fight a man. I’m the bouncer here. Can’t have the customers beating on the dancers, can I?”
“And that was it? Nothing personal, no excessive force?”
“I did my job, Sterling. Now you go and do yours and find out who did the world a favour and rid us all of Jack frigging Ireland. But it weren’t me.”
Ray stood up. His accent had gotten so thick that even Angus was having trouble understanding what he was saying. The Scotsman’s face was as red as Angus’s mother’s best dress. The one that had been her best dress until yesterday. Blood, she had said to Mrs. Mann, can’t wash it out. Rip the dress into rags. His heart almost stopped. Where had his mother gotten enough bloodstains to ruin the dress she cherished so much? She’d said they came from a man with a crack on the head. But she had never before allowed herself to be soiled by the customers.
Coincidence? Of course. Coincidence. Ray said, “He was shown the door and tossed out into the street. Where, hopefully, he fell into a pile of warm dog shit.”
“You didn’t see Mr. Ireland being evicted?” Sterling raised one eyebrow. “Why was that?”
“My supper’s waiting,” Ray said. He was a good half foot or more shorter and fifty pounds lighter than the constable, but he gave off an aura of impressive strength as he pulled himself up to his full heigh
t. “You’re keepin’ me from it. If you’ve got something more than wild accusations, say it. Otherwise I’m going for my supper.”
“You’re free to go, Mr. Walker,” McKnight said. “But don’t leave town until you hear from us.”
“I’ve a business to run, laddies. I’m not leaving.” He kicked the bench over as he walked towards the door. It crashed to the floor, and a crack split the wood right down the middle.
“I think he intended that to be your head, Constable,” McKnight said. “I’m going back to the fort to fill out a report. Tell me what else you know about this Walker fellow on the way. It’s interesting that he wasn’t the one to throw Ireland into the street.”
“You can’t accuse Mr. Walker of this,” Angus shouted. “Ray wouldn’t kill nobody.”
“Friend of his, are you?” McKnight asked.
“Yes, I am,” Angus said.
“Your mother relies on him, does she?”
“Huh?”
“It’s much the other way around, sir,” Sterling said. “Ray Walker could exert control over any bar or whorehouse in any port in the world, but only Mrs. MacGillivray can keep this place respectable. And profitable.”
“Like her, do you, Constable?”
Sterling looked into the Inspector’s face. “I admire her, sir. Very much. A woman on her own, she’s accomplished a great deal.”
“You want to be a detective, son,” McKnight looked at Angus. “The first rule is that you don’t let your feelings get in the way of the job. Remember that. If your duty calls upon you to do so, you will find yourself arresting your grandmother. That’s a rule you also might need to remember, Constable. I suggest we start by looking for that pocket watch and stickpin.”
“Angus, put out the lamp,” Sterling said, “and go home.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“They think Ray did it.”
I was in the kitchen when Angus came in. A strange, sour odour lingered about him, reminding me of a Billingsgate fishmonger at the end of an unnaturally hot day.
The Manns were still up, although they usually went to bed early on Sunday to prepare for a long week ahead. One look at my face as I’d stumbled through the door earlier, and Mrs. Mann had the kettle on, and Mr. Mann had pulled up a chair to hear the whole story. They were relaxed and dressed in their nightwear (Mr. Mann with hastily-pulled on trousers beneath his long flannel nightshirt), enjoying a mug of warm tinned milk before bed. Mrs. Mann had taken her hair down. I’d never before seen it unbound. It fell almost to her waist in a shimmering river of slate grey, looking much like the Klondike River on a cold, damp day before freeze-up. They had sat with me, waiting for Angus.
Angus changed his clothes quickly, and when he returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Mann had a mug of warm milk, the real stuff, and thick slices of yesterday’s currant cake ready for him.
“They think Ray did it,” Angus repeated around a mouthful of milk and cake.
“Nonsense,” I said. “You imagined it.” No matter what his age, I had never assumed that Angus imagined anything. His eye for detail and his interest in everything surrounding him were phenomenal. On the rare occasions that I’d engaged in conversation with other mothers, I had been surprised at how they dismissed their sons’ words as fantasy or imagination. I prided myself on being able to tell when my child was playing and when he was being serious.
But tonight, I didn’t want to hear it. I would not accept that Ray might be a suspect. “At the beginning of an investigation, the police suspect everyone in the vicinity,” I said. “And they narrow their suspects down from there. That’s all, Angus.”
“No, Ma. Mother. Really. They almost accused Ray right there. That Inspector McKnight is sharp. But not as sharp as Constable Sterling. He noticed that Ireland’s feet weren’t fully into what they call rigor mortis yet.”
Mr. Mann gasped. “Young man, ladies is here.”
“Sorry, sir. Sorry, Mrs. Mann. But they can tell how long a man’s been dead by how stiff the body is. It’s really interesting. Like if…”
I scarcely heard him. I remembered the red rage on Ray’s face as he put the boot into Ireland’s undefended body, Irene’s sobs, and Ireland’s bruised and ugly face as we tossed him into the street.
Was it hard to believe that Ireland had come back to the Savoy looking for Ray or maybe Irene? He was new in town; he might not have realized just how completely Dawson shuts down on a Sunday.
Even if Ireland had returned to the Savoy, not knowing that no one would be there, well, no one would be there. Ray had no reason to stop by on a Sunday. Of course, neither did I.
But if anything had happened between Ireland and Ray after we’d closed and everyone had headed off into what passes as night in the Yukon in June, I would swear on my son’s golden head that Ray Walker wouldn’t leave Jack Ireland’s dead body displayed on the stage of the Savoy for the next person passing to discover then go off home to enjoy his Sunday lunch.
“Time for bed.” Mr. Mann downed the last of his milk. “Come, Helga. This is not for decent woman.” He glared at me as if the murder were all my fault. “Very bad business. Fancy women, drink, gambling. Nothing but more bad.”
His righteous indignation was somewhat spoiled by the eagerness with which he’d wanted to hear every detail.
He turned to Angus. “Work tomorrow. Seven.”
“Huh?” Angus said. The day before, Mr. Mann and I had decided it was time Angus started work. We’d both noticed my son slip in to the house, keeping his face in the shadows, hoping we wouldn’t see that the soft, pale skin under his left eye was turning purple and the eye was swelling shut.
“Boy is with fight,” Mr. Mann had said to me after Angus left the kitchen with a handful of biscuits. “He too soft, needs vork. Vork keep him away from trouble. On Monday he start vorks in store, I give normal pays.” Mr. Mann owned a hardware shop down by the river, where he conducted a roaring trade, buying up nails and hammers, screwdrivers, and just about anything else from men who’d taken one look at the town and we33re now desperate to sell everything they had and flee back to civilization. Whereupon he sold the goods to others, equally desperate to get to the gold fields or to set themselves up in town, but who’d neglected to bring the necessary hardware.
“Tomorrow you start in store.” Mr. Mann pushed his chair back from the table.
“Start what?” Angus said.
“Vork.”
“Work?”
“Vork.”
“Mr. Mann and I have agreed that it would be good for you to spend some time over the summer helping him at the store.”
“Working?”
“Yes, working.”
“At the hardware store?”
“Don’t repeat everything I say, Angus.”
“But, Mother.”
“No buts. It’s been an exceedingly long day.”
“Good night, Mrs. MacGillivray, Angus.” The Manns >went off to bed.
“Ah, Ma. Mother. Do I have to?”
I poured more water into the teapot, mindful of getting the last bit of flavour out of the black leaves. “Yes, you do.” The mixture looked weak, so I swirled the tea ball around in the hot water. “How did Ray seem, when you called on him to come to the Savoy?” Despite myself, I wanted to know if Ray had been surprised at the discovery of Ireland’s body.
Angus shifted in his chair. His face flushed and he looked into the bottom of his mug.
“Angus? I asked you how Ray reacted.” I put the teapot down.
“Fine, Mother. He reacted fine.” Angus’s face was as red as my late, lamented, best dress.
“Fine. What do you mean, fine? Fine can mean anything. Over the winter we all said the weather was fine if it hadn’t reached minus fifty yet. Mrs. Jones is fine, considering that an earthquake swallowed her house whole. Mr. Smith is fine…”
“What earthquake?” Angus asked.
I took a deep breath. “This murder is a bad thing, Angus. It can hurt all of us at the Savoy
. If the Savoy closes down, for any reason, I’ll have trouble making ends meet. I spent everything we owned getting to the Yukon. Do you understand?”
“Ray didn’t kill Mr. Ireland. He was so surprised when I told him that he…uh, he…”
“He what?”
“Left without tying his shoelaces.”
Suddenly, I was simply dreadfully tired. “Let’s go to bed. You have your first day of work tomorrow, and I can only imagine what the Savoy will be like once word gets around about the murder. Every curiosity seeker between here and Seattle, if not San Francisco, will be wanting to take a look at the scene of the crime.”
“Goodnight, Mother.” Angus touched his lips to my cheek.
“Goodnight, dear.”
My son’s wild enthusiasm about the wonders of the police investigation and all the scientific mysteries involving a dead human body had dried up the moment I’d asked about Ray’s behaviour. A dull feeling in the pit of my stomach told me I wasn’t the only one worrying about Ray Walker. If I trusted my son’s sharp perception about people up until now, could I disregard it when his conclusions made me uncomfortable?
I looked into the tin cup holding the dregs of my tea. Once, during the exceedingly short time in which I’d been a member of the Prince of Wales’ inner circle, I’d attended a reading of a gypsy fortune teller who was momentarily the passion of fashionable London. She had, with much clanging of gold bangles, rustling of taffeta and heavy sighs, read my past and foretold the mysteries of my future through the arrangement of Earl Grey leaves in the bottom of a Royal Doulton teacup. If she had divined that I had been abandoned as a newborn in the wilds of Equatorial Africa and raised by a pack of particularly intelligent and loving gorillas, she wouldn’t have been much further off the mark than she was. Perhaps the Earl Grey had put her off. Most of the other ladies, I’d noticed, were read through English Breakfast.
Now, as then, the tea leaves revealed no secrets. I trusted battered tin no more than Royal Doulton. But I trusted my son.